by Aiden James
Chapter Two
Saturday night’s investigation was nearly canceled based on the weather alone. Navigating through torrential rain that lasted almost an hour, Fiona insisted on driving to our initial destination across town. Of course, this came after the deluge of tears that followed the Peters’ funeral and our need for some rejuvenation. We regrouped at our log home in Arrington, which always seems to bring us back to our preferred spiritual calmness. Once we were cleaned up, and our boys were contentedly watching Madagascar 3 in the living room with their maternal grandmother, Joanna Simms, we set out on our journey to Spring Hill, just south of our preferred ‘haunt’ of Franklin, Tennessee.
“Do you think your mom will remember to give Ryan his cough medicine before he goes to bed tonight?”
Really, I was looking for anything to talk about with my wife. Starting with anything that dealt with our young sons seemed like a pretty safe bet of getting something beyond the subdued responses I’d received thus far. Despite Fiona’s willingness to accompany me for the night’s planned excursion, I could tell she was filled with misgivings. She had mentioned ‘bad energy’ earlier, along with other concerns besides the stressful funeral. These other worries had been steadily lining up against us since that morning, like a frigging firing squad determined to obliterate our plans. Only Jackie’s disdain about working with relatively inexperienced ghost hunters from Columbia, in addition to the aforementioned need to have a productive night, overruled Fiona’s preference to lay low back in Arrington.
“She should remember,” said Fiona, somewhat tersely. Yep, the atmosphere inside the Camaro was uneasy as hell. But at least the heater was working. I knew better than to attempt to pry the gist of her thoughts from their hiding place inside that gorgeous head of hers. Fortunately, she did offer me a small bone. “I’m not worried about what’s going on at home. Mom is at her best when the kids need her—you know that’s true.”
I nodded thoughtfully, while gazing out the passenger window at the pummeling rain around us.
“But with everything going on…I’m just not in the mood for twenty questions about the funeral this afternoon from Margie.”
Ah-hah. That would be Margie Anderson. She and her husband, Chet, head up ‘Columbia Ghost Investigators’, better known as ‘CGI’. Even though both Margie and Chet are well versed in the specifics of Tennessee history, they are novices when it comes to ghost hunting. And, while most newbies—including Chet—are content to learn the ropes from longstanding spook chasers like us, Margie is nothing of the sort. She gets pretty feisty, and not in a good way.
Margie is more apt to scream disdainfully into the face of the Devil himself, and then blame everyone else when she gets scared shitless and wants to go home early.
“Well, why don’t you see if you can hang mainly with Jackie and Michelle, and I’ll see what I can do to keep Mrs. Anderson occupied?”
“You would do that for me?”
She sounded hopeful, smiling ever so slightly, although she never removed her eyes from the slick highway before us.
“Sure, it should be a piece of cake,” I said, offering her a confident smile that hid my dread of being talked to death by Margie. Oh, the things we’re willing to do for love.
We arrived at our group’s pre-appointed meeting place, the lone Cracker Barrel in Spring Hill, less than a mile from where our first investigative stop would take place that evening. Without an umbrella, Fiona and I scurried from the Camaro to the restaurant’s gift shop, where the rest of NVP awaited our arrival. As had been the case since we started our tour three weeks earlier, our assigned three-member camera team from WNTV was also present.
“Well, look-ee here…. Y’all see what the cats dragged in?” teased Justin, as we made our way to where the group was huddled, next to the scented candles display. “We were about to send a posse outside to see if y’all got lost in the parking lot.”
Fiona was in such a damned hurry to get inside that she wouldn’t wait for me to retrieve an umbrella from the Camaro’s trunk. The deluge of even heavier rain pelted our asses mercilessly as we made a mad dash for the building’s entrance. By the time we stepped inside, our hair and clothing were dripping wet, and we looked like a couple of sewer rats caught in a flash flood.
“Is everyone else here?” Fiona gazed around the room, after dabbing at her face with a couple of Kleenexes from her purse. Our group should’ve numbered six other investigators, in addition to our camera crew. We were short by two people. “Where are Tony and Ricky?”
“Right here, Fi!”
Tony Perez waved a meaty paw as he navigated through the displays and other patrons on his way back from the restroom, with a tall, gangly blonde right behind him. For those familiar with Tony, they shouldn’t be surprised that nothing’s changed with him since our last misadventure. He’s still the same lovable, boorish guy that you’ll rarely see sans his Kentucky ball cap and cherished Detroit Red Wings jersey. At least not when he’s away from the call center where I also used to work at.
Maybe it’s our shared Latin ancestry, where superstitions are fairly commonplace. I doubt he’ll ever shave his beard either. It always seems to get a little thicker during the colder months. Give him some dark shades to cover his mirthful brown eyes and he’d look like one of the cross-country beer truckers on one of the new reality TV shows. The man loves his alcohol almost as much as he digs fishing and hunting. I sometimes worry about him having a heart attack due to the extra weight he carries whenever we’re forced to flee a ghost investigation that’s gone bad. I thought he’d join his pal, Tom, when our oldest member decided to shed a few pounds a few months ago. But after the second aerobics session left him badly winded and with a slightly strained back, he gave it up. Permanently, I believe.
As for the towering blonde dude with him? That’s a fairly new recruit who joined our band of paranormal miscreants after Angie bit it on her way to Hell. His name is Ricky Reynolds, and he’s another work pal from the place I used to call my ‘home away from home’. We had already replaced our murdering cohort with Jackie’s girl, Michelle. But, Ricky has been a serious photographer on the side for nearly fifteen years. Once he showed me how he could upgrade our picture-taking processes with some cool new technology, I decided to present him as a possible recruit to the group. It didn’t hurt that he brings an even-keeled skepticism to the table, as he doesn’t believe or disbelieve in evidence of the afterlife.
Ricky’s a good-looking guy, too. At least it’s Fiona’s and Jackie’s assessment, despite Michelle’s opinion that he needs a little more meat on his bones. Our show’s producers gave him an immediate thumbs up when Jackie gave them his mug shot, after the suits in New York waved a checkered flag when they found out we were planning to add one more guy to the group. Emerald eyes and strong features hold some influence, I’m sure, along with a full head of hair that Ricky keeps clipped just above his shirt collar. Must’ve been a female exec, or like persuasion, who gave the final okay….
“Hurry up, we’re starving!” teased my wife, who seemed to have already forgotten the dousing we endured just moments before. “Did we reserve a few tables yet?”
“You should know that’s already done,” said Jackie, motioning for us to follow her. “They’re waiting on us now!”
Great. Seriously. When Fiona isn’t calling the shots, things often end up as a half-assed mishmash. So, this was a good start to the night. Tom and Justin joined me in the rear as we followed everyone else to our tables. Even the camera crew allowed us to tag behind them, since we weren’t shooting footage for the show until we’re actually on the grounds of Rippavilla Plantation.
Jackie and Michelle sandwiched my wife between them, and I was prepared for a dinner conversation that excluded me. I doubted either lady wanted my impression of the afternoon’s burial in Mount Juliet. Instead, I expected there to be plenty of talk on how to effectively deal with Margie Anderson’s mouth once the night’s second phase of festivities began.
“How did it go today?”
Jackie asked Fiona the question soon after I sat down, and as Michelle and I both picked up our menus.
“It was…it was hard,” she confessed. “I hope this is it…. There’s been too much death and sadness around us for far too long.”
“Don’t think that way.”
Jackie eyed her compassionately and then wrapped her arms around her. She and my wife have been friends since grade school, and in their early pictures they looked like sisters. As with most folks, things have changed somewhat since then. Jackie’s a bit heavier than Fiona, but she still has her curves where they should be. Her light blue eyes are almond shaped, and they twinkle with laughter that belies her no-nonsense approach to life. Now that Angie’s gone, the strongest sarcasm in our group belongs to Ms. Holland. But she knows when to turn it on and off.
As for Michelle Adams…she sort of reminds me of Angie, but strictly in the physical sense. And, that’s more on account of her bleach blonde hair that is just as pretentious as Angie’s. Although, Michelle’s natural color is dishwater blonde as opposed to Angie’s fiery red hair that she managed to hide until she was ready to put the entire lot of us six feet underground.
But, that’s where the similarities end. Michelle has a tender heart that is golden to the core. You can see it just by peering into her big green eyes. They are soft and as kind as Fiona’s, so she’s already got that going for her. Slender enough to model, she is definitely the more feminine one in her relationship with Jackie. Honestly, I’ve rarely seen two people so deeply in love and happy together. I hope it works out in the long term.
“Are you going to tell Fi and Jimmy what we heard from Jan at the station earlier this afternoon?”
Michelle eyed Jackie warily as she posed the question, and Jackie’s worried look told me that whatever this concerned, there had been a good deal of debate on whether tonight was the best time to spring it on us.
“What did Jan tell you?” asked Fiona. The warm feeling and nearby warmth from burning logs in the restaurant’s fireplace suddenly waned. I wondered what she saw in Jackie’s mind. “I already know it’s something bad.”
Jackie and Michelle nodded in silence.
“Do you remember when Susan Lee never showed up for the ghost jamboree at Shiloh?” asked Jackie.
“Yeah…she never returned my calls either.” I could tell from Fiona’s tone that she’d already picked up the rest of the story from their collective subconscious. “When did it happen…. When was she killed?”
That got Tom to look up from his menu next to me, while Justin whipped his head toward us from the next table over.
“H-how’d you know that?” Michelle’s surprise told me that she still was getting used to how Fiona’s gifts operate. “Did Detective Silver contact you, too, today?”
I loved the way that sounded…. Dick Tracy has a new love interest, perhaps? The old dickeroo loves to pursue pretty women that are presently unavailable. Ed Silver has had his eyes on Fiona for years, and I do believe I deserve a medal of some sort for not crushing his veneers with the thick side of my Fender fretless. It damned near made me gleeful that he potentially had set new sights on one gorgeous and completely unavailable lesbian. The Fates had smiled upon me after all.
“No…no, he didn’t,” said my wife, surely most stunned by the fact this information had been withheld from her. Granted, Ed probably tried to call her while we were out of reach that afternoon.
“She was found stuffed inside her Toyota’s trunk,” said Jackie, taking over while Michelle still looked confused from Fiona’s earlier comment. “She had been shot twice, once in the heart and another bullet in the face.”
“Is Ed saying it’s the same weapon later used on George and Melissa?”
“He said that it’s too early to confirm….” Jackie squirmed uneasily.
“But he thinks it could be,” added Michelle. “Because—”
“Because her face was missing,” I said.
Hey, it seemed logical, and I didn’t think my interjection warranted the stern look I received from my wife. Nor did it deserve the pariah looks I received from Jackie and Michelle.
“Well?” I continued, fairly certain the doggy-doo I had just stepped in couldn’t get much worse. “That’s what the police discovered, right? Hollow point bullet damage?”
“Yes…they believe that kind of bullet was used to kill her.”
Jackie sounded sad more than irritated, and I suddenly remembered that she and Susan were once good friends in previous years. Granted, any human being losing the precious gift of life deserves to be mourned. But after being associated with more than a dozen deaths since mid-July last year, I have to admit to some unforeseen callousness. I shuddered to think that it is in our base natures to be like that.
“I’m truly sorry to hear she was killed,” I said, meeting the penetrating gaze of all three wary faces. I truly meant it, and in no way viewed Susan Lee as merely a grim murder statistic.
“It’s all right…I know you didn’t mean anything by it,” said Jackie.
“Well, did Ed say how long it would take to see if her death is related to the other killings?” I asked.
Jackie shook her head while Michelle mouthed ‘no’.
“We might need to cancel the rest of the tour—at least until we get more information to work with, and perhaps a couple of armed officers to accompany us on the rest of our visits,” Fiona advised.
“Then we could kiss this and any other televised ghost hunting opportunities goodbye,” countered Jackie, who shifted uncomfortably in her seat before going on. “Let’s get through tonight and then see what Ron says on Monday.”
Ron Powers was the new general manager for WNTV. He had only been on the job since September, but Fiona liked him better than his predecessor, who was pulled back to New York to ‘fix’ another station with sagging ratings.
“I second that emotion,” I said, which didn’t get the smiles and chuckles I hoped for. Luckily, our food arrived, and everyone dug in.
Nothing else was mentioned about Susan Lee’s terrible demise. I believe it had more to do with respect for the woman that only Jackie knew well personally. The gals were more interested in discussing how to avoid an ugly exchange with Margie Anderson later that evening. So, we went from one unpleasant conversation to another…or, I should say the guys and me patiently waited for the ladies’ game plan of avoidance to be decided upon. It darn near made us late for our 7:00 p.m. appointment at the Rippavilla Plantation home. If not for Justin keeping track of the time that evening, and loudly announcing he was about to leave the rest of us to fend for ourselves, we might’ve missed the event.
Fiona and Jackie made the decision to carry on cautiously that night without calling Detective Ed for help in enlisting his Spring Hill or Columbia buddies. Then we left the restaurant as a huddled mass running through the rain.
If only the weather and thoughts of another murdered colleague were all we had left to contend with that night.
***
Rippavilla Plantation, completed as a beautiful antebellum mansion just before the outbreak of the Civil War, is a grand estate. Located across the street from what used to be the famed Saturn car plant, it is almost as renowned locally for its corn maze in October as it is for its role in the Civil War. In particular, it served as a Confederate meeting place where General John Bell Hood chastised his fellow Generals for not following his haphazard orders to block the road to Franklin. Highway 31 was a strategic thoroughfare at the time, stretching from southern Alabama to Decatur, Illinois. General Hood was especially miffed that the Union forces had marched untouched through his Confederate regiments during the night of November 29, 1864. It set up the famed confrontation in Franklin the following morning.
It would’ve been a nice place to visit for us on a more suitable evening. One when it wasn’t raining cats and dogs. One when we would be allowed inside the premises, unlike the locked-up mansion we
encountered. And, lastly, an evening that didn’t include a host of Confederate reenactors preparing to make camp for the night. The ‘pretend’ soldiers jeered at us mercilessly from the moment we set foot on the property until we finally left, less than half an hour following our arrival.
“Why are they always like that?”
Our lone camera girl posed this question to Fiona as we repacked our gear in the back of Tom’s new Navigator. Sally Preston is her name. Blonde and petite, with big brown eyes, she sort of reminds me of True Blood’s Anna Paquin, although she’s a bit shyer than the actress.
“They usually aren’t like that,” Fiona replied, trying to shield her face from the gusting rain that was now borderline sleet. Really, we should’ve just called it a night right then and there. “We had never seen so much animosity before we made the announcement in September that we were planning this event. All that we’ve ever encountered before then was a little annoyance…. They’re less than pleased by our twenty-first century intrusion into their nineteenth century fantasy, and we like to investigate sites that are completely deserted, without living people other than ghost hunters.”
“Well, it’s getting pretty creepy in a way I never expected,” added Ricky, who placed his expensive Hasselblad camera in its protective steel case and then slid it toward the rear of the cargo area. “I’ll be honest…I didn’t sign up for bullshit like this.”
“Dude, you think this is bad? How about we trade skin color for an hour and go hang out with those Mo-Fo’s?” teased Justin. His tone sounded irritated, but the glint in his eyes was all amusement. “Better yet, you’d get to be a black guy that’s four inches shorter and twenty pounds lighter than you are now. To me, that sounds like some reeeealll fun!”
That got us all laughing…even Ricky, although at first his face turned red. I thought for a moment he might punch Justin.
