by Angie Fox
I must be the only living person at the house.
Frankie strolled toward me, straight through my car, until he stood next to me, surveying the damage. “I hate to break it to you, but you only have my power for about ten more minutes.”
“You’re going to hold me to that after everything that just happened?” I said, shocked all over again.
“Lecturing me about my friends takes time, crashing the car takes time,” he said, ticking things off.
“So does ghost hunting, and we haven’t even started yet.” I didn’t need the rundown of my setbacks today.
I bent to look underneath the car. I’d have to pull out carefully if I didn’t want to cause any more damage. I’d never been in an accident before and I didn’t want to give my insurance company any reason to raise my rates.
“I got a schedule to keep,” he insisted. “Of course, if we meet the cute girl haunting the second floor, I might be willing to stay longer. I think she’s into wiseguys,” he said, straightening his jacket, “or maybe it’s the suit.”
“We can’t break into the house.” We’d only trip the same alarm that had alerted the police last night. I tugged up the strap of my sundress. “Let’s see who we run into out here.” It would do me good to calm down a bit. And now it seemed walking the grounds, searching for ghosts was our most relaxing option. Sometimes I wondered how I’d gotten into this.
A ghost cow grazed in the front yard, but didn’t appear to have any company other than a gray, ghostly watering trough and a hitching post that had seen better days.
“Maybe we’ll find someone around back,” I suggested. If that didn’t work, perhaps I could talk Frankie into staying longer in the hope that the pretty girl ghost would come outside.
A long field stretched out past the rear of the house and ended in an old cemetery populated with leaning monuments, thick oak trees, and the spirits of the dead. Silvery images wound up from the ground and around the crumbling memorials.
“Stop. You don’t need to worry about them,” Frankie warned as I walked to get a closer look. “The ones in there don’t leave.”
“I can’t imagine why.” The images appeared more transparent from this far away, but I could swear I saw a woman’s face in the gnarled roots of an old oak tree.
“You can tell by the way they slink along the ground, close to their graves. They’ve been forgotten for too long. Ghosts like that lose touch with what it’s like to be alive.” He shivered. “You can’t fix it.”
I wasn’t so sure about that.
Frankie’s expression darkened, as if he knew what I was thinking. “I mean it,” he warned. “Focus on what you came here to do.”
It was surprisingly good advice coming from him.
I shoved my hands into the pockets of my sundress and tried not to fiddle with the hole at the bottom of the left one. It was there when I’d bought it, but the dress had been too cute to resist. Plus, pockets could always be mended.
We walked around to the front porch and saw a sign on a stand: No Tours Today.
“No wonder it’s deserted,” I said.
A ghostly porch light flickered by the front door, even though it wasn’t even eleven o’clock in the morning.
“Five minutes left,” Frankie said, not being helpful at all.
I knocked to be polite and wasn’t surprised when no one answered. If the door was locked, if the alarm was set, then we were stuck.
“Here goes nothing,” I said, trying the knob.
“Look at you,” Frankie said, grinning.
“It’s not like we’re breaking in,” I said, surprised when the handle turned and the door pushed open, elated when no alarm sounded. “I’m a citizen of Sugarland and this is…my history.”
We stepped into the large darkened foyer. Gaslights flickered in ghostly sconces. The subtle light blue period wallpaper in the mortal world gave way to deep, rich, wood-paneled walls. A wide staircase opened up on the left side of the room and curved up to the second-floor balcony.
“Hello?” I called, hoping to attract the ghost we’d seen earlier.
In the mortal realm, a heavy round table stood to the right of the stairs, with a towering vase of native Tennessee flowers in bloom. But on the ghostly side, two different groupings of otherworldly furniture gave way to a long, high table in the back.
This must have been where the widows and orphans gathered.
“Nice place,” Frankie said, stretching out on one of the couches, arms spread over the top, grinning like he’d just come home.
“Let’s check this floor first,” I said. “Keep an eye out for offices or areas where there would be a modern phone for a ghost to use.”
“Verity Long,” a woman’s voice said behind me.
I turned to see Julia Harper Youngblood, last surviving member of one of the oldest families in town. She’d married an out-of-towner this past summer and even that hadn’t damaged her standing. As a born and bred Harper, she was still the crème of Sugarland society. Or perhaps it was the fact that her family, as well as her new husband, had bucket loads of money. Her sable brown, artfully designed hair swept back from her face in a chic wave that defied gravity, and her painfully thin frame and overly made up eyes reminded me of a praying mantis.
I straightened my back and folded my hands in front of me like a proper Southern belle. “Why, Julia,” I said, “I’m surprised to find you here.”
“I can see that.” Her red silk dress swished as she drew closer. “Forgive me for not greeting you sooner, but I was up half the night with the police, watching them chase down a false murder report.”
“The burglar alarm set them off in the first place,” I reminded her. “As for the call I received, it was real. I just don’t know what it means.”
She tilted her head and studied me. “Our former president, Virginia Wydell,” she prodded, as if I didn’t know the queen bee of Sugarland, the one bent on ruining me, “she warned me about you. With a fair amount of glee, I might add.”
Wait. “Former president?” Virginia had been president for so long, I was surprised the place wasn’t named after her.
“I was installed last week.” She smiled. “Surely you remember the Cannonball in the Wall debacle,” she added pleasantly, even if her words were anything but.
Yes. I’d solved the mystery of a murdered librarian, and I’d outed Virginia for attempting to destroy and rewrite history.
“Quite the scandal—the heritage society president distorting our shared legacy. It made her just unpopular enough for me to win this year’s election,” Julia drawled, with no short amount of delight. “I suppose I should thank you.”
“Virginia is responsible for her own downfall,” I said. I’d had nothing to do with her choices.
“Virginia still cares very much for the society,” she said, her heels echoing on the hardwood as she closed the distance between us. “She and I spoke this morning, and she warned me you’d probably show up here, looking for ghosts.” Julia’s perfume invaded my senses. It smelled like sweet, earthy ambergris and bathtubs full of money. “She suggested I toss you out on your ear and have you booked for trespassing.” She glanced out the window, at the tire tracks through the lawn that led to my Cadillac parked atop the mangled begonias. “It seems she didn’t anticipate the property destruction.”
“I’ll replant every last bush and flower,” I vowed. I had no excuses, so I didn’t give her any. “I’m one of the good guys,” I promised. “You need me if you want to learn what’s really happening here.”
The corners of her mouth turned up. “I do believe you’re serious,” she said before her pleasure evaporated. “You truly think you can—” she made a dainty gesture “—commune with the spirit world?” she asked, as if I were Miss Cleo, the 1-800 number psychic.
I looked her dead in the eye. “I’ve met Civil War soldiers, mob assassins, and a 1970s ghost driving a shaggin’ wagon,” I said, enjoying the slight drop in her jaw. “I’ve seen ghost d
ogs, ghost horses, and out on your lawn right now, you have a ghost cow, who seems to be enjoying her day. I need to investigate. I will investigate. It would, however, be easier with your help.”
“Well, then,” she said, sizing me up, “come with me, miss ghost hunter. I have something that may surprise even you.”
Chapter 4
She led me down a narrow hallway lined with oil paintings of former heritage society presidents, enshrined for the ages in ornate gold frames.
I caught my breath when I spotted a ghostly portrait at the end. It appeared larger than the others, baroque in style, and it shimmered as if it would disappear at any moment.
The ethereal painting pictured a beautiful Victorian woman with high cheekbones, artfully stacked hair, and jeweled chandelier earrings. Her image was so lifelike and her expression so bemused that if I didn’t know better, I would have sworn she was looking back at me. It was quite unlike anything I’d seen from the time period, which leaned—no, rather dove toward the formal.
“What is it?” Julia paused midway into the next room, wearing a slight frown.
“Nothing,” I assured her, backing away from the image. Best not let the crazy flag fly until I could prove to her I was for real. I cleared my throat. “You know, I was surprised to run into you this morning,” I said, joining her, hoping she wouldn’t notice the blatant subject change. “Is that white van yours?” It didn’t seem like something a society lady would drive, but honestly, I’d think better of her if it were hers.
Julia stared at me, aghast. “That’s used to haul things for the society.” She tightened her Tahitian pearl earrings and I noticed she wore a matching triple-strand bracelet. “My husband and I live on the other side of the cemetery, just up the rock path. It’s a lovely walk.”
Perhaps. As long as you didn’t mind the spirits trapped there. “You don’t find it at all…spooky?” I asked, glancing back at the portrait in the hall.
Julia folded her hands in front of her. “The quiet of the place can be unsettling at times. Hardly a bird chirps or a squirrel runs in that cemetery. But it is the quickest route.”
Spoken like a steely Southern belle.
Julia’s family went back to the founding of the town. The Harpers had lived in a sprawling Victorian overlooking the river for as long as I could recall.
She led me past a desk stacked with brochures, which was tucked in front of an antique fireplace. I kept my eye out for a phone, one a ghost could have used to call me last night.
As if that were normal.
Still, I needed something about this situation to make sense.
Next to the desk, on a carved wooden pedestal, stood the bust of a young woman. She stared longingly up to the heavens, a lace veil stretched over her face and hair like a burial shroud. I caught my breath as her eyes blinked, and her gaze turned to me. Superimposed on the stone was the ghostly face from the hallway.
“Hello,” I said, not caring anymore if Julia thought it strange. This ghostly image was sentient, and it seemed to be following me. “What’s your name?”
She disappeared.
“I just met one of your ghosts,” I said to Julia. “She’s a little shy.”
“Then she’s the exception,” Julia said pragmatically. She walked to a pair of closed wooden doors. “This next room houses our museum. It’s where we keep dozens of priceless items families have donated, some dating back to the founding of Sugarland.”
“We came here for our fifth-grade field trip.” It was a rite of passage in this town. I didn’t remember much, but I’d seen some of the vintage clothing from the heritage society collection at the last Cannonball in the Wall festival. It had been a lovely event, until I’d discovered a body.
A framed museum brochure showed the built-in wooden display cases along the walls, historical furniture and artifacts, and mannequins in real period clothing.
Julia’s bony shoulders slumped. “Now when I come in each morning, I find this.”
She opened the pocket doors to reveal those mannequins sprawled in various lewd poses on the priceless original furnishings, doing things no child should ever witness.
I drew a hand to my mouth. “My stars.”
The bearded mannequin of Colonel Jackson, hero of the Battle of Sugarland, leaned woodenly—but nevertheless suggestively—as he took liberties with the figure of Eula Jean Larimore, the wife of the second mayor of Sugarland. Meanwhile the mayor, the man who’d spearheaded the building of our town square, lay on his back under the form of a widow, her black mourning gown and veil most definitely askew. That was really all I needed to witness. “You really do have a problem,” I said to Julia. I wasn’t sure what to do about it, but it was certainly more embarrassing than me talking to ghosts.
Julia eased a Cherokee woman off a smiling modern army soldier dressed in desert camouflage. “That’s Chaplain Rowland’s World War I traveling desk. With all the action it’s seen lately, I’m surprised it hasn’t caught fire.”
“I hadn’t even noticed the desk under those two,” I said, helping her place the Cherokee girl back near the native artifacts exhibit.
“We’ve already lost the buttons from Private Fisk’s army pants. They were ripped clean off, you see.” She sighed. “At least those are modern. We can buy more. But it’s only a matter of time before a historical piece is torn or broken. These items are irreplaceable and they’re not even ours. Most are on loan from families who trust us.”
I scanned the room, looking for spirits.
“This doesn’t make sense.” I couldn’t imagine what any of it had to do with murder. In fact, I couldn’t see any reason for a ghost to do this. “This display—and the call I received last night—there must be a purpose behind them. It takes a lot of energy for spirits to interact with objects in the mortal realm.” Not to mention make a phone call.
The smaller exhibits under glass appeared to be intact. I paused in front of a time-stained pair of round metal spectacles. The yellowing description tag was a relic in itself, created in the days of manual typewriters. It stated the glasses had been worn by a Rough Rider, a certain Colonel Clinton Maker. I knew him. Or at least I’d met his ghost. “It doesn’t appear as if your ghost is searching for anything.” I’d seen spirits tear apart display cases before, trying to recover their property, but that didn’t seem to be happening here. “So why expend energy just to shock a bunch of society ladies?”
Julia pressed her lips together tightly. “The members don’t know about any of this,” she said. “I’ve been sneaking over to fix everything before the volunteers arrive to open the museum.”
“For how long?” I asked. This couldn’t be an easy secret to keep.
“Three days,” she replied, sounding tired. “It’s getting more difficult to cover up, with the Sweet Tea Luncheon at the start of next week. I cancelled the volunteers for today. You were my excuse,” she added wryly, “what with you calling in the police in the middle of the night. In fact, I was hoping that having the police here half the night would keep me from waking up to this.” She sighed. “Obviously the ghosts had other ideas.”
“The haunting itself is getting worse, too, isn’t it?” I’d often found that if spirits didn’t get your attention, they’d try harder.
“It is.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to hide it. And now the whole town is talking about that call you made to the police last night, the report of murder coming from inside this house. Half of them believe you talked to a ghost. The other half—?” She shot me an apologetic glance as she caught herself. “Well, you have to admit, it’s hard to believe.”
“I don’t expect blind trust,” I told her. She only knew me by reputation, and mine wasn’t exactly sterling. “All I ask is that you keep an open mind.”
“With what I’ve seen lately, I believe I’m willing to try.” Julia returned her attention to the orgy in front of us. “I would have had these mannequins fixed by now if I�
�d kept my phone turned off this morning. The calls have been incessant.”
I knew the feeling. “Let me help,” I said, adjusting the widow’s skirt to make her decent. That wasn’t right. On second thought, I just lifted her off the mayor entirely.
Julia gave me a hand. “It started with the mayor. He’s been with a new lady every night. Then Colonel Jackson joined in, and so did the army soldier.” We placed the widow next to the Mother Mary’s Home for Wayward Widows and Orphans portion of the exhibit. “They’re not heavy, just awkward. Still, it’s a lot of work.”
Especially for Julia in her red silk dress. I couldn’t help but wonder why she’d done herself up so nicely if she’d expected to be alone in the house. “So this has been going on for a little less than a week,” I said, smoothing the widow’s veil. “Did you make any changes to the property, move any furniture, dig up anything interesting in the cemetery?” I added, going out on a limb.
Julia tried to hide her shock as she adjusted the lace on the widow’s high collar. “No. There’s been no digging in the cemetery,” she said, her voice measured. Yet I noticed her hands were shaking. She glanced at me. “No one can find out about this. The members will be mortified. They’d blame me, or at least expect me to fix it. And if this gets out to the public, we’ll be a laughingstock.”
“Or you might sell a lot more tickets.” Although they’d probably lose the elementary school audience.
She wasn’t amused. “As president, I’m ultimately responsible for the society home and its contents,” she said, adjusting the pins on the widow’s veil. “At first, I believed this to be the work of someone who wanted to shame me and cast doubts on me as a leader. After all, I’m twice divorced in a town that doesn’t take kindly to it.”
If I had to guess, I’d think any ding to her reputation would have more to do with her most recent husband’s multiple marriages, or what some referred to as his “string of bad luck,” but I wouldn’t have felt right suggesting it.