by Angie Fox
I’d get the necklace for him and more. Somehow, I’d find a way to give the soldier an even better Christmas than he could imagine.
Chapter 2
It turned out our way onto the Jackson property was through my best friend, Lauralee.
She shot me a grin as we rattled through the tall front gates in her husband’s beater truck. “I always said you’d be a great server given the right opportunity.” The cranked-up heater tousled her wild auburn hair. “I’m so glad you decided to try it again.”
I drew my bag closer to me, the one with Frankie’s urn inside. “I promise I won’t be too friendly,” I told her, only half kidding. She knew full well how I’d been fired from the steakhouse in college for talking to the customers too much.
“I just can’t believe I got this job,” Lauralee gushed. “The Jacksons have always used the big catering service from their country club for the annual holiday party. Lucky for me, the club backed out at the last minute.” She appeared positively giddy at the idea of proving herself. “I’m so relieved you were available to help.”
Me too. “I’ll do good,” I told her. “I promise.”
I couldn’t let Lauralee down. This job meant too much to her. Plus, she didn’t know a thing about my ghost-hunting abilities. It wasn’t the sort of thing I could easily explain—or count on her to believe. Besides, I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do it again. Except for tonight.
She’d managed to slip me into a front-room server position, the kind I’d need if I were going to go looking for Matthew’s long-dead mother. The money would be welcome as well. The least I could do was return the favor by being a bang-up worker bee when I wasn’t ghost hunting.
“It’ll be easy,” she assured me. “I prep the appetizers in the back. You and the other servers put them on trays and give them out in the front.”
I bit my lip. Before I started serving, I’d have to find a place to stash Frankie’s urn. It’s not like I could carry it on my appetizer tray.
Lauralee laughed. “Relax. You look almost scared.”
“Concerned,” I admitted as we traveled up the long driveway flanked by oak trees that had grown for generations. Their branches stretched over us, forming a canopy of naked, gnarled wood.
It must have been heartbreaking for Matthew to grow up in such a rustic, beautiful place and not be allowed back. If I’d lost my home like he did, I’d do anything for a chance to go home again. Especially for Christmas.
The house loomed ahead, a stately red brick manor with an elegant black iron two-story porch and a sharply curved circle drive clearly built for carriages instead of cars. This was nothing like the brand-new, faux-historic home of the Wydells, the other leading family in the county. I found it refreshing, if a bit dark and broody. If I recalled correctly, it had been built in the early 1800s, when the Jacksons began their iron-smelting dynasty. They’d added onto it over the years until it became this big, sprawling hulk of a building.
No telling how many ghosts lingered from seven-plus generations living and dying on the property. It would have been nice if Matthew had offered some guidance on where to look for his mother.
Frankie remained quiet and out of sight, hopefully saving his energy for our big night.
I reached down into my bag and rattled Frankie’s urn a bit.
“Stop it,” he groused. I turned and found him in the backseat of the cab. The corner of his mouth tipped up as he looked past me toward the house. “Get a load of that,” he said, straightening. “Hot little number at five o’clock, rising up out of the ground and ready to party.” He flashed me a grin. “This is her lucky night.”
I raised my brows at him. Focus.
“Don’t give me that look,” he admonished, straightening his tie. “It has been far too long since I so much as danced with a dame.” He pulled a flask out of his jacket pocket and gave it a small shake, as if to test how much booze he had left. Must have been enough because he grinned and took a long swig.
That was all fine and dandy, but, “I need to see the other side,” I mouthed to him, twisting my features so he’d know I meant business.
“Relax,” he snarled. “Geez-o-Pete. You got that same bug-eyed, grindy-mouth thing going that Suds’s old lady used to give him when she’d catch us brewing gin in her washing machine. And you ain’t my old lady.” He slicked his hands through his hair, which never moved anyway. “You owe me this night out. And before you have puppies, I’ll let you see my side of the fence. But that’s all you get. After that, you’re on your own. I’m going to party like it’s 1929.”
“Knock yourself out,” I told him. Heaven knew Frankie wouldn’t help if he didn’t want to, so it wasn’t a big loss to let him have an evening to himself.
Lauralee turned to me, her brow scrunched. “What?”
“Just psyching myself up,” I told her, ignoring the ghost spit-shining his shoes in the backseat as she pulled the truck around the side drive.
Several cars lined the parking area to the rear of the house. Lauralee ground the truck to a stop and shoved it into park. “You’ll do great, as long as you stay focused.”
She had no idea.
I stepped out of the cab as an unearthly energy settled over me. It prickled against my skin. I closed the truck door and tried not to fight the dull throb that worked its way through my muscles and bones. Frankie’s power felt forbidden, unsettling. Other ghosts had told us we shouldn’t be bending natural laws like this. But at the moment, I didn’t have a choice—not if I wanted to help Matthew.
A gray, shadowy form took shape directly in front of us, on the stairs leading to the back entrance of the house. It was too small to be Matthew.
I watched as the shadow formed into the figure of a corseted woman in black. She appeared to be in her early twenties and wore a Civil War-era dress with a lace veil, which floated behind her. She gave us a long look before she walked straight through the red brick wall of the mansion.
“You see her eyeing me?” Frankie asked, straightening his tie. “I think I need to give her daddy something to worry about.” He didn’t wait for my answer. Instead, the ghost of the gangster simply disappeared. Well, that solved one problem.
I headed to the back of the truck to help Lauralee unload the food. We carried it up the back steps and into the kitchen from the staff entrance.
“Wow.” I whistled as we entered the large, modern kitchen. It was done in whites and grays with sleek granite countertops and appliances. The space bustled with activity and smelled like a high-end restaurant. “Nice office.”
“I know, right?” Lauralee said as we unloaded our food trays on the huge kitchen island. “I could get used to this.”
Tall polished wood cabinets stretched up to the high ceilings and into the narrow butler’s pantry sandwiched between the kitchen and the dining room. A counter ran down the right side of the room, with cabinets above and below to store dishes and entertaining supplies. Living, breathing, black-clad bartenders counted glassware under the watchful eye of a ghostly butler who stood directly behind them.
At least they had no idea they were being judged.
One of Lauralee’s friends from the diner stacked trays of savory meat pastry puffs beside a tall double oven while another made shrimp cocktails in mini martini glasses garnished with fresh dill.
“What took you so long?” asked the redhead making desserts. “We’re almost done with our assignments.”
“That’s how I planned it.” Lauralee winked. “You both remember Verity.”
We did a round of friendly greetings as the two women focused on their tasks. “Kim and Jen are serving after they finish with prep,” Lauralee explained. “Mike and Steve work construction with my hubby, but both of them bartended in college.”
The men in the butler’s pantry grunted their hellos while hefting a large tub of ice out the swinging door and into the party area.
“You can put your purse under the table,” Lauralee said, pointing to the per
sonal items crowded underneath a dining table stacked with food service containers and serving trays. “And then help me unload the cold appetizers.”
I left my purse with the heap of personal belongings under the table, but first I withdrew Frankie’s urn. It was the only valuable thing in my simple hemp sack. If I lost it, well, I’d lose him. After a moment of consideration, I snuck it behind the trays on the table so no one would accidentally drop it.
One of the bartenders leaned in the door that separated the butler’s pantry from the party. “Showtime,” he said, rapping a hand on the edge of the door. The greetings and laughter of partygoers echoed behind him. “We’ve got guests arriving early.”
“I got this,” the redhead said, finished with her shrimp cocktail martini glasses. She grabbed a tray and began loading them up.
I took a tray from the table and moved to the center island to load deviled eggs with truffles, while the blonde handling the meat puff pastries took her hot-and-ready goodies over to the table and arranged her tray there.
All the while, I could hear the sounds from the party growing louder. We were suddenly behind and we hadn’t even started yet.
“I get why you didn’t worry about me talking,” I said to Lauralee, who slid a platter of bacon-wrapped shrimp out of the bottom oven. “There’s no time.”
My friend grinned. “It’s like a dance,” she said, watching her two friends bustle toward the door while I worked harder on my half-loaded tray.
I glanced at them enviously, my admiration ending when I saw what the blonde carried on the center of her tray. Frankie’s squat, copper urn perched in the middle of a grouping of mini beef Wellingtons.
“Why did she take that?” I thrust out a finger, pointing as the door swung closed behind her.
Lauralee glanced over her shoulder too late to get a good look. “Centerpiece?” She was almost done with her tray. “Sometimes, clients leave things out for us to use.”
“Not that.” I gaped.
“Why?” Lauralee grinned. “Was it ugly?”
Not exactly. The green stones that circled the top were sort of pretty, but that wasn’t the point. Although I couldn’t quite figure out how to explain my shanghaied gangster and the dented copper urn to Lauralee.
“Keep moving,” she reminded me gently.
“Right,” I said. I needed to get out there before Frankie got a look at the blonde with the tray.
How did these people work so fast?
I loaded my deviled eggs as quickly as I could. I had to get out there and get Frankie’s urn back. The last of his ashes—the only ones I hadn’t rinsed away—were inside that urn. If they were spilled or lost, I’d never be able to take him out of my house again.
We’d both go bonkers.
When I had filled my tray, I plastered on my best, most waitress-worthy smile and hefted my holiday appetizers. “I’m going in.”
With any luck, I’d locate Frankie’s urn, speak to Matthew’s mother, retrieve the necklace, and please all the party guests in one trip. Stranger things had happened, right?
Just then, a tray crashed to the floor outside and I heard something shatter.
Chapter 3
The ringing echo made us cringe.
Oh no.
Frankie! I rushed for the door, and when I reached it, I nearly ran smack into the redhead coming the other way.
The door swung closed behind her. “It’s not my fault.”
“You dropped your tray?” I demanded.
“Yes.” The redhead touched a shaking hand to her forehead. “Some joker in the parlor hit me between the shoulder blades with an ice cube. Shocked the heck out of me.”
At least it wasn’t the blonde. I swung the door open with my hand and searched the dining room for the wayward waitress with the urn amid her appetizers, but I didn’t spot her among the glittering society folk.
Meanwhile Lauralee took the ruined tray and placed an arm around her friend’s shoulder. “What a jerk. Are you okay, Jen?”
“Yes,” the redhead said, rallying. “I’m a pro. I’m fine.” She reached for a tray of bacon-wrapped shrimp. “Mike is cleaning up,” she said, heading past me out the door.
At least Frankie was okay for now.
As if he knew I was thinking about him, the gangster shimmered into view directly in front of me, blocking my path. He held his flask in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I would have hugged him if I could, even though he stood frowning. “This ain’t no party. It’s a funeral.” He pointed the end of his cigarette at me. “You owe me the real McCoy.”
Ah, he must have struck out with the young woman we’d seen earlier. I scooted around him and peered out through the swinging door. Only a few ghostly guests stood in the dining room, speaking in hushed tones. They did seem a bit older and stuffy, but that wasn’t my fault. “I’m sorry this isn’t your sort of crowd. But try to make the most of it, okay?” You could bring a gangster to a party, but you couldn’t make him enjoy it.
Frankie followed me and my deviled eggs out into the large, ornate dining room. When I had Frankie’s power, I could see things as the dominant ghost residing on the property did. This dining room appeared Victorian, with a fire blazing in the hearth, and the current generation of Sugarland’s upper crust conversing in groups. An antique table stood at the center of the room, and over it hung a ghostly chandelier with dozens of blazing candles. It made the jewels worn by the real guests glitter.
These were the types of parties I used to attend with my ex, before the scandal that had left me an outsider in my own town.
I paused as an older man in a reindeer bowtie winked at me and took a deviled egg from my tray.
Frankie stood next to him. “I tried to work that cute skirt we saw before. Found her in the parlor,” he said, as if I wasn’t busy working. “She’s got that whole Southern belle thing going on. But she only had eyes for some dead guy.”
I hesitated to point out the obvious.
“Have you seen Matthew’s mother?” I murmured, advancing through the crowd.
Frankie took a drag from his cigarette. “Yeah, and I knew it was her because she’s wearing a name tag.”
I heard another crash, this time from the direction of the front hall. I tried to keep my own tray balanced as I rushed to see what happened.
The redhead knelt at the entrance to the parlor, frantically scooping up bacon-wrapped shrimp. I hurried to help her.
The guests had shrunk back from the mess, but make no mistake, our fumbled trays were the talk of the party. At this point, I feared more food had ended up on the floor than with the guests.
“Somebody tripped me,” she whispered frantically as I knelt down beside her. “I swear!”
Her friend walked out of the parlor, with Frankie’s urn teetering at the center of her half-filled tray. The gangster glared at his last resting place, then at me as if I were responsible for him becoming a centerpiece. “That dame lifted my urn!”
“What do you expect me to do?” I hissed.
Frankie didn’t hesitate. “Shoot her.”
Luckily, the redhead and the blonde were too worried about the mess to notice me and my not-so-friendly ghost.
“I’ll help you two in a second,” Frankie’s urn-napper said, maneuvering around the mess. She leaned down. “They’re complaining that the food is cold,” she said in a harsh whisper before heading for the kitchen.
“I’m on you like a tick, lady!” Frankie gnashed, following her.
Oh, heavens. He’d better not appear to her.
Quickly, I gave the redhead my deviled eggs and took the ruined shrimp tray. I hurried after the blonde and Frankie and the urn.
When I got to the kitchen, I found all three. And poor Lauralee. She stood wide-eyed, staring at her friend. “You didn’t cook it all the way?”
“It was piping hot when I took it out of the oven,” the blonde protested.
I touched the tray in her hand, ignoring the ghost directly behind her.
“The whole thing is freezing.”
She handed it to Lauralee and looked about ready to tear up. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
I could.
The cold sensation at the back, an accidental tripping, chilled appetizers. It all pointed to unhappy ghosts—ones with an even bigger beef than my gangster buddy—and I had a feeling I’d find them in the parlor.
“I’ll keep serving, and try to calm any ruffled feathers,” I told my friend. It’s not like I could locate Matthew’s mother or her necklace while standing in the kitchen.
Unfortunately, me being on the case didn’t seem to reassure Lauralee. “Don’t start talking to everyone,” she warned.
“I won’t.” Not to everyone at least.
“Take this,” Lauralee said, handing me a tray of artfully arranged holiday cookies on gold doilies.
“And this,” I said, knocking a few beef Wellingtons loose as I freed Frankie’s urn from Kim’s tray and placed it squarely in the center of my own.
“Hey,” Lauralee said, “isn’t that…”
I hurried out of the kitchen, with Frankie on my heels.
“It’s not a decoration,” the gangster groused
Still, he seemed relieved that I had it. Me too. If we were taking on any more ghostly exploits, I’d have to find a better way to carry Frankie’s urn. But for now, it was safe.
Guests snagged my cookies as I worked my way to the parlor. As far as I could tell, all of the disturbances had happened there. I couldn’t imagine what I’d find.
“The Jacksons have terrible luck with catering,” a woman in a clingy red dress said, waving away my tray as her well-built date grabbed two mini sugar bells and a chocolate chip. “The club could never get anything right, either. Last year, the entire buffet table went over. They said it had to be an uneven floor.”
It was more than that. No wonder the club had dropped this event from their annual calendar.
I cringed as the woman’s date dropped a handful of beef Wellington wrappers into Frankie’s urn.
