Better Dead

by Pamela Kopfler

  “Temporarily,” he answered with the bland accent of a TV talking head. He leaned forward and hit a few more keys, then spun around in Sam’s chair.

  Holly faced another ghost. This one from her past. Her heart beat double time and danced her back to her junior year of high school.

  Jake McCann’s smile still reached deep inside her. Muscles she didn’t remember stretched his black knit shirt in all the right places. The tingle she didn’t know what to do with back then raced through her. She knew exactly what to do with all six feet of delicious Jake McCann now.

  But those days were past for her and for him. She slapped on her polite “Welcome home” smile. “Jake. I can’t believe it.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Jake didn’t believe Holly was surprised, though she’d done a good job of pretending when she walked in Sam’s office. She looked too darned good to be a desperate widow. But there she stood, poured into those jeans, painted up like she needed a man, and packing a jar of food for him.

  “Come on, Holly.” He winked. “Delta Ridge is too small not to hear I was back in town.”

  Holly tossed her blond curls and laughed. “I’ve been too busy for gossip.”

  “I heard.” He stood and extended his hand. She closed the distance between them and took his hand. On tiptoe, she brushed a kiss on his cheek.

  Jake sucked in the vanilla aroma of her perfume and, beneath that, the unique scent that was hers. He straightened. The kiss didn’t mean anything to her. Women of all ages in southern Louisiana greeted everyone they knew like that. One of the few things he’d missed about the South.

  Holly’s soft hand clung to his. “And what did you hear?”

  Her sweet Southern accent dripped from her words, softening the resolve he needed to be objective.

  “You were in rehab.” Possibly for sampling the goods.

  “And you believed it?” Dropping his hand, she drilled him with a blue-eyed stare.

  Jake hadn’t believed it, but neither had he dismissed it. “People change.” He shrugged. “I haven’t talked to you in fifteen years.”

  Why had the difference in her hit him so hard? Time hadn’t stood still, even in Delta Ridge. He’d changed. Why wouldn’t she? And he had to admit he liked the improvements.

  She lifted her chin and snapped, “You’ve changed, Jake. You don’t even talk like you’re from Delta Ridge anymore.”

  “A necessary change for business.” And for survival when Immigration and Customs Enforcement gave him an undercover assignment anywhere above the Mason-Dixon Line.

  “That’s right. You were bigger than Delta Ridge,” she said, then gave a hollow laugh.

  His jaw tightened. “Sore subject.”

  He had dusted the black dirt of Delta Ridge off his shoes after high school graduation and would have never looked back if he’d had a choice. Immigration and Customs Enforcement had a thick file on Burl’s drug-smuggling operation. His untimely death had closed the case. Then an upriver ICE agent had tipped them off that the operation might be running again and using Holly Grove as a front. Jake needed this bust to pull his career out of a death spiral, or he would face a life sentence chained to a desk job.

  “Guess so, since you’re back here at the Gazette, where you started.”

  Ouch. She still had a stinger. “Just doing Sam a favor. It’s temporary.”

  Sam had called Jake in New York about an anonymous tip he’d picked up about suspicious activity at Holly Grove. That call had been Jake’s ticket back to undercover work. If he weren’t the only ICE agent who could fit in as a local boy coming back home to Delta Ridge, he’d be in New York, serving desk time for his major screwup in the field. There his life was nobody’s business but his, and Holly was an old memory.

  “So, where’s Sam?”

  “Vacationing in Florida,” he said, coloring the truth. Sam had left the Gazette as mad as a hornet when Jake wouldn’t let him stay for the action.

  “Speaking of favors . . .” She gave him a sugar-sweet smile. “That’s why I’m here. I was going to ask Sam, but since you’re the temporary editor, I guess I’ll ask you.”

  “Shoot.” He pointed her to one of the two well-worn oak chairs in front of Sam’s desk.

  “You heard the rumor.” She wiggled her fine little backside onto a chair and balanced the jar on her lap. “Well, it’s all a misunderstanding, and it’s running like wildfire all over the parish.” Her pink-painted fingernails waved through the air. “It won’t be long before it spreads further. I need a feature article in the Gazette about Holly Grove, so everyone knows we’re open and I’m there working.” Her hand patted her chest.

  Jake didn’t remember her having such a nice rack. He shifted in Sam’s rickety chair and forced himself to focus.

  “But you can’t mention the cocaine thing. Just say good things. I’ve got a copy of my drug test and the sheriff’s report, if you don’t believe me.” Never missing a word, she pulled crumpled pages out of her purse. “The, um, misunderstanding could hurt my Haunted Pilgrimage business, and since Burl died, I depend on Holly Grove to make a living.” She stretched over Sam’s desk, holding the jar and the papers. “And here’s ajar of Nelda’s gumbo to show my appreciation for anything you can do.”

  Holly plunked the jar on top of the papers in the center of Sam’s desk. “If I could afford an ad, I’d buy one. I really, really need this favor.”

  Only a woman could talk that much and not need oxygen. “Burl didn’t leave you any money?”

  Holly shook her head and groaned. “What money?”

  Jake shuffled a few papers to avoid looking at her. “I thought he was a successful businessman.” A man who could give her the stable life he couldn’t.

  “A paper tiger.”

  More like a cash cow. Burl had operated in cash so the IRS wouldn’t notice his success. They hadn’t, but ICE had. He looked at Holly. “So sell the business.”

  “Who’d buy it? Burl was Davis Aviation. It looks hopeless on paper.”

  It had never looked good at all—because it was a front for smuggling. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “It’s closed except for guests who want to use the landing strip at their own risk. I’ve got an ad in the classifieds to rent it.” She lifted a shoulder. “Only one looker so far.”

  He studied her face. Could she have lived with Burl and not known he didn’t make an honest living? To find out, he needed to get to know her all over again. And that was part of the plan. He just hadn’t counted on her walking in and making him remember all sorts of things he’d be better off forgetting.

  * * *

  Holly nibbled on a fingernail and eyed Jake for a long moment before she gathered the courage to ask, “Well, um, do you think you can squeeze an article about Holly Grove in the Gazette?” She held her breath, waiting for his answer.

  “An article? No.”

  Jake loved the fact that she wasn’t in good financial shape. He’d practically undressed her with his eyes as she had begged for his help. Then he’d had the nerve to say no.

  She snatched up her purse and stood. “Thanks for your time.”

  Spinning on her heel, she turned, then raced to the door. She glanced over her shoulder without slowing down. “I hope you enjoy the gumbo.” She bit down on her bottom lip to keep from saying she wished he’d choke on a hunk of chicken.

  He jumped up from his seat. “Wait.”

  She didn’t.

  His footsteps hit the floor three times before he reached her. He caught her by the elbow and whirled her around to face him. “I wasn’t finished.”

  She yanked her elbow free, then hoisted her purse higher on her shoulder. “Finished looking at my boobs, my butt, or listening to me beg?”

  “Answering your question,” he said, as though she had the comprehension of a gnat.

  “You said no.” She jabbed a finger to his chest. “Not maybe.” She jabbed harder. “Or possibly.” And jabbed again because it felt good. “I g
ot it.”

  Jake grabbed her hand and held it in his fist. “Enough with the poking.”

  His eyes twinkled, and a smile kicked up the left side of his mouth. God, she loved that smile. He pulled her hand across her body, forcing her to turn sideways. Raising a brow, he said, “You look good, Holly. Real good.”

  A flutter from deep in her belly lightened her anger. It’d been a long time since anyone had said that. A smile crept across her face. “Not bad for a thirty-two-year-old woman, huh?”

  He grinned. “So good, you distracted me from fully answering your question.” His stare locked with hers.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “You need more than a one-day run to promote the Haunted Pilgrimage.” He released her hand.

  “Yes, but one article would help,” she said, hoping he’d had a change of heart.

  “How does a feature article, then an ad, every week for the rest of October sound?”

  “Perfect, if you’re making a donation.”

  He stroked his chin. “What if we could work out a trade?”

  Did he just look at my boobs again? “Trade?”

  “I need a place to stay while I fill in for Sam, and you have a bed-and-breakfast.”

  “Does this involve getting in my bed?”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled as he flashed a grin. “Only if you want it to.”

  “And what if I don’t?”

  “The offer stands. I’ll be a perfect gentleman, and you’ll have an ad and an article every week for the rest of the month in exchange for my rent.”

  “Perfect,” she said as a flash of heat rushed to her cheeks.

  Just perfect torture.

  CHAPTER 4

  What now? What now? The words rattled in Holly’s head with each tap of her heels on the aged sidewalk of downtown Delta Ridge. She hadn’t been able to say no. She hadn’t wanted to say no. What in the world was she going to do with Jake and Burl together at Holly Grove? Nelda was right. Holly was good at getting herself into messes, and this one was knee-deep.

  The start of a pounding headache replaced the girlish, giddy feeling that had filled her minutes earlier. She fumbled through her purse for a bottle of aspirin. The childproof lid spun and jiggled as she tried to force it open. Childproof. Unnecessary. Another reminder of what a miserable failure her marriage had been. She bore down on the lid and popped it off.

  The door of Bob’s Barbershop swung open, bumping Holly’s arm. Little pills rained down on the sidewalk.

  “Holly Davis.” Miss Alice watched the pills bounce on the sidewalk. She drilled Holly with an accusing stare. “You’re supposed to be in rehab.”

  “They’re aspirin.” Holly jerked the bottle up to eye level so Miss Alice could see the label.

  Miss Alice reached for her glasses, which dangled from a beaded chain around her neck. She inspected the bottle. “Humph. You can put anything in an aspirin bottle.”

  Holly shook the remaining aspirin from the bottle into her palm. “Look. It says aspirin on the pills.”

  Miss Alice picked up a pill and examined it. She pinched the pill between two fingers and stretched her arm as far from her eyes as she could. With the other arm, she adjusted her glasses. The old woman’s mouth formed a tight line. “There isn’t any writing on these pills.”

  “I swear, they’re aspirin.”

  “We’ll see.” Miss Alice brought the pill to her mouth and licked it. Her penciled brows rose. “It is aspirin.”

  “That’s right. This whole drug thing was a misunderstanding. Since the Deltas didn’t get to play bridge yesterday, I’ll give the parlor to you rent free tomorrow.”

  Miss Alice slid the glasses off her nose and let them dangle from the chain. “Free?”

  “My compliments, as long as I can explain what happened.”

  “Nine o’clock sharp.” Miss Alice hooked her purse over her arm, then marched over the scattered aspirin without giving Holly a second look.

  Holly shook her head and heaved a sigh. That went as well as could be expected, she thought.

  Little white pills littered the sidewalk in front of her. A dog or a child might eat the aspirin if she left them on the pavement. She didn’t need another incident to revive her Hurricane Holly moniker.

  As she kneeled to collect the pills, a smile lifted her cheeks and her spirits. She squeezed the pills in her fist and almost laughed aloud.

  This time, she held all the cards and couldn’t wait for the game to begin. After she squelched the rehab rumor by showing the Deltas her medical and police reports, she’d throw her trump card on the table, a command performance by the ghost of Burl Davis. He’d said she was the only one who could help him, and she wasn’t about to help that lying, cheating excuse for a nearly ex-husband without getting something out of it. He didn’t know it yet, but he was going to help her save Holly Grove.

  The tongue-wagging circulation of the Deltas declaring that Holly Grove had a resident ghost added up to free publicity. Tourists would come by the busloads to see Burl, and they’d visit downtown, too. She wouldn’t have to let Nelda go, and Holly Grove would be safe from her financial crisis.

  Holly dropped the aspirin into a trash bin and then dusted her hands together, as though she’d brushed her troubles away. The only card in question was the wild card.

  Jake.

  * * *

  Little goose bumps rose on Holly’s arms as she entered her dark kitchen. She flipped on a light.

  No sign of Burl.

  Rhett trotted to her side.

  “Seen any ghosts, boy?” she whispered. As she rubbed Rhett’s back, she scanned the room. A note propped against the fruit bowl on the planter’s table caught her eye.

  She crossed the room and picked up the note.

  Holly,

  The stove won’t light. I ain’t gonna blow my head off tryin’ to light the fool thing.

  Gas is dangerous. Call somebody to fix it.

  Nelda

  All Holly needed was another repair bill. Every time she got one thing fixed, three others broke.

  The last time Nelda couldn’t light the stove, it had cost Holly a service call for the repairman to strike a match, but Holly hadn’t shared that with Nelda. She would have felt terrible about wasting money.

  Holly crossed the room to the stove and dug a match from the matchbox. The stove lit on the first try. There must have been air in the line when Nelda tried to light it. Holly crushed the note and tossed it in the trash can. Thank goodness for small blessings.

  Walking through the parlor to the entrance hall, she flipped on a light. Then she turned on every light downstairs. “Burl, are you here?”

  Only the familiar sounds of the plantation home she’d lived in since she was an infant, answered.

  She’d seen him, heard him, and there had been evidence, sort of. Fire extinguisher dust had flaked off him all over the parlor, and she considered that hard proof. She’d heard him just before Sandy put her in the ambulance. And she’d been awake and sober then.

  “Burl, where on God’s green earth are you?” she shouted.

  Rhett tilted his head from side to side and stared at her.

  “You think I’m nuts, don’t you?”

  Rhett yawned.

  “I’m beat, too.”

  Dreaming of a bubble bath and a new day tomorrow, she turned off the lights and then climbed the stairs. Holly shook her head. She’d thought she held all the cards, but she’d forgotten that Lady Luck never sided with her.

  Screw luck. She needed a plan.

  A few minutes later, Holly stepped into a claw-footed bathtub. Steam rose from the hot water as she immersed herself in the vanilla-scented, foamy bath. If only she could wash away the past two days.

  She propped her arms on the sides of the tub and blew out a long, tired sigh. The bubbles rippled away from her with her breath. A foggy steam hung over the water. The jasmine-scented candles she’d placed on the window ledge held a steady flame.

&
nbsp; Closing her eyes, she rested her head on the back of the porcelain tub. Tomorrow will be better.

  When Holly opened her eyes, remnants of bubbles rode little crests coming her way. A cool breeze brushed over her. She glanced at the window. Closed. Another ripple of waves ebbed toward her. Goose bumps raced across her skin with the chilled air that followed.

  “I can tell you’re excited to see me.” A translucent Burl, wearing the black Armani suit that she’d buried him in, materialized as he sat on the edge of the tub. He leaned over and blew into her bubbles.

  Holly sank neck deep into what was left of her foamy bath.

  Burl stood and crossed his arms. “Aw, you spoiled my view.”

  “It’s not your view anymore.” Holly covered her chest with her arms.

  A devilish grin slid across Burl’s face. “Did you forget you were my wife?”

  “Operative word here is were.” Holly eyed her towel, which hung from a hook on the door, behind Burl. “Till death do we part. And you’ve parted.”

  “Death is a matter of opinion, wouldn’t you say?” He wiggled his brows like the leading man in an old black-and-white movie.

  “What? You think we’re still married?” She gathered the small piles of bubbles and strategically placed them for privacy.

  “I’m here. You’re here. Sure we’re married.” He cocked his head sideways and peered into her bathwater.

  She sank a little deeper into the tub. “I don’t think so. Besides, I filed for divorce.”

  “I didn’t sign any papers.”

  “That’s because you died before you were served.” And her bubbles were dying, too.

  “I may be dead, but I’m not gone, Blondie.”

  Her temper sparked. That was Burl’s code for dumb blonde. Holly raked her cupped hand through the bathwater and splashed Burl.

  He jumped back. “Hey, watch it. You’ll mess up my aura.”

  “Aura? What are you? A new age ghost?”

  “No, but it’s hard work to make myself visible. I don’t know if I’m waterproof.” He brushed his hand over his trouser legs. “And this is my only suit.” He laced his fingers under his lapels and grinned. “Thanks for burying me in my Armani.”