Thanksgiving Waffle Murder Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  THANKSGIVING WAFFLE MURDER

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  Thanksgiving Waffle Murder

  A Wicked Waffle Paranormal Cozy

  Book 3

  By

  Carolyn Q. Hunter

  Copyright 2017 Summer Prescott Books

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication nor any of the information herein may be quoted from, nor reproduced, in any form, including but not limited to: printing, scanning, photocopying or any other printed, digital, or audio formats, without prior express written consent of the copyright holder.

  **This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, places of business, or situations past or present, is completely unintentional.

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  THANKSGIVING WAFFLE MURDER

  A Wicked Waffle Paranormal Cozy

  Book 3

  PROLOGUE

  * * *

  “Please, Shamus. Just leave me alone,” Agatha Winn insisted as she descended the narrow servant’s staircase in the back of the house. She wore the traditional black and white maid uniform and had a deep rosiness in her cheeks—a result of having just spent the last two hours cleaning the game room. Reaching the manor’s kitchen, she turned on a dime to face her pursuer. “I said to go away,” she demanded again, seeing the dark-haired young man—dressed in the traditional clothes of a footman—walking down the steps after her.

  “Agatha, why won’t you just listen to me?” he begged, following her into the warm kitchen, which was lit by low burning oil lamps. The large brick oven built into the basement wall gave off heat that warded off the late autumn chill.

  “I’m not interested in marrying you, and that’s that.” Picking up a fresh cloth rag, she began to instinctively wipe down the counters.

  “Can’t you listen to reason?” he demanded, planting his hands on the counter and splaying his fingers. He was breathing heavily, his eyes slightly red with tears.

  “I already told you, Shamus, there is nothing between us anymore and there never will be again.” She refrained from mentioning his volatile temperament or the many wild weekends he spent at the tiny tavern in town, knowing that they would send him into spiraling further downward. In this type of situation, he’d either collapse into tears, burst into a yelling fit, or both.

  “Tell me, please. What did I do?”

  She shook her head. “I used to love you, but not anymore. I know now you can never change.”

  In the next instant, she saw how his nostrils flared and his face gushed a pinkish red hue. “Listen to me,” he demanded, taking a step toward her. The desperation in his voice, his desire for her to love him, was overwhelming.

  She quickly moved around the kitchen’s island where a dish of pre-chopped vegetables sat. She’d worked on those earlier that day in order to make her job and the cook’s easier when it came time to make the Thanksgiving feast. “There’s no time. I have to prepare the turkey for this evening’s supper.”

  “You can make time for me. I’m your fiancé,” he barked.

  “Leave me alone, this instant,” she retorted, a slight squeak of fear in her voice. While she’d always been afraid of his temper, never before had he laid a hand on her. The footman wasn’t necessarily the largest member of the household, but he towered over the small maid.

  “I said go away.”

  “You’re going to listen to reason,” he prattled on desperately, the spray of his warm breath wafting on her cheeks.

  “No, leave me be. I don’t want anything to do with you. I told you, it’s over,” she squealed, the horror of the situation resting firmly on her conscience.

  “Who else would ever marry you? I love you.”

  Reaching out with a desperate hand and clawing around the counter, the maid searched for something—anything. Feeling an all too familiar wooden handle, attached to the knife she’d used to chop vegetables, she gripped onto it with her entire force of will. She didn’t want to hurt the footman, just scare him off. However, bringing up the blade quickly, the swing caught the man on the arm.

  The footman screamed out, stumbling back into the counter clutching his wounded arm.

  Agatha knew she should run, get out of the kitchen and find the cook, the master, anyone, but she found herself worrying about the footman. “Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”

  Pulling his hand away from his arm, Shamus’ eyes widened as he saw the spatter of blood on his palm. His arm had a clear and distinct lash running across it. It wasn’t very big or long, but it was there. “You’re going to regret that,” he whispered threateningly.

  “I didn’t mean to.” A burst of strength erupted in Agatha’s body and she turned to run, but it was too late. Like a freight train barreling through the night, the footman knocked the knife from her hand. It clattered to the floor, useless to the maid now.

  “Agh, no!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, hoping to all goodness that someone in the house would hear her pleas.

  Shamus held her wrist. “You will be mine, forever.”

  Her eyes widened in horror as he reached out and grabbed a length of twine from the counter, something the cook had used to truss up the turkey. “No, please no. What are you going to do?”

  “Why did you have to do this?” he whispered.

  Letting go of her arm temporarily, he tightened the cord between his hands.

  Agatha wanted to turn, to run away. It was no use. Shamus slowly came toward her with the cord as she let out one final scream.

  CHAPTER 1

  * * *

  Sonja Reed sat up screaming, completely covered in her own sweat. The burning sensation around her neck, on her skin, subsided, as did the image of the jilted lover.

  It took her a good twenty seconds to fully realize what she’d been experiencing had been little more than a ridiculously realistic and lucid nightmare—like nothing she’d ever experienced before.

  Breathing heavily and attem
pting to calm her racing heart, which felt like it just might fly away and drag her along with it, she glanced around the darkness of her bedroom. The dream world melted further and further away, disintegrating into the ether as reality began to set in. Much to her relief, she was in her cottage home on the Smith Estate—of which she was caretaker.

  “A nightmare,” she whispered to herself. “Nothing but a nightmare.”

  However, something inside her knew better. As experience has taught her, she became aware that there was more to what she’d just seen than a simple night terror. Due to her clairvoyant capabilities—something that was still a secret to most of her family and friends—she often had ghostly dreams.

  But nothing like what she’d just seen and felt.

  This time, it was almost as if she were experiencing someone else’s memories. She had felt the death of the woman. The poor, helpless maid.

  What was her name? Agatha?

  Could it be true? Had she just witnessed a murder from the past? Based on the dress of the characters and the use of oil lamps, it would seem it was probably sometime during the early nineteen-hundreds.

  Also, if Sonja wasn’t mistaken, the nightmare had taken place in the very manor which she was caretaker over. Glancing toward her window, she could see the looming mass of the building across the way from the cottage.

  The figure of a man darted across the yard toward the house in a night robe.

  Seconds later, the door downstairs clicked open, and the pad of slippered feet came up the stairs.

  Finally, just as Sonja expected, there was a quiet knock on the door. “Ms. Reed? Are you alright? I heard someone screaming,” came the thick British accent.

  “I’m fine, Gram. It was just a nightmare,” she called back to the butler, the last remnant of the estate’s staff after Sonja took over as caretaker.

  “Very well, ma’am. See you in the morning. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight,” she called, snuggling back down under the blankets and listening to Gram pitter off down the stairs and outside toward the manor.

  It wasn’t until fifteen minutes later that she realized she wouldn’t be getting back to sleep that night—not with the images of the nightmare still dancing behind her eyes.

  Instead, she slipped out from under the covers and headed downstairs to the living room. Turning on the switch for the space heater, the chilly room instantly filled with warm, glowing cheer. Opening her laptop on the coffee table, she hit the power button for it to boot up and headed into the kitchen to brew a fresh cup of coffee.

  If she couldn’t sleep, she could at least work on finishing writing her mystery novel.

  * * *

  “Did you sleep well last night?” Alison Sorenson asked as she entered The Waffle Diner and Eatery kitchen the next morning. She was bundled in a red wool coat with the collar flipped up around her neck. Her hair was pinned up to keep it from blowing in the chilly November wind, and the whole ensemble made her look like she’d stepped out of a nineteen-forties flick (the only kind of movie worth watching in Sonja’s opinion).

  “I woke up around four this morning and couldn’t get back to sleep,” she shrugged, continuing to stir the bowl of waffle batter under her arm. The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg wafted up with each turn of the spoon.

  “Why not?” Ally pulled off her coat and hung it on the wooden rack next to the door. Grabbing her red and white apron, she slid it over her head and tied it on.

  “Nothing special,” Sonja complained quietly, not really wanting to remember the horrible dream. Even just a year ago, she would have taken the dream and run with it—attempting to dig into a potential age-old murder, facing up against any kind of ghosts.

  This time, however, she wasn’t in any mood to be dealing with the supernatural. Her powers, and any ghostly activity, had been so quiet for so many months that she’d gotten used to a somewhat normal life again. Additionally, she didn’t like the idea of a ghost hanging around in the kitchen at the manor. She simply hoped that by not pursuing what she’d seen, that it wouldn’t come again.

  “Was it a nightmare?” Ally asked, easily able to read her friend. While she wasn’t aware of Sonja’s clairvoyance, she still knew she suffered from the occasional nightmare.

  The diner owner only rolled her eyes. “Of course.” She set the bowl down, satisfied with the consistency of the batter. It had a beautiful light orange coloration, an indication of the delicious main ingredient—pumpkin. It was a customer favorite during the fall months, especially near Thanksgiving when so many people were in the mood for pumpkin pie.

  “It seems like so long since you’ve had any of those really bad nightmares. Was this one like that?” Ally had moved over to the griddle to start cooking eggs, bacon, and other delicious breakfast treats for the patrons.

  Usually, Ally’s father-in-law, Vic, took care of the grill. However, it was the day before Thanksgiving and Sonja had given him the time off to be with his wife at home.

  “Yeah, it was worse, actually.”

  “Worse? Seriously?”

  “Yep.”

  “What happened, if you don’t mind talking about it?” Clicking the dial up to medium heat, she bustled across the kitchen and pulled a fresh pack of bacon from the fridge.

  “I don’t really want to talk about it, but maybe it’ll help me process things.”

  “I’m all ears.” Ripping open the package, she laid the first few slices over the heat. While the doors had only opened about five minutes earlier, and there were no specific orders in yet, the two women knew to expect the regulars who always ordered the same things.

  “Well, there was this maid at the manor house. Some guy, a footman I think, came in. I guess the maid had refused his proposal of marriage, so he attacked her.”

  Alison didn’t look up from her work, but Sonja could see the twitch of a smile on her best friend’s face.

  “This isn’t funny, Ally,” she scolded her.

  “I know, I know. It’s just that, it already sounds like a cheap novel.”

  Sonja rolled her eyes, opening the square waffle iron. “It isn’t, trust me. You won’t believe what happened next.”

  “I’m sorry. Go ahead.”

  “He choked her to death.”

  Alison’s jaw dropped. “Such violence. What is going on inside of that brain of yours?”

  “I have no idea, but I’d wish it would quit. I swear, it all felt so real. It was the uncanniest thing in the world.” Sonja poured the batter into the hot iron and shut it.

  Ally hummed quietly as she flipped the bacon pieces.

  “What do you think it means?” Sonja pressed, hoping there was some reasonable explanation for the strange nightmare.

  Cracking two eggs with one hand like a pro, Ally let the milky contents fall out onto the hot surface. They instantly popped and bubbled in a perfect symphony of food. “You don’t think it has to do with Frank, do you?” she speculated, referring to Sonja’s boyfriend—who also happened to be the local sheriff.

  Sonja shrugged. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, do you think the man in your dream is Frank?”

  The redheaded chef could only gasp in horror. “Of course, not. Frank is a gentle and sweet man. He’d never try to choke me.”

  “No, I know that. I mean, metaphorically.”

  Sonja cocked one eyebrow just as the waffle iron dinged. She turned to take out the food. “Explain?”

  “Maybe you’re beginning to feel suffocated or trapped in your relationship with him. It could be the dream is a subconscious message telling you to maybe take a break for a while.”

  Sonja felt a hint of anger but pushed it down. “You’re not seriously suggesting I break it off with him, do you?”

  “Naw, of course not. You guys are perfect together. I’m just saying, it’s a possible reason for the dream.”

  Sonja shook her head. “I guess. How about we just forget the whole thing?” She started to dress the waffle in her signature p
umpkin drizzle she’d invented for the season—a combination of brown butter, cinnamon, nutmeg, and just a touch of real pumpkin puree. A dollop of handmade cinnamon-nutmeg whipped cream finished it off. She placed it in the window and rang the bell. “Pumpkin Lover’s Dream,” she called.

  The waitress came up with a smile. “I didn’t even tell you guys what she wanted,” she noted, nodding toward the small woman in the corner booth. Her name was Tabatha Rondo, and she had become a regular in the past few months. Sonja didn’t know a lot about the girl, except for the fact that she was born in London and was visiting Colorado to do paintings of the Rocky Mountain region.

  She also knew, ever since the Autumn season kicked in, that Tabatha loved anything pumpkin flavored. So, the Pumpkin Lovers Dream was in order most mornings.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” Sonja boasted.

  The waitress laughed, taking the dish from the service window. “Of course. You always are.”

  Thinking of pumpkin flavored things, Sonja’s mind wandered to pumpkin pie, and as a result, Thanksgiving. Turning back to Alison, she folded her arms. “So, did you ask Alex?”

  Ally nodded. “I did, but I think it’ll be like pulling teeth to get him to change up his normal family tradition.”

  “You told him that Vic and his wife are invited too, right?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “I mean, you are all basically family. It only seems right for you to be there.”

  Ally sighed, flipping the bacon one more time and then plating it. “I don’t know, Sonja. I mean, spending Thanksgiving up at that huge, old, spooky manor doesn’t exactly fit with Alex’s idea of traditional.”

  “Not traditional? That place has so much ambiance, I’d say it’s a perfect fit. You should see what Gram is doing to decorate the place for the occasion.”

  “I thought the butler would have moved on by now. Wasn’t he supposed to find a job somewhere else when you took over the estate?”