Death by Tarot Card (A Ghost & Abby Mystery Book 4)

  death by tarot card

  Jo-Ann Carson

  JRT Publications

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Afterword

  Other Books by Jo-Ann Carson

  About the Author

  Death by Tarot Card

  Copyright © Jo-Ann Carson Terpstra

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-1-989031-07-0

  Published by JRT Publications

  Cover Design: Authors on a Dime

  Created with Vellum

  Introduction

  A Ghost & Abby Mystery (Book 4)

  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. The question is, can she catch the murderer before they deal another card?

  “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” ~Shakespeare, Hamlet

  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, yo
u 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?”

  Vikings are so literal.

  He traced my cheek with his fingers. His tender touch brought back too many fond memories. I backed off.

  He grumbled. “Just say what you mean.”

  “I’m not a Viking.”

  “I never said I wanted you to be.”

  That was true. “Eric, something’s out there.”

  “You are safe with me.”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “What’s out there? And how did you know I was here?”

  “I was chasing it when I heard your voice.”

  “‘It’?”

  Eric looked around at the trees. “Trust me. You don’t want to know.”

  “Eric!”

  “Why are you here, Abby?”

  “Elvira’s cat is stuck up a tree.”

  His eyes narrowed forming a V in his forehead. “You’re looking for a cat before the dawn breaks in a dark forest? That’s stupid even for you.”

  “Stupid?”

  “Okay, reckless. It’s plain reckless.”

  The sound of a gunshot answered his statement. “Who’s out there,” called Harold.

  Eric grinned.

  “It’s just me, Abby Jenkins,” I said.

  “What the hell are you doing in my woods?”

  “I’m looking for Elvira’s cat, Fluffy.”

  “Fluffy?” His voice came nearer.

  “She phoned me this morning,” I said, talking to the trees and feeling stupid.

  “This morning?”

  “Yes.”

  Harold appeared. All of him appeared. I looked up. Sparky grinned at me from her perch on a branch of the nearby tree. “I told you so,” she said in my head and snickered. “It’s hangin’ free time.”

  I cleared my voice. “She said her cat was in one of your trees and wouldn’t come down and needed insulin. She asked me to help her. I didn’t want to bother you. I know you don’t like being bothered, so I came straight into the woods and got a little lost. Eric found me.”

  He looked up at Eric. “Hmm.”

  “Have you seen the cat?” Eric asked him.

  Harold rested his shotgun on his shoulder. Deep wrinkles layered his neck, and a grizzly, gray beard covered his face in patches. Charcoal-gray eyes took me in and squinted. “Haven’t you two got a better place to canoodle?”

  Eric chortled. My cheeks burned.

  “That’s not why we’re here. The cat …” Harold’s old-man scowl stopped me talking. I lowered my head. The mist was thinning in the pre-dawn light and I could see more of him. Holy tamole, there was a lot to see. Gravity had taken its effect. I’d be red faced for a week.

  “There’s a lot of problems with your story, missy,” Harold said.

  I shrugged and fought to keep my eyes level.

  “First of all, Elvira ain’t home. She’s gone to visit her sister in Seattle for a week. Second, she don’t have a cat.” He chewed his tobacco for a minute. “And third, Alderman Harris is after you.”

  “Harris?”

  “He’s asked everyone in town on Facebook to give you a message: ‘Contact me immediately. It’s a life-and-death situation.’”

  Chapter 2

  Sitting in Harold’s messy kitchen did not settle my nerves. I gulped down weak tea and explained myself over and over again, until he believed I came in peace and posed no threat to him or his lifestyle. I don’t think he believed my Fluffy story, but that didn’t matter. At least he believed in me. I knew this because he took his shotgun off his lap and walked it over to his entrance, where he leaned it against the wall.

  Avoiding eye contact with his lower body and the assorted pieces of erotic art hanging on his walls, I made it outside. I breathed in the morning air, mist and all, and thanked my lucky stars.

  Eric escorted me out of the nude zone and joined me in my car. He filled his side of my mini rather well. Trying hard not to notice his manly scent, I adjusted my mirrors over and over again until he put on his seatbelt. I started the car.

  “How are you doing?” he said.

  “That depends. Does how am I doing mean how are the kids? Or how is my health? Or how do I feel about us?”

  “Do you need to complicate this?” He looked out his side window as if something lurked in the mist.

  “Men, especially Viking men, are as complicated as wom
en.” I would have folded my arms, but I had the steering wheel in my hands. Was I being childish? A little. Possibly. But he so deserved my cold response.

  “I am worried,” he said.

  I waited, but he didn’t say more. After a long pause, I said, “It’s not like you to worry.” I kept my eyes on the road.

  He nodded, and stared out at the outside world.

  “You don’t waste time in useless emotions, or what you call useless emotions. You act.”

  Another nod.

  “So, what’s eating you?” I checked my side mirrors.

  “I can’t say.”

  “You can’t or you won’t?”

  “Words, just words.” He turned to look at me with his arctic-blue eyes. “Tell me about the kids.”

  “Let’s see. I’ve taken away Jonathan’s skateboard for a week for attempting to ride down the stairs. I keep telling him not to.” Jonathan’s seven and filled with more energy than I imagined possible. We made it to the main road and I turned on to it. “Jinx joined a ballet class and is living in a pink tutu.” She’s my spunky five-year-old. “Baby Jane is climbing stairs.” She’s actually two but will always be my baby.

  “I miss them,” he said.

  I tilted my head. What could I say? When Eric had been a ghost, a state he had mastered for over a thousand years, he had been part of our everyday lives. He would tell the kids Nordic tales. They couldn’t see him, but they heard his rich voice and loved his stories. After they fell asleep we would stay up and talk for hours. Eric and I had been close for two years. Like a couple, except that he had been dead and me alive.