A Dead Pig in the Sunshine

by Penny Burwell Ewing

  I motioned my head in Bradford’s direction. “See anything usual about him?”

  Scarlett moved closer to Bradford, circling him like a vulture around roadkill. “Other than the spirit attached to his aura, no, nothing.” She smacked his buttocks with the palm of her hand. “Yummy.”

  “You’re not here for that, Scarlett. Concentrate on the problem.”

  Scarlett cocked her head. “Your problem is female.”

  “Is that all?” Bradford frowned. “What about a name?”

  Scarlett wagged her head but continued her close perusal of his aura. “No, nothing comes to mind.” She poked her fingers into Bradford’s aura. The rainbow figure pulsed a bright red, moving out of her reach.

  “I don’t think she likes that,” I commented as the figure darted away from Scarlett’s probing fingers, all the while glowing bright red. Bradford shifted his weight as the figure continued to swing about wildly.

  “Interesting.” Scarlett pulled her fingers from Bradford’s aura, and then retreated over to the reception desk. “I think I might need some advice. Be right back.”

  The resulting flash came unexpectedly, and both of us stumbled back in surprise.

  “Are you sure this is the right course of action, Jolene?” A doubtful expression marred Bradford’s face. “I get the distinct impression that Vanessa doesn’t like Scarlett.”

  I returned his frown. “Do you have a better suggestion?”

  “Perhaps we should call on Madame Mia after all.”

  “Consult a fraud?” I asked sarcastically.

  “I spoke too soon.”

  “Too late. Scarlett will be right back with help.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” His frown deepened. “I don’t believe I can take another one of her probing sessions. She keeps pinching my ass, and she even copped a quick feel. God, I feel sexually abused with all that finger probing. Let’s sneak out the back door. Besides, I’m hungry.”

  “Think again, Bradford. It’s not wise to piss her off. And it won’t hurt you to give her a thrill.” I fished out my cell phone. “How about Chinese? The Peking Palace delivers.”

  Bradford gave an unenthusiastic nod, and I hit the speed dial button and ordered a double portion of my usual selections. With that done, we moved into the kitchen to wait for our food delivery and Scarlett’s anticipated return.

  Chapter Six

  Snow White’s Capture

  As before, Scarlett’s arrival notice sounded, followed by a blinding flash. Thankfully, I had the foresight to cover my eyes. Bradford wasn’t as fortunate. He was still rubbing his when Scarlett materialized in front of us.

  “Found it.” She held up a battered handbook and clipboard. “First, I consulted the list of new arrivals and noticed one failed to report.” She pointed at Bradford’s aura. “That could be her hitching a ride with handsome.” Next, she flipped through the handbook. “Here. The chapter on extracting DEARS.”

  “Deers?” Okay, so I was curious.

  “Yeah. Departed Energy and Reflective Soul.” She spelled each letter out. “D-E-A-R-S.”

  I withheld comment. However, Bradford spoke up. “Do you have a name for that dears?”

  Scarlett consulted the clipboard. “Hmm, that’s odd. The name has been crossed out and replaced with the initials, C.H.”

  “And the crossed out name?” Bradford wanted to know.

  “Vanessa van Allen.”

  Bradford stood with his hands jammed in his pockets, his face thoughtful.

  “C.H. could be a nickname,” I offered, hoping to spark recognition in his eyes, or something to speed things along. “What about an alias? Or pen name?”

  Bradford remained silent, locked in concentration.

  Scarlett rechecked the clipboard information. “I’ve never heard of Heaven making a mistake, but this could be a first. If so, someone’s going down. Heaven’s administration is fantastically thorough with the paperwork. They don’t tolerate typos. Even in Purgatory.”

  “Vanessa didn’t use a pen name,” Bradford spoke up. “She wanted everyone to know who and what she was. But it is a lead that I can follow up on. Thanks, Scarlett. I appreciate the help.”

  She positively glowed with the compliment. “Oh, I’m just getting started, detective. I’m going to extract Miss Mysterious like a bad tooth and return her to Purgatory where she’ll answer for her crimes. Stand back, Jolene, this can get real messy according to the manual.”

  Messy? That stopped me short. After eating, Bradford and I had returned to the reception area to await Scarlett’s return. “Let’s move into Deena’s office. Everybody and his uncle can see us through this plate glass, and I don’t need more rumors started about the salon being haunted. You use this place like a second home.”

  Scarlett giggled at my last remark, but trailed behind us as Bradford and I moved into Deena’s office. I shut the door and closed the blinds for extra privacy.

  With that done, I settled on the sofa on the opposite side of the room away from Bradford, who stood between Deena’s desk and the door. Scarlett hovered close over Bradford’s head, poking and prodding his aura. The rainbow figure reacted negatively with each poke, which in turn elicited a jerk or sidestep from him. From my point-of-view, it was comical, but I kept my feelings to myself—seeing how Bradford wouldn’t appreciate my sense of humor at the moment.

  Scarlett was up to her elbows in Bradford’s aura when I remembered the weird riddle of the twins.

  “I’ve got it!” I bolted to my feet and rushed over to them. “Twins! Remember, Halloween night, Scarlett? You know, the message from the netherworld. C.H. could be Vanessa’s twin. There was a mix-up. The death angel pegged the wrong woman. That would explain the crossed-out name.” I smiled at my awesome powers of deduction.

  Scarlett paused with a hard look. “What are you babbling about? I’m trying to persuade Miss Mysterious to join us, and you go and interrupt my concentration.”

  “What’s this about a twin, Jolene?” Bradford’s tone indicated his displeasure. “Why didn’t you mention it earlier?” He stopped fidgeting when Scarlett withdrew from his aura to turn her full attention to me.

  My cheeks burned under their stern gazes. “I meant to, but it slipped my mind until now. So, what about it, Bradford? Did Vanessa or her mother ever mention a sister? Possibly a twin?”

  Scarlett whistled. “There’s mischief abroad in this house. Twins. One of the twins will lose. I remember the message. One of the twins will lose. That would explain things.”

  “Vanessa never mentioned a sister.” Bradford scratched his stubbly chin. “She’s an only child. Sorry to shoot down your observations, but we need to look elsewhere.”

  I thought about the odd conversation I’d heard in the study. “Not necessarily. Vanessa was planning to make a switch of some sort on Halloween night. I thought—”

  “That’s what you were up to in the study,” he interrupted. “For once, I’m glad you did. Now tell me everything. And I mean everything, no matter how insignificant you think it is.”

  Hastily, I spilled the beans. I told him about Vanessa’s emotional confrontation with her agent, Cash Hitchcock, of course, leaving out mine and Preston’s backyard sexcapade. Then the sickening scene on the stairs with a drunken Purvis Dupree, the mysterious phone call, Vanessa’s disappearance, Scarlett’s strange riddle from the Other Side, and the bad vibrations I’d perceived when Vanessa had finally reappeared after a lengthy absence.

  “So you see why all the puzzle pieces fit together,” I concluded. “Twins. Switch. C.H. I believe Vanessa switched places with her twin sister, and the death angel knocked off the wrong sibling. Makes perfect sense to me.”

  “But not to me.” Bradford’s tone was sarcastic. “And it doesn’t rid me of my problem.” He made a head motion over his left shoulder. The rainbow figure glowed bright red.

  “But I can if you two are done.” Scarlett lifted a haughty brow. “But first let me get comfortable.” She
shrugged out of her leather duster. Bradford’s eyes fastened on her magnificent store-bought boobs straining against the soft black T-shirt, nipples hard and standing at attention. No bra! A tinge of jealously coursed through me at his glazed look, and I glanced down at my slightly sagging bust line. Yep, time for a lift. To save costs, perhaps Preston would put together a bundle for me. Boobs, nose, and tummy tuck. Yeah. A midlife birthday present to myself.

  Thus rid of any encumbrances, Scarlett dived hands first into Bradford’s aura, fishing around like a cat-daddling in Whiskey Creek on a lazy Sunday afternoon after dinner and preachin’. After several unsuccessful attempts, frustration twisted her lovely face, and sweat broke out across her snarling upper lip.

  “Damn it to hell,” she screeched, emerging half her body into the now pulsating aura, causing Bradford to twist away from her. “Hold still, handsome.” She made one jerking grab at the furious red figure. “They don’t call me the Georgia Giant for nothing. Oh, and Jolene, you might want to step back. Things are coming to a head.”

  Usually I don’t take orders well, but Bradford’s aura had turned a swollen luminous neon blue and showed the signs of a supernova. For extra precaution, I ducked behind the sofa and covered my head with my hands as I’d been taught during tornado drills in elementary school.

  I called that one right. A loud sucking noise rose to a crescendo before exploding into an earsplitting pop, and then complete silence. When I peered over the back of the sofa, Bradford stood unmoving in what appeared to be shock, and covered in a fine dusting of white, glittering snow-like material. I couldn’t help it, but I giggled at the sight of the abominable snowman with brilliant blue eyes standing dumbstruck in the middle of Deena’s office.

  And then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Scarlett struggling with Snow White over by the bookcase. Incensed, Scarlett whipped out a pair of golden handcuffs and shackled the screeching ghost to the floor lamp. Both were unaffected by the exploding aura. Only Bradford and Deena’s office had suffered.

  “Okay, the scene is secure.” Scarlett glanced over at me and then Bradford. “Y’all can come question the DEARS before I hand her over to the authorities.”

  Bradford remained frozen in place, only his eyes reflecting the misery he must’ve been through. I took pity on him, crossed over to his side, and tried to brush the snowflakes from his face. The goo stuck to my fingers like cobwebs, and refused to shake off.

  He sneezed several times at my ministrations.

  “How do we get rid of this stuff?” I wiped my hands down the side of my silk pant legs, transferring the wet goo to my expensive trousers. Christ. Another dry cleaning bill. Nix the new orange heels down at Second Street Boutique. Damn the luck.

  Scarlett waved a dismissive hand. “It’ll dissipate on its own. Pay attention. You and Detective Delectable are wasting time. I need to get her back and move on to the next job.”

  As Bradford and I approached the ghostly figure shackled to the floor lamp, my cell phone twined, and I glanced down to see who was calling. Mama. Damn. What did she want at this hour?

  “I have to answer this,” I told a scowling Scarlett. “It won’t take long, I swear.”

  In hindsight, the phone call turned out to be a lifesaver. Mama and Daddy had decided to skip the writers’ retreat in favor of sun and fun in Florida, and would I be so kind as to keep an eye on the farm for a week or so? Deena was tied up with wedding plans and Billie Jo had the stomach flu, so I was the only sibling left. To speed things along, I agreed, not voicing that I wasn’t sure how to manage my growing workload. With Billie Jo out sick, and Deena knee-deep in wedding preparations, I was practically running the salon alone these days. My daughter, Becky, and son-in-law, Jacob, couldn’t help as they and my precious granddaughter, Hannah, were visiting Jacob’s relatives in Israel. Perhaps my nephew, Bo, could oversee the farm.

  With that settled, I hung up the phone and turned my attention to Snow White, who was making goo-goo eyes at Bradford, who in turn was scraping snowflakes from his face, swearing quietly at the insanity of the situation. Scarlett drifted close by, her hand resting comfortably on her sidearm.

  I sided up to Bradford. “This is your haunting, so I’ll stay on the sideline and jump in only if needed.”

  Bradford pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands. “I feel weird, but here goes.” Snow White literally glowed when he smiled at her and drew closer.

  “Tell me your name,” he ordered in an authoritative tone used for questioning criminals.

  “You know my name, Sam,” she cooed. “Why the pretense? I’ve always been Vanessa to you.”

  “Do you have a twin sister with the initials C.H.?”

  “What’s wrong with you, Sam?” She pulled at her restraints. “What’s this about? And why has that dreadful woman handcuffed me to this lamp? Where am I?”

  Bradford’s confused gaze locked with mine. “She doesn’t appear to understand what’s happened to her. Now what?” He shoved the wet handkerchief into his rear pocket.

  “Explain to her what’s happened,” I directed. “It’s common that most ghosts have holes in their memory immediately after their death.”

  “It’s true,” Scarlett added. “My mind was like Swiss cheese after my untimely demise. I don’t know what I would’ve done without Jolene.”

  At first Snow White refused to believe that she was now a citizen of inner space. Actually, she pitched a hissy fit and turned bright green. Recalling the last incident, I backed off for good measure and used the opportunity to scout the kitchen for Lizzie’s secret cookie stash. Ghostbusting makes me crave sweets.

  Snow White had settled down when I rejoined the group. Still shackled to the floor lamp, she seemed to accept her unusual circumstances as truth and had returned to a more normal shade of ghostly.

  “Is she still insisting she’s Vanessa van Allen?” I asked Bradford.

  “Yes.” He shook his head. “She remembers the book launch party on Halloween night, but after that, nothing.”

  “Did you question her about the mysterious call I overheard in the study?”

  “She insists she was talking with her editor, Clarissa Howard. They were discussing changes to the manuscript. That’s all she can recall.”

  I opened my mouth to point out the obvious, but Bradford held up a hand to silence me. “Yes, I’ve thought of that. C.H. Clarissa Howard. Scarlett’s checking on that now, but I think it’s a waste of time. This woman is a dead ringer for Vanessa, and I believe her.”

  I surveyed the room and noticed for the first time, Scarlett’s absence.

  “Don’t worry, Jolene. She’ll be right back,” Bradford assured me. “However, we do have a problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  Bradford pointed to a quiet Snow White. “She and Scarlett have a mutual dislike for one another.”

  “That’s because the diva element is eternal. Scarlett is the ultimate Dixie diva. Vanessa comes in a close second.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “Dueling diva ghosts.” I shook my head in dismay. “Our lives just became a whole lot more complicated. Why can’t Scarlett just return Snow White to Purgatory without all the fuss?”

  “Because I’m not going anywhere until my manuscript is in the right hands, and I’m staying until that’s accomplished,” Snow White piped up from the floor lamp, her voice resonating. Her golden brown eyes glittered with malice in the muted office light. “Count on it.”

  “See what I mean?” Bradford’s tone had a sharp edge.

  I nodded, “Yeah. What’s your plan?”

  “Haven’t got one.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “Care to enlighten me?”

  “As you know, Vanessa is scheduled to speak at the writers’ retreat. I know from Mama that most of same people from Halloween’s book launch will be in attendance. They’ve decided not to attend, so you and I are taking their place, thus allowing us to track down the woman
impersonating Vanessa.” Here I paused, fastening my full gaze on the shackled ghost. “Or find out the identity of Snow White. Either way, we must find the body and the crime scene before the killer can get away. No body, no crime.”

  Chapter Seven

  The Baconton Writers’ Retreat

  Most people entertain the notion that women from the South are countrified and enjoy Mother Nature’s bountiful hand. I can’t speak for my fellow belles, but in my case, nothing could be further from the truth. I detest the country. I’m a small-town girl who appreciates the sights and sounds within the city limits. No outdoorsy stuff for me. I don’t camp. I don’t hunt. I don’t fish. And I don’t eat anything unless it comes from the local grocery store with an identification sticker saying chicken or beef.

  I say this because the Baconton Writers’ Retreat squatted smack dab in the middle of nowhere. Way out in the country. Way out of my comfort zone. No drugstores, no convenience stores, no mall, no boutiques, no sign of civilization anywhere. Just dusty red roads and trees. Lots of trees. Actually, a dense forest located about twenty miles from town.

  Baconton Lodge sat back deep in that forest of pines and wild pecans as old as the state of Georgia itself—a rustic two-storied structure complete with a social hall, a lounge, a restaurant, and a several private rooms. Smaller cabins made of the same weathered logs were set in a circle around a picturesque lake connected by a winding path through delicate dogwoods and Cherokee roses. A perfect hideaway for an author who wanted complete privacy, or one who didn’t want to be found.

  And my perfect vision of hell.

  Bradford didn’t share my feelings. The instant we pulled off the narrow clay lane and parked his pickup under a towering loblolly pine, that looked to house a city of sparrows, he whistled. “Ah, the peace and quiet of the country. Man, this is the best-kept secret in South Georgia. I bet the quail hunting is off the charts. Too bad I won’t be here long enough to sample the pickings. Well, let’s go check in.”

  My heels sank into the soft ground the instant I climbed out of the truck cab, suitcase in hand.