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Miranda Warning (A Murder in the Mountains Novel) (Volume 1)

By Heather Day Gilbert

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1
~*~


I chose the day I would die.
My husband’s deep brown eyes glowed as he handed me the cocoa. “Maybe you’ll sleep better tonight, Rosey.”
I was tired of the charade between us. I never wanted to smile at his dinner parties again. Never wanted to beg him for the children he wouldn’t give me. I’d never again clean up his clothes, covered in moonshine vomit.
I gulped the foaming, lukewarm liquid, a smile on my face. And that was the last time Paul Campbell would ever see me smile.

~*~

“Checkmate, girlie! Put that in your pipe and smoke it!”
The steely-haired matriarch sitting across from me clicks her heavy rings together, eyes sparkling over her glasses. Miranda Michaels has a heftier dose of spunk than your average assisted living home resident.
“Are you sure you didn’t cheat? Seems like that rook was over one…”
She smiles broadly, rolling her wheelchair back from the marble-topped table. “Listen, young’un, not to be mean, but you haven’t played for a while. Maybe you just need to practice some?”
I can’t resist it when she kicks in the Southern charm.
“I know you didn’t cheat. I just can’t concentrate today—sorry.” I reposition the ivory pieces on the board.
Miranda rolls around to my side. “Can we talk in my room? I’ve had something on my mind, too.”
The comforting smell of her favorite Black Cashmere lotion surrounds me. She doesn’t douse herself in Youth-Dew perfume, like most of the older ladies here.
I pat my hair, trying to smooth down a particularly willful cow-lick. She picks up on my insecurity before I say a word.
“That bob is quite becoming on you, what with your sleek dark hair. Reminds me of a flapper.”
“Thanks, but I think she cut it a little lopsided.” I roll her chair toward the long hallway. The usual suspects populate the Recreation room. Blue-haired women gossip as the assistants give them eye drops. Grizzled men watch TV, snatching peeks at the prettier assistants.
Miranda cranes her neck at me. “Tess Spencer, when are you going to learn to take a compliment?”
Even though Miranda has had a heart attack and a stroke, her keen insight still amazes me. At home, I secretly call her the Grande Dame to Thomas. For a sixty-nine year old near-cripple, she’s tres formidable.
In her suite, which is more like a small apartment, I roll her over to her blue satin couch and help her sit. I set the kettle brewing on her small stove for her afternoon cup of Earl Grey—a ritual she’s maintained since I met her four years ago.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” Miranda leans forward so precariously, I’m afraid her skinny legs will buckle and she’ll slide right off the couch.
“Hm. I’ve heard plenty of ghost stories, what with all the hundred-year-old houses around Buckneck. But I haven’t really decided. Why?” I glance around for some sort of food to go with her tea. Nothing but a package of peanut butter crackers that’s been open for about three weeks.
She grasps one of the overstuffed peach pillows close, sinking back into the couch. She takes a deep breath.
“I think one is trying to contact me.”
Most people might coddle an older person and tell them they’re imagining things. Quite possibly, Miranda’s own daughter would do that, if she ever came to visit.
But I’m not her daughter—I’m her best friend. And I know Miranda’s the last person on earth given to flights of fancy. I pour the tea into her gold-trimmed Lenox teacups and sit in the rocking chair opposite her. “What’s going on?”
She fingers the lacy white sweater draped over her shoulders. “I got a letter the other day. The letter itself was odd, but I recognized the handwriting.”
She pulls the letter out of a drawer in her French provincial coffee table. I take it, reading quickly. It’s handwritten on plain copy paper.

Dear Miranda,
I know you have been seeing Mr. Paul Campbell. For your own sake, I hope you stop doing so.
I’m watching you.

“You’re right. It is weird. Is it a threat or a warning? And more importantly, you didn’t tell me you were dating someone!” I fold it up into the envelope, noticing its postmark from Sedona, Arizona.
As I hand it back, Miranda’s fingers tremble. “Yes, Paul Campbell has come to call on me a few times. I didn’t think anyone knew yet.”
Something tells me the older women at The Haven assisted living facility have indeed noticed a man coming to call on the Grande Dame.
“But what about the handwriting? You said you recognized it?”
She nods. “That’s where it really gets strange. It’s my old friend Rose’s writing.”
“Does Rose live in Arizona?”
Miranda’s milky-pale skin blanches even further. “No. Rose Campbell’s ashes sit in an urn on Paul’s mantelpiece. She’s been dead for forty years now.”
Understanding hits me. “So you’re dating Rose’s husband. And you got a note that looks like it’s from his dead wife.”
She nods, lips tight. A fresh cup of tea would do us both some good, so I head for the kitchenette. I pour liberal cream and sugar in both cups before returning.
Miranda takes the cup, which clatters on its matching dish. Time to change the subject.
“Well, I have some news.” My announcement sounds forced, even to my ears.
“Ooh, do tell.” Her dark blue eyes widen and one expertly-penciled eyebrow shoots up.
“We’re expecting.” After a mere two years of marriage. Before I could even land a job. While Thomas has no health insurance. Whoopdie-do.
Miranda’s eyes fill. “God bless you…you weren’t ready, were you?”
As usual, the Grande Dame cuts straight to the heart of the matter. I take a deep breath. “No, I wasn’t. But we’ll get through.”
“You’re right. God knows just when those babies need to come, whether we’ve planned them or not. He’ll provide, just you wait and see.”
Miranda has a biblical application for everything. And it’s more comforting when she says it, no matter how self-evident it may seem.
She looks out her large bay window at the mountains, covered with a soft red and gold blanket of leaves. The rich colors shimmer and shake loose, making way for the monochromatic lines of winter. She takes a moment to speak. “You know, my friend Rose always wanted a baby.”
I grip my still-flat stomach. Why does God drop babies on those who aren’t ready for them and withhold them from those who want them most?
Miranda interrupts my thoughts. “I’d love to have you over for dinner Thursday night. Paul will be here, and we can talk about the letter. I haven’t showed it to him yet.”
“Sure.” After all, Thomas works late at his low-paying law office every night. I’ll use my free time to figure out why some ghost is bugging my sweet elderly friend.

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