Read Chapter One: The Good Witch of Morgan’s Peak

This is the opening chapter of The Good Witch of Morgan’s Peak, Book One of the Morgan’s Peak Witch Mysteries. If you enjoy small towns with secrets, ghosts with opinions, and a heroine who didn’t ask for magic but got it anyway — you’re in the right place.

---

     Estelle Staab took a long, lazy drag off the fading cigarette she held slumped between her middle and index fingers. Her gaze shifted to the oversized, silver-framed mirror in front of her. The woman who sat there, staring back at her with that vacant look of ‘I can’t quite remember your name’ in her eyes, seemed vaguely familiar but still like a stranger. She let the heavy, noxious smoke slowly seep through her open mouth, watching as it rose around that other woman’s face like swirling, dissipating clouds.

     Where the hell had all the years gone? Estelle tossed the cigarette into the glass ashtray in front of her with a twinge of regret.

     No, not today. She didn’t have time for self-pity now. She was meeting a client in less than an hour and couldn’t afford to fall behind. This sale, just this one, would secure her finances for the rest of the year and most of the next. As determined as ever, she pushed down the maddening thoughts of that damned imaginary hourglass as it sat there swiftly emptying before her, and instead focused on the day ahead.

     She listened as the wind picked up speed and raced around the back of the house, pressing itself against the thin glass pane of her bedroom window and drawing her attention. The weather had begun its ritualistic shift from one season to the next. The lazy, heavy heat of late summer was quickly giving way to the chilled, frost-tipped mornings of autumn.

     Estelle applied a second layer of Kiss Me Quick red lipstick and gently pressed her lips together. She leaned back to evaluate her appearance. It was perfectly suitable for a meeting with some prominent lawyer from Connecticut—not too stiff, not too provocative. She straightened the ruffled collar of her black blouse to reveal a little more skin and then draped a string of jade beads around her neck.

     You never know when an opportunity of the male persuasion will show up, tied and gagged, at your front door, she thought.

     The fact that the guy had to be loaded didn’t hurt either. After all, she didn’t sell two-and-a-half-million-dollar estates every day, and from what she could gather during their multiple phone conversations, there was no Mrs. Lawyer.

     Another gust of wind swept past the house, rattling the tree branches and casting a fleeting patch of afternoon sunlight that blinked across the changing leaves in a blazing flicker of yellow light. She hoped the weather would stay steady enough to finish their meeting. The drive to Orchard’s Cove wasn’t far, but she certainly didn’t enjoy it in bad weather. The windy roads weren’t well-maintained. If a tree fell or a part of the road flooded, she’d be in serious trouble. The last few nights had been downright hell, and she was pretty sure she’d need to replace her entire roof soon, judging by the shingles scattered across her yard. She tried not to dwell on the fact that the roof was less than ten years old. She planned to review her homeowners’ policy later, when she had more time to think.

     Estelle bent down and slipped into her favorite pair of heels. She knew the ground would be soft, but if she tiptoed just right, she wouldn’t risk getting stuck in the mud. Then again, if the guy turned out to be a romantic possibility, there was no reason why he couldn’t help a lady out of a jam. She smiled and ran her finger over her teeth, wiping away a small smudge of lipstick.

     From just below her knee came the heavy purr of her cat, Geneva, and as Estelle reached down to pick up the overly plump white Persian, her gaze shifted to the corner of her neatly made bed. She focused on the shadowy form of her late husband, Mort, lying along the side of the bed. A heavy sigh escaped her lips, and all hope of the day turning out normal was quickly lost.

     He looked completely at ease, as if he belonged there, with one hand tucked under his head for support and the other resting carelessly across his stomach as he gazed tenderly at her. A charming, crooked smile slowly spread across his face, emphasizing his soft features and making him seem all the more angelic.

     “Where the hell have you been? I haven’t seen you in months.” Estelle glared at the now solidly formed ghost of her husband and lit another cigarette.

     Mort let his head fall back onto the softness of the bed’s pillow and gazed up at the ceiling as if exhausted.

     “Oh, a little here, a little there,” he said as he slowly sat up and frowned at her. “I didn’t realize you would miss me so much, Sweets, what with all your business to attend to and friends to see.”

     “Don’t start that now, Mort, I haven’t the time for this. I don’t know if you realize this or not, but you’re dead and, like it or not, I have a living to make.” She kissed the cat on the top of the head and gently tossed her next to Mort.

     The cat, which had always loved her now-deceased husband, started to purr even louder as Mort tried to pet her. His hand went through, making little more than a soft breeze through her fur, but she seemed happy with the effort anyway.

     “The house is practically paid off, thanks to my life insurance money, so you could probably manage with only working part-time. Besides, how many cans of Friskies can old Geneva here eat anyway?” The cat looked at him with a slightly indignant glare and jumped down from the bed. The sound of her landing on the floor was reminiscent of a bowling ball hitting a perfect ten, but she held her head up regardless. Geneva was a proud female by any standard, human or feline.

     “It’s not just that, Mort. I need to get out and socialize with the living, for God’s sake. I may be a widow, but I’m sure as hell not a merry one.” Estelle took another long puff of the quickly shrinking butt of her cigarette.

     The red heat of guilt washed over her face, and Mort’s features softened. His hand slid through the soft mess of black hair, and he quickly changed the subject to something a bit more pressing, at least for now anyway.

     “You were kind enough to ask me where I’ve been, and the truth is I’ve been gone for a while because I’ve made a new friend.” Mort’s gaze shifted to his wife’s bedroom doorway. “Except this time, he hasn’t come to me the way they usually do. You know—illness, old age, even the occasional accident. Nope, this one’s different. This one’s special.”

     Estelle plopped back into her vanity chair and looked toward her doorway. “What do you mean by that, exactly?”

     Mort moved closer to her, his figure hardly making a crease in the handmade quilt draped over him, a gift from Estelle’s mother on their wedding day.

     “Well, to put it as plainly as I can, Sweets, I’m pretty sure the poor guy was murdered.” He turned and looked toward the open bedroom door, as if studying something carefully. There was a look of detached interest on his boyish face.

     “You mean to tell me he’s here? You know I don’t like it when you bring them into the house, Mort!”

     “Come now, Sweets, you’re only saying that because you can’t see them without my help. You just hate it when you can’t keep track of them like you do me. But yes, to answer your question, he’s here all right.”

     “Who is he?” Estelle’s gaze shifted to the open bedroom door, where she knew the apparition must be standing—staring at her, observing her with vacant, confused eyes. An icy shiver ran down each tethered bone of her spine.

     “To be honest, Sweets, I’m not really sure who he is. He hasn’t spoken to me yet. But he’s young. Hell, he can’t be much older than your sister’s kid, Dominic. What’s he now? Twenty?”

     “Yeah, he turned just this past month.” Estelle’s mouth suddenly went bone dry. “Anything else?” She tried to focus on the new ghost in her life, but Mort was right. She couldn’t see the ghost without his help. At least… no, there was nothing there for her to focus on.

     “Well, he’s soaked all the way through to the bone, like he’s been swimming, but it’s hardly the weather for that now, is it? Not to mention he still has all his clothes on, even if they are a bit jumbled up,” said Mort.

     “Wait a minute…you’ve lost me. How the hell do you know the man’s been murdered if he hasn’t said anything to you yet? Maybe the poor guy’s just drowned by accident, and here you are blowing it all out of proportion.” Estelle got up and stood by her husband, who sat teetering on the side of their bed. She forgot about Mort’s current condition and reached out to rest her hand gently on the broad, sloping shoulder. Estelle stopped short when she remembered that only Mort’s spirit lingered there in the soft confines of their bedroom, and there was nothing solid about her old lover these days.

     “Oh, yeah… sorry about that, Sweets. I guess I forgot to mention I’m also pretty sure his throat’s been slit.” He looked up at her with those beautiful blue eyes of his, full of wicked innocence, and that crooked grin of his plastered all over his age-defying face, then chuckled.

     “That’s hardly funny.” She looked down at him, hoping he was joking, or even outright lying to her, but knowing deep down that Mort would only tell the truth. In her view, that was his only real character flaw. Well, that and him being a ghost, and he obviously couldn’t do anything about that now, could he?

     “You know, you could always see for yourself if you don’t believe me,” said the apparition of her former lover. He lay back, gazing up at her from the comfort of his long-forgotten bed. Mort’s smile made her almost melt with desire as its warmth washed over her. Despite herself, Estelle couldn’t help but smile back at him, the ache in her body reminding her just how much she truly missed him.

     Thankfully—perhaps even by the grace of a God she no longer believed in—the wounds on her husband’s face and body, inflicted when he first died about five years earlier, had now all but vanished. It was as if the passing of so many years had somehow healed them. Now, only if viewed in the right lighting, could one barely see the last few remaining tell-tale signs that the tragedy had ever even occurred.

     This new ghost, however, the one Mort had brought along from the fogged and timeless world of the dead, had only recently been severed from the physical world. Any wounds the man had would be sharp and vivid in their freshness. She knew deep in her stomach that she could be shocked, possibly even horrified by the sight of him… but she knew it had to be done.

     “Now you know I hate that, Mort. You know I don’t like seeing the others.” She practically stomped her foot in protest. The thought of seeing this new apparition made her feel tense and upset. A wave of heat washed over her body as perspiration broke out on her forehead and upper lip. She knew full well she would have to see him, even if it were only for a brief time and for the sole purpose of the poor man’s identification.

     “Have it your way, then. It’s too bad, though—if you don’t take a look at him, we’ll never really know who he is or if he’s even from around here.”

     Estelle glanced at him with her usual half-crazed look. She hated this part, she always had, but since Mort’s death, there have been at least three other times when knowing who was lurking around with her husband proved to be quite important to someone.

     “Fine, but don’t stay too long. Just get in and out as quickly as you can.”

     Mort smiled his crooked smile and winked one of his baby blues at her. “Funny, you never used to say that to me before. Hell, I remember a time when you couldn’t get enough of me.” He chuckled loudly at his own humor.

     Estelle squinted at him. “Shut up, Mort, this is really no time to be vulgar.” She sat back at her dressing table and tried to calm herself. Mort waited a moment or two for her to settle, then pulled himself out of the comfort of his bed.

     “Don’t worry, Sweets, I’ll make this as quick and painless as possible…promise.” He moved to the dressing table, slipping into his wife’s body and mimicking her seated position on the brightly upholstered chair. Instantly, the disturbing vision of the mysterious ghost appeared in Estelle’s mind as if she had put on a pair of magical glasses. She knew without question who the dead man was, and her heart dropped to her feet.

     Her breathing grew quick and shallow as her mind fixated on the man’s name. It was Colby Martin, John Martin’s only son. The young man’s clothes were soaked through, clinging to his body in twisted, sloppy wrinkles. A small puddle of dark water had started to form around his feet as he stood there shivering in her bedroom doorway.

     Estelle shivered back.

     Colby’s skin was gray and thin. His hair was a mess of wet curls that had become plastered down in patches around his head. The soft, fleshy tips of his fingers and lips had turned a deep purple-blue. But above all else, the image that was most upsetting to Estelle was the deep slice of burgundy that stretched across the center of his throat. The gaping flesh seemed to call to her, demanding her attention, like some grotesquely distorted mouth. Thankfully, Colby’s blood no longer oozed from the open wound, no doubt swept away by the thorough soaking he had received, but the deep crimson of the cut still looked fresh.

     She wiped the nervous sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “That’s enough, Mort, you can get out now.”

     Mort emerged from his wife’s body and stood beside her. “Do you recognize him?”

     “Yes, it’s Colby Martin, John Martin’s son. Damn it! I know him, Mort. He’s a good guy. What do we do?” She started to shake. The rush of adrenaline flooding her system was overwhelming, and tears began to form in her eyes. She quickly pulled out another dark-papered cigarette from the antique silver box on her dressing table. The cold metal of the box caught her attention and sparked her imagination. Suddenly, she could almost feel the blade against his throat—no, her throat. She could picture the pain, the blood, as if the razor’s edge had sliced across her tender flesh. There was something inside her that said Colby’s murderer was a woman, but she pushed it aside. She didn’t know for sure, but the feeling lingered.

     Estelle shuddered. There was no denying whose spirit it was, standing there, soaked, and in her bedroom doorway. Just as there was no denying the effect it had on her own spirit, she knew it would be weeks before she could sleep again without dreaming of his fragile, broken body.

     Mort knew John Martin well. They had gone to the same high school, but John was a few years older. He had visited the house more than once with his older brother Eric. She didn’t think Mort even knew he had a son.

     “I’m sorry to hear that.” Mort approached where his wife had just seen the young man and examined his face, or at least that’s what it looked like he was doing. “I can see John’s features around the eyes now. I never knew. He’ll be crushed when he finds out.”

     “That’s about the understatement of the century. You’re right, though—John probably doesn’t even know his son’s dead.” Estelle lit the almost forgotten cigarette clenched in her hand and stared hard at the doorway. “At least I haven’t heard anyone say he was missing or anything like that, and God knows Renee Gorman would have called if there was any talk of it in town.” She took a few hearty puffs from her cigarette. “That woman never misses a beat. I’ll have to stop by the sheriff’s office on my way out to Orchard Cove today and talk to Tom York, see if he’s heard anything about it yet. Speaking of which…” Estelle looked at her watch. “Shit, I’m going to be late as it is.”

     She sprang from her seat, grabbed her purse and jacket, and hurried out of the room, mindful of Colby Martin’s presence as she passed by and stomped loudly down the stairs.

     Mort met her at the front door. “You do that, Sweets.” He glanced up the stairs and whispered in her ear. “I’m getting the worst feeling deep down in the pit of my stomach that young Colby Martin up there won’t be my only new friend.”

     The very thought of it made Estelle’s stomach do a flip. “Yeah, yeah… just make sure you take him with you when you go.” She glanced up the steps to her occupied bedroom doorway. “I don’t want to worry about him hanging around the house and watching me like I’m some kind of glassy-eyed fish on display.”

     “Colorful,” Mort winked. “You’ve been reading those Mickey Spillane books again, haven’t you?”

     Estelle looked at him but didn’t say a word. She loved Mickey Spillane and classic hard-boiled detective stories.

     “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he stays close to me. Speaking of which, we’d better get moving. I’ll try to find out what happened to him if I can. You know, ask around and see if anyone saw him meet his untimely and gruesome end.” Mort wiggled his fingers at her like he was telling a tall tale around a campfire and working it for all he was worth.

     She had to admit that since Mort’s death, he didn’t seem as emotionally supportive about certain things—death being one of them—and now it looked like even a tragic murder was beyond his understanding. As suddenly as he had appeared, Mort vanished in a rippling wave of light and shadow, as if he were nothing more than a fond memory shattered by turbulent waters. She pulled the door closed behind her and headed down the walk to her car. The drive into town was short, and she hoped Tom wouldn’t drag things out. She couldn’t think of anything worse than a murder in a small town and a new, barely-used sheriff. This day was turning out to be a little less fabulous than she had initially expected.

---