Ghost Trippin’
A Viola Valentine Mystery
by Cherie Claire
Ghost Trippin’ (Viola Valentine Mystery, Book Four) by Cherie Claire
© Cheré Dastugue Coen 2019
1st Edition, February 2019
Produced with Typesetter
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever, electronically, in print, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Cherie Claire, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, visit http://www.cherieclaire.net
To all the teachers over the years who taught me to look inward, go with the flow, be with the Tao, let go and let God — even the Beatles for singing Let It Be. I’m ever a work in progress but I thank you for your wisdom.
Also by Cherie Claire
Viola Valentine Mystery Series
A Ghost of a Chance
Ghost Town
Trace of a Ghost
Ghost Trippin’
Give Up the Ghost (Fall 2019)
The Cajun Embassy
Ticket to Paradise
Damn Yankees
Gone Pecan
The Cajun Series
Emilie
Rose
Gabrielle
Delphine
A Cajun Dream
The Letter
Carnival Confessions: A Mardi Gras Novella
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Author's Notes
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
I awake with a start when an eighteen-wheeler flies past, moving faster than what’s allowed in the Alabama rest stop and rattling my old Honda along with my teeth. I sit up and wipe the drool from my cheek and wonder how long I’ve been asleep alongside a welcome station straight out of Gone With the Wind. Somewhere between Mobile and Montgomery I felt incredibly tired and turned off for a Diet Coke and a candy bar and ended up pushing the seat back and heading to Lala Land.
It’s been one of those weeks.
I pull the seat up and check the time on my cell phone but I can guess. The sun’s set and that damp Southern cold that permeates your bones has settled inside the car. Before I start up Old Betty and head off, I notice the red dot blinking away, indicating there are messages on my phone. I ignore them, throwing the phone toward my purse on the passenger side and missing, hearing its parts scatter on the floorboards among the empty soda cans and bags of chips.
This is when I usually start a stream of cuss words and admonish myself for being incredibly clumsy but not today. Right now, there isn’t much I care about.
Except for that Diet Coke and candy bar. I’m starving and need to down some Tylenol. My head pounds from the near-death experience I had two days before even though the blow I received to the back of my skull didn’t cause more than a mild concussion. My ongoing headache’s likely from the trauma of watching my husband save my life, then leave me, and my best friend, who also nearly died, tell me they’re both descendants of angels. On top of all that I learned I’m a witch, apparently from a long line of Alabama conjurers.
I told you it’s been a rough week.
I grab my jacket and head for the Welcome Center, receiving a chorus of twangy greetings when I open the door. There are several tourism guides in matching outfits seated behind the counter and all looking my way. Must be a slow night for travelers for one asks if I want coffee, another for me to sign the guest book, and yet another if I’m looking for the restrooms.
“Thank you ma’ams,” I utter as I sign the register. “Yes, to the coffee, later on the bathroom, and if there’s food anywhere, I’m all ears.”
Beehive hairdo with giant red glasses and heavy blue makeup comes around the counter, takes my elbow, and leads me toward the coffee station. “We have some nice cookies over here, made with real Alabama honey.”
“Thank you,” I answer, staring at that plate full of goodness, wondering how many I could snag without being impolite. It is a slow night, I reason.
“Help yourself,” she says and I don’t waste time.
After chowing down two and grabbing one for the road, I head back to the counter with my coffee. There’s a giant map of Alabama with a large red arrow pointing to my current location — about an hour north of Mobile — but my destination is nowhere to be found. I’ve heard people use GPS these days, and now that we’re almost to 2009 and I work as a travel writer I should check those gadgets out. But I still love a good map.
“Where’s Ishka?” I ask the nice ladies.
All three come to my aid, happy to be of service and each offering their own take on where this tiny town exists. After several minutes, I realize it’s hopeless, no one knows where it is.
“I was told it’s near Silas,” I offer, and lightbulbs go off. The women point towards Choctaw County, not too far from Harper Lee’s hometown of Monroeville, the town she used as the setting for To Kill a Mockingbird, her best-selling novel that I’ve read three times. They then rattle off five different ways to get there, including stopping in Monroeville to check out the courthouse they modeled in the film. I’m imagining Gregory Peck and that powerful courtroom scene, getting chills again visualizing the moment when everyone stands as he exits, even his children.
“I wish I had Atticus Finch as my dad.”
The three women stop talking and look up. “What honey?”
Did I say that out loud?
“Love that book,” I mutter, thank the threesome profusely, and grab a free map and leave. I haven’t thought of my father in weeks and I don’t need to visit that pain tonight.
Pulling off the interstate to Highway 41 and leaving the company of other travelers behind, I realize I should have let those fine ladies explain more. That or have bought a dang GPS. It’s been years since I’ve been to the old family homestead and at the time was too young to remember directions and landmarks. My mother’s side of the family lives on a road without a name in a countryside where you see the goats and cows before the house, so unless nothing’s changed in the past decade, no growth on trees or bushes and the cows have remained in the same place, it’s like I’m visiting for the first time. Usually, I can find anything anywhere with a good map; it’s one reason why I became a travel writer. I’m really good at this. But as I traverse the dark rural countryside, I’m doubting myself. Doubting I will find the old homestead and doubting why I’m here in the first place.
I head north a bit and hit a couple of small towns before finally heading west on Highway 84. The quiet road feels like it will go on forever through unlighted farms, bayous, and woods. Aunt Mimi said the roads are best coming north from Mobile but if you hit Silas, you’ve gone too far. I hit Silas three times running in circles looking for Ishka so I give up for the night, pulling into Floozy’s Restaurant for a bite.
Yep, that’s its name.
Small towns get a bad rap, probably because most people live in cities and get freaked out by the quiet. Most of my
friends in New Orleans love to make out small town residents as subjects for horror movies or imitate Dueling Banjos when heading through such a location. My theory is that when you enter a small town, and residents recognize a visitor from another place, they all turn and stare at the anomaly.
That’s what’s happening now in Floozy’s, and yes, it’s giving me the creeps.
“Hey there,” a middle-aged man with graying hair and a Van Halen T-shirt says as he greets me at the door, grabbing a menu.
I’m really hungry but it’s late, the elderly couple to the right is burning holes in my head, and I’m ready to find my grandmother’s house and hit the hay.
“I just need directions,” I tell the man, who I notice has a lovely smile.
He puts the menu down and leans on the hostess stand. “Are you lost, sugar?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where ya headed?”
I don’t know if it’s the friendliness of the guy or that my head’s about to split open from the headache, but I also lean on the hostess stand and smile.
“Well, now, that’s the rub. It’s my grandmother’s house and I haven’t been here since I was a child and I thought I knew how to get there….”
“What’s her name, sweetheart?”
Normally, I hate when men call me that but this guy is all sweetness. “Wilhemina Halsey, although we always called her Willow.”
Van Halen straightens and the smile disappears. Here it comes, I think. Some Bible-toting message about psychics being the devil’s playground.
“I’m sorry to hear about what happened,” he says.
This stops me cold. “What?”
“About that body they found on her neighbor’s property.”
“What body?”
Van Halen holds up a palm and heads toward the kitchen. I turn to find that elderly couple still dissecting me with their eyes but when I nod and say “Evening,” they suddenly turn Southern hospitality, smiling brightly — although without much teeth — and uttering pleasantries. I look down at their table and notice two pairs of upper dentures soaking in glasses, so I don’t initiate conversation.
The owner — at least I think he owns the place — emerges and hands me a newspaper dotted with what looks like cooking grease.
“Sorry about the state of it.”
The front page of the Silas Democrat has three articles: the youth soccer team has advanced to regionals and will play the Chipmunks in Butler next month; Megan Whatley has finished chemo and thanks everyone for the prayers and contributions; and an unknown body was found floating in the pond near the old Halsey homestead.
“Weird,” I say.
“I’ll say and how,” the man responds. “We haven’t had a murder around these parts in years. At least that’s what the sheriff was hinting at.”
I was actually thinking that I was the only one who called Grandma Willow’s farm a homestead. But then, my mother always said people came from miles around to seek her wisdom, even the governor of Alabama during desegregation days. I always doubted that last part — Mom never offered names and my journalistic brain suspects stories without facts — but maybe she was right.
“Do you know how to get to the Halsey homestead?” I ask.
Van Halen gives me detailed instructions involving a crooked tree, the old Branford filling station that’s been out of service for four years now, and the bait shop that also sells milk and such, in case I need groceries. No wonder no one at the Welcome Center could figure out how to get there, this place requires a Ph.D. in geography.
I thank the man profusely, who holds up his hand once again. He runs to the back and returns with a pizza box and a bottled water. I was jokingly thinking that I must be heading to the moon, but now I’m worried that I really am since this lovely man is loading me down with supplies.
“I have lots of leftovers today and I know you’ll love my pizza so much you’ll return.” He smiles broadly and I thank him, assure him that I will be back.
That is, if I don’t hear banjos.
I head off into the darkness of rural Alabama — and believe me, it’s dark — and turn off onto the road after I spot the crooked tree. Pines loom up on either side of the road, casting shadows on the gravel like specters. I travel along with my eyes peeled to the short piece of illumination coming from my headlights, reminding me of the first time I ventured back into New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina devastated my hometown. It was the day they re-opened Orleans Parish, after the floodwaters had been pumped out and some semblance of order restored. My husband TB and I thought getting there early would beat the traffic. Little did we know that a major city without street lights and electricity, along with all forms of debris littering the streets, would make it nearly impossible for us to reach our home in the dark. We finally made it as the sun rose, then took inventory of our house, waterlogged and emitting a powerful stench.
It was then I decided to change my life.
I saw losing my job and pretty much everything I own as a sign to start over. Katrina allowed me to leave reporting on school board meetings and chasing cops for the New Orleans Post to follow my dream of becoming a travel writer. I moved to Lafayette two hours west in Cajun Country where I nabbed a mother-in-law unit from my landlord Reece Cormier, who allows me to stay there for free while he works on the big house; I keep an eye on things when I’m not traveling. TB still lives in New Orleans, renovating our home.
During the aftermath of Katrina, I told TB our marriage was over. We had wed soon after I had become pregnant, right after my graduation from LSU. Our relationship was based on passion, not love, but the five years we had with Lillye solidified things. When we lost Lillye to leukemia years ago, we entered a form of zombieland so when Katrina came knocking, it seemed an opportune time to call it quits.
Only now, I regret that decision. And I may be too late.
I should check my phone. One, to text someone so if the goat man or another rural monster eats me they will know where to find the body. Two, to see if TB has called. He’s mad at me right now, and I can’t blame him. I failed to trust him with information that got us both into trouble in Mississippi two days ago, but mainly because he’s tired of waiting for me to come around. Trouble is, I’m ready. I now realize that I do love this crazy man with a name that sounds like a disease, but I fear that karma may be biting me in the butt.
Finally, a streetlight appears, a beacon in the wilderness beside a deserted gas station. I can see why the company went out of business, unless it was Grandma Willow’s death and the loss of her visitors that shut its doors. The way my Aunt Mimi tells it, Grandma Willow put John Edwards to shame.
I turn and within minutes the brilliance from that streetlight disappears. I’m back to leaning over the steering wheel, craning my neck to make out the road. It’s gravel as well, but my poor Honda is taking a beating with the potholes. After what seems like miles and I’m starting to consider driving back to Silas, the bait shop appears.
Amazingly enough, it’s open.
What’s equally surprising is that when I turn at the stop sign the road becomes paved asphalt, smooth sailing all the way to the driveway sporting the sign “Macon Residence” beneath a mailbox that resembles a plantation home. Gazing up the driveway, I spot its twin, only this house large enough to land a plane.
I think to stop and say hi to my cousin Tabitha. She inherited half of the homestead through my Aunt Estella and built this behemoth on the property. Tabitha lives there with her husband, Jerry, who apparently made a fortune selling Civil War re-enactment clothes and other weird things on the Internet. But it’s getting late and I’m not up for small talk tonight, so I drive past knowing my destination is only a few minutes up the road. The headache has returned and I’m anxious for Tylenol and bourbon; I know Aunt Mimi must have some alcohol lying around.
About a half mile further I spot my grandmother’s home, a classic rural farmhouse with a wraparound porch and towering pecan trees. Memories of pick
ing pecans and cracking them open on that porch while Aunt Mimi made my favorite chocolate pecan pie come back so hard it knocks the breath from me. I spent many summers at both Aunt Mimi’s house near Birmingham and this lovely farm Aunt Mimi was determined to keep in the family. After the hell I’ve been through in the past few days, I long for that familial comfort, wishing for Mimi’s strong, protective arms around my shoulders.
And for answers. Starting with why no one told me who I was.
I park in front of the darkened house and climb the front steps, noticing that the wood is still intact, still shining from someone’s love and attention. When Aunt Mimi’s husband died, she moved to her favorite city, Branson, and bought an assisting living facility that she now manages. Who keeps the Willow Homestead up is a mystery; I can’t imagine Tabitha and Jerry taking the time, with their hoard of children and social activities.
The door’s unlocked so I saunter in with my carry-on. “Hello?” I shout out even though I know no one’s here.
I slide my hand across the wall for the light switch. My fingers discover one and the house illuminates and there before me lies my childhood: my grandmother’s Craftsman style furniture, the massive stone fireplace, the hokey artwork and paint-by-numbers pieces Aunt Estella loved in her youth, and the endless bookcases filled with stories that led me on my path to becoming a writer.
Even though I never knew my grandmother, I’m thankful for her influence. “Thank you, Grandmother Willow,” I say to the air.
There’s even a rotary phone on the hall table, one hole plugged with a phone dialer, the kind women used so they wouldn’t break a nail. I touch it lovingly, remembering the sound of that wheel going round and round in my youth.
“Where are the push buttons,” I had asked Aunt Mimi, who just laughed and laughed.
I throw down my bag and head for the kitchen, bringing Floozy’s pizza with me. Sure enough, there’s a bottle of Maker’s Mark in the cupboard, although little else except for a few cans of beans, pet milk, and assorted condiments from fast food restaurants. On the top shelf are boxes of something, but I doubt they’re edible. I’ll have to make a run to the bait shop before long, I think, most likely when the sun rises and my need for caffeine rears its ugly head. I pour myself a drink, add water from Van Halen’s contribution, pull out my Tylenol, gulp the two pills down, and pull out a slice of pepperoni as I lean against the counter, taking in my surroundings.
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