southern ghost hunters 01 - southern spirits

by fox, angie

  He took one step toward me, then another, like a man on a mission. "I need you to do a job."

  A sinking feeling invaded my insides. "You're not talking about graphic design, are you?"

  He stopped a few feet in front of me, serious as sin. "I need you to clear out a ghost."

  "But you don't believe in ghosts."

  "It doesn't matter what I believe." He held up his hands in a form of surrender. "Look, I don't know what you do. Or how you see…them." He clenched his fingers and brought them down to his sides. "I don't even want to know."

  "Okay." He had this all wrong. "The first thing is that I don't clear out ghosts. I'm not Bill Murray with a proton pack and a ghost trap." I ran a hand through my hair, thinking about how much I wanted to explain. People in this town thought I was crazy enough. I didn't need to go telling Officer Wydell about my recent spiritual troubles. "I accidentally washed someone's ashes into my rosebushes, well, into the soil around my rosebushes," I corrected. "Anyway, that allowed me to see him, and then he did something that made me be able to see other ghosts." I could tell by the expression on Ellis's face I'd said too much. "I'd appreciate it if this didn't get around town."

  He shook his head slowly. "Nobody would believe me."

  "I'd sure deny it." I was enough of a pariah as it was. I didn't want to be the whacked out nut job with my own personal ghost. Sure, people in the South called those individuals 'colorful,' but everyone knew it was just a nice word for batshit crazy.

  "Look," he said, in an obvious attempt to sugar coat something I probably didn't want to hear. But then he couldn't quite figure out how to spin it, so he said it plain, "I don't even want it getting around that I'm talking to you."

  "You sure know how to ask for a favor," I said tartly.

  "Can you blame me?" He shot back.

  "Maybe." Maybe not, since he'd been so corrupted by that brother of his. I knew how convincing Beau could be. I leaned up against my kitchen island and tried not to think about my breakfast getting cold. "Tell me your problem. I'll see what I can do."

  He gave a sharp nod. "I'm in the middle of renovating a piece of property I bought a few years ago, the one up on Wilson's Creek Road."

  I'd heard of the place. It used to be an old distillery. He'd bought it with someone, an uncle. My heart gave a little squeeze. "You and your Uncle Hale bought it together, didn't you?" It made more sense now.

  He stood stock still. "We were renovating the carriage house into a restaurant. Then we planned to start in on other buildings. It was going to be our project. Something for him to do when he retired."

  Instead, he'd been killed in the line of duty.

  Ellis cleared his throat. "I didn't feel much like going out there in the year or so after."

  I remembered. "You left town there for a while, didn't you?"

  He nodded. "Now I'm back. I'm investing in the place again. I'm taking it building by building. Eventually, it'll have festivals and events and a whole line of beers aged in reclaimed whiskey barrels."

  "Well that sounds really nice," I said. We didn't have many modern hangouts like that around town, and it would be a great place for people to gather.

  "Only I've run into a problem," he said, apparently not in the mood for pleasantries. "Vandals destroyed the walk-in freezer. After that, I put in video surveillance." He gave me a hard look. "Two nights ago, the serving line was destroyed. Literally taken apart and smashed."

  "That's terrible," I whispered, disturbed for him and also by the hard way he looked at me. He made it so that I almost felt like confessing, even though I was quite sure I wasn't guilty.

  He braced his hands on the kitchen counter next to me. "Nobody did it. Surveillance shows it coming apart, but no human caused the damage."

  It took me a moment to grasp his meaning. I gasped when I did. "You have a vandal ghost."

  His hands whitened where he pressed them against the counter. "I'll pay you to get rid of it, or them, or whatever it is doing this. And I want you to keep it between us."

  No problem on the second request. As far as the first one…

  I didn't know how far my abilities went, especially since I'd borrowed them from Frankie. Besides, I wasn't a ghost hunter. I'd lucked out with Josephine. My limbs felt light and my mind raced. "How much are you willing to spend?"

  He huffed out a laugh. "How much is the going rate for ghost extermination?"

  "More like re-location," I said, as if I knew what I was talking about. Actually, I did in a way. I wasn't going to hurt a spirit merely because it caused a few problems. I was sure we could come to a reasonable agreement that suited Ellis's needs. I mean, look at poor Jilted Josephine. We'd had a lovely conversation once she'd come down out of her noose.

  "What are you thinking?" Ellis asked, "Will you do it?"

  I blew out a breath. "I don't know."

  "Look," he said, "I don't know who else to call. I mean if it's not you, it may have to be the Psychic Friends Network or something."

  "That's not funny," I told him. I wasn't a freak, or a swindler. But I was a girl in a bind. I didn't know how I could turn this down, not with my house on the line. "If I do this, it'll cost you."

  "Name your price," he said flatly.

  I was going to ask him for what I needed. What did I have to lose? "I want twenty thousand dollars," I said in a rush.

  He didn't even think about it. "Done," he said.

  I about fell over.

  "Don't even think about asking for more," he warned, "I know what you owe my brother. I figured you'd ask as much."

  "I'm not a gold digging manipulator, no matter what the rumor mongers say," I gritted. "And by rights I shouldn't owe your brother anything. He's not the victim here."

  "I was at the reception, honey." Ellis smirked.

  After he'd forced me to stand him up at the altar, Beau called and invited me to our reception. The whole town was there, he said, enjoying our five-course sit-down dinner. Dancing to the ten-piece band his mother had insisted we hire. Consoling him. Assuring him he was better off.

  He sent me photos of the cake.

  I snapped.

  That he would play the victim, that he would humiliate me like that after what he'd done…well, maybe I should claim temporary insanity—or maybe it was the most sane thing I'd done in my life—but I drove straight to the Hamilton Hotel, marched right into my almost-reception, and plastered Beau's face straight into our almost-wedding cake. In front of his family, God, and about two-hundred of Sugarland's most admired citizens.

  Ellis's mouth twisted into a wry grin. "The best part was when you tried to run away and knocked over the gift table instead."

  "I did not run," I said hotly. "There was frosting on the floor, and I slipped."

  "Do you want to review the tape? It's all recorded," Ellis reminded me slyly. "My mom tried to upload it onto YouTube. You're lucky she can barely turn the computer on."

  I wouldn't put it past her to take lessons. She'd love to humiliate me. Again.

  "Your mother hired four videographers. Flew them in from Atlanta. How insane is that?"

  He rested his hands on the counter behind him. "I didn't hear you complaining."

  "That's because she wouldn't let me get a word in edgewise. She assured me she'd pay for the whole crazy show if I let her have her way. And I'm about to lose my house because I believed her."

  His brows shot up. "So now you're blaming my mother?"

  Yes. I was. "She's the one who stuck me with the bill."

  "Because you ran out on the groom."

  "Because he cheated on me. With three different women. He even admitted it." I left out the part about him attacking Melody. No reason to bring her into this.

  The thunder drained from him. "What? Jesus."

  I crossed my arms over my chest, clutching my elbows. "So now you know."

  He still didn't look one hundred percent convinced. "If this is true, you need to defend yourself."

  "Against y
our mother?" I asked. Mrs. Leland Herworth Wydell III would relish any excuse to go after me, and she had the money and the power to do it.

  He knew how she was. I could tell by the way his jaw tightened and released. "I don't know what to say."

  I didn't either. I hadn't exactly planned this. "Let's not say anything," I told him. I didn't want his pity or his sympathy. It surprised me enough to see a crack in the Wydell family armor. "I'll try to help you with your problem, and then we can go back to hating each other."

  "You will help me," he corrected, both of us glad to be on more familiar terms. "There's no trying. It has to be done."

  "Let's leave off the pep talk, officer perfect."

  He took a slow breath as he steered us onto more solid ground. "That kitchen equipment cost me more than you're asking. You clear out my vandal ghosts, every damned one of them, and you've earned the twenty grand."

  "All right, then." This was a business arrangement, pure and simple.

  He pulled a set of folded papers out of his back pocket. "I took the liberty of drawing up an agreement."

  Before he'd asked.

  "Confident much?" I murmured, as he spread it out on my counter. But I signed it. So did he.

  I just hoped I could pull it off. I hadn't asked for Frankie's help yet. Even if I got it, I didn't know what we were up against.

  If I failed, which I very well might, Ellis would most likely go back to thinking I was some sort of a con artist. And his family would love exploiting the tale of Verity Long, failed ghost buster.

  Either way, I'd have to take another harrowing trip into a haunted building.

  Don't think about that part.

  "Meet me at the Wilson's Creek property tonight at eight," Ellis said, folding the agreement and sliding it back into his pocket.

  "I'll be there," I said, all business.

  I felt a part of him give a little as I escorted him out. Or perhaps that was wishful thinking. "Don't tell a soul," he warned.

  "Of course not," I said.

  Well, just the one.

  Chapter Nine

  As soon as I saw Ellis's black Jeep bounce down the road away from my house, I sprang into action.

  "Frankie!" I called, banging out to the back porch. The white-painted swing rocked the gangster's urn lightly in the breeze. "Frankie, come out here."

  He didn't respond. The jerk. Now was not the time for him to sulk.

  I waited one second. Two. The morning air was deceptively balmy for fall. Honey bees buzzed over the hydrangeas near the back rail.

  I picked up the urn. "You're going to want to hear this," I told him, rubbing at it, as if that would get his attention. Maybe I should give it a little flick. That seemed rude, but darn it, we needed to plan, to strategize. To see if we could pull off what I'd promised to do.

  "I'm not the genie in the lamp," his voice echoed behind me.

  I spun around, but saw no one.

  "Over here." His voice floated from across the yard, and then I saw him, sprawled out under the apple tree, waving.

  I left his urn on the swing and hurried down the back steps and out into the yard. "Nice trick," I could have sworn he was behind me. "I suppose you can do all kinds of things now that you're dead."

  He leaned his head back against the thick tree and scratched at the bark with his fingernail. "You have no idea." He straightened as I neared and wrapped his arms around his knees. "By the way, while we're having a heart to heart, I don't like that word. Dead," he said, as if there were something rotten in the air. "It's a terrible reminder of my accident. Call it something else."

  Hmm… What would that be? The gangster formerly known as 'alive'?

  I hesitated only a moment before I went ahead and sat right next to him. He scooted down a bit for me, but I stayed where I was. "Did you see who came by? The police officer from last night."

  Frankie tensed. "Deny everything."

  "He's going to pay me what I need to keep the house," I said. Frankie grew still. It's as if he knew there was a catch. In this case, he was right. "In exchange, he wants me—us," I corrected, "he wants us to neutralize some 'formerly living' souls who are vandalizing an old distillery he bought."

  Frankie drew his shoulders back. "Let me guess. You said, 'yes' without even asking me."

  Okay, maybe I'd overstepped a little. "I couldn't exactly ask you in front of Ellis."

  Frankie rubbed the back of his neck. "I was in the ether anyway."

  I wrapped my arms around my knees. "I don't know what that means."

  "Kind of like being asleep," he said, leaning back against the tree. "Lending you that power really did a number on me."

  "Sorry. You look a lot better now than you did last night, though." He even had his knee back.

  Frankie stared up at the sky. "Bridging the planes is probably against some natural laws, too."

  "That's why we'll only do it once more," I told him.

  He slanted a look my way. "I ain't no do-gooder, honey. Don't ask me to drain out my essential life force so that you can run around solving other people's problems."

  Fair enough. "You got a better way for me to keep my house?"

  He rubbed at his chin "Did your cop friend say what was inside the place?"

  "Some stainless steel kitchen equipment was broken," I said, watching him wince.

  "Not that," he interrupted. "I mean the spooks."

  "No. But I'm sure it's nothing we can't handle."

  He grew as serious as I'd ever seen him. "It takes a whole lot of energy to move an object. Dark, negative force is easier to use—and better for smashing things. This ain't some weepy broad tossing jewelry out the window."

  I didn't like the sound of that.

  But it didn't change things. "We can't go back on the deal, not until we at least try to make it work." I ignored the stark unease trickling down my spine. "You need to show me what's going on tonight at the Wilson's Creek property." I couldn't do it without him.

  He frowned at that. "You ever stop to think maybe I got my own life on the other side?"

  "You know some of the ghosts there," I said, surprised. I could see it in his face.

  Frankie shifted uncomfortably. "I might." He picked a piece of imaginary lint off his pants leg. "Damn sure he don't wanna see me."

  "Just this once," I said. "Please," I added. "You know it's our best shot."

  He stared me down. "You think everything's a jake in this."

  I had no idea what he meant. "No," I said, feeling it was the safest answer. "This is the last time I'll ask." I hoped.

  "Fine," he said, taking off his hat, crumpling it in his hands. "We'll go. I'll let you see again, but just this once."

  "Thanks," I said, fighting down a smile.

  "Eh, go chase yourself," he muttered as he shimmered away. "You ain't gonna be smiling come tonight."

  ***

  The sun hung low, throwing out a burst of reds and yellows across the evening sky. We'd left more than an hour early, so we could get the lay of the land before dark. And so I had time to talk Frankie into following through on his promise in case he gave me trouble.

  I'd cancelled on my sister. I told her I had taken on a new freelance job and asked her to stop in and see Lucy if she got the chance. Melody had been all too happy to oblige and said she hoped it would pay off.

  That made two of us.

  The Wilson's Creek property stood in a wooded area toward the west side of town. Gorgeous sugar maple trees, bursting with fall color, joined oaks and sassafras. They stretched over the road to form a canopy prettier than any postcard.

  I wondered what kind of ghost Frankie knew on the property, and why he seemed to think he wouldn't be welcome there.

  "This would be a funky cool location for a restaurant," I said, making conversation.

  Frankie slouched in his seat, less than impressed. "Turn off the radio. Please. I don't know how you listen to this rap stuff."

  I snarfed. "It's Michael Jackson. I thoug
ht Thriller might lighten the mood."

  The gangster looked at me as if I'd sprouted wings. "We do good tonight, I'll show you some real music. Introduce you to Benny Goodman."

  I wondered if he meant for real, or just his records.

  We had the windows down and the wind tousled my long blond hair. Frankie's didn't move an inch. Naturally.

  Another twist on the country road led to a smattering of orchards, roadside fruit stands, and antique shops.

  Whitewashed fencing gave way to a battered limestone wall. Moss clung to the uneven top. Clumps of grass and weeds sprouted from gaps in the mortar and the GPS system on my phone told me we were getting close.

  Frankie cringed every time the overly pleasant woman's voice chimed in with directions.

  I shot him a glance. "You've been hanging around for how many years and you never heard this before?"

  He shifted in his seat. "I know what's going on," he said, focusing on a gathering of black crows on the fence up ahead. "Only I usually tune you people out."

  Poor ghost. After we solved the issue with the house, we'd have to figure out how to send him on his way.

  I'd packed some light snacks in the bag with Frankie's urn, along with a brand new flashlight in case the mini-flashlight on my keychain ran low. The light cost more than a week's worth of Ramen, but tonight had me more worried than I was letting on, and I refused to go in unprepared. I'd also managed to scrounge up a few half-burned Christmas candles, along with some matches. Backups for my backup.

  The rock wall rose higher on both sides of an open iron gate. A large stone marker read: Wilson's Creek.

  Frankie straightened and peered out the front window, as if he was searching for something in particular.

  "Tell me about this place," I said. "It sounds like you have some history here."

  "It was a long time ago," he said, his attention diverted.

  "I'll drive slow," I told him. "The more I know, the easier this will be."

  He huffed. "Not now."

  We turned into the drive, a narrow dirt road. A large brick building stood at the end, with wide wooden carriage doors at the front. Tall green-painted windows lined the first and second floors, sheltered under red brick arches. I spied what appeared to be an aged, wood turret off the back. Faded letters, hand-painted in white on the brick, read: Southern Spirits since 1908.