by Angie Fox
I'd forgotten he was next to me. "Feels nice, doesn't it?" Maybe there was a lesson in this for him as well.
"Yeah," he said, "because now that I got you ghost hunting, we can get paid next time."
I sighed. It had been worth a try.
He drifted toward the porch. "Now come on. Melody is heating up the lasagna she made for you."
I headed back to the house with him. "You know she didn't really…"
"Yeah, yeah. I got it," the gangster said.
"Right," I smiled. I appreciated it all the same. "Let's go."
Maybe Frankie was right. Perhaps I could do this again. After all, I'd been given a lot of gifts in life, and I didn't intend to waste them.
* * *
Enjoy more of Verity and Frankie’s adventures in the Southern Ghost Hunter mysteries by Angie Fox
Ghost of a Chance
Chapter 1
The smell of fresh-baked sugar cookies filled my kitchen, and the tinny sound of Frank Sinatra singing “White Christmas” echoed from my outdated iPhone. Behind me, the ghost of a 1920s gangster hovered while I pulled the last hot tray from the oven.
“Move. I don’t want to burn you,” I said automatically, realizing only afterward how ridiculous it sounded. Any object—hot or otherwise—would pass straight through the specter.
Frankie appeared in black and white, his image transparent enough that I could just make out the cooling trays on the kitchen island behind him. He wore a pin-striped suit coat with matching cuffed trousers and a fat tie.
He inhaled as if he could smell the crisp, warm cookies. “That’s a killer batch, right there,” he observed while I jockeyed around him, “but I gotta tell you, most of the gun barrels are crooked.”
I winked, surprising him. “Everybody’s a critic.”
I’d given in to holiday cheer and let him tell me how to shape the last of the dough, and he’d chosen the things he loved most. Which meant I had a baking sheet full of revolvers, cigarettes, and booze bottles—all oddly shaped because, truly, who has cookie cutters for that sort of thing?
I placed the tray on a rack to start cooling, glad I’d included the surly gangster in my holiday festivities. He was technically a houseguest until I could find a way to free him. Although I had no clue what I was going to do with his contraband cookies.
I couldn’t eat them all or explain them away to guests.
“What’s next?” he asked before I’d even transferred one cookie off the baking tray, never mind the dough-flecked countertops or the dishes. The man obviously hadn’t spent much time in the kitchen before.
“Why don’t you go outside and look at the holiday lights?” I suggested. Perhaps that would get him into the spirit of the season.
My sister, Melody, had lent me a few strands of white ones in the shape of magnolia flowers. I’d foraged some lovely greenery from the woods and done up the front and back porches with pine garlands and homemade balsam wreaths. I’d been too broke to buy ready-made decorations, but these looked nicer anyway.
He snarled at the suggestion that he might be entertained by pretty decorations. “I’m Frankie the German,” he clipped out, as if his words themselves should command respect. “Men fear me. Women want me.”
“I’m very happy for you,” I said, trying to straighten out a revolver barrel as I gently transferred the cookies to the cooling rack. “But this is the holiday season. It’s the perfect time to take a break from inspiring fear. Try to live a little,” I suggested, ignoring his scowl. “How about I finish cleaning the kitchen, and afterward you can challenge me to a game of chess.”
Otherwise, he’d get bored and start making cold spots all over my kitchen. It felt nice in the summer, but right now, it would ruin the yeast bread I had rising.
He clenched and unclenched his hands a few times. “All right,” he said, eyeing me as he glided through the stove and out to the back porch. His voice lingered in the air behind him. “You know I won’t go far.”
“Do I ever,” I murmured. It was my fault he couldn’t leave.
I’d tied him to my land when I accidentally emptied his funeral urn out onto my rosebushes. At the time, I’d believed my ex-fiancé had given me a dirty old vase in need of a good scrubbing or at least a rinse with the hose. But as it turns out, there’s a reason why ashes are customarily scattered to the wind or at least spread out a bit. When I poured the entirety of Frankie’s remains in one spot and then hosed him into the ground, the poor gangster had become my unwilling permanent housemate—at least until I could figure out how to set him free.
Only two people knew I had a ghost for a houseguest: my sister, Melody, and my sweet, strong almost-boyfriend, Ellis. I planned to keep it that way.
I transferred a cookie shaped like a bundle of dynamite that could have almost passed for a nice grouping of holiday candles, except for the “TnT” Frankie had made me etch into the side.
Frankie had opened up a whole new ghostly world to me, and let’s just say things had gotten a little crazy after that.
I left the tray on the stove to cool and brushed off the well-worn green and white checked gingham apron that had belonged to my grandmother. I tried not to sigh. I missed having a house full of people for the holidays. Of course, Melody had stopped by just this morning, and my mom was coming in town next week.
I began sudsing up the sink and placing my mixing bowls into the warm, soapy water.
If I were honest with myself, I missed Ellis. We’d become close enough that I felt his absence when we couldn’t spend time together. He’d been booked solid with family events, and it’s not like I could have joined him. Not after I’d broken my engagement to his brother and barely defended my livelihood and home from his vengeful mother.
He’d come by when he could.
And as if I’d summoned him out of thin air, I heard a knock at the door. It couldn’t be. I dried my hands on my apron. Melody liked to knock and immediately walk inside. My friend Lauralee, too. I had an open-door policy at the cozy antebellum home I’d inherited from my grandmother. But when no one sauntered in, it made my heart skip a beat.
“Ellis?” I called, making sure I’d turned the oven off. And that my messy ponytail wasn’t completely covered in flour. Oh, who cared if it was?
I hurried down the hallway to the foyer and dragged open my heavy front door.
“Matthew,” I said, surprised.
The ghost of Major Matthew Jackson of the Union Army stood on my front porch, with his hands clasped in front of him, appearing almost shy. His image wavered and came into sharper focus. I could see the crisp lines of his uniform jacket, along with his high forehead and prominent cheekbones.
I’d met Matthew on my last adventure. Most of the time, I could only see ghosts when Frankie showed me the other side. But Matthew was one of the most powerful spirits I’d ever met, and he could appear to me on his own. He was also one of the more shy ones.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
Major Jackson didn’t get out much and I couldn’t imagine what would bring him to my home.
He dipped his chin and glided straight through the glass storm door I’d neglected to open, his mind clearly elsewhere. I stepped back as he entered the foyer.
He stopped when he’d made it barely a few feet inside. “My sincerest apologies for intruding on your afternoon.” He gave a formal bow, appearing somewhat awkward in his social skills, but clearly trying his best.
“It’s quite all right,” I assured him, gesturing him further inside as I closed the door. “My friends are always welcome. What can I do for you?” I didn’t know the formalities involved in a late-nineteenth-century house call, and it’s not like I could offer him a sherry, so we might as well cut to the chase. Still, I couldn’t quite help myself from asking, “Would you like to sit in the back parlor?” just as my mother would have, and my grandmother before her.
Perhaps it was genetic.
He nodded and seemed more at ease with my formal response. I l
ed him through my empty front room to the once-elegant sitting area in the back. The pink-papered walls and polished wood accents appeared so strange without the heirloom rugs and furniture the room had once held. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much left besides a second-hand chessboard, a lopsided futon, and a purple couch I’d brought home after solving a ghost-related issue for a local merchant.
Matthew opted for a place on the couch while I tried to sit elegantly on the edge of the futon.
“I’ve come to ask a favor,” he began earnestly.
Oh my. I crossed my legs at the ankles and sincerely hoped his favor didn’t involve me opening myself to the spirit world. Yes, I’d been able to do a lot of good in the few times I’d ventured forth, but it had been scary and dangerous. Besides, I was a graphic designer, not a ghost whisperer.
As much as it pained me, I had to learn to start saying no.
Matthew cleared his throat. “I would like to locate a Christmas gift for Josephine.”
“How sweet of you.” I felt my shoulders relax. That didn’t sound frightening or dangerous, and I was glad to see a relationship developing between the two ghosts. They’d reconnected during my last adventure. He’d been hurt and so very alone. She’d been shy and had suffered terrible luck with men—until that fateful night in the haunted woods. It had been rather romantic. “I’m sure Josephine would love anything you decide to give her, as long as it’s from the heart.”
Josephine cared about him for who he was, which was a rarity in Matthew’s life. His own family had disowned him for joining the Union Army, and the local ghosts hadn’t made him feel welcome in the afterlife for the same reason.
He glanced away before his gaze found mine. “She means everything to me,” he said, with an urgency most women only dreamed about. “That’s why I want to give her my mother’s opal necklace. Before the war—” he cleared his throat”—my mother said I could have the necklace when I found the girl I wish to marry.”
“Oh, Matthew.” I drew a hand to my chest. “You’re going to propose?”
“At Christmas,” he said simply.
I felt myself go a little teary eyed for them, for that perfect connection where you just knew. How wonderful for Josephine. She’d waited a hundred and fifty years to be loved like that.
“I just need you to get me the necklace,” Matthew said.
I blinked back my tears. “What?”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s at my family estate, now occupied by the seventh generation of Jacksons.”
Oh, I was familiar with the Jackson compound on the edge of the county, with its twenty sprawling acres and huge main house, occupied by his real, live descendants, none of whom would be pleased if I showed up and explained that the spirit of their great-great-great-uncle needed a family heirloom, a jeweled necklace for that matter, and I’d just be taking it…
“Why don’t you go get it?” I suggested perkily. Most spirits couldn’t interact with the living world, but Matthew’s unusual strength made him an exception.
Like he hadn’t thought of that.
Matthew’s gaze dropped. “I can’t,” he said simply. “My mother told me I could never go home. Not after I signed my enlistment papers.”
I wished I could hug him. “Oh, sweetie,” I began. “Are you sure that’s not all in your mind?” It had to be. I knew it was. But if he hadn’t been able to get over it for more than one hundred and fifty years, I didn’t see how I could make it happen tonight in my parlor.
He stood abruptly. “I’m not part of the family anymore.” His shoulders heaved. “She said so.” He took two paces away from me, as if he couldn’t even face me as he added, “She’d never let me in the front door and I don’t think I could handle even trying.”
“I understand,” I said, coming to my feet. I wanted to help. I did. But, “I don’t know what I can do.”
“We could steal it,” Frankie said from above my left shoulder. I jumped as the ghost shimmered into view next to me. Sometimes I think he did it for fun. “I can have us in and out of there in two minutes,” he reasoned. “Five if they try to foil us with a cannonball safe.”
“I can’t steal an antique necklace,” I balked.
“Don’t worry,” Frankie said, opening his hands, as if this were old hat. “I’ll teach you how.”
Learning how was not the issue. “You don’t even know why we’re doing this,” I pointed out.
“Fun?” the gangster guessed.
Matthew turned to face us, clearly vexed by Frankie’s questionable morals.
He’d better get used to it.
“There’s no need for stealing,” the late soldier insisted. “The necklace is rightfully mine. And it’s on the ghostly plane, so none of my living relatives would even know.”
That meant someone had died with it. “Does your mother have it?” I asked, taking a wild guess.
Matthew gave a slow, sad nod.
Frankie crossed his arms over his chest, frowning. “That’s a lot less fun,” he said, eyeing the other ghost, as if he’d let Frankie down. “I see where this is going.”
So did I. Matthew wanted me to borrow Frankie’s powers to see the other side, something I’d promised I wouldn’t do again.
It wasn’t only that I put myself in danger every time I opened myself to the ghostly plane, but I had to use Frankie’s spirit energy to do it. The unnatural energy flow temporarily weakened him to the point of making parts of him disappear. Plus I used the opportunity to do nice things for other people.
Let’s just say Frankie wasn’t a fan.
“I don’t believe my mother is a vengeful ghost,” Matthew assured me. “Although I haven’t spoken to her since I left to enlist. Even though she’s angry with me, I don’t think she’d go back on her word,” he added hopefully.
Frankie eyed him up and down. “Anything else in her stash? Something to make it worth our while?”
“Frankie!” I protested. “We don’t blackmail our guests.”
“Technically,” he said, holding up a finger, “it’s extortion.”
Hmm. “What if Matthew lends me his powers?” I asked. Then Frankie would be off the hook.
My guest drew back. “Oh, I most definitely could not,” he said, as if I’d shocked him. “Josephine would be so very jealous.”
Frankie huffed. “So this guy gets to have both a girlfriend and his powers.”
He needed our help. I turned to Matthew. “How can we be sure your mother is still in her home?” She might have concluded her earthly business and gone to the light. And if that happened, she would have taken everything she’d died wearing with her, including the necklace.
Matthew strode to the old marble fireplace and rested a hand on the mantel next to Frankie’s urn. “I still go home every Sunday. I watch my family from the yard. My mother still lives in that house.”
Today was Sunday. “Did you check today?” Frankie pressed. He and I both knew ghosts weren’t great at marking time.
Matthew turned to us. “I saw her through the window right before I came to you. She was upset. There were loud people pulling up in cars and vans. A party supply truck ran straight through me.”
“That’s right,” I murmured. This was the last Sunday before Christmas. The Jackson family had been hosting their annual Christmas party on that same day every year for seven generations. “It’s the day of the big party.”
“It is.” He lowered his eyes. “She was so busy with everyone else she didn’t see me. She never sees me.”
“I’ll talk to her,” I said quickly, and over Frankie’s most inappropriate cursing. “Maybe I can get her to speak with you.”
“No,” Matthew said, clenching his hands at his sides, “I did the right thing. I’m not going to pretend otherwise or beg for her forgiveness. But I won’t let her go back on her word about the necklace, either. Ask her for that. Please,” he added, softening. “I have a new life now. That’s all I want.”
�
�Okay,” I assured him. “I’ll slip in tonight, during the party.” Lord knew how, but I would.
“You think about asking me?” Frankie frowned.
“Yes, I did.” I planted a hand on my hip. “Frankie, would you like to go to a legendary holiday party?” I could take him out of my house if I had his urn with me.
The gangster frowned. “It’ll probably be full of stuffy society types.”
“And ghostly ladies,” I added cheerily. “I hear they love gangsters.”
“I would be hard for them to resist,” he agreed grudgingly.
“Then it’s settled,” I told him. We’d figure out a way into the Jackson’s holiday party. We’d speak with the spirit of Matthew’s mother.
I’d get the necklace for him and more. Somehow, I’d find a way to give the soldier an even better Christmas than he could imagine.
Chapter 2
It turned out our way onto the Jackson property was through my best friend, Lauralee.
She shot me a grin as we rattled through the tall front gates in her husband’s beater truck. “I always said you’d be a great server given the right opportunity.” The cranked-up heater tousled her wild auburn hair. “I’m so glad you decided to try it again.”
I drew my bag closer to me, the one with Frankie’s urn inside. “I promise I won’t be too friendly,” I told her, only half kidding. She knew full well how I’d been fired from the steakhouse in college for talking to the customers too much.
“I just can’t believe I got this job,” Lauralee gushed. “The Jacksons have always used the big catering service from their country club for the annual holiday party. Lucky for me, the club backed out at the last minute.” She appeared positively giddy at the idea of proving herself. “I’m so relieved you were available to help.”
Me too. “I’ll do good,” I told her. “I promise.”
I couldn’t let Lauralee down. This job meant too much to her. Plus, she didn’t know a thing about my ghost-hunting abilities. It wasn’t the sort of thing I could easily explain—or count on her to believe. Besides, I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do it again. Except for tonight.
