Death by Tarot Card: A Ghost & Abby Mystery, #4

By Jo-Ann Carson

When the cards are stacked against you, run.
Who would be crazy enough to send death cards to people in Sunset Cove, a small, Pacific Northwest town famous for things that goes bump in the night? Single mom, Abby Jenkins is hired to find the culprit, and while she is a witch and private detective, she hasn't a clue about who would deal such a gruesome hand. 
Unease settles into the town as tarot cards arrive on doorsteps. No one knows who stacked this deck. Everyone waits for the next card to drop. That is until the first recipient drops dead. 
Are all the death cards harbingers of murder? 
With the help of a Viking with existential issues, a Casanova man-witch and Spark her snarky familiar Abby unravels a deadly deck of secrets. Can she catch the murderer before the dealer turns another card? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jo-Ann Carson
• Release date: Jan 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781989031070

Jo-Ann Carson

Jo-Ann Carson ~ paranormal mystery and romance ~ Reports of Jo-Ann Carson’s death on a Gulf Island are greatly exaggerated or, at the very least, premature. An award-winning fiction and non-fiction author, blogger and podcaster Jo-Ann loves to tinker with words. Her latest two series the Ghost & Abby Mysteries and the Gambling Ghosts feature eccentric characters, such as a Viking ghost with existential issues, a broken-hearted Highlander and a Casanova-man-witch. At the center of each tale is a strong woman trying to make sense of life and love.  A firm believer in the magic of our everyday lives, Jo-Ann loves watching sunrises and walking the beaches near her home in the Pacific Northwest. You can find her at her author website: http://www.jo-anncarson.com/. Blog/ Twitter/ Author FB/ Pod FB/ Pinterest/ Instagram / BookBub Page

Book preview

Chapter 1

As the only private investigator in the small Pacific Northwest town of Sunset Cove, I had an intimate relationship with the strange, dangerous and downright creepy. It’s the kind of place where everything goes bump in the night. With three young kids, too many unpaid bills to count and a confusing love life, I had reached a point in my life when I didn’t think things could get more complicated. Of course, they did. My name is Abby Jenkins.

Elvira, one of the town nurses, phoned me at 5 a.m., upset that her cat, Fluffy, was stuck up Harold McGregor’s tree. I should have told her to phone the fire department and tucked myself back under the blankets, but I owed her for the kindness she showed my seven-year-old son in the emergency room, which we visited at least once a week following one disaster or another. With one eye open, I crawled out of bed.

It’ll be quick, I told myself. Harold lived only a couple miles away. I’ll get paid, I told myself. I needed money. I’ll be home in time to have a coffee before my family wakes, I told myself.

I pondered that for a moment. Since when was anything quick or easy in my life? I bit my lower lip and decided to get on with it. After all, I had a sturdy ladder and a wee bit of magic at my disposal. What could go wrong? Harold, an octogenarian with attitude, was the town’s only nudist, but that shouldn’t be a biggy.

Spark, my familiar, who happens to be a thirty-pound lynx, snickered. You know I’ll remind you of this later, don’t you? Especially the big part.

I grumbled in response as I threw on a grey sweatshirt and my favorite jeans. I pulled my blonde hair into a loose pony tail, washed my face with soap and dashed out of my bedroom.

First, I checked on my family. The kids slept soundly in their beds, and Jill, my cousin who lives with us, snored loudly enough to keep intruders at bay. I hustled down the stairs to the main floor with Spark at my side.

As usual, our dog Shreddie blocked the front door. His tail beat wildly on the wall in expectation of a walk, because in his world that was my only reason for existence. That and providing food and the occasional neck scratch. I had placed his bed beside the main entrance, hoping he would grow into his role as the family protector, which might have worked had he been any other dog. But the Shred Master was a drooling, chocolate Labrador, crossed with who-knows-what, and loved everyone. No exceptions. The standard joke in our house was that a bad guy would more likely be licked to death than bitten. Still, I had hopes for him.

He’s a dog, said Spark, who read my thoughts. She tilted her lynx nose into the air as she strode around him. No amount of cookies can train the likes of him.

Shreddie licked her backside as she passed.

Spark hissed.

I rolled my eyes. Back exit, I said and started running. I wanted to leave the house for once without smelling like dog drool. Spark passed me, but I got to the door with only one run-by lick. A record!

In a blanket of darkness, I used my magic to pull a ladder out of my shed and tie it onto the top of my old, green Mini Cooper. Being new at everything witch, this gave me a great sense of accomplishment.

Spark and I climbed into the car and headed out to save the cat called Fluffy.

Harold lived beside Elvira in the north end of Sunset Cove on a one-acre treed property with a creek running through it, the kind of place featured on drug store calendars. He lived in a log cabin in the middle of a forest and spent most of his days working on his tan, growing weed and blogging about the virtues of going naked. He claimed the naturalist way of life was the most authentic way to live, and, much to the dismay of many in town, he called his blog Hang Free. From time to time he hosted gatherings of like-minded people and, when he did, the cove would come alive with the buzz of gossip and cell phones, and the sound of binoculars dropping.

I had met Harold at the local teahouse shortly after I moved to the cove two and a half years ago. The house sits on top of an inter-dimensional portal and is a social hub for the supernatural in these parts. Harold wasn’t there for any of that. He was there because he had fallen in love with the owner, Azalea. Unfortunately, she didn’t feel the same way about him. While she showed kindness to Harold, she made it clear she had no interest in his amorous feelings. Harold, however, took her rejection as a challenge and visited the teahouse regularly.

Over the years I’ve chatted with Harold, mostly about local stuff, like the increasing price of garbage removal, the deterioration of the docks and the last vampire war. He always seemed nice but distracted. Decidedly distracted. His eyes rarely left the direction in which Azalea had last been seen.

I ran through my memories of our conversations, searching for a hook. I couldn’t just turn up uninvited before dawn. That just wasn’t right. And I had to take into account that Harold hated trespassers. He was famous for shotgun greetings and setting bear traps along the perimeter of his property. I would have sent him a text or given him a phone call, but Harold didn’t have a phone, on account of not having a pocket to put it in.

After using magic to open his gate and nix his alarm system, I drove my car up his winding driveway through the trees. Mist clung to the dark landscape, giving it an eerie, horror-movie feel. The scent of cedar hung in the air.

"If the fog thickens, you may not have to see how big a problem Harold is," said Spark in her low, Mae West voice.

I grumbled, but the side of my mouth slid up.

Smoke rose from Harold’s red-brick chimney, and light shone from the front window of his log cabin. I pulled the ladder off the roof of my car and walked to the tree line. Piles of loose dirt here and there indicated where he had placed traps, so moving forward felt a bit like playing hopscotch, but I managed.

Here Fluffy, Fluffy, Fluffy, I called out as I wandered among the trees. Here Fluffy, Fluffy, Fluffy Could Elvira not think of a better name?

Silence.

Where was Elvira? She had said she would meet me here. Spark followed close at my heels, tail in the air, sniffing.

Ten feet into the trees, the air grew colder, the mist thicker. I could see no farther than a yard in front of me. My stomach twisted. It didn’t feel right.

A twig snapped behind me. I jumped and froze on the spot. I looked at Spark. She shook her head.

Silence.

I continued walking. A few feet later I stopped to listen. Another twig snapped. Someone or, worse, some thing was out there. I really didn’t need company in this creepy place. I took a calming breath. Company that didn’t identify itself.

Harold? Is that you? I called out.

Tree trunks creaked and groaned in the wind. But no one spoke. Eye of newt. If it wasn’t Harold, who could it be? I closed my eyes, and too many freaking answers popped into my mind. In a cove where an odd assortment of supernaturals lived alongside humans, and not always amicably, it could be anyone or anything.

Had I been lured into a trap? Not everyone in town was a friend.

Spark climbed the closest tree. Traitor or deserter? I didn’t have time to worry about her.

Elvira, is that you? I called out as I hid behind the wide trunk of a fir tree.

Silence and wind. Dampness creeped into my bones as a deep sense of foreboding slithered into my consciousness. The small hairs on the back of my neck rose. My witch senses went on high alert. My human senses whimpered. I was in trouble.

Another twig broke. Nearer this time.

Who’s out there? I called. My heart leaped into my throat. Could I make it back to the clearing? Maybe if I avoided the direction of the breaking twigs. I scanned my area for a safe exit. The mist distorted the sound and I couldn’t be sure which direction to avoid.

Silence. Nothing but silence, twisting and turning my insides into a knot. Fear leaped into my throat. It was Blair-Witch-scary. I no longer cared about Fluffy. I wanted to go home.

It’s me. The mist gave the male voice an ominous quality. It could have come from my right or my left, from behind me or in front of me. The mist warped my sense of direction. My heart pounded in my chest.

Show yourself, I said.

A low chuckle reverberated through the trees. Not the answer I wanted.

Abby, are you out there? Eric’s voice. Loud, strong and clear, came from behind me. How could I tell his direction and not the other’s?

There be magic, whispered Spark in my mind.

Here, I said. Eric, I’m here.

The sound of branches breaking as he ran towards me soothed my rattled nerves. Within seconds he stood in front of me, all six foot six of him. He wore jeans and a black hoodie. His arctic-blue eyes grabbed mine. You all right?

I’m fine.

He rolled his eyes and leaned back on his heels. Okay, tell me. Is this an ‘I’m fine, I hate you’? ‘I’m fine, you should know why I’m not?’ or ‘I’m fine,’ as in you really are physically fine?