The Ghost and the Muse (Haunting Danielle Book 10) Read online

  The Ghost and the Muse

  Bobbi Holmes

  Illustrated by

  Elizabeth Mackey

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  The Ghost Who Stayed Home

  Haunting Danielle Newsletter

  Haunting Danielle Series

  Bobbi Holmes

  Unlocked Hearts Series

  The Coulson Series

  Also by Bobbi Ann Johnson Holmes

  The Ghost and the Muse

  (Haunting Danielle, Book 10)

  A Novel

  By Bobbi Holmes

  Cover Design: Elizabeth Mackey

  Copyright © 2016 Bobbi Holmes

  Robeth Publishing, LLC

  All Rights Reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction.

  Any resemblance to places or actual persons,

  living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  www.robeth.com

  To my family.

  Because that’s what’s really important in life.

  One

  Steve Klein went fishing every Thursday evening. At least, that was what he led his wife, Beverly, to believe. On Thursdays, she played bridge with her girlfriends. She had missed the last two bridge nights because she had been out of town. What Steve had failed to tell his wife was that he hadn’t been fishing for over six weeks.

  But here he was—after almost two months of skipping his weekly fishing night—sitting alone on the Frederickport Pier, fishing pole in hand and cursing himself for leaving his thermos of decaf coffee sitting on the kitchen counter back at home.

  Had he remembered his coffee, he wouldn’t have run into Carla at Pier Café. If he had just realized his oversight before pulling into the parking lot, he could have stopped somewhere else and picked up some coffee. He certainly wouldn’t return home to grab his thermos. What would Beverly say? She’d wonder why he bothered returning home when it would be easier to buy take-out coffee on the pier.

  The bridge ladies had started showing up at his house before he had stepped onto his front porch. Beverly had practically pushed him out the door, which was one reason he had forgotten his thermos and had left it sitting on the kitchen counter. She had shoved the sack with the tamales Baron had given him into his hand and kissed his cheek, telling him to have fun.

  Steve had to admit, Beverly was a good wife and mother. Having the affair with Carla was nothing personal. It had nothing to do with his feelings for Beverly. In fact, it wasn’t even about his feelings for Carla. He had no feelings for Carla. But a man had certain needs, Steve told himself. As long as he didn’t neglect his wife or get some foolish notion to leave her for his mistress, then what was the harm? Steve congratulated himself for doing the right thing and breaking it off with Carla before things got awkward. The next time it won’t be someone in Frederickport, Steve told himself. Too close to home. I won’t make that mistake again.

  He glanced over to the unopened sack and cup of coffee sitting on the pier next to his chair. His stomach began to grumble.

  Antoine Paul had recognized Steve Klein the moment he had walked onto the pier, clumsily carrying an armful of items, which included a fishing pole, tackle box, folding chair, and paper sack. Antoine had seen him on the pier before—on the night Jolene Carmichael had been murdered.

  At the time, Antoine thought there was something vaguely familiar about the man, yet considering he was average looking, Antoine initially assumed the middle-aged man simply resembled someone he once knew. The morning after Jolene’s murder, learning the man’s name was Steve Klein prickled his memory, but it wasn’t until he learned Steve was the manager of a local bank did it all fall into place.

  Naturally curious, considering he now knew who Steve was, Antoine discreetly shadowed the banker, watching as he entered Pier Café and set what he had been carrying onto a bench in the front entry of the diner before he went up to the counter and ordered coffee.

  A waitress with rainbow-streaked hair took his order and didn’t seem particularly friendly. In fact, she was downright hostile, and Antoine imagined she wouldn’t be getting a tip. After placing the order and paying for it, Klein turned his back to her, waiting for his order.

  Antoine watched as the waitress went to pour coffee into a large Styrofoam cup. He found it curious when her eyes darted to Steve, whose back still faced her, and then she hastily slipped something into his drink before securing the lid onto the cup.

  That alone would not have piqued Antoine’s curiosity, but when Steve placed his coffee on the bench with his other items and then went to use the men’s room, Antoine watched as the waitress quickly scurried from behind the counter and began going through Steve’s belongings. From Antoine’s vantage point, he could tell she removed something—but what exactly, he wasn’t sure.

  By the time Steve returned from the restroom, the waitress had disappeared into the kitchen. Steve collected his belongings, never knowing they had been tampered with.

  Steve sat on the folding chair under the moonlight, his feet propped up on the railing. Eyeing the Styrofoam cup, he set his fishing pole by his side, its line still out in the water, and reached for the coffee.

  Antoine leaned back against the railing, the line of Steve’s fishing reel just a few inches from his left elbow. With his arms folded across his chest, he looked down at Steve. “I wouldn’t drink that coffee. She put something in it.”

  Steve removed the lid from the Styrofoam cup, but instead of taking a sip, he tossed the lid aside and set the cup back on the pier. He then picked up the sack and opened it, removing a foil package.

  Antoine reserved comment, yet continued to watch as Steve quickly ate the contents of the first foil packet and then the second. When he was done, he scrunched the foil into tight balls and shoved them back into the sack before picking up the coffee.

  Antoine began shaking his head. “I wouldn’t do it. Really. You don’t want to drink that.”

  Steve quickly downed his first swig of coffee. Antoine surmised it must be lukewarm. Steve was about to take another drink when he suddenly froze, his hand gripping the cup so tightly it began to crumple.

  Antoine watched in fascination as Steve released hold of the now smashed cup, paying little notice to the fact it had just fallen onto his lap, the remainder of its contents spilling onto his pants and soaking his crotch. Steve began to cough, and then he gasped for air. He reached frantically for his tackle box and flipped open its lid. In a panic, he rummaged through the box, and when he could not find whatever he was looking for, he hastily dumped it upside d
own and began tossing the contents in all directions, desperately looking for something that was not there. Stumbling to his feet, he tried to catch his breath.

  “I warned you. But they never listen.” Antoine shook his head in disgust. “Never.”

  Unstable on his feet, Steve weaved from side to side, his hands grasping the railing in an attempt to keep upright. Making a gasping sound, his eyes rolled back into their sockets and he swung around, his back now to the railing. Steve’s hands clutched his throat as silent screams tore from his gaping mouth. In the next instant, his body stiffened. As if in slow motion, he fell backwards, toppling over the pier’s railing, plunging headfirst to the ocean below.

  Casually, Antoine looked over the railing. He heard the splash as Steve’s body hit the seawater. Shaking his head in disgust, Antoine continued to gaze down, the moonlight casting a golden glow on the rippling water. He couldn’t see Steve. Antoine assumed he had simply sunk to the bottom, or he had already been washed out to sea.

  Turning from the rail, Antoine’s gaze moved over the now empty folding chair and the scattered tackle. With a shrug, he stepped over the debris and made his way down the dock. As he walked, he reached up to his red bow tie and gave it a gentle tug, straightening it.

  Danielle had grown accustomed to seeing Walt wearing the fashions from his era—typically a gray or blue pinstriped three-piece suit, circa 1920s. What she didn’t know, he rarely gave much thought to his clothing, unless it was a dream hop, and then he would make it a point to dress for the occasion. But in his day-to-day life—or more accurately death—his manner of clothing was simply a habit, wearing what he had normally worn when he had still been alive.

  Yet this evening, he was dressed more casually than what was typically his norm, wearing dark slacks and a white dress shirt, its unbuttoned cuffs casually pushed up toward his elbows. He lounged lazily on the parlor sofa, his stockinged feet propped up on the sofa’s armrest, crossed at the ankles.

  “I can’t say I’ll miss the sound of that damn typewriter.” Absently, he watched the smoke curl upward from his thin cigar.

  Danielle glanced up from the book she was reading and looked over at Walt. Watching him a moment, a random thought flashed through her head. Sitting there fidgeting with his cigar, dressed casually for his era yet overdressed for her generation—considering the setting—he suddenly reminded her of a character from one of those old movies—his role being that of the handsome yet elusive bachelor.

  Pushing the silly thought from her head, she shrugged. “I can barely hear it in my room.”

  Walt flicked the cigar from his hand. It vanished. “Then maybe you need to get your hearing checked.”

  Danielle shrugged and closed her book, setting it on her lap. “Hillary’s visit has taught me one thing.”

  “Typewriters will no longer be allowed on the premises?”

  Danielle laughed. “Walt, no one uses typewriters anymore. I don’t think that’ll be an issue.”

  Meeting her gaze, Walt arched his brows. “What have we been listening to the last month?”

  “Okay…I mean, aside from Hillary. Most people really don’t use typewriters these days. Even writers…well, at least I don’t think so.”

  “If not outlawing typewriters, then what exactly has her visit taught you?”

  “Well…I prefer the short-term guests. Those who stay for the weekend or the week at most. The fact is, even if it’s someone I really like, after a few weeks under the same roof, they kinda get on my nerves.”

  Walt didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stared expressionlessly at Danielle for a few moments before asking, “Do I get on your nerves?”

  Surprised by the question, Danielle stared back at Walt. After a moment considering it, she smiled. “No. Actually…you don’t.”

  Walt cocked his brow. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

  “I don’t know.” Danielle shrugged. “I never really thought about it before. But no…you don’t.”

  Walt smiled. “How about Lily?”

  “You know I love Lily.”

  Walt laughed. “That wasn’t the question. Does she get on your nerves? After all, you two have been under the same roof for months now.”

  Danielle fidgeted with the book on her lap. “That’s different.”

  “How so?” Walt sat up on the sofa—placing his feet on the floor—his eyes still on Danielle.

  “She’s like family. And with family, even if they sometimes get on your nerves…well, it’s okay. What about me?”

  Walt frowned. “What do you mean what about you?”

  “Do I get on your nerves?”

  Walt smiled. “All the time.”

  “Oh you!” Wrinkling her nose, Danielle hurled the book at Walt. It disappeared through his body and fell onto the sofa.

  Walt’s laugh was interrupted by Hillary’s voice at the open parlor door.

  “Danielle…oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had company. I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I just wanted you to know, I’m taking a little walk on the beach, since this is my last night, and it’s a full moon out.”

  Danielle stared dumbly at the now empty doorway. She looked from it to Walt.

  “Did she just say she could see you?” Danielle stood up, rushed to the doorway, and looked into the hallway. Hillary was no longer there. Danielle stood there a moment, staring at the front door, before walking back into the parlor.

  Walt stood up. “Is she still out there?”

  Danielle shook her head. “No, she already left.”

  “I didn’t hear the door.”

  “Walt, she saw you!”

  He chuckled. “No, she didn’t. She heard you talking to me and assumed you were in here with someone.”

  With a frown, Danielle sat back down. “It just seemed like she saw you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. She barely looked in here, and considering the only light on is the reading lamp by your side, it’s not really surprising she made that assumption. And if I was you, I’d let her continue believing someone was in here with you tonight.”

  Danielle stood back up. “Why do you say that?”

  “When she leaves here tomorrow, do you really want her telling people you regularly talk to yourself and occasionally fling objects around the room?” Walt picked up the book from the sofa and handed it to Danielle. “By the way, that is no way to treat a book.”

  Reluctantly Danielle accepted the book and set it on the desk. “True. It’s not the book’s fault you’re a brat.”

  Walt laughed again. Max, who had been napping on the back of the sofa, lifted his head and opened his eyes. Yawning, he looked at Walt and meowed.

  Danielle turned off the reading lamp. “I think I’m going to bed now. Come on, Max.”

  “You aren’t going to wait up for Hillary?”

  Danielle walked to the doorway. “No. She has a key. And I’m exhausted.”

  Together, Walt and Danielle made their way up the staircase, with Max reluctantly trailing behind them.

  Midway to the second floor, Walt asked, “Did Chris get on your nerves?”

  Danielle paused and looked at Walt. “Chris? What are you talking about?”

  “When Chris stayed here for so long, did he get on your nerves?”

  Danielle continued up the stairs. “He didn’t stay that long.”

  “Longer than Hillary.”

  Danielle shrugged. “I’m still processing the fact I get on your nerves.”

  Walt chuckled. “You know I was teasing you.”

  “My dad used to say behind every jest there is a truth.”

  “You aren’t going to pout now, are you?” Walt teased.

  “I would if I had the energy. But I really am tired.” Danielle yawned.

  Just as they reached the second-floor landing, Lily stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her recently shampooed hair. Wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a gray T-shirt, Lily paused in the hallway a moment and faced Danielle.r />
  “You going to bed?” Lily removed the towel from her head and briskly rubbed it over her damp rusty curls.

  “Yeah, I’m exhausted. It’s been a long day.” Danielle nodded to Walt. “Walt’s with me.”

  “Hi, Walt.” Lily glanced from where she imagined Walt stood to the closed door leading to Hillary’s room. In a whisper she said, “I guess Hillary will be leaving in the morning?”

  “You don’t have to whisper,” Danielle told her. “Hillary went out for a walk. But yeah, she told me earlier she wants to get on the road right after breakfast.”

  Lily frowned and glanced back to Hillary’s door.

  “Night, Lily…Walt…” Danielle yawned and walked to her bedroom. Flashing a weary smile in Lily’s direction, Danielle opened her bedroom door. Once inside, she waited for her cat, Max, to join her before shutting the door again.

  Still standing in the hallway, Lily was just about to say something to Walt when she heard the door open and close in the attic. Glancing to the ceiling, Lily let out a sigh. She knew Walt didn’t need to open doors to enter a room. It was simply his way of telling Lily he had left the second floor.

  Letting out a sigh, she walked toward her bedroom, yet paused by Hillary’s doorway. Impulsively, Lily opened the bedroom door and looked in. Frowning, she gently shut the door.

  Glancing back to Danielle’s room, she shook her head and muttered, “I don’t know what you’ve been smoking.”

  Two

  Hillary had forgotten to bring along a jacket for her late night stroll. Spring evenings in Frederickport tended to be chilly and damp. She didn’t miss the jacket, nor would she have noticed the oversight, had she not run into Heather Donovan.

  Pausing in front of Heather’s house, Hillary watched as the young woman, clad in a flannel bathrobe, struggled to drag her trash bin to the curb. Instead of the pigtails she normally wore, Heather’s jet black hair fell straight past her shoulders, gently swaying from side to side as she made her way to the street.