The Weird Sisters: Malhaven Mysteries Book 1

Jim Malhaven is a lonely hack reporter stringing along on assignments no one else wants at the local paper until he gets the scoop of his life. There's a mysterious wraith haunting the local cemetery, and it's up to him to get to the bottom of the ghostly goings-on. 

Along the way, he'll cross paths with a trio of weird sisters, uncover a sinister conspiracy, have more than one brush with death, and meet a gal with honey-blonde hair and a killer smile. Is she that certain someone he's been looking for all his life, or is there a villain hiding behind that lovely face? This twisty tale will leave you guessing until the final shocking revelation. 

This is Book One in the Malhaven Mysteries series, light noir novels with a cozy mystery feel and a touch of the supernatural that pay loving tribute to the wise guy detectives of the 40s and 50s. 

(Content warnings: suicide, implied child abuse, drug use, child loss)

Publication date: January 15, 2019

349 pages, 81,000 words

Excerpt:

Chapter One

I’ll never forget the first time I laid eyes on her. It was late in the evening, later than I meant to be. My editor at the Crier had shot me the assignment just before lunch, but you know how it is—what with one thing and another, it was well after sunset before I rattled out to the gates of the old cemetery past the outskirts of town in my trusty Studebaker Champion.

The two-door coupe was ten years-old and nothing flashy. It had a couple of hefty dents in the body, and the once-shiny black paint had been showing its age even when I splurged out all the pay I’d managed to save from the Army on it at the used car lot in town a few years back. But it ran okay and got me where I needed to be, so I had no complaints. I’d even given it a nickname, the Champ, like it was a pal of mine. There were days when it felt like my only pal—go ahead and bust out the violins as you cry a river over me.

I winced as I hauled myself out of the car, my bad leg giving me grief again. I gave it a rubdown to ease the stabbing pain as I glanced up at the words in a fancy, hard-to-read lettering that were frowning down disapprovingly at me from above the wrought-iron gates: Wynter’s Hill Cemetery. A heavy chain and padlock barred the way.

Rattling the gates, I yelled out, “Anyone there?” half-heartedly a few times, not really expecting there would be any warm bodies inside to answer it on such a night. It was one of those cool, damp autumn ones. The kind where it felt like the sky might open up and dump buckets of rain on you at any minute, but instead, all you got was a nasty, chilly mist that tried to steal its way down into the marrow of your bones.

I pulled the collar of my old trench coat close and sunk my hands deep in the pockets, fishing around for my cigarettes and a pack of matches and coming up empty. I’d forgotten for half a sec that I’d gifted the smokes and matches to an old bum I passed on the street earlier in the day. You’d of thought I’d handed him a century note the way his face lit up, poor sap. Maybe I felt sorry for him ‘cause there’s been plenty of times I felt like I wasn’t far off roughing it myself so I didn’t regret my generosity, but I was sure missing those cigs right about now.

That tramp reminded me that I was one of the lucky ones. At least I had a job, but the salary didn’t exactly turn me into a Rockefeller. The Carsworth City Crier wasn’t a bad rag as local tabloids go, but it was nothing like working at one of the big papers just an hour away in old Chicago or back east in New York City, and the pay sure didn’t stretch to luxuries like a nice apartment or even a new lid for the old melon.

My brown fedora was shiny and worn along the crease where I’d grabbed it to pull it off and on more times than I could count. I’d been putting off laying out the cash for a new one. I could get a decent enough hat for not so much, but I always heard my old man’s voice in my head, “Go for quality over quantity, James. That’s the only way you’ll get ahead in life.”

Pops was the only one who ever called me James. It’s always been Jim or Jimmy with anyone else, but Elliot Gardiner Malhaven was a formal kind of a guy, and he didn’t let down his standards, even with his only kid. He wanted me to call him E.G. like his cronies did, so I only ever called him “Pops” in my own mind—it just seemed friendlier, somehow. More like the other boys on my block. I used to envy the way they’d joke around with their fathers. Go out in the street and toss a baseball back and forth for hours.

E.G. wouldn’t have been caught dead standing in the street, much less touching a baseball. No, he wasn’t what you’d call a warm and cuddly personality, but he was a sharp dresser. Even when times was tough, the wife and son could go without if E.G. needed a suit or a shiny new pair of kicks. Made me mad as blazes seeing Ma go around in an old dress she’d done over half a dozen times to try and make it look new, and me with the soles of my shoes worn through so bad that I had to squelch around in wet socks on rainy days.

But it must’ve rubbed off on me all the same, ‘cause I never can force myself to buy cheap duds, the kind I could really afford on my wages. I find myself saving up to splurge on the top of the line, or as near the top as I’ll ever get. It’s funny how we pick up habits like that from our folks. I wonder sometimes if parents realize their kids are like sponges, absorbing a bunch of stuff they never meant to teach them.

Kicking myself for not making it out to the boneyard before it was all buttoned up nice and tight, I was about to give up and commence the drive back into town, thinking I’d give any amount of money right then for a smoke, when a small light beyond the gates caught my eye. It was the red glow from the tip of a cigarette, taunting me in the darkness. I couldn’t see who was smoking it, just a vague shape in the gloom of the night.

“Hey,” I called out. “You don’t happen to have another one of those on you, do you?”

The glowing light dropped to the ground and was stamped out followed by a whole lot of nothing. I thought maybe that was gonna be the end of it, but some kinda stubbornness kept me rooted to the spot. I’d come all that way for a story, and I guess I was hoping I might still find one to take back to Morty after all. He wasn’t the worst boss I ever had. Tough as nails. Fair, in his way. But I knew he wasn’t gonna buy my excuses for not getting on the case earlier in the day, and it wasn’t the first time I’d flubbed up either, not by a long shot. I needed that gig, so I stood my ground, staring through the gates like I could will whoever was in there to give me a break.

All that quiet in such a place at night might’ve rattled some guys, but I’d experienced more than a lot at that point in my life. Had experiences that turned me into a hard nut to crack, so I just propped myself up against one of the big stone posts, striking a casual pose. I was startled by a light directed at my face and had to throw a hand up to shield my eyes, but not before whoever was there got a good gawk at me.

“Not much of a looker, are you?”

The voice was sultry and low, but I could tell it was a dame, something I wasn’t expecting. I could make out a bit of her outline now that she was coming closer, tall and curvy, just beyond the glare from the lantern she was holding out in front of her. It was an old-fashioned looking thing, but the light was plenty strong, nearly blinding me.

“You should see the other guy,” I retorted, automatically belching out the tired old line I’d used a thousand times. When you’ve got a mean-looking scar taking up about half the real estate on your face, you get used to the stares and the comments. I wasn’t the most handsome guy to start with, but it sure didn’t help none. One of my exes, bless her heart, always tried to convince me I was ruggedly good-looking. Said she liked the combo of my dark ginger hair and light gray eyes. I guess it’s not something you see every day of the year, but I never thought it was enough to turn me into any kind of movie star even before I got cut.

The shapely shadow spoke again. “Why? What does he look like? The other guy?”

I was taken aback. Most people don’t have the nerve to follow up on my line, and without being able to see her face, I couldn’t tell how she meant it. Serious, or just trying to give me the business.

“He resembles a corpse,” I replied sourly.

“Oh, did you kill him?” she cooed.

That’s right, cooed. That’s the only way I can describe it. There was something downright unsettling about the way she said it. Like she found the idea of me offing a guy thrilling beyond words. I wished I could see her face to get a better read on the situation, but she kept the light between us, so I couldn’t get a good look in.

“Was it in the war?” she asked.

“Nope. Made it through Pearl Harbor and then all around the Pacific right through ’45 without a scratch only to get jumped a couple of years after I got back stateside by some two-bit lowlife trying to get in good with his boss by bumping off the reporter who was digging a bit too hard into their racket.”

“You’re a reporter? That must be exciting.”

She was continuing to edge closer to the gates. I thought if I could keep her talking, maybe she’d get near enough for me to see her face. And I wanted to see her face. Badly. To see if it matched that voice.

I felt like a jolt of electricity was running through me, standing there in the dark, lobbing words back and forth with that mysterious but well-formed shadow. It’d been a long time since I felt that way. Made me remember what it was like to feel young again. Really young. Like the world is your oyster and anything is still possible kind of young.

“Reporting’s usually not that exciting, if you want to call it that,” I said. “That was more of a thrilling adventure tale than I was expecting. Nowadays, I stick to more straightforward stuff. Fluff pieces. Society doings. Gossip. You know the kind of thing. The human interest beat.”

“Human interest? Is that what brings you out here so late?”

“Well, I didn’t set out to be this late. Got caught up with a few things and didn’t arrive before now only to find out you’re all locked up snug for the night. I’ll admit I was feeling a bit low until you happened along.”

She was close now, like she was being drawn against her will to the stranger at the gates. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t mark it down to any kind of personal magnetism on my part. Something told me she was just jaded and that any novel face was welcome, even a rough mug like mine.

One long, delicate hand with rose-tipped nails reached out through the gates toward me with an offering. A gasper and a silver lighter. I thought about grabbing the hand and pulling her close, so I could finally see her face but resisted the urge. I’d found out the hard way you had to play it soft in these situations if you want to get anywhere. Strong arm tactics only take you so far.

I took the gift and lit up. I couldn’t help but notice the lighter was a fancy one, engraved all over with curly lines and some initials that were rubbed away a little and hard to make out. I thought one might be a “J,” but the script was hard to read, and I didn’t want to look like I was studying it too closely. I got the feeling she was skittish and that it wouldn’t take much to spook her. I shut the lighter with a sharp snap that sounded extra loud in the quiet of the night and handed it back to her before taking a long drag on the cigarette, savoring that lovely bitter taste and smell.

“Thanks,” I said. “There’s nothing like a warm smoke on a cold night, is there?”

“No, nothing at all,” she agreed.

She put the lantern down on a large rock just inside the gates and bent over to shield her own cigarette from the mist while she lit it, her long hair hiding her face from my inquisitive gaze. I remember it felt to me like there was nothing more important in the world than that I should see that face, just once. She took a quick puff and turned toward me. The lantern’s light fell on both of us now, and I finally got my wish.