Madame Mia was lovely. Cleopatra lovely. Helen of Troy lovely. Dark. Mysterious. Foreign. And certainly unusual for South Georgia.
I followed her into a foyer with inlaid wood floors, stained and shining. Scattered here and there, colorful woolen rugs formed a path to a simple yet intricately-carved staircase leading to the second floor. A huge, ornate chandelier hung high above my head. The twelve-foot coffered ceiling gave the house a feeling of grandiosity and in a time before air-conditioning, would have allowed the cross breezes from opened windows to cool the house.
At the end of a long hall, we entered a small parlor with velvet sofas and chairs pushed against wallpapered walls. A small round table covered with a delicate lace tablecloth occupied the center of the room. Warm, yellow sunlight spilled in from three tall windows. The room smelled faintly of lemon furniture polish.
Not a crystal ball in sight.
“Sit down, my dear,” Madame Mia said. “I was intrigued by your call. Now, that we’ve met, I can see that you are yourself, a psychic.”
I perched on the edge of an antique chair opposite her. “Ah, yeah, about that. This is new territory for me, and I’m flying blind here. Uh, I really didn’t know who else could help me. You’re the only, uh, person in the tri-county area who specializes in my problem.”
“A dying art to be sure.”
“Uh, yeah.”
“You said you had a problem with a departed soul?”
“I’m being haunted by a dead client.” I fingered the tablecloth. “She died in my beauty shop.”
“I see.”
“I read a couple of books on communicating with the dead. My ghost is kind of special and not cooperating. She won’t come when I call.”
One ringed hand reached up to brush a strand of dark hair off a creamy cheek. “I see.”
I hesitated, perturbed. This consultation cost fifty bucks—good money for advice—and so far all she could say was, “I see” in that cultured, silky voice. I was beginning to suspect I had wasted my time. I started to rise.
“I could try to contact her.”
Excellent suggestion. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” I said, relaxing back on my chair. “Although I should warn you about Scarlett—”
“Scarlett?” Dark, startled eyes bore into mine. “Just last Friday, I had a late night appointment with a woman by the name of Scarlett Cantrell. Her tarot reading told the end of a phase in life which had served its purpose. The beginning of a new life. A transformation—abrupt and complete. A crossroad. Such a lost soul. Haunted by the tragedy of past events.”
“Yes, she died yesterday. And now, she’s haunting me,” I said. “She fed me some cockamamie story about a cosmic trial, angel defense lawyers, and her eternal residence being in jeopardy if I don’t help her find justice. I need answers, Madame Mia. Fast.”
“I see.”
Oh crap. We’ve circled back to two word responses again. I twisted my fingers through the lace tablecloth. “Can you help me or not?”
“Give me your hands.”
“What for?” I asked, struggling to free my fingers from the tablecloth.
“You’re her point of contact. If you want me to connect with her, I must use your energy to do so.”
I joined hands with her across the table. Madame Mia closed her eyes and recited foreign words, a mantra. I’d learned this was a method of contacting the dead from the books I’d checked out from the library.
Quietly, I studied her as she continued to sing the strange words over and over. Her breathing became shallow. Red lips tightened. Her face grimaced. My hands grew warm, and a tingling began in the pit of my stomach as the singing became softer until it stopped.
Madame Mia opened her eyes. “The spirits are silent.”
I shook my head. “I’m having the same trouble at home.”
“The spirits will speak when they are ready.”
“Can you tell me anything?”
She looked down at our clasped hands. “Only that the answers will only come after much struggle. Look to the past. Your answers are there.” She handed me her card. “For emergencies,” she said and stood.
That was it. My time had run out. I plunked down the fifty bucks and left Madame Mia’s House of Psychic Vision with more questions than answers.
****
Late that afternoon, Deena called with the welcome news that the salon had been cleared by the police. Her excited voice left me with no doubt she’d been talking with Bradford.
“Sam cautioned us to be available for further questioning,” she said. “I told him we’d cooperate fully with the investigation.”
“Did he happen to mention the cause of death?” I asked, trying not to think about Mama’s comment that I wasn’t Bradford’s type. I wondered about that.
He, being a cop, probably gravitated toward the classic damsel-in-distress kind of woman—like Deena. I never needed Prince Charming to come to my rescue, because I wanted to be the one holding the reins, or be the first to cross under the checkered flag, or to bag the biggest fish in the pond. I’m not a missionary-minded woman in the least. To my way of thinking, the best position is on top, in control.
“The autopsy hasn’t been completed,” Deena replied. “He said they’re waiting on the toxicology report before making the call.”
I snapped back to the conversation. “How long will that take?”
“He didn’t say, but foul play is suspected. He suggested we refrain from leaving the state until this is cleared up.”
“I tried to tell Detective Grant the break-in and Scarlett’s death are connected, but he wouldn’t listen. That mask could’ve been sabotaged. What if we’re the real targets, and Scarlett was accidently killed instead?”
“Your imagination is working overtime.”
“You have to admit that it’s a possibility. Have you ever heard of a person being killed with a moisture mask? Aren’t you suspicious?”
Deena’s sigh made me frown. “I don’t think I’m going to like where you’re going with this. Sam said it was an ongoing investigation, and until an official determination is reached, we should carry on with our lives as normally as possible. I intend to follow his advice.”
“Did he happen to mention if they had any leads?”
“Carla is a person of interest, but that you already know. What are you suggesting?”
“Not anything dangerous. Only a little snooping around for tidbits of information the police might not stumble onto. We have to do this.”
“Why? Snooping around can be dangerous. I don’t want any part of it.”
Sigh. Not an adventurous bone in her body. Surely, she’d been switched at birth and branched off another family tree entirely. Her association with Bradford was having the opposite effect from what I’d hoped for.
“Do I have to spell everything out to you?” I asked. “We’re the main suspects. Well, one of our employees is. What about the financial cost if we’re sued for wrongful death. If we lose the salon, Mama loses the farm. Remember the fifty thousand dollar second mortgage she took out to finance the salon? It’s not paid in full yet.”
“How could I forget?” She paused for a couple of seconds. “Okay, I’m willing to help out, but only if it involves gossip and non-dangerous missions. Understood? No shoot-outs or car chases or dramatic scenes—agreed? But why me? What about Billie Jo?”
I grinned into the telephone receiver, savoring my triumph. “She's already on-board.”
“This is a bad idea. Sam isn’t going to be pleased with us.”
“You’re not going to tell him. Your job is gonna be to find out everything you can about the police investigation and feed the information back to me.”
“You want me to be a mole?”
Her outraged voice made me laugh. “Yes, you’re the snitch in this operation. When are you and Sam getting together?”
“We’re driving over to Albany tonight to meet a couple of high school friends for dinner. I’m n
ot sure I can do this, Jolene. He’d be awfully mad if he finds out I’m a snoop.”
Guilt washed over me at the prospect of Deena being hurt a second time by this man. As casually as I could manage, I cautioned her to move ahead slowly with the budding relationship.
“Some things are beyond our control,” I added.
She laughed. “You’re warning me to be cautious in one breath and encouraging me to take risks in another. You can’t have it both ways—but I’ll be careful.” She sighed. “Look, I hate to cut our conversation short, but I need to run down to the salon. Sam gave the all clear, so we can clean before we open in the morning.”
“I’ll do it. I’m five minutes away. Besides, you have a date to get ready for. Have fun and I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
I hung up the phone and slipped on a pair of old ragged jeans and sneakers and drove down to the shop. The silence of the empty building wrapped around me with warm familiarity as I let myself in through the rear entrance and made my way to the dispensary to collect cleaning supplies, half expecting Scarlett to pop up and say “boo”.
“Yoo-hoo, is anyone here?” I called out as I came out of the dispensary with the cleaning supply caddy.
No answer.
Some of the books I’d checked out from the library had suggested finding a spot where one could concentrate without distraction. Well, the facial room was definitely quiet, and since I would be in there anyway, I decided now would be a great time to practice my psychic conversation skills.
I groaned at the messy room. There was a fair amount of work needed to put the room in order before I could settle in for a ghostly-chat practice session.
Thirty minutes later, I dumped the dirty water from the commercial mop bucket out the back door and stored the cleaning supplies in the dispensary. Back in the facial room, which now smelled like a pine forest, I pulled the chair from against the wall to the center of the room and sat down.
Okay, if I remembered correctly, the next step in spirit communication involved holding an item belonging to or having some kind of personal connection to the deceased person with whom you were trying to make contact. Nix that part. I had nothing. The police had taken the remnants of the mask and Scarlett’s personal tea canister from the kitchen.
On to step three, four, and five. I closed my eyes and thought about Scarlett, picturing her sitting on the facial bed in her antebellum garb. I called out her name as if she was right next to me, asking her to let me know if she was there.
Nothing.
Feeling positively stupid, I opened my eyes and said, “Damn it, Scarlett, get your skinny ass down here.”
The room plunged into darkness. An eerie greenish light flashed, and thunder cracked directly overhead. The hair on my arms stood on end as a hideous howling echoed from the walls. I shivered in the warm, stuffy air and bolted for the door. The uproar ended almost as quickly as it started. The overhead light switched on, the silence was loud in the still room.
“You cleaned my room,” Scarlett said in a voice that seemed to come from a long way off.
The words brought me around to face her. Costumed in a green velvet dressing gown, she lazed upon the facial bed, relaxed and seemingly satisfied with my state of unease. “I would’ve answered your summons sooner, but you caught me at a bad time.”
My fists clenched. “What was all that?”
“I’m sure I don’t know to what you’re referring.”
I waved my hands in the air. “That—that ghoulish display. You scared the life out of me.”
Her smile turned into a laugh. “Oh, that. I was practicing my ghostly antics in case I’m stuck here. Your beauty shop will be the best haunted salon in town, I promise.” She fanned her face. “Phew. Being a ghost is hard work. Now, tell me why you wanted to see me.”
Since I really hadn’t expected to see her at all, I decided to feed her a hastily made-up progress report. “Only two days have passed since your death, so don’t expect a lot, but I do know you had a falling out with one of your lovers before you died. Are you able to remember his name?”
“Are you saying I had more than one?”
“According to the ladies at First Baptist Church, you had several. Oh, and there’s a rumor you were pregnant. The autopsy’s not finished, so whether the gossip is true I can’t say. One woman reported you were selling drugs, and another said WXYB wasn’t renewing your contract. Does anything sound familiar?”
“It’s true that WXYB wasn’t renewing my contract.”
I sat down in the chair, facing her. “Why?”
“Robert is a pompous ass.”
“You wanted my help, so answer the question.”
“I wanted a bigger piece of the pie. Scarlett’s Top Spot wasn’t cutting it any longer. I wanted to cover important stories, like the major networks, but Robert only wanted a pretty face to represent his station. I wanted to prove him wrong, so I decided to dig up a story on my own.”
“Okay, that’s a good start. Tell me why you thought someone was trying to kill you.”
“I was in over my head from the start.” Her voice was resigned. “This town holds a lot of secrets. I should’ve left them buried.”
“What story were you working on?”
“The recent mayoral election. That and several others that seemed to be tied together.”
“You must’ve found something.”
“I did—fraud. Unfortunately, I died before I could prove it.”
I paused in my questioning, trying to digest the information. I had one more important question for her. “Scarlett, you said that the jade elephant would explain everything. What is it and where is it?”
Her face went blank. “My memory is so foggy in places, but it will come back to me in time.”
I nodded my head. “Try to remember. I’m working on the theory that the break-in at the salon is somehow tied to your death. The police believe it’s a separate incident because there have been a couple of similar break-ins with the same M.O.”
“You sound very knowledgeable. I’ve a good feeling about hiring you.”
“Hiring me? You begged me to help and then threatened to haunt my salon if I didn’t. But thanks for the compliment. I’ve been reading a couple of books about conducting a private investigation so I can get rid of you faster.”
Her eyebrows lifted in disdain. “You’re lucky to have a ghost of my quality haunting your dinky hole-in-the-wall salon.”
I laughed at her snobbery. “Always the belle, huh, Scarlett?”
She stretched, blinked sleepily, and yawned. “I haven’t quite adjusted to materializing. Could we continue this discussion at a later time? I’m drained and need my beauty sleep.”
I, too, was dead on my feet and ready to head for the house for a hot shower and an early supper, but I had something on my mind that I needed to air. “Ah, Scarlett, I’m exploring the possibility that you weren’t the intended target.”
Twin chips of green ice bore into mine. “I died ahead of schedule?”
Waves of psychic anger rolled off her. I stepped behind the chair, placing a little distance between us. “Well, sort of. Your demise could’ve been premature if the death mask was intended for someone else—a staff member, one of my sisters, or even possibly me.”
“This is most distressing.” Her image flashed several times, becoming more and more transparent until she faded into nothingness.
Looking around the silent, empty room, I shivered with dread. If what I suspected proved true, a faceless killer would try again for the real intended victim. Spooked by my morbid thoughts, I grabbed my purse from the dispensary and rushed out the back entrance, looking several times over my shoulder into the deepening shadows as I locked the door and raced for my car. Out of my driver’s window, I glimpsed a thunderstorm on the western horizon.
Gathering my courage and determination around me, I drove the few miles to my house before the tempest could release its downpour. Once again locked safely behind
closed doors, I jotted down a few additional notes from my conversation with Scarlett. Now, more than ever, it was up to me to find the killer before he or she could strike again.
Chapter Nine
Dixieland’s Resident Ghost
Dixieland Salon opened on Tuesday morning to a packed reception area. Five walk-ins came in together wanting last-minute appointments.
“Would you look at this crowd?” I exclaimed.
Mandy overheard my comment to Billie Jo. “Packed in like sardines,” she said. “Sightseers will gladly pay for whatever gory details you spill, which is all right with me because I’ll sell my soul to the highest bidder. It won’t last though so get it while you can is my mantra.” She headed in the direction of her manicure table.
Restless and jumpy after a sleepless night, I turned back to Billie Jo. “What about Anthony? He’s in the back packing up his equipment. I know you fired him, but we really need him today.” Billie Jo’s frown deepened with each word. I knew the look. This wasn’t going to be easy. “I’m booked and can’t help with the overflow.”
Background sounds of the salon infused my consciousness—a wave of chatty customers entering the shop, clicking irons, whirring dryers, running water. Someone had turned up the volume on the radio and its rhythmic beat blared through the speakers. Deena came out of her office with Holly, speaking loudly and gesturing with her hands.
Billie Jo looked over her shoulder at the crowded reception desk. “I don’t trust Anthony. Something about him just doesn’t add up.”
“I agree with you, sis. He’s definitely hiding something, but until we can find a decent replacement, the salon is understaffed.”
Holly stepped over to us. “Mrs. Hart and Mr. Turner are here.”
I gave her a quick nod. “Thank you, Holly. Please escort them to our stations and let them know we’ll be right with them. And see that Mrs. Hart is draped and shampooed, please.”
“Will do.”
Billie Jo released a heavy sigh. “I believe it’s a mistake to keep Anthony. Yet, I’ll give him another chance for the sake of the business. Just tell him to show respect for the other stylists and do the job he was hired to do and to keep his mouth shut. That’s all I ask of all the employees, including myself.”
Dixieland Dead Page 8
