Ghosts of Auld Lang Syne: Stacey & Peter Trilogy, #2

By Maureen McMahon

A New Year's celebration turns to terror as lovers and friends are besieged by inexplicable accidents. Someone is intent on murder. Is it a guest – or a ghost?

 

In an independent sequel to McMahon's modern gothic romance, RETURN OF THE GULLS, Stacey Christian and Peter Mansfield pair up again to solve another mystery. Set at a secluded lake in the remote New England countryside, Stacey and Peter join a diverse cast of characters to celebrate the New Year holiday. From the moment Stacey sets eyes on the imposing old mansion, recently inherited by her childhood friend, Holly Purcell, she knows there's more to the house than meets the eye.

 

What begins as an innocent gathering soon turns sinister as a series of suspicious accidents occur. To add to the confusion, Stacey is irrevocably drawn into the tragic intrigue surrounding Clementine Kreen, the resident ghost. The mystery behind the accidents, and Stacey's eerie experiences and visitations, culminate in a nail-biting finale on New Year's Eve, the anniversary of Clementine's unsolved disappearance decades before.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maureen McMahon
• Release date: Jan 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215451700

Book preview

GHOSTS OF AULD LANG SYNE

Stacey Christian & Peter Mansfield

Book 2

MAUREEN MCMAHON

COPYRIGHT

Ghosts of Auld Lang Syne

© 2019 by Maureen McMahon

http://www.maureenmcmahon.com/

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission from the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Name, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission of the author in writing.

DEDICATION

In memory of Jasper, Reine, Mr. P, Tessa, Jessie, Percy and Bryndal. I’ll see you all over rainbow bridge. And to Peter who continues to bring me joy, love and support through each and every New Year.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A special thanks to my production manager, Kim Cox, for providing her expertise, time and efforts in getting my books out to you. Visit her website for further information at https://www.kimcoxauthor.com.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

——

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

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CHAPTER ONE

What house more stately hath there been

Or can be, than is Man? to whose creation

All things are in decay?

George Herbert, Man

——

I hadn't expected the house to be so imposing. When Holly Purcell, my friend since childhood, asked me to accompany her to the remote New Hampshire property her grandmother had willed her, I'd expected a quaint holiday cottage. As my little blue Mazda slid up the icy drive between twin rows of gnarled, naked willows, what loomed before us was something more impressive—and more sinister.

The house was gripped by unkempt tangles of dormant vines and shrubbery oblivious to the encroaching forest. It thrust a multi-peaked roof, complete with stately turret, into a gray wintry sky. Dark windows observed our approach with dull disinterest. I couldn't help but shudder.

God! You didn't tell me it was so old and spooky, I said.

Didn't I? Holly smiled. Well, it should be—spooky, that is. It's supposed to be haunted.

Oh, right, I scoffed. This is beginning to sound like one of those slumber parties where we used to try to scare each other to death. Sorry, Holly, but I'm not so gullible anymore.

Cross my heart! she said, doing so. Gran loved to tell us the tale of Miss Clementine Kreen, the daughter of the original owners who lived here back in the twenties. She was supposedly jilted by her lover on New Year's Eve and ran off into a blizzard never to be heard from again.

I stopped the car in front of a ramshackle shed that once must have served as a garage. Now it leaned precariously to one side under the pressure of a large pine tree that had grown up too closely. Heavy pine boughs lay across the sagging roof.

Holly looked at me, her beautiful, cornflower blue eyes twinkling beneath thick lashes. They say her spirit still roams the woods—searching.

Searching for what? I cocked a skeptical brow, unable to prevent my journalistic curiosity from snapping up the bait.

Holly shrugged. Some say she's still searching for her lover; others say she's searching for shelter from the blizzard she was lost in. But Gran always believed there was something else. No one knows for sure.

I turned off the engine and took the keys out of the ignition. Well, it seems like a mammoth waste of time to me. Maybe while we're here, we can give her a hand and help her find whatever it is she's looking for. I had meant the words to be sarcastic, but Holly was delighted.

That's just what I'd hoped you'd say! she said. I knew if anyone would understand, you would.

Well... I began, but she was out of the car and striding up the path toward the house so quickly that my words were lost, and I had to run to catch up.

She waited at the foot of the porch steps. We'll get the luggage later, she said. First, I'll show you around. It's positively gorgeous but needs a lot of work.

I nodded, puffing small white clouds after my brief exertion. The structure's decay and neglect were more apparent close up. The weatherboards were badly in need of painting, and some of the fascia was loose or missing altogether. An old broken porch swing hung askew, its chains rusted stiff. Pine needles and old brittle leaves littered the floor.

Does anyone look after the place? I asked, glad that there was only a dusting of snow on the ground. It was already December twenty-ninth but thus far it was a mild winter. While I hoped for a traditional white Christmas, I was relieved we'd been spared the inconvenience of traveling through heavy snow.

Lyle asked Brent Atherton to keep an eye on things, she said. Brent is a neighbor. He and his granddad live just over there. She pointed off into the woods to our left.

I nodded. I didn't know Brent Atherton or his grandfather, but Lyle was Holly's older brother who lived in Boston, a good four-hour drive. The house was left to them both, but I suspected that Holly was more enthused by the bequest. Lyle already lived a life of luxury with a glamorous wife and a high-paying real estate business. He would have little use for a dilapidated old homestead set on a remote lake in upper New Hampshire. Holly, on the other hand, lived modestly in a one-bedroom apartment in New York, trying to make a living from her art. She was an excellent artist, but work was scarce and often didn't pay well.

So, come on! Holly said, producing a set of keys. Let me give you the guided tour before the others arrive.

What others? I asked, surprised.

She smiled mischievously. Why, Lyle and Clare, Armando—who's bringing up my car—and I hope, Peter.

Peter? I echoed.

She dimpled at my expression. Yes, silly, your Peter. Lyle thought it would be fun to have us all together again. Since Peter's bank handles the trust account for the estate, we can combine business with pleasure. But I'm not sure if or when he can make it.

I scowled, disturbed by the sudden lurch in the pit of my stomach at the thought of seeing Peter Mansfield again. We'd been inseparable during our college days—even coming close to making a permanent commitment—but stubbornness and youth contrived against us, and after graduation we went our separate ways. We still kept in touch, but his work as a partner and financial advisor at his father's bank, plus my job as a journalist for a prestigious travel magazine, left little opportunity to rekindle old sparks.

It had been pure luck that my New Year holidays coincided with Holly's invitation to come with her to her grandmother's estate. I had visualized just the two of us toasting in the new year in front of a cozy fire while reminiscing about our life growing up in Marblehead, a quaint, but well-to-do, suburb of Boston. I was naturally taken aback when she dropped her bombshell.

So, I griped, you're still trying to be a matchmaker, eh? Will you ever give it up?

She shook her head, unperturbed. Probably not, she said. Especially not where you and Peter are concerned. She pushed a stray lock of silky golden hair back from her face and met my glare straight on. You know, Stacey, men like Peter Mansfield don't grow on trees. And everyone who knows you, knows you two are meant to be together. Why won't you just accept fate and live happily ever after?

I'll accept nothing of the kind, I said. What Peter and I had was wonderful, I'll admit, but we've both changed.

Yes, she said pointedly. Now you're even more suited to each other.

I opened my mouth to retort, but she didn't give me a chance. Climbing the porch steps, she inserted a key into the lock and pushed the front door open. But let's not argue, she said. Peter may not be able to make it, anyway. He wasn't sure if he could get time off, so there's no point making a fuss. Won't you please step this way, Miss Christian? She made an exaggerated sweeping bow, and I had to smile. Holly was incorrigible

Yes, ma'am. I saluted briskly and stepped past her into the dim interior of the house. Secretly, I wasn't averse to seeing Peter Mansfield again—if only for auld lang syne.

* * *

Despite the ancient wallpaper, threadbare carpets and rustic plumbing, the house seemed comfortable enough. The front door opened onto a hallway that ran the length of the house. A set of narrow stairs, covered by an ancient paisley runner, hugged the right wall of the hallway, then made a left turn from a small landing to complete its rise to the second floor. It seemed there were doors everywhere; many opened into closets or cupboards that were filled to the brim with thing accumulated over a long lifetime. Holly's grandmother had parted with very little in her eighty-six years.

The kitchen was at the back of the house. Originally, it would have been exceptionally small, but someone in recent years had the foresight to modernize and enlarge it. Now, there was room for an oak table surrounded by six matching chairs and a large hutch filled with china and crystal. Double-glazed windows framed a small backyard that gently sloped to the frozen expanse of Lake Catawah beyond. The lake was not large, but big enough to provide a refreshing swim in the summer and good ice fishing in the winter.

Did you bring your skates? Holly asked.

Yes. Although I had to practically pull my parents' basement apart to find them. I don't even know if they still fit.

Well, if they don't, I'm sure Gran will have some around here that will fit you, Holly said. I know she always kept quite a few pairs, as well as boots and gloves for winter, and swimsuits and sandals for summer. Whenever we came to visit, we forgot something. But no matter what it was, Gran always had a replacement. Her voice trailed off into a squeaky sob, and I put my arms around her and hugged her, feeling her shoulders tremble as she let pent-up tears fall silently.

I'm so sorry, I said. I've been so thoughtless. I didn't even consider all the memories you must be dealing with.

It's okay, she said. She gave me a quick, tight hug in return, then pulled away, snatching a tissue from a box on a nearby shelf and wiping her eyes. Gran would hate to think I was crying over her.

I nodded. I had met Holly's grandmother only twice, but both times she'd struck me as a strong, no-nonsense woman who wouldn't stand for tears.

Come on, Holly said, her moment of weakness past. Let's go get the bags, and I'll show you your room. I've put you right next to Peter—if he comes, that is. She winked with exaggerated innuendo. But seeing the warning look in my eye, she squealed with laughter and made for the front door at a run. I followed, happy to see her naturally vivacious nature restored.

* * *

My room was one of three on the second floor—two