Write of Passing (Daytona Beach Mysteries Book 3)

Book summary

Holly Donnelly enjoys her unique job writing obituaries, especially since each one brings a ghostly visitor to her apartment. But when one spirit lingers with a mysterious purpose, Holly becomes determined to uncover the truth behind its presence. WRITE OF PASSING blends humor, mystery, and supernatural encounters in a cozy Daytona Beach setting.

Excerpt from Write of Passing (Daytona Beach Mysteries Book 3)

My name is Holly Donnelly, and I write obituaries. I work from home, which is an apartment above a hair salon named Goldilocks. As my fingers click away on the keyboard, creating lovely, if I do say so myself, obituaries, I have the privilege to overlook Beach Street in Daytona Beach, Florida. If I’m being perfectly honest, and I do try to be honest as much as possible, it is my preference to work from home. Why go out to work elsewhere—hustling to catch a train or trying to beat the sludge of vehicles during rush hour when I can stay home in comfort? Frequently, I work in my pj’s or my worst pair of jeans. Or sweatpants. I don’t have to pay for expensive ‘office appropriate’ clothing, and I can take a break any time I want. I’m not an idiot, I work from home because I can.

Funeral homes and crematories contact me to write obituaries for them. I have done this for the past five years, and I love it. I fill a need because, let’s be honest, the majority of relatives don’t know how to write an obituary, and given their current state of chaos planning the funeral, not to forget their grief, it is a horrendous task. So, I write the obituary and relieve them of that burden, which pleases me.

I was born and raised in Daytona Beach, Florida. I love it here, unless, of course, we get hit by a hurricane. That’s not much fun, but you have to take the good with the bad. Most days are sunny and warm, although it’s hot and humid from July through September. Humidity is a bitch. It makes us uncomfortable and frizzes the hair into ugly contortions that can be downright embarrassing. Winter is nothing compared to up North. Snow? Never saw it, ever. Not even when I visited a friend in Boston in mid-November; no snow. I think snow is overrated. I’ll take salt water any day.

It’s the first of the month, which means I have to take my rent check down to the salon. All the apartment renters give their payment to Abby, who runs the salon, and then she turns over all the rents to the owner when he comes by. There are four apartments on the second floor where I live, and four on the third. Hardly ever do I see anyone from the third floor. I understand a fireman lives upstairs, but I’ve never met him. The three other apartment dwellers on my floor are distant acquaintances. I haven’t struck up any friendships in the time I’ve lived here. It’s not like I’m antisocial; I work, they work, our paths don’t connect often.

I looked in the mirror I hung by the door so I can check my hair every time I leave. I have this bright, red fluff ball of hair, which can get unruly because of the curls. I can’t walk out the door without a hair check. It’s just not done. I decided I looked presentable enough to pay my rent, so I grabbed the rent check from the table beneath the mirror, undid the deadbolt, and closed the door behind me.

When I entered Goldilocks, I saw that it wasn’t too busy. Sonia waved at me, then returned to cutting someone’s hair. Ivy was straightening her station, and Abby was nowhere to be seen.

“You want Abby?” asked Ivy.

“Yes. I have rent.”

“Okay. Abby!” she yelled for her boss.

Abby appeared from the back of the salon where the pedicure machines are located.

“Hi, Holly. How are you?”

“I’m good. You?”

“Couldn’t be better,” Abby smiled. She was such a pleasant woman.

“I have my rent.” I placed the check on the counter.

“I’ll give you a receipt,” Abby said, reaching for the receipt book and writing in it.

“How’s your hair doing?”

“Much better since I started using the moisturizing products you suggested. Don’t you think?” I fluffed my shoulder-length hair with one hand. The curls bounced back in place.

“Yes, it is much better than before. Keep using that product so it continues to nourish your hair,” Abby said, handing me the receipt.

“Thanks. Gotta go. I have a deadline.”

“See you soon,” Abby said, and turned to walk back to what she was doing.

Once back upstairs, I poured myself a glass of iced tea and settled into my chair. It was time to get back to work. My subject may be dead, but I really couldn’t waste more time with this obituary. I had only one hour before I had to send in my submissions. Plural. Lots of people died in Daytona Beach and the surrounding area. Florida is home to millions of seniors, you know. Everyone wants to live in Florida. I can’t blame them. I never left.

There was a commotion in the corner of the living room. I looked over to see my black and tan little girl playing with a stuffed animal. She growled, then flung the animal into the air, pouncing on it when it landed.

“You’re such a terror. That poor bear is almost in shreds,” I said in a baby voice. I always talk to my Chihuahua in a baby voice, unless she’s naughty. Then she gets the stern voice, and a finger pointed at her. When the finger is pointed, she turns her head away, recognizing she’s been bad. Smart little girl.

“Bina, why aren’t you napping? Usually, you nap when I work.”

The tiny dog looked at me with attitude.

“Okay, you play and I’ll work.” I returned to the keyboard. Mr. Jacob James Forbes was waiting for me to finish his obituary.

This wasn’t a long obit. Mr. Forbes was in his seventies when he passed, and had had a very normal life as a baker. He worked for the same company until he retired. Life after retirement was pretty boring, in my opinion. He didn’t have hobbies or a wife, so he spent much of his time watching television. Every day. All day. Into the evening. And then he went to bed promptly at nine, according to his only son. I call that a boring existence.

I always try to give dignity to everyone I write about. I expand, when necessary, as much as I can so the obit isn’t too short or lacking interest. Sometimes that is a difficult task. One time, the only information I was given from a son was so lacking, I was insulted for his mother. Her life boiled down to, in her son’s eyes, being a housewife and mother, period. I know that woman was more than that. Don’t get me wrong, being a mother is a big deal. But housewife? I don’t know any housewives. None. Not one single woman I know thinks they have bragging rights by being a housewife. Besides, every married couple I know needs two paychecks to pay the bills and save for college tuition.

My mom worked all her adult life, except right after I was born. As soon as I was good to go, she went back to work. She never wanted to stay home and keep house. She thought that was boring. I agree. Even though I work from home, I get paid for my work. Where is the paycheck for the housewife?

With a glance over at Bina, who was now sleeping peacefully on the green couch, I tapped Save, then opened my email account. After writing a brief sentence, I attached the submissions. Tap, I sent it off to the funeral home. Gone were the days of typewriters and hand-carrying submissions to the office. I couldn’t imagine doing such. Some people wish for the good old days. Frankly, I like things as they are now. Electronics have made my world so much easier.

Since it was nearing dinner time, for me and Bina, I walked my bare feet into the kitchen. I stared into the fridge, seeing if there was anything to eat. Since I didn’t see any leftovers, I decided to make a big salad and throw some tuna on top. That would satisfy me. Obviously, I’m not married, never have been, and I don’t have any children. I’m in my early thirties, finally getting my act together. My twenties were, well, let’s just say that I grew out of my twenties and into maturity. Bina pranced into the kitchen.

“You heard me rummaging around, didn’t you? Are you hungry? I know, stupid question. Chihuahuas are always interested in eating.”

I picked up her bowl and began to fill it with rotisserie chicken. Hmm, the dog had leftovers, but I didn’t. Then I added some brown rice and itty-bitty pieces of carrot. When I set the bowl on the floor, she just looked at it and then up at me, as if to say, “Really, Mom?”

“Oh, come on, Miss Picky Wicky! You love chicken. It’s real food, not out of a can.”

Bina just kept staring at the bowl as she circled around it, like it might magically change form. After several passes, she relented and settled in to eat. I finished making my salad and began to eat, too. When I finished, we would go for our evening walk. It was a ritual. Then we would cozy up on the couch and watch television. Ah, the life of an obituary writer.

My apartment is quite cozy. In the living room, which is one side of the apartment, plus a bathroom at the end, is my green couch, a matching chair, and a tan chair that was looking a bit sad due to old age. Behind the wall that my TV is hung on is my bedroom, which is spacious. Beside the bedroom is the kitchen, which is a nice size for a small apartment. It has an arched entrance with a counter and space for a small table and two chairs. Just perfect for me.

All the rooms are painted the same color, taupe, which is fine with me. Off-white blinds hang over all the windows, which are located across the living room and bedroom. I felt perfectly safe on the second floor. When I walk Bina, I always do so when it is light. This isn’t a bad neighborhood, but why tempt fate? After dark, all the party goers come out to play, and who knows what else? Of course, there’s the deadbolt. Yes, I feel safe in my home.