A Ghostly Grave (3 page)

 

Chapter 3

T
hat was crazy,” I said to Jack Henry. My heart was pounding a mile a minute. I glanced out the front door of the funeral home.

News about Chicken Teater's exhumation was spreading like wildfire. Two more news crews showed up before we could get the church truck safely into the funeral home. Jack had a heck of a time fending off the camera crews. They were positioned on the sidewalk in front of Eternal Slumber and across the street in the square.

“I wonder how they found out about the exhumation.” Jack peeled back the curtain on the front door and looked out.

“Oh I don't know.” Sarcasm dripped from my lips. “Duh. The entire town came out to see what was going on. I'm sure one of them tipped off the news.” I signed off on the papers and handed them to Vernon, who was waiting near the elevator to take Chicken to the basement, where he could begin his work on the remains.

Jack just looked at me. I crinkled my nose and smiled. He smiled back, causing my heart to flutter. If he didn't stop making cute faces at me, they were going to have to make a spot on the church truck next to Chicken, because I swore my heart stopped every time Jack looked at me.

“This should be fun.” Vernon took the papers and slapped them on top of the dirty casket before wheeling the church truck into the open elevator.

“Remember, this is a closed investigation,” Jack Henry warned Vernon. “No talking to the media or friends or family about this.”

“Scout's honor.” Vernon put up two fingers before the elevator door shut.

“Dinner tonight?” Jack Henry asked.

“Dinner? How about breakfast, so I can tell you what I know about Chicken and who I think might have done it?” There was still an assumption on my part that I would play some sort of roll in the investigation of the death, even though he had already told me to stay out of it.

“Emma Lee, you know I believe you see Chicken, just like you saw Ruthie.” He rubbed his hand over my cheek, leaving me momentarily paralyzed. “But you said Chicken didn't know how he was murdered, which means you need to leave it up to the professionals. I've already warned you. I can't have you getting involved in something that could possibly put you in danger. I couldn't live with myself if that happened.”

I nodded. For a moment, I lost all my marbles and all cohesive thoughts melted away.

“What?” Chicken jumped out of the curtains. “You tell that little whippersnapper that I was murdered and he needs to check Marla out. She was so jealous of Lady Cluckington. She signed the agreement! You have to find the agreement, Emma Lee.”

What agreement?
If he and Marla had an agreement, it was news to me.

Agreement or not, Jack Henry wasn't going to let me get my hands dirty.

“But he's my client.” I protested and kept the little information about Chicken and Marla's agreement to myself. This agreement might be the first bit of information that would help lead to more clues. And completely pin Marla Maria as the number-­one suspect, which she already was in my book.

“Four years ago he was Eternal Slumber's client.” He put his hat on, a sure sign he was leaving. “Today he is
my
client.” His expression grew serious.

“But he's here.” I pointed to Chicken standing right next to Jack Henry. I smiled, trying to break his icy look. “Doesn't that mean something?”

Jack Henry looked to his right and did a little shimmy shake. “Don't do that to me, Emma Lee.” He shook his arms and hands like he was shaking off the dead. “You know I can't stand to know there is a ghost next to me. It creeps me out.”

“Fine, but he
is
my client,” I noted. “From the afterworld.”

“What?” Jack cocked his eyebrow. “You have a business going with them now?”

“No, but that's a good idea.”
Hell no
, I wanted to shout. There would be no other ghosts after Chicken. Even though the psychic said, once a Betweener, always a Betweener. She also said it was probably limited to people I knew and there weren't too many people I had buried that I knew. Especially those who had been murdered.

Granted, I never thought Chicken Teater was murdered, nor Ruthie, but Ruthie proved otherwise and I guessed Chicken was trying to do the same.

“Dinner?” Jack walked back over and grabbed both of my hands before he pulled them up to his lips and gently kissed them.

My heart skipped a beat. Jack Henry was a dream come true. When I was in high school, I would have done anything to catch his eye. But no one really wanted anything to do with the creepy funeral-­home girl. Or so I thought.

“That was something to see.” Granny walked into the vestibule. She must have let herself in the back door. “I've never seen that in all the years I'd been in the business.” She walked over to the curtain and peeled it back; then yanked it again to open it wide.

The sounds of clicks could be heard from the outside, as Granny stood smiling and waving to the media from the vestibule window. Chicken was right behind her doing the same thing.

“It's something we try not to do often.” Jack Henry let go of my hands and walked over to shut the curtain. Granny waved until it was closed. He didn't scold her. He knew better. Granny did what Granny wanted to do. Apparently, Chicken did too.

“Dinner, Emma Lee?” He asked again—­this time wanting a definite answer. “What do you say I take you to Bella Vino?”

“What time?”
No-­brainer.
I could already taste the delicious chicken parmesan from my favorite restaurant . . .
our restaurant.
I ignored Granny, who was still trying to sneak a peek at the media. I had to admit, this was the only time Sleepy Hollow had seen so much press.

“Seven.” He bent down and kissed me on the cheek before he left out the door to the waiting camera crew.

“True love.” Granny giggled. Over her shoulder, I snuck a peek out the window where the cameramen were trying to coerce Jack into talking. They had no clue he was as ironclad as they come.

“He is a keeper,” I said to Granny. “You
have
to be careful on that scooter. You are going to kill someone.”

I walked back through the family gathering space that was next to the kitchen to start the coffee Granny had told me to brew.

“So.” Granny rubbed her hands together. “What exactly is going on? I know you had to have a good reason to dig him up. Murder? Someone steal something out of his coffin? I've heard of grave robbers.” A devilish look came into her eyes. “Who's the suspect?”

Although it sounded really sick, there were people out there who stole items off the dead. I couldn't even think of that, in fear of being haunted all my life. That thought scared me.

“Granny, you know I can't mix business with pleasure.” I ignored her beady little eyes staring at me.

“Need I remind you that I still own this establishment and have the right to kick you out of it?”

“You wouldn't.” I gasped, and stared at her in disbelief.

“Then tell me what is going on.” She straightened up and spoke in a pretty little Southern tone.

“Granny, I have Southern charm just like you, lest you forget that you taught me.”
Please hurry up and brew,
I thought, looking at the coffee. The quicker she got her cup of coffee, the quicker she'd be out of here. “And you can't keep holding it over my head that you own the joint. We have a contract—­signed papers.”

“Oh, I forgot about that.” Her mouth twitched to the side. “Well I'm just curious. I won't tell anyone. Besides, what good is it that you are dating the sheriff if we don't get the scoop?”

She did have a point. Still. I couldn't betray Jack Henry and his trust.

“I'm telling you right now that I'm going to have the papers drawn up and you can sell the place to Charlotte and me.” My eyes narrowed. Granny and I both knew it was time to sell the place. She hadn't had her hand in any part of the business since Charlotte and I took over.

“So you aren't going to tell me?” There was no doubt Granny was persistent.

“No,” my voice was thick and unsteady because I was itching to tell her.

“Fine.” Granny took a deep breath and pulled her shoulders back. “Now, tell me.” There was a spark of interest in her eyes.

Without telling her a word, I handed her the papers Jack Henry had given me with the warrant.

“What kind of evidence do they have?” Granny's mouth formed an
O
. There was no way to hide the surprised expression on Granny's face. “Marla Maria?”

“Don't go pointing fingers.” I grabbed the pot of coffee and poured each of us a cup. “Jack Henry isn't going to tell me what evidence he has.” Which wasn't a lie. He didn't have any evidence except Chicken's ghost and me. Thank goodness, Jack Henry was in charge. This type of evidence to exhume a body would have never gone this easily in a big town. “And we don't know if Marla Maria had anything to do with it. She did look sad today.”

“Sad my patookie.” Granny sipped her coffee as she referred to her behind. The steam swirled up around her face and clouded over her eyes. Without seeing Granny's expression, she knew as much as I did that Marla Maria was a great actress.

 

Chapter 4

A
cross the street from Eternal Slumber Funeral Home was the town square, where the annual Kentucky Cave Festival mainly took place, as it should, since it was in the middle of the town with all the main streets leading away from it. The festival had been going on for a ­couple hundred years. In fact, the city records show in one way or another, the celebration of the caves had started from the first time many of them were discovered.

Granted, they probably didn't celebrate like we do today. It was important for the festival to be successful in today's down economy. The festival committee got smart and decided to capitalize on the seasonal change of the caves—­the spring and fall. Therefore, every spring and every fall Sleepy Hollow was the host to the largest festival in Kentucky.

This one happened to be my favorite. The flowers this time of the year were amazing and the spring foliage in the caves were nothing short of magic. The colors popped in the dark caverns, dimly lit by the visitors' torches used on tours. A few years back, the committee hosted a fund-­raiser in order to put limited electricity in the caves for those “just in case” moments. The ones we didn't like to think of. Like falling down the cave and landing on a stalagmite. One would think that would hurt—­being stabbed by a collection of cave droppings that formed a sharp pointy cone. The thought of it sent the willies up my legs.

“Mornin' Emma Lee! Mornin' Zula Fae!” Hettie Bell shouted from the top of the ladder on the gazebo steps, steadying the wobbling rickety old wooden thing while hanging on to the lattice around the old structure with one hand and waving with the other. “Lots of stuff happening today!”

Normally I'd yell back; instead, I bid Granny good-­bye and decided to walk over since the camera crew was still camped out in front of Eternal Slumber, and all the reporters had their microphones at their hips as if there was a gun-­slinging about to happen between my lips. I pinched them together to make sure not even a bit of air escaped them.

Granny jumped on her moped and zoomed across the square toward the Inn, but not before giving a big ol' wave and “hi y'all” to the cameras.

The festival committee was busy draping the small white festival lanterns all over the trees while some food RVs had set up along the perimeter, and there was poor Hettie Bell hanging on for dear life.

“She's going to kill someone if she doesn't slow that thing down.” Hettie shook her head as we watched Granny swerve a little too far left, almost running into a park bench.

“You tell her that.” I shuddered inwardly at the thought of the tongue-­lashing Granny would give Hettie Bell if she tried to tell Granny how to ride the scooter. “Let me help.” I held on to both sides of the ladder, bearing all the weight I could so she could finish stringing the lights. “Everyone seems to be excited.”

“That's an understatement.” Hettie draped the end of the cord around a hole in the lattice and plugged it into the end of another set of lights. “I hope it brings in a crowd for the festival.”

“I was talking about the festival.” The roar of the generators from the roach-­coaches hummed along with all the birds singing throughout the square.

“I'm talking about the body you exhumed. You interrupted morning yoga.” She climbed down and smoothed out her very chic chin-­length bob. Her black eyes bore into mine for the big dark secret. “What was up with that?”

“I just do what the police warrant tells me to do. I'm sorry I ruined your class.” I knew she meant that she didn't get paid since everyone was at the cemetery.

“I was doing my morning yoga class on the front porch of the Inn. You should have seen them. Zula Fae included.” A grin crossed her lips, exposing beautiful white teeth. “I swear they heard the click of the tractor key before John Howard turned it. They bolted to the edge of the veranda and once they heard the hum of the tractor, they ran across the square faster than jackrabbits. Zula Fae was beside herself looking for her moped key, cursing and throwing things out of drawers trying to find the extra set. Once she found them, she jumped on the moped, gunning it as fast as it would go.”

“Yep, she's going to kill someone with that thing.” I shook my head.

It wasn't like Hettie and I were big buds. She recently moved to Whispering Falls and started the new yoga studio, Pose and Relax. She bought the abandoned building next to Eternal Slumber, which she was renovating. Until the new space was finished, she was holding her classes at the Sleepy Hollow Inn, where Granny's customers loved to wake up to a good morning stretch. Plus all the Auxiliary women went, not only to gossip, but because Doc Clyde had told them it would be good for their joints. I had thought about going because I heard flexibility was good for the bedroom—­not that Jack Henry and I had slept together, though the thought wasn't far from my mind.

Still, I could do yoga for the just-­in-­case-­it-­did-­happen factor. And I would get to see my granny.

“I'm headed down for my shift at the Inn.” Hettie pointed across the square in the direction of Granny's place. Hettie worked at the Inn part-­time, helping Granny clean rooms, do dishes, or even cook. The Inn was packed for the Kentucky Cave Festival. Until recently, it was the only place to stay near the square; now there was a big hotel on the outskirts of town. Still, visitors loved the charm of the old Inn and Granny always provided plenty of entertainment—­herself. “I have to do the morning-­rush dishes. I told her I'd be there right after I did my committee duty of stringing the lights on the gazebo. My work here is done. Want to come?” She dusted her hands off and folded up the ladder. She propped it up on the gazebo and motioned for someone to come get it.

“I can't.” I pointed toward the front of the square. “I've got some business to take care of at the courthouse. But I'll see you tomorrow morning for yoga and plenty of times during the festival.”

We parted ways. Off in the distance I could see Cheryl Lynne Doyle setting up her little roach-­coach stand for Higher Grounds Café. Another good cup of coffee might just be what I needed to get me through the day.

“You have this city all in an uproar and here we are trying to get this festival ready for tomorrow night,” she said in her slow Southern drawl and smoothed the edges of the awning dangling from her childhood RV.

Food vendors from all over Kentucky set up small booths or RVs along the perimeter of the town square so the festival-­goers could sample their food. For a price of course.

“I had nothing to do with it.” I put my hands in the air before I gestured toward the coffee carafe setup. “I do what I'm told.”

“Yeah, fix yourself a cup. It's still fresh. I brought it over from the shop so I could drink some while I got ready for tomorrow.” Cheryl Lynne and I grew up together in Sleepy Hollow. It wasn't until high school that Cheryl Lynne blossomed and suddenly got very popular, leaving me in the dust, and I don't mean cremation dust . . . social dust.

Cheryl Lynne had gone on a senior trip to New York City, and when she discovered the fancy coffee houses she knew that a coffee shop was exactly what Sleepy Hollow needed. And with the Doyle money, her daddy had no problem buying up the old post-­office building next to the courthouse to give Cheryl Lynne her own coffee house, Higher Grounds Café.

The Sleepy Hollow Barbershop Quartet had taken residence in the gazebo with their pitch pipes, snapping fingers, and foot tapping as they tried to figure out the acoustics to make their music soar like the birds around Sleepy Hollow.

They would be at the opening ceremony and the Cattlemen's Association cookout tonight. Too bad I was going to miss it, which I didn't mind because my night was going to be spent looking deep into Jack Henry's eyes over candlelight, pasta, and a few glasses of wine at Bella Vino. That beats a hamburger and a four-­man quartet any day.

The caves were a draw for many musicians. The sounds of guitars, singers, and makeshift drums could be heard in the late hours of any given night from the hollows of the nooks and crannies between the caves and in the gorges surrounding Sleepy Hollow. Local gossip had it that bluegrass music was discovered right here. But we all knew where local gossip got us.

Speaking of local gossip, five-­foot-­six Beulah Paige Bellefry trotted toward Cheryl Lynne like a show pony in her six-­inch heels, tight two-­piece baby-­blue pantsuit, pearls cascading down around her neck, and her storebought eyelashes batting against her fake-­and-­bake tanned face.

She snapped her neck to the sounds of the quartet and waved her hand in the air. “Emma, Emma Lee Raines.” Now her shoulders wiggled to the beat of the hand claps coming from the four-­man band.

“Good grief,” Cheryl Lynne turned away from Beulah. “We haven't even had our coffee yet.”

“Good morning, ladies.” Beulah meant one lady. Me. She had her back to Cheryl. “Tell me what is going on with Eternal Slumber. I have to know.”

“I'm sorry Beulah, what do you mean?” I always tried to be nice to her, but it was very difficult. Granny always told me to kill them with kindness, which proved hard to do when Beulah had no remorse for the rumors she started.

“I heard everyone is digging up their loved ones and demanding to transfer them to Burns Funeral Home.” There wasn't a sympathetic tone in her voice. In fact, I did believe there was a twinkle in her blues eyes that lingered a little too long on me.

O'Dell Burns, owner of Burns Funeral Home, was Eternal Slumber's only competition in the area and was always trying to steal our clients from us. The funeral business can be very tricky. It was more than putting on a pretty ser­vice; it was about building a relationship with the family to help ensure future business. No matter what the economy did, there was always going to be need for a funeral home and it was my job to make sure the ser­vices went well, but it was Charlotte Rae's job to keep the business coming.

“Who told you something as ridiculous as that?” I quipped. To Cheryl I said, “Who would say something so stupid?” Then I gave a sideways glance toward Beulah Paige with a cocked brow.

Anger boiled in me. That was an O'Dell Burns move if I had ever seen one. He would stop at nothing to get the clients we had. He knew if he told Beulah, it would spread like wildfire.

“You better watch her, Emma Lee.” Chicken scowled inches away from Beulah Paige. He referred to her gossiping and loose tongue. “She could lick a skillet that was in the kitchen from the front porch.”

A noisy burst of coffee shot out of my mouth. I tried to contain the spew, but Chicken had tickled my funny bone and I couldn't stop myself.

“Are you okay?” Cheryl asked.

I waved her off and tried to compose myself.

In one fell swoop, Beulah stood with her legs wide apart, the hems of her pants tugged too tight, put her hands on her hips and then plunged her body forward; she moved her hands, letting them rest on the ground while lifting her head, and looked right past me, staring straight ahead.

“Have you gone mad, Beulah?” Cheryl's face contorted. Beulah was a sight to behold with her butt stuck up in the air right here in the town square for all to see. “Everyone in this town has gone crazy.”

“Emma Lee is stressing me out. I have to get to the bottom of why they dug up Chicken Teater after four years of undisturbed rest.” Beulah closed her eyes and took a deep breath and did the sign of the cross. “This is the Prasarita Padottanasana pose that Hettie Bell told me to do when I begin to feel stress creeping in my shoulders. And Emma Lee is making me stressed.”

“You are the one who came over to me.” I jabbed my finger in her turned-­up-­nosed face. “You are the one stressing me out with all this talk about people wanting to take their business away from me. Shame on you, Beulah Paige Bellefry!” I stomped off in the direction of the courthouse.

“Can you help me up?” I heard Beulah Paige ask Cheryl Lynn for some assistance. There was no way I was going to turn around to see what a fool she had made of herself.

I did wish I could tell everyone why Jack Henry ordered the exhumation of Chicken Teater. I wished I could tell everyone I was a Betweener medium and that their loved ones were okay. But I couldn't. In fact, when I got knocked out by that perilous plastic Santa, I told Charlotte Rae and Granny I had seen Chicken at my bedside. It gave them all sorts of fits, thinking I was as crazy as a june bug. After Doc Clyde diagnosed me with the “Funeral Trauma,” they were a bit more forgiving. Granny always warned me to hide my crazy. Only hiding crazy would mean I'd have to hide my whole life. The entire bunch of us are loons.

I took meds and did the therapist route which was what Doc Clyde told me to do, but no matter how much I tried to ignore the ghosts, they never went away until I figured out who murdered them.

Jack Henry was right. If anyone found out we had exhumed Chicken because we
thought
, with good reason, he might have been murdered, Sleepy Hollow residents would go crazy rushing to the store to pick up a gun and some shells. Not to mention, if word got around that Sleepy Hollow was unsafe to visit, our economy would take a dive. Especially now since the Kentucky Cave Festival was our biggest economy boost.

Still, I wanted to give Beulah Paige Bellefry and her yoga moves a piece of my mind.