Pecan Pies and Dead Guys

by Angie Fox

  I kept my head down, rushing past the pond, where a half-dozen rickety tables were crowded with prisoners shouting and playing cards.

  Frankie lifted his cuffed hands, arguing with the inspector.

  Somehow, I didn’t think that was going to work out for him.

  “You gotta believe me,” Frankie pleaded with the inspector, who was having none of it.

  De Clercq always appeared somewhat severe, but today his expression bordered on outright loathing. “You are a crook and a liar, Mr. Winkelmann, and I am done giving you chances.”

  Frankie’s cuffs rattled as he held up a finger. “Just one more.”

  “You abandoned our investigation early both nights.” The inspector’s mustache quivered, and he was as close to an outburst as I’d ever seen him. “You’ve provided no new leads or evidence. And worst of all, your juvenile antics nearly destroyed the mansion last night.”

  “You can’t burn it down forever,” Frankie pointed out.

  Veins were popping out on the inspector’s forehead. “I will not have this blatant disrespect taint my investigation. You, sir, have failed. I will press on alone. I will not stop. I will not surrender, or our murderer will escape justice forever.”

  “We have leads,” Frankie insisted. He pointed to me. “She found a briefcase with pictures and ledgers—”

  “That you can’t produce,” De Clercq said flatly.

  Frankie held his hands up in supplication, as far as they would go. “It’s not my fault our evidence got eaten by black tar.”

  We had that problem a lot on ghost-hunting investigations. Tons of evidence, no proof.

  I was finally close enough to add my two cents. “Inspector,” I called.

  “She’ll tell you,” Frankie insisted. “Let it rip, Verity.”

  I flung a hand back toward my house. “You’re destroying my home!”

  “That’s not the point,” Frankie said.

  “It is to me,” I said, slightly out of breath as I reached them.

  De Clercq frowned. “Your ghost is grounded here. Therefore, the prison must be here.”

  “Absolutely not.” I stopped directly in front of him. “You don’t have my permission to do this.”

  He smiled thinly. “Then it is a good thing that I don’t need it.”

  “I can break him out,” I said, “take his urn off the property.” I didn’t want to threaten the inspector, but he’d given me no choice.

  “You take that urn and I take over your entire house,” De Clercq ground out. “Every inch of it filled with the worst criminals you can imagine. Even if you turn off his power, I’ll make sure you feel them.”

  My entire body numbed with the threat. “You’re an awful person,” I managed.

  “I get the job done,” he countered.

  So did I, but this was not the way. “You know what, you’re an officer of the law,” I said, trying a different tactic. “It can’t be legal for you to take over my land. Or invade half of my home. Or force me to host criminals.”

  The man lived for logic, I’d give him logic.

  De Clercq appeared unmoved. “The laws of the living and the dead rarely intersect cleanly, as you can see.” He waved a hand at the prison yard and the guard towers posted at my property line beyond the pond. De Clercq returned his attention to me. “You should not be able to interact with us at all, yet you do so on a regular basis. If I may be blunt, your own inappropriate behavior in a world that doesn’t concern you, not to mention your partnership with a criminal, has brought this on you. So yes, Miss Long, as a matter of fact, I can indeed turn your property into a prison. Here it is, and here it shall stay as long as Frankie the German is bound here.”

  Lord in heaven. “That could be forever.”

  “You said you were working on it,” Frankie countered.

  We were. It was just that we hadn’t come up with anything that worked yet.

  “This is a nightmare,” I said. Worse than a nightmare—at least I could wake up from one of those.

  My home, my heritage, had been overrun by the ghosts of some of the worst criminals in American history. I couldn’t live like this. Even if Frankie took away his energy, I would still know they were here, moving around me and through me, invading every corner of my life. And poor Lucy! She would never be comfortable here again.

  I had to fix this. For me, for Frankie and Lucy, for the sake of my future and my sanity. Not to mention my ancestors. My grandmother had trusted me with this property. It was mine to preserve and give to my children someday.

  “No,” I said. I had given up everything to keep my house. I wasn’t about to lose it now. My fingers tightened on Melody’s folder, and I exhaled slowly.

  I had to do this right.

  “Inspector De Clercq,” I began, civil, logical—even though he had been anything but. “I understand that you’re upset with how we gathered our information last night. I know you believe that we don’t even have anything real to go on. But tell me this, did you ever search the dead judge’s room?”

  His mouth tightened. “You know quite well I was never informed that Mr. Knowles stayed at the mansion.”

  “No, you weren’t,” I agreed. “I discovered that.”

  He huffed. “By treating murder suspects as cocktail-party acquaintances.”

  “It worked,” I reminded him. “Sometimes it’s better to treat people like people.”

  He stared at me long and hard. “They are suspects and it’s dangerous to forget that. It can also lead to compromised behavior.” He nodded pointedly at Frankie. “Case in point, Mr. Winkelmann’s ostentatious fireworks display.”

  “That worked too,” Frankie said.

  The inspector looked Frankie up and down yet remained unmoved. “I warned you not to trust the word of a living girl, a silly thing desperate to make herself useful in a world she doesn’t understand.” He turned his cold gaze on me. “I need solid proof, not wild theories from a criminal and his dubious assistant.”

  “I have proof,” I said.

  I opened my folder and drew out the first article that Melody had found. “Proof at least that Jordan was involved in some shady activities at the mansion during the Red Hot Ritz parties.” I turned the paper toward him, the wide black headline shouting it to the world. “Along with your prisoner, ‘Lefty’ Scalieri.”

  The inspector scanned the article.

  “Did you know that was going on?” I asked.

  His mouth tightened. “I’ve never seen that before.” He tried to take it, and his hand passed straight through. He drew it back in disgust. “Where did you find this?”

  “The library,” I said simply. His eyes darted over the page as he read, his eyebrows rising with every line. “This all came out in 1930,” I explained, “a year after you died.”

  He’d been killed in the wreck of the Sugarland Express and had remained at the accident site for years after. That was how we’d met him, and right now I wished he had stayed with the train instead of following us home.

  He withdrew his attention from the page and turned to the nearest guard. “Johnson,” he called, “find me someone who was alive in 1930.”

  “Well—” the guard took a gander at the yard “—there’s George Miller over there.”

  “Fine,” De Clercq snapped, his eyes on the paper.

  “I’ll go get him, then,” the guard said. “Hang on.” He jogged over to the ghost in question.

  A moment later we were joined by George Miller, a pockmarked young man who wore an earnest expression. “You called for me, sir?” he asked the inspector.

  De Clercq pointed to the page in my folder. “I need you to look at this article and tell me if this is true.” He glanced at me, and I held the paper out toward the newcomer.

  It took Miller a few minutes, his lips moving as he read. He obviously wasn’t the most practiced reader, but eventually he nodded. “Yeah, this is right. I remember when the news broke. It was a big deal around here. This Jordan guy was
sent to prison.” He looked out over the yard. “He might be here.”

  “He is not.” De Clercq nodded once. “Thank you, that will be all.” He turned back toward Frankie and me, and for the first time in a while, he appeared pensive.

  “You see?” Frankie wheedled. “He just confirmed what the papers in the briefcase told us. Jordan had a side gig. He was laundering money for Greasy Larry. They probably had meetings during those shindig parties, and Jordan killed him. Question Scalieri. He might even admit it. Our intel was good. We can still make this happen.”

  The inspector appeared uncharacteristically torn. “Your investigative methods are nontraditional and dangerous.” He treated me to a withering look. “You don’t rely on observation and procedure, but on gossip and hearsay.”

  “That’s because it works,” Frankie said, a bit too saucily for my taste.

  “Our methods might be different,” I said quickly, “but you can’t argue with results. After all,” I reasoned, “you brought us on board because you wanted a fresh perspective.”

  De Clercq twisted the end of his mustache, thinking.

  “We can do things you can’t,” I added.

  “Or won’t,” Frankie said.

  De Clercq dropped the hand from his mustache. “It’s too risky. You stay here.”

  Oh, heavens, no.

  Frankie smiled his friendliest con-artist smile. “Risky caught your killer on the Sugarland Express.”

  The inspector clenched his jaw. “You realize tonight is the final night of the party.” He trained a steely-eyed glare on Frankie and then on me. “I cannot afford for either of you to do any more damage—to the property or the investigation.”

  “We’ll be good,” I said, hoping I wasn’t promising the impossible. “I swear it on my grandmother’s grave.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” De Clercq huffed as I fanned the articles out for his perusal. The inspector looked every piece of paper over, some of them twice. I kept still and held my breath. It was good, solid evidence, and I had faith that De Clercq would see that. He had to. He might be mad at us, but his first priority was always going to be the case.

  “It must be solved tonight,” he said, almost to himself.

  “It can be,” I assured him, praying I was right.

  His eyes flicked up to me. “We will solve it tonight, or this prison stays here for eternity.”

  My stomach knotted, and my palms grew damp. Forever was a long time. We’d better be right about Shane Jordan and his covert meetings. And hope that he had one coming up.

  “Tonight,” I said, my voice shaking, betraying my fear.

  “And throw in a full pardon,” Frankie chimed in.

  Good lord, did he ever know when to quit? I opened my mouth, ready to jump in and smooth things over, but to my surprise, De Clercq nodded.

  “If you can come through on the murder of the judge, I’ll see you are granted a full pardon from the state of Tennessee.”

  “And you’ll get rid of the prison,” I added.

  I didn’t get a genial nod like Frankie had, but after a moment De Clercq said, “If we don’t need the prison for Mr. Winkelmann, we will relocate it. You have my word on that.”

  It would have to do.

  “Tonight, then.” I resisted the urge to press a hand to my chest to ease the knot of tension that had been building there ever since I saw what had become of my home. “We can do this,” I added, for myself more than anyone else.

  “We’re real close,” Frankie said. “I’ve got an inside track, don’t you worry.”

  De Clercq reached into his pocket and withdrew a set of keys. He unlocked the cuffs around Frankie’s wrists, but didn’t pull back immediately. “One last chance.” He caught our gazes and collected his cuffs.

  As he turned and walked away, I realized we had another problem. I eyed Frankie. “Now we just have to figure out how to get back into the party tonight with the owners angry at us and the dominant ghost ready to chase us off the property.”

  The gangster rubbed his wrists. “We have to be sneaky.”

  “That’s your plan? Be sneaky?” We’d need more than that. “Were you serious when you said that you had an inside track?”

  “Heck no,” he snorted, “I’m as terrified as you are.”

  “Great.” The prison loomed large in my vision. Everything I owned was on the line.

  Frankie stood next to me, so close our shoulders nearly touched. “At least we got one thing going for us.”

  “A reckless willingness to do whatever it takes?” I asked.

  “Tonight’s party is a masquerade. It’ll be harder to spot us. The invitation says the theme is Crowned and Bejeweled, so you’re gonna have to get glitzy. And wear a mask.”

  “I’ll still be the only live girl there,” I reminded him.

  “And I’m still the only devastatingly handsome mobster.” He grew serious. “Look, there’s nothing we can do about you being alive. We’ll have to make the best of it. Keep you in costume so you don’t stick out. Try to hide in the crowd. We’re going to have to stay on the down-low, keep an eye on our suspects without them knowing. It all starts at sundown.”

  “Let’s do it, then,” I said, my mind forming a plan. “Sundown it is.”

  Chapter 18

  “At least Molly made it out before the gates went up,” Frankie said, fingers drumming against my dashboard. “She’s back home.”

  At the heritage society house where we’d met her. “We’ll fix this,” I promised him.

  First things first. I needed a costume. There were two stores in Sugarland where you could buy used clothes. The first was a consignment store off Main Street that carried higher-end items, brand names and business casual. Melody shopped there for a lot of her outfits. It was a tad out of my price range and not likely to have anything glitzy enough for a “Crowned and Bejeweled” masquerade, so instead I drove to Dani’s Bargain Market.

  Dani’s was a combination dollar store and flea market on a quiet corner a few blocks south of downtown, near the laundromat and the beauty outlet. It was the hottest store in Sugarland during Halloween, since it carried a wide variety of cheap costumes kids loved, but right now it was July. I had to hope that there were a few things in there that would suit me for tonight. It didn’t have to look like high couture, it just had to get me through the door.

  We’d dropped off Lucy with Lauralee’s kids. She’d been very understanding when I’d mentioned a pest problem in the house that I needed to handle, and the kids were ecstatic to spend more time with their “practice pet.”

  “Ha, you’re lucky,” Frankie grumbled from the backseat as we pulled up outside Dani’s Market, its red and white awning fluttering a bit in the breeze. “Most people are going to ignore you anyway. Me, though? It’s hard to hide charisma like I got.”

  “Then I guess you’ll need a good costume,” I said as I headed for the front door. Too bad he’d never find anything here. Poor Frankie had to source his disguise from the ghostly plane.

  A bell rang gently as I entered, and I had to resist the urge to sneeze as my nose registered the scents of worn cotton, old leather, and other people’s sweat. Dani waved from where she’d camped out behind the register, reading a magazine. Her wild blond hair fought to escape the vintage bandana tied around her head, and she wore more friendship bracelets than I could count.

  “Welcome,” she called, chewing her gum. “Let me know if you need help with anything.”

  “Thanks.” I headed straight for the formalwear area in the back near the dressing rooms. There had to be a used bridesmaid’s dress or something that would make do for one evening. I found my size and started sifting through the rack. No, no—orange, gosh no—too much cleavage for this one, not nearly enough for that one…

  “Did I show you what Suds put together for me?” Frankie asked, clearly not able to resist interrupting me when I was concentrating. “Take a look at my brilliant disguise.”

  He held th
e spade end of a rusted shovel over his face. Two eyeholes and a slit for a mouth had been cut out of the metal. “The man in the iron mask,” he said proudly. “It’s not like Suds needs his shovel to do any more work.”

  No. He’d died using it to tunnel under the First Bank of Sugarland. Frankie could mess with Suds’s shovel all he wanted. The holes wouldn’t stay for longer than an evening because they weren’t there when Suds died.

  “Are you going to get a medieval costume to go with it?” I asked.

  Frankie lowered the mask. “Like I’m going to find someone around here who died in a doublet and pantyhose. I got something better anyhow. Icepick Charlie’s friend died in a casino shooting. He’s letting me borrow his tux for the night. Only one bullet hole through the chest and I can put a flower over that.”

  “Lucky you,” I murmured, returning to the clothes.

  At least Frankie was fully on board with tonight’s do-or-die mission. He had a lot personally riding on this one, which was more than I could say for most of our investigations.

  Usually, he couldn’t wait to strike out on his own when we traveled. The fact that he was sticking by my side showed he was as worried as I was, probably more. At least I wouldn’t be imprisoned on my property for the rest of eternity.

  “What do you think of this?” I selected a red sequined dress with a high waistline and held it in front of me.

  Frankie shook his head immediately. “That’s perfect if you’re going for the frumpy showgirl look.”

  Okay then. I put it back and kept searching. “This looks better.” It was teal, which I thought was a good color on me, and had slightly poufy sleeves.

  “Sure. If you want to go as somebody’s maid.”

  Ouch. “Frankie Winkelmann, fashion critic,” I mused, moving to the next rack.

  “I’m here to make you look good,” he agreed.

  He stood in the middle of the rack as I looked. I tried to ignore him.

  “Nah…nope…no…na—wait, that one there.”

  I looked at the dress he indicated. “Are you sure?” It was a cream color, floor-length, with a lace bodice and long sleeves. It seemed plain to me.