by Amy Boyles
I pumped the air with my palms. “Let’s everyone get a grip. No one’s going to the clinker. Wait. Why would you be going to the clinker?”
Ruth slapped her forehead. “Because, Blissful, everyone is going to think Alice killed that fella.”
Quiet blanketed the room except for the wall clock. The tick tick tick boomed in comparison to the absolute silence beaming from Ruth and Alice. It was their way of making me think it through, figure out why they weren’t talking.
I slumped into a chair and lasered my gaze on Alice. “Let me guess—you are guilty because you didn’t want Neal to reveal that your brother was the murderer. The whole town is gonna think you killed Neal to cover it up.”
“That’s about it,” Ruth said.
“I’m too old to go to prison. At my age I’ll never get out,” Alice whimpered.
I yanked tissues from a box and stuffed them in her hand. “I simply don’t believe that. No way.”
“You don’t know this town.” Alice sniffed and then honked the entire contents of her nose and then some into the tissue.
I tapped my foot. I had no patience for self-pity. Why do that when you could be solving a problem, kicking it in the tush so fast and far you never saw it again?
“Okay, so if they do come after you, what’s the plan? We know you didn’t do it.”
Ruth rubbed her forehead in defeat. “We don’t know. That’s why we came here, to you.”
Okay great. Now I was some sort of mythological unicorn panda bear who could solve problems.
Unfortunately I’d given myself this reputation by helping solve Xavier Bibb’s murder a few weeks ago. Granted, I’d almost been sliced and diced in the process, but hey, what did that matter when I brought in the killer?
“Shizzy whits.” I fisted a hand to the table.
“I forgot you don’t like to cuss,” Ruth said. “It’s so cute.”
I glared at her as a reminder that the last thing I was would be cute. “I don’t think Neal’s spirit crossed over. I think he’s still here.”
Alice stopped slobbering on my table long enough to catch my gaze. “Are you sure?”
“No, of course not. He could’ve gone into the light in two seconds, but I didn’t see the beam appear or disappear. There’s a good chance he’s wandering around Haunted Hollow. We should be able to find him and make him reveal who Susan’s killer was—or who he thinks it was.”
“And whoever killed Susan probably murdered Neal to keep their secret.” I swear a lightbulb flickered above Ruth’s head.
I clicked my tongue. “Exactly. So who were the suspects back then? That’s where we start.”
Alice and Ruth exchanged a look. Neither of them said anything. I almost punched a wall.
“If you don’t tell me, we can’t figure this out. I need your help.”
“Well,” Alice said, “Susan’s boyfriend at the time was Homer Hicks. He was a big suspect because he was dating her. He now owns the hardware store in town.”
I tapped my foot. “So he’s the poster boy of the reformed and completely worthless teenager.”
“Exactly.” Ruth slurped her coffee. “Then there was George Robertson. He was said to have been near the scene of the crime that night. Susan’s body was found behind Soul Food and Spirits. George is now the minister of First Baptist.”
I rolled my eyes. “Great. Let’s hope it’s not the pastor or I’ll be run out of town for fingering him. Okay, anyone else?”
Alice and Ruth did that look thingie again. Alice spoke. “The only other suspect I can remember was Tom Sewell. He lived in a trailer park with his divorced mom. The kind of guy who never quite grew out of the trailer, if you know what I mean. He still works odd jobs around town.”
I twirled my finger. “So out of all those men, I can already tell you who I’m tracking down first.”
“Tom?” Alice and Ruth said.
“Right. I’m gonna find out if he was near the park when Neal was poisoned.” I rose, pressed my hands down my thighs. “Great. We have a plan.”
Alice almost looked relieved. I wrapped my arms around her neck and gave a squeeze. Her hair smelled of lavender. I’m not going to lie, I inhaled a little deeper. What? I love lavender.
I’d just broken from the hug when a knock came from my front door. I shot Alice and Ruth a look of surprise. I wasn’t expecting anyone. I crossed to the front door and opened it.
There stood Kency Blount, sheriff of Haunted Hollow. Besides the rather sexless-sounding name, Kency was actually a tall woman with long red hair. She also had a permanent smirk tattooed across her mouth.
It was pretty annoying.
“Blissful,” she said in terse greeting.
“Hey, Kency, great to see you.” I smiled widely just to be annoying.
She crossed her arms. “I’m sure you are.”
“I am.”
She glared at me. “That’s great.”
I have no idea why Kency and I have this weird hate/hate relationship. It started that way, and it’s never fizzled out. Not that I go out of my way to run into her. With a personality like a dry piece of cake, she’s not exactly the kind of gal I want to spend a girl’s night out with.
“I’m here because I’m looking for Alice. Have you seen her?”
“Why would she be at my house?”
“Can it, Blissful. She’s a friend of yours. Everyone in town knows the three of you try to catch ghosts. Is she here?”
There was no point denying it. “In the kitchen.”
I followed Kency through my tiny house until we reached the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway and whirled around. “Is this some kind of joke?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
She slid sideways and gestured toward the room. “That’s what I mean.”
My jaw hit the floor. The table where the three of us had been sitting was empty. The coffee cups were there and the pot was still on the burner. The shortbread was gone, of course. I guess there was no limit to how much stress eating one was capable of.
But all in all, Ruth and Alice were gone.
They’d disappeared.
SIX
If Alice hadn’t looked guilty before, she certainly did now. Kency Blount left the house in a huff. I was shocked smoke didn’t pour from her ears, she was so ticked.
Which started my brain churning. I picked through my purse until I found my phone and immediately called Alice’s cell. No answer. Same thing happened when I dialed Ruth.
Crappity crap crap. There was a killer on the loose, and Alice was making herself look guilty by evading Kency.
I snapped my fingers. “The graveyard.”
If Neal’s spirit was still around, he might be drawn to the Oaks. Lots of other spirits hung out at the graveyard. I grabbed my keys and headed out.
My antique Land Cruiser rumbled to a stop outside the gate. I killed the engine and climbed out. Laughter floated in the distance. A group of teenagers sat on a grave drinking cheap wine.
“They’d better watch out,” I murmured to myself.
Sure enough, not two seconds later, an apparition materialized before them. The looming spirit wore a Confederate Army uniform. He pointed his sidearm at the group of teens. They screamed. The bottle of wine fell, cracking open on a headstone and bleeding over the ancient rock.
Within seconds the teenagers were gone and I was holding my sides to keep them from splitting with laughter.
I knuckled away a few tears and emerged from the vehicle. Captain William Fitzpatrick Blount bowed.
“Blissful Breneaux, you have been missed.” The captain floated to me. He took my hand in his ghostly one and dropped a kiss on my flesh. He prickled with energy. It was a strange feeling, like being touched by mist.
“Thank you, Captain.”
He floated beside me. “Have you come to deliver news that your people are going to allow us to live in peace and not attempt to force us to cross over, as you have put it in the past?”
/> “Um, no.”
See the thing about the spirits at the Oaks Cemetery is, they want me to tell them that my kind—clairvoyants—won’t force them to cross to the other side.
Which pretty much goes against the laws of nature, but whatever. I mean, spirits aren’t meant to stay on earth. They’re supposed to go to the great beyond. For most, that means disappearing into the light. Some go to the dark, but I don’t know what that place is. Could be hell. Could be something else.
Guess what? I don’t ever plan on visiting to find out.
We reached a grove of crumbling headstones. Suddenly lots of spirits popped into view. Old Farmer Kency—yes, both Captain Blount and Kency were ancestors of Kency Blount.
Even better—both spirit men hated one another.
Then there was Granny Mildred, who reminded me of Ma Cratchett from The Beverly Hillbillies. Looked like her, too.
“Does she have news for us?” Mildred said.
“I’m uncertain,” Blount replied. “Blissful has yet to divulge the reason for her visit.”
Farmer Kency floated over. Gray streaked his dark beard, and the scruff on his cheeks made him look wizened and kind.
“You come to admit we’re right in our demands?” Kency said. Maybe not so kind. Maybe more bossy.
“I’m not here for that.” I shifted so I could see all the spirits that hovered over their headstones. “I need your help. I’m looking for a spirit. A new spirit. Would’ve just transitioned tonight.”
Captain Blount scoffed. “And what, my dear, makes you think we’re going to help you?”
“Yes sir,” Mildred said, “you’ve got that right, Captain. This little lady hasn’t offered once to assist us, but she demands we help her!”
I wanted to pull my hair out piece by piece. There was simply no reasoning with them. “I told y’all last time, I can’t take a list of demands to the World Council on Ghosts to hear your request.”
“Why not?” Blount and the other spirits exchanged looks suggesting that might not be such a bad idea.
“Because the World Council on Ghosts doesn’t exist! It doesn’t exist. There isn’t one. Unless y’all start some sort of spirit war”—I pointed my finger sharply—“and I don’t suggest you do that. There’s nothing I can do. You’re on your own. The only thing I can promise,” and I was pretty sure I’d already said it once, “is that I won’t force you into the light.”
“You care for us too much.” Captain Blount placed a palm over his heart.
“I don’t care at all. As long as y’all aren’t harming anyone, you can do whatever you want.”
“She says we’re free!” Captain Blount raised his sword.
“She didn’t say that, you idiot,” Kency snapped. “The young lady said she’d leave us alone.”
“Stop mixing words, Kency. I know what I heard.”
“You heard it wrong,” the farmer said. Kency studied me. “What does this spirit look like? Who is it?”
Finally, someone with sense. I rattled off a list of details describing Neal Norton down to his sneakers. I held my breath as the gaggle of ghosts scratched their chins, shot each other confused glances and puckered their lips.
Because puckering my lips always helps me think better.
Right.
“Has anyone seen him?” I said.
Confused glances shifted to murmurs and shrugs.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“No,” came a distinct voice louder than the rest.
My gaze drifted right, and my breath stopped. Sitting crossed-legged above a tombstone, his dark hair flowing, his white-and-black striped suit reminding me more of Beetlejuice every time I saw it, was Lucky Strike.
A sly grin curled on Lucky’s mouth. “Well, Blissful Breneaux, it’s great to see you. Why don’t the two of us chat?”
The other spirits vanished. They’d left me alone with Lucky Strike, the baddest spirit of them all, in a deserted graveyard.
SEVEN
“Hello, Blissful.”
Lucky pulled a long, ghostly cigarette from a pack in his pocket. He tapped the butt on a transparent lighter, brought the stick to his mouth and fired up.
The end glowed brilliant red.
“You know those things’ll kill you.”
Lucky threw back his head and released a chuckle that made what autumn leaves were left on the trees vibrate.
“I suppose they have already.” He flicked ash on the ground. His dark coal-like eyes seized me. “Have you thought about what I told you last time we met?”
I slid my hands into my back jean pockets. “Honestly I’ve been pretty busy.”
The burning light in his eyes faded. “You think I’m lying.”
I cringed. Crap. Had I really told the biggest baddest ghost I knew of that I’d blown him off? Good thinking, Blissful. Tick off the spirit that can destroy the power grid across the entire country.
Time to make it up. “No, Lucky, I don’t think you’re lying. But you have to admit it was a lot for me to digest. My dad hired you to create chaos so that he could keep his job?”
Lucky took a deep pull from the cigarette and blew a smoke ring the size of a volleyball. “I don’t care if you don’t believe me. That won’t stop me from getting what I want.”
“Which is?”
“Simple. To cross to the other side. I want you to do it, Blissful. Help me rest.”
My stomach coiled. Here was the thing—I’d been asked to bring Lucky in. It was possible for me to do that—all I needed was a lasso that Alice owned and I’d be able to wrap Lucky up and keep him confined.
It was a way to get my old life back. At this point I wouldn’t be able to oust Anita, but I could retake my place on the team.
If that’s what I wanted. That’s why I hadn’t pursued Lucky, because I wasn’t sure what I wanted anymore.
Yet if Lucky transitioned, I could kiss any and all possibility of my old life goodbye. It would vanish with absolutely no chance of getting it back. None. Zero. Nada. Zip.
You get the picture.
Time is what I needed. “Lucky, it’s not that simple.”
“Why the devil not?”
Yeah. As if I was going to admit my devious plan. “It just isn’t. You’ve been wanted for crimes against humans. My people want you.”
He opened his arms wide. “Transition me and you’ll never have to worry about old Lucky Strike again.”
“I get that—”
“Ah ah, Blissful. You didn’t let me finish.”
I had a bad feeling about this.
He bobbed up and down as if riding an air current. “Leave me here, in this place, and I’ll be forced to do something you won’t like.”
I would not be threatened. I crossed my arms and leaned on one hip. “Like what?”
He shrugged mysteriously. “Like something worse than a power outage.”
“Details. I don’t work on theories and whims.”
“Train derailing. Gas explosion. Internet crash that takes down the banks, leaving people penniless.”
“You’re evil.”
“I’ve been pushed to it.”
“Not by me, you haven’t.”
He smiled. It was sadistic and scary. “But you could stop all that, Blissful. All you have to do is transition me.”
I studied him. “If all you want is peace, why’re you fantasizing about being so destructive?”
Lucky balked.
“That’s what I thought. I tell you what, I’ll consider helping you, but I need time. I need to know what I’m doing is right.”
“You have three days.” He started to waver.
“How about instead of dishing out ultimatums like you’re a genie on crack, you help me. You do this, that might help prove that what you said about my father was true. But if you stir up a big pot of crazy by saying you’re going to harm people, that doesn’t make me want to trust you. It makes me want to hurt you.”
Lucky blanched.
“So why don’t you and I try playing nice? How does that sound?”
He threw the cigarette to the ground. Lucky unhinged his legs from their crossed position and stamped the butt.
“I could maybe help you.”
“Good. I’m looking for a spirit of a guy who looks like a really hip professor. He only just died so he might be confused about things.”
“Does he know he’s dead?”
“I told him.” A wind picked up my hair. I brushed it from my eyes.
“Violet hair from a ghost,” Lucky commented.
“It was a ghost gift.”
A mischievous spark lit his eyes. “I have one ghost gift left. All the others are gone, but I still have a single one.”
I clapped my hands. “Who’re you saving it for?”
His gaze drilled into me. “I’m saving it for the person who frees me from the confines of this earth.”
Challenge accepted. “Lucky Strike, if you’re ready, I’m ready to make a deal with you. If you help me find this ghost—because there’s information I need from him, information that could find his killer—I will do whatever I can to help you.”
Lucky extended a hand. “Blissful Breneaux, we have a deal.”
I shook his ghostly hand. It felt like I was shaking hands with sheer energy, charged and writhing.
The wind changed, and the smell of smoke drifted in my nostrils. “Is someone burning leaves? At this hour?”
Lucky shook his head. “There’s a fire outside town. At the motel.”
Alarm bells blared in my head. “A fire? How do you know?”
“I passed it on my way here.”
Pieces clicked together. The motel! That’s where Neal had been staying. Oh no! Why hadn’t I thought to go there first?
I charged toward my truck. “Come on, Lucky! We’ve got work to do!”
EIGHT
I’m not going to tell you it was a peaceful ride to the motel. Lucky Strike floated in the passenger seat of my car silently, like a cat waiting to strike a mouse. The mouse being me.
Not that he said as much, but he hummed with disquiet. My own feelings were a study in contradiction. Lucky had single-handedly caused mounds of chaos in the world. Now I needed him. If he helped me, I’d transition him.
