CHAPTER ONE
Watching TV with a ghost hovering nearby takes some getting used to. Especially when said ghost is determined to prove that he’s smarter than your dinner guest.
“The thing about Ross and Rachel,” Hank says from his end of the sofa, “is that they’re clearly meant for each other, but the timing is always wrong.”
Richard Lockwood, aka the most annoying ghost on the planet, looks on from his stance next to the living room fireplace. Dressed in a dark suit with a crisp white cravat, he looks every inch the imposing detective who once worked at Scotland Yard. Never mind that it was a hundred and thirty-plus years ago, when he was still alive.
“That’s the best analysis he can come up with?” Richard says in a bored, aristocratic drawl. “The man runs a bakery. What does he know about relationships?”
I grit my teeth and do my best to ignore him.
A couple of times a week, Hank Miller comes over with dinner from his café, Bake My Day, and we watch Friends reruns. It’s a pleasant routine we started about a month ago. The takeout containers are spread out on the coffee table—turkey club sandwiches and Hank’s amazing tomato soup.
It would be a perfectly cozy evening—if a certain ghost weren’t here to spoil it, but unfortunately, Richard has anointed himself as television critic-in-chief. I’ve been seeing ghosts ever since I was a little girl, and Richard Lockwood is by far the most opinionated. And that’s putting it nicely. The fact that Hank can’t hear Richard’s cutting remarks to defend himself only makes the situation more annoying. We’ve switched it up to dinners at Hank’s place, but Richard pops up there too, so there’s really no point.
Daisy, my adorable little smooth-haired dachshund, currently curled up next to me on the couch, wags her tail, but otherwise, she doesn’t give away the fact there’s a ghost in my living room. Maybe it’s because she’s a ghost too. Poor Hank. Little does he know there’s a dog sitting at my side and a grumpy ghost skulking in the corner, critiquing his every word.
“I mean, look at them.” Hank gestures with his spoon toward the TV, where Ross is in the middle of another “we’re on a break” speech. “They’re like two planets orbiting each other but never quite aligning.”
“More like two simpletons who can’t grasp the basic concept of courtship,” Richard quips. “In my day, a gentleman would simply state his intentions and be done with it.”
“Oh, because that worked out so well for you?” I mutter under my breath, which, in retrospect, isn’t the nicest thing to say considering Richard’s rocky marriage. The entire town swoons over the legend of Richard Lockwood and his beloved wife, Emily, but if they only knew the truth like I do …
Hank turns to me. “What did you say, Anna?”
“Oh, um, just agreeing about Ross and Rachel,” I say, quickly covering up. The last thing I want is for Hank to think I’m talking to myself.
The episode ends with the six friends bickering as the familiar theme song drones in the background. Hank picks up the remote and lowers the volume as his gaze drifts up to the formal portrait of Richard positioned above the ancient fireplace. “Do you ever get the feeling he’s watching you? I mean, what’s it like living in a house that’s supposedly haunted?”
“A haunted house is nothing compared to living with my ex-husband.”
Hank chuckles. “So the portrait really can’t come down?” he asks, eyeing it like he’d like to take a jackhammer to it.
“Nope. Madeline,” I say, referring to my real estate agent and newfound friend, “says the portrait is nailed into a structural wall, and since Lockwood Manor is a historical landmark, there are pretty strict rules about what you can and can’t do to the home.”
“But you’re not here permanently, right? Aren’t you still waiting for the condo on the beach to get fixed so you can move in there?”
When I first moved to Lockwood Cove, I had every intention of living in a cute little condo directly on the Gulf. But the condo sustained water damage during a hurricane, and there was nothing left in town to rent except Lockwood Manor—a late-nineteenth-century Victorian home named after its owner and town founder, Richard Lockwood.
If I move, I’ll have to leave my adorable little pooch, Daisy, behind. She can travel around town, but eventually, she has to return to Lockwood Manor, where, technically, she’s buried out in the side garden.
I look over at Daisy, now fast asleep next to me. “Oh, yeah, I changed my mind about moving out.”
Hank frowns. “Really? Why?”
“I guess I’m a sucker for a home that’s on a ghost tour? Speaking of which, Kirby should be here right about now.”
The Chills and Thrills Ghost Tour of Lockwood Cove is run by Kirby Edwards, who’s a real character. The entire town is rumored to be haunted, but Lockwood Manor is the first stop on the tour and generates the most excitement for the tourists.
Hank goes over to the window and pulls back the curtain. “Yep. He just pulled up.”
Since Lockwood Manor is currently occupied by yours truly, Kirby has the good manners to keep his microphone turned off so he doesn’t disturb me. But if I happened to be lounging on the front porch right now, I’d be treated to the “Richard Lockwood” portion of the tour. The one where Kirby explains how Lockwood Manor was built by a brilliant British detective from Scotland Yard who, together with his wife and infant son, crossed the pond in 1885 to settle in southwest Florida. Then Kirby will try to spook everyone by telling them if they look closely at one of the windows, they’ll see a shadow moving in Richard’s old study.
Of course, the ironic thing is that Richard Lockwood’s ghost really does reside in Lockwood Manor.
Hank turns to look at me. “By the way, how’s the book going?”
“There’s a glaring error on page forty-five,” Richard says.
Error, my butt. Richard and I have been through this a thousand times. I really don’t care how a duchess and a common gardener would have talked to one another in real life during the Regency period. I only care that my readers are entertained. After my divorce, I quit my job as a librarian to fulfill a lifelong dream of writing romance novels. I’m currently working on my first manuscript, and progress has been slower than I’d hoped.
“I’m in the sagging middle,” I admit. “So I’ve been kind of stuck.”
“I’d be happy to read it and give you my thoughts.” At my hesitation, Hank adds, “If you think it would help. I’m no writer, but I’m pretty good at spotting a weak plot point.”
“Thanks, but you do know I’m writing a Regency romance?”
“Duchess in Bloom, right? Great title, by the way.”
“Oh, for the love of—” Richard snorts.
“Most men aren’t into romance novels,” I say cautiously.
“Good thing I’m not most men,” Hank says.
“Oh, he’s exactly like most men,” Richard drawls.
Behind Hank’s back, I give Richard the stink eye. “I’d love to get your opinion,” I say to Hank.
Richard shakes his head and mutters he can’t take any more of this, and then he vanishes.
Good! Now maybe I can pay attention to my guest.
“Why don’t we look at it now?” Hank asks.
I blink. “Look at what?”
Hank grins. “Earth to Anna McGuffin. Your manuscript? Duchess in Bloom?”
“Now? Are you sure? I only have a copy of it on my laptop in the study.”
“I’d love to see the study again. Architecturally, it’s the most interesting room in the house.”
Something in Hank’s voice feels off to me, but I can’t pinpoint what.
He follows me into the study, where his gaze automatically zeroes in on the ornate dark paneling with the carved wooden roses. “You know, I can’t get over the craftsmanship in this house. Especially these carved panels. They just don’t make things like this anymore.”
This isn’t the first time Hank has shown a particular interest in the panels covering the manor’s study walls. A few weeks ago, Tracy Grace, an obnoxious ghost hunter, was murdered right here in this house, and for a while, I was the prime suspect. Hank had come over to see how I was coping, and during the visit, he’d examined the roses with an intensity that made me wonder if he knew about the secret passage hidden behind them.
“The panels are beautiful,” I say carefully, “just a little too dark for my taste. Sometimes, I feel like I’m living inside a mausoleum.”
“Not me. I love this old stuff. Which reminds me, I’ve been meaning to tell you my good news, but between being mayor, work at the café, and Founders Day coming up next weekend, my mind has been all over the place.” He pauses a beat. “I just bought Campbell House,” he says proudly, the words busting out like he’s been holding them in all night.
I know about the town’s annual Founders Day—it’s all anyone in Lockwood Cove has talked about these past few weeks. Apparently, it’s a combination of Christmas and the Super Bowl on steroids. But Campbell House? Never heard of it.
“It’s an amazing old property on the edge of town,” he clarifies, seeing the blank look on my face. “Been empty for years and I’ve been saving up to buy it. I just closed on it this morning. I’m planning to turn it into a bed and breakfast. I figure with all the tourism around here, it’ll be a great investment.”
“That’s awesome. Congratulations!”
He hesitates, suddenly shy. “Would you like to come see it? I’m meeting an old high school buddy of mine there tomorrow at noon. He’s a contractor, and he’s just moved back to town.” He scratches the back of his neck. “You could come along and get a tour. I’d love to get your opinion on one thing in particular.”
“Then I’d love to see it.”
“Great! Do you mind meeting me at the café around eleven thirty? We’ll take my car.”
“Sounds like a date.” I flush, realizing what I’ve just implied. Not that I wouldn’t mind going on an actual date with Hank. He checks off all the boxes. Single. fortyish. Smart. Good sense of humor. Handsome. Great cook. And, of course, the most important criteria of all: He’s alive.
He checks his watch. “I should head home now. Gotta get up early to start baking.”
“What about my manuscript? Duchess in Bloom? I thought you wanted to read it?”
“Oh!” He knocks his forehead with the heel of his palm. “Yeah, of course. I just got so distracted by this paneling …”
I’ll say. “How about I send a copy to your email? No rush. Just whenever you get a chance.”
“Perfect. I can hardly wait to read it.”
We say our goodbyes, and I no sooner close the door behind Hank than Richard materializes. Ugh! I used to be able to tell if a ghost was nearby because the temperature would drop and my mouth would go dry. I affectionately call it my “ghost-dar.” Then I made the mistake of telling Richard, and somehow he’s managed to circumvent all that. Except when he’s feeling great emotion, then he doesn’t bother. Still, I hate that he can just pop up out of nowhere without any warning—like some sort of Victorian ninja.
“I thought he’d never leave.” Richard follows me back to the living room, where I start cleaning up.
Daisy wakes up and stretches her long body out on the couch, her stubby legs reaching for maximum extension. She wags her tail and gives me the “is it time for bed yet?” look. Yes, Daisy sleeps under the covers next to me. I’ve been told it’s a dachshund thing.
“So the baker offered to read your manuscript and give you a critique,” he says, his green eyes shining with cynical amusement.
I place the dirty dishes in the sink and do my best to ignore Richard’s snarky attitude. The clink of china against china is oddly satisfying. “I think it’s really nice of Hank.”
“I’m sure he will have nothing but praise for it.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re being sarcastic?”
“The man has ulterior motives. Of course he’ll flatter and shower you with empty compliments on your writing. He owns a bakery, for heaven’s sake. What could he possibly know about proper literary criticism?”
I spin around from the sink, hands on my hips. “First of all, Hank has a master’s degree in English literature, which you’d know if you bothered to actually listen when he talks instead of glowering in the corner. Besides,” I continue, grabbing a dish towel, “what exactly are you implying? That the only reason Hank would say he enjoyed my writing is because he’s trying to get me into bed? For your information, he hasn’t even tried to kiss me.”
Richard’s face goes dark. “I should hope not. The two of you aren’t even betrothed.”
“Hello? Keep up! It’s the twenty-first century here. Kissing between two un-betrothed adults who like each other is perfectly acceptable. Heck, you don’t even have to like each other much if they’re a decent kisser.” Even as I say it, I know I’m just needling him now. But something about Richard’s high-and-mighty attitude brings out my bratty side.
He straightens to his full height, all six feet plus of male disapproval. “I have no doubt that bedding you is exactly the baker’s intention.”
“Really?” Huh. It’s been so long since I’ve been out there that my instincts are rusty. “So you think Hank wants to be more than just friends?”
“I know so,” he snaps, his accent clipped and precise like it always is when he’s annoyed. “He wants to be exactly the kind of friend as your Ross and Rachel are to one another.”
“For someone who claims to disapprove of modern relationships, you certainly paid close attention to those Friends episodes.”
“I am merely concerned about your reputation.”
“Let me worry about my reputation. How about next time Hank comes over, you go hang out at a graveyard?”
“Next time? You mean he’s already made plans to come back?”
“Look,” I say, trying to be reasonable, “if I’m going to keep living here, then we’re going to have to establish some ground rules, and rule number one is you can’t keep hovering over my shoulder when I have someone visit. It’s not fair to me. Or to Hank.” I give him a hard look. “Unless you’ve changed your mind and you want me to move out?”
He waves a dismissive hand through the air. “I already agreed you could stay. If you go, Madeline Foster will only place some other tenant here, and I’ll be forced to launch another campaign to displace them. Besides, Daisy is quite used to you now. If you leave, she’d be left with nothing to do.”
Richard told me once that since I’d moved into Lockwood Manor, he’d felt more alive. A roundabout compliment that I took to mean he would miss me. The truth is, as irritating as he can be, if I moved out of Lockwood Manor, I’d miss him too. Not that I’d ever admit it. His ego is big enough as it is. “So you agree to my rules then?”
“Yes, yes,” he says impatiently. “But may I say that a woman of your obvious intelligence could do much better than Hank Miller?”
“What do you have against Hank? You do remember that he helped to save my life, right?”
A few weeks ago, Ghosts in the Attic—a local shop specializing in haunted antiques—went up in flames. The owner, Olivia Parker, had just confessed to me that she’d not only murdered Tracy Grace but had also stolen Richard’s long-lost memoir. She would have added me to her body count, too, if our struggle hadn’t resulted in a fire, which claimed her life. I survived thanks to an unlikely duo: Richard, who used his powers to clear me a path through the flames, and Hank, who spotted the fire from his café and came charging in like some knight in flour-dusted armor to pull me out.
“So the man did one good deed,” Richard says. “Though I daresay running into a burning building does demonstrate a certain admirable lack of self-preservation.”
I frown, unsure whether that’s a compliment. “Well, for your information, I’m meeting Hank tomorrow at the café. He just bought a place called Campbell House, and he wants to show it to me. So I would appreciate it if you didn’t pop up.”
Richard goes still. And I don’t mean living-person-still, I mean ghost-still. It’s the kind of still that makes you wonder if he’s on the verge of disappearing. “The Campbell estate on the edge of town?” he says slowly.
I nod. “Hank is going to turn it into a bed and breakfast.”
Richard doesn’t say anything.
“What? You don’t have an opinion on that too?”
This seems to shake him out of his near-frozen state. “No, I don’t.” And then he vanishes.
Now that was weird. When has Richard Lockwood not had an opinion on something?
Daisy and I head upstairs to the bedroom. But I can’t shake the look on Richard’s face when I mentioned the Campbell estate—that flash of something beneath his usual scowl. Recognition? Worry? Whatever it is, he’s definitely hiding something.
And then it hits me—it’s the same feeling I got when Hank asked to see the study. That careful casualness, that too-smooth deflection.
Both of them are hiding something. I’m sure of it.
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