Better Dead

by Pamela Kopfler

  Holly lifted her chin and stood tall. “I don’t think I care.”

  She sat Rhett on the floor. “If you’ll excuse me, I have my work and Nelda’s, too, because you had to have a little fun at her expense.”

  Rhett snorted as he trotted past Burl and out of the kitchen.

  “Excuse you?” Burl said, with his eyes bugging out, like she’d said something he didn’t understand. “I know this routine. You act all polite, then give me the silent treatment for a week. Come on, Holly. I don’t have a week to waste.”

  “You’ve got eternity to waste. I’m on the line here.”

  “I’m not wasting my ectoplasm to get the silent treatment.”

  Before she could open her mouth, he vanished. She turned a full circle in the kitchen and yelled, “On cue, Burl. We have a deal. You hear me?”

  The flame under the coffeepot flickered, then sputtered out. He’d heard her.

  Holly rushed to turn the gas off. Lord help me. If I don’t get him out of my house, he may blow the place off the map.

  Talk about backfiring. She hadn’t counted on Burl scaring off Nelda. The ghost was supposed to save Holly Grove and everyone’s job. Holly winced. And Nelda couldn’t compete in the gumbo contest if she wasn’t working at a tour plantation. She had to get Nelda back somehow.

  On a larger scale, the haunting would work. But she had to appear sane while Burl haunted, Jake tempted, and she figured out who the smuggler was.

  CHAPTER 7

  Jake, dressed in khakis and a black shirt, strolled into the kitchen. Nelda’s “real nice” popped into Holly’s head, and her cheeks heated.

  She poured coffee into a porcelain cup and pretended she barely noticed him. “You take anything in your coffee?”

  “Straight up.” He closed the distance between them, and the air filled with essence of clean man.

  The cup rattled against the saucer as she handed him his coffee. She gave a nervous laugh. “Too much caffeine.”

  He didn’t attempt to run his finger through the dainty handle. His hand swallowed the delicate cup as he sipped the coffee. “Where’s Nelda?”

  Holly heaved a sigh. She didn’t think Jake would peel rubber and run, but she had to keep her distance from Burl’s antics to appear sane and sober. She freshened her coffee to avoid looking at Jake while she lied. “She had an emergency.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Oh, yeah. Nothing major.” She waved a hand through the air. “She’ll be back.”

  Holly had to get Nelda back. Guests expected breakfast at a bed-and-breakfast. The Deltas expected fresh homemade cake or pie for their bridge game. But another cook wouldn’t do. Nelda was more than a cook. She was family and couldn’t be replaced.

  Now Holly, whose homemade lemon pie could be used to remove varnish, was forced to cook something edible for her guests until she could coax Nelda back.

  Jake sniffed the air. “Do I smell something burning?”

  A thin ribbon of smoke snaked from the oven door. Holly grabbed pot holders, then threw the oven door open. More smoke funneled out of the oven. “My biscuits!”

  Jake grabbed a kitchen towel and fanned the air. “Well, you didn’t set off any fire alarms this time.”

  A Hurricane Holly flashback to a home skills class that had ended with a fire alarm and a school evacuation raced through her mind and, evidently, his.

  Holly slid a baking sheet out of the oven and then dropped it on top of the stove. Crusty brown meteors smoked on the baking sheet. She used her spatula to chisel under a burned biscuit. “Maybe the insides are okay.”

  “Sweetheart, I’m not sure the Jaws of Life could get to the insides of those biscuits.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve made scrambled eggs and grits, too.”

  Jake lifted the lid on an iron skillet on the stove. “Are these the eggs or the grits?”

  Holly peered into the skillet at unappetizing lumps and clumps of grits, which could pass for scrambled eggs.

  He cocked an eye at her. “You don’t cook, but you run a B & B.”

  The statement speared her confidence. “Okay, cooking isn’t my strong suit.” She took the lid from Jake and hid her attempt at grits. “Nelda is the breakfast part of B & B here.” She tilted her chin up and squared her shoulders. “Just because I’m not a cook doesn’t mean I don’t run a darned good B & B.”

  He invaded her space. “What is your strong suit?”

  Screwing up. Bad luck. Marrying trouble. Pick one. And Jake could be just the kind of trouble she didn’t need. She yanked a cabinet door open and then shook a box of cereal. “Cheerios.”

  “Seriously. You didn’t have any guests last night, except me, and I’m not exactly forking over cash. How do you manage to keep this place going?”

  “I manage.” But she couldn’t manage much longer, according to her bank statements. She grabbed a bowl from the cabinet, then poured Cheerios into it. “I’d give breakfast another shot, but I have to burn a cake for the Deltas now.”

  “The Deltas?”

  “The bridge group that rents the parlor every week for their bridge game.” She aimed a look at Jake. “One of the ways I manage.”

  He eyed the burned biscuits. “And you need cake.”

  “Or pie.”

  A grin that made her hungry for more than breakfast slipped across his face. “I’ll take care of that.”

  And Mr. Real Nice can cook, too. Lordy, it’s getting warm in this kitchen.

  He smiled and headed to the back door.

  “Where are you going? I thought you were going to bake a cake.”

  “Real men don’t bake cakes, sweetheart.” He winked. “They buy them.”

  “But Delta Ridge doesn’t have a bakery.”

  “Don’t burn anything while I’m gone,” he said, then closed the door behind him.

  She eyed the smoldering biscuits. No problem.

  * * *

  A clap of thunder rattled the house. Holly smiled as she poured coffee into a carafe. Thunder and a ghost. At least Mother Nature was on her side. Maybe luck. Holly couldn’t afford to have her plan backfire this time.

  The tick of the kitchen clock punctuated the silence as Holly set out her mom’s Blue Willow china plates, silver dessert forks, and embroidered linen luncheon napkins for the Deltas. She eyed the crystal compotes. If Jake didn’t come in with a dessert soon, she’d have to chisel into the half gallon of vanilla ice cream she’d found in the bottom of the freezer. If she doused enough crème de menthe on it, the Deltas might not notice the taint of freezer burn.

  She’d manage. She always had.

  The Deltas tittered in the parlor while they played bridge. She had produced the sheriff’s report and deserved an Academy nod for her performance, especially the part about how she had been overwhelmed with grief and had drunk too much champagne on what would have been her anniversary. Three of the four women had eaten it up. Miss Alice had suggested Alcoholics Anonymous.

  Everything was going as planned, except dessert and Burl’s parlor tricks. So far, Burl was a no-show for his command performance. No surprise.

  “Burl, where are you?” she whispered, glancing around the kitchen. “It’s showtime.”

  All she wanted to do was rouse the Deltas’ curiosity. The mystery of a few candles going out and some well-placed suspicions should do the trick. She didn’t have to prove she had a ghost. All she needed was a rumor, and the Deltas could start a rumor better than anyone in St. Agnes Parish. Once the gossip started, Holly Grove would have its ghost even after she ushered Burl into heaven.

  She grabbed the carafe of hot coffee and walked into the parlor. Rain pelted windows darkened by the storm. A dozen little flames flickered from the antique silver candelabra on the mantel. Jasmine-scented tea lights danced in every corner of the room. To explain lighting candles in mid-morning to a group of women who referenced Amy Vanderbilt’s Complete Book of Etiquette like it was a social bible, she’d confessed to burning the biscuits and usi
ng candles to cover the smell. Not exactly a lie. Not exactly the truth. She could live with that.

  The four Deltas perched around a mahogany game table under the chandelier Grandma Rose had called an electrified gasolier. It had been converted from gas lighting to electric lightbulbs when she was a little girl. Rhett, curled in a ball under the table, snoozed as the women chatted with the ease of a lifetime of friendship.

  Miss Cora Beth held her cards six inches from her Coke-bottle glasses, studying her hand. Her gray brows bunched together in concentration. She’d been the parish librarian until she retired at age seventy-five for health reasons she’d never made clear. She’d also taken the place of Holly’s grandmother in the Delta Bridge Club after her death three years ago. Looking at Cora Beth leached sadness from hidden places in Holly’s heart. She couldn’t help but wish Grandma Rose sat in the chair instead of Cora Beth.

  Burl appeared behind Cora Beth. “If she were playing poker, the old lady would have a winner.” He looked at Holly and lifted a shoulder. “But I don’t play bridge.”

  She couldn’t talk to Burl in front of the Deltas. If she did, they’d have her committed this time. Holly gave a subtle nod toward the candles on the mantel.

  He whistled as he sauntered to the fireplace. Burl propped an elbow on the mantel. “Ready when you are, Blondie.”

  Holly added fresh coffee to the Deltas’ cups and gave Burl another nod. Burl blew out a candle and took a bow like he’d earned applause. Holly rolled her eyes.

  The Deltas didn’t notice that one less candle burned.

  Holly tilted her head toward the candles as a signal to Burl to blow out more.

  Threads of smoke tangled around the extinguished candles as Burl blew out every flame in the room, but the ladies didn’t seem to notice anything except their game.

  “Hey, I told you I couldn’t haunt.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Now what, Blondie the mastermind?”

  Anger pricked her neck. Think, Holly. Think.

  “Did y’all blow out my candles?” she said to draw attention to Burl’s handiwork.

  Miss Alice pushed her glasses down her nose and scanned the room. “You must have let your wicks drown in wax. You have to keep the wicks trimmed and freeze your candles to make them last.” She slid her glasses back in place, then picked up a pencil and jotted down a score.

  Holly opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. Instead, she plastered a smile on her face. “Good idea. I’ll do that next time.”

  Next time, she’d plant the candles right in front of their old eyes.

  Burl frowned. “What the heck is she talking about? Candles are simple. Nothing complicated about firing up a candle.” He winked at Holly. “Kinda like a man.”

  Maybe I should have frozen him and trimmed his wick when we were married. Ignoring Burl, she said, “I’ll have your refreshments ready in a few minutes.”

  Miss Alice snatched her glasses from the bridge of her nose and let them dangle from a beaded chain as she stared at Holly. “You’re not serving us some microwave concoction, since Nelda isn’t here, are you?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got something very special for you ladies,” Holly said over her shoulder as she ambled to the kitchen. Something worth talking about.

  As soon as she was out of sight, she scurried to the back of the laundry room, then opened the breaker box. Holly looked toward heaven and waited a few beats for a clap of thunder. So much for Mother Nature’s cooperation. Holly flipped the main power switch, anyway. The hum of the refrigerator ceased, and the house fell silent. She dashed back to the kitchen as Miss Alice called from the parlor.

  “Coming.” Holly rushed through the entrance hall to the parlor.

  Without the light from the chandelier, shadows streaked the room and the Deltas’ faces.

  Miss Alice stood at the doorway, flipping the light switch on and off. “The power is off,” she snapped.

  Miss Martha Jane fingered the lace on her blouse. “Oh dear, I hope we don’t have to quit in the middle of a game. We’ve never done that. How would we tally?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Martha Jane.” Miss Alice peered over her glasses. “It’s just the storm. The electricity will be on shortly.”

  Holly grabbed the candelabra from the mantel. “You ladies relax. I’ll serve dessert by candlelight.” She placed the candelabra in the center of the game table and then lit all twelve candles. “It’ll be fun.”

  Miss Martha Jane smiled and patted her chest as Holly lit the candles. “Oh my, I haven’t eaten by candlelight since my Marvin passed on.”

  “Quite charming, my dear, but I fear I won’t know what I’m eating,” Cora Beth said, clipping her words in a singsongy English accent. She’d never lost her native accent, even though she’d lived in the South for forty-five years. She’d married the town lawyer, Leo Perkins, when he was stationed in England after the Korean conflict.

  “Y’all excuse me. I’ve got to go to the ladies’ room,” Penny said as she stood. Standing made her round body only inches taller.

  “I don’t know why you keep putting off that bladder suspension surgery,” Miss Alice said as she tromped back to the bridge table. “I’m glad we aren’t paying for the parlor this week.” Miss Alice huffed and jabbed her hands toward the chandelier. “No lights.”

  Holly gave Burl a nod.

  He saluted Holly and sauntered to the bridge table, rubbing his hands together. “They’ll notice me this time.” He blew the top candle out, then stood back and grinned.

  Rhett growled under the table.

  “My, but this old house is drafty today,” Miss Martha Jane said, looking at the extinguished candle.

  He sucked in a big breath and blew out all of the candles in rapid succession. “Draft, my butt,” he said, panting.

  “Get up, girls,” Miss Alice said. “Let’s move to the dining room, out of this draft, before we catch pneumonia. Holly, bring the candelabra.”

  “It ain’t no draft. That’s a ghost what blew them candles out,” Nelda said, charging into the room. Wide eyed, she wielded a silver cross in one hand like a gun, flashing it from side to side. In the other hand, she clutched red rosary beads. “He’s been up in my kitchen, hauntin’, and he’s gotta go.”

  Father Martinez followed one step behind her. Lightning cracked, and he crossed himself. Fresh out of seminary and new to America, his first parish was St. Agnes Catholic. He wore a large gold crucifix and held a vial of holy water, the Bible and, from the look on his face, his bowels.

  The Deltas froze, mouths open.

  Dang! Why didn’t I think of calling a priest to get rid of Burl? Holly smiled at Nelda.

  “I got reinforcements,” Nelda said. “We gonna evict that ghost.”

  Rhett tore from under the table, yapping and snapping at Burl.

  Sidestepping Rhett, Burl looked from Nelda to Father Martinez to Holly. “What in blue blazes is going on?”

  Father Martinez inched in front of Nelda. His gaze shifted around the room, and then, with shaking hands, he pulled the crucifix to his lips and kissed it. In a thick Spanish accent, he said, “I can’t make exorcism without the bishop’s permission, but I will bless this house.” He opened the Bible and started speaking Spanish, or was it Latin?

  “Speak English, so I know what you’re saying,” Miss Alice snapped.

  “Forgive me.” Father Martinez bowed slightly. “When I get nervous, I sometimes forget my English. I asked the Lord to be with me, as I have never witnessed a ghost, and I asked for His help with the blessing. I’ll need your help, too.”

  Miss Alice grabbed Miss Martha Jane’s hand as they scurried toward the priest, with Cora Beth at their heels. The candelabra teetered in the center of the table, then toppled over in the wake of their escape.

  Father Martinez said, “The Lord be with you.”

  “And also with you,” the Deltas chimed as they huddled behind the priest.

  Pacing the room, Father Martinez held the Bible
in one hand and splashed holy water from side to side with the other. The old ladies shuffled behind him, chanting at his prompt.

  Burl puffed his chest out, squared his shoulders, and looked at Holly. “Now you owe me.” He folded his arms over his chest. “My work here is done.”

  As Father Martinez walked by, sprinkling holy water, his blessing reverted to Spanish again. Holy water splattered across Burl’s face.

  Burl slapped his hands over his face and fell to the floor, writhing in pain. He moaned as holy water splashed across his back.

  Holly gasped. She had wanted Burl out of her life and had thought she wanted revenge, but she couldn’t bear to see him in pain.

  “Stop. You’re hurting him,” she screamed, snatching the vial of holy water from Father Martinez.

  Holly fell to her knees at Burl’s side as tears stung her eyes. What kind of monster was she? She wouldn’t let an animal suffer like that. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know they’d hurt you.”

  Burl faded before her.

  She’d wanted him gone. She’d wished him dead. And she’d used him just like he’d used her. Worse, she was relieved he was gone. She was no better than Burl and would probably join him in Hades for what she’d done.

  Through tear-filled eyes, Holly looked at Nelda, the priest, and the Deltas. They had their backs glued to the wall, their mouths open, and their stares fixed on her like she was possessed. Her world slowed to a frame-by-frame motion picture as she remembered they couldn’t see Burl.

  Miss Martha Jane wrung her hands. “Do y’all think she’s hallucinating again?”

  “Perhaps not.” Miss Cora Beth tilted her head to the side. “I’ve read quite a bit about the supernatural. One of my ancestors was burned at the stake for witchcraft.” She arched a brow. “My mum said they burned her because she talked to the dead.”

  Miss Martha Jane’s fingers fluttered to her neck. “You think Holly has the gift?”

  The chalky red lipstick Miss Alice wore nearly disappeared as her lips tightened into a flat line. She folded her arms under her grandmother boobs and eyed Holly. “Gift, my foot.”

  Holly’s stomach tightened. She’d done exactly what she knew would make everyone in Delta Ridge think she had lost what little mind she had left. Her name would be added to every prayer list in town because she’d proven she was nuts. Instead of gaining business with a ghost, she’d ruined her chances of saving Holly Grove. Who would want to stay at a bed-and-breakfast run by a crazy woman? She might as well change the name of the place to the Bates Motel.