Mystery of the Dancing Statue (Midlife Undercover, Book 1.1)(Paranormal Women's Midlife Fiction)

Contents Title Page Copyright --> 1. 1 2. 2 3. 3 4. 4 5. 5 6. 6 7. 7 Mystery of the Dancing Statue A Paranormal Women's Fiction Novelette Kate Moseman Copyright © 2023 by Kate Moseman All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. 1 Y ellow cabs trundled down the street as my Irish wolfhound, Georgiana, happily dragged me along the sidewalk. “Georgiana, heel. Heel!” She shot me a brief look before letting up ever so slightly on the leash. “Good girl.” No sooner had the words left my mouth than she surged ahead in excited pursuit of a pigeon. Even jaded New Yorkers couldn’t help staring at us as we jogged past. Georgiana put on an extra burst of speed when she spotted home. Home promised a reprieve from the cold air, plus treats, and Georgiana’s favorite patch of sunlight for napping. Our street always reminded me of a chocolate display: townhouse sweets in different shades—brown, off-white, and reddish-brown—with large apartment buildings like big chocolate bars on the corners. In wintertime, it was easy to imagine them wrapped in festive bows. We climbed the stone steps and I unlocked the door. It swung open to reveal my roommate, Heather, hauling bags and suitcases down the narrow hallway, on a collision path with Georgiana and me. The hallway was so small and the bags were so many that she accidentally knocked my “Choose Happy” wall decoration askew. “Are you going somewhere?” I asked. Heather sighed, dropped her things in the entryway, and began rummaging in her chic boho bag. It looked fantastic next to her outfit, which, despite being in clashing colors, somehow looked effortlessly fashionable. “I can’t stay here anymore,” she said. “It’s too much.” Georgiana trotted forward to find out if she might be digging a special treat out of the depths of the purse. “Too much? Too much what?” Rent was more than reasonable. Quite the steal, actually. I preferred having company, and a good deal on the spare bedroom suite made it easy to find a lodger. “And that dog,” she continued, “sheds more hair than any ten dogs put together. Look at my shirt.” She posed as if a street style photographer might snap a photo any second. “ Look at it .” “I think dog hair adds character.” I did! What was the point of life, without dogs? She rolled her eyes. “You are so positive, it’s toxic.” This kind of insult could not stand. “I’m not toxic.” I paused, trying to come up with a suitable retort. “ You’re toxic.” At that, even Georgiana looked sorry for me. My soon-to-be ex-roommate dropped her gaze and tugged an envelope from her purse. “It’s not personal. It’s just…” “You’re not going to give me the ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ speech, are you? Because we’re not dating. We’re roommates.” My chin lifted as I attempted to salvage my dignity. Heather fluttered the envelope in her hand and looked all around as if there might be some escape hatch she hadn’t noticed before. Then she met my gaze. “No, it is you. Poppy, I know you’re not like other fire witches. I know you can’t help reading minds—” “I don’t read them. They’re not like a book.” They were more like pictures, postcards even. In fact, right at that moment her postcard was of a sunlit forest. A walk in the park? Central Park, perhaps. It was the closest park with trees that tall. “You know what I mean. I thought it would be fine, living here—I mean, it’s beautiful, great location, the rent is unbelievable—but even just running into you in the common areas is weird. It’s weird, okay?” She looked at me like she wanted me to understand. To agree, even. To make her feel less bad for describing me as a freak. The harder she tried, the worse I felt. A splash of shame hit me like acid reflux after a bad meal. Georgiana leaned her heavy, gray-furred body against me. I patted her rough coat and put on my best stiff-upper-lip. “I have always tried to respect your privacy.” She scoffed. “You pretend you’re not reading my thoughts. I pretend I don’t know you’re reading my thoughts. That’s not privacy. That’s wishful thinking.” I opened my mouth to reply, but couldn’t think of anything to say. I had thought maybe, this time, this one would work out. Surely a witch would understand another witch. Apparently not. In the silence, she handed me the envelope. The address for Modish Measure, a fabric shop Heather frequented in the Garment District, appeared in the upper left corner. “Bye, Poppy. Better luck next time.” With that, she hoisted her bags and left. The old, solid-wood door swung closed with a thunk. Georgiana nudged the envelope with her nose. I thumbed through the dollars absently. Money wasn’t the issue. My uncontrollable mind-reading was. Most fire witches had some degree of mind-reading ability, but they could turn it on and off at will. Mine was just—there. Automatically. For every person that came within an Irish wolfhound’s length. My parents had been horrified. As soon as I turned eighteen, they said I could go anywhere in the world as long as it was far away from them. I picked New York on the strength of a jolly greeting card I’d received as a child of Central Park in the spring, covered in blossoms—and the rumor that the American magical community was both large and less stuffy than the English. And that was that. They bought an Upper West Side townhouse and shipped me across the Atlantic Ocean the same week. It might have been a posh landing, but it was a kicking-out all the same. I’d hoped to find good company in Manhattan. Unfortunately, once the local witches knew I could see flashes of their thoughts,