A Ghostly Grave

by Tonya Kappes

  “We know Emma Lee. She’s a pillar of the community, not to mention”—­Mable Claire gave me a theatrical wink—­“she has that hot hunky Jack Henry by her side. I personally wouldn’t mind having him as a speaker at our meeting on how to stay safe in our unsafe town.”

  “Unsafe town?” I asked.

  “Oh yes.” Mable Claire’s eyes darted around to each of us. “Zula told us about the murder charges against Marla Maria.”

  “Granny!” My jaw dropped. She had gone and done it now. Jack Henry was going to be spitting mad when . . . when . . . It was probably already around town about Chicken Teater. Not that everyone wasn’t going to find out soon anyway. It wasn’t like the warrant wasn’t public record. It was just a matter of time.

  “What? I told Mable Claire. I can’t help it if other people were eavesdropping on our conversation.”

  “Are you talking about me?” Beulah looked up from her contorted position that I was sure was not a yoga pose.

  “If the shoe fits,” Granny chimed as she changed position trying to mimic Hettie Bell.

  “Now ladies,” Hettie warned, planting her forehead on the ground with her arms stretched out in front of her. “Concentrate on this pose. It will calm you.”

  “I’m not sure I can sit on my thighs like that.” Mable Claire referred to the childlike pose Hettie was trying to get them to do.

  I watched as they followed Hettie’s lead. It was as if they had been brainwashed.

  “Stinkin’ thinkin’ is not welcome here ladies.” Hettie took a deep breath through her nose and released a rush of air out of her mouth.

  “Ridiculous,” I murmured under my breath. “Have you lost your mind?” I climbed the steps to the porch. They had moved all of the welcoming rockers and beautiful planters for the guests to enjoy. “Jack Henry doesn’t know if Chicken was murdered or not. There was some paperwork that didn’t add up.” I did my best to cover up Granny’s loose lips. The older she got, the worse she got. I didn’t want her taking over as president and CEO of the Sleepy Hollow gossip mill. “It was four years ago.”

  “Still.” Beulah put her hands on her hips, making her bangles clink together. Her silk jumpsuit glistened in the afternoon sun. “An unsolved murder means there is a murderer out there.”

  “This is not good.” I shook my head.

  “Emma Lee, everyone in town knew that something was wrong when the police put up yellow tape.” Granny craned her neck in a position that I didn’t ever want to try. “But when they dug up a grave”—­Granny reared back her head—­“that was another story.”

  “We will see what kind of modern-­day forensics you get from that fancy company you pleaded with the city to spend their extra dollars on.” Beulah gave her shit-­eatin’ grin.

  Beulah was the first one at the council meeting to protest when I suggested we use the extra taxpayers’ dollars to spend on the latest forensics equipment for the police station. Granted, Eternal Slumber’s morgue had always been the site the Sleepy Hollow Police Department used way before I had taken over and way before Jack Henry was my boyfriend. It was a deal my dad had made in his younger days.

  The equipment we had was outdated. Sleepy Hollow had spent even more money sending off any type of forensic things they needed and I actually saved the city money. Regardless, the equipment was approved and Vernon Baxter was happy about it. Especially now, since we needed to do some of that fancy extracting from Chicken Teater’s four-­year-­old decayed bones.

  “Focus, ladies.” Hettie Bell ignored me and did some sort of long breathing which I was sure was because her pants and top were too tight. Looking at her made me have shallow breath.

  Granny, Beulah and Mable all took a deep breath at the same time. Hot air. I glared at them.

  “Yep, y’all have lost your minds.” I pointed to each of them. “You too, Hettie Bell.”

  “Ohmm . . .” Hettie spewed some jibber jabber from her gut.

  “Oh stop it, Hettie.” I rolled my eyes.

  Granny took a deep breath and stood up, following Hettie to a tee. “We are doing this so we don’t lose our minds.” Granny swooped back down lifting her head high in the air.

  “It’s not working.” I pointed to the tree. “You have completely lost it and the chained-­up scooter proves it.”

  “That is why I called you.” Granny did a little hop. Her feet were planted under her. Her arms did a fluid motion up to each side. She clasped her hands over her head. “I need you to find the spare key to my motorcycle in the funeral-­home office. I’ve misplaced my keys or someone has stolen them.” Her eyes focused on me. “One of them little campers.” She pointed up to the mountainous caves that were the backdrop for the Inn.

  It was the most beautiful picture. That was why the Inn was so valuable. It was a perfect spot for visitors to rest their tired heads after a day of hiking the caves and gorge. Plus the dining room was seated on the back side of the Inn. The entire back wall was glass and had a picturesque view like no other in Sleepy Hollow.

  “Keys? As in all your keys?” I asked.

  “Ummhmm.” Granny didn’t bother opening her eyes.

  “As in the keys to the Inn, Eternal Slumber, hearse . . .” Holy crap! They had to be somewhere. Had. To. Be.

  “Ummhmm,” she repeated, like it was not a big deal that every single key was on there.

  “Where did you have them last?” I snapped at Granny. My temper was beginning to flare.

  “Where I always put them.” Granny cocked up one eyebrow when she took in a deep breath through her nose. She released the air. She positioned herself to talk to the other women and made the motion as if she had keys in her hand. “Hanging on the hook in the kitchen. Not there now. I needed to go to Artie’s for some more eggs for that delicious egg-­and-­ham-­omelet casserole, you know Mary Anna Hardy’s recipe that she brings to people’s layout dinners.” All the women nodded. The Auxiliary women loved to bring their best dishes to feed mourners at funerals. The better your dish, the higher in society you were. Granny was known for her good country cooking and Mary Anna wasn’t going to pass her up. No doubt in my mind that Granny wasn’t putting her own spin on the recipe to make it better for the next funeral.

  Their eyes grew as big as their stomachs when Granny mentioned food.

  Granny continued, “Anyway, I had to walk all the way there and back,” she said as if it were a far place, not something through the square, which was across the street. A five-­minute walk at the most. She rubbed the small of her back. “I know someone had their eye on my motorcycle, so while I was there I had Artie deliver me a chain and lock. No one is going to steal my cycle.” Her lashes lowered, creating a shadow over her cheeks.

  “It’s not a motorcycle! It’s a moped! Geez, move it.” I barreled my way through their yoga mats to the front door of the Inn, knocking Beulah square on her silk covered butt. Under my breath I said, “I can’t believe you are worried about that old dime-­store moped.”

  Granny thought she hit gold when she came back from the Lexington flea market riding the moped. She boasted how it was only fifty dollars after she traded in her car, and she could get around town for pennies of gas. Little did she realize she wasn’t good at staying upright on two wheels. Every week, I got endless complaints about Granny almost running people over.

  “Out of my way! Old lady riding a motorcycle!” She would yell right before she was about to hit someone. Jack Henry even came to see me about it, but there was nothing I could do about Zula Fae Raines Payne. Granny was set in her ways and not even hunky Jack was going to sweet-­talk her into going back to driving a car.

  “Zula Fae Raines Payne, didn’t you teach your granddaughter better manners than that?” Beulah huffed and puffed.

  I didn’t wait around to see if Granny had defended me. I had to find her keys. The last thing I needed was to worry about someone ste
aling the hearse . . . or worse . . . breaking into Eternal Slumber now that everyone knew there was a murder. Eternal Slumber was on high alert, especially now with the new forensic equipment. Four years was a long time in the detective department.

  I bet the killer didn’t figure little ol’ Sleepy Hollow would invest in some high-­tech equipment where we could figure out decade-­old murders. Or had I been watching too many TV detective shows? Either way, anything could happen, and I needed to find those keys.

  The white front double doors were wide open and Granny had the screen doors put in to let in the constant flow of fresh air. Since Sleepy Hollow was just that—­a deep hollow—­we had a beautiful and refreshing breeze all year round.

  Recently, Granny had redecorated by painting the entire inside a more subtle and homey tan color. She replaced all the old Victorian furniture with a more modern look of printed fabrics and leather. She did a fabulous job and everyone in town loved it. The Inn guests always told Granny how comfortable staying there was.

  I walked back down the hallway and glanced up at the stairs as I passed. There were some guests coming down with large backpacks filled to the gills. They disappeared into the room on the right, which Granny used as a common area for the guests, and she kept snacks there all day long.

  I swung the kitchen door open. There was a hook nailed to the wall where Granny kept her keys so she wouldn’t lose them. Some luck she’s had with that. The hook was empty, just like Granny said. I walked around the kitchen counter looking for the set of keys.

  The old farm table in the middle of the room was filled with flour bags and all sorts of ingredients, along with a written recipe from The Kitchen of Mary Anna Hardy; at least that was what the recipe card had printed on it. Good Southern women always kept their recipes on personalized stationery and in a fabric box. Me? I relied on good old McDonald’s to feed me—­but not tonight.

  My mouth watered for a taste of delicious bread from Bella Vino and Jack Henry’s lips on mine. The thought made me tingle.

  “Is that Zula’s sweet tea?” Chicken Teater stood by the window where Granny had set a pitcher of her famous sweet tea in the early morning sun. She claimed the sun helped bring out the natural flavor of the tea, but we all knew it was the pound of sugar that made her sweet tea to die for.

  “It sure is.” The golden orange color was so inviting, any time of the day. “We don’t have time to have a cup of tea.”

  “If I could drink it, that entire pitcher would be gone.” Chicken rubbed his hands on the pitcher.

  Buzz. The timer on the oven brought me back to the reality of why we were in the Inn’s kitchen. Granny’s keys. Buzz.

  I grabbed a potholder and pulled down the oven door. Granny’s version of Mary Anna Hardy’s omelet casserole looked “to die for” with the crispy brown top and bubbling sides. I reached in, pulled it out and set the dish on the baking rack Granny used for cooling her dishes.

  “I really miss doing this with Lady.”

  I jumped around. I still wasn’t used to hearing voices of people who weren’t in the physical world. Chicken Teater was blowing a feather through the kitchen.

  I grabbed it out of the air.

  “Where did you get that?” It was a real feather, right here in Granny’s kitchen. Granny would never have a feather in her kitchen. I surveyed the gold and black feather, bringing it closer to my face.

  “It was over there next to the door. Lady Cluckington and I used to run around the chicken coop blowing feathers.” He chuckled. “Well, I blew the feathers and she would try to grab them with that sweet little beak.”

  “Okaaay . . .” I drew the word out as I put my hand in the air and shook my head. There was no time for strolling down memory lane. “This could be a clue. Show me exactly where you found it.”

  “You sure are a testy Raines.” Reluctantly, he walked back toward the door and pointed directly underneath the hook where the keys always hung. “You sure don’t have your parents’ personality.”

  “Leave my parents out of this. They are enjoying their retired life in Florida.” I walked over and bent down to the place where he said he found the feather. The small dirt footprint wasn’t visible unless you squatted down. “Marla Maria,” I whispered and took my phone out of my back pocket.

  I took a quick picture for evidence. Granny would have a fit if she knew there was a dirty shoe in her kitchen.

  “You think?” Chicken stood over the print.

  “Move,” I ordered and snapped a ­couple more pictures at different angles. “You are blocking my view. Do I think what?”

  “You think that little bit of dirt is Marla Maria’s?”

  I looked up. Chicken had tears in his eyes. I stood up and rubbed his arm—­well, as best as one can rub a ghost’s arm—­for some sort of comfort.

  “It has to be hard to think that the one and only woman you married and poured your heart into, the love of your life, would ever harm you.” I knew it wasn’t much comfort, but it was all I had in me. I put my phone and the feather in my pocket. Neither Granny nor the Auxiliary women needed to know what I had found out.

  My nerves gurgled at the thought of going back to Marla Maria’s, but I knew I had to. I had to break in when she wasn’t home and search for those clues.

  “Marla Maria?” Chicken slapped his knee and broke out in a fit of laughter. “Love of my life?” He pointed at me before he bent over cackling some more. “Lady Cluckington is the love of my life.”

  “You were just crying,” I pointed out.

  “Because, the thought that that woman would hurt my Lady hurts my heart. Hell, Marla Maria had filed divorce papers on me a week before I died. If I’d known I was going to die, I would’ve torn up the agreement.” Chicken disappeared into thin air.

  “Where are you?” I twirled around. “You can’t just drop bombs on me and leave.” I gestured between myself and the air and loudly whispered, “This is not how this gig works.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Granny stood at the swinging door with her hands on her hips.

  “You.” I bit my lip.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t in here.” She lifted the back of her hand and put it on my forehead to check and see if I had a fever. I jerked away. “You got the Funeral Trauma again?” She stomped out of the kitchen. I followed her. She spouted, “I knew digging up Chicken Teater wasn’t going to be good on your health. I’m calling Doc Clyde.”

  “Granny I’m fine. I was talking about your keys. You can’t just drop a bomb on me about your keys and not care.” I tried to worm my way out of the sticky situation I had just put myself into.

  “I swear. I’m going to give hottie Jack Henry a piece of my mind—­after I let him hug me—­when I see him.” Granny fanned herself with her hands and we walked out the front door of the Inn.

  “Now, now.” Beulah straightened up. “Doc Clyde said not to get your blood pressure up.”

  “Blood pressure?” Was Granny confiding in Beulah Paige now? That was odd.

  Granny gave Beulah the stink eye. Beulah looked away and dove down into a downward dog. I wasn’t going to argue with her. I just wanted to get out of this frying pan and jump into another one. Marla Maria’s.

  I trotted down the steps.

  “I’m going to find those keys.” I turned around once I got to the bottom. “Oh, I’d love to attend the next Auxiliary meeting.” I grinned, knowing Beulah’s heart had just stopped. “And Granny,” I tapped my temple, “I almost forgot. Your timer dinged about . . .” I glanced at my empty wrist like I had a watch on. “ . . . ten minutes ago.”

  “If my casserole is burnt . . .” Granny rushed back into the Inn muttering something under her breath.

  “Namaste!” I yelled before I got back into the hearse.

  Chapter 8

  By the time I got back to Eternal Slumber and logged all
clues I had gathered from my little adventures, it was time to get ready for my date with Jack Henry.

  “Where are you going?” Charlotte Rae stood behind me as I locked my office door. “It’s only four.”

  I jiggled the handle. If there was someone on the loose with the keys, I had to tell Charlotte. Something I wasn’t looking forward to doing.

  “I . . . I . . .” I fought hard to find the words that weren’t going to send her over the edge. “I think you need to sit down. In your office.” I pointed up the hall toward her door.

  “Tell me what you have done now.” Her green eyes pierced through me just like Granny’s did when she thought I was up to no good.

  “Me?” I was tired of taking the fall for Granny and her tomfoolery.

  “Oh God.” Charlotte put her hands to her heart. “I guess I better sit down if it’s about Granny.”

  Instead of going into Charlotte’s office, we headed to the vestibule. The chairs were set up for the funeral of an elderly local who had been sick for a long time. Still, the whole town would be here to pay their respects. That was probably why Granny was working on a casserole.

  The old wooden folding chairs looked lovely all lined up. I had yet to put the cream cotton slipcovers on them. They were still at the cleaners being pressed in all the right places. Although it was a funeral, we made sure it was just as nice as a wedding. After all, funerals and weddings in Sleepy Hollow were celebrated in the same fashion. Big.

  The chairs creaked when we sat down.

  “Granny has lost her keys.” I had to say it like you rip off a Band-­Aid. Fast.

  “She what?” Charlotte jumped up, flipping the chair backward. “You mean all her keys?”

  I slowly nodded. Trust me. The old saying “never make a redhead mad” was true. Charlotte Rae was on fire from head to toe. She thrust her hands to her side and tugged on the edges of her suit coat before she whipped around and headed to the elevator. She stood with her back to me. I swear she was shaking. When the elevator picked her up, she stomped inside and never turned back around.