A Stranger in Alcott Manor Read online

  Praise for Alyssa Richards

  THE HAUNTING OF ALCOTT MANOR is a fascinating tale of tragedy, ghosts, and soulmates. Mystery fans will enjoy this heroine's efforts to track down clues -- both tangible and ghostly -- while trying to find the truth about a woman's death. Romance fans will adore this match-up of a strong heroine and an enigmatic yet endearingly charming and earnest hero. I look forward to reading the next book in this tantalizing ALCOTT MANOR series.” Fresh Fiction Review, THE HAUNTING OF ALCOTT MANOR

  “Having read Alyssa Richards other books, I knew I was in for a treat, even though this was a slightly different genre. And gothic suspense being one of my absolute favorites, I was extremely psyched to read this book. Fortunately, everything that I anticipated about how good this book would be, and how much I would enjoy it, came true.

  At first glance, this might appear to be your average haunted house story. But in the hands of this very capable, and highly readable author, it becomes so much more. The haunting was unique and the story revolving around the haunting was very intriguing. I totally did not anticipate the way the story was going or how it was going to end up. This was a great first entry in a new genre that I hope the author will continue. This book, as well as everything else this author has written, comes highly recommended.” — DT Chantel, book reviewer, THE HAUNTING OF ALCOTT MANOR

  “Man oh man! Alyssa Richards has seriously outdone herself with this trilogy. It encompasses love, passion, deception, heartache, reality and alternate reality. Just stunning from start to finish. This trilogy is awesome. If you’re looking for a paranormal romance that’s focused around psychics and time travel, definitely grab this trilogy. It’s simply amazing!” —Nay’s Pink Bookshelf, THE FINE ART OF DECEPTION SERIES

  5.0 out of 5 stars “Now this is what I’m talking about...absofreakingamazing!

  “It’s authors like Ms. Richards that really opened up the portals to my world, and instilled/nurtured within me a love for reading. Hook, line and sinker you are pulled fast and hard into her storylines and are wrecked when you’ve reached the end...you just don’t want it to be over. The Haunting of Alcott Manor is no different and has a wonderful mix of gothic suspense/mystery with a titter of romance that will captivate you..and the end...omg I so didn’t see that coming. What a stunning conclusion!” —Amazon Reviewer, THE HAUNTING OF ALCOTT MANOR

  5.0 out of 5 stars That ending...!? Are you kidding me?!

  “Like others, I'm sure, I’ve read hundred(s) of these types of books. This was a great read, great twists and turns. ...and the end...? WOW! What's really getting me right now though? Henry and Gemma at still with me....days after I've finished the book! I cried with them, I loved with them, and they touched me deeply! Great job! (This is the first time I have been inspired enough to write a review, too!)” Amazon Book Reviewer, THE HAUNTING OF ALCOTT MANOR

  “A MURDER AT ALCOTT MANOR is very definitely a thrill-a-minute tale of evil trying to keep a stranglehold on the living. This is a perfect book for readers who enjoy non- stop action and suspense with a dash of sexy. …This story will appeal to readers who love suspense, the paranormal, and everyday people who become unexpected heroes. Hope to read more gothic tales of love and paranormal peril by Alyssa Richards in the future.” Fresh Fiction Review, A MURDER AT ALCOTT MANOR

  A STRANGER AT ALCOTT MANOR

  Alyssa Richards

  Copyright © 2019 by Alyssa Richards

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected]

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

  Ebook ISBN-13: 978-0-9991555-5-4

  Paperback ISBN-13: 978-0-9991555-7-8

  Editing by Peter Senftleben

  Proofreading by Charity Chimni

  Contents

  Be the first to know…

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Also by Alyssa Richards

  Chasing Secrets - A Romantic Thriller

  Acknowledgments

  Be the first to know…

  Be the first to know about Alyssa Richards’ next novel, sign up here: www.AlyssaRichards.com

  and follow her on Amazon or BookBub to receive a new release alert!

  1

  Ancient water oaks swayed in the warm, salty breezes and threw their inky shadows against the front pillars of Alcott Manor. Peyton Alcott stood next to the passenger side door of the rental and dropped the car keys onto the seat. She stared at the front of the house, tracing the outline of the bottle of Xanax bulging in her small soft-sided purse.

  The manor’s first floor windows were warped with age, and the darkness inside appeared deep and cold and formless. The home’s secrets were palpable, but unseen. They shifted like forgotten spirits, hidden memories and old nightmares.

  This visit to her family’s ancestral estate was her first alone in twenty years. The prescription bottle lid flicked open with a pop. Just one dose would cushion whatever memories came to light. She glanced at her overstuffed computer bag in the backseat. Remembering the mountain of work she had to do, she reluctantly recapped the bottle.

  She lifted her work satchel, filled well beyond its unzipped brim with a laptop, client files and instructions from her mother. Rounded oyster shells crunched beneath her Jimmy Choos.

  At a long squeal of brakes, she spun, squinting at the black car with its round headlights and narrow front grill. She lowered her bag to the ground, her stomach clenched. The car’s white-haired driver was a ghost from her past she’d hoped to outrun.

  An oceanic updraft caught her work papers and they scattered. She snatched at them, catching only one. The rest danced and twirled down the stark white drive and away from Alcott Manor. She envied their ability to escape.

  She cursed the wind and the lost papers, the manor and the land it was built on, and her own attendance at this godforsaken place.

  The old Plymouth rattled to a rolling stop behind her rental car with another long screech of brakes. The elderly woman exited with a slowness that made Peyton wonder if it was wise for her to be driving.

  “Mrs. Miller?”

  “Hope those papers weren’t important.” Her smile was broad and welcoming, a gesture Peyton knew better than to trust. Her eyes were moist, more from age than emotion. One was glassy.

  “My goodness, it’s been years.” Peyton leaned down to hug her. Mrs. Miller was frailer than she remembered, but her perfume was the same. The delicate scent of roses infused with Mentholatum.

  “Well, let me take a look at you.” Mrs. Miller cocked her head to the side. S
he raked her good eye in a slow survey from the top of Peyton’s jeweled hair combs to the tip toes of her polished heels.

  Peyton stood trying to hold her smile, feeling like the blue-ribboned pig at the county fair where winning made you the blue plate special.

  “Still have your daddy’s good looks, I see. Let’s hope you kept his temperament. Your mother says you’re a big city girl now, but coming home to get married?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I live in Boston, and the wedding is in four days.” Peyton wished she had remembered to spin her large diamond engagement ring to the inside of her hand. But Mrs. Miller caught sight of it and Peyton saw her lips tighten.

  “Mmm. You still take all those pictures like you used to?” Mrs. Miller asked.

  “No, sad to say, I haven’t had the time for much photography these days.”

  “I thought as much.” She patted Peyton’s shoulders twice. “I’ve got just the thing for you. Carry these inside.” The rear car door groaned when she pulled it open. Mrs. Miller pointed to two large gray containers and instructed Peyton to be careful.

  “These are more of the estate’s cameras and tintypes that we had at the museum. We’re bringing much of it here, now that you’re organizing the house for tours. You’ll need them for exhibits and whatnot. Jayne Ella insisted I bring these. You know how your mother is.” She raised one eyebrow.

  Yes. She knew exactly how her mother was.

  “Are you still working at the museum?” Peyton hoisted the first plastic carton from the back seat and directed the small talk away from herself.

  “Lord, yes, honey. I’ll probably die in the place. No one else in Charleston knows as much about the city’s history. Or Alcott Manor’s history. Except for you, of course. I taught you especially well.”

  “Yes ma’am.” She put the container near the double front door, and the tintypes shuddered with a metallic clatter. She stared at a sign that was pasted to one of the front pillars, and her stomach dropped to the floor.

  Beau Spencer

  Missing

  Last Seen at Alcott Manor

  REWARD

  Beau was in his early twenties, with bed-head-sexy blond hair and light blue eyes that were striking enough for a double take. The camera had caught him with his devil-may-care smile that won him a free pass whenever he wanted. Too many emotions knocked at the back door of her memory bank.

  “Sad about Beau, isn’t it?” Mrs. Miller said.

  Peyton started at the closeness of Mrs. Miller’s voice that squeaked like an old chair.

  “He was such a wild child. Lord only knows if he’s really missing or if he just hopped a plane and left. Did y’all ever speak after he stood you up at the church?”

  The question hit her like a slap, Peyton squeezed her eyes shut to stem the angry tide of memories: Waiting for an hour in the church parlor in her full-skirted wedding dress, her mother ultimately telling her they had waited long enough, that Beau obviously wasn’t coming. Her father saying he would make the announcement to the guests.

  “No,” she finally said. “Do you know who posted this here?”

  “His daddy, I’m sure. Austin Spencer has them posted all over town. He stuck one right on the museum’s front window.”

  Beau had been gone for nine years, long enough to be declared legally dead. His parents had even held a funeral for him and erected a gravestone with his name on the front as if he were buried there.

  Peyton peeled the tape from the white paint, folded the flyer in half, and half again.

  Mrs. Miller’s phone rang like an old telephone bell. She retrieved it from one of the patch pockets of her cotton dress and tilted her head to look through the bottom half of her glasses. “Just a minute, honey. I have to take this.” She walked to the far end of the wide porch, her low-heeled shoes scuffling along the painted wood.

  Mrs. Miller looked and moved like a woman far older than she actually was. She used to be a vibrant and beautiful woman, not much older than Peyton’s own mother, Jayne Ella. But when Mrs. Miller’s daughter went missing over twenty years ago, her hair turned stark white and everything about her physique withered and slowed and sagged.

  Peyton loaded the other container to the front porch to keep herself distracted. Mrs. Miller was still talking on the phone. Peyton’s directions for the combination lock were gone with the wind, so she decided to wait. Maybe Mrs. Miller would have the access code.

  She opened one of the containers and found seven neat rows of dusty tintype photographs. She hadn’t touched a tintype since college. The first captured memory—several Alcott family members posed in front of the grand staircase—sent a pang of anxiety from her head to her heart and back again. The threat of an old nightmare.

  “Stop it,” she whispered to the fear as if she were the one in charge. She licked her dry lips and held a different glass plate to the light.

  This tintype was a traditional wedding photo from the 1850s, and Peyton recognized the bride. She was a niece of the original owners of the manor, Benjamin and Bertha Mae Alcott. The wedding party had gathered in the ballroom and Peyton scanned the faces one by one. She knew them all, and their stories, thanks to her internship with Mrs. Miller at the museum.

  One man at the side of the gathering sent a shiver of cold dancing across her back. His hair was shorter in length, though the layers had grown out. His light-colored eyes fixed straight ahead as if he looked right at her. The charm-filled smile he had often used as his ticket to get what he wanted was gone, but his lips were the same full shape she remembered.

  It was impossible, though undeniable. The guest in the 1850s tintype was the man she almost married. He was the man who was missing, Beau Spencer.

  2

  Mrs. Miller’s shuffling footsteps echoed in the black hallways of Alcott Manor.

  Peyton waited on the front porch, one of the manor’s 500 pound doors open in a refused invitation. She was uninterested in crossing the threshold, unable to offer Mrs. Miller any assistance in finding a light switch. She knew the renovations had been completed. But she couldn’t forget the manor as it looked from the inside when she was ten: dark and dank, with holes in the floor and windows boarded and barred.

  She studied the darkening sky, dotted with gray clouds that hung too still. Even with all the wind blowing off the ocean, the clouds didn’t move. Nothing much moved or changed in this town. Not the manor or her family, certainly not the past. Which was why she had left.

  She tapped her left foot three times, then her right foot, a brain and energy balancing exercise they taught in her yoga class. “What we do to one side, we must do to the other,” the teacher always said before a movement. She liked the idea of balance. The practice calmed her, made her think there might be some universal formula that governed the insanities of life, offered her a way to be safe. If only she did things right.

  In the years since Beau disappeared she had built a good life for herself. She was up for a big promotion at the office, and her fiancé was as handsome as he was successful. Her life was brand new again and her future was waiting for her in Boston. A different life, a much busier life, filled with anthills of traffic and people moving through the city, following agendas that seemingly held the utmost importance.

  She just had a few things to wrap up first. For her family. Mostly for her mother who stood ready and willing to become the next matron of Alcott Manor.

  Peyton had agreed to have her wedding on the great lawn of the manor. Her mother had convinced her that her wedding would help launch a new line of business at the manor. Once those glorious wedding photos hit the paper and the Alcott Manor website, every girl within 100 miles would want to have her wedding at Alcott Manor, too. Renting the property out for weddings and other events would be a hefty revenue stream for the family. She acquiesced to her mother’s insistence, because the sooner the manor was financially stable, the more freedom Peyton would have.

  She had also promised to get the tours and exhibits set up, for the m
anor’s other source of income. After those three things had been checked off her list, then she would begin her new life in Boston with Ira.

  Mrs. Miller’s trailing footsteps moved in the opposite direction of the front doors. She muttered something about how a fuse must have blown.

  Peyton reopened the plastic container and searched for the tintype of the wedding party she had seen earlier. She had been so convinced that Beau Spencer, her first love, her former fiancé and a man who had been missing for nine years, was in the photo. Of course she must have been mistaken. Seeing his face again after all this time, and pasted to the front of the manor where she least expected it, had thrown her.

  It concerned her that his image still had that effect on her, mostly because she never wanted to despair like that again. She ran her fingers over the folded image she had placed in her pants pocket. Memories danced across her heart and nerves stirred in the pit of her stomach.

  Her phone rang—it was her boss. “Amanda.”

  “Peyton, just wanted to check in and see when you’re going to have the proposal for The Sweet Chocolate Company.”

  “I’m going to work on it tonight. I’ll have it to you before morning.”

  “You have all the ideas ironed out between your ears?”