by Angie Fox
“No,” he said, lowering a finger at me, “but I’m willing to forget about it this time.”
“Thanks, Mick,” I said, meaning it sincerely.
“Right back at you,” he said, pausing near the tree where he and Ida had carved their initials so many years ago.
“Can you really kill ghosts permanently?” I asked.
He started walking again. “As far as they know.”
Before I could ask more, we reached the edge of the orchard and his men began filing around us, some smoking, a few talking among themselves as they situated themselves in their cars. Others packed away some of the bigger guns in their trunks.
A grizzled mobster with a scar cutting down his chin opened the door to Mick’s shiny black Packard.
“If I see Ida, I’ll tell her about you,” I promised as he grabbed the frame, ready to slide into the backseat.
He paused. “Don’t.”
“Just about the orchard, then,” I promised, “and that you still think about her.”
He nodded, easing all the way in. “When I’m ready, I’ll come back.”
Scarface slammed the door for his boss and directed a snarly look my way. I’m ashamed to say it wiped the smile right off my face.
His men drove out of my yard in a single line with Mick’s Packard at the rear. I waved to the gangster as he headed down the long driveway toward the main road.
And while I questioned Ida’s taste in boyfriends, I supposed it could be hard to resist the boy next door and the romance of the family peach orchard in the moonlight.
I sighed and looked out over my sprawling front yard. “At least Frankie can come home now.” I could be at home again.
Henrietta’s head materialized next to me. “Who’s Frankie?”
I shook my head. “You’ll see.”
Chapter 18
We returned to the society house and found Ellis standing out on the porch, his elbows planted on the rail.
“Needed a break?” I called to him, gathering a pink blanket from the back of the extended cab.
After Mick left my place, I’d gone inside to check on Lucy and to grab both my blankets. But then I’d found Lucy curled up in the fluffy red one. I didn’t have the heart to leave her without, and the thinner pink fleece would be plenty big for Ellis and me, as long as we snuggled close.
“I was on the floor going through the last of the files and I swear I felt somebody touch my hair,” he said, giving a slight shiver.
Poor guy. Ellis wasn’t as comfortable with my line of work as I was. But he stuck it out for me.
“It had to be one of the widows,” I told him, ascending the stairs, although I was surprised Mother Mary hadn’t put a stop to that. “You are pretty hot.”
He grinned despite himself and cringed a little too. “I’m pretty sure somebody touched my bicep, too.”
He did have nice arms.
“We’ll make those lonely women behave,” I said, planting a kiss on his cheek. They could look, but they couldn’t touch.
“I made it through every last stinking file,” he said, drawing me back for a proper kiss. He leaned his forehead against mine. “I didn’t find the envelope Vincent was after or any proof that those candlesticks or any doorknobs are missing.”
Shoot. “What about a necklace?”
He took the pink blanket from me. “I’m afraid not.” He tucked it under his arm. “I did find several layers of fine ash in the fireplace. Paper burns that way. If that was paper, it was quite a stack. I’m going to have the lab look at it.”
My stomach sank. “An entire drawer of paperwork is missing from Julia’s desk.”
“I know,” Ellis said cryptically.
“And still we have no proof.”
He shook his head. “Sorry, babe.”
“According to your mother, that’s how Vincent got off the last time.” And the time before that. Lots of suspicions, but no real evidence he’d done anything wrong.
Ellis tilted his head as he opened the door for me.
“What?” I asked, entering the house.
“Nothing. I just never thought I’d hear you quote my mother.”
“She can be right from time to time,” I admitted. “Just not about me.”
He stashed the blanket on the couch nearest the door. “I think you’ve surprised her so far,” he said. The phone in his back pocket chimed and he drew it out. “It’s the station,” he said, heading out toward the porch. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to take this in my truck.”
“Be my guest.” I already knew everything the police did. “I have to find Frankie.”
“Right,” Ellis said. He pulled the phone away from his ear. “How’s he doing with all this?”
“Better than he should be,” I said, following Ellis outside. Frankie should have been sapped of his power by now. I’d been borrowing energy all day and well into the night. But according to Henrietta, he’d had energy to do all kinds of things to poor Molly.
“You hear that? I’m going after my friend,” I said to thin air, hoping Henrietta would hear. I wasn’t sure where she’d gone.
As I rounded the corner of the house, I realized she might have been right about Frankie. Someone was holed up in his hideout. Shimmers of gray ghostly light shone through the cracks in the wood, lighting it up from the inside.
“Frankie.” I knocked twice, and when he didn’t answer, I opened the door.
Nothing could have prepared me for the sight.
I’d expected the cramped building to appear as I’d seen it last—dusty and bare. Only it had changed to suit the vision of the dominant ghost in the space—Frankie.
And he’d turned it into a bachelor pad.
Sleek mahogany walls, inlaid with soft sconces, stood in place of the rough wood. The room was easily five times the size it should be. A chandelier hung from the ceiling. Luxurious carpeting stretched over the floor. It reminded me of a grand stateroom or a posh suite at the Ritz.
Frankie sat in a low club chair with his back to me, minus his suit coat, his white dress shirt rolled to his elbows, exposing strong forearms. He gripped a drawing pad in one hand and sketched in charcoal with the other.
Across from him, like a scene from Titanic, Molly lay stretched out on a silk couch, posing seductively. She held a single red rose to the bare skin above her breasts.
I let out a small choked cry. “Frankie!”
He spun around. “Don’t you knock?”
“I did!”
Molly shrieked and disappeared.
“Wait!” Frankie called. He tossed his pad and charcoal onto the chair and stuck his head through the wall. “Molly!” He muttered a curse and yanked his head back. “You scared her away.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, still trying to wrap my mind around the lit candles on the side table, the bottle of champagne chilling in the corner, rose petals on the floor. “You said you wouldn’t seduce her.”
“I didn’t,” he insisted. “She seduced me.”
“I don’t believe it for a second.” He’d lied to her. He was taking advantage of her. “And just so you know, while you were playing Romeo, I saved your butt from Mick ‘The Angel Maker.’”
“You what?” His eyes widened as he walked straight for me. “You got rid of Mick?”
“He’s heading back to Chicago right now, thanks to me. You’re scot-free as long as you don’t tick him off again.”
“I don’t even know why he showed up in the first place,” he said, almost to himself.
I’d tell him later. “The point is you can go home, Frankie. You don’t need to be here anymore.”
He stiffened at that. “Yeah, well, maybe I like it here.”
Wrong answer. “I don’t even know where you got all this stuff,” I said, afraid to touch any of it. Every fricking thing in here resided on the ghostly plane. “Did you steal it?”
“Good idea, but no. You gave me a blank slate,” he said. “I improvised. I envisioned. This is how t
he dominant ghost sees it. Me,” he said, spreading his arms. “This is the first real place that’s all mine.”
“Well, the party’s over. I need you, Frankie. While you’ve been dillydallying, I’ve been up to my neck in murder.” If I had to live in the real world, so did he. “There’s a guy going around killing his wives. Julia was number three. She hid an envelope from him, one that belonged to him that he’s very eager to get back. Only we can’t find it. I can’t even find her death spot. Now get this. I think her death is somehow connected to these petty thefts, but I can’t even prove those are happening. We’ve got circumstantial evidence piling up right and left, but no proof. No solid evidence of anything. This guy is too smart.”
Frankie strolled over to the side table and grabbed a fluted glass. “What do you want me to do about it?” he asked, gulping the remaining champagne in two swallows.
Wasn’t it obvious? “I want you to work with me. I want to know I can count on you.”
He swiped a hand over his mouth. “You can’t,” he said, as if I were crazy to ask. “You got my power.” He pointed the empty glass at me. “That’s where the deal ends.”
Him and his loopholes and his lies and his slippery promises. “So everything is a deal with you. Nothing is personal.”
“Why does this shock you?” he snapped. “Tell me when I’ve pretended I was anything else.”
“What? Like a decent person?” I’d had enough of this. Of him. “I saved your afterlife tonight and almost got shot in the process. That’s friendship. That’s caring.”
He smashed the glass on the floor. “I didn’t ask you to do that and I didn’t ask you to care.”
“Well then, my mistake.” I turned and walked out the door. “Excuse me for treating you better. I thought you might be turning into a decent guy.”
“No. You want me to turn into somebody like you,” he said, charging outside after me, blocking my path.
“Heaven forbid.” I threw my hands out. “You just gotta get the last word in.”
“Yeah,” he snapped. “I do. Listen, sweetheart, and listen to me good. I lie. I cheat. I steal. And I’m sure as hell not going to change for you.” He got in my face. “I’m Frankie the German and you’d better remember it.”
A woman gasped and we both turned to see Molly, fully clothed now, standing by the house. She took a step back in shock, then another.
“Babe—” Frankie began.
She turned and fled into the house.
“Argh!” He threw his hands up, turning to me. “Look what you did!”
“Oh, I did this,” I bit back. “I lied to the girl about who you are. I told her you were a lawyer. I made you run all over with flowers and champagne and rose petals.”
“It got out of hand, okay?” He gritted his teeth. “Her. Me. All of it. My head gets all screwed up around her. I turn into an idiot.”
“I’m not going to disagree with that,” I mused.
“She makes me feel so…good.” He snorted, staring at the wall she’d fled through as the fight drained out of him. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You did enough,” I told him. “I mean a lawyer, Frank? Of all things—a lawyer?”
“It’s respectable,” he said defensively, missing my point entirely. He blinked a couple of times. “What should I do?” He gestured helplessly. “I mean, yeah, I should be running after her. But I don’t even know what to say.”
“Hi, my name is Frankie and I stole Al Capone’s favorite armored truck on a dare,” I said simply. “Seriously, Frankie, you’re going to have to tell her you lied.”
“No,” he said, digging a thumb through his belt loop. “I’d like to avoid that.”
I ran a hand over my eyes. “Relationships are built on honesty, Frank.”
“Don’t call me Frank,” he said absently, his gaze trained on the house as if he could will poor Molly to come back out, all giggles and smiles.
I sighed. “You’re going to have to come clean. Molly might not realize who Frankie the German is.” I glanced up at the second floor. “But Henrietta knows. She heard all about you from Mick ‘The Angel Maker,’ and as soon as those girls talk, they’re going to put it together.”
He swore under his breath. “Girls like to talk. They could be talking right now.”
“They could.” There was no use sugarcoating it.
He ran both hands through his hair. “I was going to tell her the truth,” he said, pacing. “I just didn’t know how.”
“Maybe it won’t matter to her,” I suggested.
“It will. She wouldn’t have dated a gangster,” he said, his hair sticking up at odd angles, “not a nice girl like that. I figured once she got to know me, it wouldn’t matter.”
“Frankie, you don’t have a choice anymore.”
“It’s too soon. I gotta think of something. I gotta throw her off my trail. Maybe I can kidnap Henrietta.” He held onto his head, as if he could pry the answer out with his bare hands. “This girl is the only good thing I’ve got.” He said it so plainly, so sad, that I would have reached out and hugged the jerk if I could.
“Tell her that,” I said gently. “Tell her the truth.”
He shook his head, rueful. “I ain’t good at this stuff.”
That didn’t matter now. “Time to grow a pair, Frank.”
His gaze flickered over me warily, as if expecting a blow. “You come with me.”
I couldn’t do this for him, but I could help him find her. “All right, buddy. Let’s go find your girl.”
* * *
We walked around to the front of the house and I saw Ellis in his truck, still on the phone. I waved at him as Frankie and I headed for the front door.
“We’ll start upstairs,” I told Frankie. That was where I’d seen the girls most often.
He fidgeted as we entered the foyer. “I’m not allowed upstairs. He gave a short huff. “The widows have strict rules. I ain’t gonna risk it with her mad at me.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “What if she goes running to her friend?”
He might be right. We didn’t want to set Henrietta off. Or worse, Mother Mary. If possible, we needed to get to Molly first. “I’ll bring Molly down for you,” I said, working up a strategy.
I ascended the stairs quickly and quietly.
I’d hoped that these ghosts would help us solve Julia’s murder, that they would tell me why they were upset enough to move the mannequins and what we could do to fix this place. But so far, I’d uncovered more questions than answers.
The house lay still. And when I reached the top of the landing, I realized I didn’t even know which room was Molly’s.
“Oh, Molly…” I called.
I tried the first door at the top, but saw no sign of her. I tried the second and found the same. I hoped Molly hadn’t fled, or disappeared for good.
She had seemed quite upset.
I glanced down to the foyer. Frankie watched from below, his hair mussed and his hands planted in his pockets. I held up a finger. We still had one more door, other than Mother Mary’s.
I grasped the crystal handle, feeling the chill of the ghostly one below it as it turned. But unlike the others, a simple push didn’t open the door. Ghostly cold radiated up my arm as I tried again and again. It was stuck.
Bracing myself, I put my shoulder and my strength and my weight into it and gave a mighty shove.
The door burst open and I stumbled inside.
A large man sat in a tub, with his pasty white back to me. He was going bald. When he turned around, I saw it was Braxton Bell Larimore, the second mayor of Sugarland. Oh my word. I’d never met a celebrity before.
And I really shouldn’t be staring at him right now. I froze.
He shot me a saucy grin. “If you’ve got more hot water, bring it on in, sugar.”
That was when I realized he wasn’t alone in the tub. Henrietta lounged with enticing abandon on the other side, her breasts covered in bubbles. A flat board stretched between the
m, with a game of chess—in progress—sitting on top.
She winked at me, then reached across the board to stroke the mayor’s arm. “Hold on a second, baby,” she said, stepping lithely out of the tub, stretching out her arm and drawing a silk wrapper from the ether. “She’s new.”
“That’s Mayor Larimore,” I hissed as she drew me out to the hall. “Why are you in a tub with Mayor Larimore?” I didn’t understand it. “He built the town square and the library. There’s a mannequin of him downstairs. And he’s in the tub with you.” Then I had an even more horrible thought. “What about Mrs. Larimore?”
Henrietta adjusted her wrap over her bosom. “Mrs. Larimore went into the light more than a century ago. He’s lonely.”
“So he comes to the widows and orphans home to play chess,” I said. “Naked,” I added, making no sense of it.
“Widows and orphans?” Henrietta laughed, shaking the damp ringlets that framed her face. “This is a whorehouse, sweetie. We’re working girls. We earn our keep.”
“That can’t be.” The town history books said differently. “According to everything I’ve heard, according to the library, the books, the museum downstairs, this house has always been the Home for Wayward Widows and Orphans.”
Henrietta snorted. “That was a euphemism back in the day. Pay a visit to the poor widows and orphans…”
Oh my. “So it was all a lie?”
“No,” she said with regret. “Most of us did lose our husbands in the war. And it’s not like there are widow’s pensions for the losing side. We did what we had to do.”
“I saw Father Flagherty’s letters.” He’d written people about the widows.
Henrietta rolled her eyes. “Oh, he never approved. He thought if he raised enough money from enough out-of-town folks who didn’t know, if we changed our ways, asked for forgiveness, that we could just go back to being respectable.” She barked out a laugh. “I shouldn’t complain. He did get us medicine and help in the lean times.”
“Oh my.” I felt horrible, for the women like Henrietta who had to support themselves, and for what I’d uncovered.
