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  A Spirited Gift

  ( Missing Pieces Mystery - 3 )

  Joyce Lavene

  As the mayor of Duck, North Carolina, Dae is playing host to twenty North Carolina elected officials attending her first Mayors' Conference Weekend at the Blue Whale Inn. When the body of Mayor Sandi Foxx is discovered the morning after a severe storm, Dae receives a vision through the mayor's ring; that there's a killer among the guests who's as deadly as any hurricane.

  PRAISE FOR

  A Touch of Gold

  “Paranormal amateur-sleuth fans will enjoy observing Dae use cognitive and ESP mental processes to uncover a murderer . . . Readers will enjoy Team Lavene’s second Dae in a life of a Duck tale.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  PRAISE FOR

  A Timely Vision

  “Grabbed my attention on page one . . . Puzzles are unraveled and secrets spilled in a fast-paced paranormal mystery full of quirky characters you’ll want as friends.”

  —Elizabeth Spann Craig, author of Pretty Is as Pretty Dies

  “A delightful yarn . . . Kept me turning pages until it was done.”

  —Patricia Sprinkle, author of Friday’s Daughter

  “Filled with likable (if eccentric) characters and boasts a vividly realized small-town setting.”

  —Booklist

  “This opening act of a new amateur sleuth is a wonderful mystery due to memorable eccentric characters including Duck. The whodunit is complicated enough to keep readers entertained and stymied . . . The heroine is sassy and spunky . . . Joyce and Jim Lavene have . . . another hit series.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “A leisurely mystery that had me guessing almost ’til the very end . . . It was fun and the characters were likable . . . I could almost smell and feel the salty sea air of Duck as I was reading.”

  —A Cup of Tea and a Cozy for Me

  “This is a mystery with strong characters, a vivid sense of place, and touches of humor and the paranormal. A Timely Vision is one of the best traditional mysteries I’ve read this year.”

  —Lesa’s Book Critiques

  PRAISE FOR

  Wicked Weaves

  “Offers a vibrant background for the mysterious goings-on and the colorful cast of characters.”

  —Kaye Morgan, author of Celebrity Sudoku

  “Fast-paced, clever, delightful.”

  —John Lamb, author of The Treacherous Teddy

  “Jolly . . . Serves up medieval murder and mayhem.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “[A] new exciting . . . series . . . Part of the fun of this solid whodunit is the vivid description of the Renaissance Village; anyone who has not been to one will want to go . . . Cleverly developed.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Joyce and Jim Lavene have teamed up for yet another terrific mystery series . . . A feast for the reader . . . Character development in this new series is energetic and eloquent; Jessie is charming and intelligent, with . . . saucy strength.”

  —MyShelf.com

  “I cannot imagine a cozier setting than Renaissance Faire Village, a closed community of rather eccentric—and very interesting—characters, [with] lots of potential . . . A great start to a new series by a veteran duo of mystery authors.”

  —Cozy Library

  PRAISE FOR THE PEGGY LEE GARDEN MYSTERIES

  Poisoned Petals

  “A delightful botany mystery.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “A top-notch, over-the-fence mystery read with beloved characters, a fast-paced story line, and a wallop of an ending.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Enjoy this pleasurable read!”

  —Mystery Morgue

  Fruit of the Poisoned Tree

  “I cannot recommend this work highly enough. It has everything: mystery, wonderful characters, sinister plot, humor, and even romance.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Well-crafted with a satisfying end that will leave readers wanting more!”

  —Fresh Fiction

  Pretty Poison

  “With a touch of romance added to this delightful mystery, one can only hope many more Peggy Lee Mysteries will be hitting shelves soon!”

  —Roundtable Reviews

  “A fantastic amateur-sleuth mystery.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “For anyone with even a modicum of interest in gardening, this book is a lot of fun.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  “The perfect book if you’re looking for a great suspense.”

  —Romance Junkies

  Perfect Poison

  “A fabulous whodunit that will keep readers guessing and happily turning pages to the unexpected end. Peggy Less is a most entertaining sleuth and her Southern gentility is like a breath of fresh air . . . [A] keeper!”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “A fascinating whodunit with unusual but plausible twists and plenty of red herrings.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Joyce and Jim Lavene

  Peggy Lee Garden Mysteries

  PRETTY POISON

  FRUIT OF THE POISONED TREE

  POISONED PETALS

  PERFECT POISON

  A CORPSE FOR YEW

  Renaissance Faire Mysteries

  WICKED WEAVES

  GHASTLY GLASS

  DEADLY DAGGERS

  HARROWING HATS

  Missing Pieces Mysteries

  A TIMELY VISION

  A TOUCH OF GOLD

  A SPIRITED GIFT

  Copyright © 2011 by Jim and Joyce Lavene.

  All rights reserved.

  We’d like to dedicate this book to Chris and Jamie,

  who helped us know Duck better—and find out

  where all the skeletons are buried.

  Thanks! J & J

  Chapter 1

  “I’m nervous.”

  “There’s nothing to be nervous about. Just hold my hands and close your eyes.”

  I did as my friend Shayla Lily said. We were seated at an old rosewood table that had once served as a spot where Thomas Jefferson ate breakfast and attended to his morning business. In the candlelight, the aged patina glowed, making shadows and depth in the wood.

  “I can’t help it,” I said, even though I knew I was supposed to be quiet. “It’s been a year.”

  “It’s just like riding a horse, sweetie. Except you’re on back this time and I have the reins.” Shayla tossed her rich black hair and took a deep breath. “Are you ready now?”

  I wasn’t really sure if I was. It had become ritual for Shayla and me to meet on my mother’s birthday, October 15. Shayla was a medium who’d lived in Duck for the last few years. Contacting my dead mother was what had brought us together originally. Now we were friends—even though our personalities were very different.

  I had already decided, as the month of October approached, that this was the last time I would try to raise the ghost of my mother.

  It was a big decision for me. I’d desperately wanted to talk to her after her death more than fifteen years ago. There’d been no time to say the things that needed to be said before her car went off one of the bridges that connect the Outer Banks to the mainland of North Carolina. I just wanted that last opportunity to tell her that I loved her. And that I was sorry.

  “Spirits of the air—hear my voice.” Shayla began the ritual while I tried to decide if we should even do it. “We seek Jean O’Donnell. Her daughter is here to speak with her. Hear me, spirits. We ask your blessing and to speak to Jean O’Donnell.”

  I squeezed my eyes closed—wanting so much to see her and, at the same time, afraid that I would. I’d never seen a
ghost. Shayla had told me it was a lot like seeing a living person. I had a feeling that wasn’t quite true. I wanted to believe that my mother could come back to me. I wanted to hear her voice one last time.

  “Is anything happening?” I whispered. I could hear the wind battering the house outside. I knew Duck might be catching the tail end of a tropical storm that was headed up the coast after hitting Florida.

  “Nothing is gonna happen if you keep talking, Dae.” Shayla’s voice seemed loud even though she was whispering.

  The candle on the table between us flickered as though some errant breeze had filtered through the room. There was a scratching sound at the window beside us. I rationalized it as a tree branch, clawing at the glass.

  Shayla invited the dead to join us again. Her plaintive cry was made poignant by the not-so-subtle overtones of her New Orleans accent. I wondered if anyone was listening to her.

  It seemed to me as though my mother must not have anything to say to me. Maybe she was still angry. Maybe she blamed me for her death. I knew she was upset when she left me at college that day. We’d argued, as we frequently did. She’d left early for Duck because a storm was brewing in the Atlantic. I’d let her go without telling her that I loved her. She’d left me without looking back.

  Was I to blame for her state of mind? Had she been crying when she lost control of her car and skidded off the bridge into the Croatan Sound? Her body had never been found.

  If guilt were a necklace, mine would be ten feet long and weigh a hundred pounds. I didn’t know if she blamed me, but I blamed myself. I was a stupid, selfish, thoughtless kid who didn’t know any better. But that was no excuse. Which was why I was sitting here, hoping to talk to her and make amends.

  But it appeared it was going to be just another night. A flickering candle and an eerie feeling didn’t mean my mother was with us.

  Shayla sighed. “I’m sorry, Dae. But I don’t think you should give up.”

  “It’s been a long time.” I opened my eyes and glanced around the room. A prickly tingling went up and down my spine, but that was all. About what you’d expect when you’re sitting in a dark room trying to call back the dead. “I don’t think she wants to talk to me.”

  “Listen, it’s not always that cut-and-dry. The dead have regrets too. Sometimes it isn’t that easy to come back. Maybe your mama just can’t get here to you.”

  I smiled at her, took my hands back and wiped the tears from my eyes. “Thanks for saying that. But I think this is it. I’m not trying again.”

  As though my words were a signal to some unseen source, the wind outside began whipping up even harder. The candle on the table not only went out—it, and the candleholder, fell over. The tree branch that had been politely tapping on the window broke off and smashed into the glass. Rain and wind blew in on us from the cracks.

  Shayla and I moved quickly away from the broken window that overlooked Duck Road. “Help me move the table,” I said.

  “Never mind that,” Shayla argued. “I think we might have created a breach in the spirit plane. That kind of stuff doesn’t just happen with a normal séance.”

  I dragged the Thomas Jefferson table away from the rain and pushed it into the center of the room. Shayla might not appreciate the importance of the piece, but I did. I’d done the research on it—which in this case consisted of touching it to learn its history.

  Shayla might see ghosts and be familiar with the spirit plane. I have a gift too. Nothing so fancy—I can find lost things that people are looking for and learn about those things by touching them.

  “It’s just the storm,” I assured her. I’d been born and raised on the Outer Banks, the strip of barrier islands that lies between the Atlantic and the various waters that separate it from the North Carolina coast.

  “Look at those,” Shayla whispered, pointing. “Do those look like something the storm dragged in?”

  I followed her finger and saw three balls of light floating across the dark room. The practical aspects of my Banker (Outer Banks) heritage made me go over and try to touch them. That same Banker heritage made me stop short of actually connecting—we were superstitious too.

  “What are they?” I asked my specialist on the spiritual realm.

  “Spirit balls,” she answered, clearly awed. “I’ve personally never seen them before, but I’ve heard stories from my ma and her gran about them. Spirits sometimes travel like this when they don’t take form.”

  I swallowed hard. “Can you talk to them?”

  “I don’t think so. They’re pure energy.”

  “Do you think one of them is my mother?”

  As if in answer, one of the balls flared out like a sparkler, then disappeared. The other two continued their leisurely pace across the room.

  Shayla took out her cell phone and started taking pictures. The flashes seemed to disturb the balls—they fled into the wall and disappeared.

  “Did you get them?” I figured photos were the only way anyone would ever believe us.

  She checked the camera function on her phone. “They don’t look like much. No wonder pictures of phenomena like this are always fuzzy. Who’s prepared?”

  “But we saw them.” My whole body felt like it had been immersed in a vat of static electricity. Shayla turned the lights on. They flickered a few times but eventually stayed on. We laughed at each other—our hair was standing straight up on our heads.

  “We did,” she agreed. “I think this means you shouldn’t give up trying to talk to your mother, Dae. The spirits are trying to reach you. You have to give them more time.”

  I couldn’t argue with her. The whole experience had left me trembling and ready to jump—which I did when my cell phone rang a moment later.

  Heart pounding, I answered and tried to focus. It was problem number 347 for the Duck Mayor’s Conference. Who’d have thought so many problems could come up for a two-day event? “I’ll be right there,” I promised our town clerk, who sounded on the verge of collapse.

  “You can’t go now,” Shayla said after I got off the phone. “We’re so close—I can feel it. You might still be able to talk to your mother tonight.”

  “As exciting as that sounds, if I don’t get over to the Blue Whale and sort some things out, the town staff might all be dead from stress. Think how much guilt I’d have then, since the conference was my idea.”

  “You shouldn’t play around with the dead,” Shayla quoted with dark intent.

  “I’m not. Really—maybe you could tell them how serious I am. We could try again after I get things settled down.” I hugged her and smiled. “Thank you for being here with me.”

  She rolled her expressive dark eyes. “Go on then. Go do your mayor thing. I’ll try to get this place cleaned up. You know, I think this storm might be worse than the TV weather people are expecting.”

  Chapter 2

  I’d brought the golf cart and my umbrella to Shayla’s house for the séance. Neither of them was any good at protecting me from the hard rain and high winds that were sweeping across the island. It was hurricane season—but not anything to panic about.

  My storm knee that I’d injured surfing when I was fourteen ached like crazy, telling me that Shayla was right about the tail end of this tropical storm. It would surprise me if it wasn’t upgraded to a hurricane before the end of the day.

  Most stores and houses were locked down, windows already boarded up or protected by heavy shutters. Storm debris was being pushed across Duck Road, our major thoroughfare.

  But people were still out, dressed in colorful ponchos and boots. A few restaurants and shops were open, including Game World, our gaming arcade. Most people took bad weather for granted. Only the worst of it got our attention.

  That made it difficult sometimes to protect the population. Most Bankers flatly refused to evacuate in the face of hurricanes, much less a tropical storm. Even though I was the mayor of Duck and understood the emergency protocols, I was just as bad. I couldn’t imagine what kind of
storm would make me and my grandfather leave our home on the Currituck Sound.

  As far as I knew, an O’Donnell had never left Duck for something as unimportant as some rain and gale-force winds. My family had lived here for several generations. Stubbornness was bred into our Banker bones.

  I turned down the side street that led to the Blue Whale Inn. Rain almost blinded me, but I hunkered down behind the plastic windshield and kept my foot on the accelerator. The battery-powered golf cart responded with its usual sluggish movement. It was lucky to go ten miles an hour. But it was better for the environment than a gas-powered golf cart and cheaper to run. A lot of people here used carts instead of cars.

  Though, in times like this, Gramps’s old car might’ve been better.

  The Blue Whale Inn sat squarely facing the Atlantic side of Duck. Its three stories, tall turret and sweeping verandah welcomed guests into a wealth of comfort and Southern charm. It had been built in the early 1900s and had been the scene of many major events in Duck—both legal and illegal—down through the years.

  It was owned now by ex-FBI agent Kevin Brickman, who’d labored long hours to make the place livable again after it had sat empty for more than thirty years. Between his wonderful cooking and painstaking refurbishing, the Blue Whale was again a hub of activity year-round.

  I pulled up through the circle drive and parked by the old hitching post. As I got out of the golf cart, I spotted a set of keys on the ground. I stooped down and picked it up, thinking someone would miss it. There was only a single key—a car key—on the key ring, and a fob—maybe a dolphin?—broken in half.