A Meowing Suspicion

A Meowing Suspicion A CRYSTAL BEACH PARANORMAL COZY MYSTERY CRYSTAL BEACH MAGIC MYSTERY SERIES BOOK FOUR KAREN MCSPADE Copyright © 2022 by Karen McSpade All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, in whole or in part, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the publisher except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication. Edited by Darci Heikkinen Cover art by The Cover Coven This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Created with Vellum FREE GIFT Receive your FREE copy of Dog Gone Troubles, the Crystal Beach Magic Mystery series prequel, and get notified via email of new releases, giveaways, contests, cover reveals, and insider fun when you sign up for my Mystery Book Club mailing list! Click Here To Sign Up and Claim Your Free Cozy Mystery Book NOTE: If you’re already a member of my VIP Mystery Book Club, your email will not be added again. Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Next in Series Sneak Peek Would you like more Crystal Beach mysteries? Free Gift Books By Karen McSpade About the Author Chapter One The recently renamed Ben Chalmers Mini-Golf Invitational in Crystal Beach was surprisingly hard to get into when it was closed. I had walked almost completely around the perimeter. I stealthily moved from shadow to shadow, trying to keep myself from being illuminated by the moon, which was now higher in the sky and a bright white. Though beginning to wane, it was still only the tiniest sliver from being full. The road alongside the course was not much more than a narrow dirt lane. It was the same one that turned as it neared the beach and headed out to the lone development of seafront properties, one of which my mother had just signed up to buy from Sam Barlow. Reaching the front, however, it faced the southern end of Mangrove Street, Crystal Beach’s main commercial stretch. So, even though the evening was now becoming night, I didn’t want to risk lurking around the front of the site and being spotted. Eventually, I ended up right back where I started, looking at the rear fence by the gate, where the barrier was at its lowest point. “Are you sure I need to look in there?” I asked Gramps, even though his ghost had long since faded, seemingly spent by the effort of pointing me toward hole number 5. After a few moments of quiet, I added, “Or Ben’s ghost? Are you sure you don’t want to let me off the hook?” Again, only silence, with no spectral figures to be seen anywhere. “Fine,” I grumbled, feeling like the crazy lady who spoke to thin air and had imaginary conversations with her cats. If I was caught on top of the fence, a mental health institution of some kind might be the best I could hope for. I kicked off my shoes and started to climb, the PVC-covered wire of the chain link fence digging a little painfully into my skin, although the links were at least wide enough for my toes to squeeze in between. I cannot say that it didn’t feel precarious, but a sort of angry determination kept me going. That was all very well until I got to the top. The top of the fence was flimsy—merely the clipped-off end of the PVC-covered wire. Getting my leg over was definitely going to be only part of the problem. Every movement of my hands or attempt to dislodge either of my load-bearing feet brought with it an extreme sense that I was about to fall back onto the bank. I found myself wishing that I had checked if I had cell coverage to call the paramedics while wailing in pain about my broken leg. With a grand effort and a flurry of activity, I grabbed, scrambled, and hauled myself over the top of the fence… then caught the loose section of my yoga pants that I was wearing on some of the clipped wire. Already committed to the move over the top and down the other side, I couldn’t stop. Yet, restrained by my hooked pants, I missed my footing and lost my grip, slipping so that all my weight was momentarily being supported by the thin cotton material of my navy-blue pants… until it wasn’t. Note to self: Be more prepared for breaking and entering in the future. The ripping sound that followed seemed to echo for miles into the humid Florida night, and I landed heavily, almost on all fours, a shock of pain shooting angrily through my left wrist. Then I sort of rolled over onto my back like a stranded tortoise. I’m not sure how long I stayed like that. I mean, it wasn’t hours or anything, but a part of me felt convinced that someone must have heard or seen something. I was wheezing and quietly huffing, though, to avoid howling out loud enough to attract further attention as the pain continued to bloom in my wrist. As I lay there, the pain slowly subsided to a dull throb that hopefully meant I hadn’t broken it. Then my thoughts began to turn more fully to my ripped pants. I knew this was no mere tear and got to my knees, making sure to keep my weight from my left wrist. I was also hoping that my pants would stay around my waist. Gingerly, I stood up and examined the damage. One side of my bottom was showing—well, my underwear was showing. I’m not that sort of a person, you