Model Ghost: A spooky, fashionable fall mystery (The Backyard Model Mysteries Book 3), page 1
Model Ghost
THE BACKYARD MODEL MYSTERIES
TK SHEFFIELD
Also by TK Sheffield
Model Suspect, a holiday cozy, a humorous small-town mystery served with a brandy old-fashioned and cheese curds. (Named Top 100 Notable Indie, among other awards.)
Model Wave, romance, boats, and bad business in the Wisconsin Northwoods (A Killer Nashville Winner for Best Cozy, among others.)
Copyright © 2024 by T.K. Sheffield
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or interview.
Identifiers: ISBN: 979-8-9905631-2-4 (ebook) | ISBN: 979-8-9905631-3-1 (paperback)
Title: Model Ghost : the backyard model mysteries, book three / T.K. Sheffield.
Description: Genesee Depot, WI : Making Hay Press, 2024. | Series: Backyard model mystery, bk. 3.
Subjects: LCSH: Murder--Fiction. | Models (Persons)--Fiction. | Internet personalities--Fiction. | Wisconsin--Fiction. | Cozy mysteries. | Mystery fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Cozy / General. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Amateur Sleuth. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
LCC applied for.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons or specific location is pure coincidence.
Other books by T.K. Sheffield
Model Suspect
Model Wave
Making Hay Press, d.b.a. Making Hay Productions, LLC
To MAB and AEB.
You are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And your life is rounded,
With your mother’s undying love.
Contents
1. Tuesday, the Ghostly Gala Rehearsal
2. The Galley
3. The Golden Promenade, Later
4. The Gold Deck
5. The Editor
6. The Warm-Up Pen
7. Fern Bubble’s Farm
8. Wednesday Morning
9. The Bell, Book & Anvil
10. Hank Leigel’s Legal Office
11. The Haunted Apartment
12. The Whoopee Den
13. The Whoopee Den, Later
14. The Moon Cafe, Later
15. The Atrium
16. Thursday Morning
17. The Haunted Meadow, Later
18. Friday morning
19. Friday, Later
20. The Promenade, Later
21. The Atrium
22. Girls’ Night
23. Saturday Morning
24. The Golden Promenade
25. Cinnamon, Later
26. The Ghostly Gala
27. The Catwalk
28. Final Look
29. A Hole in One
30. Sunday Morning
31. The Tempest
32. Model Rescue
Wiscocoa
About TK Sheffield, MA
1
Tuesday, the Ghostly Gala Rehearsal
I’d heard of being fashionably late, but being fashionably dead was quite … unfashionable, was it not?
I thought so.
However, things had changed since Mel Tower (that’s me) retired from the modeling industry. At my feet in the ballroom of The Golden Promenade, Cinnamon’s premier senior living complex, was a ghastly sight.
Not a ripped sleeve or broken heel. Mishaps snagging a show of muumuu dresses, models, and a quartet. Well, not a quartet. A lively polka combo.
We were in Wisconsin, after all.
Lying on the glossy runway was Ichabod Hall, designer, age sixty—and we were conducting his new fashion line’s rehearsal in a few hours!
His mouth gaped. His eyes were open in a blank stare.
“Ichabod, can you hear me?” I asked. “What happened?”
I touched his wrist. Near his hand was a small book. Probably slipped from a pocket.
His skin felt cold, and he didn’t have a pulse. Egads. I looked around—had anyone seen what happened?
The room was gilded for a Halloween fashion show: Gold-framed chairs lined a runway snaking through the space, the catwalk installed just yesterday.
Free-standing candelabras laced with fake spider webs decorated corners. Inflatable pumpkins with leering eyes hung from the ceiling.
I’d protested those ghastly gourds when they’d been hung. Overkill, I’d said. Now I wished the pumpkins could speak because they’d seen how Ichabod died.
“Is someone here—help!” I yelled.
Ichabod’s trench ensnared his gangly legs. The cravat he wore appeared tight. Strangulation tight, like he’d clawed at the orange silk and choked himself.
The inhaler he always carried was beside his clenched hand, cracked as though squeezed in desperation.
“Help, someone! Please, come quickly!” I yelled.
This couldn’t be happening—how could this be real?
Ichabod and I were supposed to be finalizing his show. Confirming the rundown of models, music, and order of flowy dresses that announced the re-emergence of his womenswear line.
I stared at the end of the runway, where Cinnamon’s one paparazzo, a stringer from the local newspaper, would take photographs. In the corner was a podium where the journo would ask questions for a post-event interview.
Unless Hall’s ghost spoke for him, everything was canceled.
My cousin Lou Jingle banged out of the kitchen adjacent to the ballroom. Lou always banged. She was a firecracker in a forty-five-year-old cowgirl’s body.
She wore an apron—“Cowgirls Give a Ship”—and set a platter on the buffet. “I finished makin’ snacks for the crew,” she said. “What’d you do to Ichabod?”
“Call nine-one-one!”
She stared at the form on the runway. “Is this a weird fashion thing? That guy has squirrelly ideas—”
“Call an ambulance!”
“Mel, we’re in a senior center that thinks it’s a cruise ship. There’s no need to call. Doc Graves has a walk-in clinic on the Lido Deck.”
“Get him. Run, Lou—hurry!”
I noted clues while waiting for help.
I wasn’t a professional gumshoe but had moonlighted as an amateur.
Ichabod’s head veered at an angle, his skin shockingly pale, as bright as the final element of his fashion show, a ghost-like muumuu of delightfully light satin.
Had he fallen and injured himself? Had he choked?
Near him was a shattered plate. Crumbs covered his slacks. Fried cheese curds greased the runway. It was as though Hall caught a heel on the slick surface and crashed down.
I squinted at the book near Hall’s hand and gasped—The Tempest! The same book had tumbled from its shelf in my bookstore mere hours ago!
Crystal Broadway, my shopkeep at The Bell, Book & Melville was on vacation. Last evening, I’d taken a shift behind the counter. At the witching hour, six o’clock, I’d closed the place. (Cinnamon was an older community and residents tucked in early.)
I doused the fire in the hearth, donned a jacket. Before I reached the exit, The Tempest flew from its shelf like a sprite fleeing a ghoul.
I investigated but found nothing. A Midsummer Night’s Dream had been the book adjacent to The Tempest—perhaps Puck had something to do with the shenanigans?
I’d restored The Tempest to its place and locked up, anxious to get home to my rescue collie, Max.
In the ballroom, I stared at the book on the runway, unsure if it was the same volume that bewitched me.
I wouldn’t touch it for fear of contaminating a crime scene.
I shivered despite the garment I wore, a vintage black dress. Cozy cashmere, warm as a campfire on a Wisconsin fall evening.
It had been a favorite during my twenty-year gig in New York City, a security blanket of sorts. It was like wearing a hug while experiencing the pressure of a fashion career.
Where was Doc Graves—I wish he’d hurry!
Lighting flashed through the ballroom’s tall windows. Thunder followed—boom!
Storms were predicted for the week of Boo Bash, Cinnamon’s annual celebration of everything spooky.
The Cinnamon Roll, the local paper, had warned of spooky shenanigans—if a storm struck during the fest, disaster followed.
In an editorial, Wooly Gallagher, publisher, advised diligence at every party: During The Golden Cheesehead senior dating event, be wary of fake personalities. At Reader’s Theater, watch for suspicious characters.
At the Ghostly Gala Fashion Show, Wooly wrote to break a leg—but it was tongue in cheek, meaning good luck.
I stared at lifeless Ichabod Hall. He was broken, all right. In his all-black clothing, with his limbs bent at odd angles, he looked like a haute couture scarecrow.
What happened?
Thunder boomed! again.
What disaster had befallen my beloved village of Cinnamon?
My cousin Lou held a rolling pin, staring at the runway.
“Well, if this doesn’t beat my beer batter. Looks like Ichabod got knocked in the noggin.” She stepped closer. “No, he was breaded. Crumbs everywhere.” She swung the pin as though practic ing for pickleball, a sport she’d begun learning. “This changes everythin’ this week.”
Doc Graves and Pauline Pickle, his nurse, had burst into the ballroom with a stretcher and First Aid kit.
She was a pickleball instructor with health supplements and sportswear clothing line.
I wasn’t sure if her real last name was Pickle. People started calling her that, and it stuck.
She set up a triage station. “Mr. Hall won’t be a long-term guest in sickbay, obviously.” She glared at me. “Stand back.”
Pauline—never Paula—had joined the doc a year ago, if I recalled. She was fit, tan. About sixty, give or take a century. She seemed ageless, like someone who’d made a deal with a no-nonsense underworld fellow to never grow old.
I’d met a few folks like that in NYC.
She and Doc were crazy-successful pickleball players. I always saw their pictures in The Cinnamon Roll posing with cucumber-shaped trophies. Their team was the ones to beat 'round these parts.
She handed shoe covers and gloves to Doc Graves. “Don’t touch anything. Put these on.”
He ripped ribbon cordoning off the first row of gold chairs, then plunked down in a seat to put on the protective gear.
So much for not touching anything.
The front-row throne Doc occupied was reserved for an editor. One so important that I, the fashion show’s second, no third, banana, hadn’t been told her name.
The woman’s attendance was top secret, need-to-know basis only.
I suspected her name rhymed with “Janna Sintour,” but that could be wrong.
White lighting flashed through the ballroom’s windows. I jumped before thunder crashed—BOOM!
The pumpkins hanging from the ceiling shook like we’d hit an iceberg.
Lou looked at the swaying orange globes. “Batten down the hatches. Goose drownder comin’.”
“How long have you been here, Lou?” Pauline asked.
“Got here at oh-nine-hundred. Worked by myself.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“Lou, don’t talk—” I began.
“No, tell me everything, Louella,” Pauline said, glaring again. “I need to know!”
Why was she so hostile?
Lou ignored my warning, as usual. “It’s fine, Mel. You’re so uptight lately.” She took another swing with the rolling pin. “I made batter for curds. Started the fryers for donuts, apple fritters. You know, food that says ya live in Wisconsin.”
“There are other ways to indulge without so many calories,” Pauline said. “Go on.”
“Trudy from the Cinnamon Spices called sayin’ her gals are hot over Ichabod.” Lou looked down. “Wait ’til they find out he’s passed on to the great runway in the sky.”
“How did you speak with Trudy?” Pauline asked.
“FaceTimed ’til our phones froze up. Then I called her ’til the line dropped. Bad weather always messes with the service here. It’s like we really are out to sea.”
Doc Graves stepped to Ichabod, observing the scene.
I didn’t hear sirens, surprisingly. “Are the police on their way?”
“They are, but our policy is to arrive silently,” Pauline said. “Negative sound energy affects the cruise experience.”
“Lou, why were the Spices hot about Ichabod?” I asked.
“Cuz of the Golden Cheesehead! The single gals wanted time with him before the competition started. They were aiming to get the First Wedge.” She pointed to the buffet. “It’s over there, a gold cheddar triangle on a stick. He was gonna hand it out.”
“But it’s for charity,” I protested. “They were that competitive?”
“The entire week of Boo Bash is for charity, but gals wanted it.”
I felt my face flush. “This fashion show was serious business. Mr. Hall shouldn’t have been distracted—”
“Whoa, Mel,” Lou said. “I’m not one to call out attitudes, but you've been high-strung since elbowin’ in to run this hoedown.” She looked skyward. "Like that gal up in the suite, I imagine."
“What ‘gal’ in the suite?”
“The editor up on the Gold Level.”
“The one no one knows about?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes. “Kitchen staff knows everythin’. We’re the heartbeat of a place. No offense, Doc.”
“No problem, Louella,” he said.
“Who’s the editor?” I demanded.
“Didn’t see her. Just talked through the door.” Lou pointed to the broken dish near Ichabod. “I took up appetizers on a plate just like that: curds, fritters. Veggies, and a side of ranch. Midwest hospitality, you know.”
Pauline rolled her eyes. She stood by the runway, hands on hips. The woman always seemed irritated around me.
Or, because of me.
Lou continued, “I figured that fancy New ‘Yawk’ editor was a sourpuss, but she sounded okay. Not sure why it she was kept secret.”
Suddenly, I heard sirens—were they in my head?
I wasn’t sure, but they definitely were distress signals.
2
The Galley
I needed water and dragged Lou into the galley, the kitchen adjacent to the ballroom. There was a beverage dispenser on the stainless steel counter. Cucumbers, lemons, and ice floated in the crystal clear water.
Lou grabbed a goblet, filled it, and set it in front of me. “Drink up. It’s good for your skin, accordin’ to Pauline.” She nodded at the dispenser. “She made it.”
“Thanks.”
Lou sighed. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Yeah, Ichabod, I know, but what else?”
“Nothing—our guest of honor has taken an early bow. It’s terrible.”
I gulped water. Lou waited to speak until I drained the glass.
“When you wanted to run the fashion show, I shoulda refused,” she said.
“You submitted my name to the committee. I didn’t ask for this.”
She slammed a hand on the counter. “You needed it! It was your chance for revenge. Get even with those folks that treated ya like a mannequin, a side of beef, when ya worked in New York.”
I shook my head. “I retired five years ago. I made a decent income that allowed me to move home and buy the craft mall. The bookstore, too. I’m grateful for it.”
“Grateful, schmateful. You got a chip on your shoulder the size of Lambeau Field. That career squished your personality like a cow in a chute. Forced to stand still, be silent.” Lou’s nostrils flared. “If someone said that to Louella Jingle, I’d hook ‘em with a horn, toss ‘em in the Hudson River.” She grinned. “I love that bull by the stock exchange. He’s my spirit animal.”
“Things were different when I started. It’s better now.”
“There’s no time limit on revenge!” she yelled. “Every gal knows that—”
The door swung open. An older gentleman walked in, his wingtips tapping the tile—click, click, click. He wore an overcoat and a hat with a feather tucked in the brim.
I recognized him: Detective Bruce DuWayne, Dane County law enforcement. He’d investigated a murder in my mall last year.
“Hello, ladies,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. My condolences on the loss of Mr. Hall.”
Lou, being Lou, served DuWayne coffee and a cinnamon roll as though customary to have an investigator in her kitchen.
She pulled out a stool at the counter. “Sit, make yourself at home, Bruce. How long’s it been? Almost a year since that set-to in Mel’s mall?”
He nodded. “Correct.”
“Glad that murder was solved. No hard feelin’s that Mel solved it before you did?”
“None at all.”
“What are we gonna do ‘bout that rodeo in the ballroom, The Grand Saloon?” Lou nudged him. “More fun to call it a saloon, eh? What brought ya here from Dane County? Fresh air? Reality check?” She laughed.
“I’m here in an official capacity, Louella. I’m filling in for your police chief who is on a hunting trip in Canada.” He took a bite of roll. “These are delicious.”
“Detective,” I began, “we can reveal what we saw, but nothing—”
“Mel found the body,” Lou interrupted. “She’s a suspect, right? That’s how it works?”
