southern ghost hunters 01 - southern spirits (24 page)

"They never found out who shot him though, did they?" 

He scooted his chair back. "No. We believed it was a random, senseless act of violence. But how random was the electricity being turned back on? Or your fall off that ledge?"

My sister was right. Perhaps I shouldn't have involved myself in this. Of course, I didn't see any way to back out now. In fact, I wasn't sure I wanted to be alone until we figured this out. And we would.

We had to.

I deposited the plates in the sink, then turned and leaned against the counter. "Where was your uncle killed?"

"At an abandoned house off Rosewood, south of Main," he said, thinking. "Neighbors spotted smoke billowing from one of the windows. He got there before the trucks."

I held my skunk closer. "Do you think this has something to do with the Wilson's Creek property?" Maybe someone found a significant fortune and wanted both Ellis and his uncle out of the way. Of course, that didn't explain why I had to die. 

Maybe the attacks were connected to the vandalism in the kitchen somehow. We knew about the ghost, but maybe a person was riling up the ghosts on purpose. "Does Harry know about the hidden jewelry?"

He could easily sabotage Ellis's plans from the inside. And he'd watched us head down to the cliffs.

Ellis shut down when he saw where I was going. "Harry's a good guy," he insisted. 

"We both know supposedly good people can surprise you." At one time, I'd thought Beau was a good person. He had to look at the facts here. "Your uncle was murdered. You were almost killed. Now me. We can't afford to overlook any possibilities."

Ellis stood, thinking. "The night he died, my uncle discovered something. He was really excited." He scrubbed a hand over his chin. "I don't think it was about money, though. He wanted to talk in private, but we didn't get the chance before he went on duty that night." He turned to me, as if he had an idea.

"Oh no," I knew where this was going.

"Find my uncle," he said, approaching me. "Talk to him."

He had this all wrong. "I can't just call people up." Frankie wasn't running a ghostly AT&T. Besides, I hadn't seen him since he'd gone into the ether yesterday. 

"You're tuned into the spirit world," he said, as if talking to ghosts was something I did all the time, like a trip to the gas station or the store.

"I'll try my best," I told him. It really depended on Frankie, or anyone else I might get to help me.

Ellis stood over me, determined, looking stronger injured than most men did fully well. "Verity, it could be a matter of life and death."

It disturbed me deeply to realize he was right.

"I'll do it," I told him. "I'll start now. Only, I need a little privacy." And Frankie's urn.

Chapter Seventeen

"Come on, Frankie," I said, holding the urn as I slid into the back seat of the police cruiser. 

Luckily, Ellis had taken his Jeep to the old carriage house last night and left his official vehicle in the driveway. He braced a hand on the open doorframe. "Do you need any help in there?"

I had a hard time meeting his eyes. "No. You can close the door now." I felt dumb enough sitting out front of his house and holding an urn in my lap. 

I didn't need anybody staring.

Yes, this was the best approach to get the answers we needed. It just wasn't the way to appear sane, normal, or date-able.

I wasn't sure where that last part came from. Of course I could never go out with Ellis. 

The seat felt hard, uncomfortable. I squirmed a bit and sighed.

Truth was, I sort of liked Ellis. Which made it even more awkward when he backed off a few feet and stood watching me through the window, as if Hale would manifest in the seat next to me, in full view of him and the entire neighborhood.

It would certainly make my job easier if he did. 

Now I had to hope my favorite ghost hadn't checked out on me. "Frankie," I said, rubbing the urn. "I hope you've rested up because it's go time. I need to see."

Morning sunlight streamed into the car. Birds chirped outside. 

And not one ghost appeared—not even Frankie.

My stomach twisted. 

I hoped the gangster was okay. What if the poltergeist had attacked him the same time I was shoved? Lord almighty. I hadn't even stopped to consider if yesterday's assault hadn't stopped with me.

"Are you hurt?" I asked, hearing the edge in my voice. "In trouble?" I adjusted the bronze lid and ran my fingers over the blue, square-shaped tiles on the outside. "Can you try and bang on the side? Even if you can't appear right now, I need to know you're all right."

A low groan echoed throughout the car and the hair on my arms stood on end. "You realize I don't live
in
the urn."

Oh, thank goodness. I could have kissed him. "Frankie! It's so good to hear your voice."

"You could say I have more of an attachment
to
the urn," he yammered on, as if I hadn't spoken. 

"Where have you been?" I searched for any sign of him in the car. "Where are you now?"

"I've told you how hard it is to manifest," he grumbled from somewhere to my left. "I've used a lot of energy on you. It takes a while to build back up."

A thin wisp of a white shadow caught the sunlight. "Is that you?" I leaned toward it. I couldn't tell.

He groaned, as if he was having trouble coming back to the living. "You still think I'm your personal, portable ghost." 

I waved a hand over the empty seat next to me. 

"Stop it," he snipped. 

"Can I at least take a look at you?" He sounded like his normal cranky self. Tired. Probably not hurt. But I'd feel better if I could see for myself.

The ghost chuckled. "Well ain't that a gas? You usually get all bug eyed when I manifest."

Oh, please. "That's because you like to pop up and scare the bejesus out of me."

"Yeah," he said, the grin evident in his voice. "I'm starting to get the whole appeal of haunting."

Lovely. 

At least I had him back. "Listen," I said. "I don't know if you realize, but I was attacked last night."

A chill wound through the air. "Damn. I was out of it."

"The colonel tried to warn me. Without your help, how did I see him?"

"I told you he was powerful. He show up right after sunset?"

"Late afternoon."

"Boy howdy," he muttered, "that takes even more juice."

"I think he was warning me. Someone tried to hurt me. Bad." I couldn't quite bring myself to say, 'kill.' "Ellis had an accident in the kitchen that may have been no freak thing at all. It makes us suspect his uncle might have been murdered. You met Vernon Hale. He was the one who needed a light for his cigarette."

"The fuzz," Frankie said, with a hint of contempt. "I never mixed with Hale before the other night, though. He don't hang with my crowd."

That didn't surprise me. "You think you can help me locate him?"

He huffed. "I can't go much past the urn, but if you take me to him, I'll make it so you two can have a conversation."

The vase tipped in my lap and I hastily straightened it. "I can't drive all over town, hoping we run into Hale. I wouldn't know where to start."

"Try heading to the place where he died. This is going to sound strange, and trust me, it's not as depressing as it seems, but when you get killed by surprise, sometimes it helps to hang out where it happened."

"All right. Thanks," I said, appreciating both his guidance and his honesty. 

Although… I sank back into my seat. Poor Ellis would have to show me where his uncle died. I hated to put him through that.

I had to think if we could contact Hale, it would be worth it. 

I chewed at my bottom lip. I didn't care what Frankie said. I couldn't help but feel sorry for Hale, lingering at the site of his tragic murder. I usually tried to avoid places with bad memories. 

Maybe it was a ghost thing. "Frankie," I said, knowing I might be out of line, but I wanted to understand. "Did you? Hang around?" He'd never told me where he'd been murdered. I assumed it had been a surprise.

It hadn't even occurred to me that he'd want to go back.

For a long moment, he didn't answer. I suspected he'd gone. Then he let out a sigh. "Yeah," he said simply. "I hung around."

My heart broke a little for him. It couldn't have been easy. "I'll take you back there if you want." I wasn't sure what ghosts did at the scene of death, but I'd certainly give him his time and his privacy.

"No," he said sharply. "I'm tired. Leave me alone."

The wisp of light in the seat next to me flickered and disappeared.

Fair enough. I tamped down the urge to apologize. An apology would only make matters worse. Maybe after he thought about it, Frankie would let me help. I sincerely hoped so.

I slid Frankie's urn back into my bag and opened the car door.

Ellis waited expectantly, which only made me more nervous about what I had to tell him. 

"Hey," I said, attempting to exit gracefully. It wasn't always easy while wearing a dress. 

But Ellis only had eyes for the back seat of his car. "I saw you talking. What did he say?"

"Your uncle isn't in there." I clasped my hands in front of me. "I was talking to a, er, friend of mine, a ghost I know and trust. He thinks we have a good chance to find your uncle at the place where he died."

Ellis visibly paled. "All right," he said simply.

"I can go by myself if you want," I offered.

He paused for a moment. "No, of course not." He seemed distracted, on edge. "Let me lock my front door."

I resisted the urge to tell him that I'd started doing that too. 

***

"I'll drive," I said, ushering us to my caddy. He shouldn't be behind the wheel of his cruiser with that sprained shoulder. "We'll drop Lucy off at Lauralee's."

To Ellis's credit, he didn't protest, but I could sure tell he wanted to.

He handled Lauralee's stare well enough. In fairness, it only took a minute for me to hand her the skunk and ask for a few hours of pet sitting. The kids always enjoyed Lucy anyhow. They were well on their way to teaching her how to sit and shake.

"I won't tell Melody," she called after us as I started up the car.

To Ellis's horror, I leaned my head out the window and shouted back to my friend, "She already knows."

Ellis set his jaw in what could have been a grimace (I preferred to think of it as focused dedication) as he directed me west onto Sherman Avenue. We took that for several miles and then wound over a few blocks toward the railroad tracks. The roads grew bumpier and weeds cropped up between the cracks in the sidewalks. Most of the houses in this neighborhood were shotgun-style, small. Many hadn't been kept up like they should. 

Rusty chain link fences gave way to scraggly lawns. Children played in patches of dirt where the grass had given up all together. Paint peeled from some of the eaves, window shutters hung at odd angles or were simply missing. Old couches and other junk crowded front porches. 

We also passed abandoned houses, many with their windows broken out, some with soot marks streaking above the casements.

Sirens wailed in the distance. 

I hated to think of Hale spending the rest of his afterlife here.

"Maybe there are other places your uncle liked to go," I suggested to Ellis. "We can try those next." It could be that Hale was having an enjoyable afterlife with his friends. I wanted that for him. "Is there any place that he loved?" 

"There was Curly's Bar," Ellis said, "but it closed down. It's a maternity store now."

"Oh," I said, disappointed. 

"Let's hope he's not hanging out there," Ellis added, far more lightly than I would have imagined. 

Perhaps he was more used to seeing this side of Sugarland.

I slowed for an older man crossing the road. "Was your uncle here a lot?"

"Whenever he needed to be," he said, scanning the neighborhood as we drove. "Same with any of us." Ellis leaned forward. "On the night he died, my uncle responded to an arson call." He pointed to a squat, pea green shotgun-style house coming up on our left. "There." 

It hunkered between an empty lot on the left side and what appeared to be a vacant one-story on the right. Tiles peeled from the roof. The house numbers ran with a rusty sludge, next to windows shrouded with what appeared to be flowered bed sheets. 

At least we had no trouble parking.

Cigarette butts littered the front walk.

"How long has this place stood empty?" I asked, noticing fast food cups on the porch. They appeared to be filled with chewing tobacco spit.

"Officially," Ellis said, "nobody's lived here for three years. In reality, with the economy being what it is, people have to make do."

"Wow." Golden boy Beau would never have understood. He'd never be here in the first place. "You're nothing like your brother," I said, stumbling up the last step.

He caught my arm and steadied me. "I know."

We approached quietly. He had me hold the storm door as he scanned the rough wood of the main one. Satisfied, he leaned in and twisted the handle. "Stay behind me," he said, before announcing, "coming in." He shoved hard and the door burst open.

Ellis stayed in front, blocking me as we entered.

The house smelled like stale smoke and wood rot. 

"I don't see anybody," he said softly as we entered a small front room. 

The flowered bed sheets tacked up over the windows let in a weak light, making the dank room appear even less inviting. In the corner, a metal folding chair stood vigil over a pair of dirty mattresses. Cans of food clustered nearby.

"There are homeless people living here," I said, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. 

I don't know why it surprised me. Ellis had said as much. At that moment, it hit me. I may be sleeping on a futon in my parlor, but I was one of the lucky ones. Despite my problems recently, I'd led a very sheltered life.