A Dead Pig in the Sunshine

by Penny Burwell Ewing

  Bradford laid down his fork. “It’ll snow in July before I step another foot in that woman’s establishment.”

  “Okay, so where do we go from here?”

  “We wait for the facts to come in regarding the cast of tire tracks from out at the Maco mansion. You keep plugging into the Great Divide, and I’ll keep my feet firmly on the ground here. I have a couple of leads I’m going to check out, and I need you to concentrate on the ruby ring. Understood?”

  I nodded my head, my mind plotting out a few leads of my own. Umm. Bradford wanted me to plug into the Great Divide? Okay, I could do that, although not certain how much the spirits wanted to play. Scarlett certainly didn’t cotton up to the idea. Too busy tracking down… Ah, wait a minute. My favorite ghost was at this precise minute trippin’ the light fantastic at Pineridge Plantation. I glanced at the clock above the stove. 10:00 p.m. Not too late for a quick drive out to the plantation, and luckily, with a slight detour, a speedy drive by Vanessa’s house to see if Betty had returned home.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  In the Midnight Hour

  Bradford stayed longer than expected and it was close to midnight even before I could fire up my Mustang and head out of town in the direction of Pineridge Plantation. With the hour being later than I wanted, if at all possible, I’d swing by Vanessa’s house on the way home and see if the lights were on signaling Betty’s return.

  At this late hour, traffic was light and twenty minutes later I pulled onto the dirt tree-lined driveway leading to the manor house and parked in the shadows off the road. I killed the engine and took in as much of the scene before me as possible in the weak moonlight. Not much had changed since my last visit here close to a year ago. That had been the night I shared with Bradford his true linage to the Reddings of Pineridge Plantation, but that’s a long story and told elsewhere.

  Through the shifting shadows I could see the manor house had received a fresh coat of paint, but the barn still needed some TLC, and the trees and shrubs could use a good cutting back. Since Pineridge had been handed over to the State for historical preservation, improvements had been painstakingly slow, but steady. Taking the Pink Panther from its holster, I tucked it in the waistband of my jeans and upon alighting from my car, I paused. Scarlett hadn’t specified what problem brought her out here, so I had no clue where to begin my search.

  Again, I tried paging her in the universal SOS, but the line remained dead. Frustrated, but not discouraged, my gaze swept the dark house seeking any sign that the Turnipseeds—the longtime caretakers—were still up and about. Nothing. No movement to indicate life. With cautious steps, I picked my way through the pasture overgrowth until I reached the lone restored slave cabin a short distance from the house. I’d start there.

  Taking a small flashlight from my pocket, I scanned the porch for any signs of wildlife before climbing the creaking steps to the front door. The handle turned easily, and the door inched open. I took a bold step inside the small one room cabin and immediately encountered a family of spirits not happy at the intrusion.

  An older man, apparently the patriarch, detached himself from the rest. “Please kindly leave our home, miss.” He spoke in perfect English despite his tattered clothing and dark skin. “We’ve done our time and deserve rest from the Master’s hand.”

  “I’m not here to disturb you, sir,” I addressed the ghost. “Or your family. I’ll leave you in peace. I’m looking for a friend and thought she might be here.”

  A female spirit joined him. “Grandfather, she must mean Miss Scarlett. She’s here in response to Rosemond’s plea.”

  The old man dissipated, leaving the young female spirit. “Please excuse my grandfather. He’s old and tired and seeking his eternal rest. You’ll find your friend in the big house.”

  Not wanting to spook her, I kept my voice neutral. “Why do you linger in this cabin when you can collect your reward on the Other Side?”

  “Because Grandfather isn’t ready to leave his home. We wait for him.”

  I caught a hint of her tears and wished her well and took my leave, retracing my steps back outside to the porch where the darkness swallowed me. Snapping on the small flashlight, I made my way to the big house and stood in indecision at the back door. Rattling the doorknob to find it locked, I scrutinized my surroundings, hoping to locate a good hiding place to stash a key. I no longer had one. Looking high and low, I came up with zip, and sighed in frustration and relief. Frustration that Scarlett wouldn’t answer my repeated SOSs, and relieved that I couldn’t enter the big house to search for her.

  “Well, so much for wasted time,” I told myself and spun on my heel intending to head for the car. That’s when I noticed the tiny slit in the bricks along the boxwood hedge. With one finger I withdrew the key, surprised and aghast at how simple it would be for thieves to empty the house of historical treasures under the blanket of darkness.

  As I stood in the shadows with key in hand, I rethought my plan to enter the house uninvited. I was the intruder here and should turn around and go home. Forget investigating. Let the law unravel the mystery of the two women. Yawning with fatigue, I replaced the key in its hiding place and skirted around to the front of the house all the while sending out the universal Morse code for help in hopes that Scarlett might deem it worthwhile to answer.

  Not a peep. Okay, time to make rubber on the road. Either that or use the key. Giving up isn’t in my DNA, but my intuition warned me away from entering without an official invitation. With my mind settled, I made my way back down the dirt driveway staying in the shadows of the tree line for extra protection from prying eyes.

  Back at the Mustang, I discovered two problems. One, a flat tire, and two, a dead cell phone battery. Great, I’d forgotten the car charger again. Now what? No means of communication and no knowledge of changing tires. Stranded by stupidity in the midnight hour. Story of my life. And then I lifted my eyes to the big house looming in the semi-darkness. There I could use the key and find help in the form of a landline, or I could wake the caretakers and request help the normal way. Sure, there’d be hard questions to answer. Like, what are you doing parked halfway down the driveway in the tree line at this time of night? But at least, I could avoid a trip to jail and another strike on my arrest record.

  With the decision made, I climbed out of the Mustang and trudged back up the middle of the driveway, no longer caring about prying eyes. I intended to wake the household anyway.

  At the back door, I knocked loudly several times. When no lights flicked on after a couple of minutes waiting, I repeated the action with more gusto with the same results. Apparently, the Turnipseeds weren’t in residence. And since they weren’t home, they wouldn’t mind if I utilized the phone, I reasoned, it being an emergency after all. I would be in and out in a flash with no one the wiser. Drawing in a deep, frustrating breath, I retrieved the key out of its hiding place, unlocked the door, and slipped inside. Pausing to orient myself, and slow my pounding heart, I waited for my eyes to adjust to the inky darkness before moving into the connecting kitchen.

  Mentally, I pictured the layout of the house and the location of the downstairs phone in the library at the back of the house. Way back. Okay, Claiborne, this is it, get a move on. With the tiny flashlight beam cutting through the murkiness, I headed for the library on silent feet, pausing only to listen for any sign of life. Hearing only the ticking grandfather clock in the entrance hall, I surmised that I was indeed alone in the creepy mansion. Since I had an unpleasant history with the place, and knew it was crawling with the spirits of the past, an uneasiness settled over me, and I found myself eager to use the phone and get out ASAP.

  “Scarlett, are you here?” I whispered, hoping for a response as needing her help was the reason for my being here anyway. Down the hall, the misty shape of an old black woman garbed in a long, striped cotton dress with the traditional African head-wrap slave women favored materialized.

  Tempy. The faithful house slave. Brave and beautifu
l in the face of hardship. The precursor of today’s strong, modern black woman.

  “The spirit you seek is here.” The words planted themselves in my mind.

  “Thank you, Tempy. You may seek your eternal rest now.” I hoped to help this lost soul find her way heavenward.

  Her eyes filled with pain. “No rest until all come home.” She faded with the last word.

  Tears stung my eyes as I thought about her wandering about the house waiting for the last solider to return from the bloodied battlefield. How many souls had been brutally sacrificed to King Cotton? Over six hundred thousand men, women, and children had paid the ultimate price for freedom. Black or white, it didn’t matter. Death doesn’t recognize boundaries or skin color. It strikes when least expected.

  Shaking off the morbid thoughts, I continued my silent way to the library, pausing only to whisper Scarlett’s name, hoping she’d pop in for a chat. At the double doors to the library, I hesitated as an unknown jingle resonated from the front of the house. Hmm. Sounded like multiple keys clanging together as a person walked in my general direction. I threw a quick glance over my shoulder, then slipped inside the library, and pressed my ear against the panel. Nothing. Good. Just my overactive imagination working non-stop.

  I directed the flashlight beam on my watch. 1:30. Would I be able to find help at this late hour? I found the phone on the antique desk and fished around for a phonebook. With my cell phone dead, I couldn’t access Bluetooth, so it was up to my fingers to do the walking. After several attempts, I finally found a twenty-four hour garage service and gave the man directions to my location. Unfortunately, he was on another call and wouldn’t be able to get to me for several hours. I’d have to sit tight until he showed up.

  Hanging up the phone, I stashed the phonebook back to its assigned space and turned to leave, anxious to return to my car and lessen the chance of being caught in the mansion without permission. In the kitchen, Scarlett’s misty form materialized out of the semi-darkness.

  I stopped dead in my tracks, and gasped with surprise. “Must you do that? My heart almost jumped out of my chest.”

  “I’m here at your request, Claiborne. Get on with it, I’m busy.” Her misty form wavered with energy. “What do you want?”

  “Help with the van Allen case.”

  “That case is closed as far as Heaven is concerned.”

  “How can you say that when Vanessa hasn’t been located?” I blew out an exasperated breath. “She killed Careen, and we have to find the proof. Bradford and I are still suspects in her death. I need your help.”

  “That’s your problem, Jolene. I’ve been warned to stay away from you and do my job, and I intend to obey.”

  “You obey?” I challenged.

  “Yes, obey,” she squawked, her eyes burning with rebellious fire. “It’s that or vacate my mansion on the south side for an upper berth in Hell. That’s not happening, girlfriend, so drop it. You’re on your own.”

  I had hit a dead end and felt a wave of tiredness and defeat wash over me. “You’re right, Scarlett, it’s my problem and I’ll find a way.” I heaved a mournful sigh and reached for the doorknob. “I won’t bother you again.”

  “Wait.”

  My hand dropped to my side, but I didn’t turn around. “I’m listening.”

  “Sheriff Snellgrove.”

  “What about him?” Silence met my question. I turned around. Scarlett had disappeared. Not wasting any time to think about Scarlett’s clue, I skedaddled out of the mansion, stopping only to return the key to its hiding place, and hightailed it back to the safety of my car to wait for the man.

  He woke me at dawn. Groggy with sleep, I exited my car while he changed the tire. Thankfully, the man was quick and efficient, and after ten minutes I was back on the road to Whiskey Creek. As I drew close to town, the Westgate neighborhood entrance came into sight. Although dead on my feet, I decided to swing by Vanessa’s house anyway and see if Betty had returned home.

  The sun crested the horizon as I pulled onto Dartmouth Drive, its golden tentacles reaching out to touch the shimmering white bricks of the towering house at the end of the street. I watched in amazement as the full force of the sun’s rays bathed Vanessa’s mansion in its sparkling light, and I knew with an inner certainty I had found the House of the Rising Sun.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dig Up the Stink

  Uncertain how to proceed, I parked several houses down from Vanessa’s and allowed the morning silence to refresh me in hopes of forming a workable plan. The logical side of my brain argued that I should go home, down a pot of coffee, and call Bradford. The creative side screamed for action.

  I chose somewhere in between. Consumed with the need for answers and caffeine, I drove the remaining distance to Vanessa’s house and parked in the driveway. The garage door was closed, so I couldn’t tell if anyone was home. Undeterred, I continued to the front door and rang the doorbell.

  The instant the door swung open, the addicting aroma of coffee put a smile on my face, and I said a cheery good morning to the uniformed maid.

  “Good morning to you, miss.” Her smile didn’t quite make it to her eyes.

  I inhaled another whiff of coffee. “Is Mrs. van Allen home?”

  “She’s having breakfast.”

  “And it smells delightful. Would you mind seeing if she’s receiving visitors?”

  The maid stepped back and swung open the door. “Please follow me, miss?”

  “Claiborne,” I supplied with another smile. “Jolene Claiborne.”

  She led me to a sitting room just off the kitchen, and I seated myself on a lovely blue print chair to wait for her return. A rumble in the lower regions of my stomach alerted me to the hour and the immediate need for nourishment. Especially coffee. I could feel the twittering of withdrawal as I waited. Clenching my trembling hands in my lap, I again inhaled the rich scent of roasted beans and sent out a silent plea for the gods to grant my wish for a strong cup of black coffee.

  The maid appeared in the doorway. “Please follow me.”

  When we entered the breakfast room, I was delighted to see another place setting at the table. The chair had been pulled out, and I sat down across from Vanessa’s mother, who smiled at me. “I’m surprised to see one of Annie Mae’s daughters at my door at this early hour, Jolene. I hope there’s no problem with your mother?”

  I literally drooled as the maid poured coffee into the cup at my elbow. “Oh, no, Mrs. van Allen, Mama is fine.” I lifted my eyes from the steaming cup to her. “I was in the neighborhood and wanted to check up on you. I know you must be frantic with worry about Vanessa.”

  “How sweet, my dear, I’m fine. Vanessa will return home soon.” She waved a bejeweled hand, minus the ruby ring, at the maid. “Please prepare a plate for our guest, Sophia. I’m sure she’s famished.”

  Her strange answer disturbed me, but I played it cool with a nod, and reached for my cup, taking several sips, almost dying on the spot as the strong, rich flavor exploded in my mouth. Definitely not my usual grocery store brand. One of the expensive brands. Probably packaged in gold leaf, for the rich and famous.

  Sophia sat down a plate in front of me piled high with scrambled eggs, bacon, fruit and a buttery, flaky croissant before refilling my cup with the elixir of the gods. She then disappeared back into the kitchen without a word.

  For several minutes, I concentrated on filling my belly with the deliciously prepared food, giving me some time to figure out how to proceed as I had launched into this visit without much thought. Really, I had to stop being as impetuous with my decisions as they kept landing me in difficult positions. I sighed inwardly with the knowledge that I would go to my grave with this wacky characteristic.

  As I continued to eat, I kept a diligent eye out for the slightest activity within hearing range. Sophia’s movements in the kitchen signaled morning cleanup. I ignored her and zeroed in on Betty van Allen sitting across from me with an interesting expression on her li
ned face.

  Her shuttered gaze and furrowed brow suggested Vanessa’s mother wasn’t buying my cockamamie story of neighborly concern. No, those snake eyes, so like her daughter’s, had a bull’s-eye on me. For the first time, I realized that something about her bothered me. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but the woman bugged me in a negative way. I shifted in my chair and set the empty coffee cup down. Time to get some answers.

  “I can’t remember when I’ve had a more delicious breakfast, Mrs. van Allen,” I boasted in a sincere tone meant to put her at ease. “Thank you for inviting me to join you.”

  “I could do no other.”

  My face flushed hot at her tone. Although the South is known for its hospitality, there is an unspoken agreement that one calls before dropping in on a whim as every female deserves a chance to put on their “Sunday go to meetin’ face” and present themselves in the best possible light. I had broken the golden rule of proper belle-dom—a serious offense—and Betty van Allen didn’t appreciate being seen in her morning robe and makeup-free aging face. No, siree, those snake eyes accused. Mama would hear about this for sure. Well, too late to worry about it now, and since I was in hot water anyway time to swim with the sharks.

  “I apologize for not calling, but my cell phone died, and I was worried about you all alone out here,” I ventured. “Have there been any updates on Vanessa’s whereabouts?” I watched her closely for any clue to her true feelings, and wondered if she knew about my run-in at the Maco mansion. And what about Careen? Had Betty known about the switch all along? Living in close quarters, how could she not know the difference between her daughter and a stranger? Unless mother and daughter’s closeness is just a ruse. Possible. Mother and daughter could’ve conspired the fraud and hid the truth from Careen for some unknown reason. A scapegoat? For what? And why?

  She peered at me over her coffee cup. “No updates, but I’m not worried. I told the police she can be particularly evasive when confronted with writer’s block. She has disappeared many times before—only to show up when least expected. So you see, my dear, it’s only a waiting game I’ve played many times before.”