Pecan Pies and Dead Guys

by Angie Fox

  “Is that one of our suspects?” I asked, pointing him out. If looks could kill, I’d be just as dead as the rest of them at this party.

  As soon as I called attention to the hostile ghost, he disappeared.

  “Who?” the inspector asked, turning his head a second too late.

  A confetti cannon fired from the second-story landing, spraying the cheering crowd with thousands of bits of glittery paper. I ducked my head at the brush of the ghost confetti against my skin. It felt like cold rain.

  “Our first suspects are the hosts of the party,” De Clercq said, ignoring the confetti on his shoulders. He tilted his head to indicate a glamorous couple in their prime. They held court by one of the open windows, surrounded by fawning admirers. “Mr. Graham Adair and his wife, Jeannie.”

  I did a double take when I saw them. Graham was a slender gentleman sporting a top hat and a mustache with twice the curl of De Clercq’s, while Jeannie had shoulders broad enough to stop a linebacker. She was resplendent in a sleeveless, sparkling tiered dress with fringes so long they brushed the floor. The Adairs were about the same height. In fact, with her high heels, Jeannie might have had an inch or two on her husband.

  As I watched, the lady of the house wrapped one swirly end of her husband’s mustache around her finger and tugged him into a kiss. They kept at it so long that I had to look away with secondhand embarrassment after her jeweled fascinator fell to the floor.

  “She’s certainly not shy,” I said.

  That didn’t mean she was a killer, although she and her husband had the means to commit a murder. As the owners of the estate, the Adairs spent the most time here and had the most familiarity with the grounds and especially the menagerie.

  But they seemed so happy together, so carefree. How could people who looked like that be murderers?

  Of course, I’d learned the hard way that appearances counted for nothing when it came to who might willingly end a life.

  “Now for our next suspects.” De Clercq led us into the next room, smaller than the entrance hall, with about the same number of people and piano music rising clear above the din. A petite, glamorous woman with a feather boa looped over her shoulders danced on top of a table with a debonair man in a tux, swinging each other around so vigorously I was afraid the fragile furniture would break underneath them.

  In fact, the table was broken—I could make out the pieces lying on the ground in real life. In the spirit realm, however, it stood upright and did its duty as a tiny dance floor. The dancer saw me staring at her, winked, and blew me a kiss before spinning into her next turn. Another lady, wearing nothing but a sparkly G-string and some strategically placed feathers, dangled from a swing fixed to the ceiling, swooping just low enough to exchange kisses with the guys if they jumped a little. And oh, how they jumped. The floor vibrated with their ups and downs.

  De Clercq pressed on as if the spectacle meant nothing to him. “Over there is Mr. Shane Jordan, a diamond dealer based in Memphis.”

  He pointed to the man I’d seen glowering at the bottom of the stairs.

  So he was a suspect.

  Shane Jordan had directed his attention elsewhere, and I used the opportunity to observe the man with pale, slicked-back hair and a cutthroat attitude. He appeared stiffer, sharper than a lot of the people here—less like he’d come to this party to kick back and hang loose. He held a tumbler in one hand and gesticulated with the other to the gentleman standing next to him. And I noticed he kept his back to the wall.

  “There—” De Clercq pointed across the room to the woman dancing on the table “—is another of our suspects: his lover, Marjorie Phillips.” As we watched, her partner spun her around and threw her over his shoulder into a flip. She landed with a shimmy and a grin—in high heels, no less. My feet hurt just looking at her.

  Frankie whistled. “Dang, look at the stems on that one. You think she can get ’em up over her head?”

  “Frankie,” I chided, “you’ve got Molly, remember?”

  “Sure, yeah, but…I mean, I’ve got eyes, too. I’m not dead.”

  Well. “Actually—”

  “How do you tolerate such blatant impertinence from your assistant?” Inspector De Clercq asked, with a pointed glare at me.

  Frankie pressed a hand theatrically to his chest. “It’s a struggle sometimes, it really is.”

  I’ll give you a struggle. I gritted my teeth and kept it together. Now wasn’t the time.

  “Mrs. Phillips was a professional dancer before her marriage,” De Clercq said.

  No kidding. “Is that her husband up there with her?” I asked. If so, they were a handsome couple.

  De Clercq shook his head. “No. His name is Marcus Phillips. He is our final suspect, and I’ve yet to locate him this evening.”

  “Hey, is this Marcus fellow a gambler?” Frankie prodded. “Because I hear a roulette wheel rolling from here.”

  “Frankie,” I began. This wasn’t the time to get distracted.

  “I bet that’s where Magnus is,” the gangster concluded, with absolutely no proof whatsoever.

  “Marcus,” I corrected.

  “I’ll go look,” Frankie assured us. He threaded his way through the crowd, heading for the next room.

  “You don’t even know what he looks like,” I called after him.

  I tried to follow but had a difficult time navigating the ghostly crowd. I didn’t like to come into contact with spirits, and they didn’t like touching me either. The sensation was cold and invasive and miserable for everyone involved. But apparently, these spirits hadn’t encountered too many live people, because I was buffeted on all sides the moment Frankie and the inspector weren’t flanking me anymore.

  “Excuse me,” I called out, sucking in my stomach, trying to make myself as thin as possible. “Can I just—please, I need to get through here.”

  Most of the ghosts ignored me, which was—well, it wasn’t what I was used to. I guess they had better things to do than chat with the living when it was so fun being dead. Except for one. I noticed him immediately, working his way through the crowd toward me.

  He couldn’t have been more than thirty-five, and he looked like he’d stepped straight out of an old black-and-white Hollywood movie, with chiseled features and wavy, Gary Cooper hair that curled at the ends. He wore a crooked grin, and his dark hair was just messy enough to give him an air of frivolity despite his tuxedo jacket. He wore his collar open, with no tie. And when his smile widened, well, I found myself grinning back.

  “Hey,” he said, stopping right in front of me. “You’re a girl.”

  “Are you always this observant?” I teased.

  “Ha.” He dipped his chin, recovering. “No. I mean a living girl.” He was so focused on me, he sloshed champagne out of his glass. It hit my foot like dry ice burning.

  “Watch out,” I warned, dodging backward, praying I didn’t run into another ghost.

  He advanced, fascinated, swallowing up all the space between us. “You can see me,” he said, unable to let it go.

  “It’s a gift and a curse,” I said, trying to keep my distance.

  He wasn’t getting the memo. I backed away farther, feeling my heart thunder in my ears, the blood pumping through my veins. I didn’t realize how far I’d retreated until my back hit the wall.

  “It’s amazing,” he pressed, close enough for me to see the slight furrowing of his brow as he trapped me.

  “Please,” I pressed. I didn’t want to be rude, but I couldn’t let him touch me. “You’re making me uncomfortable.” The trick was I had nowhere to go—not unless I wanted to go through him. And, oh my, I truly didn’t.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, jerking his head away. “That was—” He held up a hand and stepped back sharply. “I wasn’t thinking.” He held out a hand. “Marcus Phillips,” he said. “Please don’t think I’m a sap.”

  “I don’t,” I said, unsure of the slang, but willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Verity Long,” I
added, giving him a wave. “Forgive me if I don’t shake your hand.”

  “You’re forgiven if I am,” he said ruefully. The handsome ghost gingerly planted his back on the wall next to mine and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I just haven’t spoken to the living since…well—” he shrugged a shoulder “—since I was living.”

  “I’m still getting used to this whole thing myself,” I said. It wasn’t his fault I’d taken him by surprise. “Looks like I picked a good party.”

  Good for me, at least. I’d just located my final suspect.

  “I never miss it,” he said, his lips twisting into a wry grin as he looked out over the crowd. His attention landed on Marjorie Phillips dancing on the table.

  “Your wife is beautiful,” I told him.

  He let out a sharp breath. “She knows it,” he said uncomfortably, watching her lean up and plant a lingering kiss on her dance partner’s cheek. “She won’t dance with me. Not lately, anyway. But I promise you, I’m good.” He recovered and gave me a wink. “Come on,” he said, holding a hand out to me. “Let’s you and I give those two a run for their money.”

  “I can’t do that,” I said, backing away.

  “Why?” he asked. “Don’t you dance?” He grabbed for my hand.

  “Stop!” I tried to snatch it back but was too late. A full-body shudder rocked me. I felt the cold, invasive sting down to my bones and fell to the hard marble floor. “We can’t touch!”

  “Sweet Jesus!” The ghost reared back like I’d bit him.

  “What was that?” A nearby ghost recoiled as if he’d felt the aftershock, too. He straightened his glasses. “I swear I felt my heart beating just now,” he said, noticing me for the first time. His ringed fingers reached for me.

  I raised my hands defensively. “Frankie,” I hollered.

  But he was long gone. Marcus, who’d taken the force of our contact full-on, looked ready to keel over. And naturally, De Clercq hadn’t stuck around.

  “Hey there, honey,” a feminine voice said next to me. Before I could open my mouth, Marjorie Phillips shimmered into existence between me and the dead man in glasses. She cradled his cheeks and pushed up onto her tiptoes to kiss the tip of his nose. Then she shoved his face away with one hand. “Show’s over, sweet cakes.” She eyed Marcus, who was bent over a few feet away from me, breathing hard and staring at his hands. “You too, darling. I think the live girl’s had enough.”

  He looked past her to me. “I’m sorry,” he said before fading away.

  Marjorie watched him disappear, raising a slender cigarette holder to her lips.

  “You’ll have to forgive my better half,” she said, taking a drag. “Marcus isn’t always good at reading a lady’s signals.”

  “He just wanted to dance,” I said, hoping she’d take him up on it later. “I appreciate the help with the other one, though,” I added, rubbing the cold out of my shoulders. “My name is Verity Long.”

  Her lips quirked. “Aw, aren’t you polite? Marjorie Phillips,” she said, blowing smoke, acting casual. But I saw the way she studied me. She was trying to figure me out. It was only fair. I was doing the same to her.

  “Your husband was a complete gentleman,” I said. At least he’d tried to be.

  She lifted a slim shoulder. “He has his moments,” she said, matter-of-fact. “As long as he lets me have mine.”

  She fanned herself with her boa while I tried to get a handle on that statement. “But you love him, don’t you?” I asked, regretting the words as soon as I said them.

  Marjorie laughed. “Sure I do, after a fashion!” She ran a finger under the strand of pearls wrapped around her throat. “We grew up together—him, Graham Adair, and me. We’ve been friends since we were babies.”

  He sure hadn’t looked at her like a friend.

  Marjorie turned a glare on a pair of flappers who ventured too close. When they’d gone, she took another drag of her cigarette and blew smoke out her nose. “Marcus has always been there for me. In fact, he got me out of a nasty situation back in New York in ’26, so when he popped the question, I accepted.” She shrugged. “He says he needs me, and I guess that’s true.” She forced a laugh. “I’ll take friendship over relationship drama any day.”

  “It…sounds nice.” If a marriage of convenience could ever be nice, which I wasn’t at all sure of.

  “Aw, honey.” She brought the cigarette to her lips and blew smoke into the hazy air. “Don’t sound all sorry for me. You got a fella?”

  “I do.”

  “He treat you right?” She winked. “Give you what you need, make you feel happy?”

  I didn’t even have to think about it. “Yes, he does.”

  “Good for you. It’s lucky when you can find that kinda deal in one package. Me? I’ve got to reach a little farther for it. I’ve got dear old Marcus for stability, a dozen different dance partners for fun, and when it comes to having a little excitement—” she nodded her head across the room “—I’ve got my Shaney.”

  He stood about ten feet away, next to an ice sculpture of an angel, arms crossed, glowering so ferociously I could have bottled that expression and used it to remove paint. “He doesn’t look very pleased right now.”

  Marjorie’s mouth tightened. “He hates this party, says it makes him itchy.” The faint lines around her mouth deepened. “Your detective friend makes us relive Red Hot Ritz every year. The same people, the same party, the same murder.” She let out a breath and gave a small smile when she saw my surprise. “Oh, sweetie, it’s not your fault. I know you’re with the jerk, but he’d do it every year with or without you.”

  “Once he solves the murder, I think he’ll move on and let you all live in peace,” I told her, for what it was worth. “I could use your help to make that happen.”

  Unless she was the one who’d killed Greasy Larry.

  Marjorie took a long drag, then blew out enough smoke to make my lungs burn and my head spin. “I don’t have anything new to say, sugar.”

  Suddenly she was speaking as if I were a stranger at a party. And I supposed I was. Our moment of understanding had evaporated. She’d shut down on me.

  She tilted her head. “Honey, you look as though you could use some fresh air.”

  It would help if she stubbed out her cigarette, or if her husband hadn’t been so keen on dancing. “I’ve got a job to do,” I said, refusing to let discomfort sideline me.

  When I interacted with the other side, ghostly bullets could hit me, ghostly train crashes could crush me, and apparently an overabundance of ghostly cigarette smoke could make my head pound and my lungs ache.

  “Just take a minute until you feel like yourself again. Let me walk you to the window, okay?” She led the way through the crowd, deflecting the few spirits who seemed interested in me until I finally reached an open window. This one didn’t even have glass in the land of the living. I stuck my head out into the fresh air and inhaled deeply, the sweet scent of grass better than a cold glass of lemonade on the Fourth of July.

  Marjorie studied me with a little smile on her face. “I don’t know what De Clercq is up to, but I for one think it’s nice to have someone living at this party,” she said. She leaned against the window frame. “Definitely keeps things interesting.”

  “I appreciate your help,” I said. Even if she viewed me as a lab specimen. Feeling more myself, I straightened my back and turned to face her. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about the murder that took place here tonight?”

  “I figured it was coming.” Marjorie tilted her head toward the driveway. “But I think you’re going to want to answer the questions that copper has for you first.”

  I frowned. “What copper?”

  I looked outside just as a flashlight shined right into my face. “Oh no,” I winced.

  Through the spots in my vision, I saw an officer standing in front of a police car, its red and blue lights flashing. It didn’t look like Ellis from here. And when he spoke into his radio, I knew
for a fact it wasn’t my man.

  “Yep, the caller was right. There’s a trespasser inside the house. Yeah, I’ll bring her in.”

  Yikes.

  I wasn’t trespassing. Well, yes, I kind of was inside a house that wasn’t mine. And I did get in by climbing over a locked fence. While I’d always prided myself on following the law, not breaking and entering no matter how many times Frankie suggested it, I seemed to have some explaining to do.

  Chapter 7

  Duranja approached with the ease of complete authority, and I knew I was in trouble. For one thing, he hadn’t been too happy with me this morning. And for another, he looked up to Ellis, and he’d been gunning for me ever since I’d become responsible—at least in his eyes—for the changes he’d seen in his friend and mentor.

  I’d best come right out with it. I ducked out the window and stepped onto the patio, with my hands up for good measure.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” I assured him. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Not really.

  He stood in front of his car, backlit by the headlights as he ran the beam of his flashlight over me like an inspection. “So I didn’t just see you walking out of a vacant house you don’t own.”

  “Well, of course you did,” I began. “But—”

  “A house you didn’t have permission to enter.”

  The ghosts had engraved invitations, and I was Frankie’s plus-one, although I didn’t think he’d want to hear that. I settled for a simpler explanation. “It wasn’t locked.” At least the front door hadn’t been.

  He barked out a laugh as he cut the distance between us. “The gate looked pretty solid to me.” My mind raced as he strolled up the stairs, keeping an eye on me the entire time like I was a flight risk. He stopped just short of me. “I had to use the key left to the county.”

  Okay, so maybe I had climbed a tree to get in. He ran his light over the scratches on my shins and hands. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  I lowered my hands to my hips. “No. I’m ghost hunting,” I said quickly. “Ask Ellis. I told him I’d be here tonight. There’s no harm in it. I’m just investigating the property—”