Fatal Feud

While Sunni Taylor is embroiled in her own personal turmoil with Detective Brady Jackson, she's handed a new assignment to cover a longstanding feud between two families, the Plunketts and Carmichaels. A decades-long fight over water rights seems like rather lackluster fodder for a newspaper story, but when the feud devolves into secret trysts and plotted murders, Sunni finds herself deep in the thick of it all.

It seems, once again, Sunni is thrown into Jackson's path. For the moment she pushes aside her broken heart and muddled head. She has a murder to solve and a story to write. But things turn frightening when the investigation puts her directly in the path of a ruthless killer.

Book 8 of the Firefly Junction Cozy Mystery series

My eyes opened into a room of tiny dust motes doing their usual chorus line in the stream of morning light peering around the edges of the curtains. It had been an uneventful, uninterrupted sleep, no poignant dreams to stick with me, no trips to the kitchen for a midnight snack, no wet dog noses nudging me to open the back door for a late night tinkle.

I lifted my arms above the covers and stretched away the smidgen of sticky grogginess left behind by a solid snooze. But rather than swing my legs over to hop up for a possible Sunday morning pancake production or a long, languid coffee on the front stoop, my body melted into the mattress. My thoughts, now roused from their sleepy state, spun around my head like a tornado. It felt as if I'd lived a lifetime in the last few days. It started with the glorious satisfaction of finishing an assignment early enough for a long weekend, and somehow, along the way, I'd had my heart broken, I'd helped facilitate a family reunion celebration, I'd solved the murder that obliterated that same reunion and I'd stumbled upon the stunning revelation that Detective Brady Jackson (refer back to heart broken) was the direct descendant of Edward Beckett, the perpetual, annoying and occasionally entertaining ghost of Cider Ridge Inn.

It took more than my usual mental coaxing to relinquish my cozy quilt and lift my heavy, muddled head from my downy pillows. It took even longer to swing my legs over the side of the bed. Although that was more due to the seventy pound dog stretched across my bed than the dreary chaos in my brain.

Redford opened his mismatched eyes but stubbornly refused to budge from his comfortable position as a semi-solid paperweight. I yanked my feet free and stood from the bed. Newman, Redford's more energetic half, had already left the bedroom. I didn't hear the annoying thuds and pings of a tennis ball ricocheting off the kitchen walls, but I could only assume the dog was in the kitchen pestering Edward to play fetch. Sometimes I wished for a simple life like Newman's where the sole purpose for getting up and starting the day was to chase after a tennis ball.

For more than two years, since Edward revealed his existence to me and literally pushed four gray hairs from my skull (four hairs that were seemingly permanent and lately joined by three more silvery strands) I had been convinced that Edward had some unresolved emotional ties to this world. My knowledge about ghosts and lingering spirits had been limited to fictional accounts of haunted places, bits and pieces I'd read in my research about the paranormal world (most of which seemed to be entirely based on conjecture with no hint of facts) and the smattering of details my best friend, Raine, tossed my way. She was a firm believer and occasional mediator in the spirit world, but believing her best friend to be a rock solid skeptic, she rarely shared her knowledge with me. It was the worst case of irony between two friends. Raine was convinced my inn was haunted but had no proof. I had all the proof she needed, only I had to keep the entire matter a secret, a secret that also destroyed a perfectly head-spinning relationship with my boyfriend. Or my ex-boyfriend.

"Ugh, how I hate that term," I muttered as I pulled on my robe. My feet heavily slapped the hallway floor as I plodded into the bathroom and then headed out to the kitchen. To my surprise, Newman was not sitting at the hearth with his tail wagging hard enough to cause a breeze in the room as he anxiously waited for Edward's throw, or whatever the term was for the kinetic energy my resident ghost produced to launch Newman's ball like a torpedo. Instead, the dog was flopped on his kitchen pillow pouting about the lack of Sunday morning fun.

More often than not, I could sense Edward's presence, even before his image materialized, but the kitchen felt eerily empty. Sunlight streamed through the window. The rhythmic drip that had started two weeks earlier from the sink faucet was the only source of sound. I walked over and, for the thousandth time, went through the pointless routine of trying to turn the drip off.

"Ping, ping." The water bounced off the porcelain enamel letting me know that I could twist and turn all I wanted, the faucet was still going to leak. It was amazing how loud and obnoxious the relentless sound of a drip could be in an otherwise silent kitchen. Even the refrigerator had dropped silently between buzzing cycles where it occasionally hummed loudly enough that it seemed poised to drop wheels and take a drive around the kitchen.

Redford's claws, long overdue for a trim, joined in the drip, drip as he trotted down the hallway from the bedroom. I opened the dog door, and both of them trotted out for their morning business. I spun around and headed to the coffee pot.

My laptop was still sitting on the table where I'd left it. After the startling discovery that Edward and Jackson were related, Edward and I sat (and hovered) in the kitchen trying to absorb the news. The discovery explained why Jackson could hear Edward when others couldn't. It was that innate ability that had caused us to break up. Jackson knew I was keeping a large secret, but, in his mind, it had to do with another man. He had no idea that the man was an incorporeal being, who was, during his time on earth, the seed of Jackson's family tree. Without Edward Beckett there would be no Brady Jackson. Those were just a few of the revelations floating through the stunned, contemplative atmosphere the night before. Then came the thirty or forty minutes of confused tension while we waited to receive some sort of indication or sign that Edward's time between worlds had ended.

I'd researched his descendants, certain that my discoveries would help him to move on. Not only did we learn that Bonnie gave birth to Edward's baby, but we now knew that his line thrived and continued right into the present. Brady Jackson was living proof of that. It stood to reason that Edward would head off to eternity with the reassurance that his short life had not been wasted. For a long stretch of time the two of us waited anxiously, flinching at every noise and certain a light or door or opening would soon be along to beckon Edward toward his peace. Edward, whose moods were generally exposed through his image's degree of transparency, had faded in and out of view numerous times. He was nervous about his future and rightfully so. It was impossible to know what awaited him after his time at Cider Ridge Inn.

By the time early evening had spiraled into a starlit, cricket filled night, Edward and I had concluded that his journey was not happening any time soon. There were a few comical moments when he faded in and out, then asked if I could still see him. I couldn't hold back a laugh when I informed him he was still very much stuck in Cider Ridge Inn. Or, at least, that was how the night had ended.

I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat at the table. Normally, once I sat for breakfast or coffee, Edward would appear with some droll comment to start my day. I was halfway through my cup, and I still couldn't sense his presence. Newman and Redford returned from their morning adventure around the yard. Neither dog seemed to sense him.

I sat back and gazed around the room. "Edward?" My voice fluttered through the room. "Edward?" I said with more urgency. There was no response. Suddenly, it occurred to me that I hadn't prepared myself for his possible departure. I'd convinced myself it would be best for both of us. Edward could find eternal peace and not be bound to the walls of the inn like some captive animal in a zoo. And I would be able to go about my life not constantly having to explain why I was talking to myself on the front porch or, worse, arguing with myself over the kitchen table. For my social life, my sanity and the future of the inn as a successful bed and breakfast, it would be much easier if I wasn't constantly contending with and placating an arrogant, busy body ghost. Life would be easier, but it would also be a lot less interesting.

"Dull," I said to no one. "It would be dull. And it seems, even absent a ghost, I'm still talking to myself."

The chair creaked beneath me and the walls of the old house had finally woken to groan as the early morning sun warmed them from the outside, but the silence in the room pushed in on me from all sides. Was it possible that some time during the night, while I sank selfishly into a peaceful sleep, Edward had found his path to eternity? Was that the end of it, my connection to the ghost world severed forever? Would I no longer experience the ridiculous banter and occasionally ludicrous conversations? The house suddenly seemed far too vast and empty and uninviting.

I reached for my coffee cup. "We never had a chance to say goodbye." The sound of my voice evaporated quickly in the silence.

"Good lord, who are you saying goodbye to now?"

Coffee splashed over my hand as the all too familiar disembodied voice startled me.

"Edward!" I stood from my chair with a sudden urge to hug him. Disappointment pushed my shoulders down as I reminded myself that wasn't possible. "You—you're—you're still here."

He coasted to the kitchen counter and crossed his arms. His tall black boots hovered a few inches above the floor as he crossed his ankles. "It would appear so."

I tried to work up an apologetic expression, but I was just too pleased to pull it off. "I thought you'd gone off to wherever it is you're supposed to go."

"Once again, magnificent verbiage from an individual who earns a living with her words."

Newman scurried off to find a tennis ball.

"Looks like my dog is happy you stuck around." I picked up a dishtowel to dry the coffee off my hand. "For a moment there—It's just the kitchen was so quiet and the dogs didn't seem to sense you and—" I was spurting out words in every direction.

"Seems as if you're happy I stuck around too." There was an extra slow, teasing tone behind his words.

I tossed the towel at him. It went right through his chest and into the sink. "You did it on purpose," I stated. He smiled dryly in response. "You let me sit here thinking you'd gone off to your eternity without so much as a 'have a nice day'."

His transparent shoulders shook with a chuckle. "It wasn't my plan but when you called my name so frantically, I decided not to respond right away. My little ploy paid off. You don't want me to go," he said cockily.

"Yes, sure I do. Well, maybe not, at least not so suddenly and without a proper goodbye. It's not as if you'd be going somewhere that we could keep in touch by phone or email. I mean once you're gone, that's it. We will never speak again." As I said it, the words took some wind out of me. I sat back on the chair. "We'll never speak again," I repeated.

"I would imagine communication might be difficult once I vanish into the unknown." Newman had returned with the ball. He dropped it at Edward's feet. Edward nudged the ball with the toe of his boot. It sailed out of the kitchen and down the hall. "Why do you suppose that is?" he asked.

"What, the difficulty in communication?" I picked up my cup and decided it needed a refill. I got up from the table and headed to the coffee pot.

"No," he scoffed. The startling revelation and subsequent shock that he had still not found his way to eternal peace had not dimmed his arrogance one bit. "Why do you think I'm still here? I thought perhaps I would be on my way by now." He waved his long, white fingers through the air. After a slight delay, the fingertips stretched long and then rejoined the rest of his hand.

"Honestly, I'm not sure." I filled my cup. "Maybe I got this whole thing wrong. I was sure there was some lingering question or problem that kept you here at the inn. We've answered a big one and yet"—I waved my hand his direction—"There you stand or whatever you call that levitation thing you do. I think I'll make plans for lunch with Raine tomorrow. Maybe I can pick her brain about reasons for ghosts to be left behind."

His image sharpened. "Did you just say you were going to pick her brain?"

I laughed. "Here we go again. Not literally, of course. It's an expression that means I'm going to see what expertise she has on the subject."

"I see. Well, I wouldn't expect too much from that nitwit. I'd say her expertise is limited."

"She knows more than me on the subject . . . apparently." I sipped some coffee before putting my cup in the sink. "I was sure you were just sticking around to make sure your bloodline had continued."

Edward nudged the ball for Newman once more. "Yes, well perhaps it was the sobering news that my bloodline, as you put it, has produced that unkempt, manner-less brute who has left you needlessly bereft."

"Yes, well, thank you for that attempt at sympathy . . . I think. But you have him all wrong. Brady Jackson is smart and a complete gentleman. And he wears hair and clothes that are consistent with today's style, so you just have to pull your mind out of the nineteenth century." I tightened the belt on my robe. "I suppose I should shower and get my Sunday started. I've got one day to write a story about the murder of a movie star. Fortunately for me, I was involved with the entire grim scandal from start to finish. I get a raise after this story." The latter was a quick reminder about the deal I'd made with Parker. It was enough to make me not mind spending my Sunday on the keyboard. I headed toward my bedroom.

"I suppose there won't be much else for you to do since you no longer have a suitor," Edward said. "I think you'll make a fine spinster."

I glanced back at him. "Are you absolutely certain you didn't miss some kind of ethereal invite or light? Did you check the rooms upstairs?"

A teasing grin turned up his mouth. "You can't fool me. I witnessed that sorrowful pout this morning when you'd convinced yourself I'd moved on."

I nodded. "Yes, and yet, it only took five minutes with you and I find myself rethinking that entire reaction."