Adrenaline pumps through my veins, and I scramble back to my feet. “Wait, Tabby!”
I follow her, now covered in dirt. My hand lands in cobwebs, and I shake it trying to get rid of them. I tuck the robe under my arm as I hustle through the living room once more.
Tabitha stands on her four paws in the open doorway, whiskers twitching. She sniffs the air and meows. “Find the key.” She glances over her feline shoulder at me. “He took it.”
Oh lord. The cat is talking to me. Worse, it has the Scottish brogue of the naked woman. “Who?” I dare to ask, wondering at my sanity.
“Ava?” Rosie’s voice interrupts, sounding distant as it echoes down the rolling hill and plays tag amongst the trees. “Where are you?”
Tabby flicks her marmalade-striped tail. “Find the key and you’ll find the killer.”
A final flick, and she’s gone.
Chapter Ten
As I step out of the house, a booming male voice ripples through the air. “Avalon Fantome!”
A giant of a black man stands in the sun, his bald head shining. His purple velvet vest, topped off with a flamboyant silver scarf, makes me smile.
“Braxton?”
Long legs eat up the ground, carrying him to meet me. “What in the Sam Hill are you doing in that old place?” he asks, but he’s smiling and I throw myself into his outstretched arms.
It’s like being wrapped in steel. Braxton LaFleur is the closest thing to an older brother I’ve ever had. He smells like black coffee, pumpkin muffins, and clean aftershave.
His embrace is just what I need, and he lifts me off the ground, swinging me around like I’m a little girl. “You’ve been in town nine hours and didn’t so much as text me?” He sets me down, his face as indignant as his voice. “You should be ashamed.”
Yes, I should. “Things have been a mess. My phone died on the way here and I haven’t recharged it.”
His dark eyes convey hurt. “You could have had the clinic call me to pick you up this morning.”
“During rush hour at the Honey Bar?” The son of Queenie, he’s a true businessman. His place is a coffee bar by morning and a liquor establishment once 4 p.m. comes around. It’s located next to his mama’s restaurant.
He throws his head back and laughs. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the owner and I do have minions who can hold down the fort for me, y’know? Where’s that phone? We need to get it recharged ASAP.”
I smile. “In my car.” We walk the stone path toward the house, passing the gazebo side by side, and thoughts about talking cats and my aunt’s weird demise leave for a brief moment or two. “Did you happen to see Tabby jet by you?” I ask him.
“What’s she doing out here?” Brax scans the area, searching for her. “Did you let her out of the house?”
Rosie is waiting on the screened in porch, looking anxious. She gives me a little wave, as if wanting me to hurry.
“I guess she escaped last night,” I tell Brax. “I don’t know what happened to her. Or Aunt Willa,” I add.
He drops a muscled arm around my shoulder. “Honey, your auntie lived a good life. This town was her everything and it will be tough to fill her shoes, but right now, the ladies auxiliary has descended, and we need to get you cleaned up. I’ll come back out and look for the cat, but honey, you’re a fright.”
No wonder Rosie looks anxious. As we climb the back steps, she holds the screen door open for us. I look back over my shoulder one last time. “I need to find Tabitha.” And I do, but it’s also a reason to avoid the ladies auxiliary.
In my pocket, the chain has warmed, and I grab hold of it like a lifeline. I pull it out and hold it up in the sunlight filtering through the screen to examine it. I can see where the chain broke in two. “And I need to find the key. It’s missing.”
Brax and Rosie exchange a look. They know what I’m talking about. “Well, it surely isn’t in that old homestead,” Brax says with a shudder. “That place is haunted, Ava, and the ghosts can have it if it’s in there.”
Ghosts—is that what I saw? The naked woman seemed real enough, and Tabitha had the same voice. Was the woman a ghost who took over poor Tabby’s form?
A new idea hits and it’s so preposterous I take a step back. Is Tabitha…?
“Ava?” Rosie snaps me out of my thoughts, her finger caressing one end of the chain still dangling in the air. “Where did you find this?”
“The creek. It must have broken when she fell in. If she fell in.”
Brax’s thick eyebrows draw together in confusion. “What do you mean if? Sorry to be crass, but they found her face down in the water, didn’t they? ”
“Mama thinks she heard Aunt Willa arguing with someone right before she died. What if they knocked her into it, choked her, and drowned her?”
Rosie looks dismayed. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”
Brax grabs me by both shoulders. “Your auntie had a heart attack, honey. Then she fell into the creek.”
They’re both looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. That’s not out of the question, I guess.
Tabitha’s words ring in my ears. He killed her.
I’m not sure there’s anyone in the world who knows me better than Braxton. I almost confess all, telling him about Tabitha talking, the inanimate objects out front as well. They all insist Aunt Willa was killed, murdered.
I’m starting to think the same thing, but why? Who in the world would hurt my poor aunt?
Behind us, deeper inside the house, I hear the rise and fall of female voices and laughter. It brings me back to reality, and I shake off the idea of confessing to Braxton and Rosie what’s been going on in my head. “Why are they here?” I whisper. “Why didn’t they go to Mama’s house?”
Brax releases my shoulders. He’s still looking at me as though he’s worried about my health. “They tried. Your mother wouldn’t let them in. Said she was going to work, if you can believe that.”
I believe it. I guess the sleep meds wore off. And not even those or her sister’s death will keep Mama from her office. It’s a coping mechanism. We’re both well versed in it.
“What should I do with all the food?” Rosie asks. “The fridge is already full.”
Brax takes the lead, guiding us into the mudroom. “First, Ava needs a shower and makeup,” he says. “I’ll handle the food and get that cell phone charged. Then the auxiliary.”
We continue into the kitchen and he lowers his voice. “After that, we’ll find Tabby, the key, and get you and Mama Della to the funeral parlor to make the proper arrangements.”
I’m chilled to the bone all over again, my mind swimming with responsibilities and the idea my aunt may have been murdered. At the mention of the funeral parlor, my stomach clenches. I need answers and haven’t a clue where to look for them. “I think I’m losing my mind,” I say under my breath.
“You’re shaking like a leaf.” Brax rubs one of my arms. “Let’s get you in a hot shower.” He pushes me toward the back stairs, and over his shoulder he calls to Rosie, “Take the overflow food next door to Uphill’s. He has that huge commercial fridge for the B&B. Plus, he won’t mind snitching some of it for himself and his very full guest list this weekend.”
Rosie looks relieved. “I’m on it.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m showered and Brax has blown out my hair and applied generous amounts of makeup. I’m still eight hours short on sleep, but like any proper Southern lady I’m hiding it under a smile and extra concealer.
“Ready?” Brax holds out a hand to me on the stairs.
Slipping mine into his, I draw a deep breath. The ladies auxiliary will be my undoing if I’m not careful, but after the past day and night I have more important things on my mind.
Looking him in the eye, I nod. “Ready.”
Chapter Eleven
The next five hours go by in a blur of Aqua Net, pearls, and endless soups, greens, cornbread, biscuits, pineapple upside down cake, and Coca Cola.
My cheeks hu
rt from smiling, my neck from nodding, and I skirt questions about taking over The Wedding Chapel. The bump on the back of my head throbs, and I feel a migraine coming on.
Mama calls at one point and tells me she’s contacted the funeral parlor and Mr. Shackleford will arrange a meeting time the next day. My stomach turns over at the thought.
By three, I’m dead on my feet. Brax makes excuses for me and I say my goodbyes to those still lingering. His mama hasn’t made it by yet—her main stove at the restaurant went belly up right before the lunch rush and she’s been battling with that since.
A small group of the ladies continue on strong, even after Brax trundles me upstairs to my bedroom. I plop on the bed and he pulls off my shoes—a pair of heels he discovered in Willa’s closet and forced me to wear. My aunt and I have the same shoe size, but my feet are killing me all the same.
My hair has resumed its normal messiness, defying Brax’s ministrations. My makeup is long past its prime as well after receiving dozens of hugs and air kisses from auxiliary members who still remember me as a little girl.
I don’t have the energy to peel off my clothes or wash my face. I fall sideways onto the pillow, Brax’s voice already growing distant as my eyes fall like heavy weights. The delicious feeling of the soft pillow makes me sigh. Maybe if I sleep, the migraine will disappear and the knot on the back of my head will shrink.
“I’ll check on you later, honey.” He draws an afghan over me. “But if you need me at any point, you call me, you hear? Your phone’s all charged.”
“Mm hmm,” I mutter, not even able to get a thank you out.
Arthur and Lancelot jump on the bed, nestling beside me, and I sink into oblivion.
* * *
When I wake sometime later the room is dark.
A small, warm body is curled against my back. I hear quiet humming and I smile to myself.
Aunt Willa.
The thought, and the humming, rap on my sleepy brain, bringing me into full consciousness. My heart skitters and I’m frozen. The only light comes from the window with a seat that overlooks the gardens. A partial moon sends soft illumination to kiss the lace curtains and make patterns on the floor.
“Aunt Willa?” I call softly into the shadows of the hallway.
Like a dream, the humming fades. My eyes adjust and I spot a glass of water and my phone on the nightstand. There’s also a sticky note.
I reach for it, but can’t quite make out the message. Kicking off the afghan wrapped around my legs, I sit up and sling my feet over the edge of the bed. A touch of vertigo hits, but the migraine has gone.
Over my shoulder, I see Lancelot and Arthur cuddled around Tabby.
Tabby! Hallelujah.
I sigh with relief that she’s back and safe. The previous encounter with her flashes through my mind. I rub the back of my head, the lump no smaller and still sore. Did I imagine her talking to me?
I hold up the sticky note and turn it toward the window, seeing Brax’s handwriting. His fine print has long strokes and informs me he found Tabby at the back door. Must have got hungry, the message reads.
The alarm clock numbers read a few minutes past eleven. I check my phone and see a voicemail from Mama and a couple of text messages from my friend Winter Whitethorn. She’s in Oregon and several hours behind the East Coast.
Mama’s message tells me that our appointment with Mordecai Shackleford at Resting Hollow Funeral Parlor is at 10 a.m. the next morning. She asks if I’m coming over for dinner tonight, which I’ve obviously missed at this hour. Even though I was sleeping, I feel the familiar guilt oozing through my veins. I do need to talk to her, question her again about what she heard at the creek. At this hour, I’m hoping that she’s in bed. My questions will have to wait till morning.
I relieve my bladder, wash my face and brush out my hair. I slip into clean pajamas—Brax washed and left the folded pair on the bathroom vanity—and return to the bedroom. Arthur and Lancelot have vanished, and Tabitha is sitting on the antique trunk.
She lifts a paw, licks it, washes her face. All while throwing me a bored look.
My gaze drops to the trunk. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what’s in there?” I turn on the bedside lamp. “Or explain who ‘he’ is—the man you mentioned at the old homestead—or why he killed my aunt?”
Her yellow eyes, gold in the light, barely glance at me as she continues her face cleaning. A part of me is relieved she doesn’t speak. I can chalk up the earlier incident to my concussion.
The other part, the more practical one, is disappointed. If the cat can talk, she might be able to clear up a lot of my questions.
One of the most important blurts right out. “Were you there with her when she died?”
Another flick of the yellow eyes and back to her paw, but her tongue hesitates for a moment as though she understands me. I brace myself, assuming she’s going to actually speak.
She doesn’t, using her paw to work over one of her ears.
“Come on, Tabitha. If you can talk, now is the time.”
She ignores me, moving to lick her forepaw. Frustrated, I let out a heavy sigh and look up toward the heavens. “I don’t understand any of this,” I tell whoever may be listening. “Aunt Willa, if you’re around and can come through, I could use some help.”
Tabitha stops washing herself and looks at me as though I’m daft. Maybe I am. No ghost nor naked women appear, no objects in the room decide to speak.
My stomach growls and I rub a hand over my eyes. “Okay then. There’s only one thing to do at this late hour.”
I head downstairs, flipping on lights as I make my way to the kitchen.
Tabitha follows, meowing, the sound slightly chastising.
As the water in the kettle heats, I inventory the numerous desserts covering the countertop and kitchen table. No surprise there is a plethora of chocolate—my favorite—including cookies, cakes, and candy. Snatching bites here and there, I return to a huge plate of chocolate chip cookies and snag two.
My stomach was too upset earlier to eat, and now in the quiet of the house I’m content to stuff my face with comfort food as I wander the front rooms.
Arthur and Lancelot jump into their respective spots in the large display windows, tiptoeing around the wedding scenes depicted in them. Across the bride and her woodland setting, two dark shadows, backlit by the streetlight and moon, mimic the cat gargoyles on the porch bannister.
Sentries on watch, all of them. I think about going out to confront the gargoyles and the door knocker but decide it’s not worth the chilly night air.
Rosie’s desk is piled high with file folders and three-ring binders. Colored sticky notes cover her computer screen and blotter. Pictures of her three dogs are nearly hidden behind all of the work.
My aunt’s desk is still pristine and resembles a shrine in the glow of the overhead ceiling light. An eclectic mix of folding chairs have been left on both sides, the energy of the ladies lingering along with their perfumes.
The kettle whistles, and I turn off the front room lights, returning to the kitchen. There, I make a cup of mint tea, start to grab another cookie, and end up taking the whole plate upstairs with me. As Tabitha and I climb the steps, she jets past me, returning to the bedroom.
The trunk is heavier than I expect, and I tug and grunt, sliding it over to the window seat. The pillows and blanket were handmade by my aunt and are the same ones I sunk into as a girl. I make myself comfortable, finishing my cookie as I stare at the trunk.
I spent countless hours in this window seat growing up, lost in grand adventures in the books I read. My favorite series was Nancy Drew, and the collection still sits on the child’s desk across the room from me. Every one of her books was read and re-read countless times, leading me to stare out at the gardens and dream about my future life and all the things I wanted to do. Like Nancy, I was going to help people, solve mysteries, triumph over injustice, and put the bad guys away. As I got older, I became fascinated
with weddings, drawing intriguing gowns, and imagining dressing brides all over the world who were just as dynamic and adventurous as I was. Ballgowns, mermaid gowns, sleek modern sheaths…I wanted to create cutting-edge designs for brave, spunky heroines.
Tabitha hops up on the seat next to me, eyeing the cookies on the plate. I pin her with my gaze. “Tell me what I need to know,” I say to her, “and you can have all the cookies you want.”
She cuts her golden eyes to me then lies down next to my leg, staring at the trunk.
Well, it was worth a try.
The way she stares, infatuated at the trunk, reminds me of the look on Logan’s face when he saw Prissy this morning and thought we might put on a show.
“Alright.” I take one last sip of tea to fortify myself before I flip the metal latch in the center of the trunk. My breath catches in my chest and I force myself to take a deep breath and ignore my fluttering pulse. “Let’s see what secrets are inside this thing.”
The dome lid squeaks as I lift it, like nails on a chalkboard. I flinch, and Tabby’s nails extend, clawing into the padded seat under us. The top of the trunk is filled with a few old books, some of my aunt’s costume jewelry, a few random trinkets.
False bottom, I remember. I shift things around, searching for a way to find it.
Sure enough, with another squeak, this one deeper, I find a lip under the memorabilia and give a tug.
As moonlight and lamplight converge and dance together to illuminate the contents below, I stare somewhat dumbfounded at the collection of items inside.
And then as realization dawns, an icy shiver races up my spine.
Chapter Twelve
“What in heaven’s name?” My eyes skim over the contents several times, cataloguing each one.
A glass ball catches the moonlight, a feather boa waves at me as if there’s a breeze. Several books, some seemingly older than others, scarves, candles, a deck of tarot cards.
Pumpkins & Poltergeists, Confessions of a Closet Medium, Book 1 Page 5
