by fox, angie
Sure enough, Melody had sent several texts. I leaned up on an elbow and scrolled through them. "She's found lots of good information. She wants to get together after her lunch meeting." I sat up. "What time is it?"
Frankie adjusted his Panama hat. "Does it matter?"
I stood, my legs stiff and my back a little achy. Moments like this, I missed my real bed. "To the flesh and blood among us, yes."
My cell phone read: 1:14 p.m. At least I'd gotten a good nap in. I was supposed to meet Ellis at five. That left me a nice amount of time to see Melody.
"So are we leaving now?" Frankie asked. He was still missing his lower half. "I don't know how much longer I can keep this up."
I smoothed my dress. "Let me grab something quick to eat and we'll go." I headed into the kitchen.
He rubbed at his neck. "You don't get it. I've never been stuck before. It's freaking me out."
I opened the cabinet, grateful that I didn't have to root around for another granola bar. The Quaker Chewy Variety Pack was the only thing on all three shelves. While I unwrapped one, I reminded myself to give the ghost a break. He was going through a big change too. "We'll fix it," I said. I hoped.
Lucy scratched at the door and I let her in. She gave Frankie a wide berth as she ran to cuddle up on my still-warm blankets.
"What did you do to her?" I asked. Lucy was usually very friendly.
Frankie shrugged. "She won't come near me."
I poured myself a glass of water from the sink and made sure Lucy had food and water too. She was the best-kept skunk in Sugarland.
The nap had done me a world of good. My head felt clearer, my reflexes sharper.
"Okay, let's motor," I said, grabbing my keys.
Then I did something I'd never done before, on a quick trip in to town, at least. I locked the back door. And after I'd given sleepy Lucy a pat on the head, I locked the front door behind me.
I probably should have done that before taking the morning to sleep. But, well, I wasn't used to it. It had always been a point of pride that we didn't need to bar our doors around here. I'm not sure Grandma had even known where the key was.
Still, I didn't like the way that car's headlights had lingered on me last night. I didn't know who had come to the property, but I had a hunch he'd seen me. And if he was from Sugarland, he knew exactly where I lived.
***
The city library stood in the middle of the town square, as it had for the past one hundred and eight years. On the way we passed the Candy Bar, which was set up like a buffet for chocolate lovers, as well as the B Sweet Boutique, which specialized in locally harvested honey, preserves, and other delicacies.
"I designed that logo," I said, pointing out the stylized honeybee swirling around the "s" in sweet.
Frankie merely grunted.
"And look, I did the one for the New For You as well," I said, pointing to the whimsical antique-looking sign out front. "Think of the best estate sale you've ever been to and that's it."
If he was impressed, he didn't show it. "So you basically draw stuff?" Frankie asked.
"I make things look good." I'd done logos for a lot of the businesses in town. "I also design restaurant menus. And when the Broadway Diner redecorated, they hired me to pick out new colors and do the new brand look."
Frankie's brow furrowed. "Store owners pay you for this?"
"Yep. It's pretty good money," I insisted.
At least it had been, when I was the fiancé of the youngest prince of the community. Now, no one would hire me for anything. Some people had even reverted back to their old logos. Those things weren't nearly as bad as the silence.
He sighed, returning his attention to the parade of stores out the window. "And people said I was guilty of highway robbery."
I kept an eye out for a parking spot. "I'm going to pretend you didn't just insult my job," I said, locating an empty spot up ahead in the town square, right across from the mayor's office.
The buildings in this part of town had been constructed at a time when every door and window was considered a work of art. While they'd used brick and wood for Main Street, the town square was done in white limestone. After a lifetime of seeing it on an almost daily basis, it still impressed me.
They'd spared no expense on the town hall, with its red limestone accents, arched windows, and even a small clock tower at the center top.
After feeding the meter, I rushed across the square, past the large statue of our founder on a horse. Colonel Ramsey Larimore had fought in the Indian Wars, planted the first sugarcane in Tennessee, and served as the first official mayor of the city.
It wasn't long before everyone realized sugar didn't grow as well here as it did farther south. His son served as the second mayor, built his father a statue, and founded the Sugarland Candy Company. Even at the present day, that factory employed a lot of people around here. He's the one who should have gotten a monument.
I took the steps of the library two at a time. Red limestone columns flanked the entrance and the door resembled something out of a medieval castle. I pushed it open and was rewarded with the heady scent of old books.
"Huh," Frankie muttered, craning his neck at the tall ceiling of the lobby, taking in the painted scenes from Sugarland's history.
"Don't tell me you've never been in here before," I murmured, heading into the main room, past the displays of fall craft books and seasonal mysteries.
"Yeah." Frankie took his hat off, and absently pressed it to his chest as he eyed the place. "The entire South Town gang used to have a Saturday night book club here."
"Don't let Melody hear you making fun," I said, spotting my sister at the desk. She wore her blonde hair up in the kind of loose, twisty French braid that I'd only seen in magazines, and on her. She'd tucked a pink flower pen behind her ear and managed to look both studious and charming at the same time.
She ducked around the desk and met me halfway, treating me to a sisterly embrace while giving a short tug on my hair, same as she did when we were growing up.
"You took long enough," she said, pulling back. Her blue eyes clouded with suspicion. "You didn't do anything crazy, like meet Ellis for lunch?"
"Of course not," I scoffed. I was seeing him tonight.
"In here," she said, motioning me toward one of the research rooms lining the back wall. The library had four total, all with thick wooden doors and old-fashioned windows that looked out over the courtyard below.
On a heavy dining room sized table at the center, she'd laid out several old newspaper articles and other print offs. I gave a low whistle. "You've been busy."
"I had fun," she corrected, tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear as I closed the door behind us. She noticed, but didn't comment.
Instead, she slid an article across the table at me. "What I learned isn't exactly surprising. It seems Ellis and his uncle, Vernon Hale, came about the Wilson's Creek property with the usual Wydell charm. That is to say underhanded, sneaky, and downright vicious."
"Can we do this without the editorial?" I asked. I could judge the facts on my own.
Melody pointed to a historical feature article from the 2010 issue of the Sugarland Gazette. "These are the best pictures of the original property that I could find." They showed the Victorian as it was being constructed. I even saw the start of the foundation for the carriage house. No tunnels, though. Yet. "Caruthers Wilson bought the property in 1874 as a family farm. Later, when motor cars replaced horse-drawn carriages, the family converted the carriage house into a whiskey distillery."
She showed me pictures of the red brick distillery in its heyday, with old-fashioned delivery trucks, loaded with barrels.
"Evidently, the Southern Spirits brand was pretty popular," Melody said. "I was talking to Jeanie at the front desk and she said the library even had some of the original bottles as part of a display on Sugarland History a few years ago for the 200th anniversary celebration."
I returned my attention to the article as Melody con
tinued. "Prohibition hit. They turned the distillery back into a carriage house. Officially. But then they got busted for illegal operations."
"No kidding," I said, glancing over my shoulder, toward Frankie by the door.
Eyes wide, he shrugged. "Don't blame me."
Melody pulled out another article from her stack. "It says in this one that there was a famous jewel heist right about that time. There was speculation that mobsters from Chicago took the jewels down here and hid them when they were on a whiskey run."
"I thought gangsters didn't bury their money like pirates," I said, this time looking directly at Frankie.
"They don't," he insisted.
"What are you talking about?" Melody asked, trying to see where I'd focused my attention.
"It's nothing," I told her. Nothing she'd believe anyway.
The newest article showed trays and trays of cut gemstone jewelry, all of it in black and white of course. It looked expensive as heck.
"Police at the time knew these gangsters were operating in the area, but they didn't know exactly where to look for the stolen gems. So they started checking out the places where the mob could have been running alcohol. That's how they learned about the illegal distillery at Southern Sprits."
"Actually, it was because Skinny Pete sold us out," Frankie grumbled. He leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, glaring.
"If anyone has facts they're not telling me…" I mouthed, looking at Frankie.
"Running booze there don't make a guy no expert on the poltergeist," he muttered. "My people don't like it any better than you do. My own brother barely had enough energy to cuss me out last night."
Poor guy. I couldn't imagine what caused that kind of a rift. And I doubted he wanted me asking.
Melody handed me another article. "Treasure hunters dug around the distillery after the feds shut it down, but nobody reported finding the stolen jewelry."
"Doesn't mean they didn't," I remarked. "Maybe someone found it and didn't tell anybody. Or maybe it's still there." Could our vandals be treasure hunters? It seemed plausible.
"If the stolen goods even came through town in the first place," Melody pointed out. "Anyway," she said, "Jonathan Wilson went to jail for mob-related activities and the family slowly went bankrupt. Even after prohibition ended, they never could get the business to run at the same level as before." Melody turned to her stack. "And here's where it gets interesting." She laid another paper in front of me. "The family sold in 1968 to none other than Thaddeus Bolivar Steward, age 22."
"The mayor?" I asked, trying to picture our white-haired mayor as a young man.
"His fiancé lent him the money to buy it," she explained. "Of course instead of paying her back, he just married her. Thad had big plans for the property. He was going to start brewing again, revive the old brand. Whiskey was starting to grow more popular. But I suppose he was more of a politician than a businessman because once he got elected to city government, he focused on that. Word has it he always loved that property, though. It tore him up when Wydell and his uncle stole it out from under him. Supposedly, it was more the uncle than Ellis Wydell, but still…"
"Might as well despise them both?" I asked.
She gave me an all-too-innocent look. "Something like that."
"Why did the mayor sell?" I asked, walking over to the window, careful not to catch my skirt on any of the papers covering the table. "He has money. Certainly, he could afford to keep the property, especially if he enjoyed having it."
"Thad Steward married a Wydell," my sister said, as if that were a crime in itself. "Beau's cousin twice removed."
"Ooh," I stopped and spun a bit, causing the papers to flutter. "I forgot crazy Genevieve was part of the clan." They didn't exactly invite her to family Christmas.
Melody quirked a brow at me. "She took the property in the divorce. She's the one who sold it to Hale and Ellis."
"Ouch." I winced. "A woman scorned."
Melody rested her hands on her hips. "Are you listening to yourself?"
"Don't start," I warned her, "or I'm going to stop telling you about all of this."
She didn't appear to believe me. "Why did Ellis contact you?"
"I'm good," I told her.
Her eyes narrowed. "At what?"
Oh my word. My ears grew hot. "Not that."
She began gathering up the papers we'd scattered. "Last I heard he was dating some model."
I didn't like how my stomach twisted at the thought. "I don't know any models around here. Unless you count Suzie Conners who walks in the 4th of July parade every year wearing outfits from her mom's prom dress shop."
Melody rapped a stack of papers on the table. "She's from New York. He met her while he was doing that FBI thing in Virginia. Word is she likes men in uniform. Probably out of uniform as well."
Fine. She could have him. "Look, I'm only helping him get his restaurant open," I said, trying to convince both her and myself. "I'm good at branding and graphic design," I added, really stretching it. Come to think of it, I really should try to sell Ellis graphic design services if he ever got this entertainment area off the ground.
"Mom's going to find out," Melody warned. "She has a sixth sense whenever one of us is about to screw up."
I wasn't messing up. Besides, "We're not telling anyone," I reminded her.
She handed me a red folder full of papers. "You'd think that would be enough to keep a secret around here, but it's not."
Didn't I know it?
"This has copies of everything I've shown you so far," she said. "I'll keep digging here. I didn't have a chance to look into those burials you talked about."
"See if you can learn about any unusual architecture. Specifically," I cringed, "if there are any hidden passages or secret hiding spots."
She looked at me as if she could dissect me with her stare. "You are not just doing branding for that man."
"I love you," I said, in the most sincere way possible.
She closed her eyes for a moment. "I know I'm the worst one to be giving this kind of advice, but for the love of all that is holy, you need to think about what you're doing."
"I will," I promised her. "Starting now."
Like right now, I was thinking it would be a good idea to drop in on our mayor and learn his side of the story. And ask if he'd seen anything unusual at the former Southern Spirits distillery.
Chapter Fourteen
I made my way across the square, toward city hall.
"Now that is one anatomically correct horse," Frankie said, chuckling as we passed the statue of Colonel Ramsey Larimore and his stud.
"Truly?" I asked. I couldn't stop myself from hazarding a look. I hated to admit it, but the gangster had a point.
Frankie had gone invisible, somewhere to my left. It was disconcerting to say the least. "You doing okay?"
"I think those books relaxed me enough to take a little snooze."
"You didn't even read any of them."
He sighed, ignoring me. "If you need me, I'll be in the ether."
"Okay." I'd let him rest. Until tonight, at least.
The air inside the city hall building felt unseasonably cool, as if someone had cranked up the air conditioning at the worst possible time. I rubbed at my arms, wishing for a sweater, as I checked a directory on the wall. The mayor's office was on the second floor.
My sandals clacked against the marble stairs, the mish-mash in my bag rattling along with it. Heaven above. Where was my sense of southern decorum? If I didn't know better, I'd think I sold it with my grandmother's antique fainting couch.
I slowed, smoothing my hair, trying to exhibit an air of professional calm as I approached the door with hand-painted gold letters that read Mayor Thaddeus Bolivar Steward III. I hoped he had the decency not to assume too much based on where he'd seen me this morning.
Nancy Tarkington sat at the outer desk, as she had for the past three decades. She wore her auburn hair short, paired with diamond chip
earrings and a fall sweater.
She braced a black office phone against her shoulder while she wrote out an incident report. "Yes, Mr. Lemon. I agree. Those teenagers should not have positioned your garden gnomes like that. Yes. I do believe I've heard that is in the Kama Sutra. No, I don't know what page."
She wheeled her chair over to one of the massive file cabinets and pulled out a yellow folder packed with paperwork. "Just tell Mrs. Lemon the gnomes were wrestling," she said, stuffing the report inside. "I'm sure there is a non-violent solution, but I don't see how the mayor can help. Nevertheless, I'll put it on file immediately." She held the phone away from her ear. "Oh my. I'm losing the connection. Have you tried calling the police? They filed a report as well? I'm so glad," she said, before she swung around in her chair and dipped a finger down onto the hang-up button. "Whoops."
The smile on her face faded when she saw me standing there. I tried not to fidget. People saw me differently now, even those who should know better.
It would pass.
It had to.
"Hi, Mrs. Tarkington," I said, with a bit more cheer than necessary.
At least one thing hadn't changed. I found it impossible to call the woman by her first name. Growing up, my mom would have boxed my ears for addressing adults by their given names. Mrs. Tarkington attended our church and used to play bridge with my mom every Tuesday afternoon. I'd climbed trees with her daughter Callie and tried not to lose my shoes in the creek every time I'd visited.
Mrs. Tarkington frowned slightly, as if she were trying to figure out exactly what to do with me. I pretended not to notice.
"How's Callie doing?" I asked. We'd lost touch when I went to college and she moved to Atlanta.
Mrs. Tarkington played with the large, Home Shopping Network-style ring on her right hand. "I'm sure she thinks about you, Verity. We all do. Bless your heart."
It seemed that was the best I was going to get, at least for now.
Rather than make her more uncomfortable, I stated my business. "I'm here to see the mayor."
"He's not here," she said, dismissing me.
She busied herself gathering papers on her desk, re-arranging them, no doubt wishing her phone would ring again, even if Mr. Lemon decided to call back.
