Ghost Of A Chance Southern Ghost Hunter Mysteries 25 – Angie Fox

“You owe me this night out. And before you have puppies, I’ll let you see my side of the fence. But that’s all you get. After that, you’re on your own. I’m going to party like it’s 1929.” “Knock yourself out,” I told him. Heaven knew Frankie wouldn’t help if he didn’t want to, so it wasn’t a big loss to let him have an evening to himself. Lauralee turned to me, her brow scrunched. “What?” “Just psyching myself up,” I told her, ignoring the ghost spit-shining his shoes in the backseat as she pulled the truck around the side drive.

Several cars lined the parking area to the rear of the house. Lauralee ground the truck to a stop and shoved it into park. “You’ll do great, as long as you stay focused.” She had no idea. I stepped out of the cab as an unearthly energy settled over me. It prickled against my skin. I closed the truck door and tried not to fight the dull throb that worked its way through my muscles and bones. Frankie’s power felt forbidden, unsettling. Other ghosts had told us we shouldn’t be bending natural laws like this.

But at the moment, I didn’t have a choice— not if I wanted to help Matthew. A gray, shadowy form took shape directly in front of us, on the stairs leading to the back entrance of the house. It was too small to be Matthew. I watched as the shadow formed into the figure of a corseted woman in black. She appeared to be in her early twenties and wore a Civil War-era dress with a lace veil, which floated behind her. She gave us a long look before she walked straight through the red brick wall of the mansion.

“You see her eyeing me?” Frankie asked, straightening his tie. “I think I need to give her daddy something to worry about.” He didn’t wait for my answer. Instead, the ghost of the gangster simply disappeared. Well, that solved one problem. I headed to the back of the truck to help Lauralee unload the food. We carried it up the back steps and into the kitchen from the staff entrance. “Wow.” I whistled as we entered the large, modern kitchen. It was done in whites and grays with sleek granite countertops and appliances.

The space bustled with activity and smelled like a high-end restaurant. “Nice office.” “I know, right?” Lauralee said as we unloaded our food trays on the huge kitchen island. “I could get used to this.” Tall polished wood cabinets stretched up to the high ceilings and into the narrow butler’s pantry sandwiched between the kitchen and the dining room. A counter ran down the right side of the room, with cabinets above and below to store dishes and entertaining supplies.

Copyright © 2015 Angie Fox All Rights Are Reserved. This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

OceanofPDF.com 1 The smell of fresh-baked sugar cookies filled my kitchen, and the tinny sound of Frank Sinatra singing “White Christmas” echoed from my outdated iPhone. Behind me, the ghost of a 1920s gangster hovered while I pulled the last hot tray from the oven. “Move. I don’t want to burn you,” I said automatically, realizing only afterward how ridiculous it sounded. Any object—hot or otherwise—would pass straight through the specter. Frankie appeared in black and white, his image transparent enough that I could just make out the cooling trays on the kitchen island behind him.

He wore a pin-striped suit coat with matching cuffed trousers and a fat tie. He inhaled as if he could smell the crisp, warm cookies. “That’s a killer batch, right there,” he observed while I jockeyed around him, “but I gotta tell you, most of the gun barrels are crooked.” I winked, surprising him.

“Everybody’s a critic.” I’d given in to holiday cheer and let him tell me how to shape the last of the dough, and he’d chosen the things he loved most. Which meant I had a baking sheet full of revolvers, cigarettes, and booze bottles—all oddly shaped because, truly, who has cookie cutters for that sort of thing? I placed the tray on a rack to start cooling, glad I’d included the surly gangster in my holiday festivities.

He was technically a houseguest until I could find a way to free him. Although I had no clue what I was going to do with his contraband cookies. I couldn’t eat them all or explain them away to guests. “What’s next?” he asked before I’d even transferred one cookie off the baking tray, never mind the dough-flecked countertops or the dishes.

The man obviously hadn’t spent much time in the kitchen before. “Why don’t you go outside and look at the holiday lights?” I suggested. Perhaps that would get him into the spirit of the season.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

Book Information

• Unique ID: 9f8941ec09313882
• File Extension: .pdf
• File Size: 623,082 bytes (0.594 MB)
• Title: –
• Author: Unknown
• Pages: 34
• Language: English (en)

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• Estimated Reading Time: 50.72 minutes
• Total Words: 10,143
• Total Characters: 55,814
• Average Words per Page: 298.32
• Average Characters per Page: 1641.59

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