Schemes and Bad Dreams: Paranormal Cozy Mystery (Mitzy Moon Mysteries Book 15) by Trixie Silvertale

Author:Trixie Silvertale [Silvertale, Trixie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781952739156
Publisher: Sittin' On A Goldmine Productions LLC
Published: 2021-08-30T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

Several hours later, when my eyelids lazily drift open, I’m surprised by the darkness in the living room. Either Deputy Candy is reducing the amount of sedative he’s putting in my food, or I’m building up a tolerance.

Yes, I figured out he was drugging the food early on, but until I could figure out why, I felt it was best to keep that under my hat. It doesn’t seem like he’s been drugging his own food, so right out of the gate it’s my plan to continue fake sleeping and see if he’s up to any shenanigans while he thinks I’m out cold.

Reaching out with all of my psychic senses, I receive a nasty reward.

“What are you doing in my house, you sly cookie?”

A ghost! An angry June Cleaver starring in Leave it to Beaver ghost!

The old “answer a question with a question” gambit seems like a solid option. “Quick question. Am I the only one awake right now?”

“If you’re inquiring about my sweet great-grandson, he’s sleeping like an angel in the other room. He’s straightened everything up for you, but I’m afraid things look like a bum rap for your friend.”

“Which friend?”

She places her petite fists on her narrow hips, and her perfect A-line skirt sways as she shakes her head.

Before she answers, I know she means Beni. “Where is he? Is he locked in the basement?”

“It’s not my place to say.” She straightens her thin belt.

Great, Miss Manners is going to be uncooperative. “So this was your house?”

“It still is my house, you silly girl. What are those infernal slacks you’re wearing? In my day, women did not wear trousers.”

Oh brother. “Well, I’m afraid it’s sixty or seventy years past your day, and jeans are all the rage. Why are you trapped here?”

“Trapped? A woman’s work is never done. I tidy up, I make sure the pillowcases are pressed, and the floors vacuumed every day.”

“And your husband?”

Her perfect expression turns dangerous, and beneath that innocent set of pearls lurks a terrible tale.

Probably best to get straight to the point with this ghost of etiquette past. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you died. I don’t know when, or how, but—”

“Oh, I can tell you how, Miss Smarty Pants. My husband locked me in this house, kept me a prisoner, even from my own mother. I’ll tell you what! I went stark raving mad. I did. I tried everything to convince him to let me go to church, at least, but he wouldn’t hear of it. So on Easter morning 1959, I put on my best Easter dress and my pearls. I vacuumed the entire house and made the bed.”

A terrible premonition hits, and the end of her story reveals itself to me in a series of images I don’t want to share. The dutiful homemaker seems to have hung herself in the basement. “I’m so sorry for what happened to you. Why are you still trapped here?”

“A woman’s work is never done.”

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