Downright Dead

by Pamela Kopfler

  “It wouldn’t be the same if we had to play bridge at the VFW hall.” Miss Martha Jane piped up, wringing her hands.

  Penny shifted her plump bottom on the planter’s bench. “We wouldn’t have Nelda’s bread pudding there for sure.”

  “Besides, he can’t debunk your ghost. He haunted our bridge game.” Miss Martha Jane fit the deck and scorecards into a floral box. “We’ll tell him so.”

  “My mum used to say that the older one gets the less of a veil between the living and the dead. I sense the presence of the dead more and more,” Miss Corrine said. Her British accent made everything she said seem as though it came straight from the BBC fact-checked, even if it wasn’t. “And I sense it at Holly Grove. He’s blind to the spirit, that’s all.”

  They all nodded in unison.

  Holly bit her bottom lip to hide a little tremble. The Deltas were mostly too nosy, too bossy, and too chatty, but today they felt like second mamas to her. She wanted to tell them the truth but couldn’t trust those mouths of the South with her secret. “I love y’all, but as much as I wish that debunker wasn’t here, he is.”

  “That don’t mean he’s got to watch the show in my kitchen,” Nelda said, thumbing her chest.

  Miss Alice grumbled. “He’s a troublemaker.”

  “But, ladies,” Miss Martha Jane wrung her hands. “It wouldn’t be proper to have a party and exclude one person in the same house.”

  “He can’t watch it anywhere but here because there’s no guest Internet and the only cable connection is right there.” Holly pointed to the old big-box TV in the corner of the room. “He needs to see proof of the haunting in case Burl doesn’t show up.”

  “But why wouldn’t he show up?” Miss Corrine asked.

  Crapola. Did I say that out loud? Holly shrugged. “Burl wasn’t exactly dependable in real life . . .”

  Nelda rolled her eyes. “Ain’t that the truth.” “The best thing we can do is let Tru watch the show tonight and see the truth,” Holly said. “We’re just going to have to put up with him until this is over.”

  “We’ll kill him with kindness,” Miss Martha Jane said. “Isn’t that right, Alice?”

  “You kill him with kindness.” Miss Alice settled back onto the planter’s bench. “I don’t suffer fools well. I don’t have the time or the energy to engage with the likes of him.”

  A knock came from the door and Mr. Sinclair poked in his head. No need to tell the ladies he may be on the other side too. Maybe he wasn’t.

  “Sorry. I saw the notice on the door, but I’m supposed to be in the kitchen at seven for dinner. Am I in the right place?”

  “Oh, Mr. Sinclair.” Holly waved him in. “We usually have dinner in the dining room, but this is the only room with a cable connection to watch Inquiring Minds.” She introduced him to the Deltas.

  “Call me Thomas,” Mr. Sinclair said as a bright light flashed.

  “And that’s Sam,” Holly said. “He owns the Delta Ridge Gazette and is doing a feature story on Holly Grove’s TV debut tonight.”

  Sam whipped out his pocket notebook and asked Thomas for his full name and home city. “You never know if one of my stories may be picked up by the AP.”

  It had happened once when ICE intercepted a huge drug shipment on the river, practically in her backyard, and he got there first. He also kept Holly Grove in the best possible light in the article. She needed to remember that, since he was being so irritating with his paparazzi camera action.

  “Thomas from San Francisco will do,” he said. “It smells wonderful in here. Is that gumbo cooking?”

  Hmm. What an odd response . . . His name on his driver’s license was William Thomas Sinclair. Why would he not want his last name in the paper?

  “That’s award-winning gumbo.” Holly pointed to Nelda’s Iron Skillet Awards hanging on the wall.

  “Impressive.” Thomas eyed the collection. “I can hardly wait to taste it.”

  “That’s right,” Nelda said, without turning around. Steam curled over a pot as she lifted the lid on the rice. “I’m just about to serve it up, too.”

  Holly escorted Thomas over to Nelda. “And this is Nelda Varnado, the best cook in St. Agnes Parish and maybe the South.”

  Nelda wiped her hands on a white dishtowel, then turned with her hand extended for a handshake. Her usually animated face turned blank. She tilted her head to the side as though studying him. “What’d you say your name was?”

  He dropped his gaze to the floor and said his name again, then glanced at Holly.

  Nelda’s expression lifted as she shook his hand. “Nice to meet ya. My hearin’ ain’t what it used to be.”

  Except when she wanted to hear something she shouldn’t. Holly pointed to the planter’s table. “You have a seat over there next to Miss Alice. Nelda and I will bring the gumbo bowls over in just a second.”

  As soon as he was out of earshot, Holly whispered to Nelda, “When did your hearing go bad?”

  Nelda wrapped a white cotton napkin around a warm loaf of French bread and handed it to Holly. Then she held her hand up to her ear and grinned. “Eh?”

  “Really. Why did you stare the guy down?”

  “That man’s name went in one ear and out the other and I couldn’t find it on his face. He don’t look like no Thomas to me.” Nelda lifted a shoulder. “That Tru’s got my skirts in a jumble. I’m tellin’ ya, that little turd is on a mission. What we gonna do about him?”

  “Kill him with kindness?” Holly sighed. What choice did she have? She couldn’t kick him out or she’d violate her contract.

  Nelda huffed. “Good luck with that.”

  * * *

  A few minutes later, Tru pushed through the swinging kitchen door. He gave a nod to the note on the door, then slid his glasses up on his nose and eyed Holly. “Private Inquiring Suckers party?”

  No, he didn’t just say that.

  Nelda groaned and the Deltas exchanged glances around the planter’s table.

  Holly balled her napkin in her fist. “Excuse me?”

  “And you want me to kill him with kindness?” Nelda whispered, leaning in to Holly.

  He looked around at the half-eaten bowls of gumbo as he pushed through the swinging door. “I see you didn’t wait for me” The doors flapped behind him. Tru sauntered to Nelda’s gumbo pot and served himself. “That’s okay. I’m a fast eater. I’ve been smelling this for a while. I wondered when you’d call me to dinner.”

  Holly scooted off her end of the bench at the planter’s table and stood. “I uh—

  “Forgot, right Holly?” Tru asked. “Like you forgot to tell me there is no Internet access in the rooms.”

  She dug her nails into her palms. I just might forget to replace his toilet paper roll, too.

  “Getting away from the modern world is part of the charm of our B&B,” Holly said in the most pleasant voice she could muster. “Internet isn’t advertised or expected.”

  He shuffled to the table and squeezed in next to Miss Alice at the other end of the table. “Is one bar of service on my phone part of the charm too?”

  “No. That’s part of country life.” Holly forced a smile and rested her palms on the planter’s table. She leaned in toward Tru, who sat across from her. “The nearest tower is miles away. My guests come here to escape the twenty-first century.”

  Between bites of gumbo, Tru turned his attention to the TV, then shook his head. “Even Luddites like this bunch know TVs aren’t period accurate for this place.”

  “Young man.” Miss Alice peered over her readers at Tru. “Anyone who has experienced everything from the invention of air-conditioning to the Internet and embraced it all is no Luddite.”

  “Fair enough.” He scrubbed the monogrammed linen napkin over his mouth and dropped the soiled napkin on the table.

  The man must have been raised in a barn, as Grandma Rose used to say.

  “But there’s a reason you are all right here.” Tru stabbed at the table with his index fin
ger. “Right now, and a reason I wasn’t invited. Could it be that your hostess doesn’t want me to see how fake your ghost really is?”

  But my ghost wasn’t fake. Until recently. A queasiness settled low in Holly’s stomach. She wiped her clammy palms on her skirt, then picked up her half-eaten bowl of gumbo. “In just a few minutes, Inquiring Minds is going to make Holly Grove and our ghost famous.”

  And yeah, she’d faked confidence. She’d fake a ghost too if necessary. The Deltas backed her up with nods and stern looks for Tru. Holly joined the Deltas’ stare down of Mr. Obnoxious.

  He adjusted his glasses and smirked. “Excellent! That’ll make me look even better when I expose a famous fraud.”

  Holly slammed her gumbo bowl on the table. “This is a private area in my home. I invite who I want to and you are not welcome.” Way to kill him with kindness, Holly.

  “Yeah.” He glanced around the table. “And we all know why.”

  Yeah. You’re obnoxious and want to ruin me. “You weren’t invited to the preparty because you don’t believe. We do, and we don’t want you here ruining this big night for us.”

  “Tell you what.” Tru tore off a hunk of French bread and pointed it at Holly like a caveman. “If you’ll let me stay for your little party, I won’t say a word during the show.” He cocked his head to the side. “Fair enough?”

  “Not one word.” Holly curled all but her index finger into her fist then jabbed that finger at Tru. If her mother hadn’t raised a lady, another finger would have expressed her feelings better. “Are we clear?”

  Tru held his right hand up in a Boy Scout pledge, but she doubted he’d ever been a scout.

  “Now that we’ve got that settled.” Nelda’s chair scraped the cypress floor as she pushed back from the table. “I’ve got y’all some of my famous bread puddin’ with bourbon sauce comin’ right up.”

  Bless Nelda for changing the subject before Holly said or did anything she’d regret.

  “Gonna raincheck on that, Nelda. I’m thinking about a liquid dessert.” Sam eyed Miss Martha Jane’s full Sazerac. He pulled out the napkin tucked under his collar. “Are you going to drink that?”

  “Oh.” Miss Martha Jane’s hand fluttered to her chest. “I had a sip or two. It’s quite good, but, but it doesn’t mix well with my medications. I’m the designated driver anyway.”

  “You mind?” Sam asked, reaching for the silver julep cup.

  Miss Martha Jane’s eyes widened as Sam grabbed her julep.

  “Well, I never,” Miss Alice said.

  “Waste not, want not.” Sam lifted his glass to Miss Alice. “Benjamin Franklin.”

  Miss Alice straightened and lifted her chin. “Benjamin Franklin was a lush.”

  Sam winked at Miss Alice. “He was a ladies’ man, too.”

  If Holly didn’t know better, she would have sworn Miss Alice blushed.

  Tru raised his hand like a schoolkid.

  Holly sighed. “What?”

  “May I speak?” Tru folded his hands in front of himself and struck what she supposed he thought was an angelic pose.

  Holly shoved a hand on her hip. “Only if it has nothing to do with my ghost.”

  “Nope. Since you forgot to invite me to happy hour too, I’ll have a double shot in my Sazerac.”

  Nelda snickered.

  Tru lifted both hands, palms up. “What?”

  “A Sazerac is precise.” Holly said on her way to the sink with her gumbo bowl. “There is no double shot in a Sazerac.”

  “Then I’ll have two. I’m going to need sedation to keep my mouth shut during the crap show that’s coming up.”

  Holly gave Tru a stern look.

  “What now?” His eyes widened behind his Clark Kent glasses as though he’d been falsely accused. “The show hasn’t started yet.”

  “Not one word when it does or you’re out of here.”

  He held his hand up in a Boy Scout pledge again.

  That was the last thing he’d said during the whole meal. Of course, he was busy eating three bowls of gumbo and two pieces of French bread, and drinking his Sazeracs.

  “I never forget a face.” Miss Alice said to Thomas. “Where did you say you were from?”

  “San Francisco,” Holly answered for Thomas since he had just taken a big bite of Nelda’s gumbo and to spare him a small part of the Deep South interrogation she knew was coming from Miss Alice.

  Thomas nodded and wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin, then placed it in his lap like any civilized man would.

  “I know that.” Miss Alice looked at Holly like she had grits for brains. She used the sugar tongs to extract a cube of sugar from the blue willow sugar bowl.

  Those tongs had gotten Holly in quite a bit of trouble when she was about five. She’d borrowed the tongs to do an operation on her dog. A tick-ectomy. Luckily, no animals or ticks were injured because her mother busted her before she could complete the operation. Of course, she’d never been able to look at the tongs the same way since.

  Miss Alice stirred the sugar into her dark roast coffee, then turned her attention back to Thomas. “I mean where were you born?”

  “Mississippi,” he said, staring down into his Sazerac as he swirled it around in the crystal lowball glass.

  “I knew I caught a bit of a Southern accent.” Miss Alice nodded, then sipped her coffee.

  Holly had noticed a hint of accent that could have been anywhere in the South, but she hadn’t suspected from the state right next door.

  Miss Alice sat a little straighter. “What part?”

  “The Delta,” he said.

  Miss Alice’s face lit up. “That’s it. You look familiar because we could be related. I’ve got kinfolk all over the Delta from way back. According to my genealogy research, I’m related to several prominent Natchez families.”

  “I was born there. I didn’t say I was from Natchez,” he said then checked his stainless steel Rolex that was similar to the one had Burl lost in a bet. “It’s almost time for the show to start.”

  “Oh, one of the little towns nearby, of course.” Miss Alice scooted to the edge of her seat. “Natchez was the hub of the Mississippi back in the steamboat days.”

  “Sinclair.” Miss Alice leaned back, seemingly in deep thought. “I don’t remember any Sinclairs in my research. What was your mama’s maiden name?”

  There she goes with who’s your mama. “Miss Alice, would you like more bread pudding?”

  She waved Holly off.

  “I’m not sure.” Thomas shrugged and fingered his glass.

  “It’s on your birth certificate,” Miss Alice said. “Or you could ask your parents.”

  “I’ll have to look up my birth certificate when I get back to California, because I can’t ask my parents unless they come haunt Holly Grove.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Miss Alice said.

  “No need. It’s been over thirty years since—

  “It’s important to know where you come from.”

  “Miss Alice, everyone isn’t as into genealogy as you are,” Holly said.

  “I’m sure your relatives are fine people, but I wouldn’t know them and they wouldn’t know me.” Thomas’s tone was flat and matter-of-fact. “I left over thirty years ago.” He stood and collected his Sazerac. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need a refresher before the show starts.”

  He may as well have said “this subject is closed.” Granted, Miss Alice had no boundaries when dissecting someone’s family to figure out who they were. Holly didn’t blame him for getting annoyed. But she had to admit, there was something not right about a man born in the South not knowing his mama’s family name.

  “Holly, would you mind showing me how to make this delightful cocktail?” He shook his empty glass. His lips lifted in a stiff smile. “I can’t buy these in California.”

  “Sure.” Holly stood as Thomas ambled to the kitchen counter where she’d mixed the cocktails earlier.

  Miss Alice grabbed
her arm and whispered, “I can’t put my finger on it, but I know his people.”

  Maybe she did and maybe she didn’t, but there was something in that family tree he was hiding, but what? And why?

  * * *

  Holly’s heartbeat ticked up a notch as the TV screen filled with a pan of the oaks stretching over Holly Grove at dusk. The somber background music grew louder as the camera zoomed in on the front door. It swung open with an eerie groan as though it opened by itself.

  Chills lifted the hair on Holly’s arms. The image was way scarier than she’d ever seen Holly Grove. The time of day? Filters? The music? It all worked. She cut a quick look at Tru. He scarfed down another spoonful of gumbo and dribbled it down his T-shirt. So much for a reaction there. At least he’s keeping his silence.

  The music softened and Sylvia’s pitch-perfect voice sounded from the TV. “Haunted, some say. But Inquiring Minds doesn’t report hearsay. Tonight, Inquiring Minds takes you to a nineteenth-century B&B on the banks of the Mississippi River in the Deep South to witness,” she took a theatrical pause, “The Ghost in the Grove.”

  The program cut to a commercial. Holly exhaled and glanced around the table. Miss Alice sat on the edge of her chair. Miss Martha Jane’s hand covered her mouth. Tru nursed his Sazerac. Thomas’s mouth hung open.

  A bright light flashed. “A picture is worth a thousand words,” Sam said, lowering his camera.

  “Well then, this show is going to be epic,” Thomas said.

  “And just think. Millions of people are watching this.” Sam checked his shot on his camera screen. “Holly Grove is going to be so famous we’ll have to make reservations months in advance just to visit.”

  Holly giggled. “I hope so.”

  “Now that’s job security,” Nelda said from the kitchen.

  “What are you doing back there?” Holly asked. “I’ll clean up later.”

  “Humph,” Nelda said. “I know that ghost can’t reach through the TV, but ain’t no need bein’ close enough for him to think he might.”