Meows and Mistletoe, page 10
part #4 of Cat's Paw Cove Series
Knight in Her Bed
Master of the Highlands
Wedding for a Knight
Return to Kintail Scottish Romances
Winter Fire
The Taming of Mairi MacKenzie
Only for a Knight
Highlander Regency Romances
The Kiss at Midnight
The Laird of Lyongate Hall
Short Stories
The Seventh Sister
Falling in Time
Allie Mackay Titles
Ravenscraig Legacy Series
HIGHLANDER IN HER BED
HIGHLANDER IN HER DREAMS
TALL, DARK, AND KILTED
SOME LIKE IT KILTED
MUST LOVE KILTS
Highland Ghostbuster Novel
HAUNTED WARRIOR
Audio
WEDDING FOR A KNIGHT
HIGHLANDER IN HER BED
HIGHLANDER IN HER DREAMS
TALL, DARK, and KILTED
SOME LIKE IT KILTED
HAUNTED WARRIOR
CHARLOTTE REDBIRD, GHOST COACH
By Sharon Buchbinder
With the help of hunky real estate agent, Dylan Graham, life coach Charly Redbird and her new kitten have found the perfect home next to a cemetery. Charly gets a new client right away, who happens to be her neighbor—and a ghost. What could possibly go wrong?
Prologue
Chicago, Illinois
If it hadn’t been for her uncanny ability to pick winners at the Cicero Racetrack, Charlotte Redbird would have still been working as a prep school lacrosse coach. She hadn’t started out playing the ponies. She had a mandatory school function to thank for her winning streak. The high school guidance counselor had convinced the principal the teachers and coaches needed to spend quality time together, and she’d been ordered to go to the races as part of a mandatory team-building activity. Once there, it became evident the guidance counselor, an amazon of a woman, had conjured an excuse to spend time with the good-looking basketball coach—the only marriageable man on staff that she didn’t dwarf.
Sitting on a hard bleacher in an atmosphere reeking of dust, horse manure, and cheap booze while a statistics teacher droned on about odds and probabilities, Charly squeezed her eyes shut and wished she could be home in bed with a good book
If their instructor had been her teacher for math in high school, she’d still be in a coma.
Someone rasped in her ear, “That guy running his mouth, don’t know squat about playing the ponies.”
Twisting in her seat, she spotted an elderly man sitting at an angle from her. His feet swung in the air above the floor like a child in an adult chair. With the brim of his hat pulled low over his face, she couldn’t make out his features—just the lit cigarette and the curl of smoke rising to the open sky.
“Were you talking to me?”
The man in question lifted the brim of his hat and glanced from side to side, a wry smile on his wizened face. He removed the glowing cancer stick from his mouth. “You see anyone else around?”
Indeed, Charly had selected a seat as far away from her so-called colleagues as possible. Infused with alcohol, the prim teachers and stern coaches had morphed into party animals—and it wasn’t pretty.
“I see your point.” She rattled the racing sheet at him. “I take it you’re an expert.”
He cackled. “You could say that. What’s your name, girlie?”
Mentally rolling her eyes, she responded, “Charlotte, but most people call me Charly.”
He tipped his hat. “Nice to meetcha. I’m Billy.”
“Well, Billy, if you don’t like the math, what do you like?”
He tapped the side of his head. “Horse sense. Look at the fifth race. See that filly named Sally Rivers?”
She nodded. “Says here she’s a long shot—a hundred to one odds.”
He guffawed. “Doesn’t mean she won’t win. She’s got spirit. The tried and true ones are fast, but she’s feisty.” He lit another cigarette with the dying one in his hand, flicked the butt to the floor, and looked her in the eye. “I like the feisty ones.”
Was this old guy flirting with her? “Are you aware that cigarettes cause cancer?”
“There ain’t nothin’ left to eat, drink, or smoke. I might as well be dead.” He laughed, ending on a hacking cough. “Take my word. Sally Rivers is gonna win.”
Charly looked at her watch and groaned. Another hour before the bus would take them back to the school parking lot. Why not kill some time with a little betting?
“Okay, Billy. I’m going to put twenty bucks on your filly.”
“You’re a cheap date, Charly.” He raised his thumb up. “Higher.”
Payday wasn’t until next Friday, and she only had fifty bucks on her.
“What if I lose?”
“Mark my words. This is a sure thing.”
“What the hell. I’m stuck here anyway. Be right back.”
Slapping her remaining cash on the counter of the betting window, she announced, “Fifty on Sally Rivers in the next race.”
The clerk paused, shrugged, and handed her the ticket without a word.
The race started before she could leave the lobby, so she watched it on the overhead jumbo screen. Slow out of the gate, the horse looked like she was going to come in dead last.
“Great,” she complained to no one in particular. “I’ll be eating cereal for dinner until next payday.” She turned to go back to her seat.
A man screamed in her ear, “Come on Double Trouble, get moving before Sally knocks you into center field!”
It couldn’t be. She whirled just in time to see Sally Rivers flying through the crowded pack of horses, bobbing and weaving like a boxer—right up to the finish line. A skirmish of horses came in behind her, no photo finish required.
“Omigod! I won!”
The man beside her threw his tickets down in disgust and stomped away.
With this much money, she could pay her rent, have a nice dinner, and still stash some away into savings. Winnings in hand, she ran back to her seat to thank Billy.
He was gone, leaving only a whiff of smoke in the air.
A few years and a lot of visits to her buddy Billy later, Charly had a Life Coach Certificate from the expensive and prestigious Traugott Institute for Knowledge of Life. Sitting at her cherry desk, she gazed out the window of her private office in the Chicago Loop and counted her blessings. The blue sky and unseasonably warm weather called her to come out and play, but the new client questionnaire on her computer nagged her to stay. Despite her nest egg, she couldn’t rely on gambling as a steady income. She loved being self-employed, but she was the toughest boss she’d ever had. Similar to a psychologist in private practice, without clients she’d be out of business in a heartbeat. With a specialty in anger management, Charly received most of her referrals from high school counselors. Others came from college advisors, employers, and on a few occasions, lawyers preparing clients before a court appearance.
Her newest client fell into the latter category. He had a habit of breaking things when his temper flared and now took medications to control the problem. His attorney deemed it critical for him to document his diligence in addressing his behaviors, including an anger management course. She was so focused on reviewing his candid self-assessment, she nearly jumped out of her skin when a cheery voice broke her concentration.
“Hello! Anyone home?”
She stared at the two women in the open doorway, both blonde and blue-eyed, one older, one younger, and unmistakably related. Clones. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
The older one, presumably the mother, looked familiar. Charly was positive she’d seen her before. Was she a news anchor for one of the Chicago stations?
Draped in an expensive silk scarf, opera length pearls, a twin sweater set, and a black fur coat, the attractive woman gave a low throaty laugh. “Of course, you know us. I’m sure you’ve seen me in the social pages. My father, Murray Meadows, was the department store magnate. You know,” she made air quotes, “‘Meet me under the clock?’”
“Ah, of course.” Charly rose from her chair and gave a nervous laugh. The department store heiress frequently made the news for galas benefiting the arts—always dressed in the famous Meadows diamonds and tiara, reputedly valued at millions of dollars. There were rumors that the family was so rich, they played board games with real money. Maybe she was looking for a life coach for her daughter? It would be nice to have a wealthy client who could refer her to other rich parents. Her luck at the racetrack helped pay the bills, but entrée to this social circle would clinch her career in Chicago.
“What can I do for you?”
“We’re your clients,” the woman said brightly. “I’m Mrs. Meredith Maddox, and this is my daughter, Macy. You’ve been coaching her for almost a year now. We know we’re a bit early, but we were in the neighborhood. We thought we’d stop by for Macy’s certificate of completion.”
Leaning over her desk, Charly ran her fingers across her keyboard and found Macy’s file. She pointed to the smiling dark-haired, brown-eyed teenager’s photo on the computer screen. “There’s some mistake. This is the girl I’ve been coaching for the last eleven months of the twelve-month court-ordered anger management course. She said her name was Macy Maddox, even showed me her school ID card when she came for her first session.”
Lovely girl. I enjoyed my sessions with her. She’d been very eager to learn. Hoping to go to law school, if I remember correctly. That police report was such a surprise.
The girl smirked. “No, silly, she was my understudy. Get it? She’s on a scholarship for ghetto dwellers at my private school, can you imagine?” Her Valley Girl voice ended on an annoyingly high note. “She was more than happy to fill in for me and make a nice chunk of change. Mother paid her two-hundred dollars a session. Overpaid, I think, but whatever.”
The same amount of money I charge per session.
Stomach churning, Charly suppressed the urge to lecture these women about the legal ramifications of misrepresentation. Instead, she took a deep breath and said, “What exactly do you want from me?”
Mrs. Maddox grinned like a great white shark about to devour a hapless swimmer. “A minor detail, a nuisance, really. We just need the coaching certificate to wrap up my daughter’s college application. She’s already completed her community service. Harvard is holding a spot for her on the Crew team.”
A star lacrosse player, Charly had been a student athlete and earned her scholarships to the prestigious university on the shore of Lake Michigan in Evanston before becoming a coach. With legs covered in scars that told a story from every game, Charly knew the teenager standing in front of her had never spent any time in a scull. She locked gazes with Macy. “What position are you?”
Macy giggled. “Twelve, my lucky number.” She flopped her arms in an awkward pantomime of rowing. “I love to crew.”
And I’m an Olympic swimmer.
The socialite’s forehead furrowed, and she touched her daughter’s arm. “Ms. Redbird, if you would just print the certificate out and put it in an envelope for us so we can send it off to Harvard, we’ll be on our way to the Magnificent Mile for some girl time.”
Shameless.
“I can’t provide an anger management certificate for your daughter.” Charly pointed at Macy. “She was never here.”
“Piffle.” Mrs. Maddox waved her hand in the air as if to drive off a pesky gnat. “Macy should have never been mandated to do this. She was unjustly accused of punching that girl in the face.”
“If I recall correctly,” Charly retorted, “The police report said twice in the face, once in the stomach, followed by kicking. The victim sustained three broken ribs.”
“Lies!” Macy shouted, her fair skin mottling with rage. “That little witch stole my boyfriend—”
Mrs. Maddox wrapped her bejeweled hand around her daughter’s wrist. “Deep breathing, darling, that’s all behind you now.” She glared at Charly. “Just hand over the certificate we paid for and do it now.”
This is getting uglier by the second. De-escalate, but be firm.
Charly shook her head, “I’m sorry. I can’t do that. I would be committing fraud. It’s a violation of my ethics and a Life Coach’s Code of Conduct. I’d like you to leave my office now.”
The mother recoiled with disbelief. “You have no idea what you’re doing. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll hand over that certificate.”
Hands clammy, Charly pressed her cell phone to her cheek. “Could you come to my office?”
“What do you think you’re doing?”
A crew-cut security guard, the size of a professional football player, materialized behind the women and nodded at Charly. “You called?”
“Please escort these ladies out of the building?”
He nodded. “This way, ma’am.”
Macy whined. “Mommy, don’t let her ruin my life!”
Ignoring the uniformed man, nostrils flaring, face reddening, the heiress pointed at Charly and shouted, “I paid for that certificate and you will give it to me. NOW.”
Taking a shaky breath, Charly said in a clear, strong voice. “No, ma’am, I will not. Your daughter did not earn it.”
Macy’s whines turned into wails and foot-stomping. “Mommy, make her do it!”
“If you don’t give it to me, I swear I will have you blackballed at every educational institution in this city—even the ones no one has ever heard of.”
The threats only stiffened her resolve. “No means no, Mrs. Maddox.” She held up her cell phone. “If you don’t go with security, I will call 9-1-1. I doubt you want the publicity of being arrested for trespassing and harassment.”
“Mark my words, you impudent little paper-pusher. You will never work in this town again. Hell, hath no fury like a mother scorned.” The blonde wheeled on the heel of her thousand-dollar pumps, shoved the guard out of her way, and dragged her sobbing daughter out the door.
Legs wobbling, Charly fell back into her chair and took deep, shaky breaths. Blackball her at all the high schools in the area? She couldn’t do that, could she? Charly had spent years developing her network of contacts in all the private and public institutions. She’d built up a strong reputation. This one disgruntled, lying, parent wouldn’t be able to tear that down. She rubbed her arms with trembling hands. Mrs. Maddox was completely in the wrong. No one with half a brain would believe that Blackhawk helicopter parent from hell—would they?
Chapter One
Cat’s Paw Cove, Florida
One Year Later
Grandma Redbird had told Charly before she arrived that every resident had a cat, or two, but the advance notice hadn’t prepared her for the sight of the large Victorian mansion’s wraparound porch. The railing was festooned with green garlands accented with red and gold—and cats. Lounging cats, stretching cats, standing cats, strolling cats, rolling cats, rubbing cats—cat, cats, cats! Rocking chairs meant for humans seated two and three felines, in furry piles, paws splayed in all directions. An elderly woman rocked with a cat on her lap, and another one wrapped itself around her neck. All bicolor, the herd of kitties sported stripes, spots, or random patterns in an endless variation of shapes. Two huge cats sat like Egyptian statues at the top of the banister. Their black tails dangled down in question marks, and their masked golden eyes bored holes into her forehead.
Unnerved by the intensity of the feline gazes, Charly wondered if she had time to jump into Pearl, her white hybrid, and drive back to the Palmetto Motel before her grandmother spotted her. As she turned to open the driver’s door, an unmistakable voice called to her.
“Charlotte, I’m so glad you’re here.” Leaning on a cane, her round-faced grandmother with her signature short salt and pepper hair waved from the doorway of the Feline Fine Retirement Home. “Grab your suitcase, honey, and come on in.”
Feeling guilty for even thinking of running away, Charly followed her grandmother’s directions and yanked her rolling bag out of the packed hatchback. All her worldly belongings stuffed into one compact car. Grateful she’d never bought, only rented furniture in Chicago, Charly gave herself a mental pack on the back for saving those moving costs. Still, her life in one little car made her feel—small. Forcing herself to be put some cheer in her voice, she called back, “Be right there, Grandma.”
As she climbed the stairs, the masked cats’ heads turned like owls, marking her every move. She nodded hello to the elderly woman covered in kitties and avoided numerous paws and tails.
Grabbing her into a bear hug, her tiny but strong grandmother crushed the air out of her lungs. “So happy to see you, my little one.”
Resting her chin on top of the older woman’s head and speaking in a squeak, Charly said. “I could go to a motel, you know.”
Grandma gave her an extra hard squeeze, and then released her. “Not on my watch. As long as I have a roof over my head, my home is your home. Come on. Let me show you the place.”
Chattering like a tour guide, the older woman pointed out the spacious sitting rooms, the community dining room, and a recreation room. The front desk was bookended with a Hanukkah menorah and a Kwanzaa candleholder, and the managers’ office suite hid behind Christmas wreathed doors. She lowered her voice. “The administrators are all from the British Isles. We’re allowed to have guests stay over on weekends. We don’t have to tell the fat cats you’ll be here past Sunday. They’ll never even notice.”
How did her grandmother figure a five-foot-eight, auburn-haired twenty-seven year old would blend in with the gray-haired octogenarian crowd? She kept her doubts to herself. It truly didn’t matter. She wouldn’t stay long.
They entered an elevator, and Grandma Redbird pressed the button for the second floor. “I should have moved in here sooner. It’s good to be with people like me.” The elevator stopped and she led Charly to a door decorated with scarlet cardinals. “The administrators think I don’t know what they’re doing with this. In case I forget how to read, apparently, they figured I’d remember my name with the red birds.” She chuckled and turned the key in the door. “At ninety years of age, I’ve forgotten a lot of things, but I have yet to forget my name. Come on in.”
