southern ghost hunters 01 - southern spirits (9 page)

"Now remember that was me doing you the favor, right?" Frankie said. Even in death, it seemed he wasn't above getting in good with the fuzz.

Smoke curled from Hale's nostrils. "I ain't that hard up for a cigarette."

The door opened and Ellis stood outside. He didn't acknowledge the ghost cop, or Frankie. Of course, why would he? I was the only one living this crazy nightmare. "Come on out." He didn't look happy. I hoped it meant good news for me.

I shimmied out of the car and saw Maisie behind him. "I'm very proud of you," she said, giving him an affectionate squeeze on the arm, even as he grimaced at her words. "Now I'm going home. It's late and I need my rest."

"Stay here for a minute," he said, as she began her way down the road, "I'd be glad to drive you." 

She kept going toward her house, her shotgun hitched over her shoulder. "I'm fine," she said, waving him off. "I walk my property all the time." She was a strong woman defending what was hers. It was our way here in Sugarland.

"I'll stop by soon," I called after her. "We have to set up a repayment plan for my loan."

Ellis turned his anger on me. "Don't pretend."

 "Has it ever occurred to you that I might be a nice person?" I snapped.

 "No," he shot back. "Poor Mrs. Hatcher might have bought your act, but I know better." He clenched his jaw, the lights from the police cruiser playing over his rugged features. "I'm telling you now: You need to do the right thing."

I dug for my keys. "And you need to learn to have a little faith in people."

He snorted.

My mamma taught me to be kind, but in that moment, he deserved the truth. "I always thought your brother was the delusional one, but you're just as bad." 

His eyes hardened. "If it were up to me, I'd have you in cuffs."

"Well, I didn't do anything wrong, so I guess you're out of luck. Now may I please leave?"

He gave a sharp nod. But he didn't let up. He stuck with me all the way down the path. "It's good to hear you're done with your walk. A girl shouldn't be strolling alone after midnight." We neared my Cadillac. "Oh, look," he added, "you brought your car. Most pedestrians don't think of that."

I shot him a withering glare. "Are you done being sarcastic now?"

"Hardly." He glanced back at the darkened house. "You took advantage of poor Mrs. Hatcher. She's old. She doesn't have any family left. She's the perfect target." He held up a finger between us. "I'm going to see she gets her money back."

"She wouldn't have anything at all if I hadn't gone into a haunted house," I shot back.

"You want me to believe some bullshit story about how that place is haunted?" He made it sound so absurd, so stupid. Like I was some kind of a liar. 

"Go on in and see what happens," I dared. Let's see how he did with Josephine's crazy mother.

He gave a huff. "If it's so dangerous, how did you make it out?"

"I have skills," I said primly.

I didn't like the way he'd treated me this evening. In fact, I didn't like anything about tonight. But I was sick of being called a liar, by him and everybody else in this town who found it easier to believe a cheating jerk than to give me the benefit of the doubt. 

 "I can talk to ghosts, okay?" I said, almost dropping my keys. There. I admitted it. "I walked in there and hung out with Josephine." Let him put that in his pipe and smoke it.

"Jilted Josephine?" He scoffed. 

"Don't call her that."

"I've heard some crazy stories come out of people, but that takes the cake."

"Has it ever occurred to you, Ellis Wydell, mighty arbitrator of what is right and wrong, that someone could be telling you the truth, even if you don't believe it?" I held my hands out. "No, of course not. You and Hale have all the answers." 

Ellis blanched. "What do you know about Hale?"

"Only that he's dead, and his ghost is hanging out in your cruiser." I pointed my keys at him. "Old Hale says he can't get his lighter out from under the steps, and I'll bet you think that's my fault, too." I started walking to my car.

He stood, his mouth slightly open, working furiously to recover. "How'd you know Hale smoked?"

"That's what you want to focus on? Fine," I said as I passed him. I turned around, walking backwards. "I saw him light up a few minutes ago. Right there in your squad car. Bet that's a violation, right? You'd better check the manual on that one. He said you were a damn fine officer, so I'm sure you'll want to make sure everybody's following the rules."

Let that wind up his little brain and make smoke come out his ears. 

I was done.

I opened the door to my car and slid inside, tossing my sack with Frankie's urn on the floor. The gangster could deal with that, too. It's not like he hadn't been dropped before. 

My skin flushed pink. My whole body felt like I'd been running the fifty-yard dash. I wiped my eyes before I started up my old tank of a Cadillac. 

Oh, Lordy.

As the adrenaline seeped away, I felt exposed, invaded.

I never should have told that man about my newfound ability to communicate with ghosts, but it slipped out before I'd had a chance to think it through. I'd never had a secret this big before.

"Calm down. It's not like he believed you," I chided myself. Still, ever since that incident with his brother, I was enough of a strange duck around town. No need to be giving people ammunition. "Just get yourself home. Plenty of time later to worry about what people will think."

As I left the property, I felt a tingling surge whip down my body. I slammed on the brakes, flinging out a hand on instinct to steady the purse that would ordinarily be in the passenger seat. 

"Yow!" Frankie shouted, making me jump. 

I hadn't realized he was next to me. But of course he was. He didn't know how to leave me alone.

I braced a hand on my chest and pressed the gas again. Quickly, I glanced into my rear view mirror. Ellis had better not be behind me. He'd probably love to give me a ticket for careless driving. "You scared me," I said to Frankie.

"Yeah," he said, looking a little green, "because I'm the scary part in all this."

I cringed as the car lurched over a particularly deep rut in the road. "You shouldn't just pop up on a person."

Frankie shook his head. "What? Do you want me to knock?"

I ignored his sarcasm. "What was the shock I felt back there?" 

"When you left the property, your connection to the spirit world snapped," he said. He tried to make himself more comfortable on his seat. "Good thing, too. I can't keep feeding you that kind of energy forever."

"You okay?" I asked him. He was missing his left knee.

"It'll come back," he said, stretching out his foot. "We just mucked with my energy is all, and it's affecting my manifestation." He shot me a sideways glance. "I ain't never done that before."

"Join the club." I didn't want to see what was on the other side anymore. I just wanted to go home. 

The roads were dark, and until tonight, unfamiliar. Still, I managed to find my way back well enough. I was good with things like that.

"Hey cheer up, Verity," the gangster said, leaning back against the headrest. He looked tired. "The good news is you didn't give away every cent we needed for the house, only most of it."

"Don't start. It'll buy us some time." I hazarded a glance at him. He sat there fiddling with his matchbox. "Do you have any idea what we can do after this month?"

He had his eyes closed. With practiced ease, he spun the matchbook with two fingers. "Not a clue." 

"Glad you thought about it for more than a half a second."

"A thousand apologies, princess," he said, shoving the matchbox back into his pocket. "You think gangsters buried their money like pirate gold? We laundered it like sensible crooks and put it in banks." He cocked his head. "Or we spent it."

"Fine." I didn't want to talk about it anymore. At least I'd bought a little time. I didn't have to sell my house tomorrow. 

Next month was another matter.

Chapter Eight

The next morning I was up bright and early. Mostly because I'd sold the curtains.

I poured Lucy a bowl of kitty chow (yet another way society discriminated against skunks—no skunk chow) and left my girl crunching and swishing her tail while I went to answer the avocado green wall phone in the kitchen. It tring-a-linged the same as it did when I was a child. I smiled at that, and because I knew who it had to be.

I'd called my sister first thing, even though I knew she was probably in the shower. It never took her long to call back.

"I heard your message," Melody said, as soon as I lifted the receiver. "You're not selling? What did you do? Did you get a loan?"

 "Stop talking and I'll tell you," I said. She was five years younger. In times like these, it showed. "One of Grandma's friends came into some money. She loaned me a little. Anonymously," I stressed. "I still have to come up with the rest."

Luckily my sister was too focused on the problem to grill me on the particulars. "But we have time," she whooshed out a breath. "I'll have another hundred by the end of the week."

 "You don't need to give me your money," I told her. She needed it. Melody worked part-time at the Sugarland Public Library. She'd also taken a part-time waitressing job at the diner Lauralee managed, but she barely made enough to cover student loans and rent. I'd offered to let her move back here, but she was locked into a lease. Melody was naturally curious, and smart. But none of her almost-degrees had quite panned out and she'd need to go back to school eventually.

"I'm so sorry I caused this," she said, her voice wracked with guilt.

"It's not your fault," I said. It was the truth. "You saved me from a lot worse."

"I'm coming by with a chicken after work," she said, in the ultimate southern subject change. As if food really could fix things.

"That sounds good," I told her. 

She had to get to the library and so we signed off. Meanwhile, I'd get busy with my breakfast and my day.

Frankie shimmered into view next to me while I stood at the stove cooking zesty pork flavored ramen noodles in my old Girl Scout camp pot.

I'd hoped he'd be the type to sleep in. Or at least leave me to my thoughts.

"I called my lawyer," I told him, taking the pot of noodles off the burner. Tim Caruthers didn't come cheap, but he was good. "He's going to use the money from last night to file another appeal." It wouldn't help in the long run, but it would buy us time. 

"This is how you celebrate?" The ghost gave a delicate sniff, as if he were some type of French chef. He retreated through the kitchen island and to the other side of the room. "It stinks."

It wasn't the raspberry smoothie I preferred, or the roast chicken I'd get tonight, but I had to get used to a new standard now. "Leave me alone, I'm hungry," I said. "And I didn't feel like picante beef noodles," which had been my other choice.

The dollar store tended to stock the less popular flavors. 

I poured the noodles and the water into a plastic bowl and mixed in the flavor packet. Frankie watched with barely contained revulsion. "Okay, so you got them off your back for now, but we're still in trouble."

How sad is it that I liked the word
we
?

My family meant well, but I still felt ashamed I'd dragged them into this. And Lauralee had responsibilities of her own. It was nice to have someone in my corner who didn't have to be there. 

I sat at the table and gave myself a mental shake. It wouldn't do any good to feel sorry for myself. 

Meanwhile the mobster couldn't take his eyes off the noodles swirling in my bowl. "You're seriously going to eat that?"

"Frankie!" It was one thing to have someone care and quite another to endure his pestering. Was it too much to ask that one thing in my life be peaceful? Even if it was only breakfast?

I stood and located the bag with his urn. It was on the counter, exactly where I'd left it last night. 

"What are you doing?" He demanded as I hefted it over my shoulder and made for the door 

"Fish and houseguests stink after a few days. This is my home, not yours," I reminded him as I placed his urn on the back porch swing. "You can stay outside." 

"Now if that don't beat all. Southern hospitality sure has changed in the last ninety years," he said, laying it on thick as if he thought I'd feel guilty and change my mind. "Because you grounded me, babe. That's as good as making me family." I gave him the hairy eyeball and he threw up his hands. "Fine. You know what? I'll humor you." He vaporized into a fine mist, although I noticed the volume of his voice didn't go down a bit. "I could use some shut-eye anyway."

With a small sigh, I headed back inside, the screened door flapping closed behind me. On second thought, I bolted the oak door as well.

As if it would keep out a ghost.

Less than a year ago, my life had been so simple. I had a nice little freelance design business going. I was marrying a man I thought I loved. And then—poof. Ghosts in my kitchen and ramen for breakfast.

The smell of broth filled the kitchen. It was quite homey, actually. Soothing. I rinsed out my pot and placed it in the dishwasher. Then I made my way back to the kitchen island.

I'd figure a way out of this mess. I'd never been the type to give up before. I scooped up a bite of noodles, blew on my spoon, and was about to taste it when a knock sounded at my back door.

I was seriously going to lock Frankie's urn in the car this time.

And hope he didn't go for a joy ride.

I set aside my spoon, wiped my hands on my pink flowered sundress, and stalked for the door, ready to give that ghost a piece of my mind.

But it wasn't Frankie. It was worse. 

Ellis Wydell stood on my porch. 

My pulse sped up and my palms grew damp. He'd better not be here to arrest me.

On second look I was relieved to see he hadn't worn his police uniform. Instead, he had on a gray T-shirt with the police department baseball team logo on it. It revealed what his uniform hid last night—a nice set of arms, and shoulders wide as a barn.