Dead Man Hand (A Dead Man Mystery Book 3) Read online

  Dead Man Hand

  A DEAD MAN MYSTERY

  BOOK THREE

  T. M. SIMMONS

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  T. M. Simmons, 2012, 2022. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  Published by ePublishing Works!

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  eBook ISBN: 978-1-64457-343-3

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  Before You Go…

  Dead Man Ohio

  Also by T. M. Simmons

  About the Author

  To Dianna Miller, my free-spirited friend who has seen her share of ghosts! I hope this is the first book you get to read on your new e-reader! I still recall meeting you at The Myrtles in St. Francisville and the start of our long friendship. Remember tapping on the mirror in the Blue Room? You're the one who called Cloe forth for Aunt Belle and me to get our first picture of a ghost! Aunt Belle and I loved you from the minute we met and continue to count you as one of our beautiful friends.

  I wish you a wonderful life filled with caring friends who are as loving as you.

  Chapter 1

  Ah, those fateful words after months spent writing this book. But this one didn't want to depart easily.

  My gaze wandered to the fireplace, where log ashes now smoldered in a faint red glow. Earlier, the cheery leaping flames had helped chase off the dreary December evening lingering outside the patio door. The stack of firewood lay out there, also, the empty log carrier tilted precariously amidst scattered bark debris. After tossing the last piece of wood on the fire hours ago, I'd started to fetch more, but gotten sidetracked by a new word to use on a problematic phrase. I'd raced back to the computer instead, and now the wood was damp from the rain I hadn't noticed falling.

  "Good grief, how long ago was that?" I asked the Casper clock my eighty-year-old neighbor Granny Chisholm had given me, which sat on the mantle above the fire. The digital numbers on the friendly ghost's wide belly blinked just then, and four boo-bongs chimed an answer into the stillness.

  The reason for my vexing attitude had to be the time: four in the morning, not afternoon. Exhaustion dragged at me after another marathon stint at the keyboard.

  Everything had finally clicked into place on the just completed book…hadn't it? All loose ends tied up, an extremely satisfying ending after an ever-threatening suspense world in which my characters continued to be outsmarted by a devious villain. Yet something niggled me, and a reluctant Muse refused to cooperate. Maybe he needed a nap, too.

  After one more of the numerous backups on the manuscript, I rose and stretched, hands massaging a spot on my lower back. Ergonomic safety never seemed to soothe the sore spot, since at times I lost myself in the story and didn't heed the rule to take periodic breaks. Still, the words had flowed from flying fingertips, and I'd taken advantage of the last rush to the ending. I was even a couple weeks pre-deadline.

  So why didn't I feel the customary satisfaction? Have a smile on my face and the need to stumble off to the bedroom and crash on the stupendous new mattress I'd bought with my last royalty check? Could there be some glitch in the manuscript I hadn't noticed, one I'd be embarrassed about when my editor caught it instead of me?

  After checking to make sure the fire screen was secure, I wandered out of my study and down the hallway to the front door. None of my paranormal residents were around, surprising, since ten ghosts reside in my haunted cabin with my pets and me. Come to think of it, none of the six cats roamed under my feet. Cats sleep a lot, though. More unusual was I didn't see Trucker, my hundred-and-fifty-pound Rottweiler, anywhere. Maybe he'd taken a doggy potty break through the rear doggy/kitty door.

  I slipped into a pair of loose sandals and walked onto the front sun deck, grimacing when a mist of rain hit me. Despite the protective overhang, a pre-dawn breeze off the lake across the road carried rain droplets and snakes of fog onto the deck. And there were at least two of my pets: Trucker and Miss Molly, my Siamese and head honcho of the cat menagerie. Miss Molly abhorred wetness, but she stood between two railing posts, intent gaze toward the lake. Trucker stared in the same direction and didn't acknowledge my presence.

  "Hey, guys, what's up?" I asked.

  They didn't answer. Animals don't talk. If they ever did, I'd be much more shocked than when a ghost visualized unexpectedly.

  I see ghosts. I talk to ghosts. And I enjoy the heck out of my paranormal adventures...most of the time. I even allow the ghosts who "live" in my cabin with me to linger, as long as they follow the rules of The Howard and Alice Ghost Agreement. With the help of my Aunt Twila, by far the more experienced senior ghost hunter in our partnership, I drew up The Agreement after we found this awesome haunted cabin. I bought it within a month of my divorce from Jack. Twila believes in disciplining ghosts, and we named The Agreement for Howard, the Head Ghost in charge of his paranormal cohorts.

  "What are you two looking at?" I asked as I joined my pets at the railing. The rain wasn't too bad yet, rather refreshing after the long stint in my study, although I realized I should have grabbed a sweater or poncho. December nights get chilly in East Texas, and we even have a sprinkling of snow now and then. Dawn was a while away; days are also shorter in Texas winters, as they are elsewhere. The Winter Solstice was still two weeks off, and right after that, Christmas, for which I hadn't done a bit of shopping yet.

  Since their eyes are much sharper than mine, I assumed my pets could see something over on the lake that I couldn't. Along with the rain, a heavy mist rose from the water, further inhibiting my line of sight. It layered the grounds around my cabin, my white Jeep—which I'd once again forgotten to move into the garage—nearly invisible in the driveway. Yet the m
ist over the water seemed....

  "Good grief. All the ghosts are out there on the lake!"

  Most people would beat feet the other way when confronted with one ghost, let alone an entire crew of paranormal entities. However, since my ghosts were residents for whom I felt a certain amount of responsibility, it behooved me to pay attention to their activities. I couldn't recall ever seeing each and every one of them together in a crowd.

  I ducked back inside the door and grabbed a rain poncho from a hook on the wall. Shrugging into it, I hurried down the deck steps and along the driveway. Trucker and Miss Molly followed. Trucker's paws thudded on the steps and crunched the oyster shells in the driveway. Miss Molly grumbled about the dampness under her cat's breath, but kept up. I strode on across the road and down a path I'd cleared to the lakeshore. I'd even placed a small wooden bench on the bank under a tree, and two of my residents sat there. Wilma ignored me; still pouting, I assumed, from the scolding I gave her when I caught her needlessly flushing the toilet to watch the water swirl down the drain. Wilma can be petulant.

  Beside her sat Phil, one of those lonesome cowboys who returned from the War Between the States to ride herd on the cattle ranging free all over Texas. For some reason, Phil never had the gumption to start a ranch of his own. In fact, Phil hadn't even dredged up the horse sense to cross on through The Light for some reason. I suspected he had a secret crush on Wilma, whom he might have met on one of the cattle drives up Kansas way back in those days.

  I bypassed them and strode onto the wooden pier. The rowboat I bought with the cabin was missing from its mooring, but Howard loved to fish, so that didn't surprise me. The Head Ghost even wet a line at night sometimes. And there was the rowboat, a hundred feet or so out in the lake. In it were Howard, along with Rick and Shannon, the two kids who stubbornly rejected my efforts to persuade them to cross over and join their parents. Five other ghosts hovered on the water surface around the rowboat, heads bent and intent on whatever Howard was doing.

  And he wasn't liberating one of the fish he periodically caught, Howard being a catch-and-release ghost. Howard leaned over the side, and the rowboat tilted dangerously—not that I had to worry about any of the ghosts drowning, since they were already dead. Still, I didn't want the boat to sink and have to explain to whomever I called to salvage it what had happened. Weightless, ghosts shouldn't tip that boat, anyway, but maybe they were playing around.

  "Howard!" I called. "Don't sink the boat! What are you doing?"

  Won't, he mentally said, since our relationship has evolved over the last two and a half years to where telepathy works. He didn't answer my question. Howard's also a ghost of few words. Sometimes getting him to talk is like teasing one of the mimes who work the Bourbon Street crowds in New Orleans, where I met Jack a few years ago.

  Howard manipulated something into the rowboat, which caused the boat to rock back and forth. Now, I'd normally say a live person heaved something into the boat, but Howard and other ghosts I've known have a way of directing objects they wish to move. I'd never asked them how they do it, just accepted it as part of their other dimension, which interests me so highly. I couldn't make out what he'd evidently pulled from the lake at this distance.

  "What are you doing?" I repeated, since sometimes Howard will answer a recurrent question. This time, he didn't. He did, however, maneuver the oars and head the boat back toward the pier where I waited.

  Shannon sat in the bow, Rick in the stern, Howard on the middle, rowing seat. The other ghosts vanished rather than follow along in the boat's wake. When the rowboat grew close enough, I could see a heap of red at Howard's feet. It looked like…

  ...a woman lying there!

  The rowboat bumped the pier and I grabbed the bow rope to tie it off. Howard, Rick and Shannon floated up to stand beside me as I examined the heap of red. She sat up, tossed her blond hair back out of her eyes, and stared directly at me. "Well, you wouldn't talk to me any other way!"

  Howard spoke aloud this time. "Didn't you know you couldn't swim?"

  "Of course," she said as she scooted onto the seat Howard had vacated. "I can't drown, though. You know that as well as I do."

  I peered closer. Yep, she was a ghost, even though she appeared as solid as me. Well, not quite, since I still hadn't lost that extra ten pounds and she was slender and well-toned. She was dressed in a low-cut red gown, which reminded me of something a saloon girl would have worn back in the mid-1800's. Black fishnet stocking encased those attractive legs, a pair of button-up shoes with stacked heels on her feet.

  And she was dry as a bone, not a drop of water on her. The dress skirt flared out across the boat seat, and her hair was whorled and curled intricately. A pair of sparkly earrings dangled from shell-perfect ears, and a teardrop diamond hung from a bright silver chain around her neck. The jewelry had to be fake, I assumed, since where would an 1800's saloon girl get money for those expensive baubles?

  "The house is full," I told her. "I'm sorry, but once in a while I do have to turn away a gho...uh...prospective boarder."

  "I know I'm a ghost!" she shot back. "So you don't have to sidestep that issue. And I know who you are. I've been trying to talk to you for over a week now, but he—" She nodded at Howard. "— wouldn't let me."

  "She's writing," Howard said sternly. "We don't bother her when she's writing. That's the number one rule of The Agreement. Never—EVER—bother Alice when she's writing!"

  Wow. Howard could spout it out when he felt like it.

  "Pooh," the woman said. "Some things are more important than some stodgy old book!"

  "And you," I warned, "are not going to win any points with me with that attitude. I don't know how long you've been a ghost, or what you want from me, but Howard's my first line of defense. If he says you don't hang around, or see me, then you don't! Otherwise, I'd have slews of your ilk barging into my life and wreaking havoc."

  "And I didn't appreciate being tricked like that," Howard added. "I thought someone real was in the lake."

  "I'm as real as you are," she spat at him.

  Someone tugged on my hand, and I glanced down at Shannon. "She looks sorta like my mama, Miss Alice," the little girl said. "Can't you at least talk to her?"

  "Shannon," I said in exasperation, "you need to be with your mama. But I can't force you or Rick to go, not when you two play hide and seek with me whenever I try. However, you aren't in charge here, either. I am, with Howard second-in-command. Right now, I'm going back into the house, take a shower, and go to bed. I've had a long night already."

  I suited action to words, gently pulled my hand free from Shannon's tiny one, and strode down the pier toward the shoreline. Problem was, the pier wasn't that wide, and Trucker turned sideways on it to block my path. Miss Molly plopped herself on her rump at Trucker's side, stared up at me and cat-growled the irritating meow-ser that sets my teeth on edge. Beyond them, several of the other ghosts lined the shoreline, and I noticed Wilma and Phil had vacated the bench.

  A mutiny! I had a mutiny on my hands. Well, we'd just see about that!

  "Move," I gritted at Trucker and Miss Molly. The ghosts didn't bother me. I could stride straight through them with no problem.

  "Woof!" Trucker responded. He didn't move a muscle to obey.

  "That Lady in Red's been slipping him dog biscuits and Miss Molly her Kitty Kisses treats when she could sneak past me into the pantry," Howard said. "Got them to liking her."

  "Then let her talk to them." I started to step over Trucker. "I'm going to bed."

  Miss Molly zipped beneath Trucker and I barely missed putting a heavy foot down on her back. I ended up spread-legged across Trucker, one foot toward the shore, one still behind me. And that blasted dog finally decided to move...toward that obstinate red-dress ghost!

  Trucker shoved my leg out of the way as though it were a slim sapling. My sandaled foot slipped on the wet pier. Waving my arms for balance didn't help. With a screech, I splashed into that winter-cold water. Fortunatel
y for my body, it was deeper out here near the end of the pier. Not lucky for the mutineers. I sank to the sandy bottom, surged to my feet and straightened. The water was waist-high, and plenty of me was available to take care of the defiance, most importantly, my mouth.

  "Get the hell up to the cabin!" I yelled at Trucker and Miss Molly—as soon as I spat the water out. "Or you're gonna spend the night in the garage!"

  They had sense enough to realize they had overstepped. Both of them deserted Lady in Red and hightailed it along the pier, down the path to the road. I splashed alongside until the water was shallow enough for me to lunge onto the pier. Water streaming from me and cold chills racing over me, I scrambled to my feet and shouted at the ghosts lining the shore, "Out of here! Every one of you! Get the hell back to your own dimension for a while, or I'll sprinkle sea salt all over the cabin and put out protection packets so none of you can stay!"

  Whoosh, they disappeared. And I whirled to face Lady in Red...who wasn't there, either. Nor were Rick and Shannon. Howard was, though. He shrugged and said, "Uh...I think I'll go fish."

  He dissolved, also, although I could tell where he was. The rowboat rope disengaged itself and flew into the bow. The boat slowly drifted off.

  "Get that boat back here before daylight!" I shouted at Howard. "There are a couple other owners in residence this week!"

  Will, he agreed, thank goodness. It was starting to be a nuisance to try to explain to Mr. Jones down on the point why my rowboat kept escaping, since I didn't dare admit a ghost utilized it. Mr. Jones was like Jack; he didn't believe in ghosts. Although Jack had changed his tune somewhat the past year....