Praying for Peace Read online

  Praying for Peace

  A Chantilly Adair Psychic Medium Cozy Mystery

  Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

  Praying For Peace

  A Chantilly Adair

  Psychic Medium

  Cozy mystery

  Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

  COPYRIGHT AUGUST, 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

  Cover Design

  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

  Continue for a Look at Carolyn’s Other Books!

  Chapter One of Deal Gone Dead

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books By Carolyn

  The Lily Sprayberry Realtor Cozy Mystery Series

  The Pooch Party Cozy Mystery Series

  Authors Need Love!

  Cover Design

  Cover Design by Tatiana Villa

  Paperback Cover Design by Tatiana Villa

  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

  Dedication

  For Jack

  Thanks for always believing in me

  1

  There is a lot of history in a small town, and much of it isn’t visible to the human eye. At least most human eyes, anyway. But mine? My eyes can see things most people can’t.

  Like ghosts.

  Believe it or not, the dead do walk among us. They’re at the grocery store, the flower shop, on the side of the road trying to hitch a ride they’ll never get, and of course, hanging out in cemeteries and hospitals. Hospitals, those are the worst. But I wouldn’t have believed it myself had I not bumped my head as I tumbled down the stairs and smacked onto the hard floor of the Castleberry, Georgia Historical Society. Ever since that fateful fall, ghosts have made their presence known, and often at the most inconvenient time.

  As I stood in the women’s restroom of the public facilities of the lacrosse fields in town, one particular ghost wouldn’t leave me alone. She stared at me from the corner of the small room, trying desperately to get my attention.

  “You can see me, can’t you?”

  There were two other women in the stalls, both with hearts still pumping blood through their veins, and talking to a spirit with them there wasn’t high on my lists of things to do with my life.

  I flicked my eyes toward the spirit and gently nodded, holding my finger up to my closed lips. I then moved the same finger out in front of me asking her to wait a moment.

  I lollygagged along, taking my time to wash my hands and dry them under the air dryer. The dryer always made me uncomfortable, seeing the once taut skin on my hands flap around like a Shar Pei’s face. It showed me a future of less collagen and more crepe skin than I was prepared for. I stopped torturing myself and fussed with my hair until the two women finished their business and left.

  “Okay,” I said, leaning my lower back up against the countertop. “Now that we’re alone, yes, I can see you.”

  “I need your help,” the woman spirit said.

  As if I hadn’t already figured that out. She was a pretty woman, her bob cut blonde hair just brushing the tops of her shoulders with a lovely, curvy figure much like the perfection of Marilyn Monroe’s. She was around my age, and though I wasn’t sure when she’d passed, her modern and fashionable cream colored leggings tucked into a pair of tan knee-high leather boots and long feather-light blue sweater gave some indication that it wasn’t all that long ago.

  “Yes, I suspected that was the case. I’ll give it my best shot. What can I do for you?”

  “I need to tell my husband about the money. I had a nest egg; one I was putting together for a trip to Disney. He needs to know where it is. I never had the chance to tell him where I’d hid it.”

  Bless her heart. That must have been frustrating for the both of them but delivering messages from the beyond wasn’t my area of expertise. Then again, I’d only been intertwined with spirits for less than a year, so I didn’t exactly have an area of expertise. Still, delivering messages seemed better left to the pros. “I…I’m not sure I’m comfortable doing that. I’m still pretty new at this. Honestly, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  Here’s your chance to practice, the voice inside my head whispered.

  Ugh.

  “Please, it’s important. He and my son are so sad. They need the trip. It will help them heal.”

  “How long have you been gone?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t really know. Time seems different now. What day is it?”

  When I told her, she gasped. “Oh, my. The last day I remember was in 2018.”

  Since 2019 was more than half over, I understood her surprise. “Do you remember how you…how it happened?”

  “Mostly. Bits and pieces, I guess. I remember standing at my mailbox talking to a neighbor.” She gazed toward the stalls while she tried to recall the events surrounding her death. “I heard a loud boom and then…then there was just all this heat. I was so hot. So very hot.”

  “Are you from Alpharetta?”

  She nodded.

  I grabbed my phone from my purse and searched the internet for what I recalled reading late last year. I was still living in Birmingham, still married to Scott, when a gas explosion in a wealthy community in Alpharetta made the national news. Five people were killed. She must have been one of them.

  Another woman walked in and greeted me with a head nod, and I returned the gesture. As I read through the article, I realized telling her husband anything from it would brand me a fake, and I didn’t want that.

  I waited for the living woman to leave before saying anything else. “It was a gas line explosion. Five people died that day. You and the person you were talking to were two of them.”

  Her mouth opened slightly. “Yes, the fire. It was everywhere. I watched the firemen put out the flames.” She held her hand against her chest. “And then that room. I remember seeing my husband staring down at this…this…burned body on a metal table. I’ve never seen him so distraught.” She hung her head. “And that’s when I realized it was me on that table. I was dead.”

  “I don’t think any money you hid there would have survived the explosion. The article says five homes were destroyed. I’m sorry.”

  “It wasn’t in the house. I hid it in the spare tire space under my car’s trunk. It’s in a Publix grocery bag, one of those cloth ones you reuse.”

  I sighed. I knew there was no way I couldn’t help her. The desperation and sadness in her eyes overwhelmed me. “You’ll have to show me your husband.”

  “Yes, I
can do that.”

  I wasn’t sure how I would deliver her message, but she was so upset, and the story so tragic, I knew I had to try. What he thought of me wasn’t my concern. I just hoped he would believe me.

  The man sat on the side of the bleachers meant for the other team. I knew him before she even had a chance to point him out. His face, sullen and pale, spoke of sadness and heartbreak, not of anticipation and excitement for the game in motion.

  I climbed the bleachers to his row and to where he sat on the edge of a group of people. I dreaded trying to talk to him there with everyone around, but I didn’t have a whole lot of options, so I just went for it.

  He made eye contact as I sat, offering me a slight nod in greeting.

  “Mr. Emmerson, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  His eyes shifted from the lacrosse game to me. “Thank you.”

  I exhaled, hoping something would just come to me, something I could say that would instantly make the poor man believe me. When nothing did, I blew out another breath. “Mr. Emmerson, I’ve never really done this before, and I’m not sure how to do it, so I’m just going to say it.” I tapped my foot on the metal bleacher and leaned my side toward his, our shoulders practically touching. I just didn’t want anyone else to hear me. “Your wife wants you to know that the money for Disney is in a Publix reusable shopping bag in the spare tire compartment under her trunk.

  He straightened his back, moved from me, and swiveled his head my direction. “Excuse me?”

  I smiled at the man. “I know it sounds crazy, but please, just look. She said you and your son need the time together. It’s important to her.”

  I didn’t wait for him to speak again. Instead, I stood, turned around, and quickly walked away. My son Austin’s team played against his son’s team, and our parents sat just a few feet away on the same bleachers, but I chose to scurry back to the bathroom to hide while I caught my breath.

  He didn’t follow after me, and he didn’t yell to me as I rushed away, so I hoped he’d believed me.

  I stood with my hands on the counter and stared at myself in the mirror. “Well, you did it, and you survived.”

  “Thank you.”

  I flipped around and saw the woman in the corner again. “You’re…you’re welcome.” My breathless words came out in a whisper. I hadn’t thought to check the stalls for occupants.

  “I won’t be the last,” she said, and then a swirl of light framed her spirit, and as she stared up at the bathroom ceiling, she lifted her arms, and disappeared in a fast rush of light.

  “Good to know,” I whispered. I patted cold water on my flushed cheeks, gathered my resolve, and snuck back outside, watching the rest of game from the entrance to the restrooms.

  I didn’t sleep well that night, part of me invigorated from helping the spirit and her family, the other part anxiety ridden from it. My emotions were an equal toss up between the two, and I debated them as I begged for sleep.

  Austin had a ride to school that morning, and I was thankful I could take my time getting ready for work. After gathering my things, I headed to Del’s Community Café, the local hot spot for all foods Southern, and the best cup of eye-opening caffeine around. I didn’t need the calorie laden food, though I fully intended to partake in it anyway. My exhausted body and foggy mind were desperate for the carbs and caffeine.

  Delphina Beauregard, the café’s owner, greeted me at the front door. “Now don’t you look like something the cat drug in?”

  “You’ve met my cat Cooper, right? He’d think you were insulting him.”

  “You got some dark circles under your eyes this morning,” she said, ignoring my comment about Cooper. “But I got my special blast brew. A cup of that and you’ll be right as rain in minutes. Lemme go and fix you up a cup right quick.”

  I placed my hand on her shoulder. “You’re the best.”

  Thelma Sayers had both hands on a chair with a cushioned seat and was pushing it toward her favorite table, the legs making a scratching, whining sound as she did.

  “I’m gonna charge you for my floor repairs, you old coot,” Del hollered from the counter.

  Thelma stopped, removed the hearing aids from her ears, shuffled over to the table and set them down, then returned back to sliding the chair over. She winked at me, and I laughed.

  “I’m serious,” Del hollered.

  I giggled. Thelma was deaf as a possum without those things in her ears, and I knew she didn’t make out a thing Del said. As she scooted the chair over, I grabbed her coffee from the other table and sat it on mine.

  Del brought over my coffee and one for herself. “Jenny, you take care of the customers, will ya? I’m having me a coffee break at the moment.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jenny, her intern, hollered from the counter.

  “Now, what’s going on?” Del asked. “You look give out.”

  I sighed and sipped my coffee. “I am. I barely slept last night.”

  “That boy of yours up to no good or something?”

  I shook my head. “Heavens, no. Bless his heart, he’s an angel most of the time.” I leaned toward the two women. “It was that woman, the one from the home explosion in Alpharetta a few weeks ago. She wanted me to talk to her husband.”

  Del’s eyes popped. “Well, slap some butter on me and call me a biscuit. You’re delivering messages from the dearly departed now?”

  “What’d you say?” Thelma held her hand to her ear. “A biscuit? Sure, I’ll take a biscuit.”

  Del picked up the hearing aids and handed them to Thelma. “Put your dang hearing aids back in woman. The whole town can hear you yellin’.”

  “Oh, yes. These should help.” Thelma shoved them into her ears. “Yup, perfect.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to be a thing or anything,” I said, continuing on with the conversation.

  “What thing?” Thelma asked.

  “Chantilly here is giving messages from the dead now. She’s a bonafide psychic.”

  “I’m not a psychic. I don’t read people’s minds or predict the future. I talk to dead people.” Wow. That sounded strange coming out of my mouth.

  “Don’t psychics do that, too?” Thelma asked.

  “No. Psychic mediums talk to the dead.” I’d spent a lot of hours on the internet learning about my new gift, and that was the first thing I’d read.

  “Oh, well, that would be nice.” She sighed.

  I glanced at Del. She sighed, too.

  We chatted for a bit longer about what I’d experienced, but Thelma remained quiet for most of the conversation. She didn’t offer any tidbits of her past or stories from her life like usual, and it concerned me. She just sat there on her cushioned seat, picking at a biscuit I’d yet to see her actually take a bite of.

  When she stood to leave, I grew even more worried. “Thelma, are you okay? You never leave here this early.”

  She sighed. “I’m not feeling myself today.”

  I should have guessed. Thelma didn’t have her standard Dolly Parton wig on, and Thelma rarely went out in public without one of her Dolly wigs. Instead, she’d worn a scarf wrapped around her short gray hair. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  She shook her head. “Thank you, but no. I’m going to head home and see if I can find some Hart to Hart episodes on the TV. I like that show. It reminds me of my Charlie.”

  Charlie was Thelma’s husband. He’d died a few years ago, and Thelma, understandably so, was torn up about it. I’d met him when I was a kid, but like most of the people who’d passed before I returned home after my divorce, hadn’t seen him in over twenty years. Charlie was the love of Thelma’s life, and when she talked about him, her eyes usually sparkled, but they didn’t then, and I knew she wasn’t feeling right. “Okay, but if you need anything, you just give one of us a call, all right?”

  She nodded as she shuffled toward the door.

  We watched her leave without a glance back to us.

  “Well, that ain’t goo
d,” Del said.

  “I know. I’ve never seen her like that before.”

  “I have, but it’s been a while. She’ll snap out of it in a few days. I think she just gets sad sometimes. Misses her family.”

  Thelma hadn’t lost just her husband, she’d also lost her son years before in the Vietnam War. Her entire family was gone, and I knew that must have been hard for her.

  “I pray she’ll find some peace in it all eventually.”

  “She seems okay most of the time.”

  “What you see on the outside don’t always reflect what’s going on in the inside.”

  “I guess.”

  “What do you mean, you guess? You’re the perfect example.”

  “Me? How?”

  She laughed. “Nothing about you says you can talk to spirits, but look at you, doing it all the time now.”

  “Not all the time.”

  Little did I know I’d just set myself up to learn a big lesson.

  2

  Mayor Holbrook Tyson greeted me with a hug. “Chantilly, always a pleasure. Here—” he pointed to the table in his office. “Have a seat. Would you like something to drink? We’ve got some sweet tea from Del’s place if you’ve got a hankerin’.”

  “Thank you, but I’m fine.” I opened a manila file and laid out the documents and photos inside it in front of him. “I’ve still got some more research to do, but I believe, if the city can help with funding, the church can be restored to its original glory.”