CHAPTER ONE
At first glance, Lockwood Manor seemed like your typical run-down late nineteenth-century Florida home. Old. Creepy. And in desperate need of some twenty-first-century TLC. The weathered cypress wood siding, once painted a cheery yellow, had long since faded under the blistering sun. Despite decades of tropical storms, the chipped ornate brackets and the remnants of delicate spindle work—hallmarks of the region’s Victorian-era architecture—clung stubbornly to the eaves. The wide wrap-around veranda, designed to capture the breeze, was the one high point. If you didn’t fall through a rotting floorboard, that is.
Inside wasn’t much of an improvement. A quick tour of the two-story house had revealed a passable master bedroom and a kitchen stuck in a 1980s time warp, complete with an avocado-and-harvest-gold color scheme that would have made my grandmother’s Tupperware blush. The house boasted central air—an unexpected surprise—but the creaky hardwood floors and overstuffed furniture resembled something straight out of a Victorian funeral parlor. Not to mention the air reeked of lemon furniture polish and stale cigars.
But all that wasn’t the worst part. There was one significant “amenity” missing from the Zillow description. Lockwood Manor had a ghost in residence. I sensed it the second I stepped through the front door.
“Now that you’ve seen the rest of the house, what do you think? Isn’t it fabulous?” Madelyn Foster, the real estate agent trying to get rid of this little gem, says. “It’s so much bigger than your original rental.”
The air outside was thick enough to fry an egg, but Madelyn still looked as cool as the proverbial cucumber. Her sleek white dress hugged her curves in all the right places, and her glossy brown bob and dewy makeup made her look camera-ready. Meanwhile, I was doing my best impression of a deflated soufflé. The two of us had spent the last month emailing back and forth, but this was our first face-to-face meeting. I figured we were the same age—give or take a few crow’s feet around the big 4-0.
In an effort to summon up some dignity, I pull back my shoulders and tuck a rebellious red curl behind my ear. “Look,” I say, trying not to sound as wilted as I feel. “My original rental was closer to the water. This place must be a bear to keep up. Just the electricity alone is going to strain my budget.”
As if on cue, the ancient overhead ceiling fan wheezes, picking up speed and stirring the stagnant air to send a palmetto bug scurrying for cover behind a carved mahogany sideboard.
Ugh. Cockroaches.
“Mrs. Winters,” Madelyn says with a saccharine smile. “I—”
“Please call me Anna. And the last name is McGuffin.”
“Oh.” She peers down at the rental agreement in her hand. “It says here your name is Anna Winters.”
“I legally changed it last month.”
“Divorce?” she asks sympathetically.
“Yes, thank goodness.”
“Me too,” she says. “Three years ago.”
She waits for me to add to the story, so I oblige. “Three months for me,” I say.
“Any children?”
“One. My son Theo. He’s just started his freshman year at Duke.”
“Impressive,” she purrs.
“So you see, it’s just little old me. Theo will only be visiting on holidays. I really don’t need a four-bedroom home in the middle of town.”
“But just think how easy it will be to get around! You’re less than a five-minute walk from the heart of downtown Lockwood Cove. You have to admit, our little community is absolutely charming. Southern Living magazine has named us one of Florida’s best small beach towns the past five years in a row.”
“Exactly. The key word there is beach,” I remind her. “I was really looking forward to stepping outside my door and taking a nice long walk along the gulf every morning.”
Madelyn’s professional smile slips a notch. “You’re a native Floridian. You know what a hurricane can do to a community like Lockwood Cove.”
A knot forms in my stomach. Hurricane Paula had been downgraded to a tropical depression by the time it hit southwest Florida last week. How bad could it be? “I’d heard the area sustained some minor damage,” I say carefully.
“That’s putting it lightly. The truth is, the condo you originally rented is partially underwater. The floors are being ripped out as we speak.” She frowns. “I explained all this to you in an email last week.”
Last week, I was too busy playing amateur detective to check my emails. In the days leading up to my cousin Lucy’s wedding, her fiancé, Travis, was suspected of killing his ex-girlfriend. But between my cousin’s psychic lie-detecting skills, help from her little dog Paco, and my ability to communicate with the dead, we solved the crime just in time for the wedding to go off. Obviously, I can’t very well tell Madelyn all that. She’d think I was punching my ticket to crazy town.
“I’m sorry, I did get the email, but I was in the middle of a family wedding, and I’m afraid I didn’t read it. How long will it take to fix the condo?”
“They’re on a four-month waiting list to get new floors put in. It’s an insurance problem.”
Ouch. “Isn’t there anything else closer to the water? Or … even just smaller?”
“I’m afraid the entire rental market is booked. A lot of the locals have had to leave their homes while repairs are being made and everything has been snapped up. It’s either here or nothing.”
Then it’s nothing, a part of me wants to shout.
“I tell you what,” she says. “I’m sure the owners will take another hundred dollars off the rent. They’re very eager to get someone living here again.”
“If they’re so eager to rent the place they should have hired an exterminator,” I say, keeping an eye out for the roach.
“Getting people to come in and do work here can be … difficult,” Madelyn says.
I bet. “Really?” I say, playing dumb. “Why is that?”
“You haven’t heard about our reputation? There are some people who say the town is haunted.” She laughs nervously. “This house especially.”
“I’ve heard some rumors,” I say, my eyes drawn to the living room’s centerpiece: a fireplace that looks like it’s one good sneeze away from collapse. But it’s not the crumbling brickwork that catches my eye – it’s the portrait hanging above the mantel.
The gilt-framed canvas showcases a man straight out of a Victorian romance novel. Wavy dark hair artfully tousled, beard trimmed with military precision and a jawline that could cut glass. But it’s his eyes that grab me – piercing green, they seem to follow my every move, silently judging my life choices and possibly my outfit.
Either the artist embellished his looks, or this guy had been the twenty-first-century equivalent of a hottie.
Madelyn follows my line of vision and sighs dreamily. “Isn’t he gorgeous?”
“Who? The guy on the wall?” A stream of cold air encircles me, but I ignore it.
“The guy on the wall, as you call him, is our town’s founding father, Richard Lockwood.” The way Madelyn lingers on his name makes him sound like he was some kind of hero. “He came here from London in 1885 and died ten years later from appendicitis. He was only forty-two,” she adds sadly. “This portrait was taken the year before he passed.”
I give the oil canvas another examination. Richard Lockwood’s rugged good looks give off an arrogance that even a hundred and thirty-plus years hasn’t faded.
“He is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me,” I say.
A heavy masculine snort slices through the air. Madelyn, of course, can’t hear it, so she’s clueless. “Tolerable?” She frowns like she’s confused.
“It’s a quote from Pride and Prejudice.”
“Oh. Jane Austen, right?”
“Sorry, I can’t help myself. I’m a recovering librarian.”
“Is that what you do for a living?”
I nod. “But I’m taking a couple of years off to write a novel.”
“Really? What sort of novel?”
“Historical romance.”
“Ooh, I love romance,” Madelyn says. “You should join my girls’ Wednesday night wine time.”
“Is it a book club?”
“More like a Richard Lockwood fan club,” she says.
I chuckle. “Seriously?”
She blinks. “Why? Does it sound fake?”
“Oh … no, I mean the man has been dead for over a century. What sort of fan club is it?”
“Mainly, it’s just an excuse to drink wine and complain about the men in our lives—or lack of.” She glances back up at the portrait. “We’re all trying to find a man who loved his wife as much as Richard Lockwood adored his Emily. He settled here in southwest Florida to save her life.”
“How did coming to Florida save her life?”
“She’d just given birth to their only son, William, and she was suffering from severe melancholia—most likely post-partum depression, but they didn’t know about those things back then. Richard gave up a promising career with Scotland Yard to come here in hopes that the beach and the warm weather would help improve her health.”
“And did it?”
“I suppose so. She went on to live another thirty years after he died.”
“And the son?”
“Oh, he went on to have a family of his own. At one time, this town was filled with Lockwoods, but most of them have moved away, and now there’s just Laura. She’s Richard’s great-great-great plus granddaughter. She’s a police officer here in town. If you stay long enough, I’m sure you’ll meet her. All the locals know one another.”
“Is Laura the home’s owner?” I ask.
“The house is part of an old family trust,” Madelyn explains, her realtor smile firmly in place. “Technically, it belongs to all the Lockwoods, but Laura acts as the family’s representative.
“Who was the last tenant?”
“An elderly gentleman who passed away a few months ago. He lived here for over twenty years.”
“Let me guess. He liked to smoke cigars?”
A blush creeps up Madelyn’s neck. “I’m sorry about that. I’ve tried everything short of an exorcism to get rid of the smell, but cigar smoke is more stubborn than my ex-husband. He was an author too, you know.”
“Your ex?”
“No, Professor Ridley. He’s the gentleman who lived here.”
“What did he write?” I ask, my curiosity piqued.
“Nothing as exciting as romance. Textbooks, I think. Philosophy, maybe?”
A mental image of a tweed-clad professor puffing away on cigars while pondering the meaning of life pops into my head, only to be interrupted by a man’s voice booming through a loudspeaker. “And here to the left, we have Lockwood Manor, the home of town founder, Richard Lockwood.”
“What on earth—” I go over to the window to take a look. Outside, a trolley car painted all in black sits parked in front. It’s packed with tourists practically climbing over each other to take a picture of the house with their smartphones.
Madelyn glances at her watch. “Right on time. It’s the two o’clock tour.”
“Tour?”
“Chills and Thrills Ghost Tours of Lockwood Cove. It’s run by Kirby Edwards. He’s a real character.”
I work hard to keep my expression neutral. “You don’t really believe in ghosts, do you?”
“No, but it’s great for tourism.” She glances back up at the portrait and sighs. “Of course, I wouldn’t mind being haunted by him.”
I bite back a groan. Great. Not only am I considering renting a haunted house, but my real estate agent has the hots for a guy who’s been dust for over a century. This day just keeps getting better and better.
The voice over the loudspeaker starts up again. “Lockwood Manor was built in …”
I do my best to drown out the noise. “Listen, Madelyn. There’s absolutely no way I can stay here. I need peace and quiet to write. If this ghost tour comes by twice a day—”
“No worries! I can take care of that.” She dashes out the front door and since I have no intention of being left alone here with Mr. Ghost Hottie, I scurry after her.
A man in his late thirties clad in a striking burgundy Victorian suit complete with a top hat clutches a microphone in his hand. His deep, rich voice echoes through the crowd. “Here at Lockwood Manor the air is thick with mystery and the haunting chill of the dead seeps into the very marrow of the living!”
A woman in the trolly’s front row squeals with delight and snaps a picture of him. Not that I blame her. I’ve been on a few ghost tours (ironically, I’ve yet to see a real ghost on any of them), so I’m familiar with the corny spiel from these guides. This guy, however, takes it to another level, so I’m impressed.
He continues speaking but halts mid-sentence as he spots Madelyn marching toward him. His waxed handlebar mustache twitches as a grin curls the corners of his mouth. “Ah, speaking of the living …”
Madelyn flashes an apologetic smile to the tourists then turns her attention back to the tour guide. “Kirby, do you have to use that microphone?” She nods towards me. “I’m in the middle of showing the new tenant her home.”
Kirby’s gaze flies to me. “A new tenant? Here at Lockwood Manor? Why wasn’t I informed?”
“I’m not the new tenant,” I say firmly.
Madelyn narrows her eyes at him. “We’re in the middle of negotiations,” she says tightly.
“I see.” Kirby takes off his top hat with a deferential flourish to reveal a bald head. “And who do I have the pleasure of meeting?”
“Um, Anna McGuffin,” I say, slightly charmed.
“Delighted!” he crows. “Kirby Edwards, at your disposal, ma’am.”
“Kirby,” Madelyn continues, “we’ve been through this before. You can’t use that loud microphone when the house is occupied. And—” Madelyn’s gaze goes over to a few of the tourists who’ve hopped off the trolley to get a better look at the house. “You can’t let people traipse all over the yard. This is private property.”
One of the tourists, a middle-aged woman with short spiky gray hair, is snapping pictures with a camera instead of her cell phone. She looks at me, her eyes widen, and then she snaps my picture too. Hey, I’m not a tourist attraction! I want to shout. Instead, I grit my teeth and give Madelyn a look that says I’m done here.
“My deepest apologies,” Kirby says to me. “Now that I know the house is occupied again, I’ll do my best not to disturb you.”
He hits a switch on the side of his microphone. Using his deep voice to garner attention, he calls the errant tourists back to the trolley. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll resume your seats, I’ll be happy to continue to tell you all about Richard Lockwood.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “As a matter of fact, take note of the third window from the left on the first story. If you look closely enough, you may just see a shadow walk by. It’s said that the room was Richard Lockwood’s study. Rumor has it that he spent every afternoon of the last year of his life inside that very room, writing his memoir. Perhaps his spirit has encountered a case of writer’s block and he needs to pace the room for inspiration.”
The crowd chuckles. Everyone seems engrossed once again by their tour guide, except for the woman who took my picture. She stares at me oddly, causing a tingle to run down my spine. Do I know her?
Kirby finishes his “talk,” and the trolley takes off for the next stop on the tour.
“Thank goodness that’s solved,” Madelyn says once we’re back inside the house. “With the microphone turned off, you won’t be able to hear Kirby from the house.”
“Yes, but I’ll know he’s out there. What? Two times a day, you said?”
“Two pm and then later at 7. Except for Sundays and Mondays. He’s off on Mondays and just does the afternoon tour on Sunday.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
Madelyn sighs heavily. “Look, Anna, I know this isn’t ideal. But like I said before, it’s here or nowhere else in Lockwood Cove.” Her gaze sharpens. “You can try Fort Myers Beach, but the condo prices there are almost double the high end of the budget you gave me.”
My shoulders slump. Madelyn is right. One of the reasons I chose to move to Lockwood Cove was because of how affordable the beach rentals were compared to other areas in southwest Florida. Except for the four years I’d spent in college, I’d been a Fort Lauderdale native my entire life. And while I still had family there, and Fort Lauderdale was certainly big enough to lose oneself in, it also came with a complimentary ex-husband I’d rather forget existed. A fresh start had seemed like just the ticket.
I’d spent weeks glued to my laptop, researching every small-town beach community in Florida, and Lockwood Cove had ticked all the boxes: charming, great gulf views, and still affordable enough that I wouldn’t have to survive on ramen noodles. Searching for a new town to settle in would seriously take me back a few weeks. Not to mention I’d have to do my research from a hotel room. And those weren’t cheap. I’d squirreled away a nice little nest egg from my share of the proceeds on the sale of the home Jerry and I had shared, but it wouldn’t last forever. Maybe two years, tops. That’s if I was careful.
Madelyn can sense my resolve weakening. “I’ll tell you what … I bet I can get Laura to drop the rent down another hundred. That’s two hundred less than what you were going to pay. I’ll call her tonight. Plus, remember, this is only temporary. Once your little condo on the beach is restored, you can move right in.”
I take a deep breath and weigh my options. Two hundred off the rent is tempting. “On one condition. I get to take down the portrait.”
She makes a pained face. “Oh, well, there’s a problem with that.”
“What sort of problem?”
“The painting can’t be moved.” I open my mouth to protest, but she cuts me off with the speed of someone who’s had this conversation a hundred times before. “Believe me, others have tried. The portrait is nailed straight into a structural wall. An architectural engineer came out to inspect it. The only way to remove the portrait is to destroy the wall, and since the house is under the protection of the local historical society, that would be pretty much impossible. But you can move around anything else you want,” she adds brightly. “Just so long as you don’t alter the home in any permanent way.”
“You’re kidding,” I say, although I can tell from her expression she’s dead serious.
“Tell you what. I’m sure Laura would go down another hundred.” Before I can process this new offer, she shoves a set of keys into my hand. “I took the liberty of stocking the fridge with a few things—not much, just some bottled water, that kind of stuff. The local grocery is just a couple of miles down the road. Do you have everything else you need for right now?”
I nod, feeling slightly dazed. “I have a small moving van coming in this week, but … yeah, I have sheets and pillows and things like that in my car.”
“Wonderful! Don’t hesitate to call me for any little thing you need. Oh! And you have to come to my house this Wednesday. It’s my turn to host fan club.” At the look on my face, she quickly adds, “Or wine night. Whichever you prefer to call it. That way you can meet some new friends!”
“Thanks,” I say wearily.
“I’ll call you with the details,” she shouts on her way out the door.
I turn to face the empty living room, my skin prickling with anticipation. You’d think that after a lifetime of seeing ghosts I’d be used to this by now, but something about this particular ghost already has my nerves on edge.
The air thickens and chills, as if someone’s cranked up the AC. Slowly the form of a man materializes right before my eyes—blurry at first, like a watercolor left out in the rain. Within seconds, his visage sharpens with unnerving clarity, as if he’s stepped out of the portrait and into real life.
He’s clad in a perfectly tailored dark suit, complete with a crisp white cravat. Standing beside the fireplace, arms crossed over his broad chest, he watches me with an intensity that makes me want to check my hair for cobwebs.
I look up at the portrait, then back down at him. Damn. The artist didn’t embellish a thing. If anything, he’s even better looking in person—or in spirit, or whatever he is. I don’t know why I find that so irritating. “I was wondering when you’d show up,” I say.
The scowl on his face—which, annoyingly, only serves to accentuate his chiseled features—slowly morphs into an expression of utter astonishment. His piercing green eyes widen, and his full lips part slightly in surprise. “By God, madam,” he exclaims, his rich baritone sending a shiver down my spine. “Can you actually see me?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Great. Just what I need. A good-looking ghost with a hot accent.
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