Eulalie walked her to the door. “I do hope you’ll consider staying here again the next time you’re in town.”
Avery stepped over the threshold and there was a steely undertone to her words as she said, “You’re very kind, Miss Eulalie, but I don’t plan on ever coming back.”
Chapter Nine
My next-door neighbor Mr. Dunwoody was sitting in a ruby red rocking chair on his front porch as I left Eulalie’s inn and headed for home.
“Good morning, Miz Carly!” he called out, raising up a mason jar of amber liquid in a toast.
To an average onlooker, it might appear as though it was sweet tea inside that glass this early in the day. Those who knew Mr. Dunwoody were aware it was bourbon on the rocks. He preferred a little tipple in the morning, sweet tea at noon, and straight hot black tea at night.
He was a bit eccentric to say the least.
In his early seventies, he’d been a widower for going on thirty years now and rarely spoke of his late wife. After retiring ten years ago from his job as a tenured professor at the local college he started embracing the bachelor life. He was loving every second of having a full dance card.
Women adored him. With his long narrow face, kind dark eyes, quirky bow ties and general happiness, and big bank account, he was a catch and a half.
If he wanted to be caught.
He didn’t. He claimed to be having too much fun as a single man.
Mr. Dunwoody was also famous around town for his weekly matrimonial forecasts. He had an uncanny knack for predicting impending relationship issues. Marriages, breakups, divorces, reunions. Most wrote off his talent as a lark, but I sensed a kindred spirit in this man nearly forty years my senior. There was something mystical about him, and I often wondered how deep his abilities ran. I suspected we had a lot more in common than living on the same road.
“It is morning. Good is debatable.” Pushing open an iron gate, I detoured up his front walkway. Although it had stopped raining, puddles pooled on the flagstone path and shrubby limbs drooped with water weight.
As usual, Mr. Dunwoody was outfitted in his Sunday best. Pressed dress pants, spit-shined wingtips, a baby blue button-down shirt beneath an argyle vest, and a gray flannel bow tie.
Taking a chance, I slipped off my sunglasses as I sat down in a matching rocker next to his. I glanced around to make sure there weren’t any new ghosts nearby. There weren’t. Only Virgil. He lingered at the curb. Haywood had once again wandered off. For a ghost who wanted my help, he wasn’t making my job easy with his disappearing acts.
“No offense, Carly Bell, but you look plumb tuckered.” Mr. Dunwoody tsked. “You want some of what I’m having?” He held up his glass.
“Only when I want hair to grow on my chest.”
He rocked backward and let out a high-pitched tee-hee-hee, his signature laugh. I adored the sound of it.
I wasn’t offended by his observation. I expected no sugarcoating from Mr. Dunwoody. He’d been in my life since the day I was born and was practically family, the uncle I never had. It would have been strange if he didn’t comment on the obvious.
“Coffee, then?” he offered. “It’s not a hundred proof like my beverage of choice, but it’s the good stuff, freshly ground.”
“Thank you, but I’ll take a rain check,” I said as I held on to my locket, sliding it back and forth along its chain.
Scratching his chin with long dark fingers, he said, “What’s going on? Is this about that Haywood business?”
Mr. Dunwoody had been growing out a beard, which was more salt than pepper, and I was still adjusting to not seeing him freshly shaven. Most of the short dark hair on his head was threaded with silver, but above each ear the silver was taking over in patches and spreading upward toward his temples.
Blue jays screamed in the distance as I held his gaze. “Two ghosts, a hornet’s nest, a near catfight, and Patricia Davis Jackson has been arrested.”
Leaning down, he picked up a silver flask that had been hidden next to one of the rocker’s runners. He topped off his drink, then replaced the flask. “Start at the beginning.”
I did, but I gave him the CliffsNotes version of events to keep from sounding like I was whining.
“Gad night a livin’,” he proclaimed. “Haywood is the heir to the Ezekiel mansion?”
“It seems that way. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him about it yet. He keeps disappearing on me.”
“Why?” he asked, bristly eyebrows dropping into a V. “Doesn’t he need your help to cross over?”
“I was asking myself the same thing earlier. It’s not making sense to me.” I should have been thrilled that he was letting me be, but it felt . . . off.
It was as though he was hiding.
From me.
When really, it ought to be the other way around.
“It’s a befuddlement to be sure,” Mr. Dunwoody said.
“Did you know Haywood’s mother at all?” I asked. “I don’t know anything about her other than she died during childbirth. Retta Lee Dodd.” I’d seen the name on the Ezekiel family tree.
Mr. Dunwoody rocked slowly as he pondered. “Not really. She was a bit older than I was, and we didn’t quite run in the same circles, segregation being what it was in those days.”
I hated thinking of him feeling like an outcast. It hurt like a deep bone-jarring ache, not so very different from the pain that came when Virgil was near.
“But I heard rumors about her, all the same.”
“What kind?” I asked.
“About how she’d found herself with child. It was all the talk around town when her mama and daddy sent her away to one of those boardinghouses for unwed mamas.”
“How old was she?”
“Not yet twenty as I recall.”
Back in those days—the early fifties—having a baby out of wedlock was viewed as pretty much the worst sin a young woman could commit, especially here in the South. Society had come a long way in publicly accepting unwed mothers, but even so, there were still some here who would look down their nose at a woman in such a situation.
“She passed on while giving birth to that baby, and her mama and daddy took charge of him.”
“Who was Haywood’s father? The name’s rubbed out on the family tree.”
“Not sure. Rupert had a boy about her age, perhaps a bit older, but he was at war when all this was going on.”
“Do you think the father could have been Rupert himself?”
He sipped from his glass and shrugged. “Anything’s possible, I suppose. He was a widower by then, but there was a good twenty-some-year age difference between the two. I never heard any talk about it. And small towns being small towns, word would have gotten around. If she had been seeing Rupert Ezekiel, I would have known. The town would have known. And we all would have known the baby she had was most likely his.”
Water dripped from the eaves as I bit my thumbnail, feeling like I’d hit another dead end. “How about a possible rift between Patricia Davis Jackson and Haywood? Do you know anything about that?”
“A rift?”
“Apparently, she doesn’t care for him.”
He cracked a smile. “I didn’t know, but I suppose that explains why she might have hit him over the head with a candlestick.”
Fidgety, I tugged on the cuff of my raincoat. “Our working theory is that she didn’t commit the crime. That she just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Ice rattled as he took a sip of his drink. “Our?”
“Well, Dylan’s theory.” I bit another nail. “I’m still on the fence about her guilt. Camped up there on that fence, in fact. I might make some s’mores I’m so comfy up there.”
Laughing, he said, “Your caution comes from wisdom. Firsthand experience is a wise teacher. You have seen her worst. Others don’t possess such clarity.”
No, most didn’t, for which I was grateful. I could handle Patricia, but others would cower under one of her verbal at
tacks, as Avery Bryan had last night. I asked Mr. Dunwoody if he knew of her.
A bristly eyebrow arched. “Who?”
There went that hope.
I drummed my fingers on the chair arms and noticed Virgil sitting dejectedly at the curb. “I don’t suppose you know what became of Virgil Keane’s dog, Louella?”
Overdramatically, Mr. Dunwoody shuddered. “Meanest little dog I ever did meet. I haven’t seen her since Virgil passed on.”
He sounded relieved by that last part.
I said, “Virgil’s not going to cross over until he knows what happened to her.”
Mr. Dunwoody rocked slowly. “Check with Doc Gabriel. If anyone would know, it’s him.”
It was an excellent suggestion. Not only because Doc’s vet practice was also in charge of the town’s animal control, but because he was married to Idella Deboe Kirby, one of the Harpies. He might know something about the Ezekiel house and Haywood’s murder that he’d be willing to share . . . or that I could trick him into admitting.
The only rub was that his practice wasn’t open on Sundays, and I couldn’t quite bring myself to call on him at home.
Tomorrow would be soon enough. I’d stop by to see him first thing in the morning.
“Thanks for all the help, Mr. Dunwoody.” Standing, I bent and gave him a kiss on his cheek before I put my sunglasses back on.
“Anytime, Carly Bell. Anytime. Where are you off to now?”
“Just going home.” I wanted to see what I could learn about Avery Bryan online.
“That’s right. The hibernation. Much safer inside with all the ghosts out and about.”
“It definitely is,” I agreed. But as I walked away, I had the uneasy feeling that at this point the ghosts were the least of my problems.
• • •
I returned home to find my mama and daddy in my kitchen.
They’d been busy in the short time I’d spent with Eulalie and Mr. Dunwoody. My daddy was hard at work creating quite the Sunday breakfast spread. Buttermilk waffles, bacon, griddled potatoes. He was the best cook I knew, and I was suddenly famished.
Mama was busy, too . . . reading through the stack of paperwork Dylan and I had copied at Haywood’s house.
“Well slap me nekkid and sell my clothes!” Mama exclaimed as I kicked off my boots. She held up a photocopy of the Ezekiel family tree. “Is this true? Was Haywood Dodd the heir to the Ezekiel mansion?”
“It looks that way,” I said as I kissed my daddy’s cheek and gave my mama a hug hello. “This is a surprise, seeing you both here.”
Raising pencil-drawn eyebrows, Mama tipped her head and oh so sweetly said, “It wouldn’t have been if you’d answered your phone this morning.”
Point taken. “Yeah, yeah.”
“We can’t stay long,” my daddy said. “I’ve got to open the Little Shop of Potions and your mama has three weddings lined up for this afternoon.”
My mama owned the Without A Hitch wedding chapel, one of the most popular chapels in town. It was a bit ironic to me that as an officiator she’d wed hundreds if not thousands of couples . . . yet she steadfastly refused to walk down the aisle with my father. They’d been engaged for more than thirty years, which might just be the longest engagement in history.
She was a die-hard marriagephobe (all the Fowl women were), and Daddy was a hopeless romantic. Despite the oddity of the relationship, theirs was a match made in heaven, and they truly loved each other.
“Now tell me where you found all this,” Mama requested, pointing specifically at the family tree.
Crouching, I scratched Roly’s and Poly’s heads. They were sitting at my daddy’s feet, no doubt hoping bacon would fall from the sky like manna from heaven. “Haywood showed me this morning.”
Mama blinked her beautiful brown eyes. “Shut the front door.”
Letting out a gusty breath, Daddy turned the bacon strips so they wouldn’t burn, and said, “How did his ghost find you?”
I grabbed some plates from the cabinet and told them the whole story.
“In light of this ghostly revelation, I suppose I forgive you for running out of the ball last night the way you did,” Mama said. “Besides, there’s no way the Harpies will hold your behavior against your daddy if you’re helping to get Patricia out of jail.”
Speaking of ghosts, on my way home from Mr. Dunwoody’s I’d suggested to Virgil that he search the river walk for any sign of Louella and meet up with me later. Seeing him mope around wasn’t doing either of us any good. Haywood hadn’t yet returned, either, so I was ghost-free for the time being.
Bliss.
“I don’t like you being involved in this investigation,” Daddy said, slipping tiny bits of bacon to the cats.
I was glad Dr. Gabriel wasn’t around to witness Poly pounce on the bacon like he was starving to death.
“You should be home,” Daddy went on, “hibernating just as planned. Patricia sitting in a jail cell isn’t going to hurt her none. Serves her right in fact for her reprehensible behavior toward you all these years. I recall she used to be a lovely woman. It’s a damn shame she has turned into an angry biddy.”
“Now, now, Gus,” my mama said, her color high. “Don’t be making such statements. Without Patricia’s say-so you’re not getting into the Harpies. We need her on our side, and you know she’s not guilty.”
Mama was clearly undeterred in her efforts to see my daddy on the Harpies committee. “You don’t think Patricia killed Haywood?” I asked her.
“Patricia’s mean as a snake, but she isn’t violent,” Mama said, continuing to thumb through Haywood’s papers.
“Rona, sugar, Patricia won’t have a say-so from a jail cell,” Daddy pointed out, all calm and rational. “In addition, with Patricia in jail Carly and Dylan won’t have to deal with her interference anymore.”
Mama suddenly beamed. “Oh! And your chances of landing a spot on the Harpies committee is even better if there are two vacancies. I’ll put together a luncheon for later this week. Invite the remaining Harpies, their husbands. Make a whole to-do about it.”
“That backfired on you, didn’t it?” I poked my father with my elbow.
Frowning, he poured waffle batter into the iron and didn’t say anything else.
Taking pity on him, I said, “I don’t know if Daddy will have time to be campaigning for the Harpies this week, what with him covering for me at the shop. Plus, I need his help with Haywood’s paperwork. My eyes crossed trying to go through all of it. Census forms, employment records, tax notices . . .” I shrugged. “It gives me a headache.”
“Sounds right up my alley,” he said, a mite too eager. “What are you looking for specifically?”
I set out silverware. “A connection between Haywood’s mama, Retta Lee, and Rupert Ezekiel, the last known owner of the Ezekiel mansion. There was a twenty-plus-year age difference between the two and it doesn’t seem like a natural pairing. Besides, how do we even know Haywood is the true heir? All we have is this lone family tree telling us so. I’d like more evidence.”
Mama eyed us suspiciously. “Fine. I’ll reschedule the luncheon for the following week.”
Daddy rolled his eyes.
A moment later, we all looked up as someone tapped on the back door, then swung it open. Limping, Delia came inside, cape hanging askew over her shoulder.
She wasn’t alone.
Jenny Jane Booth was floating right behind her.
“Crrlyyyy,” Delia slurred breathlessly, clearly frustrated. “I neeurelp.”
Chapter Ten
I wasn’t sure how I’d managed to decipher what she said, but I did.
Carly. I need your help.
Roly and Poly let out screeches and darted for the stairs, abandoning their dreams of more bacon bits in favor of self-preservation.
My head hurt, one side of my body felt strangely numb, and when I opened my mouth to ask Delia what was wrong, all that came out was “Whaaarrrng?”
Then I recalled
that Jenny Jane Booth, who’d been in her late-fifties at the time, had died last Christmas from a massive stroke. She’d been a sweet yet no-nonsense woman, a stay-at-home mama who’d raised three kids into responsible adults with a whole lot of love and little else. She’d always been kind to me, and I’d been sad to hear of her sudden death last December.
Trying to persuade her to back up, I made a shooing motion, but that only seemed to draw her nearer once she realized I could see her, too. In a flash, she was in my face, her blue-gray eyes pleading as she moaned and groaned. “Errrmmmbbb!”
“What in the name of sweet baby Jesus was that?” my mama screeched in a high-pitched voice as she jumped to her feet.
Daddy put a hand on my arm and said, “Carly?”
“Mmmm finnn,” I said, trying to tell him I was fine. Dang. The words just wouldn’t come out right.
Jenny Jane continued to moan.
Pale-faced, my mama backed slowly into the living room.
I looked to Delia for help, then realized it was why she’d come to me. With Jenny Jane near, Delia couldn’t speak properly in order to tell Jenny Jane to back the hell up.
Fighting against the head pain, I dragged my right leg behind me as I walked over to the kitchen junk drawer. My right arm was all but useless as I foraged for a pen and paper. When I found them, I slapped them on the countertop and painstakingly began to write with my nondominant left hand.
The letters looked like chicken scratch but the message was clear.
Go stand by the front door.
I held the note up to Jenny Jane. Frowning, she stared at it and did nothing.
As quickly as I could, I added a RIGHT NOW to the note in all capital letters. I shook the paper at her and pointed toward the front door.
Jenny Jane held up her hands as though not understanding.
Never had I been more frustrated at feeling the effects of a ghost’s demise. Especially when said ghost had full use of her limbs and I did not.
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