Haunting Hooligans Read online

  Haunting Hooligans

  A Chantilly Adair Psychic Medium Cozy Mystery

  Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

  Magnum Grace Publishing

  Haunting Hooligans

  A Chantilly Adair

  Psychic Medium

  Cozy mystery

  Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

  COPYRIGHT SEPTEMBER, 2019

  CAROLYN RIDDER ASPENSON

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION:

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Disclaimer

  Haunting Hooligans

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books By

  1. The Lily Sprayberry Realtor Cozy Mystery Series

  2. The Pooch Party Cozy Mystery Series

  Authors Need Love!

  Disclaimer

  Cover Design by Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  To keep up with Carolyn and her new releases, sign up for her mailing list at carolynridderaspenson.com

  For Cristine Parker Holland

  RIP my friend.

  Haunting Hooligans

  She swept the browned crisp leaves into a pile and swooped it with one big swing of her rake. The big pile of leaves, underbrush, and whatever little wormy creatures lived in the mess all landed directly on top of the spirit’s remains. Of course, my neighbor couldn’t see the body since it had been removed when the man died seven years ago, but I saw, and his spirit saw too, and I cringed a little.

  “Hey now, you don’t have to be doin’ that to my remains. Your momma teach you any manners?” The dead man asked. He lifted his eyes from the pile of leaves resting on top of his charred body, smiled at me, and winked.

  My neighbor, Emma Sue Platt, removed her garden gloves from her hands. “Are you ready for Halloween?”

  I glanced toward my house next door and sighed at the three pumpkins on the front porch, none of which had been carved, and the small fall wreath hanging on the front door. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “You know, your ma and pa used to do Halloween up right. Your pa was out the first of the month, rain or shine, putting up those orange and green lights, and your ma, she always had a big ol’ display of pumpkins and scarecrows in the front yard by the mailbox. Remember that? My favorite was the makeshift cemetery she made out in the front yard. That grave with the skeleton crawling up the back of the tombstone? That was good Halloweenin’ right there. Kids loved that stuff.”

  “I know. She really loved Halloween.”

  “You still got her decorations?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I might could help you get ‘em up if you’d like.”

  A part of me wanted to. I wanted to keep the tradition going, to do what I knew my mom would love, what she did love, but the other part of me, the part that missed her and still hurt when I thought about those old family traditions, it just couldn’t bring the rest of me to do it. Not yet. “Maybe next year, Emma Sue. I’m just not quite ready yet.”

  She wrapped her arm around my shoulder and walked me toward her garage, the ghost following behind, commenting on the yard and how Emma Sue needed to spend more time taking care of it. I ignored him.

  “Sweetie, I know it’s hard, and I ain’t one to say all that stuff people say when one’s grieving, because believe me, I know it don’t mean much of nothing. It’s been seven years since Buck passed, and there are days when I just want to sit and cry in my Corn Flakes, but I can tell you this, doing the things that you know they loved, that bring you back to the good times, that’s good for the soul. Why do you think I pay so much attention to this darn yard? I never much cared for yard work, but Buck, he found it relaxing. Man was crazy, I know, but he was my crazy, and when I’m out here doing my best to make the yard look good, it makes me feel closer to him. ‘Course, if he were here, he’d probably tell you I ain’t doing it right, that I shouldn’t—”

  Buck spoke along with her, “Leave the leaves in a big pile like that because it’ll kill the darn grass, woman.”

  I pressed my lips together but couldn’t help smiling anyway.

  “What I’m trying to say is, it’s the good times from the past, the things your parents did that keep you connected to them. Ain’t that what you want?”

  Ideally, I wanted them, but I knew that wasn’t a possibility. Or was it? “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then let’s get that graveyard up. And get that boy of yours out here carving them pumpkins. He’s old enough to be responsible with a knife, ain’t he?”

  “As long as he’s been fed, I think he’ll be fine. He’s not home though. His friend’s mom picked him up for school two hours ago.”

  Emma Sue laughed. “Ain’t that the truth about all men?”

  “She talkin’ about me?” the ghost asked.

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “I appreciate your offer to help, but I’ve got to get to work.”

  “Work? It’s Halloween. Ain’t that a national holiday?”

  “I wish, but it’s not. And I’m already late as it is. I just wanted to come by and say hello and tell you not to be out here too long. I know you’ve got fall allergies, and I don’t want you suffering.” I only knew that because Buck, her husband, had stopped me on the way out this morning and asked me to give her a what for for not taking her medicine before going out to do yard work.

  She sniffled and swiped her forefinger underneath her nose. “Huh, I don’t think I took them allergy pills the doctor gave me a few weeks ago.” She leaned the broom she’d grabbed from just inside her garage up against the side of her house. “I best be gettin’ inside to get me one of those before I end up having a sneeze attack.”

  “Don’t know how that woman makes it without me,” Buck said.

  I said goodbye to Emma Sue and headed toward my car. “She seems to be doing okay.”

  “I guess, but I don’t like it. Wish she’d find a good man to take care of her.”

  I stopped and stared at the old man. “Mr. Platt, she’s seventy-six years old. I’m pretty sure she has no interest in getting out into the dating scene again. I’m in my forties, and I don’t even want to.” Though the thought of a nice looking, local police detective sounded rather inviting. I just didn’t mention that to the ghost.

  “Well, she’s going to need someone to take care of her. She shouldn’t be out doin’ that work now. She could drop dead.”

  “Like you did?”

  “That was different. I got struck by lightning. She could have a heart attack.”

  I tossed my bag gently into the passenger seat. “Does she have a heart condition?”

  “No, but that don’t matter. I’d never been struck by lightning before and look at what happened to me.”

  I laughed. “Mr. Platt, is there something you’d like to me to tell Emma Sue? A message you want me to give her?”

  He nodded. “Tell her to find a man to take care of her so I can stop worrying.”

  “I am not telling her that because I don’t think you really mean it
.”

  He shrugged. “Not really. I just don’t want her getting hurt. We got those grandkids, and I want her to have a lot of years with them. She always wanted them. Always wanted us to be able to take them to the park, buy them ice cream, spoil them rotten. And I had to go and ruin that by gettin’ lit up like a firecracker.” His energy deflated, and a sadness swept over me.

  “Mr. Platt, you didn’t ruin it. It was just your time. And whatever’s going to happen to Emma Sue is going to happen. I don’t think there’s much we can do about it.”

  “Maybe not you, but us spirits, we got connections, and I’ll tell you this, if my wife gets in harm’s way, I’m gettin’ her out.” He puffed out his chest and then disappeared in a swift light straight up into the light of the sun.

  “I don’t doubt that one bit.”

  I drove the short distance to the historical society museum/office with a smile on my face. Poor Mr. Platt. He loved his wife and wanted to protect her, and I knew that was what kept him grounded here in my world, but how could I blame him? If I had a spouse I’d been married to forever and died before him, I’m not sure I could go on to my eternal life until it was his time, too. I smiled again, grateful my ex-husband Scott wasn’t that guy. I just couldn’t imagine spending eternity with someone who hadn’t loved me enough.

  My coworker Olivia Castleberry was already going full force at work. She had a way of charging forward and tackling her to do list with the energy of a twenty-six-year-old. Of course, she was a twenty-six-year-old, so there was that. I dragged myself in, a few hours late, but only because I’d stayed up late the night before finalizing an approval for a historic property’s redesign plan and emailed it off to the city council. When Mayor Tyson Holbrook saw the email sent at three o’clock in the morning, I didn’t think he’d chide me for getting to the office a little late.

  Olivia greeted me in the kitchen as I made myself a cup of coffee. “Hey there, Miss Chantilly.” Her smile faded. “Well, don’t you like a wet dog today. Is that a thing for Halloween?”

  I tried not to take that personally. “I was up until three working on that plan for the Carson plantation.”

  “Oh dear, you must be give out. What are you doing here? You should be in bed.”

  “You clearly don’t have any children. Austin sounded like a herd of Clydesdales stomping through the house this morning when he got ready for school.”

  “You should have just told him to hush right up.”

  As if things actually worked that way in the real world.

  A shadow crept through the kitchen and out into the hallway. I glanced at it, but didn’t give it much thought. After my misstep that led to a tumble down the society’s stairs a while back, I’d been left with a bump on the head and the ability to see spirits. See, and talk to spirits, actually. At first it was awkward, to say the least, and a whole lot of scary, but I’d sort of figured it out. At least I’d figured out how to chat with the ones that didn’t scare me. I’d also come to realize that most of them didn’t actually want my help. They were fine there in the in-between, doing whatever it was they were doing, waiting like Mr. Platt or whatever, and just enjoyed a conversation with the living every now and again. I enjoyed it, too.

  It was the spirits that didn’t talk that gave me goosebumps. Those spirits usually had issues but they weren’t all that good at dealing with them.

  Olivia made herself a cup of hot tea. “Are you going to take Austin trick or treating in town tonight?”

  “Uh, you’ve seen my kid, right? He’s turning thirteen in a few weeks. The last thing he wants to do is go trick or treating with his momma.”

  She giggled. “You’re right. What was I thinking.” She dipped her tea bag in and out of the hot water, something I’d been told in London was a big no-no. I didn’t know if that was true, but when a British person told me what to do with tea, I listened. I considered them the experts on it, just like I considered Southern women the experts on turnips and grits. Grits, by the way, should never be eaten with sugar and cream. Those are best left for oatmeal.

  “A big group of us are going on a pub crawl in town. You want to come along?”

  “A pub crawl?”

  “Sure.” She tossed the tea bag into the garbage. “You know, where you go to different bars and have a drink at each one.”

  “Olivia, we have two bars in town, and I’m not exactly sure they can be called bars. One is a restaurant that serves chicken and waffles and beer.”

  She laughed. “We’re just planning on having a few beers at each, but we’re dressing up, so it’ll be all kinds of exciting. You should come. You’ll love it.”

  A—I wasn’t a beer drinker, and B—hanging out with a bunch of girls that could technically be my kids who were determined to get drunk didn’t sound like a whole lot of fun to me. “I’m going to be handing out candy and working on my script for the haunted historical tour.”

  “Are you changing that thing up again?”

  I nodded. “It’s fun to mix it up a bit. Besides, I’ve changed the order this weekend in honor of Halloween. I’m actually excited about it.”

  “It’s getting pretty popular. You planning to add another weekend?”

  “I don’t think so. Once a month is about all I can handle. I like having a waiting list. It makes it seem more urgent for people to sign up, and the revenue stream is good for the historical society.”

  “You might have to start calling it the historic society if that silly Ms. Huckabee has her way. You know she’s already submitted her request for the town meeting next month.”

  “Ms. Huckabee can submit whatever she wants, but she’s not going to change how I refer to the society with some stupid council ruling. That’s like asking the people of Chicago to call the Sears Tower the Willis Tower.”

  “What do you mean? Isn’t that what it is?”

  I pressed the tips of my fingers into the middle of my forehead “You’re too young to understand.”

  She scratched at her cheek, and I knew she wanted to continue the conversation further, but she changed it instead. “Do you need any help with the new script?”

  “Nope, I’m good, but thank you.” I headed to my office, taking note of the shadowy figure floating up the stairs ahead of me.

  After I sat at my desk, the shadowy figure formed into a person, or the spirit of a once was person, and one I recognized from the haunted historical tour. A beautiful dark haired woman wearing a cream colored floor length dress and a large hat stood in front of me. “There isn’t much time,” she said.

  I leaned toward her. “Much time for what?”

  “To save her. You must hurry.” And with that, of course, the spirit up and disappeared on me.

  “What on earth did that mean?”

  “You talking to me?” Olivia asked as she passed by my door. In one hand she carried her tea, in the other she balanced a plate with two of Delphina Beauregard’s vanilla pumpkin scones, and just at the sight of them, my mouth watered.

  She eyed me drooling. “Yes, one of them is for you.” She walked into my office, placed her tea on my desk and handed me a scone. “I’m giving you the bigger one. I need to make room for my three beers tonight. That’s all I can have. If I drink any more than that I have an awful case of gas the next day.”

  “Oh, well, in that case, don’t drink more than that, please.”

  She giggled. “Yes, ma’am.” She smiled. “But oh, what were you saying before?”

  “Oh, nothing. I was talking to myself.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “You sure you weren’t talking to a spirit? It is Halloween you know.”

  “I know, but nope. I wasn’t. I’m sure. It doesn’t happen as often as y’all would like to think,” I lied.

  Olivia, Del, or Delphina Beauregard, the owner of Community Café and a dear friend, along with Thelma Sayers, our resident Dolly Parton impersonator of sorts–she wore a Dolly wig daily– and also a dear friend, were the only people in town tha
t knew I could see spirits, and in their minds, I sat around chatting with the dead and gone for hours daily.

  It wasn’t at all like that. Sure, I chatted with one or two on a regular basis, but for the most part, if a spirit came to me, it had a reason. The random ones I saw around town either didn’t know I could see them, or didn’t care. Those were the ones that didn’t want my help, and I’d learned to not even bother.

  “Honey, the fact that you can see even one spirit means it happens to you a lot more than it happens to any of us.” She chipped off a bit of scone and tossed it in her mouth. “Oh, that’s delicious.” She took another bite and talked with her mouth full. “And besides, it’s fascinating, what you can do.”

  It was rather fascinating, she was right about that.

  “We just want to help in any way we can. You know that. So, if you need anything, you just ask.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Thank you.”

  She skipped off happily to her office.

  I flipped through the pages of my typed script for the haunted historical tour until I got to the one with the woman who’d just disappeared from my office. Nellie Clementine, I was sure that was her.

  I crept to my office door and quietly closed it. “Nellie? Come back. I want to help,” I whispered.

  Nellie’s story was a tragic one, though the town had mixed feelings about her. Our library was originally the town’s small post office, and Nellie Clementine was an employee of that post office back in the late 1800s. She was also rumored to have had a torrid affair with William Thurman, the postmaster, who just happened to be twenty years her senior.