Murder Can Haunt Your Handiwork Read online

  Praise for Rose Pressey

  and her delightful mysteries

  “Rose Pressey’s books are fun!”

  —New York Times best-selling author

  Janet Evanovich

  The Haunted Craft Fair Mystery Series

  MURDER CAN MESS UP YOUR MASTERPIECE

  “Plucky, self-employed heroine, cute pet, scary ghost, and two eligible suitors: everything a cozy needs.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “The paranormal twist adds a bit of flair to this

  quirky new series.”

  —The Parkersburg News & Sentinel

  The Haunted Vintage Mystery Series

  IF YOU’VE GOT IT, HAUNT IT

  “A delightful protagonist, intriguing twists, and a fashionista ghost combine in a hauntingly fun tale. Definitely

  haute couture.”

  —New York Times best-selling author Carolyn Hart

  “If you’re a fan of vintage clothing and quirky ghosts, Rose Pressey’s If You’ve Got It, Haunt It will ignite your passion for fashion and pique your otherworldly interest. Wind Song, the enigmatic cat, adds another charming layer to the mystery.”

  —New York Times best-selling author

  Denise Swanson

  “If You’ve Got It, Haunt It is a stylish mystery full of vintage fashions and modern flair, with a dash of Rose Pressey’s trademark paranormal wit for that final touch of panache. Chic and quirky heroine Cookie Chanel and a supporting cast of small-town Southern characters are sure to charm lovers of high fashion and murderous hijinks alike.”

  —New York Times and USA Today best-selling author Jennie Bentley

  “Absolutely delightful! Prolific author Rose Pressey has penned a delightful mystery full of Southern charm, vintage fashion tips, a ghostly presence, and a puzzler of a mystery. With snappy dialogue and well-drawn characters in a lovely small-town setting, this thoroughly engaging story has it all.”

  —New York Times best-selling author Jenn McKinlay

  “Fun, fast-paced, and fashionable, If You’ve Got It, Haunt It is the first in Rose Pressey’s appealing new mystery series featuring clever vintage-clothing expert Cookie Chanel. A charming Southern setting, an intriguing murder, a stylish ghost, a tarot-reading cat, and a truly delectable detective combine to make Ms. Pressey’s new Haunted Vintage series a sheer delight.”

  —New York Times best-selling author Kate Carlisle

  “Prolific mystery author Pressey launches a cozy alternative to Terri Garey’s ‘Nicki Styx’ series with an appealing protagonist who is as sweet as a Southern accent. The designer name-dropping and shopping tips from Cookie add allure for shopaholics.”

  —Library Journal

  IF THE HAUNTING FITS, WEAR IT

  “Cookie Chanel must investigate the horse-racing community to find a killer.... After Haunted Is Always in Fashion, Pressey’s fifth amusing paranormal cozy is filled with quirky characters and fashion, along with a few ghosts. Fans of Juliet Blackwell’s ‘Witchcraft’ mysteries may enjoy the vintage clothing references. Suggest also for fans of Tonya Kappes.”

  —Library Journal

  “Haunted by three ghosts, a young woman searches for a jockey’s murderer at the Kentucky Derby.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  HAUNT COUTURE AND GHOSTS GALORE

  “It was a pleasure to read. I listened to this one, and I’m so glad I did. The novel is narrated by Tara Ochs. She does a fine job of narrating, keeping up the pace and differentiating voices well. The story moved right along. If you have a chance to listen, I recommend it with this one.”

  —Jaquo.com (on the audio edition)

  FASHIONS FADE, HAUNTED IS ETERNAL

  “Chock full of ghosts, supernatural guardians, cats possessed by spirits, a handsome police officer boyfriend, and tips on surviving the afterlife and vintage shopping.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  Books by Rose Pressey

  The Haunted Craft Fair Mystery Series

  Murder Can Mess Up Your Masterpiece

  Murder Can Confuse Your Chihuahua

  Murder Can Haunt Your Handiwork

  The Haunted Vintage Mystery Series

  If You’ve Got It, Haunt It

  All Dressed Up and No Place to Haunt

  Haunt Couture and Ghosts Galore

  If the Haunting Fits, Wear It

  Haunted Is Always in Fashion

  A Passion for Haunted Fashion

  Fashions Fade, Haunted Is Eternal

  The Haunted Tour Guide Mystery Series

  These Haunts Are Made for Walking

  Walk on the Haunted Side

  Haunt the Haunt, Walk the Walk

  Walk This Way, Haunt This Way

  Take a Haunted Walk with Me

  Hauntin’ After Midnight

  Keep on Haunting

  You’ll Never Haunt Alone

  The Walk That Haunts Me

  The Halloween La Veau Series

  Forever Charmed

  Charmed Again

  Third Time’s a Charm

  Charmed, I’m Sure

  A Charmed Life

  Charmed Ever After

  Once Upon a Charmed Time

  Charmed to Death

  A Charmed Cauldron

  Almost Charmed

  MURDER

  Can Haunt Your Handiwork

  Rose Pressey

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Teaser chapter

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2021 by Rose Pressey

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  The K logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2165-5

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2166-2 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2166-7 (ebook)

  To my father. I miss you, Dad. Every
hour of every day.

  CHAPTER 1

  Travel Trailer Tip 1:

  Always clean up your mess. You’ll be happy

  you did later, when you’re busy investigating

  a murder.

  A loud crash echoed across the expanse of the massive room. Screams soon followed. Somehow, I knew the sounds were related to my brothers and/or my father. They were always in the middle of the chaos. If something destructive happened near them, then they were somehow typically involved.

  I dashed around the corner and saw my brother Stevie standing behind the red velvet barrier rope. The space had been blocked off so that tourists would know to stay out. Either my brother chose to ignore the rope and the KEEP OUT warning signs, or he truly was clueless. Honestly, I thought he was just kind of oblivious. My brothers never meant harm. They just lived in their own little world.

  My other brother, Hank, stood behind the rope barrier, too. Which one had knocked over the KEEP OUT sign? Fortunately, the large ceramic urn nearby, which I knew had to be an expensive piece of artwork, had survived the Cabot tornados. What did they think the KEEP OUT sign was there for, anyway? The piece had to be pricey and of significant importance, since it was featured on top of a pedestal column at the Biltmore Estate. Yes, my brothers were a walking disaster. It was no wonder, though. Their clumsiness combined with their muscular physiques made the right mix for disaster.

  My family and I were currently touring the magnificent Biltmore mansion in Asheville, North Carolina. My family included my mother, father, grandmother, and two brothers. Now I questioned why I had agreed to come along with them for the tour. Obviously, I’d been wrong when I’d thought they could behave themselves, even for a short time.

  My petite, gray-haired grandmother stood a good distance away from us, clinging to her brown pocketbook as if she might have to make a quick escape. Probably good thinking on her part. This wasn’t her first rodeo with this bunch.

  My mother clutched her pearl necklace as if the jewelry would save her from fainting. I’d picked out the necklace that my father had given her for their thirtieth anniversary. She’d pretended she believed he’d chosen the pearls, but she’d winked at me, indicating that she thought I’d made a perfect selection. Sometimes when I saw my mother, it was like seeing my own reflection. The resemblance was uncanny, since we both have dark hair and big brown eyes the shade of one of my favorite things—decadent chocolate.

  “I don’t know how I managed to get through over thirty years of this much chaos,” my mother said.

  My father was at a vintage car display. The sign recounted that the vehicle was rare, and there were only ten in existence.

  “A 1913 Stevens–Duryea C-Six,” my father said to no one in particular.

  With the same strong stature as my brothers—although with a smidgen of added cushion—my father would inevitably get into trouble around breakables. As I watched in horror, he lifted the rope and scurried under to the other side. The extra weight around his middle made the movement harder than it would have been years ago, but he still managed to slide underneath.

  “Mom!” I pointed.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Eddie,” she said as she ran over to him. “Get out from behind there before they arrest you.”

  “Why would they arrest me? They put the stuff here to enjoy, right?” My father reached out and grabbed an ornate vase, about two feet tall, painted with a colorful hunting scene.

  Since I’d known him all my life, I understood what he’d said, but others had a hard time deciphering his low, mumbled words. Of course, as I feared, within seconds, the priceless piece slipped from my father’s fingers. My mother dove for the item as if she were the star player in the baseball game trying to catch the ball. This all played out in slow motion. At least, that was the way it seemed in my mind. My mother caught the vase as she plunged to the floor. A groan escaped her lips as she rolled onto her side with the valuable antique still firmly in her arms. Gasps filled the once-silent room.

  After catching her breath, my mother lifted the vase. “Got it!”

  “Score,” Hank yelled.

  As my father helped my mother to her feet, I ran over and grabbed the vase before he had a chance to get his hands on it again.

  Two employees, who had barely finished picking up after my brothers, raced over with stunned expressions on their faces. I kind of wanted to just run the other way, because I didn’t want them to know I was involved. Since I now held the valuable piece of art, I supposed it would be hard to act as though I weren’t related to these people. My brothers laughed from somewhere behind me. The male employee, whose grumpy expression seemed deeply etched into his florid face, flared his nostrils and marched over to me. His blue blazer with the Biltmore logo barely contained his hefty girth.

  He yanked the vase from my arms. “Please step out from behind the rope.”

  His female companion, whose blue blazer hugged a slim figure, motioned for my mother and father to move, as well. Yes, a trip to the Biltmore Estate had definitely been a bad idea. What was once a lovely afternoon was now a complete disaster. I grabbed my brother Hank and pulled him to the side.

  “What?” he said with a chuckle. “It was an honest mistake. Dad probably thought this was a flea market and was searching for a price tag.”

  “Why were you on the other side of that rope, too?” I asked. “I can’t take you all anywhere.”

  “You never take me anywhere,” he said.

  “Now you know why,” I said.

  Yes, technically, my family had invited themselves on this trip. They’d followed me all the way from Gatlinburg.

  Stevie sauntered over to my side. “We just wanted to get a better view of the fancy-schmancy stuff. You can’t blame us for that.”

  “Yes, I can blame you for that,” I said in a louder voice than I’d intended.

  A third employee joined our group. The word SECURITY was written in big white letters across the front of his black shirt. The tall, muscular, bald-headed man gestured toward the door. “We’re going to have to ask you all to please exit.”

  “Oh no, I didn’t get to see everything,” my mother said in a pouty tone.

  “Is it really necessary that we leave?” my father asked.

  The man stared blankly at my father.

  “He wants to know if it’s necessary that we leave,” I translated. “We’ll be good.”

  The man gestured toward the door again, giving my father the answer without saying a word.

  “Okay, I think it’s best if we just go.” I looped my arm through my mother’s and guided her toward the door.

  Glancing back, I realized my father was standing there, staring at the mural on the ceiling. I rushed over and yanked him with me. Everyone in the room stared at us. It was more attention than I wanted. My father and brothers reluctantly obeyed and marched behind us.

  “Sorry,” I said over my shoulder to the employees.

  Frustration covered their faces, as if they wanted no part of my apology. I totally understood their point of view. Plus, my bank account couldn’t afford reimbursing the estate if one of my wacky relatives broke something. Being asked to leave was a blessing in disguise.

  My family and I walked past the groups of tour-goers entering the estate. They looked as if they were having a delightful time. With my family, I realized serenity wasn’t in the cards for me. Bright sunshine surrounded us as we stepped out of the mansion. I blinked, trying to adjust to the light. A vast array of colors surrounded us—the lush lawns and trees full of green leaves. The assortment of trees included magnolia, cherry, and crabapple. Pink hyacinths, yellow daffodils, and red tulips bloomed around the space. It was so much to take in that I felt I’d never see it all.

  “Well, thanks to you all, we almost got arrested,” I said. “You should thank me for saving you from going to jail. Once again. It’s like that time you all decided to work on Mr. Renfrow’s car without telling him.”

  “We had to te
st-drive the Cadillac to see if it was fixed. If we’d told him, it would have ruined the surprise,” Stevie said with an impish smile.

  “I saved you from being arrested that time, too. Just like now,” I said, pointing my finger.

  “Why would you say that you saved us? What did we do?” Stevie asked with a frown.

  “She got you out of there without causing any more damage,” my mother said. “You all nearly broke something.”

  I motioned for my family to quicken their steps as we marched toward the parking area. With any luck, I’d convince them to go home. Not that I didn’t love my family, but with their natural knack of creating chaos, I felt I owed it to everyone to keep them away. I was staying behind because I’d signed up to be a part of the Fifth Annual Fall Biltmore Estate Craft Fair being held right on the grounds. I couldn’t have been happier about the upcoming event. If my family stayed, I knew something disastrous would happen. It would be like throwing a wet canvas tarp over my beautiful art.

  I hoped to sell quite a few of my paintings while here. Each time I signed Celeste Cabot to the bottom of a painting, my heart danced. I took pride in signing my name to each one, since now I was full-time painter. Recently, I’d quit my job at my Aunt Patsy’s diner back in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, and decided to chase my dreams. Never had I thought I’d have this opportunity. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I was giving it my best shot.