0451416325 (4 page)

If I was being completely honest, I had to admit that as much as I didn’t like the woman, I didn’t want to see Patricia go to prison, either.

Much.

“I’m not sure,” Delia said. “It was dark, and Patricia’s big blue dress blocked a lot of the scene, but the person had brown hair, and there was blood pooling near the head. All I can tell you for certain is that it was nine thirty.”

“How do you know that?”

Tucking a strand of pale blond hair behind her ear, she said, “There was a grandfather clock next to Patricia. Can you believe she’d hit someone with a candlestick?”

Yes, yes I could.

“Maybe it was an act of self-defense,” Delia went on. “Or temporary insanity.”

Maybe. Maybe not. There was a side to Patricia Davis Jackson few knew—a dark, dangerous side. I bit my thumbnail.

“Or,” Delia reasoned with a gentle shrug, “maybe my dream was just a dream and the only drama tonight will be how all fired up you get from people stepping on your dress’s train.”

In the six months I’d come to know Delia, not once had a portentous dream turned out to be
just a dream
. I supposed there was a first for everything, but I’d let Dylan know all the same.

Eyeing the court-length train of the dress, I said, “It shouldn’t be an issue considering I plan on standing in a corner with a very large drink all night.”

Smiling, she nodded, but then caution crept into her eyes. “Just do me a favor, Carly Bell Hartwell, in case it wasn’t just a dream . . . Be careful tonight, okay? I don’t want one of the ghosts I help cross over in the next few days to be yours.”

Just the thought of being one of those ghosts gave me the willies.

But if Delia’s dream
had
revealed the future that left a big question . . .

If it wasn’t me Patricia had hit on the head with that candlestick, who was it?

Chapter Three

T
he radiant moon, full a day ago, peeked out from behind thin clouds, highlighting crimson leaves as they skittered across the newly sodded lawn of the Ezekiel mansion.

Dylan and I sat in a wooden bench swing that hung from a strong branch of a scarlet oak tree on the edge of the property. As we swayed, we watched partygoers glide up the walkway to the circular front entry of the house, where hired help stood at the wide walnut door to take coats and wraps.

“Eventually we’re going to have to go inside,” Dylan said, giving my right hand a squeeze.

“I know.” My left hand was curled around my locket. Here, in the distance of the party, I was safe from other people’s feelings, emotions. I could control them. However, as soon as I stepped inside that mansion my protective walls would start crumbling as surely as the house’s foundation had before the Harpies got their hands on it. “But I like it out here.”

He gave the swing a push. “The longer we’re out here, the more time my mother gets with that candlestick . . . from this I deduce that you’d like her to get arrested.”

I nudged him with my elbow. “Deduce?”

“Words like that come with the badge.” Smiling, he patted his fancy suit jacket where his badge was tucked into an inside pocket.

Although he looked mighty fine dressed to the nines, I had to admit seeing him in his uniform was what truly got me a little hot under the collar. “Delia said the crime would be committed at nine thirty, so there’s no
deduction
needed. And as much as your mama and I have our differences, and
shoo
, we do . . .”

“Don’t I know it,” he cut in.

Giving him some side-eye, I went on. “I don’t want to see her get arrested. Not really. Okay, yes, it’s true that I’d love to see a mug shot of her. Maybe get a copy. For posterity. And my Christmas cards. And maybe a keepsake key chain. No biggie.”

Laughing, he shook his head, his moss green eyes looking brown in the night.

On the outside, Patricia Davis Jackson was the epitome of Southern beauty and grace.

On the inside, I was convinced she was ugly as sin.

“Hey,” I said, poking him with my elbow again. “There’s the mayor. She has brown hair . . . Does your mama hold any ill will toward her?”

Mayor Barbara Jean Ramelle was the Harpies’ treasurer. She and her husband, Doug, who was owner of the fancy Delphinium restaurant, were stalwart members of the Hitching Post community.

Picking up an acorn, Dylan flicked it deep into the darkness. “Care Bear,” he said, using his pet name for me, “the only person my mama has ill will for is you.”

My lips pursed. “That’s not very comforting.”

“How’s this for comfort?” Tipping my head up, he leaned in and gently pressed a few playful kisses all around my lips before finally settling his mouth on mine.

I curved into him, snuggling into his warmth, getting lost in all the wonderful sensations flowing through my body. These were the kind of tingles a witch could get used to.

“Better?” he asked, his voice soft and husky.

Wrinkling my nose, I said, “It’s a little better, but I think another—”

A bloodcurdling scream split the air. I grabbed on to his lapels and sucked in a breath.

Dylan’s body had gone rigid. “It came from the backyard.”

When another scream sounded, he suddenly relaxed. “Barn owl.”

Usually, I liked owls. Not tonight. Even though Dylan and I had a plan to deal with Delia’s dream, I was a little on edge.

Come nine twenty, Dylan intended to stick to his mama like glue. Nothing untoward was going to happen under his watch. I was more curious about who she’d planned to club. And why.

Dylan shifted to look at the woods at the rear of the property.

Where the Ezekiel family cemetery was located.

From here, I could see only the dim outline of the wrought iron fence that surrounded the burial ground and the eerie silhouettes of stone grave markers. “What time is it?”

Pulling up his cuff, he held his watch up to the moonlight. “Eight thirty.”

“We should go in,” I said sullenly, making no move to do so.

Clouds shifted and moonbeams spilled across the Ezekiel mansion like theatrical spotlights.

The boxy brick three-story mansion with a mansard roof trimmed in decorative ironwork was a Victorian masterpiece built in the late 1850s by wealthy landowner Captain Simeon Ezekiel for his French bride, Fleur, who’d brought the home’s building plans to America with her. It was the earliest example of Second Empire design in Alabama, which had landed it a spot on the national register of historic houses and made it worthy of saving by the Harpies, at least according to the brochure they’d sent me when they received the donation Daddy made in my name to the restoration cause.

A grand center tower of the home consisted of beautiful double-decker circular porches, and a third floor balcony led into the ballroom where the party was being held. The east and west wings were perfectly symmetrical with tall skinny windows that had arched eyebrow-shaped molding above them. There was a lot of fuss and muss in the architecture—thick brackets, fish-scale slate shingles, loads of intricate trim. When it was all said and done, the mansion had taken nearly five years and endless hours to restore.

Despite its beautiful refurbishment, in my opinion the house was inherently spooky-looking, thanks to architecture similar to the houses belonging to the Addams family or
Psycho
’s Norman Bates.

It was the perfect place for a ghost or two to hang out, which made me want to stay exactly where I was, right here on this swing.

Dylan stood and pulled me to my feet. “Come on, Care Bear. Here comes Ainsley and Carter. Power in numbers, yes?”

Not in my case. Not ever.

Still, I supposed I couldn’t stay out here all night. My mama might disown me, and I was rather fond of being part of the Fowl-Hartwell clan, as dysfunctional as we may be.

“All right. Here,” I said, fishing his gold mask from my small clutch. I tied my own mask, a beautiful creation of lacy gold filigree, behind my head with its silk ties. “Let’s get this over and done with.”

“That’s the kind of enthusiasm out of you that I love.”

“Don’t make me trip you.”

Smiling, he offered me his arm.

I fisted a handful of silk so I wouldn’t stumble on my hem, grasped Dylan’s arm with my other hand, and slowly made my way across the lawn, trying to keep my heels from poking into the ground.

“As I live and breathe, Carly Bell Hartwell, you clean up good!” Ainsley Debbs said as Dylan and I caught up to her and her husband, Carter. She made a twirly motion with her finger, and I dutifully spun.

“You’re one to talk, you Southern belle, you.” I mimicked the twirly motion, and she spun, her boisterous laugh ringing out.

“Oh, this old thing?” she said. “Just ripped the curtains off the rectory windows and whipped it up.”

Her dress was absolutely gorgeous. The deep purple one-shoulder gown matched her amethyst eyes, skimmed her curves, and showed off her cleavage. It nipped in at the waist with a wide sash, then flared out in layers of ruffles and sparkles. Her mask-on-a-stick was made of purple satin and embellished with rhinestones.

Carter, a pastor, didn’t seem to mind one little bit that his wife was showing so much skin. He wore a black Zorro mask that didn’t jibe with his personality in the least—what I knew of it, anyhow.

Carter and I had a complicated relationship, him being a man of cloth and me being, well, a witch, but we put all differences aside for our love of Ainsley. He bent and kissed my cheek, and then he and Dylan shook hands and fell into a discussion about the latest ’Bama game. It was a popular topic of conversation around town during football season.

Ainsley and I linked arms and headed up the wide bluestone pathway ahead of them.

“Any ghosties yet?” she asked, looking around surreptitiously as though Casper might pop out from behind a neatly trimmed hedge.

“It’s a bit early yet.” Wanting—needing—to change the subject, I said, “Who has the Clingons tonight?”

Ainsley and Carter had three kids, collectively known as the Clingons.

They were a bit needy.

Twin four-year-old boys Toby and Tuck looked and behaved a lot like their daddy, and three-year-old Olive was a hellion just like her mama had once been.

“Charlotte. She needed financial help buying her wedding dress . . . so we made a babysitting deal.” She smiled. “The best money I ever spent.”

Charlotte Judson, Ainsley’s little sister, was due to be married this Valentine’s Day.

I smiled at the young woman taking coats as I passed into the foyer of the house, which was dimly lit with candelabra and the soft glow of fairy lights that had been twined along the doorways and staircase. The place had been done up in white pumpkins, orange and yellow pip berry garland, and autumnal flower arrangements. The scent of cinnamon hung heavily in the air and peppy music from upstairs floated downward.

It was cozy and elegant all at once. I expected nothing less from Patricia, who’d planned the party, top to bottom. There was a reason Patricia Davis Jackson was consistently named the top party planner in Hitching Post.

I was mildly surprised to see that she wasn’t the Harpie assigned to greet guests at the door—instead, Idella Deboe Kirby and Dr. Gabriel Kirby stood near the elaborately carved banister at the foot of a grand curved staircase. Idella looked look every bit the lady of the manor, while Gabriel, Hitching Post’s best veterinarian, who was fondly known around town as Doc or Doc Gabriel, just looked uncomfortable.

A bit socially awkward, he was more at ease with animals than people. It was a wonder he could tolerate functions like tonight’s ball at all, though I supposed he has had years of practice, being married to Idella. Some said they were a perfect match because he loved animals and she was a social butterfly, but my mama—bless her heart—said it was because Doc Gabriel knew how to handle a bitc—

“The place looks wonderful, Miz Idella,” Dylan said, cutting off my thoughts.

I offered my hellos and looked around, trying to take in all the small details. My own house had been under renovation since the day I moved in, and I was beginning to think it’d never be done.