Please welcome Kathleen Rowland to NN. We are so excited to have you Kathleen. Scary ghost are exactly what NN is all about. We love the paranormal whether it is romanctic or frightening. Plus a givaway that's great. Take it away Kathleen!
Kathleen Rowland’s giveaway: a purse keyfinder in the shape
of a black high heel. With a hinge
that hooks over the top of your purse, you’ll never lose your keys at the
bottom again. Kathleen will
mail it to the lucky winner!
Two Halloweens ago I made a ghost. It scared everyone so well that I used it in the beginning
of my book, DEEDS OF DECEIT. In
this sensuous romantic suspense, Bayliss Jones’ ex-boyfriend, a set designer, creates
a ghost to keep her in line. Read
about it below in Chapter One.
Buy link for DEEDS of DECEIT:
Danger awaits her around every corner, and he knew this day would come. A half tank up the mountains, Big Bear winters are isolating for heiress Bayliss Jones. Circled by the same cult that murdered her parents fifteen years before, death awaits her around every corner. Her shirttail relative and trustee of her estate, Sheriff Byron McGill, never agreed with local hearsay that made her a suspect. Air crackles between two people who clash, but the spoiled princess needs his help. Besides hers, the life of a young man, her secret baby, hangs in the balance. There's no time for error.
Chapter One
A
bedroom door slammed with a bang.
Bayliss shot up in bed. The
ghost was back. She twisted to
face the clock radio: five am,
pitch black in mid-December. How
long had it been since its last visit, a month? Anxiety washed over her as she sorted through recent
scenarios. It made sense as Todd’s
handiwork. Her blood boiled,
remembering her ex-fiancé once had a career in set design. He’d said she would
pay. Angry and unemployed, the
jerk’s ongoing prank was exploitive.
This was the third. She took a sharp breath as fear hit, more for his
breaking in than the robotic finery.
Trying to calm down, she anticipated the ghost would resemble her
mother, like before, but come from a new direction in her late parents’ master
suite.
She felt her way
along the hallway, open to vast darkness below. Finding a switch, she snapped it on. Traces of fog, no doubt
his deeds, created an eerie atmosphere.
She heard a teasing cry.
Turning the doorknob to their former suite, the door screeched open on its
own.
This time the
ghost hovered in the shadow of an overstuffed armchair. In a sudden burst, it
jumped toward her and spun away. A chill ran up her spine. Todd
did it to me again. Howling
wind slapped against a bay window, and she strained to hear the vision’s
voice. “The earth is quiet. My sleep is not.” She eased into her mother’s chair
and brushed her face against the fabric, catching the lingering scent of
cologne. Studying the ghost
detail, the solid white eyes were lame, but she shivered anyway.
Wearing a gown of
sheer layers, the phantom floated along the wall with blonde hair fanning. A
knot formed in her stomach over Todd’s plan to drive her mad. He knew about the
part she’d played prior to the murder of her parents. The memory hadn’t paled
after fifteen years. On the
anniversary of their deaths, she braced herself for another blue Christmas.
She was the last
person to see her parents and became the person of interest after a maid
informed police of their huge fight.
The maid couldn’t decipher the content of loud, angry voices. That was good, but stomping down the
mountain in a huff wasn’t much of an alibi. Full of sorrow, she was despised.
Being cleared hadn’t mattered. Big
Bear Villagers didn’t trust Jones money entangled with the legal system.
The ghost circled
the room again, and Bayliss stood to meet its vacant stare. In life her mother’s blue eyes sparkled
at everyone in her path. Even more
famous in death, Susanna McGill Smith, former cheerleader for the San Francisco
Forty-niners, and her dad, handsome black quarterback Woody Jones, adorned
California’s front pages. The
so-called Eight Thousand Foot Murder
had reporters camped at the base of their mountain. Usually quiet, Big Bear
Village buzzed. Their killer went free.
No profile had ever led the police or FBI anywhere. Not a speck of DNA, not a single skin cell
on the duct tape.
Her parents’ once
lovely bedroom was now without furniture except for the pretty chair. She ran
her hand on the green satin. On
the back an embroidered “S” for
Susanna swirled with leaves and pink rosebuds. Green and white striped wallpaper
decorated the wall above white wainscoting to the log ceiling. Reflecting her mother’s feminine touch,
their suite was finished in drywall rather than rough hewn wood. Without lamp fittings, Bayliss depended
on the hall light to scurry back.
Unnerved along the balcony, she turned off the switch for better viewing
through a band of clerestory windows.
Catching movement
in the pines, her muscles went rigid.
Chaotic images struck her with the force of a physical blow. Is
it the wind or do I hear two voices in a heated conversation? She flinched.
Todd’s latest fling, Hilary, with designs of her own, turned him into
her puppet. Dear Ami filled me in, and
now I agree. Her only genuine
friend, Amihan Creswell, was vacationing with her investment banker husband.
Squinting through the glass, security lamps glowed blue and cast pools of light
on the lawn. A squirrel jumped on
a pine cone, but her inklings solidified.
Todd’s plan to
turn Jones Mountain into a ski resort had merit, but she reneged on their
verbal agreement for two reasons.
A huge investment in equipment was a natural predator of her mountain
nest egg. Hilary wants to use it as headquarters for her green organization, Get
Megawatts. Back in her
bedroom, she felt an urge to confront him about the ghost. Picking up her iPhone, she scrolled to
his number but stopped. Hilary Fleisher would text her back.
After dialing 911 and reporting the incident, she added, “I’ve got a restraining order
against Todd Sheffield,” and then flattened her back against her bedroom
wall. How far will he go?
Thrice warned, her nerve endings were leap-frogging. It wasn’t her to give in, even when
threatened. Be smart. Keep your cell phone charged. Bolt the door.
In her youth, she’d excelled at climbing out the window and down a pine,
but tonight her knees wobbled. She
plugged her cell into its charger.
Land rich but
cash poor, she had her fill of Jones Mountain. Until her birthday, a certain callous trustee held veto
power while she had rights to the final inheritance. In a couple of months she’d be done with Brian McGill’s
enforcements. The rules weren’t
his. She blamed her grandfather for appointing his young fishing buddy with
absolute authority while providing him with a salary.
Granddad worried
she’d inherited her mother’s spendthrift genes, something he believed would
disappear at the ripe age of thirty.
Another requirement for her protection from villagers, she lived alone
in the massive lodge. Under
quilts, she snuggled her cold feet deep but longed to tell someone. Stuffy
Byron “Skip” McGill, the youngest cousin of her mother’s generation, wasn’t her
first choice. The shirt-tail,
non-blood relative was due that morning to go over the trust. The legal obligation they shared put
them at odds. They clashed
anyway. He didn’t share detail.
Blameless and
interfering, she knew the white-cracker would end up a cop. Recently appointed sheriff, he was
about to become insufferable. They
were fire and gasoline. She called him Skipjackass, he nicknamed her
Bay-bay. Being called baby by someone who thought he knew
everything put a damper on happy hormone production.
She tried to put herself back to sleep
with a plan, sweet talking him into making a monetary contribution to Bearwood.
A donation could make the kids’ Christmas merrier. The foster group home had welcomed her as a volunteer
therapist even before she’d greased the palms of the director, Milton
Swift. Odd I can never get with kids alone. Last week she’d admired miniature windmills on a table. Milton had explained they were for a
weekend activity. “The kids will capture the power of the wind
as they build windmills. Store the
electricity they generate in rechargeable AA batteries. Wind-charged batteries are theirs to
keep!”
The windmill
project sounded fun, but she winced, thinking about a teenage girl who’d called
Bearwood a super-max lockdown.
Troubled when reading kids as young as fifteen were escaping into a
cult, she wondered who was helping them into it. For her doctorate, she’d written a dissertation on cults.
The usual enticements
were wholesome activities—hiking, camping, and environmental cleanups followed
by parties. Doing good deeds
bonded them. From a fire to a frying pan, a cult was the last stop. Cult
members were never allowed to leave, and this was a permanent lockdown. Her mind ran with fragile worries over Bearwood kids. Soon she wouldn’t have to run
expenditures over five hundred dollars by Byron. She needed to sleep but couldn’t sleep. Too much was happening. How could she be wise and perceptive
when her mind shriveled around a core of gloom like a drying apple? Getting sole rein over finances would
be good.
* * * *
Sheriff Byron
McGill tossed a leg over the side of his bed. Still dark on the first day of his fishing vacation, he
rearranged pillows under his head.
He preferred fishing with companions, but his guy friends were
working. If his dad could get away
from their family-run shop, he’d go, but Skipjack Bait was the game in town
from bait to boats. During the
holiday rush, his mom would have a tough time handling the traffic alone. In any case, he’d care of business with
the thorn-in-his-side before heading out.
Transportation
to her mountaintop lodge was about to become difficult with snow
predicted. Weather would be a
downhill restraint, but another restraint was soon to be lifted. The birthday girl would win freedom on
February eighteenth along with Jones Mountain and the lodge. Years ago, after the sale of Jones
Lumber, proceeds maintained the property but were dwindling to the point that
he no longer took a salary. Soon they wouldn’t be stuck between a rock and a
hard place. He let out a sigh of
relief knowing his involvement would end.
He chuckled to
himself, remembering how her grandfather’s words felt like a compliment. “Byron,
because of your upstanding character and dedication, I’m offering you the paid
position of trustee. Your salary
will increase five percent every year, and you’ll receive an annual bonus. What
do you say?”
“Thank you, sir.” Named trustee at age twenty-one, Byron
regretted proving reliability. In
short, he’d been caught being honest too many times when her grandfather,
Lanyard Jones, discovered the opposite to be true with his lawyer. If Woodruff were alive, he’d be running
the lumber company. His mind
pondered the way their bodies were positioned when the crackling of a 911 call brought him to the here and
now. Propping his elbow on the
mattress, he reached for the two-way on his bedside table. He strained to hear the dispatcher over
the static.
“Sheriff,
I’m shooting over a recording. It’s from Bayliss Jones. Over.”
“Ready. Over.” He listened.
Her ex-fiancé had broken in.
Her dusky whisper was hard to read. Bay-bay was hard to read. She and Todd, involved since their teens, were on and off.
The
dispatcher’s voice broke in. “Want
to dispatch Cole Blake and the rookie?”
“No,
I’m on it.” Byron’s job as sheriff was to oversee the police investigation, but
his family obligation hard-wired him into action. Going up earlier was better
for getting on with his day. He
pulled on jeans, slipped on waterproof boots, and made for his attached
garage. Instead of the cruiser, he
hopped into his new red Jeep, loaded with fishing equipment, a cooler with
water bottles and beer, a thermos of soup and a ham on rye.
Whenever meeting
up with Bayliss, a weird sense of anticipation rose in him. It made him antsy. He’d been in situations. He’d been in kick-ass, head-breaking
fights, and had come out okay.
With her, he relished their disputes even when she treated him like an
insect. Publicly scorned after her parents’ murder, she never rebuilt her
reputation. Just when he was
feeling felt sorry about the troubles she faced, she used her wits to smash him
flat.
On rare occasions
she was precious as she went about her quiet business alone. He switched on the radio, set at the
oldies station. Listening to
Elvis’ Blue Christmas, he took Jones
Mountain Road upward. Knowing
every inch of the winding blacktop, a soft glow came from the eastern peak and
turned boulders copper, the color of her hair. As a girl she was adorable with
her coppery tight curls. Admired
for cuteness but not popularity, her “Get out of my way, I’m coming through”
attitude served her well after the tragedy.
Big Bear,
California hadn’t changed much in his lifetime of forty years. Glancing in his
rearview, the huge lake remained in pristine condition. He admired how the lake looked when
distinct seasons reflected on its surface. Crazy beautiful, nearly magical, there were the flowering
buds of spring, the green shades of summer, and the gold-red spectrum of
dogwoods, redbuds, and maples amidst evergreens. His favorite season was about to begin, when snowy spires
glistened against a deep blue sky, but a blue sky wasn’t in the forecast. His piece of heaven had continuity, but
when it came to people, solidarity couldn’t always be achieved. The misery of the fathomlessly rich
Jones family began with a mistimed pregnancy. His parents told him once. Nice people kept family secrets. As he drove he thought about bait to use for his snowy
afternoon of fishing.
No matter what
the weather, he’d be out on Big Bear Lake, surrounded by evergreens and
mountains. His spirits lifted as
he rolled down the window and filled his nostrils with the scent of clean piney
air. Taking out his cell to warn
her of his early arrival, he speed-dialed her.
It went directly
to voice mail. Probably fighting with Todd, and she had lots to fight
about. Up there alone, winter made
her nuts enough to see a ghost. The last time she’d brought it up, he’d told
her the lodge was a giant mass of logs, wind howled between the sections, and
she had a big imagination. After her birthday, she planned to sell out and move
to a condo in Newport Beach. Fewer trees, fewer animals prowling around, and no
living and breathing mountains would petrify her. Today marked the fifteenth
anniversary of Los Angeles Time’s front page crime scene.
When victims are arranged with deliberate care and
posed to appear alive, their last moments are agonizing. It was ridiculous upstanding folk
pointed their fingers at Bayliss.
It wasn’t ridiculous good citizens believed her lumber-tycoon
grandfather paid off the right people to shield his only grandchild.
Ten years her
senior, the two of them experienced the same place from different angles. Money wasn’t everything. Loyalty was, in spite of her snobbery.
Becoming a police
detective allowed him access into the cold case, but his failure to solve it
frayed his temper. No one felt his
lack of ability the way he did.
Pushing against another hunch, his mind marched around teens selling
overpriced trinkets downtown, windmill replicas for seventy dollars each. The teens’ pace was desperate, and
their eyes were as glassy as sleep-deprived believers.
Approaching the
last bend, he slowed. The new
engine ran as smooth as rum. Tires
gripped to the road, and he was gloating over his perfect choice for the
terrain just before he slid on ice.
Grasping the steering wheel with no control over steering, the Jeep took
a sideways spin toward the edge. Was that the morning sun or was he merging
with the holy light? Just when he
thought he’d learn answers to life’s questions, the driver’s side rammed hard
against a boulder. He didn’t feel
at peace, and that was a miracle, but the hood hung over the ledge. Dazed, he
prayed the Jeep wouldn’t teeter.
He tried but couldn’t open his door, lodged against the boulder. He took
stock of the landscape below, a contrast of morning village lights and a
dropped slope. Not moving and
barely breathing, he hoped the rear wheels were on flat land. If
I can think, I’m not dead. With advantage of four-wheel drive, he threw gears into
reverse.
His chest hurt
from the steering-wheel impact and from holding his breath, but he was
grateful. Overwhelmed with luck, he exhaled and then sucked in oxygen. With ruthless determination, he reached
into the backseat for a bag of rock salt. Parked square with hazards blinking,
he stepped out, ripped it open and spread it over the entire ice slick. When he spotted an empty water jug, he
grabbed it with fury and doubted he’d find prints. Turning back toward the
jeep, he heard a whimper and spotted a dog sitting in front of a tire.
“Hey.” Coming close and kneeling, the dog
hopped into his arms. Weighing
much less than a six-pack, he guessed a mix of Chihuahua and Jack Russell due
to the spots and broken coat. No collar, no tag? Ninety-nine percent of the time dogs
lacking identification were fending for themselves. Its paws felt cold, and he
unzipped his parka and slipped the dog inside. The dog tipped its head back, looked him in the eyes, and
melted his heart. “How about a
sandwich, pup?”
* * * *
She
heard a double blast of the horn, Byron’s habit when he drove onto the circular
driveway. Is it nine already? Nope,
it’s earlier.” The restless cop kept the two-way on, and today she was
glad. Slipping her feet into satin mules, she flew down the staircase in her
nightgown, toppling and then steadying the bare Balsam fir in its stand. Opening the front door to a frigid
blast, she snagged whipping curls behind an ear. She loathed winter.
His jeep looked
new, parked between an outbuilding and towering pines. Marching against the wind toward
the porch, he was dressed for ice fishing, outfitted with the best from
Skipjack, but his baseball cap with machine-embroidered 100% Bearass was familiar.
With a brawny arm, he swung an empty bag of rock salt into the recycle bin and with the other, tossed an empty water jug. Taking the rough hewn steps in long
leaps, something above caught his eye and held his attention. The brim of his hat, caught by the
gale, sent his cap sailing. In another moment, he bent to pick it up without
looking. His gaze remained fixed on her late parents’ bay window. After spewing a string of swears, he
said, “Restraining orders don’t work.”
“Why not?” She noticed a kind of squirming inside
his jacket. She blinked and rubbed
her eyes, deciding she must be nuts.
“Some couples
play cat and mouse,” he said conversationally, his focus remaining upward.
“At times, it
might look that way.” She watched
his no-nonsense scowl.
“Not anymore, I
take it.”
“What are you staring at, Skip?” She half-expected the tight-lipped cop
to wave her off. Being ticked off
and then letting a matter drop imposed dominance. Then again, it might have something to do with the ghost
apparatus, but she’d let him discover on his own. His mind had logical corners. She couldn’t expect him to follow her
suspicions. Her worries trailed
through her mind in endless loops.
Studying the
window, his brows pulled together.
“There’s wiring. Not
attached to security cameras. I slid on ice.”
“Ice?”
“Intentional ice.”
“Snow melts,
Byron. When the temperature drops, you get an ice slick. It was ten below last night.” Now he’s here, all strength and refuge. I feel brave. It didn’t mean she liked him.
He flashed impatience. “No precipitation
until now, Bay-bay.” The wind
whipped mare’s tails of flakes along the ground. “Driving up, I spread Ice Melt.” Nodding toward the recycle bin, his breath billowed like a
rolling steam cloud. “That was after.”
“After what?”
“After the big
dent.”
“You slid into a
boulder? I’m sorry.” Remembering
the empty water jug he’d slammed into the trash, she looked past him at his new
Rubicon. The pine tree hid the alleged dent. If feeling her usual self, she’d chide him. He usually drove a no-frills nag from
the impound lot, and another dent wouldn’t matter. Still he’d kept the worn interior as tidy as a tackle
box which suited his compartmentalized mind. Under most circumstances, she’d throw a jab.
“If you’d driven
down, you’d be in the lake. Dead.” His eyes were deep set, and his
expression flickered from puzzlement to deep thought. She saw into it when he made a six-gun out of his thumb and
forefinger. “Has Hilary been here
lately?” He wasn’t aiming at her, she realized. They had a conversation after Ami’s heart-to-heart about the
other woman. Byron had shared Hilary Fleisher, spokesperson for Get Megawatts,
had applied for gun permits.
“Not lately.”
Before Hilary’s involvement with Todd, she contacted her, wanting to hold a
meeting at the lodge with her people. Like Byron, she found it odd that an
environmental enthusiast bought guns.
He pressed his
lips together and shook his head.
On the porch he stomped off pine needles before coming through the
door. “You look like you’ve
dragged yourself out of the hamper.
Smell nice, though.”
“Must be the eau
de toillet.”
He placed his
hand on her shoulder to steer her inside. “See the ghost last night?”
Hoping he believed her, she nodded but
didn’t look up at him. “Todd’s
special effects, I’m sure.” The back of her neck ached from ragged nerves. “Don’t say I’m too stupid to live.”
“I’d never say
that.” He shut the door against the deadly chill and leaned against it. “What
time?”
“Just before
four, I heard rattling. At five, the door slammed.” She cringed with a delayed reaction. Had Todd tried to kill her with ice on
the road? After her February
birthday, without the stipulations, she wouldn’t be required to live here but
didn’t want to leave either. She
did long for spring weather and sprouts of crocus. Maybe she’d buy a dog.
“Todd hasn’t
given up, right? Still wants the ski-out condos?”
“Yup, still wants
us to be partners.” Dread circled the back of her mind like a flock of ravens.
“He wants you
terrified, wants you agreeable.”
“I’m not falling
apart.” In truth, she struggled to
get her bearings.
“Doubt if Todd’s
companionship ever amounted to a hill of beans.” The look he gave her was
bleak. “High in the Hinterlands, you’re isolated. A person gets creeped out.”
“The ghost makes
the hair at the back of my neck stands on end. Todd does it.”
“Damn cruel, he
takes advantage.”
Out of
frustration, she panted.
“Breathe easy,
Bay-bay. You were never one to
pass out.” He bent to place his
cap on the ledge of antique umbrella stand below her hanging purse.
She saw that his
blond hair was thinning at the crown, but he had a good face for the camera and
handsome in a manly-male way. “I wasn’t sleepwalking, Byron.” She hoped he wouldn’t tell her to see
another psychiatrist. “If you’re going to be a brick wall, I’ll get out the
jack hammer.”
“I’ll bet,” he
said with a genteel snort. “The big doings take place in the master suite, like
before?” His gaze cut up the
stairway. A furry head peeked
through his jacket. “Hold the
puppy.” Without another word, he
handed off the warm bundle and bounded up.
Following behind
and cuddling her early Christmas present, she recalled the wire around the
window outside.
Wow! Sounds like a great book! It was such a pleasure to have you on NN Kathleen, Hope you will come back again soon.
Don't forget to leave a comment and join the blog to will the prize.
Happy Haunting,
Tabitha Blake
