The Murder of Shakespeare's Ghost Read online

  The Murder of Shakespeare’s Ghost

  Seaview Cottages Cozy Mystery #2

  Anna Celeste Burke

  THE MURDER OF SHAKESPEARE’S GHOST

  Copyright © 2019 Anna Celeste Burke

  http://desertcitiesmystery.com

  Independently Published

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced without written permission of the publisher except brief quotations for review purposes.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Anna Celeste Burke

  Photo © Miraswonderland | Dreamstime.com and © Jo Ann Snover | Dreamstime.com

  Books by USA Today and Wall Street Journal Bestselling Author

  Anna Celeste Burke

  Books by USA Today and Wall Street Journal Bestselling Author

  Anna Celeste Burke

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  A Dead Sister Jessica Huntington Desert Cities Mystery #2

  A Dead Daughter Jessica Huntington Desert Cities Mystery # 3

  A Dead Mother Jessica Huntington Desert Cities Mystery #4

  A Dead Cousin Jessica Huntington Desert Cities Mystery #5

  A Dead Nephew Jessica Huntington Desert Cities Mystery #6 [2019]

  Love A Foot Above the Ground Prequel to the Jessica Huntington Desert Cities Mystery Series

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  Gnarly New Year Corsario Cove Cozy Mystery #2

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  Love Notes in the Key of Sea Georgie Shaw Cozy Mystery #2

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  A Merry Christmas Wedding Mystery Georgie Shaw Cozy Mystery #4

  Murder at Sea of Passenger X Georgie Shaw Cozy Mystery #5

  Murder of the Maestro Georgie Shaw Cozy Mystery #6

  A Tango Before Dying Georgie Shaw Cozy Mystery #7

  A Canary in the Canal Georgie Shaw Cozy Mystery #8 [2019]

  A Body on Fitzgerald’s Bluff Seaview Cottages Cozy Mystery #1

  The Murder of Shakespeare’s Ghost Seaview Cottages Cozy Mystery #2

  Grave Expectations on Dickens’ Dune Seaview Cottages Cozy Mystery #3 [2019]

  Lily’s Homecoming Under Fire Calla Lily Mystery #1

  Tangled Vines, Buried Secrets Calla Lily Mystery #2 [2019]

  DEDICATION

  To fans of the “The Bard of Avon,” a poet, playwright, and actor whose life remains shrouded in mystery. They say his ghost still walks the streets of Avon.

  Contents

  No table of contents entries found.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my husband who’s support for my writing never falters.

  Thanks, as well, to Peggy Hyndman who always has more going on than any woman I know. Somehow, she still finds time to squeeze my books into her queue for editing. I wish I could learn to leave more wiggle room, but I always seem to be running up against a deadline. Thank you, Peggy!

  I’m also grateful to Ying Cooper for taking a second look at this manuscript, even though I keep her busy as the first editor on two other series I write. She’s also incredibly gracious under fire when the deadline is closing fast and furiously.

  I can’t miss this opportunity to express my gratitude, once again, to my readers for their ongoing support. That’s especially true for my “ARC Angels” who read imperfect versions of my books before they’re published and cheer me on! I’m blessed by their feedback and encouragement.

  1 Be Cruel to be Kind

  “I must be cruel only to be kind.” –Hamlet

  ∞

  “He’s here,” the voice whispered when I answered my phone.

  “Who’s where?” I asked as I glanced at the time and tried to wake up. It was almost midnight. I must have dozed off while reading. I was sitting in my comfy chair in the great room long after my usual bedtime.

  “Shakespeare’s ghost. He’s in my hallway.”

  “Robyn? It is you, isn’t it?” Why did I ask? Who else could it be besides Robyn Chappell, the skittish resident of the Shakespeare Cottage in the Writers’ Circle at Seaview Cottages?

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Please hurry! I’m scared. I’m locked in my bedroom, but ghosts can pass through walls, can’t they?” My heart rate sped up. The terror in her voice reached out and grabbed me over the phone. I don’t believe in ghosts, but real people scare me. They can pick locks or break down doors—if someone was in Robyn’s cottage.

  “I’m on my way! Don’t wait for me to get there. Call security and the police.”

  “You know they won’t do anything. They’ve already told me I’m crazy, Miriam. That’s why I hired G.O.L.D. to help me.” By G.O.L.D., she meant the Grand Old Lady Detectives group my friends and I had formed after a murder on the bluffs had propelled us into the role of amateur sleuths.

  “I’ll call Charly and have her join me along the way. We’ll get to you as soon as we can—probably before the police or security have a chance to respond. Notify them anyway. If there’s an intruder in your home someone in authority needs to take the person into custody.”

  “It’s not a person. It’s a ghost—Shakespeare’s ghost!” Robyn’s whisper had become a hoarse one.

  “Don’t tell the 911 dispatcher it’s a ghost—just say intruder, okay?” I’d thrown a coat on over my pajamas and slipped on a pair of shoes.

  “You don’t believe me either, do you? Joe and Carl said you would!”

  “I believe something is going on which is why I’m already on my way. It’s also why I want you to stay in your bedroom with the door locked. Don’t open it until you’re sure it’s me.”

  “Call me when you get here,” Robyn whispered. “I can hear him! I’m going to hide in the back of my closet.” Then she ended the call before I could tell her the reception in her closet might not be great.

  I grabbed a large heavy-duty flashlight stored in the laundry room and gave it a swing. It could do some damage—to a person, anyway—if I could bring myself to use it. The prospect of whacking an intruder over the head was unappealing. Not as unappealing, however, as allowing someone to attack Robyn or Charly or me. A line from Shakespeare’s Hamlet escaped from my lips.

  “‘I must be cruel only to be kind,’” I muttered as I checked to make sure the beam came on. “At least I’ll be able to see the dirt bag coming, if it’s a mere mortal skulking about in Shakespeare’s Cottage.” As I called Charly on my phone, I grabbed Domino’s leash and hollered.

  “Domino! Come!” My sweet, sensitive Dalmatian would know better than any of us if someone was in Robyn’s home.

  “Charly,” I said when the ringing stopped, and I heard a groggy grunt on the other end of the phone. “It’s me, Miriam. Robyn just called. She says she has an uninvited visitor in her cottage.” I gave her the two-sentence version of what that meant.

  “How can that be? When we did a walk through a few days ago, we checked all the locks on her doors and windows. Everything appeared to be in working order. Did the intruder set off the alarm on her security system?” Emily, the Jack Russel Terrier who lives with Charly in the Bronte Cottage, yipped in the background.

  “I didn’t ask, although I can’t believe she wouldn’t have mentioned it, especially when I told her to call secur
ity and the police. An intruder would have automatically triggered a response from security—unless it is Shakespeare’s ghost as Robin claims.”

  “Leash, Emily!” Emily yelped enthusiastically when she heard Charly utter that command.

  “Or unless she forgot to set it before she went to bed. I’m throwing on some clothes. Emily and I will meet you out front as soon as you and Domino can get here.”

  “We’re already outside!” I hadn’t stopped moving as I spoke to Charly on the phone, so Domino and I had left the house. I shut the front gate to the Hemingway Cottage where we live and hustled along the sidewalk toward Charly’s house.

  I glanced warily from side-to-side. Most of the lights were out in my neighbors’ cottages, but the street lights were on. I didn’t need the flashlight to see where I was going in this section of the Writers’ Circle. The gentle breeze coming in off the Pacific Ocean beyond the bluffs below us caused everything around us to rustle. Shadows danced. I clutched the makeshift weapon tighter in my hand.

  Domino was delighted to be out at such an hour and was pulling at her leash despite the brisk pace I’d already set. Most of our walks take place in the wee hours of the morning. Years working as a bookkeeper in a bakery had turned me into a morning person. Domino is so smart, I’m sure her urgency was because we were on our way to Emily’s cottage. My Dalmatian, who won’t be a year old for another month, has forty pounds on the spunky little Jack Russel Terrier with whom she’d formed a solid doggy friendship.

  As we rushed along the familiar path, I huffed and puffed. Thank goodness I’d renewed my commitment to exercise, or it would have been worse. An image of Hank Miller flitted through my mind. I’d met the attractive fifty-something homicide detective during the investigation into the murder of a woman on Fitzgerald’s Bluff. Lately, his face popped up at the oddest moments. I shut out the idea that my renewed devotion to exercise had anything to do with his smile or the twinkle in his blue eyes.

  Stop it! I chided myself. As far as Hank Miller knows, I’m Mrs. Miriam Webster, a married woman with no interest in good-looking men with blue or any other color eyes. In truth, as a newly widowed woman too young to reside in the community without my age-qualified spouse, I’d done what I could to conceal my age and new status as a widow to everyone. Thanks to Charly and members of the homeowners’ association board where I’m on the Finance Committee, the problem has been solved. I have no idea how I can ever correct Hank’s misperception without confessing that I’d spent my first few months at Seaview Cottages living in a cloud of lies.

  “Fitness is important, isn’t it? You never know when you’ll need to run for it, do you, girl?” Domino glanced over her shoulder at me without slowing down. I took her silence to mean she agreed with me. The fact that she wasn’t spooked ought to be reassuring, but it wasn’t. I flinched at the keening of a Killdeer overhead and pressed on.

  Before I could see her, I heard Emily’s excited greeting. I sighed with relief at the welcome sound that had grown so familiar since Domino and I moved into the Hemingway Cottage. It was even more reassuring to hear Charly speak.

  “Shush, Emily!” Charly commanded in a firm, low voice as we arrived at their gate. “We don’t want to wake up Dottie. She’s not feeling well.” I put my finger to my lips as we all stood in a pool of light from a streetlamp. That kept Domino from launching into an audible response to Emily’s yelps. They settled for wiggles of excitement and tail-wagging as Charly and Emily joined us on the sidewalk.

  “Is Dottie Harris sick?” I asked. Dottie is Charly’s neighbor in the O’Conner Cottage. The two women in their seventies look out for each other as do many residents in our active adult community.

  “Not really. She pulled her back out trying to power wash her fence. She’ll be fine if Emily doesn’t wake her and Dottie can sleep it off if.” Charly spoke again as she pointed to my flashlight and closed the gate behind her. “That’s a good idea.”

  “It’s the first thing I saw that seemed sturdy enough to use as a weapon.” Charly nodded.

  “Good choice! I’m armed, too,” she said as she held up her keychain. Even in the low light that enveloped us she must have been able to read the skeptical expression on my face. “Don’t be deceived. It’s a kubotan.”

  “What’s a kubotan?” I asked.

  “Essentially it’s a mini-stick for self-defense. The kubotan keychain is based on a small bamboo weapon called the "hashi stick." It was developed by a famous martial arts master, Kubota, when the Los Angeles Police Department asked him to create a self-defense weapon and train officers to use it. It’s really quite effective if you apply it skillfully to vulnerable spots on an assailant’s body.” With lightning quick speed Charly, who’s background included training in jiu-jitsu, made a couple of stabbing motions and then repositioned her grip on the keychain and the kubotan became a mini-flail. In another instant, the kubotan keychain had virtually vanished from sight, palmed in Charly’s hand hanging at her side.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re with me. I obviously brought something to wield against a bad guy, but I don’t trust my ability to use it with skill or conviction.”

  “Once a bad guy or two has acted with conviction toward you it becomes less objectionable.” Charly grew silent for a moment as if wrestling with an old memory, perhaps tied to the reason she’d mastered jiu-jitsu. Retired now, Charly had a distinguished career as a criminology professor and taught courses at the police academy. There was more to her past, though, hinted at in memorabilia from her travels. A photo or two that I’d glimpsed in her home office somehow conveyed that not all her trips were holiday junkets. “You’ve made me realize that we ought to spend a little time honing our self-defense skills before we take on more clients. We already have a second request for assistance, by the way.”

  “Are you kidding? It’s not another haunting, is it?” We’d rounded the corner and were about to step off the curb when Charly and I stopped dead in our tracks. That might not have been the best choice of words under the circumstances. “What is that?”

  2 Cold Comfort

  “I do not ask you much, I beg cold comfort;

  and you are so strait and so ingrateful, you deny me that.” – King John

  ∞

  A glowing white form emerged from the bushes across the street, catty-cornered to us. The figure came from out of nowhere near Shakespeare’s Cottage and darted toward a small parklike area, still across the street, but closer to us. Then the motion stopped, and the figure paused to gaze at us. I fought not to cry out. For a split second, I could have sworn the Bard of Avon was indeed standing there peering at me from dark hollow eye sockets.

  “I can’t be certain, but it sure looks like Shakespeare’s ghost, doesn’t it?” Charly asked. Domino growled and took a step forward. I couldn’t tell if she was poised to pursue the apparition or merely taking a stance to protect us. The usually bold and sassy Emily cowered at Domino’s side. Then the figure turned and appeared to vanish into the darkness.

  “Robyn,” I said suddenly overcome by the urgency to reach her. Before I could step off the curb, a new commotion approached. A golf cart, without the headlights on, came streaking toward us. The whine of the motor was barely discernible, but I heard raised voices. I was suddenly bathed in an eerie light as I struggled to see who or what was careening toward us.

  “Faster, faster! We’re losing him,” a recognizable male voice exclaimed in a loud whisper.

  “Over my dead body,” the driver responded. Even though he’d been urged to speed up, he slowed for a moment as he passed us. “Excuse us if we don’t stop! Don’t worry, either, we’ll have Shakespeare cornered in no time. ‘We ain’t afraid of no ghost!”

  “Was that who I think it was?”

  “As hard as it may be to believe, yes,” Charly replied. We watched as they sped away toward the pedestrian bridge on the other side of the small park. The bridge allows residents of Seaview Cottages to go to the beach without having to cross th
e sometimes-busy public roadway below. The road is the main route along the coastal dunes and beaches used by locals and tourists alike. It’s also the way to the high-end beachfront, Blue Haven Resort that’s south of our community. I saw another streak of white as the figure they were pursuing became visible once again. Not for long, though.

  “If Shakespeare beats them to the bridge, it won’t matter whether they’re scared of him or not,” I muttered as I stepped into the street. I did not miss the use of the double-negative. It’s a cutesy line from the movie, I know, but in this case, it made more sense if they were using the double-negative intentionally as part of a prank. “What on earth were they wearing?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say they were wearing night vision goggles—Joe driving, Carl riding shotgun.” Charly took off ahead of me as we cut across the street at an angle toward Robyn’s cottage.

  “What was the thing Carl was holding?”

  “I’m not sure. I doubt it was a dematerializer like the one Dan Ackroyd had with him in the Ghostbusters movie the guys seem intent on playing out in real life.” When we stepped onto the curb not more than a few yards from Robyn’s white picket fence, it hit me.

  “I think it was a fire extinguisher or a large spray gun of some kind. If it’s a loaded sprayer, I hope they’re not using insecticide or anything toxic. The ghost won’t be the only one keeling over if they unload whatever’s in it.”

  “Now that I hear what you’re saying, it could have been a paintball gun! It won’t stop you if you’re already dead, but a fake ghost might be wearing more than white if they can get to him before he hits the footbridge.” As she said that, we heard a screech of tires and then the crunch of metal.

  “I didn’t know a golf cart could go fast enough to burn rubber, did you?”