The Deadly Detective Agency (Abigail Summers Cozy Mysteries Book 1)

Book summary

In "The Deadly Detective Agency," Abigail Summers, a dressmaker in the quiet village of Becklesfield, embarks on an extraordinary quest to unravel the mystery of her own murder. With the help of psychic medium Hayley Moon and her husband, a police constable, Abigail delves into the secrets of her community, uncovering unexpected connections between her death, a missing boy, and a perplexing suicide. A gripping tale of the afterlife's intrigue and unearthing the truth.

Excerpt from The Deadly Detective Agency (Abigail Summers Cozy Mysteries Book 1)

Abigail Summers felt strangely refreshed when she woke up. She felt like she had been asleep for days, but still told herself, ‘two more minutes’ and snuggled back down again. Ah, there was nothing like lying in or having a duvet day on… Sunday? Monday? She wasn’t sure, and what time was it? Abigail looked over at the clock - just before eight. But was that morning or evening? Morning surely. Did she overdo the white wine again last night? She could remember a headache, thinking about it. She shot out of bed as someone slowly opened the door. She was about to pick up the lamp to hit them over the head when she recognised the person. “Monica? What on earth are you doing here?”

“Look at the mess in here. I say we dump everything. Especially all the bedding.”

“And the bed. I couldn’t sleep in that now,” said a voice she knew well.

Abigail’s heart almost stopped, and she started to wonder if it had. She had always prided herself on her powers of perception, but in her defence, she hadn’t been ill and hadn’t even seen a doctor for the past twelve years. Maybe she should have, thinking about it.

Her nephew, Aaron, and his ghastly wife, Monica, were rummaging through her things, of all the cheek.

“Bin. Bin. Charity. No, bin. Bin.”

“What the hell are you doing?” shrieked Abigail. “Monica, I mean it, if you don’t stop…” But Monica didn’t stop. Monica, she realised, could not see her. Abigail walked over to the mirror, but she couldn’t make herself out clearly either, until a mist cleared. I’m dreaming, totally doolally or dead. She sat on the bed to think which one. Surely if she had died, her body would be lying there, like the ghost in the film. Anyway, she can’t possibly be dead. She was only in her late thirties and had loads to do for work, and she hadn’t been married yet, not even engaged. Aaron, who although he was the sole beneficiary in her will, hadn’t been in touch for well over a year. Now here was his money-grabbing wife rummaging through her things. So not dreaming or doolally then, she thought. But maybe dead. She hadn’t been ill, had she? No, she was never ill. Although she did kind of remember a bad headache and dizziness at some point. She’d find out what had happened if it was the last thing she did. Oh God, what was the last thing she did?

Aaron had a look on the dressing table. “Any jewellery that’s worth anything?”

“No, not much. Most of it is cheap tat, just costume jewellery. No engagement ring, of course,” she said and laughed.

“Do you mind, that’s my cheap tat.” Abigail lunged towards her, but her hand went straight through her. “Either you’re dead or me.” When it did the same to her keepsake box when she went to snatch it off Aaron, she began to think that it must be her. Aww, that’s a shame she thought. “I’m too young. What about all my TV shows I’m halfway through? I can’t believe this is happening. I wonder if it was that pizza I heated up. It had been hanging about for a few days. So what does one actually do when one is dead?” She had another look in the mirror. She looked alright, a bit flushed. Not stabbed or anything awful like that. Oh, and her hair looked okay. She turned to the side. A bit of bed-hair at the back but nothing too bad, and the fact that her shoulder-length blonde hair was curly hid it pretty well. “At least I coloured it last week. Damn, I had those brand new cream, silk pyjamas that I was saving for best. Why couldn’t I have been wearing those? Oh my God, shut up, Abigail. I’m so vain, even when I’m dead!”

She wasn’t scared, sorry, or frightened. Sort of excited, peaceful, and with a kind of warmth. First of all, she tried walking through a wall - no trouble there. She managed the stairs without incident. So far so good. What have they done to the kitchen? A big pile of food was on the table and some in the bin. She’d only bought that carrot cake last week. The sitting room was similarly upturned. Don’t say she was stuck here for an eternity with these two. She’d take Hell. But could she leave the house? Abigail closed her eyes and went through the front door. She felt sad and happy at the same time.

She stopped and looked back at her childhood home. It was an old listed building that was now painted white, but the lattice windows in the original wooden frames remained as they were over one hundred years ago. She only hoped Aaron didn’t have plans to rip them out and put plastic ones in. Even the front door was the same one as when it was built, although the huge keyhole was now redundant in favour of a Yale lock. She remembered the day when she was about six, that her father had nailed a horseshoe at the top of it. “It’s got to point upwards, Abi, so the luck stays in.” Until this day, she always felt it had. With a big sigh, she walked away.

Abigail suddenly remembered that she was in her red pyjamas. But after a pushchair had been pushed through her and a car had driven past, she realised she was indeed a ghost of the very dead kind and no one could see her anymore. Was she the only one? What should she do now? Abigail had lived in Becklesfield all her life and was thinking she should have travelled more when she had the chance. The thought of those two being in there was too much to bear. She would be turning in her grave - if she had one. Oh, perhaps she did have one. Maybe that’s the first place she should go.

She walked to the old church that she had been christened in and where her family were buried. It was next to the village green which was busy with parents walking their children to the small primary school that she had attended. No one seemed to see her, although she could swear that a couple of the smaller children looked at her and smiled. She walked around the pond to the stone wall that surrounded the church. It was too early for Reverend Stevens to be there, but there was a middle-aged man looking down by one of the graves. Abigail went over to where her mother, father, and brother had been buried. No open grave or sign of hers. That was a relief at least. Perhaps she was dreaming or having an out-of-body, or rather an out-of-house experience. Should she be looking for a light or a tunnel? Or maybe her mum and dad? She’d go into the church first before she really started to panic. The church clock chimed nine as she followed the path to the wooden, arched door and stood in the porch. “Good job I didn’t sleep in the nuddy,” Abigail said out loud.

“You wouldn’t be the first,” said the man who had been in the graveyard, and funnily enough, also wearing pyjamas of the striped variety. The handsome, in a rugged way gentleman had noticed the rather attractive woman wandering up and down outside the church and felt he had to help her.

“You can see me?” asked a very relieved Abigail. “Oh my, I can see you too. Are you a ghost as well, or are we both nuts?”

“Well, I may be a bit of both,” he laughed. “The name’s Terry. Are you a newly departed? Or should I say a recently arrived?”

“I’m not actually sure. The first thing I knew about it, my nephew’s wife was clearing out my things. And being very rude about my stuff. I’m Abigail Summers.”

“It can take a while for the spirit to leave the body. And don’t worry if you can’t remember how you died. That’s perfectly normal. It’s a bit like a head injury when patients never can remember what happened when they come round. For a while anyway.”

“I was rather expecting to go to Heaven, if I’m honest.”

“In my experience, over the last fifty odd years of being dead, is that sudden death from an illness or an accident is the second biggest cause of being stuck here.”

“What’s the first?”

“Murder,” he said.

“I love a whodunnit as much as anyone else, but I really don’t think I was murdered. I’m sorry to say that I’m not that important. Although my nephew, Aaron does seem to have inherited my house rather quickly!”

Terry sighed, “I’ve seen people roaming these streets for a ten-pound note, so I’d keep an open mind if I was you.”

“I will, for sure. I don’t want him getting away with murder. It was my family home. I’ve got all my memories inside those walls and in that garden. It will break my heart and my parents’ if he moves in there. But he’s the only family I’ve got now. His dad, my brother, died a few years back. Apart from the night attire, how did you know I was dead?” asked Abigail.

“Look at me. Can you see a slight aura around me?”

“Yes, I can. I had noticed that already. Are there many of us about?”

“Not as many as you’d think. Most people go straight to where they’re supposed to be. Or some people like me have the chance to leave and don’t take it. If you like, I can introduce you to my friends. I’ll show you where we all hang out. It may surprise you.”

They walked past the village shop and into the high street. Life had gone on without her, Abigail thought sadly. Was this how it was going to be from now on; she was simply a spectator? Watching the world but not being able to be part of it. Mrs Merry was putting her flowers outside her shop, while the Post Office opened its door and Mr. Banning from the antique shop was chatting and laughing with Cassie Briggs. Surely Cassie should be grieving - obviously not. Terry gestured to her to enter a building which Abigail had not been in for years. “The Becklesfield Public Library? That’s hardly gothic or ghostly,” she said.

“Where else are there newspapers, computers, a television to look at and an ever-changing group of visitors? We can keep up with all the current events. Not forgetting we get the place to ourselves after hours. All my friends come here. Come on, I’ll introduce you,” said Terry.

The building was one of the oldest in the village and was spread over two floors. The library itself was open plan and the reference and the storage rooms were upstairs. It had not opened its doors to the public yet but towards the back of the large room, a group of people were sitting in some comfy chairs.