Sighing dramatically, Scarlett untied the ribbons, removed the hat, and tucked several dark strands back into a perfect chignon. “I know who killed me, smarty-pants, but Carla Moody isn’t the one on trial. Heaven’s Department of Corrections has the idea that I wasn’t a nice person during my lifetime. They want to know why she killed me.”
“Probably for the same reason half the women in this town wanted to get rid of you,” I reasoned.
“For gracious sakes, I wasn’t that bad.”
“Yeah, right. You spread a path of pain and destruction as wide as an eight lane highway through downtown Atlanta. Considering your record, I’m surprised they allowed you even temporary entrance through the pearly gates.”
“You’re still upset about my part in Deena and Calvin’s divorce, aren’t you? I tried to give him back, but Deena didn’t want him. And I said I was sorry.”
“Please go away,” I pleaded. “All I want is to get my life, and business, back to normal.”
“I can’t rest in peace with my eternal residence in question.”
She looked so forlorn and dismal sitting there fingering the altered gown that I seriously considered her request, knowing one’s eternal resting place was mighty important here in the South. Most Sunday sermons were dedicated to keeping us out of the hot seat and away from hell and damnation. As a result, I’d given my life to Jesus so many times that I’d learned to swim in the baptismal pool.
“Detective Grant believes your death was accidental, but I’m not so sure,” I thought aloud. “I’m suspicious of the timing between this morning’s break-in and your ‘accident’.”
“You’ve got to help me, Jolene. I have the best angel attorneys, but I have to do all the legwork. Kind of like what a private investigator would do. My abilities are really limited, you know.”
We stared at one another in mutual consternation. Finally I said, “I’m a hairstylist, not a cop. I don’t know the first thing about investigating—especially a possible homicide. And I mean possible homicide. Nothing’s concrete at this point. I’m not sure what I can do to help.”
“All you have to do is gather information. I promise you’ll be safe. Besides, what about that gun you carry?”
I gnawed on my bottom lip. “In light of this morning’s events, I’m inclined to disagree with your reasoning. Pokin’ a stick at a hornet’s nest is liable to be dangerous. Mini Pearl is strictly for self-protection. However, I do have a lot of questions. And I don’t believe Carla is capable of murder.”
“Thank you. You won’t regret helping me.”
“I’m not doing this for you, Scarlett. I have my own reasons for digging into this. Mama took out a second mortgage on the farm to finance our business. There’s a lot more at stake than your eternal residence. But with the finger of suspicion pointing directly at one of my employees, well, if we lose the shop, we’ll all be in a precarious financial position.”
Scarlett leaned closer to peer intensely into my face. “There’s one more thing I need to mention. If I lose my case, Dixieland Salon will become my permanent place of residence.”
I sputtered with indignation as her misty figure began to evaporate. “Wait. Come back here. I’m not finished! Have you seen Daddy over there?”
Looking about the empty hospital room, I dismally shook my head. How could I convince my sisters to help me investigate Scarlett’s death? Billie Jo, always on the lookout for adventure, would be the easiest to persuade. Deena, unfortunately, was another story altogether. The only spark of adventure I’d seen in her had been when Bradford strode through the front door of the salon and fastened those glorious blue eyes on her.
“That’s it. I can use him as bait,” I said aloud. “If it works, I can have access to the case.”
Patting myself on the back for my quick thinking, I made my way into the corridor and down to the admitting office where I dropped off Carla’s insurance information to a harried clerk, and rushed back to the second floor.
Mama and my sisters were waiting for me outside in the hall when I walked up.
“I’m sorry it took me so long, but I ran into a lot of traffic downstairs. How’s Carla?”
Mama, clearly upset, said, “They’re going to move her to the psych floor for her own safety. The doctor is with her now. That poor child needs her mother. I don’t understand why Beth isn’t returning my calls.”
“She may be out of town,” Deena suggested.
“Even if she is, wouldn’t she respond to the voice mails on her phone?” I asked.
“Not if she’s in an area without service,” Billie Jo put in. “Roddy runs into the same problem when he’s working on projects way out in the country.”
“Well, until she’s reached, we’ll take turns checking on Carla,” Mama said. “Let’s go home. There’s nothing more we can do here today.”
Mama dropped us back at our cars at the salon. Waving goodbye, I pulled onto Dalton Road and headed in the direction of my house but decided at the last minute to detour over to the main library. Although snatches of memory from my childhood association with the dead had resurfaced, this job would require some research—a little refresher course to sharpen my skills.
The librarian shot me an aggravated look when I came through the double doors into the cool air-conditioned building. “We close in ten minutes.”
“Can you tell me where to find books on mediums and the paranormal? Also on conducting investigations,” I asked with a straight face.
The woman looked at me curiously but gave me explicit directions on where to find the books and again reminded me the library would close in ten minutes. With little time to waste, I located the section marked paranormal and found several interesting titles on mediums, psychics, and communicating with the dead. With the volumes tucked under my arm, I moved to the section containing police and private investigator manuals and selected The Simpleton’s Complete Manual to Private Investigating. I checked out the books with a minute to spare and left the library with my weekend reading material with high hopes of solving Scarlett’s murder and ridding myself of one pain-in-the-ass ghost.
Chapter Six
Post-Traumatic Murder Syndrome
My daughter’s car was parked in the driveway when I pulled up to my house on Pinecone Lane. Weary and hungry, I parked under the carport and went inside through the kitchen door to find Becky eating pizza. My orange tabby cat, Tango, was chewing on a pilfered slice of pepperoni under the table.
Placing the books and my purse on the counter, I plopped down on a chair Becky pulled out for me. Kicking off my heels, I reached for the plate of pizza she pushed across the table.
“Wow, you look terrible,” she said. “It’s all over the news about Scarlett’s death. Why didn’t you call me? I would’ve come down to the salon.”
I gazed at my twenty-year-old daughter, with her father’s dark hair and my brown eyes, her rounded belly pushing against the edge of the table. “Now that you’re in the last two weeks before your due date, I wouldn’t have wanted you to be around the stress, honey.”
“I’m fine, Mom. Oh, I forgot to tell you that Daddy called.”
“What’d he want?” I asked with a mouthful of pizza. I got up and went to the refrigerator for a cold Coke and sat back down at the table.
“He wanted to know if you were still coming over to the barbeque tonight. Melinda is dying for you to meet her wealthy doctor cousin who came all the way from Savannah to make your acquaintance. Jacob is meeting me over there. Please say you’ll come.”
Kenny Claiborne and I had parted on good terms after fifteen rocky years of marriage. We’d married young, seventeen to be exact, and had become parents that same year. For Becky’s sake, we’d given it our best but finally admitted we just didn’t mesh, and he’d remarried last year to his attractive secretary. Through Becky, I found myself thrown together with them on many social occasions, and a friendship had developed between the three of us.
However, for some reaso
n, Melinda had adopted me as her very own special matchmaking project. In her mind, I wouldn’t be completely happy until I too had remarried. Thus, I’d been subjected to more blind dates than I could count. In short, I wasn’t going to the barbeque.
“Your father and stepmother will understand if I skip the party, but I’m glad you stopped by. It’s been a strange day.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I took a sip of Coke. “No, I’d rather talk about you and your plans for nursing school. I know there’s been a delay with the baby coming, but I don’t want you to ignore your education.”
Becky rubbed her swollen stomach. “I’m registered for the winter semester. Jacob’s mother is going to watch the baby while I’m in school.”
“Your mother-in-law is a sweetheart. You know I would do it if I could, and, well, even though I plan on spoiling my grandchild, I’m not the nanny type, like Ruth.”
She nodded, bangs bobbing. “That’s okay, Mom. My friends in high school envied me for having such a young, cool mother. I hope I can do as well with my child.”
Basking in the warm glow my daughter’s comment brought, I struggled to push back the weariness settling over me. Even after a ten-hour day at the salon with every bone aching, I hadn’t felt this weary. This tiredness was different—stemming on the remembrance of every detail, the anxiety, especially the fear of Scarlett having being murdered. But most of all, the memory of her disembodied spirit drifted eerily in the back of my mind.
“Mom, you look tired. Not to mention worried,” Becky said. “It would help if you told me about it. I insist.”
Becky listened, not interrupting as I retold the horror of the morning’s events, being hauled down to the police station to be questioned, seeing Scarlett’s ghost, the disembodied voice in the cemetery, and lastly, the revelation of my childhood imaginary friends.
“It’s all very simple, Mom. You have PTMS,” she said after several silent minutes.
“That sounds awful. What’s PTMS?”
“Post-Traumatic Murder Syndrome.”
I laughed. Leave it to my crazy, wonderful daughter to simplify what I had previously perceived to be a life-changing encounter. The more I thought about it, the harder I laughed.
“No, Mom, I’m serious. There is such a thing as PTMS.”
“You’re pulling my leg.”
“Look it up in the medical book I gave you for Christmas. I’ll bet you’ll find it referenced in there.”
The pizza had cooled when I finally stopped laughing enough to take a bite. “The first page was so full of mumbo jumbo, I couldn’t decipher it. I don’t know why you gave it to me.”
“You re-gifted it,” Becky accused. “Who’d you give it to?”
I shrugged, feeling only a little guilty. “Your grandmother for her birthday.”
“Mom, you didn’t.”
“I did.”
Becky pressed a hand on the small of her back, sighing. “My back is killing me. Dr. Griffin suggested I use hot and cold packs to ease the discomfort until the baby is born.”
“That’s good advice,” I said, rising from the table to retrieve the ice bag from the pantry. “I had back pain when I carried you. When is your next appointment?”
“Monday morning. You know, Mom, I don’t know if I mentioned it to you but about three weeks ago, I witnessed a strange confrontation between Scarlett and the mayor’s wife in my OB/GYN’s office. Mrs. Payne appeared to be awfully angry with her. They were yelling at one another, and then Mrs. Payne grabbed her stomach. The nurses immediately rushed her to the back. Do you suppose that terrible scene could’ve contributed to her miscarriage a week later?”
I filled the bag with ice and handed it to her. “No. I don’t believe so, honey. Do you know what they were arguing about?”
“No, but I got the impression that something bad had transpired between them.”
Thinking back to the scene between the two women this morning in the salon, and the hostility radiating from Scarlett, I had to wonder why Linda had been so friendly. I would’ve ripped Scarlett’s head off, but then again, I have an extremely different personality. Linda was a well-bred, proper society lady and I wasn’t. I grew up on a peanut farm. I wore more dirt than clothes as a child.
“Not surprising. Scarlett was a heartless, self-centered woman,” I said.
“I don’t believe that. You have to look below the surface to see the hidden hurt. It’s there, trust me.”
“You’re a wise and beautiful woman. You see sunshine when I see rain.”
The phone rang, and Becky answered it, listened silently, her face wrinkling. “It’s MeMaw,” she said, her hand covering the receiver. “Why didn’t you tell me she’s expecting us for Easter dinner?”
“I forgot.”
“Jacob’s gonna be disappointed. He had other plans. Well, I guess we’ll see you guys tomorrow.” She said goodbye to her grandmother and handed me the phone. Then she leaned over to brush a light kiss across my forehead, grabbed her purse, and disappeared out the kitchen door.
“Hello,” I said into the receiver.
“What took you so long? I was just about to hang up and call back. Becky’s not very talkative. Is she feeling okay?”
“Becky’s fine, just antsy. I’m sure you remember how uncomfortable pregnancy is.”
“The memory has faded somewhat. Anyway, I just called to remind you about Easter dinner after church.”
“Church is the last place I want to be tomorrow. I’ll meet you at the house later.”
“Aren’t you feeling well?”
“Truthfully, I’m not in the mood for the stares and whisperings. Scarlett was a popular member, and the finger of blame will be pointed directly at us. I know these people. Someone heard it from so and so and then so and so tells this one, and before you know it the buzz is all over town.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” The words had an indignant ring. “If we don’t show up, everyone will believe we’ve got something to hide. I know these people better than you, and I have a plan in mind to stop all gossip. You will be there along with your sisters. Understood?”
The call waiting signal beeped. “Hold on, Mama.” Not waiting for her response, I hit the button and said hello.
“Hi,” the deep voice rumbled over the line. “I hate to call you at the last minute.”
Crap. I’d forgotten I had a date with Steve Elliott from singles class at church.
It was five forty-five, and I had just enough time to shower and change. “I’m looking forward to our date,” I said in a light, carefree tone. What I didn’t say was that all I wanted to do was shower, change into my pajamas, crawl into bed, and watch TV until I fell asleep. Going on a date was the last thing I was interested in after today’s fiasco, no matter how sweet and handsome the guy. Bradford’s face popped up. Shaking my head to mentally dispel the picture, I continued, “I’ll be ready at six-thirty.”
“Well, that’s why I’m calling. Something’s come up, and I can’t make our date.”
“What a shame. I hope everything is all right with your parents? Your kids?”
The reply was slow in coming. “They’re fine. I just can’t make our date.”
“I suppose you heard the news about Scarlett?”
“Yeah, my mother was shopping in the boutique next door to your shop. Again, I’m sorry to break our date in this manner, but I’m sure you understand how it is when something unexpected comes up. I’m going out of town, so I won’t see you at church in the morning.”
Of course I understood. Steve wanted a polite excuse to back out of our date. He’d probably never ask me out again. I tried to analyze my feelings. Truthfully, I really didn’t feel like going out tonight, but the rejection hurt nonetheless.
“Don’t worry about it, Steve. I’m tired from being down at the jailhouse anyway. Have a safe trip.”
I slammed down the receiver, went into the pantry, and found a box of Duncan Hines double chocolate cake
mix. The phone rang. I ignored it, instinctively knowing it was Mama, angry that I’d hung up on her, but I wasn’t in the mood for conversation.
The phone continued to ring as I mixed the cake, poured the batter into two round cake tins, and slipped them into the oven. While they were baking, I took a hot shower and dressed in loose pajamas. The oven timer buzzed just as I came into the kitchen, the delicious aroma of baking chocolate permeating the room. I dumped the warm cake halves on wire racks to cool and dug through the pantry for a can of ready-made chocolate fudge frosting behind a box of Cheerios.
I chopped a cup of pecans and frosted the still warm cake, sprinkling lots of nuts between the layers and on top. Pouring a tall glass of milk, I sat down at the table and cut myself a large slice of the still warm cake. With the books I’d checked out from the library in front of me, I first chose the one entitled The Science of the Soul and Communicating with the Dead and began reading.
The book turned out to be fascinating, although some of the methods suggested for summoning spirits wouldn’t work so well with Scarlett. For one, apparently she wasn’t at my beck and call and would show up only when it suited her needs—not mine. Secondly, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the kitchen floor late at night with my eyes closed, calling out to the dead turned out to be a bad idea. Instead of attracting ghosts, I ended up with a cat in need of a manicure in my lap. Talk about having the bejesus scared out of me.
But on a happier note, by the time I climbed into bed, I had refreshed my understanding of the accumulated evidence of human souls and how mediums communicated with them. From the yellow pages, I’d located the phone number of Madame Mia, a local psychic medium/palm reader whose advertisement promised advice and help on all problems at a reasonable rate. First thing Monday morning, I’d drop in on her and see if she could give me some pointers on handling my wayward ghost. For a fifty dollar initial consultation fee, of course.
Also, I now had a working knowledge of basic private investigative skills thanks to the simpleton’s guide from the library.
Oh, and I consumed half the damn cake and a quart of milk, but I felt better and Steve Elliott was now a distant memory.
Dixieland Dead Page 6
