Social Medium

By Patti Larsen

All In A Day’s Haunting

I’d come to terms with what Sadie Hatch did to me five years ago, setting me up to take the fall for her blackmail scheme the way she did. I’d had time, my six months behind bars, to come to terms with my innocence, and subsequent loss of said naiveté. There’d been a time I’d held a grudge, but that time was long gone.
The fact she was dead helped. Did it make me a bad person I wasn’t sorry? Sometimes I wondered. Then again, other times? This life—and the afterlife—had a funny way of evening out the scales of justice. I’d seen it happen often enough to know judging myself for what I was thinking at any given minute was a waste of energy better used in other endeavors.

Medium and paranormal debunker Alice Moore has found romantic bliss for the first time, but her happy heart does nothing to pay the bills. When a fellow ghost hunter hires her and boyfriend Denver Hatch to investigate the haunting of a Florida plantation house, she reluctantly agrees. Roman Ellis isn’t her favorite person in the world, but the money he’s offering is too much to turn down. If only she’d listened to her instincts... when she stumbles over a freshly dead body—the long ago departed more her forte—she’s suddenly in the middle of a murder investigation and her record makes her a suspect. Can she uncover the killer and prove her innocence?

In this spin-off series to the award-winning Fiona Fleming Cozy Mysteries, medium and paranormal blogger/debunker Alice Moore travels the US uncovering truth, fraud and murder!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patti Larsen
• Release date: Jul 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781988700762

Patti Larsen

About me, huh? Well, my official bio reads like this: Patti Larsen is a multiple award-winning author with a passion for the voices in her head. But that sounds so freaking formal, doesn’t it? I’m a storyteller who hears character's demands so loudly I have to write them down. I love the idea of sports even though sports hate me. I’ve dabbled in everything from improv theater to film making and writing TV shows, singing in an all girl band to running my own hair salon.But always, always, writing books calls me home.I’ve had my sights set on world literary domination for a while now. Which means getting my books out there, to you, my darling readers. It’s the coolest thing ever, this job of mine, being able to tell stories I love, only to see them all shiny and happy in your hands... thank you for reading.As for the rest of it, I’m short (permanent), slightly round (changeable) and blonde (for ever and ever). I love to talk one on one about the deepest topics and can’t seem to stop seeing the big picture. I happily live on Prince Edward Island, Canada, home to Anne of Green Gables and the most beautiful red beaches in the world, with my pug overlord and overlady, six lazy cats and Gypsy Vanner gelding, Fynn.

Book preview

Chapter One

New car smell mixed with full-blast air conditioning. Hello, headache. I loved Denver Hatch and his need for a fresh start, including the brand spanking van we drove in toward the job we’d been hired for, don’t get me wrong. Loved him so much, more than I ever expected to love anyone. In fact, if you’d asked me about my love life eighteen months ago, shortly before I made that fateful journey to Reading, Vermont, and my investigation of the haunting of Manuel Cortez, I wouldn’t have been able to predict the outcome of meeting the grandson of the woman who let me go to prison to save her own skin.

I’m a medium, not a fortune-teller. That means I commune with dead people, but seeing the future? Not my forté. Not bitter, either I swear. I’d come to terms with what Sadie Hatch did to me five years ago, setting me up to take the fall for her blackmail scheme the way she did. I’d had time, my six months behind bars at the tender age of eighteen, to come to terms with my innocence, and subsequent loss of said naiveté. There’d been a time I’d held a grudge, but that time was long gone.

The fact she was dead helped. Did it make me a bad person I wasn’t sorry she’d passed on without a hint of her echo lingering to make my life even more miserable than she’d originally managed? Sometimes I wondered. Then again, other times? This life—and the afterlife—had a funny way of leveling out the scales of justice. I’d seen it happen often enough to know judging myself for what I was thinking at any given minute was a waste of energy better used in healthier and more important endeavors.

Besides, the woman I’d originally known as Marigold Hopp, the trusted mentor who’d taken me on when the world left me at the side of the road with all of my belongings in a black garbage bag after I aged out of foster care, taught me a great deal about trust and faith in humanity.

No, not in a good way. One would think a child left to the system for the majority of her life would have lost her ability to believe in the goodness of others long ago. Somehow, I’d managed to maintain mine, thanks to a shortlist of kind people who cared for me along the way, even if they couldn’t keep me in the end. Such mostly positive experiences prepared me to see others in a kindly light, to expect the best of them despite my weirdness and the fact that eventually what I could do came between me and ultimate happiness. Until I met the woman who was my downfall, I’d never been accepted for the talent or gift or whatever you might choose to label my connection to the dead, but I’d also not been purposely hurt because of it. She’d seemed to embrace my ability. Only to betray me, ultimately, finally doing what no one else in my life had been able to by popping the bubble of winsome protection that had always clung to me, handing me a lesson in faith I’d never forget.

Or, frankly, forgive, delivered as it was by the woman I’d thought of as the first real family I’d had since my parents died on my sixth birthday.

It all came crashing down around me, the thin membrane of that safe space gone in a blink of an eye the night I did Sadie’s dirty work, guileless and meek, taking possession of the blackmail money she’d demanded from a client. The police in the small town outside Des Moines, Iowa, didn’t care I had no idea what was going on, arresting me for something I didn’t do.

Technically, I had, though. Guilty by association and by deed, all unwitting. The judge assured me my lack of knowledge meant nothing to him, ignorance no defense when it came to breaking the law. Six months later, fresh from prison, another black garbage bag holding the sum of my possessions, perched precariously on yet another curb at the side of the road and I was certain I would never learn to trust ever again.

You’re sure you love the new logo? Denver glanced my way from behind the wheel, earnest expression softening the memories to the point they faded, drifting off. It wasn’t often these days I allowed myself the poke and prod at the old hurts that used to keep me awake at night. He was a big part of my new outlook and my willingness to at least give happiness a go, despite myself. I’m still reconsidering the name.

He’d suggested Moorehatch Paranormal Team, but Hatchmoore made sense to me. Alphabetical, I’d argued. You’re the investigator, he’d grumbled. We’re a team, I’d reminded him.

Personally, I didn’t care what we called ourselves. I used to be alone, worked solo. Now, all of a sudden, I had a partner, in life and in my rather unique career. As far as I was concerned, I’d won.

Never would I ever have imagined such a fate for weird and creepy little Alice Georgina Moore who felt most at home with the dead.

We can change it if you want, I said, rubbing at my arms. The sun beating in the windows heated my upper half uncomfortably while the loud rush of cooled air chilled the rest of me. I refused to complain about the no-win situation, though. Nor was I blaming Denver for the two-day van ride or the overwhelming scent of fresh plastic and carpeting or the unseasonably inflated Florida heat battling our brand new vehicle’s attempts to keep us from melting into puddles of sweaty goo. It was only March, too, here in the beautiful sunshine state. I’d hoped for relief from the chill of the Green Mountains up north. Thought perhaps a balmy jaunt to the coast near Jacksonville might even be pleasant.

Denver adjusted the air conditioning just enough I stopped shivering on the bottom and started sweating on the top. Work in progress, he said, grinning. I loved his smile, could look at it all day, got lost in it, forgot my headache, even. Another unexpected quirk of loving him. Everything about him registered on the adorable scale, from his short, dark hair to his huge, dark brown eyes that swallowed my ability to think straight when I looked into them. Maybe others might criticize his tall, lean frame and angular features as not atypically handsome but, to me, Denver was the most gorgeous creature in the world.

No wonder I’d been hanging around Reading for so long, neglecting my blog, my advertisers, my readers. It had been so easy to fall into a state of bliss I’d almost forgotten making money was kind of important. Especially when one had a criminal record and job prospects weren’t forthcoming. Of course, I knew I could find work in Reading. With Mayor Olivia Walker’s propensity for tourism, the town was booming and employees seemed to have their pick of jobs. It was a waste, however, to shelve my particular skills in favor of selling coffee at Sammy’s or working the counter at French’s Handmade Bakery.

The sale of Denver’s remarkable holographic tech had fallen through at the last minute, though part of me was relieved by that fact. He was far too brilliant to simply sell off what he created. Not that he listened to me about how awesome he was. In fact, he’d shelved his invention almost immediately after the company had a change of heart.

Reminds me too much of Grandma, he’d said. And what she was.

Fair enough, I suppose. It became apparent, though, with my advertising money drying up and his inheritance, as tiny as it had been despite Sadie’s years of ripping off the grief-stricken and bereft, I needed to do something to generate income. We both did.

I’d wanted him to go back to school, finish his time at MIT. So promising, and I’d made Boston my home since serving my time, how coincidental was that? We’d been living in the same city and never met. It had taken Sadie’s murder to bring us together.

Instead, he’d offered up a proposition. His idea, the van, my rebranding, the state-to-state travel. I’d always kept my ventures small and intimate, relying on word of mouth, other mediums and debunkers supplying suggestions and connections for my investigations, choosing to stay close to my old base of operations. I didn’t miss the city, to be fair, despite its colonial charms. Too many spirits wandering the streets without absolution or redemption available, easy enough for me to find work and maintain my small but comfortable lifestyle but distinctly disconcerting if I wasn’t careful.

Having the dead as one’s constant companions wasn’t always ideal. Especially when they liked to come visit at night. While I was sleeping. Trying to sleep. Not so easy a thing to do when someone who shouldn’t be lingering decided they wanted your attention so they could explain in full, often with aggressive angst, just why it was life and death had been so unfair to them.

I’d never quite gotten used to it.

Denver had bigger ideas, as evidenced by our trip to Florida. It’ll be great, he’d said when he pitched the idea to me five days ago. We’ll make lots of money. He’d beamed that sweet smile of his, liquid eyes wide and alluring. Trust me.

I loved him, and since it honestly didn’t matter to me, I said yes.

Remember I said I loved him? Good thing. Boy went a bit overboard. As boys are want to do, at times. Like the myriad of equipment stocking the back of the van with the giant HATCHMOORE logo, basically an H and an M woven together, on the side that still made my cheeks pink when I let myself look at it. Denver’s need to turn me into some celebrity medium still made me cringe but I suppose I’d get used to it eventually.

His excitement over the many tools he’d acquired, altered and tweaked, from electromagnetic field readers to temperature sensors to infra-red cameras and more felt like posturing, framing for a show he felt we needed to put on.

For all intents and purposes, as had always been the case, I didn’t need any of the items strapped firmly into specialty cases and stored neatly in the back. They were his toys to play with. All I required was five minutes alone in the space in question and I’d know the truth.

Boring, Denver had said, his gamer and geek fanboy past showing. Your fans want entertainment.

There was little about what I did that entertained me. Even though I knew he was right. That was the only reason I’d said yes to this trip, this job in particular, once I’d found out who was asking for our assistance. If anyone knew paranormal entertainment, it was our host. The offered paycheck wasn’t something to sneeze at, either. $10,000 for a one-night vigil? The half upfront had paid for our trip south, not to mention some of my overdue bills and Denver’s upgrades on the new equipment we didn’t need.

So, why had I hesitated at last, almost dug in my heels and said no despite my adoration for the sweet guy in the driver’s seat? If I really didn’t care all that much, why did I balk at a sure thing that would give us a great story to post and tie us to a popular web series that could give us even better exposure?

If only I didn’t have to spend the next twenty-four hours with the last person in the world I’d have chosen to work with, my trepidation would be non-existent.

As though thinking of Roman Ellis was prophetic, Denver’s GPS chose that moment to instruct him, in her flat, British accent, that we’d arrived at our destination. Fate, it seemed, had led me to the last place I really should have been, whether I liked it or not.

***

Chapter Two

I’d thought our van was ostentatious. Denver chose black, naturally, the logo in silver covering most of the back on both sides. I was sure every soul in Reading snickered behind their hands at the glaring obviousness of its cry for attention.

The Roman Media van, giant logo looming next to the Spirit Heroes show title, was parked conspicuously at the end of the long, oak tree shadowed lane in front of the bright white plantation house. Not that parking a media van there was the conspicuous part, however. Let’s just say Roman Ellis could have only bought it for one purpose—not to tote his own equipment, but to carry his ego around in. I was surprised he didn’t have a bus. Or a tractor-trailer. For all I knew, those were on the way.

Yes, all right, I was over it. I promise. Mostly.

Denver took note of my reticence, his thick eyebrows arching, that perpetual smile he’d been wearing for the last few days fading at last. I know I pushed you into this, he said, hand reaching out to take mine. The moment he touched me, all was forgiven. Not to be a sob story in the making, but I’d been touched so rarely in my life, especially with the kind of love and attention—devotion, if I was going to be accurate—that Denver always seemed able to muster at any given moment. His touch was even able to silence the voices of the dead, I’d noticed, something I’d never been able to manage on my own, not completely.

I squeezed back and forced a smile, more authentic than not by the time his thumb slid across the back of my hand, raising goosebumps on my forearm from the contact. I may not have told you everything about my history working with Roman, I said. Now I felt guilty I’d stayed quiet, even though I’d done so for Denver’s benefit. I sighed into the chilly air conditioning, the engine idling while my boyfriend sat there and waited with that infinite seeming patience of his, dark eyes worried. It’ll be fine. I’m a professional. I just don’t like all the showmanship.

Denver sighed himself, staring out the windshield at the big, white manor house, forehead creased in a frown, though the touch of his fingers that held mine remained light and comforting. We talked about this. He shrugged. But I guess I was so excited I didn’t do much listening.

The last thing I wanted was for Denver to feel bad about getting us work, especially a job that paid our bills so efficiently. I leaned across the center console and kissed his cheek with firm pressure, the faint stubble of his day-old beard rough on my skin.

It’s twenty-four hours, I said. What could possibly go wrong?

Denver laughed, turned to face me. I love you, Alice Moore.

My heart didn’t melt or anything. Not even a little bit.

I love you, too. So much. He had no idea because I didn’t have the words.

Denver turned off the engine and climbed out of the van, rush of heated Florida air washing over me, slamming it shut behind him. The sudden shift in temperature made sweat stand out in beads on my upper lip. My boyfriend circled the front of the vehicle and opened my door for me while I waited. Not because I was a princess or anything, to the contrary. Where he’d come across his old-fashioned ideals I wasn’t sure, but the few times I’d tried to exit a car on my own, he’d sweetly asked me to wait for him to take care of the deed for me.

Who was I to argue with such gentlemanly behavior?

Activity near the front door of the plantation house caught my attention and spiraled my thoughts back into the case. I hadn’t been all that surprised, to be honest, when Denver told me Roman had reached out for my assistance in the supposed haunting of Princely House. As I stepped out of the van, Denver holding my hand to steady me despite the fact I didn’t really need the help, I kept myself under tight control, knowing at any moment I’d be face-to-face with someone I neither liked nor respected.

Sure, I’d worked with Roman before. If I could call it that. Considering the fact his arrogant awesomeness loved the spotlight so much he relegated those around him to mere servants by sheer force of will and volume of speech, working with him