Having a Ball! Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Misty Simon

  Having a Ball!

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Misty Simon’s books at The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  After lugging myself off the floor,

  I rubbed my elbow. I’d cracked my funny bone on the wall as I went down. It wasn’t funny. Ouch.

  Had I hit my head, too? I could have sworn the ball had said “what’s up” to me and used my name. But how was that possible? Maybe the creaking sound I heard as I got up was my brain resettling back into place. Maybe trying to be Creative Danner had finally taken its toll on my poor, sad mind.

  I reached for the ball where it rested with its top facing up. No eight graced the top, but now that I looked closer there was some sort of tree burned into it. Before my fingers connected with the wooden surface, I pulled back and sat down on the floor next to it, looking at the kitchen tile. Uh, yeah, I needed to mop in here sometime soon.

  Back to the matter at hand. My cleaning, or lack thereof, was not nearly as important as figuring out what had happened a couple minutes ago. What if the ball really had used my name? That would be very bizarre. And as much as I’d thought I wanted some changes in my life, for something to “give” as I vaguely remembered saying, I didn’t think I wanted a ball that could spell out my name and talk directly to me. Whatever happened to the good old days of vague responses like MAYBE?

  Praise for Misty Simon

  POISON IVY: “I loved this book. I was laughing during most of it.”

  ~Rae, My Book Addiction and More (4.5 rating)

  ~*~

  THE WRONG DRAWERS: “…a sass filled, one-two punch of delightfully quirky humor and intriguing mystery.”

  ~Jacki King, bestselling author

  ~*~

  WHAT’S LIFE WITHOUT THE SPRINKLES?: “Ms. Simon’s writing has warmth, her characters seem like real people, and her plotting drew me in…”

  ~Angie Just Read, The Romance Reviews

  ~*~

  “If you enjoy romance stories about two people burned by relationships gone bad…then look no further.”

  ~Xeranthemum, Long and Short Reviews (4.5 Books)

  Having a Ball!

  by

  Misty Simon

  Adventures in Ghostsitting, Book 4

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Having a Ball!

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Misty Simon

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Fantasy Rose Edition, 2018

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1854-7

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1855-4

  Adventures in Ghostsitting, Book 4

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To Nan, for everything.

  We've been at this for years,

  and I couldn't ask for a better partner in fictional crime!

  Misty Simon’s books at The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  The Kissinger Kisses Series

  What’s Life Without the Sprinkles?

  Making Room at the Inn

  Go Ahead, Make My Bouquet

  Christmas in Kissinger

  The Ivy Morris Mysteries

  Poison Ivy

  The Wrong Drawers

  Something Old, Something Dead

  Frame and Fortune

  For Love and Cheesecake

  Adventures in Ghostsitting

  Desperately Seeking Salvage

  Don’t Dream It’s Rover

  Every Death You Take

  Having a Ball!

  The first three Adventures in Ghostsitting stories are also available as Adventures in Ghostsitting, Volume I. More are anticipated—watch for them!

  Chapter One

  It all started with my misguided need to recapture a fraction of my fantastic youth. Something about the way the air smelled of fallen leaves and early snow made me duck into a thrift shop looking for parachute pants, a lava lamp, or a concert T-shirt from some ’80s hair band like Slaughter.

  What I didn’t expect was to find myself drawn to the tchotchke corner and all the jelly bracelets and net gloves à la Madonna. My cousin Mel was the Material Girl, while I had been much more a Motley Crüe kind of girl.

  But in the midst of all the plastic jewelry, I saw a fortune-telling ball. It looked like one I had used years ago. Mel was totally going to be jealous when I sent her a picture of the thing.

  Instantly, I was thrown back to the days where I’d ask it everything from whether I’d get my homework done on time (I did, but it wasn’t right), to if that cute boy in tenth grade was going to ask me to the winter formal (he didn’t, but the rest of high school was fantastic).

  I never got the right answers then and doubted I would now, but something had to give in my life. The ball was calling to me. It wasn’t the standard black, and it didn’t look like a billiard ball. It was almost a Magic Eight Ball, but not quite. The window was actual glass, the ball itself appeared to be made of a dark cherry wood, and the liquid inside was clear instead of inky blue.

  I liked that it was different. And at five bucks it was a steal.

  Shuffling to the counter at the back of the store, I waited my turn behind a little old lady with an armful of doilies. She reminded me of my great-grandma, actually, and I silently cursed my ancestor for her unfortunate maiden name, which ended up being my first name. I was not particularly fond of my first name, Danner, but it was what I had to work with. What else was I going to do?

  Finally it was my turn to interact with the sullen teenager behind the cash register. Her green spiked hair looked like it could spear large fish for dinner straight out of a stream. I wisely kept that remark to myself as I did not want the price of the weird ball to all of a sudden rocket up by two thousand percent.

  But the girl’s whole pierced face changed when she saw what I had in hand. “This is so cool,” she said, trying to take it from me. “I didn’t know we even
had something like this. I would have snagged it ages ago.”

  I put a protective hand on the ball. No one was going to take this little bit of my youth from me. And from the predatory gleam in the teen’s eye, she was about to put it under the shelf and say it wasn’t for sale.

  “I thought it was pretty cool,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound lame. At the ripe old age of twenty-seven, I was completely out of touch with how the younger generation talked these days. I didn’t want to give her another reason to take it from me. My unhipness was just one of the things that made me cringe when I deigned to think about it.

  “Yeah, uh, cool.” Miss Metal slipped it out from under my hand but kept her eyes on me the whole time. Did she think I wouldn’t notice if she took it?

  Of course I was just being paranoid. The girl had a sale to make, and I had money to part with. I couldn’t really afford much of anything in the way of luxuries, but even I could part with five bucks.

  Taking the money out of my wallet, I laid it on the counter like I was throwing down a gauntlet.

  “I don’t know if I should sell this to you,” she said, the predatory look becoming one of calculation.

  I may not be the smartest cookie in the jar, but I was not going to let this little slip of a girl get more money out of me. No matter how much I wanted the ball, I would not pay through the nose for it.

  “Marcia, give the lady her merchandise. You can’t take home everything you want in the store.”

  The voice caught my attention. I looked over the girl’s shoulder to find an older woman there, her light brown hair shot through with silver and brushing big dangly gold earrings. I was with her a hundred percent. Give me the ball. I was bordering on desperation. The ball was calling to me. I needed to get it home as soon as possible.

  The possessive feeling rushed over me, filling every nook and cranny. I had no idea where the compulsion came from, but it was getting stronger with every breath. It was as if my life depended on having this ball, which was silly. My life had never depended on anything, and certainly on nothing material.

  “But Grandma!” the girl whined, adding a lilt at the end that made my teeth ache.

  Whoa, ‘grandma’? The lady certainly didn’t look old enough to be a grandma, and she looked nothing like the girl in front of her.

  “Marcia.”

  The sound of that one word was so final even I stepped back for a second, ready to do whatever the woman wanted me to.

  “Oh, all right, but you are no fun, and I’m telling Mom.”

  “Go right ahead, dear, and I’ll make sure to tell her about the boy who dropped you off on his motorcycle this afternoon for work.”

  Poor Marcia looked stricken and horrified. I almost felt sorry for her until she tried to take the ball off the counter and we started to wage a silent tug of war. Let go, let go, let go! I put my considerable weight behind the pull. She could not have the ball—I owned it. It was mine! Mine, I tell you!

  Okay, I was going slightly insane as I stood there trying to best a teenager in a contest of wills. I was in no way a little woman, but I also hadn’t been to a gym in so long I’d probably been declared dead to them. And this girl was strong.

  Finally, Grandma stepped in and rested a hand on the object of our obsession. She said a quiet word, turned to me, beamed out a smile, and smacked Marcia on the hand. The girl let go, and I nearly fell flat on my ass, only righting myself seconds before the descent to impact.

  “Thank you,” I said a bit breathlessly. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.” Why did I say that? It sounded stupid even to me.

  But Grandma answered as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I’m sure you will, sweetie, and it will bring you all the answers in life.”

  Yeah, right, pull the other leg; I like them to match.

  ****

  Back at my apartment, I tried to get into my creative zone. I’d tried to use the ball a couple of times and kept getting “Try again later.” Very frustrating.

  I shook the thing a few times, and the liquid thickened, making the cube stay completely still.

  So I got out the art supplies I’d lovingly stored in the cabinets in the mudroom and set up my easel on the balcony. There was nothing as relaxing as creating from my mind. Palette in hand, I went to work with sky blue, green, and yellow in broad strokes to make the sky come alive as it was in the back yard.

  Painting was my passion, the reason I lived, the antithesis to my boring job as an accountant.

  When I’d finished putting the last beautiful stroke on the hand-stretched canvas, I had paint in my hair and on my hands. I stepped back to view my masterpiece. I just knew this was going to be my best effort yet. The yard inspired me to greatness with its crisp colors and shedding trees.

  Unfortunately, the fifty-dollar, professionally stretched canvas looked like every other thing I’d ever painted—a strange combination of a Rorschach picture and a three-year-old’s attempt at finger painting. Damn.

  Throwing down the turpentine rag I’d wiped my fingers on, I sat on the plastic chair and put my hands on my head. I ran them through my drab blonde hair (I didn’t even have interesting hair) and sighed a huge sigh. I’d taken classes for painting, and my mom was an artist, so why couldn’t I do this?

  I’d fumbled my way through acrylics and charcoal already, both unequivocal disasters also.

  My mom did big, amazing murals and was actually pretty much in demand all the time from art societies and anyone who wanted a huge painting. You’d think I would have at least some creativity swimming around in my blood. But no, none at all.

  I wasn’t giving up just yet, though. I’d go visit my friend Malcolm at the Art Depot and find out what medium to try next. I just had to find the kind of art I could excel at, that was all. Simple, really, as long as I never gave up trying.

  I pushed my fingers through my shoulder-length hair again and met resistance. I pushed harder. Nothing doing. I pushed with all my strength this time. My gym membership would have come in handy now, too. I must remember to find the gym again.

  With that last push, though, my hands finally came out, yanking a clump of the dishwater blonde strands with them. Great. Now I’d look like I was a balding starving artist. Could it get worse?

  “Hello, neighbor!”

  Yes, yes, it could and just did.

  “Hello, Danner!” Mrs. Fink called over the fence to my right, again. I thought about dropping my head back into my hands but couldn’t really afford to lose any more hair.

  Instead, I waved to the little old lady I’d lived next to for a year and heaved another sigh. I really wanted those teenage years back. Life was so much simpler then.

  “Are you painting again, dear?” Mrs. Fink opened the little door in the fence and came strolling into my back yard. She knew she was welcome here any time and took full advantage of the invitation.

  Toby, my downstairs neighbor and landlord, and an absolute hottie, was much more tolerant of her visits than I was. Whenever she came over, I had to force myself not to become Corporate Danner and shake her hand in a polite, professional manner while letting her know we had overshot her extension date on her taxes.

  “Yes, I’m painting again. It doesn’t seem to be working out well, though.”

  “I’m sure you’ll get the right technique down.” She smiled up at me from behind thick glasses. She loved to come over in the summer, too, when Toby’s cement patio below my deck became the place to be and to eat steaks.

  Enough thinking about Toby. He wasn’t due back for another week, anyway, and day dreaming about him all the time was not doing me any good. He thought I was like a sister or best friend to him, and I wanted to rip his clothes off his body and get him dirty.

  We didn’t exactly see eye to eye, you understand. Actually, I take that back. He didn’t even know I felt anything other than familial love for him, so to him we did see eye to eye.

  Hey, no one ever said I was terribly smart.

  Bu
t back to Mrs. Fink, who was still standing below me. I knew what she wanted, but I didn’t know if I had the courage to give it to her.

  “Come on, sweetie, come on down and show me what masterpiece you have finished today. I’m sure it’s outstanding.”

  Then she smiled at me, giving me a flash of blinding white dentures, and I couldn’t resist the promise of unconditional love. I’d known Mrs. Fink since I was five and lived across the street with my parents. She was like a second mom.

  So I tromped down the stairs, dragging the canvas behind me. My heart was a little lighter with each step. Maybe the painting wasn’t as bad as I thought. Perhaps I was being hypercritical of my skills because I was comparing myself to my mother and coming up lacking.

  I skipped down the last three steps and came to a jaunty halt next to the woman I towered over in bare feet. She couldn’t have been more than four and a half feet tall, but her heart was so big. There was no way she would tell me I sucked. This could be my medium.

  I leaned the canvas against the outside wall of the two-hundred-year-old Victorian I shared with Toby and stood back, giving her ample room to maneuver around the piece. The more I looked at it, the less I thought it was terrible. I had managed to blend the colors nicely, and the little starburst things I’d done in the corners gave it a certain panache. Really, not bad at all, in an eclectic sort of post-modernism-cubist way.

  “Well, Danner, you’ve certainly outdone yourself this time,” Mrs. Fink looked up over glasses that took up most of her face. “This is probably the worst painting I’ve ever seen. I feel as if you want me to tell you what I see when I look at it. All I can say is doody.”

  I sighed, deflated again. “Yeah, that’s what I thought, too.”

  More money down the toilet. But Malcolm at the Art Depot was going to be able to afford to go on another vacation. That ought to make him happy.

  ****

  “Yoo-hooo! Danny-girl! Over here.” My friend Caroline Detweiler waved her hand in the air like a maniac. And not an ounce of flab waved with her. Now, if that had been me, my bicep would have still been waving ten minutes later.

  Anyway, she was making a spectacle of herself, as usual. I had to stop her before she started hopping up and down. “I see you,” I yelled across the foyer to the little table she’d managed to snag near the bar. The only reason she could hear me was that there was no live music tonight. The only thing going was a jukebox set right on the edge of the wooden dance floor.