01 Flip That Haunted House - Haunted Renovation

by Rose Pressey

  “What did you do, wash this with your jeans?” I unfolded the crumpled up page.

  “I had a bit of an accident with it.”

  “Oh.” I looked at the paper and up at him again. “I see that.” My eyebrows rose.

  “By the way,” he said as he stepped off the porch. “I heard those footsteps you told me about. It was strange, and I have to admit, I can’t explain it.”

  “I told you.” I smiled. It felt good to be right for a change.

  “You did.” He wiggled his eyebrows, then turned and sauntered back to his yard.

  I hurried inside so he wouldn’t catch me staring.

  After a few minutes of being along in the house, and figuring the coast was clear from crazy drivers, I decided to go home, shower, and change for my visit to Carolyn’s—but, before I left, I made an important call. I had to. I didn’t want to, but I knew it needed to be done. Two crazy drivers was not a coincidence and I didn’t want it to happen a third time.

  As I waited for Sheriff Bass to pick up, I stood in the kitchen and tapped my fingernail against the countertop. Rolling the words around in my head, I contemplated what I would say when he picked up.

  “Hello. Bass.” His voice was rough.

  More like Sheriff Ass, if you asked me. “Sheriff Bass, this is Alabama Hargrove. I need to report an accident.” I rushed the words before I changed my mind.

  “Where is this accident? You need to call nine-one-one.”

  “Well…I just hit a mailbox, so no one was injured…,” I said.

  “Ms. Hargrove, I don’t think you need the police for a fender bender. Just let the owners of the mailbox know you’ll pay for a new one.” He didn’t try to hide his agitation.

  “No wait, Sheriff… There’s more to the story.” My voice shot up a decibel.

  “I’m waiting,” he said tersely.

  “Someone’s trying to kill me and I think it’s the same person who killed Payne Cooper. They ran me off the road. That’s when I hit the mailbox.” Just saying the words out loud made me uneasy all over again.

  He paused, and then let out a deep sigh. “I’ll tell you what, Ms. Hargrove, how about I send an officer over and he can take a report.” He didn’t hide his condescending attitude well. I envisioned him leaning back in his chair, maybe propping his feet up on his desk and folding his hands across his well-nourished belly.

  “Fine, Sheriff Bass. Thanks,” I said tartly.

  I rattled off my address and the sheriff clicked off before I uttered another word.

  He didn’t like me. His tone said as much. And the feeling was mutual. If I didn’t want to end up toe up in the morgue, I’d have to figure out who had it out for me on my own. I couldn’t rely on help from the police. Since the detective was headed to my home, I needed to hurry. Time was running out before my trip to Carolyn’s.

  On my way to the door, a loud bang echoed through the house. It was so loud it seemed to rattle the ceiling above me. Heavy footsteps boomed down the staircase from the top floor. Did I move and find the source of the noise, or wait for it to find me? I hardly dared to breathe. Who would materialize at the bottom? I inched my way toward the foyer, through the dining room, on to the parlor, and then to the staircase. Silence once again enveloped the room. I paused to listen.

  Again the sound of footsteps returned, this time approaching me. Footfalls stopped what seemed like just a few feet away. My heart pounded. I know I’d experienced the paranormal before, but I never found it easy to witness it in action. Chills danced down my spine. As I stood frozen in the middle of the room, I felt lightheaded. A dark mist materialized, forming a round mass before my eyes. It almost looked…human. I took a few frightened steps backward, then hit the wall with my back and let out a gasp. The mist vanished. Just like that, it was gone. What kind of ghost hunter was I? My camera and other equipment were in the car. Just when I needed them the most.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When I parked in front of my tiny cottage, the feeling of being watched had a grip on me. I swung out from behind the wheel, and brushed past my rose bushes, hurrying down the gravel drive to the side door. The entrance led into my small kitchen. The quiet, dark space did nothing to ease my fear. I tossed my purse and keys on the table and lifted the shade on the little window above the sink. The last remnants of sunlight flooded the butter cream colored walls.

  Before the officer arrived, I locked the deadbolt on the door, then marched straight to the bathroom and slipped into the hot shower, allowing the warm water to relieve my stress. Wishing I could stay longer, I wrapped the towel around me and trudged toward my closet, pulling out the first clothes I saw. Studying my reflection in the tall dressing mirror, I realized I looked like a clown—orange top and red pants. All I needed was white face paint and a large red nose.

  I trudged back to the closet and retrieved a pair of jeans and a black blouse. No need to dress up for Carolyn. After all, she lived on a farm. I wasn’t going to a cocktail party. Although, for an extra bit of fun, I finished my outfit off with a pair of leopard-print pumps—probably not appropriate for a farm, but I rarely got a chance to wear them. Unlike my mother, I knew how to use animal print in moderation.

  A loud knock boomed at the front door. Didn’t anyone know how to use a doorbell? I pulled my hair back in a ponytail and rushed for the door. I looked like hell, but what could I do? My life was at stake—I didn’t care much about my appearance. I had no one to impress. Well…maybe one person.

  I pulled back the plaid curtain that covered the side window and peeped out to make sure I wasn’t letting in a killer, then yanked the door open. “Please come in, Officer Butcher,” I said, as I glanced at his nametag.

  “Thank you.” He ducked as he entered the door.

  “We can have a seat in the living room.” I gestured to the room on our right. “Please just sit wherever you like.” I waved my hand toward the furniture.

  Was I supposed to offer refreshments? I’d never entertained a policeman before.

  He sat ramrod straight in the leather chair and pulled a small notepad from his uniform shirt pocket. I perched on the edge of my overstuffed sofa, falling back into the golden hue cast across the room from the back windows. Officer Butcher made my furniture seem miniature with his long legs.

  “Do you want to explain exactly what happened? What did you say your name is again?” he asked curtly.

  Another great representative of the Rosewood Police Department. Forget the offer of coffee or tea.

  “Alabama Hargrove.”

  “As in the state of Alabama?” He eyed me up and down, then gave a smirk. “Alabama?” he scoffed.

  “Yes, that’s my name, Alabama.”

  “Uh-huh.” He snickered.

  Alabama is a fine name, in my opinion. People named their children Virginia and Carolina all the time. So, what was the problem? Fantastic interview, so far.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I was driving down highway thirty-four when, out of the blue, a dark blue sedan began tailgating me. The next thing I knew, the car had bumped mine, and I swerved. I hit someone’s mailbox and landed in the landscaping.”

  “Did you contact the homeowners about their mailbox?” He lifted his wrist and examined his watch.

  “Well…no. I plan on going back later, no one was home.”

  “You need to contact them right away. How would you feel if someone damaged your property, then just drove off,” he scolded.

  Was he serious? Someone tried to use their car to kill me and he was worried about a stupid mailbox. I stared at him for a minute. I’m sure my mouth hung wide open. His gaze never left mine.

  “Well,” I snapped, “I didn’t want to stay around to see if the crazy person came back to finish me off. Forgive me for not wanting to die.”

  He frowned and glanced at his watch again. “You need to calm down.”

  “I’m calm,” I said keeping my voice at an even level. What was this guy’s problem.
/>   “You’re not acting calm.”

  Arguing with him wouldn’t help. He wasn’t interested in what had happened to me. His actions made that known loud and clear.

  “Did you get the license plate number for said vehicle?”

  “No. They zoomed by faster than college kids going on a beer run,” I huffed.

  He furrowed his brow and folded up his notepad.

  “I got the first letter. M.” I picked a piece of fuzz off my pants. “But nothing else.”

  “M, as in Mary? Well, that narrows it down quite a bit,” he quipped. “And you didn’t get the make of the vehicle?” He blew out a breath and pulled out his notepad yet again.

  “No. I told you, the car went by quickly. I was parked in someone’s shrubbery at the time.” What part of my story didn’t he understand?

  He shoved the pad and pen in his pocket, stood, then walked toward the door. I guess the interview was over. His shiny black shoes squeaked as he moved across the floor.

  He paused with his hand on the knob. “Okay. We’ll keep an eye out for a dark blue sedan with the license plate beginning with M.”

  Smart-ass.

  “Thank you, Officer Butcher,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “This is a murder investigation, Ms. Hargrove.” His dark eyes narrowed and his eyebrows pinched together in a frown. “Leave the work to us. You’ve done enough already.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We’ll be in touch, Alabama.” He gestured, then trudged down the steps and got into his Ford Crown Victoria with Rosewood Police written on the side. He never looked back, although he probably felt my stare.

  I walked over to the window and watched as he pulled out of the driveway, his wheels kicking up gravel as he pulled onto the road. His visit had yielded nothing for me—it was nothing more than a waste of time. The tangerine tinted sky reminded me of the time, so I grabbed my purse and hurried to my damaged Volvo with new resolve. The police wouldn’t help, so I’d hunt the killer down myself. After all, my grandmother always said, if you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourself. I began to devise a plan. First thing, I’d take the job with Mrs. Cooper. If she were behind my near brushes with death, I’d find out. Maybe she even owned a blue car?

  On my way to Carolyn’s, I phoned Julia Cooper with the news. To say she was excited would be an understatement. What was I getting myself into by taking on her offer? Was I biting off more than I could chew? I didn’t have a choice, though. It was do or die. I shuddered at the thought. She wanted me to stop by tomorrow after her meeting with the funeral director. They were probably planning a party instead of a memorial service. The whole mess sounded strange, but I digress. Maybe our meeting would explain her hurry for a decorator. Interior design isn’t normally an urgent matter.

  My foot punched the gas more in a hurry than ever after my little game of car tag. I maneuvered through the almost non-existent evening traffic. My fear amplified as I contemplated my get-together with Mrs. Cooper. Perhaps I needed a weapon to take with me. I shook the thought out of my head. Better to think of my lovely dinner plans for the evening instead.

  A short time later, I pulled up to Carolyn’s cabin at the end of the long dirt road. A cozy place in the middle of eighteen rolling acres shadowed by the expanse of pine trees. The tranquility of the country setting swept over me and eased my stress. Lights shone from all the windows. The smell of burning leaves filled the air. I stepped onto the wooden porch, approached the door, and drew my hand up to knock. Carolyn burst through.

  “Oh, I’m so excited! Look at you. Come on in here!” She wrangled me into her arms and gave a big squeeze. For practically a stranger, she was friendly.

  “Come in. come in. I’d like you to meet my husband, Frank Flanagan.” She gestured to the burly guy beside the fireplace. His dark hair was sprinkled with grey, but his neatly trimmed beard was completely white. He wore a plaid long sleeve button-down shirt with brown pants.

  “Nice to meet you, young lady.” He reached his hand out toward me. “Welcome to our home.” Instead of the normal handshake he engulfed me in a bear hug. His musky aftershave tickled my nose.

  “Thank you,” I mumbled, struggling to breath in his robust confines.

  Movement to my right caught my attention. I turned my gaze and then froze. Reed O’Hara stood on the opposite side of the room. A huge smile spread across his face. My stomach tingled against my will. He knew I’d be here tonight and hadn’t said a word. He wore a dark green sweater with a white t-shirt peeking out from the edges and jeans again. A candle on the table beside him flickered making his eyes sparkle under the light. Glad I’d at least dressed up somewhat, since he’d gone to all the trouble. Purely because he’d made the effort, not because I wanted to impress him.

  “Alabama, this is my nephew, Reed O’Hara.” She draped her arm around Reed’s waist. She couldn’t reach his shoulders. Her eyes lit up as she gave him a squeeze.

  “You look beautiful.” He gave me a long, appreciative look. His masculine voice drifted across the room, knocking thoughts of his cockiness out of my head. I felt blood rushing to my cheeks.

  Carolyn glanced from Reed to me. A small smile crossed her lips.

  I blinked. “Thank you.” My voice dropped to almost a whisper. I was sure I blushed.

  “You’ve met already, I take it?” She winked. Somehow, I think she already knew our status and was acting coy.

  “Well, we are neighbors,” I said.

  Why did I feel she planned this meeting?

  “I may be working for Alabama…if she’ll have me,” Reed offered.

  I gave a mirthless chuckle. I wasn’t touching that statement. Time for a subject change.

  “Well, thanks for inviting me, Carolyn.” Smooth subject transition, I thought.

  “I, for one, am starving. I’ve been thinking about Carolyn’s cornbread since this morning.” Frank patted his belly, and then plopped down on one of the rustic log chairs in front of the roaring fireplace.

  “Oh, Frank.” Carolyn giggled. “You’re always thinkin’ about my cooking. I’ll check on the food. Y’all chat. Alabama, sit wherever you want. There’s a spot by Reed.” She gestured.

  Ha. Nice try. “I’ll help in the kitchen.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Before she had a chance to object, I fell in behind her. Seeing Reed in this relaxed informal setting made me tense. No doubt, I’d fumble over my words and stick my foot in my mouth several times.

  I wanted to get Carolyn alone and out of Reed’s earshot, anyway, so I followed her through the living room into the kitchen. The combined living and dining area exuded warmth. Folk art and exposed beams added to the home's rustic appeal. The perfect backdrop for Carolyn’s antiques. In the kitchen, a 1920’s gas stove, which seemed to be in perfect working condition, sat on legs, next to the far wall. The refrigerator was more akin to an icebox. Cabinetry varied between cream-colored pie-chest style doors and bead-board.

  “So, how long you lived in Rosewood?” I asked, admiring the room.

  “About six months now. Frank fell in love with this farm.” Carolyn held her hands under the stream of water at the sink, then grabbed the hand towel on the counter.

  “Well, I can see why. Your cabin is cozy. I love the old porch.”

  “Thank you, dear. I love it, too. There’s nothing better than sitting out there on a fall morning with a cup of coffee watching the sunrise.” She patted her hands dry.

  “You know, I’m surprised we haven’t met before Suzie introduced us.” I leaned against the counter. “I know everyone interested in the paranormal around these parts.”

  “I don’t know if I’d say I’m interested in the paranormal, per se. I’ve talked to spirits since I was a child though. Would you grab silverware out of the drawer?” She pointed.

  “Where you from originally?” I reached over to the drawer, pulling out forks, spoons, and knives.

  “Atlanta. Of course, Reed’s from
there, too.” She hovered over the stove, stirring the ingredients in the big black pot. She didn’t look at me when she mentioned his name. “I talked him into moving here when I saw how great Rosewood is.”

  Lucky me.

  “Plus, he needed a fresh start after his mother remarried. He still hasn’t grieved properly since his father died.”

  “I had no idea. I’m sorry.”

  “Listen to me. I’m sure he doesn’t want me telling his life story. He needs to share this information with you.” She reached for glasses, still not meeting my gaze. “How’s the house project coming along?”

  Was she asking on Reed’s behalf? How would I tell her I wasn’t using her nephew’s services? Things were moving along just fine—without the help of Reed O’Hara.

  “Well, I’m sure it’s haunted.” I leaned back against the counter again.

  “Uh-huh.” She didn’t bat an eye as she placed the cornbread in the oven to warm. “I know the place is haunted,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “You do?” I arched a brow.

  “I went there with Reed once. I had to leave soon after we arrived. The minute I stepped inside, I got the worst headache ever. There was at least one spirit there, but I couldn’t stay long enough to find out more than that.” She grabbed a knife and sliced a large ripe tomato.

  “Wait. You went there with Reed? Why?”

  “Oh, I guess he was proud of the place and wanted to show me around.”

  “Proud?” I asked.

  “He planned on buying the house, you know that, right?” Her gaze met mine, then she continued. “I guess you beat him to it.”

  “I had no idea,” I stammered. “He said he thought about it, but he figured it was too much work. I mean, I wasn’t trying to buy it out from under him or anything.” My heart sank a little.

  She grinned. “He knows. The men in our family are proud.” She patted my arm. “But don’t worry about that. With his help, the place will be just like you want it. He is the best, you know.”

  “He acts like it, too,” I said, almost to myself.

  “You like him.” She wiggled her finger in my direction.