A Dead Pig in the Sunshine

by Penny Burwell Ewing

  I pulled out her client card and set it on my workstation. “I hear she and Ryan are doing well.”

  “Doin’ fine. She’s openin’ another nail salon in Nashville and another in Adel. The good book don’t like proud saints, but I’m a braggin’ about her. Her brother too. He owns Mack’s Limousine Service. Doin’ good, he is. Had a VIP in his limo the other night.”

  “Oh?” I continued applying base cream to her scalp. “Not many of those in this area.”

  “Can you keep a secret?” Her eyes met mine in the mirror expectantly, practically begging me to agree. “Got to promise.”

  Not at all interested, but not willing to hurt her feelings, I decided to humor her. “I promise.”

  Her toothy smile reflected in the mirror. “That lady writer and her fancy boyfriend.”

  Great balls of fire, she had to be talking about Vanessa van Allen. Had to be. No other well-known female author in these parts. A lead at last. Bradford will be over the moon when I dump this in his lap. Calm down. Get more info. I let my smile widen a mite. “Quit kidding with me, Hattie. You can’t possibly mean Vanessa van Allen took a ride in your nephew’s limo?”

  Hattie beamed. “None other.”

  “I’m impressed. Did Mack say where he drove them?”

  “No, but I could find out if you want.”

  “And you’re sure it was Monday night?”

  Her eyes reflected her curiosity. “What’s your interest in this, chile? Nothin’ but a car ride.”

  How much to say? The truth? Lie? Not to her, I wouldn’t. I leaned in closer, so not to be overheard. “Vanessa is missing.”

  “Mack ain’t involved.” Her gentle brown eyes grew round as saucers.

  “It’s complicated, but the police suspect Detective Bradford and I had something to do with her disappearance. We didn’t, but any information Mack could provide could clear us of suspicion. Did Mack mention the man’s name or describe him?”

  “Not a peep.”

  I jotted down my cell number on my business card and handed it to her. “Call me at this number when you get the information.”

  She pocketed the card. “If I can get ’em to talk.”

  “Please, try Hattie,” I pleaded. “It could be a life and death situation.”

  I finished Hattie’s hair and picked up the tab. A small price to pay for vital information. Plus it gave her extra incentive to call me with any additional info she could coax out of her nephew.

  Deena left early. At closing, the staff scattered like ants on a church picnic leaving me to finish up the laundry. Usually Holly’s job, tonight I sent her on her way with the rest of the crew. I wanted the place to myself to finish a conversation with the resident ghost.

  When I cracked open the rehung facial room door, a thin stream of light pushed back the darkness. I switched on the overhead lights, flooding the corners with florescent light. Careen transposed forlornly over the loveseat, her lovely eyes huge with sadness.

  “I’ve got to get out of here.” Her voice broke the silence. “Please release me.”

  I stepped into the room and seated myself in an old wooden rocking chair I’d picked up at an estate sale in Macon. “You know I can’t, Careen. We have three days to solve your murder. Do you know who took your life?”

  “Yes, and I’m going to have my revenge on her.”

  It came to me. “Vanessa van Allen. I should’ve guessed sooner. Now all we’ve got to do is find her and the evidence that links her to your murder.”

  “I can find her if you’ll help me get out of here.”

  “I would if I could, Careen.” Our gazes met and held.

  “Do you sincerely mean that?” A spark of life flared in her lifeless eyes.

  I gave her a questioning look. “Yes, Careen, I do. Why?” My sense of sympathy heightened.

  In hindsight, I should’ve realized Careen’s intentions in time to stop her, but a languorous sensation possessed me, and before I could voice my objections, she slipped into my aura like a horny rooster in a henhouse.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The House of the Rising Sun

  After spending hours unsuccessfully trying to coax Careen from my aura, I gave up, stuck my finger down my throat and flushed my late afternoon snack down the toilet. Temporarily free from nausea, I showered and dressed in a long, flowing black skirt, black silk turtleneck, and black boots. To keep my unruly locks tamed I fashioned a chignon at the back of my head, then hung silver dangle earrings in my ears to complete my ensemble.

  Ready to face the unknown at Madame Mia’s I settled down in the den to watch TV until Bradford’s expected arrival. I was half dozing when Tanya Graham of WXYB Channel Ten news caught my attention.

  “The body of the unidentified woman who was found in the Mount Zion Missionary Baptist Church cemetery has now been positively identified as Careen Halsey of Hawkinsville, Georgia.”

  I sat up in the recliner dislodging Tango from my lap. Disgruntled, he protested with a loud meow and jumped down to the floor and began cleaning himself.

  “Greenwood County Sheriff, Cleaster Snellgrove, reports that the next of kin has been notified.” Tanya Graham’s soft voice continued, “The body has not been released for burial as this is an ongoing investigation. Sheriff Snellgrove went on to say his office is following several leads connected to Miss Halsey. Two citizens of Whiskey Creek have been questioned and released in connection with her death. If you have any information pertaining to this case, please contact the Greenwood County Sheriff’s office at the number on the screen.”

  The number scrolled across the bottom of the television screen.

  “In other news, a missing person’s report has been filed on well-known erotica romance writer, Vanessa van Allen.” A picture of Vanessa van Allen flashed on the screen. “Her mother, Betty van Allen of Whiskey Creek, last spoke with her daughter Monday morning, and nothing seemed amiss. Miss van Allen was attending the writers’ retreat at Baconton Lodge. On Monday morning, a staff member found the cabin ransacked and blood in the floor. Miss van Allen hasn’t been seen since. A kidnapping is suspected. A five thousand dollar reward is being offered for information that leads to the author’s whereabouts. If you have any information, please contact the Whiskey Creek Police Department or the Greenwood County Sheriff’s office at the numbers on the screen.”

  The numbers scrolled across the television screen.

  I glanced down at my watch. 11:15. I hit the power button on the remote and climbed to my feet and headed into the bathroom to brush the cat hairs from my clothing and freshen up. I had grabbed a bottled water from the refrigerator when a knock sounded at the kitchen door.

  “You feeling okay?” Bradford asked when I swung open the door to admit him.

  “Not really.” I sank down into a kitchen chair.

  “You should see a doctor.”

  I swallowed back the rising bile in my throat. “You’re right, Bradford. As soon as this mess is cleared up I’m going to seek professional help. I can’t take this anymore.”

  “You don’t mean an M.D.” He swirled a finger around his ear. “One of those head doctors who take on nutbags like us.”

  I cracked a smile. “Yeah, something like that. But honestly, before we leave could you use your manly influence with Careen and see if she’d hitch a ride with you? I’m sick of her.”

  All efforts failed. So with my ghostly passenger firmly entrenched in my aura, I gathered my handbag and followed Bradford out to his pickup for the short drive to Fifth Street.

  “Any updates from Hattie Sanford?” Bradford asked once we’d turned onto Eighth Street. “Her nephew could provide a vital lead if he’ll cooperate.”

  Lightning flashed in the distance, and I turned from the window. “Hattie wasn’t even sure she could get Mack to talk, but as soon as she does, she’ll give me a call.” Thunder rumbled. “Madame Mia’s storm is coming.”

  “I’m not good at waiting.”

  Duh. “Tell me so
mething I don’t know.” Left on Sixth. The historic district. Old money. The old Maco mansion needs TLC. Overgrown grass and weeds, broken windows, and peeling paint. Much like a sad, old crippled man. Someone ought to buy the place and renovate. It would fetch a fortune in resale. As we passed the old place, a flicker of light briefly flared in one of the back windows. Probably some homeless soul seeking refuge from the approaching storm.

  “The lead could grow cold.” His tone reflected his frustration.

  “Can’t rush progress.” Right on Fifth. Madame Mia’s restored Victorian mansion came into sight. Warm, golden lamplight spilled from the front porch light.

  Bradford parked in the driveway and killed the engine. He turned to me, draping an arm over the front seat. Fingers brushed my shoulder. “I’m not one hundred percent certain we’re doing the right thing, Jolene. I just don’t trust the woman.”

  I pushed open the passenger door. “Then trust me. Come on, let’s do this.”

  Together, we climbed the wooden porch steps. The front door opened. Madame Mia posed on the threshold in a stunning white satin pantsuit that set off her dark beauty to perfection. Always white. I’d never seen the mysterious psychic in any other color. Another odd character quirk.

  “Everything is ready.” She stepped back, motioning for us to enter.

  Nothing had changed since my last visit. The inlaid wood floors in the foyer shone underneath the scattered colorful woolen rugs, and the huge, ornate chandelier high above my head twinkled with a thousand tiny pinpoints of light shaped like candle flames. A crystal vase filled with snowy roses sat in the center of a round antique marble-topped rosewood table.

  Madame Mia led us to the small parlor at the end of the hallway where she conducted her readings. Bradford and I seated ourselves at the lace tablecloth covered table while Madame Mia dimmed the overhead chandelier.

  “Ah, what’s going on?” Bradford asked with a slight hesitation as a flash of lightning lit up the room, followed by a clap of thunder.

  “Mood lighting,” the psychic supplied, as she took her seat beside me. “I will now light the candles. Spirits seek the warmth and light.”

  Along with the candles on the round table were a bowl of fruit and several slices of homemade bread. I knew from previous visits the natural foods were an offering to attract spirits.

  “Now join hands,” the psychic instructed.

  Bradford balked. “Not until you tell me what you’re doing.”

  Dumbass. I sighed with impatience and nausea. “It’s a séance.”

  “Oh, no.” Bradford stood to his feet and backed away from the table. “I don’t believe I would care to participate.”

  “Careen Halsey.” My patience took another dive. “Remember your dead gal pal? Pull up your big boy panties and sit down.”

  In the flickering candlelight, I couldn’t read Bradford’s expression, but he resumed his seat, however, stiffly, and grabbed my hand.

  Only the sound of the approaching storm filled the parlor. Our clasp hands made the symbolic circle. Madame Mia began her soft chant in a foreign language. Bradford’s hand tightened on mine.

  “Spirits of the past, move among us. Be guided by the warmth and light of the world and visit upon us. We bring offerings of bread and fruit.” More foreign chanting. “Spirits of the night, seek the warmth and light of the candles. We seek your guidance among the lost ones. We seek the whereabouts of a woman. Vanessa van Allen is lost. Help us seek her. Speak.”

  The soft chanting grew fainter. Madame Mia stiffened, then relaxed.

  “The woman you seek is not among us,” a man’s voice spoke through the psychic.

  “She’s alive?” Bradford murmured in my ear.

  I nodded, then addressed the spirit. “Does she walk of her own free will?”

  “The woman you seek walks of her own free will,” a woman’s voice came through.

  Madame Mia stirred, and I knew from times past that thin veil between the two worlds weakened, and I had to act fast. Bradford started to speak, so I crushed my boot heel on his foot to shut him up. “Where is she?”

  “Seek the house of the rising sun.”

  House of the rising sun? What on earth? Baffled by the riddle, but determined to have answers, I gave Bradford a quick shoulder shrug, and asked one more question as Madame Mia blinked her eyes several times. “Where is the house of the rising sun?”

  The pounding rainfall answered back. Madame Mia slowly opened her eyes.

  “The spirits love to play in the rain.”

  Bradford rolled his eyes at me, and I motioned for him to knock it off. As long as I had this cursed gift, I needed my relationship with the psychic to continue on good terms.

  Madame Mia blew out the candles and turned up the lighting. When she resumed her seat at the table, she stared hard at me. “I see you’ve picked up a hitchhiker, Jolene. Funny I never noticed it before now.”

  “Yeah, do you know anything about removing dead weight from human auras?”

  She waved a ringed finger in my direction. A waft of lilacs filled my nostrils.

  “Jolene, darling, of course I do.” She pushed back her chair and came to stand behind mine, all the while chanting her foreign mantra. For several seconds her bejeweled hands circled my head, and Careen materialized in Madame Mia’s vacated chair.

  Bradford blinked in obvious surprise, and I gave a sigh of relief at having my personal space all to myself once more. Madame Mia directed her attention to Careen.

  “So this is the woman found in the cemetery?”

  I nodded my head. “Yes, Careen Halsey. And she’s going to help us find Vanessa. Who, I might add, is her killer.”

  Bradford turned to me, his expression hinting at impatience. “This is the first I’m hearing about your theory. Any evidence?”

  “Only her testimony.” I cocked my head at Careen. “She can help us find the evidence.”

  “The first order of business is to locate Vanessa van Allen,” he countered. “She has a lot to answer for, including Careen’s murder if we can prove it. Do either of you have any clue what and where the house of the rising sun is?”

  “I do.”

  Three pairs of eyes settled on Careen.

  “The House of the Rising Sun is from House of Secrets, Book Two in my Dark Enchantment series. The House of the Rising Sun is Queen Lada’s lair in Transylvania.”

  “Romania?” I wondered aloud.

  “Deep in the Carpathian Mountains,” Careen supplied.

  “What does a fictional vampire queen’s lair have to do with finding Vanessa?” Bradford’s jaw tensed.

  “Perhaps Vanessa had a home away from home that she dubbed ‘The House of the Rising Sun,’” Madame Mia suggested.

  “Makes sense to me,” I said. “Bradford?”

  His brows pulled into an affronted frown. “This is a first for me, ladies. I’ll have to defer to your expert knowledge.”

  “Perhaps there’s a clue in the second book that will lead you to Vanessa,” Madame Mia again suggested.

  “Possibly.” I thought back over the months when Billie Jo had raved about the book. I drew a blank, not remembering anything of importance in our conversations. The books were hard-core erotica, I’d learned from my sister. And bestsellers. Hmmm. Strictly for investigative purposes I decided to download the book on my e-reader and see what I could find.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Ghost Hotel

  At three a.m. I shut off my e-reader not finding anything of value for the investigation, and just plain wore out from the high-voltage sex scenes in Book Two, House of Secrets. From one standpoint, I could see how it had become a bestseller because everyone knows that sex sells—however, for me, a little mystery goes a long way. Just point me in the right direction and let my imagination take it from there. Not only were there too many vivid sexual descriptions, but the manner of the telling left much to be desired.

  Trash.

  I kept my thoughts to myself as Ca
reen had reattached herself to my aura and could hear every word. Plus, voicing my disgust for her work wouldn’t serve my purposes well. I turned off the light and tried to sleep.

  When the alarm buzzed at 7:00, I rolled out of bed like a slug and stumbled into the bathroom for a shower. Refreshed, I dressed in a light print dress and heels for work and went into the kitchen for coffee and cereal. The phone rang as I poured my second cup. Caller ID indicated the call I had hoped for had come through. Bradford would be thrilled for another lead to Vanessa’s whereabouts.

  “Good morning, Hattie, I’m glad you called.”

  “Mack finally agreed to talk to you.” Her voice crackled over the line. “No police.”

  Oops. Bradford wouldn’t be happy to be excluded from the questioning, but what else could I do? To force the issue might shut Mack up good and tight. No, best to go it alone.

  “Jolene, you there? You hear me say, no police? Mack don’t want no police snoopin’ around. His clients expect discretion.”

  “Yes, I heard you, Hattie. No police. What time?”

  “Now.”

  I glanced down at my watch. 8:30. Barely enough time before my first appointment at 9:00. “I’ll be there. What’s the address?”

  “618 Athens Street.”

  I disconnected the line and grabbed my purse off the counter, scooted out the door and into my Mustang. As I drove to the outskirts of town, I gathered my thoughts and rehearsed a couple of questions that posed no threat to Mack’s business. First, Vanessa’s destination. Second, a name or description of her male passenger. Best to keep it short and simple. Bradford and I could take it from there.

  I passed the new mall out by I-75 and turned onto Athens Street and drove down until I spotted Mack’s Limousine Service in a small, white, relatively new building on the corner and parked in the small parking lot. I pushed open the door and stepped into the air-conditioned lobby, surprised at the upscale décor. Evidently, Mack’s Limousine Service was doing well in our small community. Before I could take another step, a tall, handsome African American man in an expensive black suit stepped out of the side door and held out a hand.