Veiled Passages

Veiled Passages - a Mary O'Reilly Paranormal Mystery

Mary O'Reilly [10]

Terri Reid

(2013)

Rating: ★★★★☆

A famous mystery writer drowns in a hotel bathtub… an accident or foul play? His ghost thinks it was murder. His mystery writer colleagues want to help Mary solve the case. Gary Copper is still on the loose and gunning for both Bradley and Mary. And, in between all of the murder and mayhem, Mary and Bradley are trying desperately to finally walk up the aisle. Will they ever become husband and wife?

Veiled Passages – A Mary O’Reilly Paranormal Mystery (Book Ten)

by

Terri Reid

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Terri Reid

Veiled Passages – A Mary O’Reilly Paranormal Mystery (Book Nine)

Copyright © 2013 by Terri Reid

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

The author would like to thank all those who have contributed to the creation of this book; Richard Reid, Sarah Reid, Debbie Deutsch, Jan Hinds, Lynn Jankiewicz, Chrissy Boivie, Ruth Ann Mulnix and Denise Dailey Carpenter.

Cover Photography – Jo Ann Hamer

 And especially to the wonderful readers who walk with me through Mary and Bradley’s adventures and encourage me along the way.  Thank you all!

Prologue

(Ten years earlier)

The tour bus pulled up in front of The Freeport Hotel, its airbrakes hissing softly just before the door opened and the passengers alighted. The two young bellboys glanced at each other, rolled their eyes and hesitantly moved forward to help the guests. The first guest, a middle-aged woman with exotic dark hair and not-so-exotic graying roots stepped forward. She smiled at the young men and winked slowly. “Did you miss me?” she asked, purposely lowering her voice to sound more appealing.

The first young man nodded perfunctorily. “Yes, ma’am, we certainly did,” he said. “We missed all of you today.  How were your classes at the conference?”

She paused, dramatically of course, and laid her hand between her breasts. “They were geared toward less…,” she paused again. “Less polished writers than I.  Of course, I merely attend this conference every year so my fans have access to me.  They are so very grateful.”

“That’s good of you, ma’am,” the other bellboy replied. “May we help you with your bags?”

She shook her head slightly. “Oh, no, do help the others. The older ones,” she insisted. “But if you are looking for some entertainment later…”

She laughed softly, sent them a knowing look and glided into the hotel lobby.

“Dude, she’s got to be as old as my mother or my grandmother,” the first bellboy whispered, screwing up his face in distaste. “What’s up with that?”

Shaking his head, the second bellboy glanced quickly over his shoulder at the departing guest. “I don’t know and I ain’t going to find out.”

The next woman to exit the bus had bright orange hair and was wearing a flowing fuchsia caftan.  She put her wrinkled hand, with matching fuchsia fingernails, into the hand of the bellboy as she stepped down onto the sidewalk.  “Thank you…” she paused and placed her other hand over her eyes, making sure there was enough room between fingers for her to peek through. “Don’t tell me.  The spirits will tell me your name.”

He sighed inwardly and moved slightly so his name tag was visible.  She angled her head marginally and he pretended not to notice.

“Matt,” she said, dropping her hand and grinning at him. “You see, I’m psychic.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed. “I’ve been amazed every time you’ve done that.”

She leaned over and patted him slightly on the cheek. “The spirits don’t lie,” she said.

“No, ma’am, I’m sure the spirits don’t lie,” he agreed with a smile.

The next rider was a dapper man in his late sixties.  He stepped off the bus and quickly looked to either side of the bus. “Did you watch?” he asked the second bellboy. “Were we followed?”

The young man shook his head. “No, Mr. Swift, sir, we set up a lookout when we heard the presentations were over for the day and you were leaving Highland Community College,” he said. “There have been no suspicious characters or vehicles in the vicinity of the hotel.  I believe you’re safe.”

Snapping his head back towards the young man, Swift glared. “I am never safe, young man,” he said haughtily. “I am a man with a past. I’ve had more identities than you’ve had teachers.  I am intricately connected with all of the alphabet agencies in this country and a few outside this country.  Do you understand?”

Nodding and showing maturity beyond his years, the boy walked over and stood next to the man. “How can I be of assistance, sir?” he asked.

Smiling with satisfaction, Swift nodded. “Just try to be aware of your surroundings, young man,” he said. “There is evil lurking all around us. Evil that would like nothing better than to place me out of commission. The world would be a much more dangerous place without me, son. Remember that!”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” the young man replied.

Escorting the rest of the forty members of the Midwest Murder, Mayhem and Mystery Writer’s Consortium took the young bellhops another thirty minutes, as each unique character had something to say. Finally, the last rider stepped down, a middle aged woman, simply dressed in jeans and an oversized shirt. She smiled genuinely at the young men and handed each of them a twenty dollar bill.  “I do apologize,” she said sincerely. “But they really can’t help themselves.  They’re writers you know.”

The young men smiled and nodded. “Yes, we know,” the first one said. “And we don’t mind, really.  It gives us something to talk about.”

She laughed and nodded. “Well, I like your attitude.  Have a nice evening.”

She hitched her computer bag over her shoulder and walked into the hotel lobby.

“She’s the most normal of the group,” the second bellhop said, stuffing his twenty into his pocket.

The other one watched her walk away. “Yes, and those are the ones you should always wonder about.”

The small restaurant in the hotel was filled to capacity and was closed to the public.  The two bellhops, also working as busboys, stood next to the kitchen door waiting for the dinner to be over; so they could clean up and go home.  But, by the sounds of the evening’s guest speaker, Mr. Peter Swift, they weren’t going to be able to leave anytime soon.

“I’ve always felt it was in the best interest of everyone to be honest. Brutally honest if need be,” the speaker intoned. “Of course, because of my background with all of the agencies I’ve worked with, I have not been able to be as honest as I would have liked, merely, of course, due to national security.”

Leaning back against the wall to next the kitchen, they both sighed and waited.

“But, this publishing industry is not getting any easier,” he continued. “With the cost of printing a book going up and sales going down, many of you mid-listers will never see another book on a bookstore shelf again.  Unfortunately, none of you have the experience I have nor the contacts both in and out of Washington, D.C. and New York.”

He paused to smile importantly out into the crowd, letting his eyes linger on a cute, blonde college coed. “Of course, for some I might be convinced to use my influence to open some publishing doors.”

Lifting his eyes back to the crowd, he took a deep breath. “But that is neither here nor there,” he said. “The bottom line is I’ve spoken with my friends and colleagues at Enigmatic Publishing and they’ve all decided to no longer offer a publishing contract to the members of 4M Writer’s Consortium.”

There was a collective gasp from the crowd.

The exotic-haired woman rose and pointed her finger at the speaker. “What about the five hundred dollar reader’s fee I gave you for my manuscript?” she seethed.

Shrugging, Swift leaned forward on the podium. “Well, they read your manuscript, my dear lady, and felt they had earned every cent of the five hundred dollars,” he sneered. “Seems you’re not the writer you thought you were.”

Grabbing her sequined clutch from the table, she stormed from the room in a flurry of silk and perfume.  Pausing at the door, she turned back to him and screeched, “You won’t get away with this! You’re going to regret those words!”

The click of her high heels storming across the lobby floor was the only sound in the room for a few moments, then the sound of a chair scraping against the floor echoed through the room.  Her red hair poking out from beneath a turquoise turban that matched another flowing caftan, the elderly writer stood at her table.  Her face was red and her breathing frantic. “You told me it was a done deal,” she accused the man standing at the podium. “You told me you agreed with the spirits and the contract was going to be mine.”

Swift shrugged. “I guess if the spirits can be wrong, so can I,” he said. “Your writing was too mediocre, too bland and, dare I say, too predictable. Perhaps you ought to try your hand at something else. Say, reading tea leaves.”

She grasped the edge of the table. “But you took my money,” she said. “You took my money.”

He shook his head. “Oh, no, I merely was the messenger between you and the publishing company.  They took your money in good faith.  You promised them a marketable book, and they promised you a contract.  Unfortunately neither of you kept your promises.”

She fell back in her chair, swooning, and the people sitting around her rushed to her side.  The man at the podium merely shrugged and looked away.  “In conclusion, I know all of you will want to wish me happy as I announce my excellent news.   Enigmatic Publishing has offered me a six-figure deal on my next three books.  I’m thrilled beyond belief. And now, I must bid you all goodnight, as I have some writing to do.  Thank you for being such an attentive audience.”

Once again, silence fell over the entire room.  Swift smiled, backed away from the podium and made a slight bow.  There was a scattering of applause from the corners of the room, but most of the members of the audience were in shock.  They had all been approached by Swift about the chance to get a deal with Enigmatic Publishing; all they had to do was attach a reader’s fee to their manuscript and the rest would be basically guaranteed. They had all given him their hard-earned money and now, they had nothing to show for it.

Peter Swift hummed to himself and waved to the desk clerk as he waited for the elevator. But as soon as the doors slid closed, his smile disappeared. Thinking about the shocked faces of those wannabes in the room, he shook his head.  Did they think being an author was easy?  Did they think all they needed to do was write a story and it would be published?  Did they really think they wouldn’t have to pay their dues?

Of course they did.  And that’s why it had been so easy to dupe them out of their money. They had been stupid pigeons.

The door slid open on the eighth floor.  He stepped out of the elevator and turned right, towards his room.  Fishing the room card out of his pocket, he slid it into the reader.  The mechanism clicked and the door unlocked.  He pushed the door open and walked in.

His suite was the best available. As the director of the conference, he had been able to manipulate the pricing in order to allow himself the environment to which he was accustomed.  Reaching into his jacket, he pulled the bottle of wine he had lifted from the bar and read the label aloud, “Sauvignon Blanc, just what the doctor ordered.”

He crossed the room and plunged the bottle into the waiting ice bucket. Slipping off his jacket, he tossed it on the couch, loosened his tie and picked up the television remote, clicking on the local news. A large white envelope slipped from the inside pocket of his jacket and slid across the floor.  He quickly bent to pick it up. “Oh, no, you don’t,” he said, crossing the room and opening up his briefcase. “We don’t want anyone to discover you never made it to the publishing house, do we?”