The Ghost Writer Mystery

By Anita Birt

I am a Ghost. For centuries I spent my ghostly time with members of the DeLong family. The young generation decided to sell their heritage home to a developer who'd make it the focal point of a retirement residence. I decided to stay with the old house, its whispering walls and gentle ambiance comforted me. I had a notion to write my Ghostly memoirs but something was amiss. I sensed a dark aura at the residence. I needed help. I needed a confidant. I needed a Ghost Writer.
Liz Stanley, a published author, rented a small cottage on the residence property as a get-away from her busy writing life. When she found her neighbor unconscious from an overdose of drugs and alcohol she had a bad feeling. Something was wrong. The mystery deepened when the woman died in the hospital. Murdered.
Ghost moved into Liz's space and communicated by sending thoughts. The unlikely pair of sleuths, searched for evidence regarding the mysterious murder but they got more than they bargained for; residence management dealing in illegal drugs, diamond smuggling and money laundering. Bad news for the intrepid pair. and worse to come.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anita Birt
• Release date: Apr 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311285515

Anita Birt

Anita Lives on southern Vancouver Island on the west coast of Canada. She began writing late in life an as had five romance novels published and one non-fiction book. She has now ventured into writing mysterious.Anita keeps a blog, Tweets now and then, works on her current book and writes in her diary during the evenings. Long walks on the path overlook the Strait of Juan de Fuca refreshes her mind and body. She is blessed with a happy family in Canada and England, nieces and nephews and many friends.Worth of mention is Anita's elderly African violet, and old trooper like Anita.

Book preview

I am a ghost. I’ve lived with the Delong family since eighteen hundred. Time means nothing to me. The years slide by. I never change. Being a ghost has its advantages. No aging. No wearying.

Finding a pleasant home in which to spend time with amiable people is not difficult. Sometimes an interesting family falls into my lap as happened with the DeLongs. Ghosts are not like humans. We are sensate. You will understand as I tell my story.

Dan DeLong inherited the old house from his grandfather and I came with it. The whispering walls have a gentle ambience, very comforting. I didn’t want to lose that. Ancient carved pieces of wood from heritage buildings in Britain are fitted into cornices, balustrade railings. The prized piece, a portion of the carved oak mantle over the living room fireplace is alleged to have come from the demesne manor belonging to Glastonbury Abbey. I sense the spirits stirring as I pass by.

Dan and Sylvia DeLong had two daughters with whom I enjoyed passing time. Children are fun. The ten bedroom house and its large attic provided endless places for games especially hide and seek. Jane, the younger of the two girls, had a quiet thoughtful nature. She sensed my presence on a dark winter morning when she opened one of the old trunks and pulled out a pale blue satin gown with bugle beads decorating the bodice.

Dan’s great grandmother had worn it to a ball on New Year’s Eve, 1892 causing a sensation with its low cut bodice. A beautiful woman she cared deeply for her family and her surroundings. At times she pressed her ear to her bedroom wall, sensed the whisperings and knew her loved ones were safe.

Jane held the dress to her face and breathed in the scent of a time long ago, a time before she was born. A dusty light bulb barely lighted the cobwebbed attic. A shivery feeling skittered down her back.

Diana, she called out to her sister. Come on up. She looped the dress over her arm, swallowed a lump in her throat, edged slowly around the attic, peered into corners and pushed aside the dormer window curtains. Late afternoon winter sun glimmered briefly.

Diana raced up the attic stairs. What’s wrong? You sound creeped out.

There’s something here.

Like what? Don’t tell me you’re seeing spooks! There’s nothing here.

Not a spook, Jane said. More like a feeling. Can’t you feel it?

Not a thing. You’re day dreaming again.

Jane shook her head. Because you can’t feel t, doesn’t mean it isn’t here.

You’re being childish. I’m older than you. I know what I can feel and what I can’t feel. I definitely don’t feel anything in the attic. She smiled at her sister. Mom wants us to meet her friend Mrs. Stanley. She’s having tea with us. Mom made chocolate filled puff pastries.

Jane folded the dress carefully and returned it to the trunk. What’s Mrs. Stanley like? she asked going down the stairs.

Tall, grey hair in a chignon, good looking for an elderly woman, not much make-up. She’s wearing a dark pink fine wool suit, darkish stockings and low-heeled black shoes. She looks great.

Di, you’re too much. I’d never have noticed what she was wearing.

Her sister gave her a little poke. That’s because you day dream instead of paying attention.

As they entered the room a large German shepherd rose quickly to her feet and stayed close to the visitor.

Girls, this is Mrs. Stanley and Kim.

Please come and say hello to Kim, Mrs. Stanley smiled at the girls. She’s eighteen months old. I’m teaching her to be sociable.

Diana and Jane knelt down to pat the dog and were rewarded with sloppy licks on their faces.

We used to have a big poodle, Diana sighed. Lucy was old and got sick and had to be put down. We still miss her.

I’m sure you do but your memories live on. She’ll never be forgotten. Mrs. Stanley accepted a cup of tea from their mother.

Come and sit down, girls, and have some tea. I made your favorites.

Jane sat across the table from the visitor who had a quizzical look in her eyes. Did I hear your sister say you day dream?

Ready to kill her sister on the spot, Jane flushed. It’s a bad habit, I’m growing out of.

Please don’t lose it. Einstein day dreamed to free his mind of problems besetting him. He came up with the theory of relativity while day dreaming. She sipped some tea. I’m a writer so I spend a lot of time alone dreaming up plots.

What do you write, Mrs. Stanley? Diana asked.

The Lady Mary Mysteries. I use a pen name, Amelia Blackstock. I’ve retired from writing for a while and am looking forward to bird watching, hiking with Kim and perhaps trying my hand at fly fishing.

I love your books, Mrs. Stanley, so does Jane. Please don’t retire all together. Lady Mary is a wonderful eccentric character, in and out of difficult situations and never losing her cool. Your descriptions of her hats are so funny.

Thank you, Diana. If I get weary of being retired, I shall let you know. She opened her capacious hold-all, pulled out two paperback books and handed one to each of the girls. "This is the last in the series. Lady Mary Searches the Pumpkin Patch."

Jane clasped the book to her chest. I’ll treasure it. She sniffed the new book scent.

Jane and I have all your books, Mrs. Stanley. I can’t believe I’m really meeting you. Diana opened the book to the first page and quickly closed it. She’d read it later.

Their guest stood. I must be off. I’m thinking of selling my home in West Vancouver. I have agents coming to see me this evening at the hotel. I may move to the island.

The girls cleared away the tea things and ate the last two chocolate filled puff pastries. If Mrs. Stanley is moving to the island, I wish we didn’t have to move to England. Jane licked chocolate from her fingers. Their mother carried in the teapot.

I like our house. Will it be torn down? It’s full of... Jane paused. It’s full of good feelings, like good vibes.

Good for you, Jane, I thought. The house has hundreds of years of whispering walls and gentle ambience.

Their mother leaned against the kitchen table. "The developer who’s buying our house likes to preserve old buildings. He plans to integrate our house into the new structure he’s creating as a retirement residence.

I’m sad about leaving and happy the house won’t fall to the wrecker’s ball. Jane grinned at her sister. I shall visit haunted houses in England and talk to ghosts.

Don’t be silly, Diana rolled her eyes. There are no such things as ghosts.

That’s all it took for me to decide to write my memoirs. Not a simple task. I had to find a special person to read my thoughts and type them into reasonable form. I wanted a ghost writer. A real one.

During their last summer in the house, Jane poked around in the attic and felt my presence. She remained calm and thoughtful and didn’t call her sister. One of Diana’s boyfriends, Pete Summerland, drifted in and out of the house during the long, hot summer. He sensed me. Was he a likely candidate to write my story? How to approach him without speaking? Ghosts have many qualities but speaking aloud is not one of them, as for spirit writing, forget that. It’s a racket.

I had an epiphany on the last day of summer as Pete leaned against the fire place mantel and traced his fingers along the simple Celtic design on the Glastonbury oak. I sent a thought to him. I have to ask you something.

Startled at first, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure the girls had gone to the kitchen to make lemonade. What? Where are you? Who are you?

A ghost.

Why can’t I see you?

I’m a ghost without shape or form. Trust me.

What do you want? This is so weird.

I guess it seems that way. Bear with me. I want to tell my personal ghost story. You will read my thoughts and type them out. I paused. I can’t pay you but the book may sell a few copies.

How will I find you?

I shall find you. What are you doing this summer?

Working in my Dad’s construction business here in town.

I shall find you. I fixed an invisible sensor on him. If you need to contact me, think Ghost.

As the girls carried in a tray of iced lemonade I drifted to the attic wondering how to describe myself to skeptical readers.

I’m not a spook or a sprite or a spirit and have never personally haunted a house. A poltergeist is not a ghost. As for vampires, slithering slimily from ancient graves to lust after young girls? I ask you, what does a healthy young person see in pale creatures that avoid sunlight and drink blood?

Vampires are the latest horror. Flesh sloughing off. Ragged clothes. Unfocused eyes.

I digress.

Mr. Alepponi, the developer was as good as his word. He purchased the DeLong home, left it in place on the hillside overlooking the sea and engaged an architect to create the retirement home around the old house replicating the weathered old red brick as best he could. Large windows looked over the distant sea. Small stained glass windows created the impression of age.

It was an uncomfortable time for me with the sawing and banging. Often I slipped into the deep woodland behind the building seeking peace and quiet.

ARROW HILL RETIREMENT RESIDENCE was ready for occupancy two years after the work began.

Being around older people would be a change. I hoped I wouldn’t be bored. The walls of the DeLong house comforted me. As the residents moved in and life began, the walls would soon be whispering. Or would they? The new walls are not made of lathe and plaster. Would they let the whisperings in? They seem hard and shiny not like old walls. I remain hopeful the whisperers will find a way.

The attic stairs had been removed. The attic door sealed by a large square recessed into the ceiling, scarcely noticeable. Curious, I explored the attic. Forlorn, empty of trunks, lamp shades, old skates, old toys, spiders had taken over.

In a far corner under the eaves I noticed Jane’s red doll’s suitcase and remembered the day she packed up a favorite dress, a pair of shoes and threatened to run away from home because she was mad at Diana and her mother. She met her Dad coming home from his office and changed her mind about running away after he hugged her, held her hand, heard her tale of woe and persuaded her to change her mind.

She was twelve when her Dad came home with a surprise announcement. He was being transferred to the London, England office of his company.

Dear Jane, I hoped she’d find friendly ghosts when she visited haunted houses in England. I left the suitcase to the spiders and dust. Before leaving I sensed someone trying to reach me.

Pete Summerland. Can’t write your story. Injured at work. I sent my best thoughts to him. A fine young man.

How to find another thought reader and writer?

Being a ghost has its blessings. Neither health nor lack of money nor stormy nights troubles us. We make do and, if possible, make life interesting for the humans who sense our presence. Don’t misunderstand me. I can’t forecast winning lottery numbers or which horse will win the third race at Pimlico or whose child will grow up to capture the Nobel prize for literature. All any ghost can hope for is to spend time in a comfortable setting with well-meaning people and no axe murderers.

Some careless ghosts of whom I’ve heard, have found themselves in dire straits for not paying attentions to how they pass time. Ghosts have a lot of time to pass through before their time is up. Wise ghosts choose wisely in the beginning.

Changing places is not easily done as in stories and films. Think what you will, ghosts are not magicians and must make do until an opportunity arises for them to flee like lost souls seeking a hospitable environment in which to live.

Speaking of souls, ghosts are not souls, that’s a religious puzzle or problem. The DeLong family discussions on the subject did not interest me. If there are souls leave them to the believers or unbelievers, give me plain ghosts without religious affiliations.

Disappointed at losing my ghost writer, I hoped one of the elderly women or men might sense me. I could try a ghostly trick or two and see what happens. Nothing malicious or mean spirited, something like creating a scent of roses or a breath of air across someone’s back. Not always fool proof but worth a try.

I miss Diana and Jane. I’d been with them since they were born. Had watched them grow up. If I had heart it would hurt from missing them.

CHAPTER TWO

Liz sat back in her chair. For the umpteenth time she studied the newspaper clippings in the scrapbook she’d put together after Tom’s death.

A hit and run. The driver speeding through a red light had thrown Tom off his bike and left him dying on the road, his helmet cracked and broken.

She had collected the witness’s statements taken by the police. They all agreed on two things. A girl with a blond pony-tail and wearing a pink baseball cap decorated with multi-colored sequins had rushed to Tom and knelt beside him. According to a witness she held Tom’s hands and spoke to him.

I’m here for you.

With the arrival of the medics and police she’d slipped through the gathering crowd and disappeared, never to be seen again. A witness with an I-phone had taken the girl’s picture clearly showing the back of her head, her blond pony-tail and sequin bordered pink baseball cap.

Liz tried to trace her. Stapled photos of the cap on telephone posts around town. She wanted to thank her for staying with Tom, comforting him until he died. The girl disappeared as if she’d never existed, almost ghost like, Liz thought, and dismissed the thought. Ghosts didn’t exist. The girl was flesh and blood who’d chosen to remain anonymous.

Eighteen months ago after Tom’s death Liz still wondered about the girl who’d comforted him. She seemed unreal.

Liz closed the scrapbook, filed it in her desk drawer and locked it. Time to pack up a few things for her temporary move to Vancouver Island. A change of scene to bird watch or take long walks with Kim. Her handsome German shepherd had been trained to guard her but had gentle manners when off duty. It had been love at first sight for Liz as she gazed at the puppy selected for her. Tucked into Liz’s arms, the puppy made herself at home.

She’d been a busy writer for so many years what would it feel like to stop? Writing as Amelia Blackstock, Liz’s tenth book in her Lady Mary Mystery series had racked up excellent sales.

Lady Mary Searches the Pumpkin Patch, was her latest. Reviewers liked it. Mentioned Lady Mary’s wisdom, her determination to solve the mystery and her hats, of course. One reviewer noted that Lady Mary’s hats deserved a mention on their own.

How she came to create the series never failed to delight Liz. She’d gone shopping with her closest friend, Joyce Spear, who needed a hat to match a wedding outfit. At the third shop they found the Shangri-La of hat world, two floors of hats.

In their late forties and giggling like fools they’d both tried on hats. Liz especially liked a big straw hat with a band of flowers circling the crown. As she gazed at her reflection in the mirror an idea came to her, an epiphany. She’d create a character who wore hats and solved mysteries.

While Joyce tried on hats and finally chose one, Liz had planned her new book. She’d call her character, Lady Mary whose father had been knighted for services to the Crown.

She’d be tall, in her mid-sixties, smart, observant and curious. Lady Mary adored hats and wore them with great style. By the time Liz got home and sat down in her study she had a name for the book. She decided to write a series, The Lady Mary Mysteries.

Liz had numerous magazine articles published, had written stories for small presses but had never attempted a novel. She told her Grandmother Cormack about the epiphany in the hat shop.

You must write your stories. Her grandmother swished the last of the tea in her cup and drained it into the saucer. Not to disturb the moment, Liz waited while her grandmother fingered the tea leaves.

She nodded over the cup and raised her eyes. You will be a great success. Dedicate your first book to your friend, Joyce, whose visit to the hat shop inspired you.

Tears for her missing friend blurred behind Liz’s eyes. A fast growing cancer had taken her life. She missed her still.

Her wise Grandmother Cormack urged her to write. Don’t give up on life. She remembered the words after Tom died. He’d want her to live and enjoy life.

Giving her head a shake Liz gave last minute instructions to her housekeeper, signed some letters for her secretary and with Kim at her heels hurried to the bedroom to pack. The two o’clock ferry would get her to Swartz Bay by three thirty. She’d reach the Arrow Hill Retirement Residence in time to check in, unpack and relax before dinner.

The small cottage located on the grounds of the facility ensured her of privacy and space for Kim to roam in the woods. At seventy-eight she wasn’t old enough or feeble enough to retire but she needed a break to decide about her future as a writer.

At the top of her game it seemed crazy not to write. She’d been writing the Lady Mary series for fifteen years. Tom’s death had shaken her. He’d been her biggest fan and best friend. Their marriage had succeeded when many said it wouldn’t. Personality clashes would end it.

Liz smiled. Tom loved her for her imagination and lack of cooking skills. She loved him for his steady character and his cooking skills. She made him laugh. He cooked up a storm.

Suitcase packed, purse strap on her shoulder Liz and Kim got in the car. Here we go, Kim, for better or worse.

A restful three months at the residence would give her time to think. There’d be no noisy parties at night, nothing but the soughing of the leafy trees bordering the property.

Her publisher wanted another Lady Mary story. Her agent leaned on her to get back to work. Liz and Lady Mary were money makers.

She pushed the button to open the garage door, drove out, closed the door and headed for the ferry terminal. If she didn’t like the residence, she’d return home.

CHAPTER THREE

I studied the elderly men and women and others not so elderly, move into the building. I shall soon get to know them and their foibles. Two new ones had grouchy faces as if they had sucked lemons.

A tall gaunt man, Morris Willocks, smiles vaguely, speaks quietly reciting the poetry of Yeats. I rather enjoy listening to him. When you are old and gray and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book… Comforting verses, rather like whispering walls.

Lucinda Meyska, a non-stop talker is wearisome. The few residents willing to spend time with her are either hard of hearing, stone deaf or have forgotten to change their hearing aid batteries. Lips smiling, they’d nod gently when they think it appropriate.

The Arrow Hill Retirement Residence provides a comfortable space for those ready to retire and willing to try something new or they may require some personal assistance to shower and dress. Mostly they seem pleased to live in comfortable surroundings with activities to keep their brains and muscles ticking over.

One of the newcomers set my teeth on edge if I had teeth. I know the feeling having witnessed it many times over the years.

Mrs. Trent-Williams-Barclay had a haughty manner. She avoided mingling with others lest she sully her clothes or body and insisted on being called by her three names, Mrs. Trent-Williams-Barclay.

David MacKay, seventy-nine years old, blew into the residence wearing tailored shorts matching his tailored jacket. His well-muscled legs showed to great advantage and a few of the women gazed admiringly at them.

Because I’m eighty-seven hasn’t stopped me from admiring a good pair of manly legs. Sally Bridges nudged her companion, June Smyth. I like them younger though.

And what would you do with a younger man? Sally asked.

I’d relive the past. Haven’t got the energy to do anything else, this damned wheel chair cramps my style.

Jane Taylor, the assistant manager, introduced the new arrival. David MacKay has decided to hang up his track shoes until he has a hip replacement.

I’m a registered senior athlete, he said, but the pole vault and high jump are out of question now.

I should bloody well think so, muttered one of the men.

Maybe we can start a walking club. David glanced around the group in the lounge. Indifferent faces stared back at him.

Good on you, David. I thought. He must have felt something. He perked up a little.

I’ll see you in the gym. Smiling cheerfully he hefted a heavy suitcase and followed Jane Taylor to the manager’s office.

A man worth watching, energetic, might be useful in an emergency. With so many residents helpless without their walkers or scooters to get around, a man like David would be an asset.

The gym and pool on the lower level are underused so far and the large exercise room with programs designed for seniors has not met its target. I thanked my lucky stars that I didn’t have to work out. Ghostly business keeps me fit.

In this large residence I am here, there and everywhere to case the joint, so to speak, and investigate all the people who work here. Chef and the kitchen staff. the Maitre’d and dining room servers, maintenance men, house-keeping staff who service the suites, laundry workers, a lot of people, some quite young, others middle aged.

With all the residents, I’ll have my hands full to watch the comings and goings. Already I have an uncomfortable feeling as I drift in and around the residence. A dark aura hangs over the building. Something’s not right. I never dismiss an aura. It’s usually a warning. About what?

Within weeks of the opening I was surprised to see Elizabeth Stanley moving in to one of the small cottages on the grounds. I remember her visit with Mrs. DeLong and the girls.

She interests me. She seemed thoughtful, sensitive and friendly. Would she be my ghost writer? She has a big dog, a German shepherd, called Kim, she might sense my presence. I’ll approach Mrs. Stanley slowly.

Ghosts don’t push but we can tickle the senses to get a reaction. I don’t do it very often. Unhappy people live guarded lives fearful of allowing anyone to peep behind their protective walls. I sometimes wish I could be a gardener tilling the soil around the wall and planting sweet smelling flowers hoping to encourage the person into taking deep breaths filling their lungs, relaxing their tight lip muscles into smiles.

Spending time with such a varied group of people will be a challenge. A married couple, the Grothers, caught my attention. They are not happy campers. They moved into the cottage next to Mrs. Stanley. Luckily their noisy quarrels did not travel beyond their walls. Pity the walls. How will they cope?

Gordon Jones had moved in with the first group of new residents. A Scot, he proudly wears a tartan kilt, the Hunting MacMillan, morning, noon and night. He keeps a sword and scabbard hanging on the wall of his suite. When he’s alone and feels like dancing, he places them cross-wise on the floor and practices the sword dance, singing loudly to maintain the beat.

Happily dancing he answered a knock on the door and bowed to a member of the staff. What can I do for you, Miss Taylor? He read her name on her badge.

May I come in?

Of course. He hurriedly picked up the sword and scabbard and set them aside. I’ve been practicing the sword dance. He smiled at her. She didn’t smile back.

Miss Taylor frowned slightly. It’s about the sword, Mr. Jones. We think it’s unsafe to keep the sword unsecured in your suite. With your permission I shall remove it to a safe place. She stepped towards the sword.

Not a chance! That sword belonged to my great grandfather. I never let it out of my sight. He stood in front of her. I’ll buy a padlock for my door. I’ll add double locks. My sword stays with me.

Gordon Jones was a man after my own heart, if I had a heart. Readers, take it as a given I