Corbin Manor

Corbin Manor

By K R Hall

First and foremost , I would like to thank my husband, Tom, for standing beside me throughout my writing this book. He has been my rock, and I dedicate this and all of my books to him.

I’ve had several editors work with me on getting this book re-written and re-edited. I would like to thank them all, Karmin, Arya, BBB Publishing, and Raven.

I thank my beta readers, Dotti, Nigama, and Marlen, for reading this over and over again.

With great thanks, this book is also dedicated to my friends that kept encouraging me!

Last but not least, I’d like to thank all of you readers. Thank you for taking the chance on my writing!

If You Believe in Yourself,

Anything Is Possible

ISBN: 9781976819452

Before you begin, please note that Corbin Manor is a murder mystery spoof. It’s like the old movies Clue, Murder by Death, The Cheap Detective, and The Private Eyes. There are several things in this book that will never happen in real life, but they are funny for my book. Thank you for keeping that in mind as you read.

Prologue

Corbin Manor was built in the early 1900s; it has been the silent witness to so much life, the good and bad. The mansion loomed proudly behind creaky iron gates, flanked by rows of pine trees. At its threshold stood the delicate marble fountain, the soft gurgling of the clear water melodic as it resonated in the surrounding silence. The manor walls came up from the soil as if the very dirt offended them. Intricately shaped stone masonry was too elegant to touch the ground; indeed, it was more extravagant than many a mansion. The windows were oversized and almost cathedral-like. Inside, every room was bathed in sunlight from the first light of day to the nightfall hours. The old oak floor is as many-hued as the woodland it was once felled.

The stairs ahead were twisted in a perfect spiral like a child's Slinky toy pulled from each end. The inner edge was painted antique cream. The banister arced effortlessly like a river flows, with the exact same effortlessness it must have been done on the architect’s sketch. From above, it appeared to float over the wide spiral staircase with spectral ease. On closer inspection, it was supported with the most detailed wrought-iron balustrades that seemed to grow from the stairs themselves and blossom upward.

On the richly carved mantel stood an exquisite Victorian plate-glass clock, the chimes of which were just striking four. The remaining mantel space was filled with tiny figures in bisque,—a pair of English Staffordshire Spaniels, Bone China miniature of a mother cat and kittens family set, a heart-shaped, porcelain trinket box, the top covered with china forget-me-nots, and an exquisite pair of German porcelain bisque Victorian busts.

The legend of Corbin Manor is that it has been haunted by at least a dozen occupants who have died inside the house, since the 1900s.

My new home, when completed, will be the most handsome, most comfortable, and most accessible place in this township, or within 150 miles of here, boasted Arnold Corbin.

The first owner, Commander Arnold Corbin, commissioned the manor to impress the bride of his choice, and apparently, it had worked. Harriet Corbin died suddenly in 1911, only a year after the couple arrived. Harriet's last words were alleged, Arnold will know, spurring rumors that her death was a murder or a suicide. A year later, Arnold Corbin went on to marry his wife's cousin — with whom he had been having an affair — a mere four months later. She also died mysteriously.

According to legend, the spirit of Rowena Ross, daughter of the owner, haunts the estate. Rowena's love drowned in the Koi pond shortly before their wedding in the 1920s; she never married. Rowena committed suicide by drowning in the same Koi pond that claimed her fiancé, on the fifth anniversary of his death.

In 1930, a forty-two-year-old woman hung herself from a tree in the middle of the night.

Stories of ghostly activity spread throughout the house. The center seemed to be the middle blue bedroom, upstairs, where Elizabeth Anne Howarth and her baby died during childbirth, in 1935. Her ghost was responsible for the bedside lamp in this room, which has been reported to turn on and off, seemingly at will.

In the late 1940s, Albert E. Lemp’s wife, Molly, also died in the home as a result of a suspicious gun accident. 

The house stood empty and fell into disrepair. Allegedly, a former female resident of the home committed suicide in the attic, by inhaling poison gas in the 1960s, when the house was undergoing renovations.

In the mid-1970s, the house was sold to the Bradway family, who restored Corbin Manor to its former glory. Aside from a modern kitchen and bathroom in its basement, Corbin Manor has remained mostly unchanged since the 19th century.

In the 1980s, owner Logan French once saw the ghost of the former owner, Arnold Corbin, on the stairwell. After realizing who it was, and the fact that he was deceased, the frightened man ran upstairs to the master bedroom and locked the door. He later called a local Catholic priest and had the house blessed.

In the 1990s, Maria Cronin unexpectedly dropped dead at the age of thirty-nine, only six months after buying the fated property. She had been working to turn Corbin Manor into a Bed and Breakfast.

The house hadn't been lived in for over twenty years. The once-grand house slowly fell into disrepair again; the shuttered windows, collapsed porches, and broken gutters gave it an abandoned look. Tales handed down from great grandparents told stories of the women who died tragically, of the garden growing unnaturally fast, and flickering lights of unearthly colors, in the dead of night.

The current family occupying the home has sunk millions of dollars, restoring it to its former glory. They had to redo all of the plumbing and had to upgrade the electrical. A new security system was installed, and the foundation had to be reinforced. The roof needed repair; the windows had to be replaced. The kitchen was a chef’s delight with the large gas oven and shiny stainless-steel appliances. The hardwood floors had been resurfaced, and carpeting had been placed in all of the bedrooms.

In the center of the prized garden, there was a pond as large as a small lake, with flowering lily pads. An arched wooden bridge crossed the middle so that you could look down at the Koi carp. The flower beds were a riot of color, and even on close inspection, they were weed-free.

Corbin Manor was centrally located between the towns of Timnath, Windsor, and Severance, Colorado. The main road that splits off between the three cities was right at the edge of the property line. It sat high on a hill surrounded by tall pine trees for privacy. From Corbin Manor to any of those towns, was about a twenty-minute drive. The spirits of all the women who mysteriously died there are said to roam the grounds of Corbin Manor still.

Chapter 1

Good day to you. My name is Michael Jon Donahue, but please feel free to call me MJ. I am a private eye, a private Dick, a gumshoe, a detective, a private investigator, or whatever else you would care to call me. I am going to tell you the tale of Corbin Manor, but first, let me give you a little bit of background on my partner Oscar Masters and me, my psychic assistant Bianca Vandenberg, as well as the legend behind Corbin Manor.

Some people said that I reminded them of the character Freddie from the Scooby-Doo Mysteries cartoon. Right out of high school, I joined the police force. It was never the money. I signed up to protect and serve, maybe I was old fashioned, but I believed in public service. I saw the worst of humanity daily, and it tested me. It tested my faith in the goodness of people and my natural optimism. I was there when the fire crews cut lifeless teens from the mangled wrecks of their birthday presents. I was there when a bleeding wife refused to press charges. I was there when the streetwalkers were released back to the same abused and drug-addled lives. But I also witnessed the firefighters rush into burning buildings, I saw the paramedics pulling miracles from thin air, I saw the emergency nurses with their quick hands, and the doctors who took charge of situations most would run from. I was proud to be a police officer. I was proud of this unit.

While on duty, I took a bullet to my left knee that shattered my kneecap. After several surgeries, I still walked with a limp. At the age of twenty-eight, I was medically retired from the police force. The same day I hung my uniform for the last time and turned in my shield, I started my new life as a private eye.

While on the police force, if given a chance, I’d always partner with Oscar Masters, a second-generation American. His father was born here after his grandparents emigrated from Kent, England. His European heritage shows in his features—high cheekbones, short wavy brown hair, moderately tanned skin. What makes Oscar stand out, though, is his height, a towering six foot two, and his electric blue eyes.  His conversation was about as exciting as sharpening pencils, but he noticed things no one else did.

At the scene, I’d flash my badge and do all the talking. Oscar would listen, read body language, and follow eye movements. Then, when the time was right, he’d ask the perfect question with such a tone that he sounded genuinely interested in what that person’s knowledge was. We received so many leads that way. In any crime scene, you could rely on Oscar to notice whatever was odd—a slightly angled picture, a footprint going the wrong way, furniture or objects misplaced.

Oscar had been working as a private investigator for another firm when we reconnected.  The FBI had been Oscar’s dream from the time he was young, but getting in the door hadn’t been easy.  He’s competed against hundreds of thousands of like-minded Americans in one of the most rigorous and selective application processes in the nation.  Because of this, I was satisfied he had the qualities I was looking for; ones I admired in a detective: intelligence, courage, discretion, and common sense. 

I also have a psychic on staff. Bianca Vandenberg. She’s five-foot-seven, blue eyes, naturally brown hair, but she often dyes it green and blue. Bianca is a little flamboyant in her dress and hair, but she’s a tremendous psychic help on cases. She prefers to wear bright clothes, swirling colors—Psychedelic, tie-dye shirts, and styles that were commonplace in the 1960s and 1970s. Bianca was the epitome of adorable, her blue eyes sparkling and warm, and her sweet glow innocent and fresh. She is descended from the Spanish Jews, Irish, English, Australian, and Aboriginal, which gives her an exotic look.

Bianca can read the energy of an object, sense things, receive images, feel emotions, hear sounds, and receive smells and tastes about the history of the object and its owner. Sometimes, she doesn’t even have to touch the thing, just be near it.

Even today, people still did not believe in psychics, so I didn’t think an admission they were dealing with a psychic or someone with supernatural abilities would sit well with their suit and necktie image. There was an article in the local newspaper that listed past instances of psychic use, admitting that, on occasions, a psychic proved helpful to police investigations. None have ever come close to identifying those tips as coming from Bianca.

Bianca’s spirit guide is her deceased mother-in-law Mable. I’m sure you’re familiar with the infamous mother-in-law from hell stories, in this case, it’s all true. She was the most cynical person on earth when she was alive. As a ghost or spirit, she still is.

It hardly seems fair. The most horrible human being I have ever encountered in my entire life, and now she shows up after her death. What are the odds? Bianca said shortly after she discovered that Mable was her spirit guide.

What the hell did you do to earn being haunted by your dead mother in law? Oscar asked.

I didn’t do anything to make her show up. She just did, and now my life is pure misery. I may not have been a perfect wife, but I didn’t think I deserved to be criticized all the time. I constantly felt on edge whenever she came for a visit, which was often because she lived just ten minutes away. Bianca complained.

They don't call them monsters-in-law for nothing. Your mother-in-law certainly isn’t my first choice of the dead person I’d like to speak to. I replied.

My mother-in-law is a soul-sucking parasite that feeds on my misery in her death, Bianca lamented.

Was I ever unkind to you when I was alive? Mable asked, perplexed.

Often, replied Bianca.

Oh, how can you say that? I'm sure you're exaggerating, Mable replied, sighing.

Not at all. You were absolutely horrible that time we went to Coney Island and stayed in that awful hotel, Bianca accused.

Well, someone had to look after my baby, Artie. No one can protect him like I can, sniffed Mable.

Arthur and I were on our honeymoon! Bianca said, exasperated. That was the best part of our marriage. It was all downhill from there.

I am paying for it now. I have to be your spirit guide as my penance for the way I treated you when I was alive, Mable groused.

For the first time, I actually feel sorry for you, Bianca whispered.

Well, it’s strange. I should be dead. I was young and healthy, and I felt swell when I went to bed! So, why did I die? Mable puzzled.

You weren’t that young, Mable. You were in your mid-fifties when you were murdered. Why are you dressed up looking like Dame Edna? questioned Bianca. Mable was wearing diamonté harlequin glasses, a wisteria hue wig, the characteristic flashy wardrobe, and her size-eleven high heels.

Mable was a wealthy woman with a series of affairs, a controversial will, and a stash of uncut diamonds... it was only a matter of time before she got whacked! Well, it could be worse, but I don’t know how.

It would be somewhat cliché for me to say it started on a dark and rainy night. The problem is that the rain had fallen steadily without letting up since before I woke. Outside, the summer flowers and leaves droop under the weight of the droplets. We've had so much heat lately that I'd almost forgotten this feeling, the crisp freshness of the breeze. It’s such a novelty that I find myself sitting on the front porch, coffee