“As I said earlier, Mrs. Goldenrod,” Bradford began in his nicest tone. “We were passing by when we heard a crash inside the cabin. The front door was unlocked, so I assumed the worse. We only meant to assist Miss van Allen. No harm intended.”
The head registrant raised her eyebrows. “Miss van Allen reported hearing noises inside her cabin. That’s why I called the sheriff,” she voiced. “Appears to me that you’re lying, Mr. Tucker.”
Bradford’s gaze impaled me. Let me handle this it seemed to say. Although I wanted to deck the woman, I clamped down on my response and remained subdued.
“Is it possible for me to speak with Miss van Allen?” Bradford continued in a calm tone. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to clear up this misunderstanding once she realizes that my wife and I were only looking out for her welfare. We are after all personal friends, right, honey?”
I smiled in acquiescence. “The best, my dear.” Gag.
Mrs. Goldenrod relaxed her stance. “I believe that would be the wise course, Sheriff. If Miss van Allen can vouch for these two, then I’ll drop the matter.”
Sheriff Snellgrove tipped his cowboy hat at her. “As you say, dear lady. I’m here to serve.”
Sandwiched between Mrs. Goldenrod and the country sheriff, we returned to the main lodge in search of Vanessa, who at last sighting, was sharing tea with another writer in the lounge.
Of course, she wasn’t there.
But surprisingly Cash Hitchcock was. He informed Mrs. Goldenrod and the sheriff that Vanessa had suddenly gone into town for an unnamed errand. I didn’t buy it for a minute. The weasel’s slimy smile indicated he had more information. Problem was we couldn’t question him without raising suspicion. That would come later. After we’d extracted ourselves from the sticky situation in which we found ourselves.
Thankfully, Mrs. Goldenrod had other pressing matters and had by that time grown tired of us. After a stern warning from Snellgrove to stay out of trouble, he left, leaving us to our own devices.
Minus Scarlett, who’d disappeared along with the sheriff, we silently made our way back to our cabin for a quick powwow.
“What is Vanessa’s former agent doing here?” I questioned the instant the door closed behind us. “And why the subterfuge? What’s his game? He’s hiding something, Bradford. I know it. He knows Vanessa’s secret. Remember? The one she’s keeping from you?”
“Drink?” Bradford turned from pouring a whiskey at the liquor cabinet. He held out a glass of the amber liquid. When I declined, he downed the liquor and poured another.
“Well?” My voice had a bite. “Your thoughts, please.”
“All in time, my dear. We’ll have our answers in time.”
“Aren’t you the patient one?” Unable to corral my nervous energy, I pulled a water bottle from the small fridge, and continued to mumble under my breath as I fished out a container of something green.
“It’s all about pacing, Jolene. Slow and steady. That’s the plan. When I’m ready, Cash Hitchcock will talk.”
With spoon and container, I joined him at the small, yellow table. “Appearances seem to verify that Vanessa is indeed alive.”
“If true, then we must identify my friend.”
“Funny that everyone but us is able to connect with this woman.”
Bradford nodded his head. “We need solid proof that the woman is indeed Vanessa van Allen and not an imposter. I’m not convinced that it’s Vanessa.”
“DNA would be solid proof.”
“My sentiments exactly. That’s why I’m returning to the cabin.”
“And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?” I scooped the remaining goo into my mouth.
Bradford set his empty glass on the table. “You’re going into town, my dear. Deena’s waiting on you, and when you’re finished with wedding plans I want you to swing by Vanessa’s house and pick up a DNA sample.”
I slid a glance at him. “You’re kidding?”
“It’s the only way to positively identify her. If we obtain a hair sample from Vanessa’s house and the cabin, then compare them.”
“And how am I supposed to accomplish this? I don’t believe her mother will readily hand over Vanessa’s hairbrush to a complete stranger.”
“I’m sure you can come up with something, Jolene. You’re a resourceful woman.”
Resourceful. Great. Just the compliment a woman wants to hear. Before I could waste any more valuable time on vanity, my cell phone jiggled. Geez. Deena again.
“Don’t panic, I’m on my way.” I reached for my handbag.
“Don’t bother,” came Deena’s prompt answer. “Something’s come up. I can’t explain but I rescheduled with Mona for tomorrow morning at ten. Be there, please.” The line went dead before I could respond.
“Appears I’m not needed in town.” I placed my handbag and phone on the table. “Unless you want me to head over to Vanessa’s to collect that DNA sample.”
Bradford glanced at his watch. “Let me check in at the station. I want to see if there’s been any reports of missing persons, or deaths, namely Vanessa’s. We’ll decide our next move then.”
I left Bradford on the phone and went into the bathroom for a quick shower. Thirty minutes later, I emerged squeaky clean and in a better frame of mind. Truthfully, I was relieved that wedding dress shopping had been postponed one more day because I dreaded the chore. Oh, I loved my sister, and would do anything for her, but Deena had morphed into Bridezilla. We’d shopped the entire state of Georgia for a wedding gown, and nothing, or no one pleased her. Every minor setback required tears. Lots of them. Really, I couldn’t understand all the fuss and had gently mentioned elopement. Which had been immediately axed. Oh well, so much for sisterly advice.
Bradford was stretched out shirtless on the bed when I entered the main room.
“Um, you smell like lemons.” His lazy smile ignited my senses. A warm flush began at my toes, creeping up my limbs to settle south of my waistline. My twinkie pie zinged with anticipation. Geez. That wouldn’t do. My hormones were firing off like a nuclear reactor.
I diverted my eyes, hoping to head off the natural direction of my thoughts. “What’s the word from the boys in blue?”
“Nothing.” Sounds from the bed indicated Bradford had sat up and slung his long legs over the side. “Everything’s quiet. No missing persons or homicides. Actually good news, but for the mystery hanging over my head. God, this is driving me nuts.”
I lifted my eyes to see him sitting on the side of the bed, his hand ruffling through his wavy hair. Still shirtless, the muscles rippled across his broad chest, quickening my pulse, and I couldn’t look away. Alarm bells blasted out a warning, and I knew with a certainty that one touch would bring me back into his bed. Hell, one sizzling look and my panties would be off.
“Jolene?”
“I heard you.” Get a grip. “I agree. We need to pin down Vanessa.”
Bradford stood up and grabbed his shirt. “We’ll both head into town tomorrow. You meet up with Deena, and I’ll head over to Vanessa’s house. I spoke with her mother while you were in the shower, so she’s expecting me. For tonight, we’ll hang around here. There’s a cocktail party and dinner in the main lodge. Hope you packed something nice. I’m going to take a shower.”
Scarlett hadn’t returned by the time Bradford and I were ready to leave. Apparently, Snow White had settled down for the night, for his aura had faded into nothingness. A calm peacefulness blanketed the cozy room. If one weren’t tuned into the netherworld, they would only see the surface as normal. I, on the other hand, felt the fluid reality take a subtle shift. Somewhere out there in the great beyond karmic payback gathered forces, and I knew with a certainty that tonight I was gonna get my ass kicked.
Chapter Nine
The Ghostwriter
Writers are kooks. Intelligent, but bat-ass-crazy. And the bunch surrounding me were the cream of the crop. Poster children for the dysfunctional. And some people think I’m crazy? They
should get a gander of this gang of tipsy misfits.
Like I said on Halloween, writers and alcohol don’t mix. The atmosphere of the cocktail party had the dizzy excitement of the Kentucky Derby—beautiful clothes on beautiful people all racing to be the first one at the finish line. The room was jammed with much of the same crowd from Vanessa’s Halloween party. Vanessa hadn’t put in an appearance, yet, but I recognized Purvis Dupree immediately. The lecherous publisher had cornered some sweet, young, unsuspecting female over by the bar. From the roving position of his meaty paw on her curvaceous hips, and the stargazed expression of the girl’s face, I deduced the man had sealed the deal, and the young writer would soon be signing her first book contract.
Peaches Noble echoed the sentiment in my ear. “I hope she enjoys the ride. Those royalty checks come with a high price.” I caught the sweet whiff of bourbon, and the smooth aroma of warm caramel and toasted vanilla made me think of Daddy and Mama’s pecan pie.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” I laced my voice with just enough curiosity to encourage her loose tongue.
The romance writer shrugged. “How do you think I got my start?”
“Really?” I gushed. “You? I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it. Common in my time.”
“And Vanessa knows all about it.”
She downed the rest of the amber liquid from the tumbler in her hand. “Every last degrading detail.” She lifted the empty glass. “Late night and too much liquor. That’s when we met. At a romance writers conference years ago. Roommates. God, we sat up all night talking. She hadn’t sold a thing yet, poor kid. But I had, so when she asked me to look over her work, I did. Couldn’t write squat.” She gestured to the bartender for another drink.
Interesting. “I don’t understand. If Vanessa can’t write, then how did she come to write the bestselling Dark Enchantment Vampire Series?”
Peaches leaned closer. “That’s what I’d like to know, my dear. My money’s on a ghostwriter.”
Another unfamiliar term. “A ghostwriter? Sounds like a dead writer out for hire.” I laughed.
She didn’t share my humor. The bartender plopped down an amber-filled tumbler on the bar. Peaches’s long fingers wrapped around the glass. “A ghostwriter writes material for someone else who is named as the author. Good money for a good writer.”
“Does the ghostwriter receive any credit for the work?”
“Depends on the buyer. With Vanessa, definitely not.”
Loud, boisterous laughter temporary distracted my train of thought. I glanced down the bar to meet Bradford’s concentrated stare. His slight nod signaled his success in obtaining valuable information. I parroted his signal, and returned my attention to Peaches, who was detailing the perils of an inflated ego. When she paused to slurp her drink, I shifted the conversation back to ghostwriting. “Any ideas who Vanessa could’ve hired to write the Dark Enchantment series?”
Peaches cocked an eyebrow. “What’s your interest in all of this?” Her words were slightly slurred. “Who are you? A reporter? Because you’re definitely not a writer.”
“Annie Mae Tucker. Vanessa co-authored my cookbook. We met at the Halloween book launch.”
Her icy gaze swept over my sapphire silk sheath clinging to my voluptuous curves. “I thought you were older. Much older.” Her gaze settled on my perky boobs hiked high with the latest steel torture contraption meant to help us older gals deny gravity.
I gulped a mouthful of frozen Margarita—regretting the vanity that had prompted me to make an unwise wardrobe choice. Christ, my brains were hogshead cheese. I was impersonating my mother, not a middle-age hairdresser with relationship issues. “It was a costume party. I came as my mother.” That would have to do for an explanation.
“Not a writer. A spy.” Peaches slapped her tumbler down on the bar. Several heads swung our way at the commotion, including Bradford’s. He cast an appraising gaze across the bar. “Vanessa sent you to spy on me. More dirt for her book.”
“No, no,” I tried to assure her. “I’m not Vanessa’s spy.”
My explanation fell on deaf ears. Peaches Noble spun on her heel and stalked off to a group of women I didn’t recognize.
“Peaches give you the ole heave-hoe?” A gruff female voice sounded in my ear, and I turned to look into amused green eyes clear from the fog of alcohol.
She stuck out her hand. “Maylene Lovett. And you are?”
Her hand was warm, her smile friendly. “Annie Mae Tucker,” I lied. The die had been cast, so I had to stick with it. Can’t switch boats in midstream.
“Ah, yes, you’re the Mama Tucker’s Ole Fashioned Southern Good Eats author.”
I dropped her hand and studied the book critic. A dead ringer for the stereotypical librarian. About my height, five-foot-seven give or take an inch or two, thin body with arms and legs to match, dark hair pulled into a bun, glasses strung on a silver chain around her thin neck, and an oversized print dress that didn’t quite fit. If not for her beautiful dark-lashed, green eyes, she would’ve been entirely forgettable. But not with those emerald orbs. Mesmerizing.
“And you’re the Terminator.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Call me Maylene, Annie Mae. And not to worry, my dear. I seldom review cookbooks. However, with Vanessa’s name on your work, I just might be convinced to break the rules.”
I took a long pull of Margarita. “Is that a good thing?”
“They don’t call me the Terminator for nothing.”
I considered her words, pondering how best to proceed. Another long pull from my glass. Daddy says just put your hook in the water and see what comes along to nibble at your bait. “I would welcome your input, Maylene.” I threw out my line. “Vanessa van Allen speaks highly of you, as does Peaches Noble.”
“Hah, those two tremble at the mention of my name.” Tiny nibble.
“Gave them bad reviews?”
“Nothing they don’t deserve. Those historical bodice-rippers Peaches turns out by the dozens make me vomit. She gets bad reviews because her books are bad. And the Queen of the Vampires suffers from the same malady.”
“The public loves them.”
“Yes, as long as breasts are bared and sex runs rampant, the books sell. But that doesn’t mean they rate five stars. No, I write ’em as I see ’em.”
I cast my line deeper into the waters. “What do you think about Vanessa’s newest project?”
“More trash.”
“You’re not worried about how she will portray you in the book?”
“No, why would I? What have you heard?” Nibble, nibble.
“Oh, nothing of great significance.” I finished the last of the margarita. “Vanessa did remark offhand that she was dedicating a whole chapter to your illustrious career.”
“Vanessa should tread carefully with her words, or she may find herself dangling at the end of a lawsuit, or worse. I intend to stop the publication of that book.”
Wham! A largemouth bass had taken the bait. Now to reel her in. “Peaches had an interesting opinion to share about Vanessa.”
Maylene didn’t say anything, but her smile returned.
“It involves a ghostwriter,” I prompted her.
Still nothing from the Terminator, so I continued, “Peaches believes a ghostwriter is responsible for the Dark Enchantment Vampires Series.”
Maylene cocked her head in Peaches’s direction. “That would explain it. Vanessa’s earlier work was more formulistic. Thus, the bad reviews. Now, the voice is much more complex. A certain genius I’ve never seen in her earlier work.”
“Any ideas on who that mysterious writer could be?”
“That is an interesting question, Annie Mae,” she replied. “Of course, there’s no proof that the theory is correct, but if it’s true, I’m going to expose Vanessa for the fraud she is and stop her cold in her tracks.”
“What do you know about her editor, Clarissa Howard?”
Maylene’s face clouded. “O
nly that she was an exceptional writer before she turned editor. Wrote several good romances, but not on the same level as the Dark Enchantment series. I can’t see her being the ghostwriter.”
“No one else comes to mind?”
She gathered her purse from the bar. “No, but thanks for the info, Annie Mae. You can be sure I will find out, though.”
I had one more question for the book critic. “If you don’t mind me asking, Maylene, what brings you all the way out here?”
Chuckling, she waved her hand toward the occupants in the room. “The same as them, my dear—to bury an axe in Vanessa’s head.”
Chapter Ten
Not a Freakin’ Pig in Sight
Vanessa van Allen waltzed into the crowded lounge with a handsome, distinguished man on her arm just about the time the tequila I’d consumed kicked in. Through the fog hazing my brain, I perceived a subtle shift in the cosmic atmosphere and turned to see Snow White emerge from Bradford’s expanding aura.
Damn, where’s Scarlett and those heavenly handcuffs? From the furious look of the dead diva, trouble was making its way toward the author, and all help was needed to stop trouble in her ghostly tracks.
A quick psychic radar sweep detected only one departed soul in the immediate atmosphere, and she was circling Vanessa like a vulture on the scent of death. My personal trouble-making denizen of hell had completely abandoned her post. Probably still drooling over Sheriff Snellgrove and his massive sidearm. Horny ghost.
I slid up next to Bradford at the end of the bar. “We have trouble, and who’s the guy?”
“I know, and I don’t know.”
“Well, whatdaya think? Is it Vanessa?”
His beer glass hit the bar with a thud. “Sure looks like her.”
“I suppose you should go over and say hello.”
“Too many people around her. She knows I’m here.”
“Yeah, she does.” I watched Snow White pulse red as she circled her twin. “Your other gal pal isn’t drinking the Kool-Aid.”
A Dead Pig in the Sunshine Page 7
