Homicide on All Hallows' Eve: A Cozy Fall Murder Mystery (Claire Andersen Murder for All Seasons Cozy Mystery Series Book 4) Read online

  HOMICIDE

  ON

  ALL HALLOWS’ EVE

  A Cozy Claire Andersen

  Murder for All Seasons Mystery

  By

  Imogen Plimp

  Copyright 2021 by Imogen Plimp

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without express permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any entities, current or historical, or any persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.

  eBook cover by: Carrie Peters @ Cheeky Covers

  Dedication

  A little ghost story for Jess

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  According to the inscription etched into its ornate stone heading, the Galway Inn was established in 1891. The village of Galway—a quaint and colourful oasis nestled in the (as of then) untouched Appalachian Mountains—was incorporated by the Wilson Coal Company via an under-the-table deal with a Maryland senator the year previous[1]. Galway itself was so named to make the incoming crew of mostly Irish immigrant coal miners, fresh off the boat to Ellis Island, feel at home—or so the history books on the region (conveniently penned by the coal company’s historians-for-hire) would have you believe.

  The inn was built in the center of the village atop the highest hill, a stately and lavish monument to bourgeois taste. History books claim it was erected primarily to house coal executives and their rich families and to feed them the high-end cuisine to which they were accustomed when their hard work of touring the mines was done. Meanwhile, the miners themselves lived in rustic lean-tos across the river, built side-by-side in a snake-like queue parallel to the railroad line, mere steps away from their daily outposts depositing coal into rows of blood-red brick coke ovens.

  Some say each lean-to was positioned in purposefully clear view of the Galway Inn’s west-end turret—and that the inn’s eyes were always watching.

  Some say the inn is haunted by past staff—indentured servants, really—who, as young as age fourteen, were tricked into boarding a cross-Atlantic ship with the promise of freedom in America. Cooks and wash staff, maids and bellmen. Some say the ghosts are workers who never paid off their debt. Others say the ghosts had past lives much more sinister. Some say such talk is hearsay. Some say it’s utter hogwash.

  In 1910, Tucker Wilson (then president of the Wilson Coal Co.) built a Victorian-style mansion on the corner of Main and Pine Streets, a luxurious but tasteful estate designed to house his burgeoning family. His much younger wife—a beautiful, bewitching young woman and the daughter of a first-generation Wilson Coal Miner—had made his acquaintance while working as a maid in the Galway Inn. Rumor has it he fell in love with her at first sight, but that she (accustomed to being fallen in love with) had her misgivings. Nevertheless, she gave birth to four children inside the Wilson Manor, later dubbed the Old Wilson Inn.

  Whether Tucker Wilson’s wife was happy with her newfound domestic bounty—and whether Tucker Wilson provided much more for his family than a roof over their heads—is anybody’s guess. But what is certain is that, one autumn day in 1916, tragedy struck.

  On the day in question, the three Wilson boys were out of the house, playing in the river. This was not unusual, as the boys liked to watch the coal miners line up on the railroad tracks with their lunch pails to eat their breaktime sandwiches and coffee. In fact, they were known to have befriended many of the labourers—they traded marbles for rocks and learned old Irish folk songs and games like penuckle and how to whistle… On this fateful afternoon, however, the baby—a toddler no older than two years—disappeared. Whether drowned in the river, hit by a train, kidnapped by a ne’er-do-well, or fallen into a coke oven, nobody knows.

  What is known is that his body was never recovered, and that his mother—who was informed of her child’s mysterious disappearance during teatime in the dining room of the Galway Inn—fainted on the spot. Prior to the tragedy, she could be glimpsed daily about town, shopping courteously at boutiques with her growing brood in tow. But afterward, she was never seen nor heard from again.

  Anonymous whispers suggested Tucker Wilson cared little for his family in truth. Over generations, the whispers turned to rumors that the coal company was somehow responsible for his youngest son’s death, and that they covered their tracks thoroughly.

  According to his tombstone—an understated limestone marker looming over the southwestern-most corner of the Galway Rosemont Cemetery—he died in 1925 at fifty-five. He is buried with his wife who, the tombstone claims, died in 1917—at the tender age of twenty-six.

  Some say she died of heartbreak.

  Some say she haunts the halls of the Galway Inn—and, perhaps, the old Wilson house—to this day.

  Chapter One

  I added one more cinnamon stick—and one more pinch of clove—to my steaming cauldron of mulled cider. I’d been fussing over it all afternoon, and still it didn’t taste quite right. But then, I wasn’t exactly in a hurry. Part of the fun of mulled cider is to simmer it for hours and stink up the whole house, after all.

  “What about a pinch of turmeric?” Ellen asked from my kitchen island, where she was poring over a bowl of cake icing.

  “Perfect!” I beamed at her.

  “You don’t think she’ll complain about it being too … how would she put it … health-food-nutty?”

  I shrugged. “She requested orange food! Plus, nutrition-wise, what she doesn’t know won’t kill ‘er.”

  Ellen winked at me and folded a teaspoon of turmeric into the contents of my KitchenAid mixing bowl.

  We were deep in the throes of preparing for Evelyn’s “not-birthday” celebration—her titling, not mine. When Ellen had prodded her weeks ago for what she wanted for her fiftieth, she’d played it coy.

  “Nothing,” she’d muttered.

  “We can’t do nothing!” Ellen had gasped.

  “Why not?” Evelyn countered, her eyes narrowed.

  “You always go big for your birthdays! …What about a nice, civilized, ladies’ poker game?” she suggested excitedly. “With real money this time? You’d clean us all out!”

  “No.” Dead on arrival.

  “A costume contest?”

  “Nuh uh.”

  “A fun dance party—and you can pick the songs!”

  “Nope.”

  Ellen had eyed her wearily. “Evelyn…” Her voice softened. “Are you embarrassed about turning fifty?” It
came out so low it was almost a whisper.

  Evelyn had answered with a broad scowl.

  “But…” and then Ellen had looked utterly perplexed “…but you’re the last one of all of us to turn fifty! I mean … Carol Krause is turning sixty this December!”

  Evelyn had glared up at her. “Exactly. Everybody’s already been there, done that. And I, for one, don’t want any excuse for people around here to treat me like a baby.”

  Ellen had frowned.

  That’s when I’d piped up. “How about I cook you a nice supper? Of anything you want.”

  Evelyn’d lit up. “And it’ll be just be us girls?”

  “Of course!”

  And so we arrived at an agreement: an intimate birthday dinner of all orange-coloured (“or Halloweeny—plus cheeseburgers, cuz the cheese makes it qualify”) foods, a crackling fire, and a rousing game of festive, late-October Ouija.

  Ellen was almost done frosting the carrot cake (now with an inventive turmeric cream cheese icing), the sweet potato fries were sizzling in the oven, the burger meat was resting and ready to grill in the fridge, and a pot of butternut squash and miso soup was simmering on the stove.

  “…Is Ray stopping by?” Ellen asked in a gently suggestive tone before licking icing off her spatula.

  I blushed instantly. “No. He’s still in Texas.”

  “Coming home soon though, I hope?”

  I nodded. “End of this week.” I sighed wistfully.

  Ray Hamilton was the man I was seeing—well, almost. We’d been on our first date, a romantic candlelit dinner at the fabled Galway Inn for which he’d met me on my front stoop holding a bouquet of wildflowers he’d picked himself … when I was thrown a bit of a curve ball . . .

  We were enjoying our soup course (a delectable strawberry gazpacho, I recall) when my phone rang shrilly from inside my clutch.

  I’d been mortified. “I’m sorry…” I relented, pawing inside my purse. “I’ll turn it off…”

  But he insisted I pick it up when I saw the call was from my daughter, Al, who was still living in our hometown of Brooklyn.

  But it wasn’t Al on the other line.

  “Mrs. A?” the vaguely familiar, tenor-pitched voice had replied through my receiver. The line percolated with fuzzy, piercing interruptions, as if the call was patched through poorly from someplace overseas.

  “…Al?” I’d asked, confused—and on a rapid decent to terrified. “You’re… But… Who is this?” My vision tunneled.

  “It’s Stasia.” Stasia (pronounced “Stay-ja”) was one of Al’s closest friends, an accomplished personal shopper on Fashion Row in Manhattan who moonlighted as a drag queen and recently changed legal names from “Ry” (né Ryan) to “Queen Anastasia,” “Stasia” for short. Truth to tell, the name-change suited perfectly.

  Stasia took a deep breath, presumably waiting for the intermittent background noise to clear. “…I’m at the hospital.”

  My heart stopped, I swear.

  “Listen—don’t worry, everything will be alright…”

  It’s happening, I thought in spite of Stasia’s pointed advice. Every mother’s absolute worst nightmare.

  The line crackled with more high-pitched background interjections which, I by-then realized, must have been overhead speaker announcements. “…We’re at Park Slope General…”

  My child is dead. She was murdered in cold blood in a dark alleyway, my crazy brain proclaimed.

  “…pick-up softball game in Prospect Park…” went Stasia, but I was too far gone to listen carefully.

  She’s been dead for two days and I had no idea because we didn’t speak yesterday. Why didn’t I call her yesterday? I knew I should have called her yesterday. I could have prevented her imminent death! went my brain.

  “…twisted her knee all funny, so now they think she tore her ACL. Still awaiting results.” Then Stasia paused expectantly. It took a few beats before I pieced the whole situation together and understood they were awaiting my response (Stasia identifies as gender queer, and as such, goes by the pronouns “they/them”).

  I’d been staring with vacant eyes into the single red rose propped up in the center of our table-for-two. I’d also been clutching at my chest—and not breathing. Ray, I suddenly realized, had scraped his chair across the floor and over to mine, one hand pressed on my back and the other grasping my forearm supportively.

  “So she’s … she’s…” I gulped in a drink of cool air. “…She’s okay?” It came out in a strained whisper.

  “Of course!” Stasia barked haughtily, as if I were completely nuts. “We’ve already got her pain pill prescription filled and everything. We’re just waiting on some kind of insurance glitch—” I could almost hear their eye-roll “—Al’s on the phone with the insurance company now.”

  I breathed the deepest sigh of relief of my life.

  “…Only thing is,” Stasia’s tone morphed into one more conciliatory, “if she really did tear her ACL, she’s gonna need surgery.”

  I nodded frantically, even though I knew Stasia couldn’t see me. Adrenaline coursed through my veins on a come-down. The hand that held the phone to my ear was shaking violently. Not exactly the first date of your dreams.

  Prudent or not, I raced home to Brooklyn the following morning at dawn. Al’s surgery to repair her severed ACL was scheduled for early August.

  I took care of her while she lounged on the couch in our Red Hook brownstone (no way could she manage the four-story walk-up on her own) until early September—and honestly, I was pleased as punch to do so. Al was, for the most part, in high spirits and happy to be pampered by her mama. She had a taste for all her childhood favourites (food-wise) and even indulged me in a few mother-daughter games of Clue, Monopoly (an old family stand-by from back when Al’s father was still alive), and even a little Hungry Hungry Hippos. We also watched more movies than I’d care to recount.

  By September 3rd, I was back in Galway—just in time for the Labour Day Weekend bed and breakfast rush. But, as luck would have it, my return to Appalachia fell on the very same week Ray’s daughter, Ariana, was awarded a coveted, last-minute research fellowship at Stanford University’s School of Economics. (The first-pick fellow dropped out the week before term started.)

  Ray moved Ariana out to California the day before I returned to Galway—and stuck around for a couple of weeks to help Ariana find and furnish an apartment, as she was overwhelmed on day-one with her graduate course workload.

  After that, of course, it was time for the annual cattle round-up at the ranch Ray’s brother owned down in West Texas. Plus, my bed and breakfast was full to the brim every single week, while tourists inundated all of Warren County to partake in the Leaf Peeper’s early autumn festivities.

  Suffice to say, Ray and I hadn’t seen much of each other.

  But I found myself no less a-flutter at the mere mention of his name than I had when we’d first met months ago.

  “There!” Ellen said, stepping back from the kitchen island to take a self-satisfied look at Evelyn’s now-completed pumpkin-coloured birthday cake. “Just needs fifty candles now!”

  I giggled. “She’d kill us.”

  “…And then go to work on the both of us.”

  Suddenly, as if sensing our dinner prep’s progress, my front door flung open and hit the adjacent wall with a bang!, causing Rupert—my bloodhound mix—to leap up off his dog bed and howl in frightened anguish.

  “Hellooooo?” Evelyn called down the hallway. “Birthday girl, comin’ in hot!” she sang as she strutted down the hall like on a catwalk.

  Ellen raised an eyebrow, her hands on her hips. “Oh, I see… You’re suddenly in the mood to celebrate?”

  Evelyn responded with a dance: “It’s my party and I’ll fly if I want to...” she sang, her song resplendent with hip pops and rhythmic snaps. “…Buy if I want to, fry if I want to…”

  Ellen rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “We’ve created a monster.”

  Evelyn
smothered her in a bear hug.

  I laughed—and turned back to the stove to fill three mugs with mulled cider as Evelyn sashayed, singing, in my direction. “…You would die too if it happened to yooou!” She gave me a gigantic kiss on the forehead with an oversized “Muuuuah!”

  I handed her a mug.

  She sniffed it loudly. “Mmmm…” she mewed, her face breaking into a blissful grin. “Thanks, toots,” she said.

  “You’re welcome! And happy birthday.”

  Despite my pleas, Evelyn insisted on flipping burgers on the propane grill on my back porch. Although I pretended my protestations were because I thought the birthday girl shouldn’t lift a finger to prepare her own celebratory meal, they were really because Evelyn tends to be a bit clumsy bordering on right-out major-accident prone.

  When she’d progressed safely to burger number three, I let down my guard—certain we were in the clear—and ducked back inside to begin setting the dining room table. That’s when, apparently, the sleeve of her immaculate white oversized sweater (the one she’d bought for herself just that morning) caught on fire. Ellen, ever the coolheaded steward, thought quick (thank Heavens) and doused Evelyn’s arm with her now-cooled mug of mulled cider—leaving Evelyn’s happy-birthday-to-me present a little worse for wear, but smelling like crisped candy apple.

  “Something was bound to happen to a sweater so white, Evelyn,” Ellen teased, shaking her head in amusement, when we were all three huddled in the warmth of my dining room nook. “Especially on you, my dear!”

  Evelyn shrugged. “You know, actually…” she considered her burnt sleeve, waving it pitifully in the air “…I think I like it better this way!”

  “Of course you do,” Ellen grinned.

  I turned to the china cabinet, gathered up a foursome of rust-tinted candles … and then turned back around to put them away again, thinking better of providing Evelyn with more ways to set herself on fire.