A Sinister Slice
of Murder
by
Constance Barker
&
A.J. DeBellis
Copyright 2015 Barker/DeBellis
All rights reserved.
Similarities to real people, places or events are purely coincidental.
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Chapter One
I’ve had it! I can’t take it anymore! I can’t do this for another minute! My whole life was going off the rails. I knew why, and I knew I had to make a big change right this minute.
It wasn’t even a big deal, but for me right now, it was the last straw, the one that finally broke this camel’s back. My boss and boyfriend at the law office dropped another file on my desk to research and investigate while he concentrated on the fine art of throwing crumpled wads of paper into the wastebasket. I reached critical mass in front of the whole office and blew up like a rogue firework spinning out of control on the Fourth of July. I’d had it up to here!
“Look, Jason, I’ve given you the best thirteen months of my life, and what have I gotten out of it? I’ll tell you what – nothing! Just a lot of aggravation and a mediocre booty call once a week. I’m finished! I’m finished with you, I’m finished with your law firm, and I’m finished with doing all the hard work for peanuts while you take all the glory and all the money.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Jessie. Settle down, baby. I can fix this.”
“Don’t ‘baby’ me, you lazy, inconsiderate pig. Your blue eyes and bleached white smile won’t work on me any more. I’ve had it, and that’s all there is to it.”
“But…”
“Stop!” I stared him down, and he walked to the water cooler.
One more word from his mouth and my head would have started spinning around, and the pea soup would have spewed all over the office. I got up and took a deep cleansing breath with my head down and my eyes closed. Then I slowly raised my head and looked around the office. The mood was probably a lot like it might be if a grenade had just gone off…pale, stunned faces everywhere I looked.
The guys were all white-faced with eyebrows raised in panic and disbelief. No doubt they were all glad it wasn’t them who was the focus of my wrath. None of their eyes would meet mine as I looked around. The women, on the other hand, all had subtle smiles for me with nearly imperceptible nods and winks. And my best friend there, Cammy Jo, walked by just to give me a discreet fist-bump. She’s the firm’s PI.
I emptied the ten reams of paper out of a box in the supply room and went back to my desk to pack up my personal things. I had no clue where I would go, what I would do, or how I would pay the rent once the twelve-hundred and forty-two dollars in my checking account was gone. But I was 25 and ready to take on whatever life threw my way.
“J-Jessie…”
Who was this brave man who dared to speak to the she-devil from hell? I looked, wondering if I should respond, at the frightened puppy-dog eyes of Wesley, the intern.
“What?” I barked, more harshly than I had intended.
He swallowed hard and spoke slowly. “Line One is for you, Jess…Ma’am…Miss Delacroix.”
“Cwah, not croy. Dela-cwah.”
“Miss Dela-cwah. He says it’s important. Some guy named…”
“Carlo.” My mind took a short trip through time and space.
Wesley nodded.
I hadn’t heard that name or seen the man in three years, and I had never in my life gotten a call from him. Yet, somehow I knew he was the caller.
I smiled ever so slightly and nodded at Wesley. He looked like a judge had just given him a reprieve on a life sentence, and the color returned to his face as he sat and busied himself with some paperwork.
Carlo…that’s a name from a previous life that I hadn’t heard for a while. He was an honorary member of the family before I was ever born. Carlo Turnbull was the cook…er, chef…at the old bed and breakfast my family owned and operated in Whispering Pines, about a hundred mile drive from here in Savannah. Well, we kind of ran out of family when my mother was found dead in the solarium there, presumably the victim of foul play, nearly four years ago.
It happened during my senior year at Savannah State (Go, Tigers!), and I ran the place the following summer. But I was so sad and alone there. Granny had died when I was still in high school, and now my mother was gone too. The memories were too haunting. I even started hearing voices, so I packed up and went off to law school. I left my best friends, Lexi and Madeline, in charge. Lexi – Alexandra Carnigan – ran the Tea Room, and Maddy Warren was in charge of the inn.
I looked at the little flashing light on my phone and wondered if I should answer it. I had to – maybe there was some development on Mom’s murder. It had never been solved.
“Hi, Carlo, this is Jessie. How are you?”
“Miss Jessie…”
Shivers ran up my spine from the eerie timber of his serious voice and his throaty Cajun accent.
“…I need you here. You have to come back to L’Auberge Hantée at once.”
Not a chance. “What’s wrong, Carlo? Where are Lexi and Maddy?”
“I fired them. They are too stupid to run a business.”
“But they’re your bosses. You can’t fire them. And those ladies are far from stupid, Carlo.” Come on, dude, all you have to do is cook the food. I did not need another problem right now.
“We are going to lose the Inn if you don’t come back. Your partners won’t even come into the building anymore. They are afraid of our ghosts, and those are our main attraction. That’s what is stupid.”
Did I mention that the place was supposed to be haunted? The whole town was kind of a Roswell for ghostly activity. It was a mecca for antique shoppers, and the whole main street for seven blocks was lined with antique shops of every kind, bringing in a steady stream of tourists, many from the snobbish nouveau riche burbs here in Savannah as well as the old-money filthy rich people on Hilton Head and along the coast.
Granny bought the old abandoned estate during the Reagan administration, and my mother, who was 17 and seven months pregnant with me at the time, followed her there to help run the place. The old three-story Victorian-style antebellum mansion was the tallest structure in Whispering Pines, except for the peanut-shaped water tower, and it sat squarely at the end of Carlisle Boulevard like a stately palace for all to see. They renovated it and, banking on its reputation as a haunted mansion, named it L’Auberge Hantée – The Haunted Inn. It’s easier to pronounce than it looks, and it rolls of the tongue quite nicely: low-BEARZH ahn-TAY.
“Carlo, I’m done with that part of my life. I have a new career now. Why don’t you just run it?”
“I am a chef – an artiste – not a businessman. If you will not come, then I will just walk out the door now and leave it wide open for the wind and the thieves and the dogs to take over. I have positions waiting for me from Fort Lauderdale to Boston. I do not need this chaos here. It is the legacy your family gave to you, Jessica. You are the owner, and this place has great value. Are you coming?”
The man should get a gig doing voice-overs for horror flicks. I took a deep breath and looked around. There was Jason, already giggling like the dumb ass he was, probably at some porn on Ron Jackson’s phone. And then there was that stack of work on my desk, right next to my box of junk – both presenting a sad commentary on my li
fe. The nearly empty box contained a picture of my doggie, Arthur, plus some worthless memorabilia – a “Kwitcherbitchin” coffee mug from Jason, an extra-large company T-shirt, my coffee card from Espresso Yourself with only two more punches needed for a free cup, and one dusty birthday card on which Cammy Jo had signed everybody’s names.
Maybe it was Providence. I had nowhere to go a minute ago. But was this what I wanted? I took in a defeated breath and realized in that moment that there was no life for me here.
“I’ll see you Thursday, Carlo.”
I said my farewells and was out the door in ten minutes, feeling no regret as the door closed behind me. I would keep in touch with Cammy Jo for sure, but the others? Probably not.
I took the long way home in my bright yellow 1999 Silverado. I drove by Forsyth Park and stopped illegally long enough to run in and toss a quarter in the big cast iron fountain. So, I was a little superstitious…probably got it from my Granny.
Then I drove all the way around Lafayette Square, going very slowly past the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist. It always made me smile and filled me with hope and awe. I said a little prayer for Mom.
I figured I could take tomorrow to find a new roommate for Marcy and then head out on Thursday morning. The bulletin board was always full of guys and girls who were eager to get a rental spot in the singles condo overlooking the Savannah River. I only saw Marcy for a total of maybe 10 minutes a week anyway, usually in her bra and panties and a toothbrush in her mouth, so she probably wouldn’t even notice that she had a new roommate. I drove into my stall in the parking garage and took the elevator up to my condo.
“How are you today, King Arfur?” I set my box of stuff down in the entryway and took a step into the living room to open the curtains.
At least my little beagle was always glad to see me, greeting me with excited jumps and little “arfs.” He was a lot of “arf” and not much “fur,” but “Arfur” was a nickname I called him when he was yipping. He was the runt of the litter and kind of sickly as a pup, but I fell in love with him, and Cammy Jo gave him to me a year ago after she sold all the other puppies. Now he’s my best buddy and healthy as a horse. He bounded onto the sofa and then straight into my arms, licking my frownny face into a happy smile. He packs a bit of a wallop now at almost 20 pounds, but he still thinks he’s a pup.
“Come on, Arthur. Let’s change clothes and get packed. We have to get ready to go to our new home! I think you’re really going to like it there.”
I slipped out of my law office attire and into a pair of comfy blue jeans. Goodbye, confining business clothes! I tossed them on the bed and then caught a look at myself in the mirror on my closet door. I was surprised to see a smile and bright eyes filled with excitement and anticipation.
I looked pretty good in my bra and blue jeans, five-foot four and 110 pounds of dynamite. My ice-blue eyes, which I got from my mother, had a nice sparkle for a change, and my brown shoulder-length hair would probably be in pigtails by the weekend. So, I was a little bow-legged and had a lazy eye. Cute, not beautiful, but full B cups and a push-up bra make up for a lot of flaws.
It didn’t take long to pack up my clothes into one large suitcase and one small one. I had a bed, a desk, a loveseat, and a small kitchenette, so everything would fit in my pickup truck. Hey…I’m a country girl. I like trucks.
Wednesday was busy. I found a perfect gal to take over my lease on the third interview – a bio student from rural Illinois. She was me with glasses. I couldn’t find any movers to load my truck for me on short notice, so I put on a pair of Daisy Dukes and a tight tank top and recruited a couple of buff helpers from the condo’s workout room on the first floor. Don’t judge me.
Arthur and I started out singing Taylor Swift and Ed Sheeran and Wiz Khalifa songs (Arthur did the rap parts), but as we got closer to Okefenokee territory we switched to classic country and southern rock.
“No, Arthur! You got to be Johnny last time. It’s your turn to be the devil. Okay…how about Boys ’Round Here? You can do the ‘Chew tobacco, chew tobacco, chew tobacco, spit’ part. Okay?”
“Ruff!”
It seemed like no time at all had passed, and I was smelling the swamp gas and seeing the Watch Out for Alligators signs as we crossed the Elvira River. I could feel all the pressures and stress of big city and corporate life leave my body as we turned up the old highway towards Whispering Pines.
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Chapter Two
The Elvira was a really winding river, and we would cross it again before we got home. Our town was surrounded by a huge horseshoe bend in the river. Swampy land just outside of the Okefenokee Wildlife Refuge (we just call it “the swamp”) was across the river from town, and there was mostly p-e-a land on our side – peach orchards and peanut farms.
Ten miles later we crossed the Elvira again, right onto the main street of my hometown. It was almost lunchtime, and the shops weren’t too busy yet. Nights and weekends were the busiest, when people were off work, but the weekdays would sometimes get busy with retired folks and tourists.
Arthur stuck his head out the window, now that we were going slowly, and looked with interest as we passed the peanut-shaped water tower. Antique Capital of Dixie, it proudly announced. (No fact checking, please.) Then came Elrod’s service station, the Grab-and-Go convenience store, the combination post office/library, the Universal Baptist Church, and finally the Dairy Queen with City Hall upstairs.
We stopped at the flashing red light – the only traffic light in town – and then ventured across onto “The Strip,” which was the main tourist drag on Carlisle Boulevard, and Whispering Pines’ claim to fame. There were maybe a couple dozen antique shops, mostly featuring old furniture, but there were also specialty shops with antique timepieces, firearms, Civil War uniforms and clothing, old cameras and small electrics, and even a shop with vintage cars.
The gaudy billboards atop the old buildings and antebellum houses that lined Carlisle Boulevard touted ghost walks, airboat gator tours in the swamp, fortunetellers, tattoo artists, kayaking and tubing, Go-Karts – Go-Karts? That’s new – and horseback riding tours just down the road. The horses are fairly new too. I really hoped that the touristy frills didn’t overtake our town’s main attraction, and that was the antiques. Well, and the ghosts. A lot of the little shops had their own ghostly legends.
I guess people still remembered my yellow pickup truck, because a few of them came out of their shops and gave me a wave to welcome me home. No doubt they all knew I was coming by now. I mean, it is a small town.
Sugar Beaton, one of Mom’s best friends, leaned out of her antique and fudge shop with a smile and a big wave.
“Welcome home, Jessie!” She blew me a kiss. “Come and get some fudge once you get settled in!”
I will definitely do that.
Benjamin Wilkes gave me a nod as I drove by. Benji restored old furniture and made reproductions of classic pieces too. He’s only 28 with a lot of charm and good looks, and he might be the only single guy in town between 18 and 80. His natural brown curls and light brown eyes are big hit with the girls, but I’m not in the market for a man right now.
Kyle Carnigan stepped out into the street and waved me to a stop. He was Lexi’s husband and owner of Carnigan Security, Inc. (yeah, CSI), the company that kept the town safe. There was no police force in Whispering Pines, and the Sheriff’s office was a half hour away by land (10 minutes by airboat ferry) in Stony Point. He was in uniform with a Taser on his belt and a nightstick in his hand. I stuck my head out the window and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He smiled and kissed my forehead.
“Hey, squirt. Good to see ya.” He raised the flip-up shades over his glasses.
“Great to see you too. It’s been so long.”
He and Lexi were both 35, nine years older than me; and before she became my best friend she was my babysitter. She and Kyle wo
uld make out on the sofa while I played with puzzles and jumped rope in my butterfly wings. They’ve been together since the 10th grade.
“So, how is Lexi doing? And how are the little ones? Probably a lot bigger than I remember them.”
“Well, why don’t you ask her for yourself? She and Maddy are sitting on the front steps of the Inn waiting for you. You’ll have to come over for dinner real soon and see the kids. And we have a lot of catching up to do too.”
It was nice to know that my restaurant and inn managers would be there for me today.
I was enjoying the hometown welcome. The fall weather was perfect, the air was fresh and clean…and there, right in front of me just one block away, was L’Auberge Hantée. That old haunted mansion, more than anything else, symbolized this town. It was front and center on all of the most popular postcards, facing directly down “antique row” from the end of Carlisle Boulevard.
A hundred feet behind the Inn stood a shallow forest of pine trees. The old loblolly pines were 100 feet tall or more with bare trunks except for the top 30 feet. They framed the Inn beautifully, and the setting moon would hang directly over the Inn above the trees. On a still night you really could hear them whispering. They overlooked the entire town and knew all of its secrets.
The Inn was not the typical antebellum colonial style architecture, but rather a huge and stately Victorian mansion. The swamp and the alligators and the architecture were a lot like what Granny and Mom had left behind in the bayou country near New Orleans in the late 80s.
The midnight-blue house had a wide wrap-around porch, all trimmed in white. The right corner of the house was my favorite – a round Rapunzel turret with a witch’s hat roof on the top. I used to spend hours in the porch swing right next to it. It looked like they had found a tenant for the storefront on that side too…some kind of antique pawn shop, it looked like, but Connie still had her hair and nail salon in the first floor of the tower, and there was a tattoo shop right above it. A pair of piercing golden eyes stared out at me from the window of the pawnshop. It was a very old man (the proprietor, I presumed) that made me feel both an eeriness and a warmth.
A Sinister Slice of Murder: A Jessie Delacroix Murder Mystery (Whispering Pines Mystery Series Book 1) Page 1
