Homicide at the Haunted House (Nightmare, Arizona Paranormal Cozy Mysteries Book 1)(Paranormal Women's Midlife Fiction)

Homicide at the Haunted House Nightmare, Arizona Paranormal Cozy Mysteries, Book One © 2023 Beth Dolgner All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. ISBN-13: 978-1-958587-04-1 Homicide at the Haunted House is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Published by Redglare Media Cover by Dark Mojo Designs Ebook Formatting by BookMojo https://bethdolgner.com TABLE OF CONTENTS Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six A Note From The Author Next In Series Acknowledgments About The Author Books By Beth Dolgner CHAPTER ONE I crested the hill and squinted as the late-afternoon sun glared through my windshield. Ahead of me, the Interstate stretched in a long, straight line for miles before finally disappearing into a cluster of hills, which were slowly darkening to a purple hue on the horizon. Red dots danced in my vision, and I blinked, willing my eyes to adjust. No, I realized, it wasn’t the sun affecting me. I was seeing brake lights, a whole sea of them about a mile ahead. Beyond them, blue lights flashed. I couldn’t see what had happened up there, but I knew it wasn’t good. The three cars in front of me made a last-minute dive onto an exit ramp, and I followed suit. As the Interstate continued down the hill and into the valley, I turned left onto a two-lane road that bridged the Interstate and wound south through the hills. An army of tall Saguaros threw long shadows across the road, and scrubby trees clung desperately to the rocky slopes. Ever since I had crossed the state line into Arizona, the landscape had become increasingly desolate. Everywhere I looked, there was a different kind of cactus waiting to stab me. I sure hoped the drivers ahead of me knew where they were going. Their cars looked shiny and relatively new, which meant they probably had GPS. My car was so old it only had a radio and a CD player, and I hadn’t owned any CDs for at least a decade. That meant I had been listening to local radio stations for the past two days and five states. The last time I knew so many Top 40 songs, I was in college and a full three dress sizes slimmer. I didn’t even have a cell phone anymore, so I couldn’t use the map on that. With that thought, I pressed the gas pedal just a little harder to close the small gap between me and the car ahead. There was no way I was going to risk losing sight of them on this winding road. I needed to be able to find my way back onto the Interstate so I could finish up what had to be the most miserable road trip of my life. Just five more hours, and I would be at my brother’s house in San Diego. Even if I stopped for some cheap gas station coffee, I would still make it there before midnight. There were no crossroads as I continued to follow the other cars south. The road was slowly gaining elevation, but it definitely wasn’t curving west at all. We were going farther and farther away from the Interstate. I had been driving on the road for at least twenty minutes when I saw another blinking light. This time, it wasn’t from brake lights or police cars. It was the yellow “check engine” light on my dash. “Oh, come on,” I moaned. My eyes darted across the dash, and I watched as the needle on the engine temperature gauge slowly moved upward. “No, no, no. Please, no. I need to get to San Diego tonight!” Here’s the thing about talking to your car: it doesn’t talk back, and it definitely does not listen. Finally, I saw a stop sign coming up. The cars ahead of me were all turning right, going west again to parallel the Interstate. When it was my turn at the intersection, I glanced right and saw nothing but more sharp plants and rocks. I looked straight ahead and saw a plywood sign with faded blue paint that read, Repairs! Oil Changes! A/C Coolant! 3 Miles Ahead! I jumped at the sound of honking, and I glanced in my rearview mirror to see a line of cars snaking behind me, all waiting for their turn to get back to civilization, too. I looked at my dash hopefully, but the engine temperature needle was still rotating toward the top of the gauge, creeping closer to the red “don’t you dare keep driving” part. I sighed, switched off my turn signal, and went straight. “Only three miles, car,” I said coaxingly. “You can do this.” It couldn’t. I had only gone about a mile and a half when the dash suddenly lit up like a Christmas tree. The temperature needle was buried in the red. I lost count of the expletives I muttered as I guided the car onto the narrow shoulder and turned it off. I was on a steep incline, so I pulled the parking brake and hoped the car would stay put. Actually, part of me hoped it would roll off the side of the hill, catch on fire, and explode on contact with the rocky valley below, but then I’d really be stranded. I figured there was no point trying to take any of my belongings with me. The little I had left to call my own would probably be safe out there; I hadn’t