Page 1 of A Midsummer Night’s Ghost (Murder By Design #8)

ONE

I’d been threatened at the hands of madmen at least three times in the last six months and survived.

Yet it was now obvious what was going to kill me. I was going to be crushed by moving boxes in my own house.

“Grandma Burke, why do you have so many books?” I asked, huffing and puffing as I struggled up the porch stairs with yet another box undoubtedly filled with ancient Harlequin novels. “You don’t even read paperbacks anymore.”

She read on her iPad with the font set at twenty-five.

“These are classics,” she replied, lounging like a tiny Celtic queen on the wicker sofa, feet crossed at the ankles, face turned to the balmy May breeze. “From when I was in my smut era.”

Did my Irish grandmother just make a Taylor Swift reference?

You never knew with her.

She was equal parts old-school and TikTok trends. She’d been given the power of voice command on her phone and our smart home management devices and she took that seriously, bossing Alexa around, texting with wild abandon, and purchasing items she no longer needed or necessarily understood. If she ordered one more latte for home delivery and then complained it had milk in it, we were going to have to delete her DoorDash app.

“Why do you have so many shoes?” Jake, my patient boyfriend, asked me, right on my heels, ironically.

He was double-boxed. Two boxes piled on top of each other because he was thirty and worked out an hour a day and liked to prove it. He looked good hauling boxes, I had to admit, competent and not gasping for air, unlike me, who was sweaty and winded.

“I think this should be a judgment free zone,” I said, not wanting to admit that my wardrobe took up a disproportionate number of the boxes we had been hauling into our new house all day.

Jake gave a snort and bypassed me on the porch with long strides, disappearing into our burgeoning living room. I dropped the heavy box on the porch floor and sat down next to my grandmother with a sigh.

“My arms are killing me.”

“Don’t joke about death, Margaret,” Grandma Burke said, patting my knee. “It’s no joke at my age.”

My grandmother was the only one who ever called me Margaret, which was actually my middle name. My parents named me Bailey, but that wasn’t Catholic enough for her. Irish enough? Sure. But it was worth nothing because it wasn’t a saint’s name. Since my father worshiped at the altar of the Church of Whiskey my name was divine in his eyes.

“Sorry, Grandma. You’re right. Death is no joke.”

Unfortunately, death seemed to follow me.

Jake, who everyone called by his last name, Marner, chose to deal in death—he was a homicide detective. Bodies were a puzzle for him to solve and he was great at his job. He was empathetic for the victims and their bodies and took great pleasure in putting away murderers.

I got no such satisfaction because seeing dead bodies wasn’t my choice.

I was a spiritual medium through no fault or request of my own.

My ability to see ghosts had just appeared one day, kind of like mold, in the form of my dead best friend, Ryan.

Poof .

He was just there, in my kitchen, talking like nothing was odd about the fact that he had been dead for six months and yet was still being a smartass.

After Ryan, the ghosts kept coming, like an otherworldly conveyor belt of needy spirits wanting me to listen to their sob stories. Which was fair. I think it would be terrible to be trapped in limbo and no one can see you. We all want to be seen.

However, the popping in and out thing was both startling and an invasion of privacy. I still hadn’t quite managed to set boundaries regarding my personal space.

Generally speaking, ghosts are socially awkward and I never wanted to push too hard because they had the ability to annoy me twenty-four/seven if I made them truly angry. Like the one guy who sat on the edge of my bed and sang pop songs in the middle of the night until I agreed to help him.

Also, I felt bad for them. Most were confused, upset, frustrated. Not sure what was going on or where to turn. Having me as their only point of contact wasn’t exactly reassuring for them. I was a novice spiritual medium at best.

“Are you taking me to my theater class?” Grandma asked. “It starts in an hour.”

I swiped my red curls back off of my forehead. I had remembered the class, but hoped she’d forgotten. The senior center was hosting a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which was, to put it mildly, ambitious. Considering half of the cast couldn’t remember what they ate for lunch, it was a stretch to expect them to remember Shakespearean monologues.

But I appreciated the confidence the director, Sara Murphy, had in her actors.

Sara and I had gone to high school together, where she had been an It Girl. National Honor Society, drama club, salutatorian, lacrosse player, and student council president. Not to mention gorgeous with flawless skin. Yet you couldn’t even hate her (I can admit to being jealous in high school though) because she was genuinely nice to everyone, had founded the inclusivity club, and logged the most volunteer hours of our entire graduation class.

After heading to NYU and a stint as an actress in some off-Broadway shows, Sara was back home in Cleveland, working on a teaching degree and volunteering at the senior center.

Grandma Burke’s role was “A Young Woman of Athens,” which obviously delighted her. She’d started referring to herself as a Greek goddess at random intervals, much to my father’s irritation and Jake’s amusement.

“Let me call Dad and see if he can pick you up,” I told her. “We still have a quarter of the truck to unload.”

“What happened to Jake’s friends? I thought they were supposed to help you.”

“I did too.”

It just so happened though that Jake never actually asked anyone to help.

Which tracked with his personality.

Why ask for help when you can stubbornly do it all on your own and risk a back injury?

“Your father is too busy drinking and whoring to pick me up,” Grandma Burke said.

I almost fell off the wicker loveseat at that.

I knew my grandmother had a problem with both Dad’s drinking and his recent divorce from my mom, but those were strong words. But considering that he didn’t make a ton of time for his aging mother, I couldn’t blame her for being salty. She was living with me and not him for that very reason.

“Let me at least text him.”

Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I saw I had a text from Jake’s mother.

Can I drop by in an hour to see the house? I have a bundt cake for you and Jake.

On second thought.

“I’ll just take you, Grandma.”

Jake’s mother was not happy that we were living together without being married. She was even less happy that we were not even engaged yet and kept dropping not-so-subtle hints about a ring. I could use a day free from her criticisms of my age, my job, the birthday party I had thrown for Jake, and my apparently incredible talent at “bamboozling” her son into putting his name on a mortgage with me without us being married.

To be fair, my career had seen better days. But the rest? I don’t consider being twenty-eight an issue for anything other than I was at the age that half my friend group was getting married, and the birthday party was lovely , thank you very much. Jake would have been content with a six-pack of beer, some cupcakes, and me in only high heels and a bow.

Plus, I’d never bamboozled in my life.

I wouldn’t even know where to begin with bamboozling.

It was Jake’s idea to buy a house together and he—mostly—picked this very dated, rambling, nineteen-forties bungalow.

I texted her back, wanting to avoid seeing her and enduring another round of I-can’t-believe-you-bought-a-house-without-being-at-least-engaged guilt cycle.

Jake will be here but I have to take my grandmother to an appointment. I’m sorry I’ll miss you. Bundt cake, yum, thank you!

“Jake’s mother?” Grandma gave me a shrewd look.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“You always get a panicked look when she texts you.”

I couldn’t even deny it.

“You think I’d be desensitized to strong women, given Mom, but I can’t help it. Jake’s mom is relentless with this marriage thing. My mom may only give me a hug on my birthday and Christmas, but she also doesn’t even bother to harass me about marriage anymore.”

“She’s anti-marriage now and who can blame her? My son was a lousy husband, which really irks me. I didn’t raise him to neglect his family the way he has.”

If Mrs. Marner was hung up on marriage, Grandma Burke used every opportunity she could to complain about my dad, who was being a jerk of late. Or always. But he was a fun dad, so I was always willing to forgive him, until he left Grandma—his own mother—alone on multiple occasions and my mother had to intervene.

Sensing an hour long rant about Dad on the horizon, I stood up quickly. “Let me go tell Jake real quick, then I’ll take you to class.”

As I opened the front door, Ryan was standing there, gesturing with a sweep of his arm.

“Welcome home, Bai.”

I jumped, not expecting to see him today. It was possible he might appear out of thin air at any time, but lately he’d been following Jake’s work schedule and only showing up when my boyfriend was at the office. Before he died, Ryan and Marner had been partners in homicide and great personal friends, so that wasn’t the issue. It was more that Ryan had a deathly fear—pun intended—of popping in when Jake and I might be, well, busy .

A fear I shared, frankly.

After Ryan had asked me for a breakdown of our usual times for getting frisky, it had gone too far. I had told in no uncertain terms it was none of his business.

Friendship only went so far and it didn’t involve kissing and telling.

So now, Ryan tried to stop by when Jake was at work.

“Hey, Ryan,” I said, easing between him and a stack of boxes. He might not have a physical being, but it would be rude to not respect his space. “What’s up?”

“What?” Jake asked, looking up from where he was on the floor, wrestling to twist on the legs on the couch that the movers had delivered earlier today. “Bailey, why are your hands empty?”

“Oh, shoot, I forgot my box on the porch,” I said, not regretting that fact at all. “And I’m talking to Ryan.”

Jake sighed but he did glance around and say, “Hey, man, what’s up?”

Jake couldn’t see or hear Ryan, but he did believe me—most of the time—that his ghost existed.

“Yo, Marner,” Ryan said, because he was dead and didn’t understand that no one should say “yo” anymore. “How’s it hanging?”

Or say ‘how’s it hanging.’

Then again, Ryan hadn’t even been dead for two years.

Maybe he’d always sounded like a caricature of a cop and I’d just never noticed.

“I need to take my grandmother to play practice,” I said to the room at large, meaning it for both of them.

Ryan’s response was a snort. “I will definitely be joining you for that production. Not.”

“We’re not done unloading the truck,” Jake said with a frown. “Can’t she skip tonight?”

“She needs the stimulation.”

“I need stimulation,” Ryan said. “Things have been so boring lately. No hot chicks in the afterlife, no assignments from the Office, no murders to solve.”

I ignored him because my boyfriend’s frown grew more pronounced. “I have to take this truck back tomorrow morning.”

“Am I actually of any benefit to you unloading a truck one tiny box at a time?” I asked, perfectly serious. “Can’t we phone a friend? What’s your brother doing?”

“His side piece,” Ryan said. “Last I heard.”

Again, I ignored the comedic ghost in the corner, who was surveying the labels on the boxes with a critical eye.

“He has softball practice.”

“Softball practice.” Ryan snorted again and made a lewd gesture that I wasn’t entirely sure the meaning of.

“I guess I should have lined up some friends to help. I didn’t think we had this many boxes.”

“I told you to plan on at least fifty. We should have booked the movers for more than just the furniture.”

This was a suggestion I’d made twelve times in the last month, each one ending with a Marner “we’ll see” which meant no. He thought he was right, I thought he was insane, and here we were—drowning in boxes both inside and out.

“Who reads this many books?” Ryan asked. Considering his idea of reading when alive had been to open text messages, I didn’t exactly value his opinion.

“You go. I’ll figure it out,” Jake said, which meant he’d be unloading boxes until midnight, too stubborn to admit he might have made a miscalculation.

Part of me felt like I should roll up my sleeves, put my hair back into a ponytail, and get in the trenches with my man, schlepping box after box until I collapsed in a pitiful heap of pale skin and frizzy curls.

The other part of me that lived in reality knew that my noodle arms had reached their max lifting capacity for the day. Kenny Rogers had the right of it—you had to know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em.

There was no more holding ‘em for this girl.

“Just lock the truck if you can’t get it all done,” I said.

“We’ll see.”

I rolled my eyes when he wasn’t looking.

“I’ll pick us up something to eat on my way home.”

“Don’t get me anything. I don’t want to stop to eat.”

Because that was smart. Just starve and haul boxes until you dropped.

“Okay,” I said cheerfully, already knowing I was going to pick him up something to eat or he’d be ordering a pizza at midnight the minute the last box was in the house.

“This house is seriously ugly,” Ryan said.

It was. I couldn’t even lie. But I was still offended.

“It’s a tight market,” I protested. “There’s lots of potential.”

“What?” Jake asked.

“Potential for a sledgehammer.”

“Stop,” I said.

“Stop what?” they both said.

It’s really darn hard to have simultaneous conversations with two men who can’t hear each other.

If anyone tells you being a medium is a gift, they haven’t had two stubborn men in their ear at the same time.

“I’m leaving,” I said to both of them. “I’ll be back later.” I leaned over and gave Jake a kiss. He was sweaty and practically reeked of dehydration but he was hard-working and adorable and the best man I knew—alive or dead.

Sorry, Ryan . It was true.

“I love you,” he said, kissing me back, hand fisting in my hair.

“Gag. Gross. Totally unnecessary,” Ryan said.

I waved my hand back at Ryan and really gave my all to the kiss. When I finally broke away, Jake was reaching for me again. He had two fingers on my T-shirt before I slipped away. “Gotta go. Oh, and your mother is stopping by in forty-minutes. Love you, bye!”

“Seriously?” he demanded. “You just set me up.”

“Not at all. I have to go.” I gave a finger wave and hightailed it out of there before he guilted me into staying and unloading more boxes, or worse, making small talk with his mother, who had many opinions on many things.

“That wasn’t smooth, but it was effective,” Ryan said, falling in step beside me. “Power of the?—

“Ryan!” I cut him off sharply. “Grandma is on the porch.”

“Oh, hey, Mrs. B,” he said, giving her a charming smile and a wave. “You look fresh as a daisy.”

“Just got a perm,” she confided, patting her tight curls. “And my eyebrows tattooed on.”

“No kidding? You can tattoo eyebrows on?” He sat down on the wrought iron loveseat that had come with the house next to her.

“It’s called micro-blading.”

The micro-blading had been a choice. Not one I would have made for her. With her hair a silver with a lavender hue, she should have gone with light eyebrows if she really wanted more definition. Instead, she’d defaulted to her original pre-gray hair color and now she looked like my sister Jen’s kids had etched out eyebrows for her with a chocolate-colored marker.

“No kidding? They can do that? I have to say, you look very fancy.”

“Thank you.” Grandma Burke was the only other person who could see Ryan. Or any ghosts, for that matter. She said it skipped a generation and only passed down between the women. That we were empathic.

“Your father is just pathetic, not empathic,” she’d added when we’d had this talk a few months prior.

So yeah, she was definitely not happy with my dad. It was a running theme.

“I have to look and dress my best every day now,” she told him. “In case I die and stick around like you. Can’t have my ghost looking shabby.”

“Fair enough. If I had known I was going to kick it that day, I would have shaved.” He rubbed his ghostly five o’clock shadow. “At least I didn’t die wearing a suit. That would have sucked.”

Ryan’s ghost was permanently wearing jeans, boots, and navy blue T-shirt with a flannel. His off-work uniform pre-death.

“But you look so handsome in a suit,” Grandma told him.

“Okay, we have to go, so save the mutual admiration club for another day, you two.”

Ryan’s phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out. “Hello?”

I still couldn’t get over the sheer horror of having a cell phone in the afterlife. My vision of just floating on a cloud eating peanut butter cups was shattered by the thought of getting text messages requesting I donate money to political campaigns from here to eternity.

And Ryan wasn’t even in hell.

He was in purgatory.

He’d had a shot at the pearly gates and we’d thought we were there, but Ryan said his paperwork had been misfiled.

Which was basically code for he’d screwed up somehow.

Ryan ended the call and eyed us. “We gotta go, ladies. We’ve got a fresh one.”