Interview with a Ghost in Arizona (Humorous Cozy Mystery) (Ghost Mysteries of the Southwest Book 2) Read online

  What would the publisher do? So much of the multigenerational saga was still unfinished. Could another author take over, using George's notes? Had he even made notes, or was it all locked away in his mind? She conjured up an absurd image of the county medical examiner inserting probes into the dead man's brain to extract the valuable stories. If only such a thing were possible.

  The doorbell chimed three and a half times. It was her best friend Winnie's signature ring.

  Piper pushed aside morbid thoughts of science fiction brain probes and ran to the door. Winnie was jiggling the locked handle impatiently and cursing on the other side.

  When the door swung open, Winnie pushed her way in, frowning. “Piper! You look like hell. You need more blush. Since when do you lock the front door? And where have you been? I've been phoning and texting you, like, a billion times.”

  “Remember how I was chatting online with George Morrison?”

  “That pervert? Gross! Don't tell me you're still planning to meet him in person. I swear, Piper. I will phone your father and tell him you pose a threat to yourself. You'll be committed to a mental institution within hours.” She grinned to soften her teasing. “For your own good, of course. Don't worry. I'll come visit you at the facility.”

  Piper frowned. “George Morrison is dead.”

  Without missing a beat, Winnie said, “Good,” and started mixing a drink at the entertainment lounge's marble-topped bar.

  “I'm not joking,” Piper said. “He passed away.”

  “Good,” Winnie repeated. “Now everyone can stop complaining about how long it takes for his stupid books to come out.” She waved a hand as though clearing a bad smell from the air. “No more of his gross books full of an old fart's pervy fantasies about virgin-filled harems and stupid, weak women.”

  “But you like the books.” Piper joined Winnie by the bar and looked her up and down. Winnie's silky black hair was intricately braided in the style worn by the earth-fairies in the books, and she wore the ombre-hued robes of an earth-fairy princess. “Winnie, you're such a hypocrite! You're dressed as Ling, the Warrior Princess!”

  “So? She's a great character.”

  “Where did you get this costume?” Piper studied the seams on the robes. The costume's construction was incredibly high quality, not the usual costume shop junk. “Did you have this custom made?”

  Winnie snorted. “This old thing? Whatever.”

  Piper raised her eyebrows knowingly. “Winnie, you're just as big a Hallows fan as I am. Admit it.”

  “Well, the first three books were decent, and the series had promise, until he killed Ling, the only character worth caring about.” She whipped her hand dismissively.

  Piper asked, “Aren't you just a little bit shocked about him being dead?”

  “George Morrison has been dead to me ever since he killed Ling, so the news that he's dead-dead is not exactly shocking.” She used the bar's silver tongs to add more ice to her drink. “Don't tell me you've been holed up in your room reading internet stories about him. You know what? I bet all his critics will be going soft now, and talking about what a magnificent man he was.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Winnie, will you shut up and stop being so judgmental for one minute?”

  Winnie made a sour face and tasted her drink, waving one hand for Piper to talk as much as she dared while Winnie's mouth was busy.

  “I was at his house tonight,” Piper said with a thick voice. “I'm the one who found his body.”

  Winnie choked daintily on her beverage. She waved for Piper to continue, and she did, filling in the details, including being attacked by an unseen assailant, as well as her mistreatment by the police. Piper left out the pesky detail of seeing George's ghost.

  “I knew it,” Winnie said. “That man is no good. I mean, he was no good. Who do you think killed him? A psycho stalker? A scorned lover? Impatient publisher? Greedy relatives wanting their juicy inheritance? Bastard son?”

  “It was probably just an accident,” Piper said. “It looked like he fell down the stairs.” She nodded, almost convinced by her own words as she talked. “People don't kill each other in Copeland. That's why my parents bought a house here.”

  “Right,” Winnie said with a head bob.

  The doorbell rang. Piper ran to open the door while Winnie set up a music play-list for the stereo.

  An hour later, the pre-Halloween party was in full swing. News had leaked online about the death of George Morrison, which cast a somber shadow over the party. Many people had come dressed as their favorite House of Hallows characters, which made the news even more surreal.

  Piper didn't let on to the others that she'd been the Copeland resident who'd discovered the body. As much as she enjoyed being the center of attention, she didn't want it now. The party-goers would only pry away at what had been a deeply upsetting, personal experience. She bit her tongue and poured herself another drink while everyone salaciously speculated it had been a call girl who'd alerted the police.

  On and on they went about the man's alleged predilections.

  A girl with a half-shaved head said, “It could have been two hookers. And they flipped a coin to see who would stay with the body.” She laughed. “I bet the medics found him clutching a handful of blue pills.”

  Piper finished her gin and tonic and slammed down the empty glass. “George wouldn't do that,” she said.

  A guy chuckled. “If I had his money, I'd do the same thing.” Everyone ignored Piper and carried on.

  “I heard he had a thing for young girls,” the punk girl with the half-shaved head said. “The younger, the better. My mother's friend knows someone who worked for an escort agency. He would order them up by the dozen.”

  Everyone laughed.

  The conversation went on like that for an eternity. Piper poured herself another drink, a double. She slammed it back, all the better to fuzz her hearing.

  She tried changing the subject, but nobody was interested in anything else.

  A larger-sized girl said, “I'd totally have sex with him, if he wrote me into one of his books.”

  The others volunteered their own price for sleeping with the man.

  Piper's vision tinted red with rage. These ingrates were in her house, drinking her booze, and most of them didn't even know who she was. They were all posers, pretending to be cool and hip and know things they didn't.

  “Shut up!” Piper yelled. “You're all disgusting!”

  The room went quiet. Someone turned down the stereo. Sixty people turned their attention to Piper. The only sound was the clinking of ice cubes in glasses and a few nervous coughs.

  Piper tottered toward the center of the large room. She'd always been a lightweight as a drinker, and she was three beverages beyond her comfort zone. She scanned the room until she spotted a friendly face. It wasn't Winnie. It was the ghost of George Morrison.

  “George!” Piper exclaimed. “I'm so glad you made it to my party!” She waved around the room. “George Morrison, these are my friends. Well, maybe not my real friends. More like people who enjoy free booze, am I right?” She let out a high-pitched laugh. “My so-called friends are just like the Stanza Clan in your books! Always at your side during harvest, but conspicuously absent during the long winter months.”

  A few people laughed tentatively.

  Winnie ran up to Piper's side, grabbed her arm, and hissed, “What's going on? Have you seriously lost your mind?”

  Piper yanked her arm away and stumbled drunkenly. “It's okay,” she said, slurring her words. “I know George isn't really here. It's just his ghost. I'm friends with his ghost, and he came to my party.” She pointed to the portly man in the suspenders and jaunty fisherman's cap. People followed her finger, but they saw nothing but their own reflections in a patio door.

  “Time for bed,” Winnie said gently. “I think you've had enough for tonight. Where's Teddy? Let's go check on him.”

  “Teddy's fine,” Piper said. “Don't you see George? He's
standing right there.”

  “No, he isn't.”

  Piper cupped her hand around her mouth and said, “George, turn up the wattage! Crank it up so everyone can see you!”

  George tucked his thumbs into his suspenders and shrugged. He was already as visible as he could manage.

  A young man with blue hair raised his hand and asked Piper, “Are you saying the ghost of George Morrison is right here, in this room, and you can see him?”

  Piper nodded. “He's standing in front of the patio door. This is the second time tonight I've seen him.”

  A redheaded girl said, “I've seen things myself, so I totally believe you. In fact, I can feel a spirit's presence right now.” She rubbed her forearms. “He's very troubled. He met with a violent end. He was murdered!”

  The crowd gasped.

  “It was an accident,” Piper said. “Probably.”

  The redhead asked, “If it was truly an accident, why hasn't he moved on? Why is he here? And how did he get here, to this house?”

  All eyes were on Piper for an answer.

  “He must have followed me home,” Piper said with a half-shrug. “I was at his mother's house tonight, and I almost tripped over his body.” She waved her hand around her head. “There was blood everywhere, like a dark halo.”

  Piper didn't notice she had a fresh drink in her hand and was splashing booze all over herself. Nobody else seemed to care.

  They closed in on her with questions.

  So many questions.

  Like a gang of reporters.

  Or a pack of wolf-dogs straight from the pages of House of Hallows.

  “Tell us more,” they said. “Tell us everything.”

  Piper started at the beginning. Winnie tried to drag her away, but Piper fought her friend off easily.

  Piper told the group of her online friendship with the famous author, and his invitation to visit him at his childhood home, as friends, or so she truly believed. The group seemed divided about the man's intentions.

  She told them everything, including how she'd seen his spirit, sitting in the corner of the room, present but mute.

  “And now he's here,” she said. “Standing right there.” She pointed. “He's wearing his suspenders and his fisherman's cap. And now he's being silly.” She laughed. “He's drinking a glass of something. Does anyone see a glass levitating in the air?”

  “No,” the crowd murmured. They didn't see anything.

  “Then it must be ghostly port,” she said. “I read it in an interview. George loves port.”

  Someone asked why a ghost would drink anything at all, let alone port.

  Piper didn't know.

  They flooded her with more questions she didn't have answers to. George, still mute, wasn't any help at all. He did, however, look impatient. He kept glancing at his ghostly wristwatch and heaving his chest like he was silently sighing. It seemed to Piper there was something he wanted to show her.

  Chapter 3

  Day 2

  Saturday, October 29th

  5:30 p.m.

  Piper woke to the sound of people talking about the death of George Morrison. Was the party still going? She sat up in bed and listened. The partygoers were long gone. It was just the TV, CNN reporters talking about the author's demise and what it meant for the book franchise.

  Just like the musician, Prince, George Morrison had died unexpectedly and intestate, without a will in place. His parents were both dead. He'd never married, and had no offspring—at least none that the reporters had located. If he'd had a son or daughter, the heir to his fortune would be obvious. But it wasn't just his juicy bank accounts currently up for grabs. The unfinished book series itself had a value beyond the monetary. There were clauses in his publishing contracts, and his agent would certainly have ideas, but as with all legal matters, the future of the series was open to some degree of interpretation. The media was all too willing to prop up the grand tents for a three-ring circus of speculation.

  Piper lay in bed listening to the distant television as the announcer introduced guest Nancy Dowd, a journalist who'd become a celebrity herself in recent years for in-depth coverage of famous scandals.

  Nancy was saying, “Sources close to the family say that Mr. Morrison wasn't as reclusive and secretive as he wanted the world to believe. There are quite possibly other people who were involved with the books.”

  The reporter asked, “You mean his long-time editor, Robert Jones?”

  Nancy replied, “Yes, that's an obvious one. Editors are very important, but I'm talking about someone involved on the creative side.”

  “Ms. Dowd, are you telling us House of Hallows was being written by a secret ghost writer?”

  Nancy let out a theatrical laugh, sounding like a politician pleased to be fed the perfect question. “It's too soon to say, but I do hope to have more for you shortly.”

  “Nancy, you're speaking to us today by phone. Does that mean you're on the road? Could you be on your way to Copeland, Arizona?”

  Cryptically, Nancy said, “I could be anywhere. That's the beauty of my job.”

  “You couldn't keep your presence a secret for long,” the reporter said, chuckling. “Not with your lovely red hair and your impeccable style!”

  “Oh, flattery will get you everywhere. Don't stop!”

  This went on for a few minutes, with Nancy dropping hints about George Morrison's private affairs, fanning the flames without giving away anything concrete.

  Finally, the reporter thanked her. Nancy plugged her latest true crime book, and the show broke for commercials.

  Piper rolled out of bed, stretched, and looked out the window at an orange sky. Sunrise? She frowned at the little dot on her alarm clock. It was already five-thirty at night. She'd lost the whole day. Evening always came so darned early in October, due to the state of Arizona not observing Daylight Savings Time. The shock pushed away the remainder of her grogginess, and the events of the previous night hit her in waves.

  She remembered knocking on the door of the Morrison home.

  Walking inside, and being shoved to the ground.

  George's lifeless eyes, staring vacantly up from a pool of blood.

  The images in her mind were relentless, vulgar and looming.

  It was all too much.

  Piper dashed to the bathroom and hunched over the toilet. Teddy came trotting in, his nails clicking like drumsticks on the marble floors. His big, black ears were on high alert, and the eyebrow spots above his eyes darted up, extra-concerned.

  Piper groaned, “Are you worried about me, or about your overdue breakfast?”

  His eyebrow spots shifted as he glanced at the door then back at her. Both. He was worried about both.

  “Hang on,” she gasped and finished. While she heaved, Teddy oh-so-helpfully licked the soles of her bare feet and made chatty noises to let her know he felt ignored.

  Ten minutes later, dressed in a silky robe, Piper walked out to the kitchen, fed Teddy his overdue breakfast, and nibbled some dry toast while she made coffee.

  Hot coffee in hand, she walked toward the den, where the CNN voices were echoing. She hadn't switched on the entertainment center the previous night, so she guessed it must have been someone at the party who'd wandered into that part of the house. The flickering TV bathed the den in blue light.

  As she reached for the remote control, she suddenly realized she wasn't alone. Her skin prickled. Someone sat in the room's recliner—the Italian leather chair her father used when he was in town. She spilled a third of her coffee on her bare feet.

  “George!”

  The ghostly version of her favorite author gave Piper a friendly wave before turning his attention back to the television, where a professor was discussing the significance of Morrison's contributions to modern literature. George stared at the screen, seemingly oblivious to his host's presence.

  She tentatively asked, “Is everything okay? You're not mad at me for blabbing about you last night?”

&n
bsp; His attention stayed on the television and the professor who was singing his praises.

  Piper switched on two lamps to brighten the room, and took a seat on the tightly-upholstered settee that was her mother's seating choice on the rare occasion that she was in town. What would the elder Chens think of the ghost that had moved into their Arizona home? They were both superstitious, refusing to stay in hotels that were near cemeteries or hospitals. Piper had barely asked herself the question when the answer came to her. The Chens would immediately sell the house and buy another. Immediately. She laughed out loud at the absurdity.

  George gave her a curious look, turning his head so his eyes could flit back and forth between her and the TV screen. She explained what she'd laughed about. “If my parents knew a ghost had been in that chair, they'd burn the chair and sell the house.”

  He frowned and shook his head.

  “It's nothing personal,” she said. “But most people are afraid of ghosts.”

  His chest heaved with a silent sigh. He understood.

  She grabbed some tissues from the box on the coffee table and mopped the spilled coffee off her bare feet before tucking them up, cross-legged. George tilted his head so the brim of his fisherman's cap shrouded his eyes. Piper sensed the old man was watching for a glimpse of her underwear under the short robe. She grabbed a pillow for her lap and ignored him, sipping her coffee.

  They both watched CNN until the coverage changed from the author to national politics.

  George shifted noiselessly in his chair and gave her a bored look.

  “If you're that bored, maybe it's time for you to move on to wherever it is you're headed.”

  He gave her a hurt look.

  “Or stick around,” she added quickly. “As you may have noticed, it's a pretty big house for just one person.”

  He rested his chin on his fist and gave her a look that reminded her of being in therapy. He waved for her to continue speaking, though she detected a hint of condescension in his eyes.

  “Let's not talk about me,” she said icily. “I'm only twenty-one. I've got the rest of my life to sort out my problems. But you're dead and done.” She swallowed, surprised by the brusqueness of her words. “Sorry.”