by Angie Fox
That was my cue. I stood and gathered my bag. I'd wait out the rest of Frankie's search from the front seat of my car. "Congratulations again on your documentary and your film."
Virginia nodded, as though she was the queen of England and I was being dismissed.
All right, then. I passed two cameramen and caught the eye of the producer on the way out. Poor man. I gave him a quick, reassuring smile. "Ask to see the carriage house." It was the only original building left. Beau had taken me inside once. "It's pretty neat."
"Wait," he called after me. "Miss, are you going to be on camera with Mrs. Wydell?" He glanced at the queen bee. "If so, we may want to put some makeup on you."
"Oh no." Virginia stood, all grace and manners. "She's not part of the family. She didn't make the cut."
I patted the man on the arm. "Good luck." And with that, I slipped out of the house.
The film was for the sake of Sugarland, I reminded myself as I descended the brick patio steps. This wasn't just about the Wydells.
Only it was.
I climbed into the land boat. Virginia would get hers some day. I had to believe that.
In the meantime, Frankie shimmered into view in the seat next to me.
"You done making chitchat?" he asked, like I'd been in there gabbing over pastries and coffee. "Because I found something."
Chapter Nine
"WHY DIDN'T YOU come get me?" I gasped, starting the engine.
"I was waving to you from the front window," he said, demonstrating. "And on top of the piano. I practically slid down the front hall banister."
"I was distracted." Getting Virginia's tacit confession. And now the evidence. It was almost too much. I punched the gas harder than I'd intended. The green monster shot forward and I had to quickly force the wheel left, lest we end up in a hydrangea bush. "Where was it?" I mean, I'd hoped we'd find the secretary, but I didn't think it was likely. "The smart thing would have been to destroy it."
Leave it to Virginia to get cocky.
Frankie chuckled. "I thought the same thing." He leaned back against the seat. "Maybe we're not so different after all."
"So where did you find it?" We'd inform the police and let them handle it from here on out.
My arms ached as I muscled us down the driveway. I'd never missed power steering more than I did at that moment, but Frankie's discovery gave me plenty of motivation to get away from the Wydell estate. As if I needed more.
"It's in the carriage house," Frankie explained. "We used to hide out in there." He smiled, remembering. "We had this secret room underground, with an entrance under the stairs. I swear nobody's been down there since we dropped our card game and ran out of there after Lemonhead botched that drop in 1933."
It made sense. I'd be willing to bet nobody had been down there except for Virginia Wydell. She didn't think anyone would find her trophy, but she hadn't counted on a sneaky ghost. I wanted to kiss Frankie, to hug him. My stomach quivered and my head swam. I'd hoped this would work out, but part of me hadn't dared think it would be this easy. I gripped the wheel as we lurched over a nasty bump—testing the Cadillac's ancient suspension. "Virginia Wydell is a murderer!"
There. I said it out loud.
Yes, the woman was a vicious Southern belle who would smile while she scratched your eyes out. She massacred reputations, ripped into hearts and souls without a thought. But until she'd admitted having blood on her hands, I'd never let myself fully believe she could stab Darla Grace in the back with a bayonet.
Now we had proof. Especially if her fingerprints were all over that document.
"What are you talking about?" Frankie asked, leaning hard as I maneuvered a tight turn around a bend, narrowly avoiding a small garden. "She tell you that?"
Of course not. No. "She didn't need to tell me. You found the antique secretary, with the letter, on her property. And did it have Darla's notebook in it as well?"
That would prove she had a motive and link her to Darla.
I didn't know if I should call Ellis about this, or talk to Marshall first and then talk to Ellis. The police would have to get a search warrant.
Frankie groaned as I hit another dip in the road. "I didn't find no secretary."
"Just the letter?" I pressed.
He shook his head no.
I ground to a stop as we approached the guard gate. "But you said you found it in the carriage house. " Maybe he hadn't used the words letter or secretary exactly. "What kind of proof did you find?"
Maybe I shouldn't have been having a terse conversation with the empty passenger seat of my car. Not with security cameras pointed at me. But we had to get this straight.
Immediately.
Frankie shook his head as the gate slowly opened for us. "When I said I found something, I meant our poker game. From 1933." He grinned broadly. "It was still laid out like it was before we had to get out of Dodge." He leaned toward me, as if this were the good part. "I picked up Silvio the Greek's hand and—bam—he had an extra ace. I knew he was cheating! I told him that night. That bastard owes me fifty bucks!"
"Wait. You were talking about a card game?" I didn't need this from him. Not now. "We're investigating a murder here!"
Frankie furrowed his brow. "And I had a life before I met you. Geez."
Unbelievable. "I thought we had real evidence."
He leaned back against the seat. "You want my help but you don't care at all that I knew Silvio was a cheat. He brought that ace in from another deck. I know because I marked the cards."
I tried to find it in me to care. "Isn't that cheating?"
Frankie waved me off. "You're missing the point."
I rested my head on the steering wheel as my euphoria drained away. "So you're telling me that's it. An old card game. That's what you found."
"Yeah." He glanced behind us. "You want to go back and swipe the evidence for me? I was thinking we should try. Just in case Silvio's ghost is still around. I fully intend to collect. It's not hard to get down there if you know how. I was gonna take you back, but then you got all excited and went barreling down the driveway like we was being chased. I just figured we were. You know, habit."
Oh, Lordy. "We can't go back in there now. I told the film crew to head that way." Besides, he couldn't spend fifty dollars even if he could track down this Silvio guy. Dazed, I started driving through the gate as it lazily swung open.
"That's okay," Frankie said. "We'll break in later."
I checked for traffic before pulling out onto the old mill road. I'd been so happy, but now my best chance at getting a lead for Ellis had turned out to be a complete dud. "I thought we solved the case."
"No, but after you unground me, and after you help me liberate my card game, I may help you with this murder thing."
"Gee, thanks."
As we drove, the countryside opened up and I saw downtown Sugarland in the distance.
I wouldn't say it out loud. Frankie wouldn't understand. But even after this morning's less-than-stellar results, I believed that our whole initial accident—me dumping the urn, grounding him, us being flung together—had happened for a reason, a higher good if you will. Too many positive things had come of it for me to think otherwise, from finding justice for that poor girl a few weeks ago, to giving us a clue about who might have killed Darla Grace.
But Frankie did have issues. I might be able to help, as long as I did it gently. The gangster wasn't the most touchy-feely person on the planet.
I tightened my fingers on the wheel. "Frankie, do you want to visit your death spot?"
He'd never wanted to tell me where he died, or what had happened that night. The only clue I had was the raw bullet hole in his forehead. I respected his need for privacy, but I was starting to suspect that it came with a lot of pain. The gangster might feel a lot better if he shared the load.
"You don't want anything to do with what happened to me," he said, shutting down. "I don't even know everything that went down before, you know"—he put a finger
to his forehead—"boom."
"I'm so sorry."
He shrugged and retreated from me to stare out the window.
I waved at a passing car driven by one of my mom's old church friends.
When Frankie showed no sign of wanting to continue our exploration into his past, I took mercy and switched back to where we'd started in the first place.
"Did you search everywhere you could for that declaration of parentage?" It would be easier to hide than an entire secretary.
He rested a hand over his eyes, appearing tired all of a sudden. "It's not there. I looked into every nook and cranny in that pile of bricks, and the carriage house." He smirked. "Saw more than I ever wanted to see of dame Wydell's personal life. Whatever you do, don't look in the nightstand drawer."
I couldn't help but chuckle. "Perish the thought." My blinker gave a loud click-clock, click-clock as I made a right onto Jackson Boulevard. It skirted south around the main part of town and back toward my house. "That document has to be somewhere on the Wydell property." I didn't know where else Virginia would hide it.
I could feel the gangster's gaze on me. "Unless she didn't do it."
"She's the best lead we have." And she was more than capable.
"Then we'll just have to figure out someplace else to look." The gangster gazed out the window at the bare trees dropping the last of their leaves.
I thought about it the rest of the way home—where else Virginia could have stashed the evidence. If she still had it anymore.
I was still thinking about it when I ground to a stop in my driveway.
"Verity," Frankie said, his face coming straight through my windshield at me. I startled. I'd thought he was in his seat. "The experiment is finished." He reappeared next to the kiddie pool as I hurried out of the car. "See?"
"Right," I said, rubbing a hand over my face. I joined him at the edge of the muck-filled plastic toy and sure enough, a thin layer of ash appeared to be floating on top.
"This is good," I said, grinning at him.
"Get the net," he ordered, following me as I walked over to where I'd left it by the hose. "Get both nets."
"Hold on," I told him. I needed the Tupperware. And some towels from the bathroom. "It's not going to disappear while I go get what I need."
I'd never seen Frankie this excited. He practically hummed with it. "But you will get me separated, won't you?"
Now was as good a time as any to find out.
Chapter Ten
I KNELT BY the kiddie pool while Frankie eyed me expectantly. I'd laid out a large Tupperware bowl and had a fish net in hand. Gently—expertly, I daresay—I skimmed the net over the top of the sludge-filled pool.
Flaky bits of ash stuck to the net, and when I'd gotten enough, I emptied them into the bowl. Sort of. "I still think I should put water in here so I can rinse the net."
Frankie watched over my shoulder. "The kid didn't say to do that."
Bits of ashes stuck to my fingers as I rubbed them up against the bowl. "The kid got a C on this project."
"C for complete," the gangster reasoned.
I glanced back at him. "You didn't pay a lot of attention in school, did you?"
He winked. "I lost interest after I learned how to count money."
Typical. I scooped some more, emptied some more.
"Use both nets," Frankie coached.
"This is barely working with one," I told him. It was a two-handed job.
By late afternoon, my back had started to ache and my knees were stiff from kneeling. I stood when Lauralee's red Ford Focus rolled into my back drive. Frankie groaned. "Don't worry," I said, careful not to upset our Tupperware bowl. "I'm just taking a little break."
I crossed the yard and waved to her. She got out of her car toting a brown paper take-out bag. "How'd they like the pulled pork?" I asked.
She broke into a grin. "It was so neat being on set. All the actors were so nice. And then Leon Garber, who will be the next George Clooney, this I promise you…he said my pulled pork was the best he's ever had. I got so nervous I couldn't say anything back."
"Your cooking speaks for you," I told her as she handed me the bag. "What's this?"
"Fried chicken and biscuits," she said with a touch of pride. "I'm on my way to set up dinner service."
"You don't have to feed me," I protested, appreciating it all the same. My stomach growled just smelling the spices in the breading.
"But I want to feed you. I might even be able to hire you next week."
"To work for Virginia Wydell?" I balked.
"Think of it as working for the good of Sugarland. Or helping me. The job's only going to get crazier once they cast all the extras and start shooting the battle." She fanned herself in mock excitement, then turned her attention to my science experiment. "What do you have going on here?"
I'm ashamed to say I considered lying. Lauralee didn't know anything about my Frankie problem, and I didn't feel like burdening her now. But this must look awfully strange.
"I think I might have a ghost," I said, in the understatement of the year. "I went online to see how to release it and…this happened."
"I can see you're trying." She planted her hands on her hips and surveyed the damage. "But if you want to banish a ghost, you need a psychic."
"Really?" How did she know so much? "You've never been haunted. Have you?"
She gave me a sidelong look. "Remember that cook at my work with the haunted lawn mower?" She nodded as I began to vaguely recall. Lauralee had a lot of crazy work stories. "Psychic cleared it right up."
Frankie shimmered into view behind Lauralee. "This is great," he said, wide-eyed.
"Then there's the waitress at work who's psychic," Lauralee continued. "She did a séance once in the parking lot and I swear we all saw these little flickering lights."
"Could be fireflies," I suggested.
Lauralee and Frankie both frowned at me. "What?" I asked. I obviously believed in ghosts, but that didn't mean I had to fall for every wild story. Besides, psychics cost money I didn't have.
"What's your game?" Frankie ground out. "You afraid it might work?"
I sighed. "I think I have to give this science fair project a chance," I said, realizing how sad it sounded.
Lauralee gave a slight tsk at the mess in my yard. "My waitress friend is looking for a logo for her fortune-telling business. I could talk to her for you."
"That would be lovely," I said, mainly to get Frankie off my case.
"Great, then," my friend said, as if that solved things. She gave me a nice, long hug. "I've got to go. Enjoy your supper."
"I will," I said, letting her go, "thanks to friends who don't know when to stop."
She grinned at that and got back in her car. I waved to her as she drove away, ignoring Frankie, who stood watching me.
"I like the idea of bringing in an expert," he said.
I returned to our backyard experiment. "I seriously doubt she's ever dealt with anything like this before." The sun would begin to go down soon. We had about a handful of ash from the entire pool of water. Not enough to even justify one of the measuring cups.
I took the Tupperware container with what we assumed were bits of Frankie. "Let's hope this does it," I suggested. "We'll return these ashes to your urn and maybe we won't even have to worry about the psychic."
Frankie frowned. "It doesn't look like all the ashes."
Truth be told, it didn't. I remembered dumping a lot more into the rosebushes. There had been at least three solid inches of ash in that urn.
We returned to the kitchen and I used my funnel to guide what we'd scooped into Frankie's urn. The ash clung in wet clumps, and it took some pounding of the urn on my counter, and some nudging with my finger, but we transferred what we had into the urn.
The gangster stood, hands at his sides, as if he were unsure of what to do next. I shared a glance with him. I knew the feeling.
The magnitude of the moment weighed on me as I placed the urn on t
he counter. This was it. "Okay. Try to leave."
He wet his lips and gave a quick nod. "Right." He adjusted his panama hat. "This is only my afterlife we're talking about."
My stomach went a little hollow. If this were truly it…I'd miss him. I hated to admit it, but I'd kind of gotten used to the jerk.
He locked eyes with me. "If this works, I'll come back and say good-bye."
It wouldn't be the same as having him here. But I had no right to hold him back anymore. He deserved to be free.
I gave him a weak smile and a nod. "Good luck," I said as he disappeared.
Chapter Eleven
OH, MY WORD. Frankie was gone. We'd actually done it. I let out a small laugh, then a bigger one, giddy, amazed…and a little sad.
Frankie was gone.
He'd promised to return for a final good-bye, but as I looked over my empty kitchen, I wondered if he would. He wasn't exactly the most reliable person on the planet. And he'd been trapped here for the last month and a half.
My eyes grew a little glassy. I was going to miss that jerk.
"Don't cry any tears of joy yet, princess," a dry voice said from behind me.
"Frankie?" I turned to find him hovering near my kitchen sink, arms crossed.
"I didn't get no farther than the driveway."
Oh. Shoot. "That's better than before, though. Right?"
He looked at me like I had two heads. "No. Why are you always okay with the fact that I can't leave your property? Science is a crock."
The way we'd done it in the backyard? Yes.
"We did make some progress," I said, trying to see the bright side. "We do have more of you in the urn." At least I hoped that was Frankie. "It will give us more to work with when we try again. And I do want to unground you," I promised. "I really do."
"You keep saying that." He removed his hat and placed it on the counter. Actually, it hovered about an inch above. "But what's the plan?"
Oh, gee. "Let me think." Perhaps Melody could do a search.
He let out a huff. "I say we call the psychic."
"Really?" I hadn't pegged him as the psychic type. "You believe in that?"
