Nightmare on memory lane.
I'm Darla. I'm a psychometrist. I can read thoughts and emotions left upon objects. Some people call my ability a "gift." Some people are idiots.
You see, my ability isn't providing easy answers when I try to learn who killed one of my inn's guests, a developer about to cover a scenic meadow with condos.
The dead developer created another problem. Turns out his job site was the location of a long-ago demolished sanatorium. Unmarked graves are uncovered. And my "gift" is leaving me haunted by the memories of some of the sanatorium's deceased patients: shifters and other supernaturals.
I feel obligated to find justice for the victims, as well as solve the murder of my guest, with the help of the Memory Guild. They're great at uncovering forgotten history.
But they're no help whatsoever in solving
my
problems. Like finding my second husband who's still missing, without offending the dreamy detective who wants to be more than friends.
Or, teaching my daughter how to help me at my historic inn, without her burning the place down.
Or, making sure my inn's own resident ghosts behave, without encouraging the Elvis impersonator's spirit to sing "Hound Dog" in the middle of the day.
I'd always believed that in middle age I'd be living the good life. Instead, I'm living the psychic life. Of magic, mayhem, and murder.