Murder Beach Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Rena Leith

  Murder Beach

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  A word from the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  I quickly looked at Jack and Gillian, but Jack was looking at the car. He ran trembling fingers over the trim.

  Gillian stood apart, keeping well away from the grime, and I could see the shock on her face, her eyes wide, mouth open as if to scream. She saw the ghost, but Jack didn’t.

  “Do you know what this is?” His voice wavered slightly.

  “A gho—car?” I ventured.

  “A Packard Roadster.” His voice broke. “Look at the running boards. The wooden dash.” He rubbed dust off the fender. “Gorgeous gold.”

  “I take it that’s a good thing,” I said faintly.

  The beautiful ghost shifted her pose, putting her face mere inches from his.

  Gillian’s hysterical laugh was shaky, but it was better than having her scream. She couldn’t take her eyes off the ghost. “Oh, you’ve done it now, Cass. We’ll be lucky to get any work out of him around the house.” The hand she held up to her mouth shook.

  “We can get this running again,” he whispered with reverence, buffing the hood with his shirtsleeve.

  The ghost leaned toward him with a smile on her face. She turned toward me and stage-whispered, “Oh, I like him! Abyssinia!” Then she was gone.

  The instant she vanished, Gillian let out a burp of a scream, quickly smothered.

  Jack turned, stared at us, and stopped babbling. “What are you girls looking at?”

  Gillian and I exchanged a glance.

  “N-nothing,” I said. He hadn’t seen her!

  Praise for Rena Leith

  “Take a haunted cottage on a foggy coast, add a town populated by eccentrics, mix in a flapper-era ghost with plenty of moxie, and you have the first of what I hope will be a long, long series.”

  ~Margaret Dumas, author of Speak Now

  Murder Beach

  by

  Rena Leith

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Murder Beach

  COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Rena Leith

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Fantasy Rose Edition, 2017

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1338-2

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1339-9

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For Jason, Amy, Mia, and Luke

  Chapter 1

  Ghosts can murder property values.

  Buying a house on the Northern California coast had seemed like a good investment, but that was before I knew about the ghost. Post-divorce, I’d been determined to hang onto the house in upscale Pleasanton, just 25 miles east of Oakland in the San Francisco Bay Area. Financial reality had other plans. In the end, I threw my life’s possessions into a storage unit and stayed with a friend temporarily while Phil’s girlfriend moved into my house and my bedroom. At the last moment, I decided not to take “vengeance” possessions, such as Phil’s signed first editions or his Van Briggle vase collection. Well, maybe just a few things I could sell for ready cash. No point in paying exorbitant California storage unit payments for things I didn’t really want just to cause Phil a little pain.

  Contrary to popular opinion, not everyone who gets divorced in California makes out well. At first, realtors laughed at me and my budget, but finally Clarissa, a newbie agent, took pity on me. She followed her training and tried very hard to sell me properties that would require a second mortgage with a balloon payment of hundreds of thousands of dollars due in five years. It’s a common practice in the inflated California real estate market that often traps buyers who later find they can’t refinance for better terms.

  After the third place in San Mateo, I stopped and refused to get into her ancient Camry. “Clarissa, dear, please believe me when I say that I have no idea where my next penny is coming from. The balloon payment could be in five, ten, fifteen, or a hundred years, and I still couldn’t pay it.”

  “But you can remortgage before then!” She smiled brightly and opened my car door, giving me a little shove.

  I resisted the shove. “No, I can’t. I have a finite amount of money, and I’m prepared to throw all of it—cash—at the right property. That means that it is totally pointless to show me anything that costs more than the cash amount I have in the bank. I won’t qualify for that mortgage you want me to get because I don’t have a job.”

  That made her hesitate, but she gave it one more try. “But think of your resale.”

  “I’m not planning to resell.”

  “You want the best neighborhood you can afford.”

  “The operative word being ‘afford.’”

  She sighed heavily. “But—”

  “Is this where we part company?”

  Her shoulders slumped. “Well… There are a few places…”

  I can’t tell you how many crappy condos I looked at on the San Francisco peninsula and all the way south nearly to Gilroy with Clarissa saying things like: “The neighborhood isn’t really that bad.”

  Finally, we hit the coast where I discovered something called a land lease. Always in good locations, the “structures” built on the land could usually be knocked over by one good sneeze. Often they were functional one-bedroom workshops where metalworking hippies had built their own houses on land owned by someone else.

  At first, that’s what I assumed about the little blue bungalow with navy and burgundy trim that was beginning to flake as though it had dandruff. The price was more in line with a land lease where you own the structure but not the land—a bit like living in a lone trailer.

  Clarissa was hesitant to show me the place even though it was right on the beach. “I don’t know, Cass.” Her expression was pained. “It’s listed ‘as is’. That’s never a good sign.”

  I waved her off.

  “It means there’s something wrong, Cass.”

  She hurried to keep up with me as I strode up to the door. “You have to take the whole thing, contents and all. The sale can’t be reversed. It’s a cash only deal.”

  I laughed. “Haven’t I said all along that all I want is to pay the place off all at once with cash?”

  “Just promise me you’ll be cautious.” Clarissa’s famous last words.

  But when I saw the place, caution was the last thing on my
mind, and I totally lost interest in reading the fine print. The beach sat practically outside my back door—a matter of yards and a gentle slope away. I was already thinking about it as mine as I walked around the outside, checking out the shack at the back of the lot, the overgrown garden, and the trees, including a Meyer lemon tree, brimming with sweet fruit. The vegetable garden was seriously overgrown, but the raised beds were still there. The flowers and weeds had all gone wild. Ivy of some sort grew up the chimney. I hoped the chimney wouldn’t require too much repair. A fire on the chilly nights on the coast would be lovely. On those nights when wood burning was still allowed, I reminded myself. The porch ran along the front of the cottage that faced the street. Although the cottage didn’t face the ocean, I pictured myself sitting in the repaired porch swing, sipping lemonade made from my tree’s fruit, and watching the glorious California sunsets.

  Once I’d seen it, I had to have that cottage. I was in agony waiting for Phil to buy me out of my half of the Pleasanton place. With Phil’s buyout money and my savings, I barely had enough to get the cottage by the sea. I was elated when my offer was accepted!

  I was so concerned that I’d lose the cottage to someone with more money to bid, that I overlooked how long it had been on the market. Only later did I find out the rationale behind the sale not being reversible. Several prior sales had been reversed. Only after the deal was signed, sealed, and delivered did one of my new neighbors tell me the story.

  The day after I got the keys, I went to my cottage—my cottage!—and took a longer, more leisurely look. There was a bottle of champagne on the stoop with a note from Clarissa: Good luck! I laughed with joy and tucked it into the fridge. I’d turned the electricity, the water, and the Internet on and bought a leaf antenna to hook up to my TiVo. I had the vague thought that I might stay the night instead of waiting for my brother Jack and his wife Gillian to arrive to help me clean and move in tomorrow. However, as I walked from room to room, I became aware that I’d seriously underestimated the accumulated grime and detritus.

  I went back out to my Subaru, left the suitcase, but carried the box of cleaning supplies from the trunk into the kitchen, set them on the trestle table, and got to work. The cobwebs had to go first.

  I’d finished a first pass at the kitchen and started on the living room when I heard the weird buzz of the doorbell. I added getting a new doorbell to my ‘to do’ list, got up, and went to see who was at the door.

  The slender pallid woman on the stoop carried a foil-covered plate and navy blue cloth bag. Her long lilac and gray dress swirled around her ankles.

  My stomach growled. I didn’t care what was under the foil. I was hungry. “Hi.” I smiled, opened the door and, taking the foiled plate as a cue, invited her in.

  The nervous woman stepped across the threshold. “Hello, I’m your neighbor Wilhelmina Weber. I live two houses over toward town.” She gestured vaguely in that general direction.

  “Pleased to meet you. Your timing is great! I just cleaned up the kitchen.” I took the plate, led her into the kitchen, and set it on the table. “Sorry, but I’ve only started cleaning. At least this room is clear. I’m Cass.” I held out my hand. “Cass Sander—Cass Peake.”

  She shook it. “Call me Mina.”

  “I’m glad to meet you, Mina. I’m new to the coast. I’m moving…I’ve moved here from Pleasanton, so it’s nice to know someone local and nearby.” I pulled out a chair for her.

  “Pleasanton. That’s over the hill in the East Bay.” She set the navy bag on the table and pulled out a thermos and two cups. “I’d love some tea to go with my cookies, wouldn’t you?” She sat down and looked around.

  She was right: tea would hit the spot. She still seemed nervous to me, twitchy even, but I put it down to the dirt and mess. I took the foil off the plate to reveal homemade Linzer cookies. My mouth watering, I exerted all my willpower to wait for her to pour the tea before grabbing a cookie. “I’m so sorry everything is such a mess. My brother and sister-in-law will be here tomorrow to help me get my things out of storage and finish cleaning the place up.”

  “So you haven’t spent the night here yet?” Mina’s eyes kept darting into the corners of the room as if she were looking for something, but her hands were steady as she poured steaming tea from the thermos. The fragrant scent of jasmine wafted upwards.

  I took the cup from her, sat down, and picked up one delicate cookie. It was dusted with powdered sugar and with a circle of what smelled like strawberry jam peeking out of the hole in the top half. Yum. “No. I was thinking about staying tonight. If I do, it will be the first night.”

  I took a bite before I noticed that she was focusing on something through the archway in the dim corner of the living room. I turned to follow her gaze and could have sworn that I saw someone. I frowned, but when I focused, there was nothing there but a tattered curtain.

  Her voice broke. “P-perhaps you should wait for your relatives. We have some lovely B&Bs here in Las Lunas.”

  “That’s not a bad idea. It’s pretty dirty and messy in here. I doubt that I’ll get to cleaning the bedrooms by tonight.” I also wondered at the wisdom of sleeping in an unfamiliar house by myself. Who knew what pests might be sharing the place with me? My thoughts went to the beds and the couch that had been absorbing dust for years. All the cushions and mattresses would have to be aired and examined. I’d rather sleep in my own bed, which would mean moving furniture and getting into my storage unit. In my excitement, I hadn’t thought this through. “Do you know why the former owners didn’t remove their belongings?” I popped the rest of the cookie into my mouth.

  “No one really knows.” She pulled her tea bag from the cup and put it into the small bowl I’d set out for it. Then she knitted her fingers together. “This place, well, it has sort of a r-r-reputation.”

  I didn’t like that stutter. A shiver went down my back. “Reputation? What kind of reputation?”

  Mina twisted an opal and gold ring around her finger. “Well, I don’t like to gossip, but,” she looked around as if someone might overhear, “they say your house is haunted.”

  “Haunted? By whom or what?” Although I didn’t believe her, that B&B was looking better all the time. Besides, a nice hot bath tonight and a hearty breakfast in the morning held a lot of appeal.

  “Well…” She leaned forward conspiratorially, her hands fluttering. “I should tell you that I’m a writer. I write ghost stories. You can buy my books at Dreams and Dust in town. So I have a particular interest in your house and in the group of women mystery writers who used to meet here in the Sixties.”

  I looked around for my spiral notebook, located it and my favorite wood-turned ballpoint pen, and jotted a note to myself to find Dreams and Dust tomorrow and get copies of her books. “Mystery writers? That doesn’t sound supernatural.”

  “It’s what they used to do here.”

  My eyebrows rose. All sorts of images of wild bawdiness raced through my head, and I doodled freeform. Doodling was one of those habits I’d picked up in high school social studies, the most boring class in the world. Once I started drawing my thoughts, I’d never been able to put the habit back down.

  “As I recall the story, they used to rent your house as a kind of clubhouse from Francie Macalin, one of their members. She was the daughter of Shelagh Macalin, a writer of macabre ghost stories published in magazines in the Twenties and Thirties.” Mina’s voice dropped to a whisper, and she leaned forward as if she might be overheard. “I have several copies of magazines containing her stories. She was a bit bizarre even for the times. She reveled in her notoriety. They all had keys, all the writers, and one night they held a séance to conjure up Shelagh’s ghost as a kind of a muse for their group.” She paused for breath and a sip of tea.

  A new owner really does not want to hear that the former owners conjured up anything in a house she just paid every dime she had in the world for. “Uh, sounds like fun although I’m not into those sorts of parlor games. And the
critical bit, did they succeed?” I drew a key.

  Mina winced. “In a way. The séance went a bit awry, and instead of the muse they wanted, another ghost moved in. A bootlegger’s daughter. She was a flapper, by all accounts.” Then Mina glanced around nervously and said to the air, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

  I followed her darting gaze. “What, you think she’s still here?” I scribbled a classic sheet ghost with holes for eyes.

  She nodded. “Of course her ghost is still here. Don’t you feel her?”

  I stopped doodling. “The bootlegger’s daughter? Seriously?”

  Mina smiled wanly. “Sorry to tell you, but everyone hereabouts knows you have a ghost.”

  “Great. Today is move-in day.” No return, no refund. I’ve never really believed in ghosts, but I’ve always used the stories to my advantage. When Jack and I were kids, I used to make up stories about the body buried in our basement and the ghost who hung out down there, earning the ire of my mother because he refused to ever go back into the cellar to help with the laundry.

  But now I realized that the house that had seemed so bright and cheery during the day was gathering creepy shadows as the sun dropped lower toward the horizon and cast long shadows in the house.

  Mina seemed to have spooked herself. She stood up, walked through the archway into the living room, and with a few more furtive glances into the shadowed corners, prepared to leave.

  I stood as well and followed her out. “Thanks for coming by.”

  Mina stepped out onto the stoop and said cryptically, “Be careful. Women never seem to get their due.” A small smile flickered over her face as she bid me adieu and left quickly.

  I closed the door behind her and returned to the kitchen to put the foil back on the cookies. “That was strange,” I said out loud. Although the electricity was on, the lights flickered ominously, and I knew I’d have to get an electrician in quickly to upgrade my service as well as replace the doorbell. I decided to put the cookies into the fridge just in case there were vermin in residence.