A Tomb with a View
Chapter One
There it is. The perfect sentence.
I stare at my laptop, savoring the way the rhythm of the words matches the thudding of Lady Eleanor’s heart as she stands veiled in shadow beneath the ivy-covered gazebo. The sound of Gabriel’s footsteps on the garden path alerts her to his presence. Her breath catches in anticipation of—
“We must devise a stratagem to secure the locket immediately,” says a voice over my shoulder.
“Blast!” I jump, causing my fingers to slip on the keyboard and mangle my perfectly-crafted scene with a string of gibberish.
I whip around to face Richard Lockwood looking down at me with a determined gleam in his eyes. Unfortunately, I’m getting pretty used to that look. It says, “Stop whatever you’re doing and pay attention to my crisis immediately.”
What I’m not used to is having a ghost sneak up on me.
Usually when there’s a ghost nearby, I get an arctic blast and instant cotton mouth—like they’re sucking all the water right out of me. But Richard figured out how to dial down his energy so I don’t turn into a freeze-dried raisin around him. Very considerate. Also very annoying when it means he can pop up behind me like some Victorian jack-in-the-box.
And there he is now, in all his aristocratic glory. Eyebrows slightly raised, mouth set in a firm line, he looks like he’s about to sentence my manuscript to death by hanging.
“I’m going to start locking the door to my study,” I grumble. Not that it would do any good. A locked door means nothing to a hundred-and-thirty-plus-year-old ghost with an agenda.
“You mean my study?” he says, then waves a hand through the air before I can respond. “I apologize for interrupting you in the construction of your purple prose, but the matter at hand requires urgent attention.”
“Purple—” I cross my arms over my chest. “My prose is not purple. It’s engaging and romantic.”
Beneath my desk, Daisy looks up from her hot pink dog bed, her tail wagging at the prospect of morning chaos. Traitor. She should be barking, not looking happy to see him. It figures she’d be on Richard’s side. Ghosts of a Feather and all that.
If someone had told me a year ago that I’d finally fulfill my lifelong dream of writing romance novels while living in a Victorian manor in a quaint little beachside town, I’d have said, “Sign me up!” If they’d mentioned that the manor came with permanent ghost roommates? Well, seeing spirits has been my lifelong unwanted superpower, so that wouldn’t have been a deal-breaker—especially considering one of those ghosts is Daisy, an adorable dachshund who’s become the best writing pal a girl could ask for.
But the other ghost? Richard Lockwood—nineteenth-century detective, founding father of Lockwood Cove, and hands down the most infuriatingly opinionated man I’ve ever encountered, alive or dead? Now that’s a different story. His critiques of my romance novel would be easier to dismiss if they weren’t occasionally (fine, more than occasionally) right. And they’d be easier to ignore if he didn’t deliver them with that crisp British accent and those penetrating green eyes that never fail to disarm me. Do you know how inconvenient it is to be attracted to someone who’s been dead for over a century?
So here I am—Anna McGuffin, former librarian turned aspiring novelist, divorcée turned reluctant social moth (butterfly status pending), living a life that’s infinitely more complicated and, if I’m being honest, a whole lot more exciting than the one I’d planned. Who knew that a ghost with resting judge face and a penchant for literary criticism would end up being the most interesting roommate I’ve ever had?
“For someone who’s supposedly moved on to a higher plane of existence, you sure are obsessed with my romance novel.”
“If your fictional gardener spent less time comparing pruning techniques to his lovemaking skills, perhaps your novel would read more realistically.”
“Oh, please. You’re just jealous because Gabriel Stone has better pickup lines than you ever had.”
Richard’s eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly disappear into his hairline. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. I bet you never once compared a woman to a freshly blossomed rose.”
“I should hope not, madam. I happen to possess a little thing called dignity.”
“Says the ghost who threatened a room full of people with an insect plague.”
Three days ago, during the town’s annual Founders Day dance, local medium Madame Corrine attempted to summon Richard’s ghost using what everyone believed was a locket that had once belonged to his wife. In reality, the locket belonged to Alistair Hawthorne—a Victorian serial killer Richard had brought to justice in England.
But being the sneaky psycho serial killer he was, Hawthorne escaped the gallows and followed Richard to Florida seeking revenge, only to be killed by Richard in a duel. When Madame Corrine opened the locket during the séance, she inadvertently released Hawthorne’s spirit. Richard managed to force her to close the locket by using his ghostly voice to command her, temporarily containing Hawthorne once more. But as long as Madame Corrine possesses the locket, no one in Lockwood Cove is safe from Hawthorne’s ghost.
“I just need to finish chapter seventeen of Duchess in Bloom. Then I can pay attention to you.” I hit the backspace key with more force than necessary. I’m determined to get the first draft finished by Christmas. It’s mid-October, so, while that’s pushing it a bit, it’s definitely doable.
“I’m afraid time is of the essence. We must get that locket from Madame Corrine before it’s too late.”
I sit back in my chair and sigh. Richard isn’t wrong. Except I’ve spent the past couple of days trying to get Madame Corrine to hand over the locket, and she’s not budging. “I’ve done everything short of breaking into her home and stealing it.”
“If we must.”
“Are you serious?”
He doesn’t crack a smile.
“You were a Scotland Yard detective. Didn’t you swear an oath to uphold the law?”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” he quips.
“Too bad you can’t just walk through the walls of her house and swipe it yourself.”
“The first part I can easily achieve. It’s the second part that eludes me.”
As a ghost who’s been around for over a century, Richard can easily manipulate physical objects. I’ve seen him flip light switches, rifle through books, and even topple over a bookcase when my life was in danger. But, for some reason, he’s unable to touch Hawthorne’s locket.
“Why do you think you can’t touch the locket? Do you think Hawthorne put a curse on it? Ooh, maybe there’s an invisible force field around it like the kind the Empire put on the Death Star.”
“This is real life, madam, not something from the television.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Although I wouldn’t mind possessing one of those lightsabers.”
Last night, Richard and I saw Star Wars. Can you believe he’d never even heard of it? Professor Ridley, Lockwood Manor’s previous tenant, mostly watched PBS and nature shows with an occasional Law and Order thrown into the mix. In the past two months, I’ve introduced Richard to a whole new world of television. Mostly Friends reruns, but I thought it would be good to shake things up a bit with some action flicks.
His reaction to the fight scene between Darth Vader and Obi-Wan Kenobi was priceless. “That Kenobi fellow meets his fate with the dignity befitting a true gentleman, something we understood well in my day. As for that Vader creature—all that mechanical wheezing and black regalia—a truly honorable opponent would show his face rather than hide behind a mask like some common highwayman.” I can’t wait to see what Richard thinks when we start The Terminator series.
“Although I highly doubt Hawthorne placed a force field, as you call it, around the locket, there’s definitely something odd about it,” Richard says. “You saw what happened at the séance when I attempted to stop Madame Corrine from opening it. My hand passed right through it. As if …” He flexes his fingers, staring at them with frustration. “As if it exists in a different plane than I do.” He picks up a paperweight from my desk and sets it down again, a pointed demonstration of what he should be able to do with the locket but can’t.
“It’s maddening,” he continues. “To be able to interact with nearly everything in the physical world yet be completely powerless against the one object that poses the greatest threat.” His jaw tightens, and I catch a glimpse of the formidable Scotland Yard detective he must have been—determined, relentless, and thoroughly annoyed at having his investigation thwarted by circumstances beyond his control.
“One hundred and thirty years of death,” he says, “and Hawthorne still manages to be a thorn in my side.” His expression darkens as he turns to me. “I’m afraid it’s up to you, Anna, to retrieve that locket and ensure Hawthorne’s spirit never escapes again.”
“Me?” I squeak.
“You don’t understand what he’s capable of.”
“You’ve told me—”
“No.” His voice drops to a near whisper, and his eyes go distant with memories. “In life, he charmed his way into women’s homes, stole their valuables, then ended their lives with a calculated cruelty that few could imagine. In death, without a physical form to constrain him …” He trails off, clearly disturbed by his thoughts.
I swallow hard. “What exactly could he do?”
“Influence minds. Manipulate objects.” His green eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that sends shivers down my spine—and not the tingly kind I sometimes get when he looks at me. “The séance was merely a glimpse of his abilities. If Hawthorne were to be fully released … if he gains enough strength to break free of the locket entirely …”
He lets the implication hang in the air between us.
“The safety of everyone in Lockwood Cove depends on you,” he says finally. “I wouldn’t ask this of you if there were any other way.”
Geez! Talk about pressure. One minute, I’m struggling with romance novel metaphors, and the next, I’m being tasked with preventing a Victorian serial killer from terrorizing the town. This definitely wasn’t covered in the chamber of commerce welcome packet.
The doorbell rings, bringing a momentary relief from the tension in the air.
“Were you expecting anyone?” Richard scowls. “Please don’t tell me it’s the baker. I thought we were rid of him.”
“I doubt it’s Hank,” I say, referring to Hank Miller, owner of Bake My Day café, home to Lockwood Cove’s most divine croissants. Not to mention the town’s mayor. Until recently, Hank had been a frequent visitor to Lockwood Manor—his intentions clearly more romantic than my own. But our kiss three nights ago proved our relationship was destined for the friend zone. Thanks to my subtle matchmaking, he’s now reconnecting with my pal Katie, and, from what I hear, their second chance at love is off to a promising start.
I head for the door with Daisy and Richard in lockstep behind me. Through the peephole, I spot Jennifer Blake, her arms full of manila folders stamped with the Lockwood Cove Historical Society logo. Like Katie, Jennifer is part of my Wednesday night wine committee (code for girls’ night out) as well as the town’s official historian.
When I open the door, Jennifer’s face is flushed with a combination of excitement and agitation that I recognize all too well. Jennifer is just as determined as Richard is to get the locket away from Madame Corrine, although for entirely different reasons.
“You aren’t going to believe what’s happening,” she says, bustling past me into the foyer. Her glasses have slipped halfway down her nose, and several strands of long brown hair have escaped her usually immaculate bun.
“Remember the séance at the Founders Day dance?” she asks, making her way toward the living room.
A vision of the séance pops into my head. Sheet music floating through the air, lights flashing off and on, doors flying open, portraits falling off the wall … The whole thing was like something out of a Stephen King movie. “Remember it? How could anyone forget it?”
“Well, someone in town made a TikTok from footage they got that night, and it’s attracting some very unwelcome attention.”
I still. “What kind of attention?”
Jennifer drops her folders onto the coffee table with a dramatic thump. “Ghost hunters,” she announces, like she’s revealing the arrival of an invading army. “A whole crew of them.”
“Let me guess. They have a YouTube channel.”
“Worse. A TV show. Maybe you’ve heard of it? Ghost Trackers.”
My stomach goes fizzy. Ghost Trackers is on every Friday night right after my cousin Lucy’s favorite show, America’s Most Vicious Criminals. Not that I’ve ever watched it. I have enough ghost drama in my real life, thank you very much.
“Doesn’t Ghost Trackers star that ex-NFL player … what’s his name …” I rack my brain trying to come up with it.
“Dax Montgomery,” Jennifer supplies.
“Yeah, that’s it. Wasn’t he named People magazine’s Sexiest Man of the Year a while back?”
“Whatever. His production team has already hit town. They’re staying at The Haunted Anchor, and here’s the worst part. Madame Corrine is working with them. They want to hold a séance and film the whole thing for their show.”
Unbeknownst to Jennifer, Richard is pacing behind the sofa where she’s seated. “Gah! Why is everyone in this century obsessed with filming everything?” Daisy trots behind him like his little Mini-Me as if she agrees with his sentiment.
The fizziness in my stomach turns into a knot. “Did you catch where they plan to hold this séance?”
“They wanted to film it right here inside Lockwood Manor, but Laura nixed that idea pretty quickly.”
Laura Lockwood is Richard’s descendant, my landlord, and a sergeant with the Lockwood Cove Police. She’s in her late twenties, refreshingly laid-back as landlords go, and over the past couple of months we’ve developed an easy friendship. She’s also completely oblivious to the fact that her great-great-plus-grandfather and a deceased dachshund are my current roommates.
Laura is firmly in the “ghosts are nonsense” camp. Not that I’d try to persuade her otherwise. There are only two people in the world who know I can commune with the dead—my ex-husband, who thinks I’m crazy, and my cousin Lucy, who has a special “gift” of her own—and I’d like to keep it that way.
Richard nods in approval of Laura’s decision. “Of course she turned them down. She’s a Lockwood. Her ancestral home isn’t a venue for carnivals and circus acts.”
“So now their goal is to hold the séance in the old Lockwood Cove Cemetery,” Jennifer says.
“The cemetery?” I make a face. “That’s pretty creepy.”
“Featuring”—she makes air quotes with her fingers—“the most dramatic spirit communication of the century.” She blows out a breath. “Madame Corrine is advertising her services all over town, claiming she can summon Richard Lockwood’s ghost at will. With my locket!” She flushes. “Well, it’s not my locket, but it’s not hers either. It belongs to the historical society. Laura Lockwood said we could have it.”
“It belongs at the bottom of the ocean where no one can ever open it again,” Richard says vehemently. He stops his pacing and turns to look at me. “This séance must never occur. If that woman opens the locket on camera, there’s no telling what could happen.”
I give a slight nod to acknowledge him without looking like I’m having a silent conversation with the walls.
“We’ve tried to buy it from her,” Jennifer continues. “Even threatened legal action, but the old witch won’t budge.”
“Don’t the people from Ghost Trackers have to have permission to film this séance? Who’s in charge of the cemetery?”
“Technically, the cemetery belongs to the city. Which means it’s up to Hank and the city council. They’re holding a special town meeting tonight to discuss it, but, from what I’ve heard, it’s practically a done deal.” She sighs heavily. “I’m not sure there’s anything we can do at this point. Although I do have a secret weapon up my sleeve.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“I don’t want to say in case it doesn’t happen.” Her gaze goes to the formal portrait of Richard hanging over the fireplace, and her face melts into a dreamy expression. “What would Richard Lockwood do?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?” I mutter.
“He was such a brilliant detective,” Jennifer continues, her voice taking on that familiar reverent tone she uses whenever she’s talking about him. “He was so methodical. So determined. The way he described his investigative process in his memoir? Pure genius.”
Before he died, Richard wrote a memoir detailing his relationship with Alistair Hawthorne so that his wife, Emily, would one day read it and know the truth. Somehow, the memoir ended up in the back of a dusty closet in the city hall archives room. Jennifer found it, but the memoir was later destroyed in a fire that took the life of Olivia Parker, a haunted-antiques dealer who was obsessed with summoning Hawthorne’s ghost.
“You know,” Jennifer says, her voice tinged with awe, “sometimes I swear I can feel Richard Lockwood’s presence in this house. Like he’s watching over the town he founded, still protecting all of us.”
Richard stops his pacing to stand beneath his portrait, listening.
I bite my bottom lip, hoping to keep my facial expression neutral.
“I’ve been working on an additional chapter for my book about him.” She reaches into her tote to pull out a thick folder. “I’ve been researching his time at Scotland Yard. Did you know he solved the Kensington Gardens murders when everyone else had given up?”
“Hardly my most challenging case,” Richard says, but he can’t hide his pleased expression. “Though I am impressed she uncovered those records.”
I shoot him a look that says, “Enjoying yourself, are you?” He responds with a slight shrug that manages to be both apologetic and not apologetic at all.
“His deductive reasoning was decades ahead of his time,” Jennifer continues, oblivious to the fact that the subject of her admiration is eating up every word she says. “And to think, he gave up the life of aristocratic privilege to pursue justice.”
“Yeah, he was a regular Victorian superhero.”
“Exactly,” Jennifer says, missing my sarcasm. “Can you believe the historical society voted down my proposal to commission a new portrait of him? I found this amazing artist who specializes in historical figures, but, apparently, it’s ‘not in the budget.’”
“What a tragedy,” I mutter.
“I know! I was even willing to contribute personally. You don’t know how lucky you are, Anna, to be able to live in this house and look at his portrait every day. If I didn’t own my place, I’d rent this house in a heartbeat.”
“Yeah, lucky me.”
“He’d know what to do about this locket situation,” Jennifer says with absolute conviction. “He’d have a plan. A strategy.”
“It’s amazing how well Miss Blake knows me,” Richard says.
Jennifer checks her watch. “I should go back to work.” She gathers her things, pausing to look up at Richard’s portrait. “We won’t let you down, Richard,” she vows solemnly. “We’ll get your locket back. No matter what it takes.”
As the door closes behind her, I turn to give Richard an amused look.
“What?” he says, straightening his already perfectly straight cuffs.
“Nothing,” I say innocently. “Just wondering if I should tell Jennifer that her crush is reciprocated?”
“I can’t help it if the woman has exceptional taste.”
I shake my head at him. “You’re impossible. We have a serial killer ghost to contain, and you’re basking in your fan club’s adoration.”
“One can multitask, madam.” A hint of a smile plays at his lips. “Even in the afterlife.”
I chuckle, but then we both turn serious. The weight of what we know—what only we know—settles over the room like a fog.
“You must attend this city council meeting,” Richard says, all traces of humor gone from his face. “Make your position known about this ill-fated séance idea.”
“What’s the point? Jennifer says it’s practically a done deal.”
“Then you must use your powers of persuasion to convince them that this séance must never take place. No one else understands what we’re truly dealing with.”
“How am I supposed to do that? I can’t very well tell them that a Victorian serial killer’s ghost is trapped in a locket and might possess the town if he’s released.”
“You’re a writer. Words are your weapons. Surely, you can come up with a persuasive argument.”
“Are you suggesting I use my purple prose?”
“If you must.” His expression turns grim. “You’re the only one in town who knows the true danger Lockwood Cove is in. The only one who can see both worlds—the living and the dead.”
The full implication of his words hits me like a physical blow. Jennifer thinks this is about preserving the dignity of Richard’s memory. The Ghost Trackers crew is probably all about ratings. And Madame Corrine is running around like she’s Lockwood Cove’s version of Whoopi Goldberg.
None of them know they’re playing with fire. None of them have seen the darkness I glimpsed when the locket was opened at the Founders Day dance. None of them understand that some doors, once opened, can’t be easily closed.
Richard is right. If Hawthorne escapes that locket, I’m the only one who will see him coming. The only one who might be able to stop him.
I’m no Obi-Wan Kenobi, but it looks like I might be Lockwood Cove’s only hope against Darth Vader 2.0.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. Obi-Wan’s fate was being sliced in half by a lightsaber before becoming a blue-tinged spirit guide—definitely not the future I had in mind. It took three movies, a ragtag rebellion, and an entire galaxy to finally defeat Vader.
I’m working with two ghosts—a grumpy Victorian detective and a dachshund who gets distracted by squirrels. Not exactly the Rebel Alliance. May the Force—or whatever mysterious energy keeps Richard’s cravat so perfectly straight—be with me. Because I’m going to need all the help I can get.
A Tomb with a View comes out August 7! Click HERE to pre-order your copy now!
