southern ghost hunters 01 - southern spirits (3 page)

"I didn't stomp," I pointed out.

He shot me a dirty look. "You've got to move your rear and get those ashes out of the dirt."

"I can't," I said, wincing. "I hosed them into the ground."

He huffed, as if physics were a mere technicality. "Well un-hose 'em. I'm on you like a tick until you fix this." 

That was impossible. "You don't understand. I'm sorry this happened, but there's nothing I can do about it now." I couldn't bend the laws of science and nature. Not even for an angry ghost.

He retreated to my grandmother's oak center island. It was bolted down or it would have been gone with the rest of the furniture. "I got time." He said it like a threat, running a hand over the countertop, as if he could actually feel it. Heck, maybe he could.

"Yes, well I don't. This house goes on sale tomorrow." A familiar knot tightened in my stomach. No doubt it would sell fast. 

He slammed a fist down onto the butcher block. "You're
not
going to ground me here and then sell."

"I will unless I can find twenty thousand dollars by the end of the week," I snapped back. 

I'd asked my family. I'd asked my friends. Nobody could spare that much. We had a lot of pride down here in these parts, but it didn't always come with lot of money. I'd even applied for a bank loan. They took one look at my student debt and turned me down. It was hopeless.

The ghost crossed his arms over his chest. "Twenty grand, huh?"

Maybe now he'd see how impossible it was and scram. "My ex-fiancé, who gave me your urn by the way, sued me for that and a lot more after The Incident." I crossed my arms over my chest. "Although how Beau Wydell came across your urn" —and gave it to me as a gift, the rat—"I'll never know." 

The gangster sat on my Grandma's nice countertop, which would have earned him a whooping if either Grandma or Frankie were alive. "I'm his great, great uncle," he said, nonchalant. 

"That explains a lot," I muttered.

The gangster shot me a look. "Damn. He must have done a number on you."

"He cornered my sister in the hallway outside the bridal suite after our rehearsal dinner." I'd invited her to stay with me in the bridal suite on the eve of my wedding. She'd left to grab a bottle of wine and come back in tears. "He groped her, and he would have done a whole lot more if she hadn't kicked him in the balls." 

"I like your sister," Frankie concluded.

I snorted. "I can't believe he managed to hide that side of himself until it was almost too late." When I'd confronted Beau, he tried to deny it. Then he said it was a mistake. That I'd have to deal. It wasn't as if I could call off the wedding. 

Little did he know. 

Frankie scooted to the edge of the counter. "Now listen up. 'Cause here's what we do," he said, clasping his hands in front of him, his elbows resting on his knees.

"What we do?" I asked. I didn't recall teaming up with a dead gangster.

"Oh?" He opened his hands. "So you have ideas?"

"No," I said grudgingly.

He scratched at his long, thin nose. "Okay, here's the deal. Old lady Hatcher's not-so-dearly departed husband came across some cash in 1965." He gave me a long look. "It's more than you need."

My spine stiffened. He was talking about saving my house. Whatever he was about to suggest couldn't be good. Did I dare?

"How did the money come about?" I absolutely refused to get involved in anything illegal. 

Frankie shrugged. "He bet his entire mortgage payment on a long-shot horse. The damn thing won. He hid the money on his property. Only he was an idiot and died right after he stashed it."

I'd heard that last part of the story. Maisie Hatcher had dug up every tree, shrub, and flower patch in her backyard looking for the fortune her husband hid. "She swore there was money under one of the trees on her property. We always thought she was crazy."

The corner of his mouth turned up. "It's not under a tree. It's hidden in a box with a tree carved on the top."

Well, didn't that beat all? I strolled toward the ghost, feeling brave. Or maybe I needed to show him that I wasn't
as
scared anymore. "You'd think her husband could have left better directions."

He shrugged. "Oskar Hatcher was an asshole. Still is."

I cocked my head. "How do you know?"

"He's behind you."

The air left my body. I screeched and spun around fast, my heart jackhammering against my chest. I couldn't see anything in the dark. "Where is he?" 

Frankie's chuckle behind me sounded like gravel over rocks. "Your friend's right. You really are gullible."

"You're such a jerk." A chill washed over me as the sweat on my body cooled. I turned back to him. "How long were you watching me?"

He didn't buckle under my stare. "Don't flatter yourself. I spend most of my time picking up dames at the cemetery. Or I tool around, see who's manifesting." He grinned. "Those Johnny Rebs from the 12
^th
Infantry throw a wicked poker game. And half of 'em don't know how to bluff." He stood taller. "I did stick around for the sale. I can't believe that crappy lawn furniture went before I did."

He'd succeeded in wigging me out on about ten different levels. But now wasn't the time to think about it. I needed to channel my inner Scarlet O'Hara. I'd asked for a miracle and I'd gotten one…sort of. At least I'd been given one more chance, with money that was more or less clean. Abandoned, at least. "Okay, so we go to Maisie Hatcher's house," I began. "Wait. You can't leave here."

He cocked his head. "I can if I'm with you."

I stood surprised for a moment, and not in a good way. "Okay. We'll leave. We'll talk to Maisie," I said, thinking it through. "We certainly can't tell her you talked to Oskar."

He popped down off the counter. "Of course not. We sneak onto the property. We take the money. Simple." 

I flinched as if he'd struck me. "I'm not going to rob her."

"Technically, it's not her money," the ghost pointed out.

I disagreed. It was her husband's win. Her property. "The poor woman's been searching for that treasure going on fifty years." I'd met Maisie several times through Grandma's church group, and I liked her. "She's an eccentric, and she doesn't have a lot in the bank."

Frankie rolled his eyes. "Fine. We'll tell her you can dig up the cash if she gives you eighty percent."

"No," I said quickly.

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Sixty."

"Forget it." My eye caught the shadows of candles dancing on the walls. "She might not even let us on her land. She's a recluse now."

Frankie tossed up his arms. "Then what the heck are you going to do?"

He stopped right in front of me. I stiffened my back and held my ground. "I'm not going to take advantage of an old woman." I had my integrity. And my pride. I thought for a moment. "I'll sneak onto the property, but only because we don't have a choice." It was for Maisie's own good. "Then if we find the money, we'll ask for a reward. Maybe Maisie will feel generous."

"Oh, brother." He rolled his eyes. "You need to be more ruthless if you want to keep this place."

I was tempted to point out exactly what being ruthless had gotten him, but I resisted. "I do just fine."

He shook his head, as if my mere presence amused him. "It's amazing the world don't eat you alive."

Sometimes it did, although I wasn't about to admit that to him. Not now. 

Despite it all, I had to believe that honesty would be rewarded. That if I lived my life doing the right thing, good fortune would come back to me. The alternative was unthinkable.

"So are we really going to do this?" I asked, antsy down to my toes, trying to psych myself up. I'd never broken the law before, unless you counted a speeding ticket or two. At least I was dressed for adventure. I still had on my Keds sneakers and a casual, purple sundress from a steamy day of cleaning and loading boxes. "I think it could actually work." I needed it to, desperately.

An old woman would get her long-lost money, which would hopefully put her in a generous mood. And Frankie? Well, he'd still be trapped in my rose bushes, but we couldn't fix everything.

"My plans always work," Frankie said, with the annoying self-assurance that had probably gotten him killed. Without meaning to, I glanced at his forehead, hidden by the brim of his panama hat. He caught my gaze. "Well," he corrected, "most of the time."

I'd have to take his word for it. My nerves pulsed with excitement and something else…anticipation? I'd never done anything like this before, and I was surprised to find I wasn't exactly opposed to it. "If this is going to happen, it has to be tonight." 

Before the house showings tomorrow morning. Before I had time to think about how crazy this sounded.

I jumped as the back door clicked open. With a loud creak, it swung wide. 

Frankie adjusted his hat and gestured toward the door. "After you, sweetheart." He lingered in the kitchen as I crossed out onto the porch. "Aren't you forgetting something?" 

I stopped and realized I'd breezed right by the vase I'd dropped on the floor. 

Urn.
I corrected in my mind. 

I still couldn't believe I'd dumped out his urn. 

Slowly, I turned to face him. "So you can't leave with me unless I have your urn?" I was a little surprised at that. It's not like his ashes were in there anymore. Not that I was going to remind him.

He frowned, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. "You didn't rinse all of me out."

"Ah." I didn't know whether to be glad or sorry. "So if I don't have any of your ashes, you can't follow me."

He shoved his hands into his pockets, not eager to admit anything. "I can drive you nuts while you're on your property, but otherwise… What part of 'grounding' don't you get?"

"So you had the run of the whole world until I…" No wonder he'd been ticked.

The look on his face warned me it would be a good idea to let it drop. "Okay," I said, scooting past him and into the kitchen, shivering at the cold spot he created in my doorway. I opened the pullout drawer next to my sink. "I think I have a few grocery bags still left in here." Hopefully that wouldn't insult him. Darned if I knew the etiquette on this. 

The air chilled ten degrees as he moved in behind me. "Get a backpack," he said, "I don't want you getting scared and dropping it."

Like I had in my kitchen. 

"Listen here, I'm no simpering southern belle." I straightened, shocking us both when I stood up right in the middle of his chest. It was like stepping out into a freezing cold rain. Or standing in a cloud. It felt cold, wet, and terribly uncomfortable, like I'd invaded his personal space in the worst possible way. 

Each of us froze for a moment. Then he shot backward and I shuddered. 

"Sorry," I said, patting myself down to get rid of the watery, chilled feeling of him, even as I tried hard not to make it look like I was wiping him away. I needn't have bothered. He wasn't looking at me. He huddled in the corner of my kitchen against the ceiling, clear on the other side of the room.

"Are you
trying
to make this worse?" he demanded, as if it were my sole purpose in this life to torture him in the next.

"It was an honest mistake," I said quickly, searching for something, anything else to say that wouldn't make us both feel like ten miles of bad road. The rough, tough gangster looked almost frightened up there above my empty mug rack. 

So I did what my mother and my mother's mother before her most likely would have done. I changed the subject. 

"I realize a bag that zips closed would be a better choice for your…urn," I said, trying to act as casual as possible, "but I don't have one. My backpack was a gift from my ex and he took it when he left." Because Beau really needed a pink leopard-print JanSport with double zip pockets.

Frankie's long face set into a scowl. "I used to shoot people for less," he muttered to himself.

Yes, well we all had our crosses to bear.

I grabbed a hemp grocery sack and shook out a few lingering onion skins into the sink. Then I retrieved Frankie's urn. I tipped it inside and dared him to say another word about it.

He didn't.

I grabbed a dish towel and swiped up the spilled water, before placing the rose bud on the counter. It's not like I had another vase.

"All right, then," I said, holding the door open for him. "We might as well get to finding that hidden cash." I prided myself on being practical. We didn't have all night.

Frankie slid down, his shoulders hunched. Then he deliberately snubbed me by walking through the wall to get out to the porch. I sighed. It didn't matter. I used the door and closed it behind me, not bothering with the lock. 

"I can't believe you thought my urn had sexy pictures," he grouched as we started down the steps. 

The polite thing would be to let it go, but if I didn't stand up to the man, he was going to think he could walk all over me.

"How can you blame me?" I asked, catching him out of the corner of my eye. I mean truly, "There was a girl and a boy—"

"Dancing the tango," he snapped. 

"I suppose that's one way to look at it." 

He let out a regretful sigh. "I used to love to dance."

"What about the extra boy?" I asked.

He gave me the kind of slant look that suggested I was crazy. "He's playing a custom-made, highly decorative bandoneon, with ivory inlaid handles and feather accents. From Argentina," he added, as if that made a difference.

I pulled the car keys out of my pocket. "We thought it was a goat."

"My wingman, Suds, carved that," he barked. "It took him a week." 

"Maybe Suds should have spent less time stealing, more time practicing art." I barely said it. Frankie heard me anyway.

"Can you think of any other way to insult me? I thought you outdid yourself when you dumped my ashes on your rose bushes, but you keep surprising me."

We reached my car on the side drive, a 1978 avocado green Cadillac handed down from my grandmother. Good thing it was worthless or I would have had to sell it. "You really aren't going to let that drop, are you?" I asked, opening my door.