Please turn the page for a sneak peek at
Utterly Deadly Southern Pecan Pie
coming soon from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Utterly Deadly Southern Pecan Pie
by
Penny Burwell Ewing
The Haunted Salon Series
Chapter One
The Key
The man leaning against the ornately carved mahogany mantelpiece had been dead for one hundred and fifty years and appeared as if he had stepped from the pages of an antebellum romance novel. His hair, dark and flecked with silver, flowed back from a high forehead—eyes darker than sapphires were set in a face bronzed by wind and sun. His lips, firm and sensual, pressed together in a cynical twist, and the gray frockcoat and vest fit snug over a pristine white shirt with a black stock expertly tied at his throat. Black boots shone from beneath gray trousers, and in his large, tanned hand, a smoking cigar.
He belonged to another time.
We stared in frozen surprise at one another. I stood in the open doorway of the library, my hand on the brass doorknob and a group of tourists at my back when my sister Deena noticed my hesitancy to enter the spacious room.
“What’s the holdup?” she asked in a hushed voice. “Did you forget your lines again?”
The acrid aroma of tobacco smoke stung my nostrils. I nodded, my gaze glued to the ghostly specter at the fireplace.
Deena brushed past me in her blue cotton hoop skirt and motioned for the group to follow. “The Rococo Revival furniture was placed in the house by Josiah Redding around the time of 1836 when he built Pineridge Plantation for his bride-to-be, Savannah Childs.” She pointed to the dark, heavy pieces. “Josiah’s portrait hangs over the chimney, and you can see he was a handsome and wealthy Southern gentleman planter. His wife later wrote in her journal that he would retire to this quiet haven after dinner to smoke his imported cigars.”
Automatically, my gaze lifted to the portrait. The likeness of the man in the painting failed to capture the sense of mystique in the fathomless eyes of the man himself. The man in the portrait and the one standing beneath it were one and the same. Josiah Redding. And of course, I was the only one in the room who could see him fade away into nothingness.
Perhaps I should explain.
I see dead people. Celestial citizens of inner space. Transcendent realities. And yes, I suppose in certain circles they are referred to as ghosts. Most are friendly. Some not so much. And then every once in a while I run into a real pain-in-the-ass spirit.
It all started back about seven months ago after a client, Scarlett Cantrell, with some help from an outside source, joined the Other Side. It happened in my beauty salon. Scarlett needed help bringing her murderer to justice, and she picked Dixieland Salon as her earthly headquarters. As all of this unfolded, I found myself drafted into helping her. Yep, me, Jolene Claiborne. Hairstylist extraordinaire.
Not everyone in my life is happy about my special gift inherited from my Granny Tucker—namely, my younger sister Deena, and my boyfriend, Detective Samuel Bradford, who happens to be her old high school sweetheart. But that’s a long story and Deena’s signaling for me to pick up where she left off.
Careful not to brush against the tables, and upset the delicate porcelain quail figurines, with my bulky hoop skirt, I glided deeper into the room until I stood beneath the portrait of Josiah Redding.
“The legend of Piper’s Gold is well known in these parts,” I said with an exaggerated southern drawl. “On July 19, 1864, a small band of Confederate soldiers under the command of Major Travis A. Piper were quietly transporting a cache of gold from a bank in Thomas County to headquarters in Macon, Georgia. As evening approached, they arrived at Pineridge Plantation and were graciously received for the night. The officers were given rooms in the main house, and the others pitched tents in a nearby field. As they retired for the night, a message came in alerting of an advancing Union troop. Immediately, the officers gathered to discuss their orders to hide the gold and retreat south. When the Union troop moved on, they were to retrieve the gold and proceed to Macon taking every precaution to elude capture.
“The orders were carried out. Unfortunately, at dawn on July 20, 1864, the Union troop struck and massacred Major Piper and his small band of soldiers. Heady with victory, the Yankee soldiers stormed the house and killed Josiah. His youngest son, Asa Douglas Redding, mysteriously disappeared from the plantation and history on that same night.”
I paused as expressions of horror and gasps of dismay sounded from the group. When they settled down, I continued with my story. “The house and its furnishings were spared as an officer spotted a portrait in the front parlor of Josiah’s father wearing his Masonic ring. The officer, a Mason himself, ordered the house placed under guard. But the damage had been done. The eldest son, Randall Josiah Redding, was reportedly killed two days later on July 22, 1864, in the final battle for Atlanta. Savannah Redding, and her young daughter Adelaine, died that winter when they both contracted pneumonia. The remaining son, John Milton Redding, survived the conflict and is the ancestor of the present owner, Victor Redding.”
Here I paused again and lowered my voice to achieve dramatic expectation from my listeners. “The gold which they hid has never been found. Rumors abound that Major Piper and his soldiers are still guarding their Confederate bounty. And watch out for Tempy, the old slave woman. Many visitors claim to see her throughout the main house. Beware. You have been warned.”
Muffled cries of anticipation rang through the group of tourists, and I could see several heads swirl to peer into the corners of the richly ornamented room.
“I saw something when I came in here,” a man said.
“As did I,” echoed another.
And on it went for several minutes until Deena, with a worried frown directed at me, began ushering the tourists toward the opened library door.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that thing with your voice, Jolene,” she said as I joined her at the rear of the group. “It triggers their imagination.”
“In defense of myself, my dear darling sister, it’s in the guide brochure, and it’s what they expect to hear. People love haunted houses, and I can’t help it if Josiah presented himself over by the fireplace when we came in. I get the distinct impression he doesn’t like strangers in his house,” I teased.
“Please keep it light, not real,” she pleaded. “And please don’t let anyone see you talking to them. They’ll think you’re crazy.”
“All right, Deena.” I closed the library door firmly behind me. “Let’s finish this tour so I can get out of this dress and corset.”
We with the tour group now stood outside the library, which occupies the northeast corner of the principal floor. The walls were painted cream, reminiscent of ancient parchment paper, with electric wall sconces fashioned like candlesticks casting their soft yellow light over worn pine floors.
I took the lead again. “As you have noticed, the manor house has been modernized by the Redding descendants, but still retains its distinctive historical flavor with nineteenth century period furnishings. Before modern lighting however, the plantation mistress oversaw the making of candles for the main house and slave quarters. During the 1850s candle manufacturers made it possible for the richer families to purchase candles instead of making them. Savannah’s household ledger, dated in 1860, details purchases of candles from a general store in the nearby town of Albany. Now if you will follow Deena to the front entryway, another guide is waiting to take you on a tour of the sole remaining slave cabin restored to its original condition.”
As the group trudged past me, I let out a long breath and plucked the damp cotton dress from my sweating torso. Even though it was November in South Georgia, the coolness of fall had failed to arrive, and the manor house had air-conditioning only in the upper living quarters. My dark blue gown buttoned up to my throat, and the sleeves were long and tight around my wrists. Underneath the heavy cloth, all kinds of female paraphernalia had me ci
nched up tighter than a horse’s saddle. All historically correct for the time period, but I was hot as Hades and ready to shed the tightly laced ankle boots pinching my toes with every step.
Bringing up the rear, I could hear my sister’s voice drone on about the hand-painted wallpaper depicting a classic English garden gracing the entrance hall of the manor house. She spoke of the spacious circular room with a large square rug made threadbare from years of traffic and the original French crystal and brass chandelier which still hung over the center of the room.
I made my way to the front door with its delicate tracery in the fanlight and sidelights and thanked each tourist for their visit as they stepped onto the large front porch where a man dressed in period clothing waited to take them on a tour of the grounds.
As soon as the door closed behind the last straggling tourist, I turned to Deena. “Thank God, that’s over. My feet are killing me, and I feel like I’m going to bust the seams of my stays. Let’s go change and stop by Sonic for a cherry coke on the way home.”
Deena eyed me critically. “You’re the one who volunteered us for this gig. Which, I’m glad you did, I should add.”
“Of course, you are. You’re like a cat lapping up cream in this environment.”
She performed a playful pirouette. “An age of enlightenment.”
I grimaced as ankle boots bit into my flesh. “More like the age of confinement.”
A small bedroom in the back of the house had been set aside as a changing room for the volunteers, and as we passed by the library, a soft thump sounded from behind its closed doors.
“There shouldn’t be anyone in there,” I said, and we turned back to investigate. When I opened the door and peered in, the room appeared empty, but I noticed a small book lying on the floor next to one of the cherry bookcases. “You go on ahead. I’ll only be a minute.”
“Okay, but hurry,” she said. “We have a tight schedule for the rest of the day. It’s eleven-thirty and Billie Jo will meet us at your house in thirty minutes to decide on a recipe for the contest tomorrow night. And we have to be at the salon by four to do hair and make-up for tonight’s Miss Pecan Festival Queen Beauty Pageant.”
I groaned. “Don’t remind me. It’s going be a long week.”
Deena left and I returned the book to its place on the shelf. A cold chill swept over my body, as the scent of cigar smoke wafted in the stale air. Slowly, I turned around to meet the appraising gaze of Josiah Redding. The hair on the back of my neck prickled with static electricity.
Once more our eyes locked in frozen tableau; his stare compelling, magnetic, and I lost all fear as he reached inside his front vest pocket, withdrew a key and held it out toward me. Without hesitation, I crossed the room until I stood directly in front of him. The shiny key glistened like new—its design heart-shaped with interlinking lines within the heart. He dropped the bronze key into my outstretched palm, and my fingers closed around it.
“What do you want me to do with this?”
Silence met my question.
I opened my hand and stared down at the key, now scratched and dull with age as if the past one hundred and fifty years had accumulated on its surface in a few seconds of time. I snapped my head up with the violence of uncertainty, but I stood alone in the cozy room.
I shivered in the warm air.
A word about the author…
Penny Burwell Ewing was born and raised in Fort Pierce, Florida. Growing up in a southern coastal town gave her the best of small town living where the residents look out for one another.
Her interest in writing began in the 1970s when she consumed every bodice-ripper published and decided to try her hand at entertaining herself. It worked, and she is now working on her fourth novel.
Once a professional cosmetologist, Penny draws on her humorous experiences behind the chair to add spice to her Haunted Salon series. She now resides in Tifton, Georgia.
Thank you for purchasing
this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
If you enjoyed the story, we would appreciate your letting others know by leaving a review.
For other wonderful stories,
please visit our on-line bookstore.
Dixieland Dead Page 28
