by Angie Fox
“Where were you?” I demanded, shaking out my arms and legs, never more glad to see my own personal ghost. “Mother Mary spoke to me again. She touched my ear.”
“That’s great,” he said, not even listening to me. He posed with his shoulders back, chest out, taking a drag like he was in a cigarette commercial or something. “You should run back in and talk to her.” He waved me along with his cigarette hand. “I got a thing going.”
“A thing?” I asked, my mind still back on the ghostly pearl and Mother Mary’s warning. I glanced over my shoulder. “I think that old nun wants to kill me.”
The windows stood empty, and I saw no sign of any ghosts.
Thank goodness.
I fisted my hands, trying to gather a bit of calm. “See, there was this ghostly pearl. And a phone call, and—”
Frankie blew a smoke circle. “I don’t mean to be unsupportive,” he mused, looking past me, “but that has nothing to do with me. Now shoo. Go away. You’re cramping my style.”
“I’m in the middle of a ghost hunt.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “And why do you look so good?”
“I’m following your advice,” he said breezily. “I found a hobby.”
“It looks a lot like loitering,” I said, not quite sure what to make of him. “What are you really up to?” If it wasn’t too bad, perhaps he could keep at it.
“That’s my private business.” He leaned against my car like he was the lead in a 1930s gangster flick, or perhaps the villain.
Whatever he’d been doing, it was obviously rousing his spirit. My adventures in the house, combined with the state he’d been in when we started, should have drained his energy to the point where he’d have lost everything below his shoulders. Only he looked better than I’d ever seen him. He had his tie on completely straight, there wasn’t a wrinkle in his suit, and he had a daisy in his lapel. That was new. I raised an eyebrow.
“What?” he demanded. “You never see a guy with a daisy before?”
Not him.
“Listen,” I said, moving on, cringing at the ghostly smoke cloud forming around us. “Mother Mary called me again on the phone. She warned me about Julia’s murder before it happened. She just told me I’m next.”
But what had I done to make someone angry enough to kill me? I’d investigated the haunting in the museum and searched for Julia’s death spot, but I hadn’t found anything yet. Was I getting close?
“I get it,” he said, pulling his hat down lower over the bullet hole in his forehead. “When you get threatened, it’s important. When Mick is after me, you tell me to buck up and get over it.”
“It’s not like that at all,” I said, waving the smoke away. Frankly I’d had enough. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
“Back to the house where Mick is looking to kill me,” he said, refusing to budge.
Lord in heaven. Did he need me to pull out the sock puppets? “Frankie, you’re already dead!”
Smoke trailed from his nostrils. “I don’t see why you have to keep pointing that out.”
Because it was true. “Look, we can’t stay here. There could be a murderous ghost on the loose—” Cripes. Okay. Now I saw the irony.
Frankie raised a brow. “Speechless? I never thought I’d see the day.”
He was the most annoying ghost I’d ever met. “At least I’m doing this for good, to help people.”
He shrugged. “You help people find justice. I help people have a good time,” he said, as if they were one and the same.
I didn’t justify that with an answer. “What if Mother Mary was the one who killed Julia?” I asked, edging past him to open my car door.
It would be hard to relocate the body, but the ghost had moved mannequins, so I wouldn’t put it past her.
“There you go,” he drawled, “always blaming the ghosts.”
“You said one is trying to kill you,” I shot back, pushing the door through him. If he wasn’t going to move, I’d just have to climb in through the passenger side. “I hate to force you, Frank,” I said, rounding the car, “but I’m not staying.” I didn’t take kindly to being threatened, and it was especially unnerving coming from a ghost.
I got in on the passenger side and scooted across the velvet bench seat.
A spirit I’d investigated in the past had actually shown up at my house while I was in the tub. Luckily, that one hadn’t attacked me, but it seemed Mother Mary, or whoever was behind Julia’s death, wasn’t above killing the living.
I stopped cold as I was shimmying over the center console.
“Stuck?” Frankie asked.
“I can’t go home,” I told him. “Not right now at least.” I had to keep working on the mystery or I wouldn’t feel safe closing my eyes at night. Not if it meant opening them to Mother Mary hovering over my bed.
But I wasn’t going right back in after the nun’s threat. I wouldn’t be able to think straight or make the kind of good decisions that kept me and my friends out of danger. “Think.” I checked my watch. It was half past ten. I might not have the will to go back into the house, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t make progress.
“Julia’s husband will be able to tell me more about the days leading up to her death.” He might also be able to enlighten me on any strange goings-on in her personal life. “I’m going to drop by and see him,” I said, rolling down the driver’s side window. We were in the middle of Sunday church hours, which meant he’d probably be home. I couldn’t imagine him attending first or second services, not after Julia’s sudden death. He’d want privacy to mourn, and there wasn’t a lot of that at the First Baptist.
Of course I’d be breaking protocol by showing up at his estate during church hours, but I had to hope Julia’s husband would understand. I rested an elbow on the driver’s side window ledge. “With any luck, Mr. Youngblood will have some insight into the list his late wife made, or who might have wanted her dead.”
“Glad you have a plan,” Frankie said, straightening his shirtsleeves, as if he were the one who might be rumpled. He ripped his power from me so fast I didn’t even see it coming.
“Frankie!” I gripped the steering wheel as a static shock went through me.
“What?” he asked before my teeth had finished rattling. “You don’t need this to talk to the murdered lady’s husband. Besides, my pinkie toe is tingling,” he added, smoothing his tie. “If that goes, there’s no telling what’s next.”
I got myself situated and started up the car. “Don’t worry. I survived,” I assured him. “In case you were feeling guilty.”
He wasn’t.
“Hold up,” he said, leaning through the driver’s side window. “Leave my urn here.”
“For real?” It could get stolen, misplaced, run over. We could lose the last bit of ash inside and he’d be grounded at my place forever. Although I had taped the lid on pretty well. “Frankie, honestly, what are you up to?”
His cigarette trailed smoke into my car. At least I couldn’t smell it anymore. “I have what you call a social obligation.”
It wasn’t like he could host horse races here or open a gambling den. Not with the old nun around. He had nothing nefarious to do, unless…
I brought a hand to my mouth. “Please tell me you’re not running a con on a bunch of widows and orphans.”
“That’s a good idea, but no,” he said, “I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t think of that.” Although he stopped short of explaining what he did have cooked up. “My urn will be fine if you hide it good. It’s the least you can do after putting such a crimp in my afterlife.”
He’d struck me right in the guilt.
Still, he had a point. And it would be easier to talk to Julia’s widower without the peanut gallery. I reached outside and opened my car door, leaving the engine running lest it choke on itself and never start up again. “I’m trusting you to be good.”
“I like that about you,” he said, grinning.
He trailed behind me as I fetched his urn from
my bag and tried to determine where to stash it.
I wasn’t about to venture back inside the house right then. Besides, someone could lock Frankie in and me out. There was no way to get under the porch and I hated to leave him in the bushes.
Then I saw it—Frankie’s new safe house.
And I swore, no matter how I felt about my housemate at the moment, it was objectively the best choice. I skirted around the side of the main house, past a copse of trees and toward the leaning, weather-beaten structure just beyond. It stood removed from the main house, quiet, but still in good shape for as old as it was. It lay out of the reach of security lights, or any lighting for that matter. And it appeared completely forgotten by any and all socialites.
“Hey,” Frankie said as I pulled the door open, “that’s not a safe house. That’s an outhouse.”
“Close enough,” I said, taking in the warm, dry interior that smelled of old pinewood and dirt. It wasn’t unsanitary, a bit dusty perhaps, which made perfect sense. It hadn’t been used in a century at least. “No one will look for you here.”
I placed his urn in the back corner, past the hole in the wooden seat, and smiled at the abject horror on his face.
“You think this is funny?” he asked, standing several feet away, as if he couldn’t even bring himself to haunt the place.
“You got your way,” I said, closing the door securely behind me. I headed for my car. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.” Hopefully with some insight on what that list from Julia’s office meant, or even some idea as to who might have killed her. “Be good,” I added over my shoulder.
My car was still running, thank goodness. I slid into the driver’s seat and headed out.
Julia’s family had lived in one of the houses on the river bluff for as long as I could remember. I turned right out of the heritage society and caught the old river road that came up a mile or so before Southern Spirits.
It ran back through the woods, turning as it ascended the big hill toward the bluffs. Just before I got to the part of the road that skirted the edge of the cliffs overlooking the river, I pulled over as far away from the drop-off as I could and plugged in my hands-free headset.
My sister, Melody, answered on the first ring. “Verity! How’s it going so far?”
“Great,” I said, trying to muster a bit of enthusiasm, even though ghosts weren’t really on my fun list at the moment. “Have you found anything yet?”
“You won’t believe this, but the entire collection is missing.”
“What?” I asked, gripping the wheel.
“According to microfiche from twenty years ago, we had photos of the home and its original occupants, household logs, and the personal diary of Mother Mary Cooper. But it’s all gone. Stolen.”
“When?” I pressed.
“We don’t even know.” She sighed. “But no one has checked it out in at least twenty years.”
“So there’s nothing on Mother Mary, either?” I asked. “I just had a run-in with her at the old widows and orphans home. I need to know what her deal is.”
“I have a request out to the Jackson County Library, as well as the state archive in Nashville,” she said as I slowly pulled out onto the road again, being extra careful. It wasn’t nearly wide enough for my taste, and it paid to be cautious. “I do know the heritage society did a book a few years ago on the house before and after they took over. Mother Mary is supposed to be this strict old nun. We do have that book.”
“If it has any pictures, I’d like to see them,” I said. “So far, she’s not showing herself, and her communication style involves closing me in spaces I’d rather escape.”
“Maybe you should skip this job,” Melody suggested.
“I can’t ignore a ghost who called me on my cell phone.”
“Do you think she can hear you right now?” Melody asked.
Heavens to Betsy. “Not until you said that.” I rounded a bend that took me back into the woods.
“Electronics can amplify ghostly energies,” she said. “I read that in an article. I’ll pull that for you as well.”
“Thanks. Gotta go. I’m stopping in on Julia’s husband,” I said, nearing the old Victorian that Julia’s great-grandfather had built.
If it was possible for a Victorian to appear masculine, this one did. It had been painted in rich shades of gray and deep blue, with stunning white trim and double bay windows on both the first and second floors.
The house boasted a wide back lawn overlooking the river. Several black wicker rocking chairs lined the wide porch in the back, and as I drove around front, I saw a matching pair on the other side of the wraparound porch.
The front columns stood three times the size of the ones at my house. Behind them tall windows arched up toward the kind of gingerbread trim that would make the editors at Southern Living swoon.
“Be careful,” Melody cautioned. “He might not be so happy when you start asking questions.”
“I’ll be subtle,” I said, parking out front.
“You?” she asked, but I let that slide as we said our goodbyes. Even though I’d never been formally introduced to Julia’s husband, I was familiar enough with my challenges, and his.
Vincent Youngblood IV had a reputation in town. Not like mine. No, he was respectable, the perfect gentleman. His name had not been blackened by a loud, splashy scandal or hung out to dry. He was a perfect citizen in every way.
Still, it wouldn’t escape anyone that Julia was his third dead wife.
Chapter 12
After ending the call with Melody, I stood for a moment on the half-circle drive in front of Julia’s ancestral home. What a shame this beautiful estate would no longer be passed down to the next generation of Harpers. I hoped her widower would do his best to honor her legacy.
Huge trees dotted the yard, their lush canopies swaying in the summer breeze. The forest grew thick at the edges of the property where I searched for the path into the woods.
Then I saw it, a well-worn passage near a white birdhouse on a stand.
That must be the shortcut Julia had used to make her way down to the heritage society.
I couldn’t see the rest of the path from here, or the cemetery down below. I could only make out the roof of the widows and orphans house, with its thick chimney rising up against the clear summer sky.
Well, no sense dawdling, even if I felt uneasy meeting the man Julia had married last summer, about the same time I’d planned to marry Ellis’s brother.
I forced a smile and made my way to the cheery oak door. It had a long window built into it, veiled with antique lace curtains. For all I knew, Vincent Youngblood IV was a lovely person. I’d never had the occasion to speak to him, and I certainly shouldn’t judge him based on a few whispers in town. I knew all too well how it felt to be on the other end of that.
All the same, I felt a twinge of guilt as I knocked, and not just because we were smack dab in the middle of church hours. No. It was worse than that. I stood on Vincent Youngblood’s front stoop, fully aware that I was breaking the first rule of Sugarland mourning etiquette: always bring a covered dish.
Truth be told, I felt a bit naked without so much as a basket of fried chicken or a tomato pie, not even an artfully molded Jell-O dessert with fruit and whipped cream inside. My mother had raised me better.
It would be even worse to tell the new widower my suspicions about his poor wife’s death. The police still believed it was an accident. I had no proof to contradict that, none I could show him at least. Was I being honest or cruel?
He’d already lost so much.
Still, if Vincent could help me understand the list I’d found in Julia’s desk this morning, if I could somehow gauge who might have wanted to hurt her, perhaps I could find the evidence I needed to help him and his late wife.
He answered on the second knock. “Hello,” he said, easing open the door, his expression welcoming and his tone suitably grave.
Vincent was a handsome, athletic man. His
wavy black hair had grayed stylishly at the temples and he’d dressed for company in a powder blue oxford shirt tucked into belted charcoal dress slacks. No doubt he’d been receiving plenty of visitors before the first service. Even if every man, woman, and beast in Sugarland judged you, the ladies still brought you casseroles.
I was living proof of that.
“Hi. I’m Verity Long, from the Sugarland Heritage Society,” I said, the last part feeling strange as it came out of my mouth. “I’m sorry I don’t have a casserole. I was just down the hill, and, well, I wasn’t planning on stopping by. I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“Your condolences are enough,” he said, gesturing me inside, his spicy aftershave tickling my nose. “There’s only so much shrimp and grits casserole a man can eat.”
An intricate model sailboat stood on a pedestal by the door and another graced the wall opposite.
He caught me noticing them. “Do you sail?” he asked, closing the door.
“I barely canoe,” I admitted.
We probably shouldn’t be talking about boats anyway. Rule number two of Sugarland mourning etiquette: don’t bring up unsuitable topics. His first wife had died while sailing. His second wife had drowned on a girls’ vacation. Now he’d lost Julia, and while boats hadn’t been involved this time, I didn’t want to bring up any painful memories.
“I hope you’re hungry,” he said, leading me into a gorgeous sitting room with thick woven rugs over gleaming hardwood.
A pimento cheese dip with Ritz crackers, nestled in Tupperware, sat on the coffee table, along with a platter of fried dill pickles, a tray with cream cheese and pepper jelly spread, a basket of fried chicken, and a plate of deviled eggs.
“I’m glad to see you’ve had so many callers,” I said, taking a seat on the tan leather couch.
“I’m touched so many people care.” He took the chair opposite. “Please help yourself,” he said, gesturing to the food in front of me. “The eggs are from Susie Baker.”
She made the best deviled eggs in town and she never shared her recipe. It had come from her mother and her mother’s mother before her. I even recognized the plate—white with blue flowers. Suzie got it as a wedding gift and it had her name in Sharpie on the underside so she’d always get it back.
