Pumpkins & Poltergeists, Confessions of a Closet Medium, Book 1

by Nyx Halliwell

  We have a long discussion about my aunt, who I suspect he had a soft spot for, and his sympathies over her death nearly reduce me to tears. I swear I see the glimmer of them in his eyes as well. He’s a widower who moved to town five or six years ago, and from what Mama’s told me he has quite a fan club with the local widows. His compassion for others is obvious.

  Finally, with an official white paper listing his diagnosis and referral to a trauma specialist in Macon, I walk out into the murky sunlight and realize I don’t have my car.

  At least my head feels mildly better. If only I had something for my empty stomach and some coffee. My stomach has settled, but last night’s cold pizza is long gone.

  Shading my eyes with one hand, I scan the street, mentally counting the blocks to Aunt Willa’s. Sixteen, if memory serves.

  In my pj’s and dirty robe, with the remnants of my concussion still causing a slight bit of vertigo, I start off for the edge of the parking lot.

  Doc’s nurse called Mama earlier and got no answer. No surprise, since she took a sleeping pill before I got her into bed. The nurse, a woman who’s as old as the outdated National Geographic magazines in Doc’s waiting room, then called my mother’s best friend, Queenie, who went to check on her. While Doc was arguing with me about the brain scan, Queenie reported back that Mama was sleeping like a baby.

  Thornhollow doesn’t have taxis, and I’m reluctant to call any of my friends. I know pretty much everyone in town, but I’ve never been good at asking for help. Besides, I need a moment alone to try and figure out everything that’s happened since last night. I probably should turn around and go back into the clinic and have Doc write me a prescription to see a psychiatrist.

  My clogs clunk on the sidewalk as I head east, a cheery sign at the side of the road telling me I’m entering historic downtown Thornhollow in three more blocks.

  As I walk, the night’s events replay in my mind. Being adept at suppressing weird experiences, I successfully convince myself that stress caused me to believe the door knocker and gargoyles were talking to me. The fresh air and the weak October sunlight seem to confirm that for the next block, and I actually pick up my speed a bit.

  Aunt Willa’s ghost, however? That’s another story.

  Wilhelmina Rae Holloway Duchamp was a psychic medium. She used to encourage my own psychic gifts, and until I was seven years old I often couldn’t tell the difference between the living and the dead who walked the streets of our town.

  A frightening experience with an earthbound ghost caused me to shut down my “gift”—if gift is the right term for it. This pleased my parents, who didn’t want the town to realize their daughter was a fruit loop but disappointed my aunt considerably. While she kept her own abilities under wraps, mostly for my mother’s sake, she continued to show me ways to psychically protect myself.

  “Maybe I was just hallucinating,” I say out loud as I walk. “Mama’s anxiety planted a seed of fear in my brain, and the concussion turned it into a dream.”

  You died, the voice in my head argues. Stop denying it.

  The trees lining the street form a canopy and birds sing overhead. The air is warming up, last night’s frost gone.

  Even now, the details are fuzzy. Aunt Willa’s words float through my mind, unbidden. There was something about my bedroom in her house and a trunk.

  Still, dream or not, I wonder if my subconscious is confirming the fact she was murdered.

  No, I argue with myself. I must have latched onto that suspicion because of Mama claiming to have heard her sister arguing with someone.

  A sleek vintage red Porsche pulls up alongside me. The convertible top is down, and a sad-eyed basset sits in the back seat. Logan Cross smiles at me from behind the wheel and a pair of aviator sunglasses. “Need a ride, Fantome?”

  I keep walking and he cruises slowly alongside. I debate getting in the car, although I certainly could use a ride. Maybe because he and his family have always been in the upper echelon of Thornhollow, while my mine has been on the opposite side. Even though my mother is mayor, we are working-class people.

  “I brought coffee.” He taps the white lid of a travel cup. “Queenie sent her famous pumpkin muffins. Said that would help your broken heart. We thought you’d still be in a hospital bed.”

  “Checked myself out. I’m good to go, and Mama’s gonna need me today.”

  He holds up the white bag, the car still creeping along beside me. My stomach growls and I nearly falter, thinking about Queenie’s muffins.

  “She’ll be by after the morning rush with a pot of chicken and dumplings for you and your mother,” Logan continues.

  Food, the Southern equivalent of love. Queenie LaFleur, owner of the Beehive Diner, is the best cook in three counties, if not the whole state. My stomach makes itself known again and my bloodstream craves the coffee and sugar. It’s everything I can do not to lick my lips.

  Logan puts the bag in the passenger seat. “You’re staying through the weekend, right?”

  I haven’t even considered what’s next. A funeral, the insurance paperwork, who’ll take over the wedding business… There’s suddenly a lot to consider. My knee-jerk reaction is a standard for me though. “I have to get back to Atlanta as soon as possible. My job, you know.”

  Those blue eyes narrow. “Surely, you can take a week off. Willa Rae was supposed to lead the parade Friday night, and she always heads up the Main Street trick-or-treat party come Halloween. Saturday is the Burnett-Durham wedding at the country club. Miranda is no doubt freaking out since Willa Rae was in charge of it. And Sunday is the Pumpkin and Peaches Wine Tour. Your aunt is—was—working with my folks for our part of it.”

  His mother must be freaking out as much as Miranda Burnett over her poor wedding.

  Maybe I do have a concussion, because I feel overwhelmed at the thought of sorting through all those events. “Why was Aunt Willa leading the parade? I thought the president of the chamber of commerce did that.”

  “Ava, she is—was, sorry—the president.”

  Wow, she didn’t tell me. I definitely need that coffee. “Look, she just died last night. I need time to wrap my head around everything. I’m sure Mama and Rosie will get all that stuff figured out.”

  “I’m sure they will.” He glances down the street, back to me. “Are you seriously going to walk all the way to The Wedding Chapel?”

  “Are my cats okay?”

  “Safe and sound at my place.”

  I wonder what his place looks like. He lives in the space above his law office, if I recall. “And Tabby?” I wonder what we’re going to do with her. Mama’s never cared for pets. “Is she okay? Did you feed her?”

  He grips the steering wheel a little tighter. “Yeah, about that…”

  I stop walking. “What?”

  He eases the car to a stop. “I searched the house and the grounds. I couldn’t find her.”

  “What do you mean, you couldn’t find her? Where is she?”

  He shrugs. “Willa Rae never let her out, but I looked everywhere. No cat.”

  I open the car door, grab the white bag and slide in. “Well, don’t just sit there.” I open the travel cup and down some coffee. “Step on it.”

  Chapter Six

  Main Street is hopping with people and it isn’t even 9 a.m. when most of the shops open. Tourists and townspeople alike are filtering in for the fall festival.

  Everyone knows Logan and they wave as we go by, the canopy of trees lining the street causing shadows to flicker over us.

  As we pull up to Aunt Willa’s house, I see two vehicles at the curb. From one jumps a curvy blonde with big hair, dressed in an expensive tweed coat, who hauls a stack of books from her backseat.

  From the second vehicle further down emerges raven-haired Priscilla Barnes, owner of Boss Lady Events, and the only serious competition my aunt had within three counties. Priscilla is carrying a casserole in hand.

  “This looks like fun,” Logan says, and I send him a besm
irching glare.

  Prissy Barnes and I are longtime enemies. She’s been needling herself into my life since she pushed me off the bleachers in eighth grade, breaking my leg and ruining my already slim chances of making the cheerleading squad. Revenge came in the form of me stealing her boyfriend, Charles Caldwell II, from her, right before junior prom.

  Aunt Willa always said she was jealous of me, but I never could figure out why. She was rich, popular, and seemed happy. Why would she be jealous of me?

  Logan shifts into park and turns off the motor. He looks as though he might pull out a bag of popcorn and sit back to watch the show. Moxley, head between us, drools on my arm.

  “What are you doing?” I grab the bakery bag with the muffin and try to ignore the growing headache at the back of my skull.

  “Getting ready for the fireworks.” He leans close and lowers his voice, “Heads up, in case Willa didn’t mention it, Priscilla has been trying to sabotage her business for the past year.”

  Tell me something I don’t know.

  Priscilla spots us and waves. She’s waving at Logon of course, not me. The former prom queen of Thornhollow High School is in the same league as the man sitting next to me. “I’m cancelling the show,” I tell him with a fake smile. “You’ll have to get your jollies elsewhere.”

  He gives Prissy a return wave and smiles warmly at her. Without thought, I reach out and smack his arm.

  “What’s that for?” he asks indignantly.

  Silly me, I thought he was on my side. “Fraternizing with the enemy.”

  The blonde fidgets from one foot to the other on the sidewalk as I get out of the car. She’s practically humming with tension. “Ava, I am so sorry about Miss Willa! And I hate to intrude, but…”

  I pass by her to open the gate, scanning for Tabitha. The cat never goes outside, even though she has a cat door. She has to be in the house, I tell myself, probably hiding after all of the commotion. A little kibble or canned tuna should coax her out.

  “Ava?” The blonde is on my heels. “You are going to take over for Miss Willa, right? You’re going to handle my wedding?”

  Ah, this must be Miranda Burnett. I haven’t laid eyes on her in years, and she looks like her mother, now that I really look at her. Especially with that ‘do.

  Priscilla’s chatting with Logan at the car. There’s lots of smiling, her hand grazing his arm. He steps around her, reaching to lift Moxley out, and the two of them stroll to the open gate.

  The poor bride-to-be shifts into my line of vision and the sheer magnitude of her hair makes my head pound harder. She has clips and bobby pins with pearls all over it tugging each strand and pearl into a perfect coif.

  “Let me guess, you’ve been to the salon?” I ask, pointing at her hair.

  One hand touches a curl. “Deciding on my wedding look.” Her soft accent accentuates her worries. “Princess did it before her first appointment this morning. I was going to do half up, half down, but I don’t know. All up? All down? I can’t decide. I was going to ask Miss…your aunt.”

  Princess is Queenie’s sister. She runs the Beehive Hair Salon a block over.

  “What about leaving it natural?” I offer. It looks to be long. “Some soft curls on the end would be nice.”

  She looks at me with serious darks eyes, “Ava, you do know who I am, right?”

  Priscilla, Logan, and Moxley reach us. Priscilla steps up and grabs the woman by the arm. “Don’t you worry, Miranda. I’ll be happy to take over your wedding.”

  “Of course I know who you are, Miranda. You’re marrying Ty Durham, heir to the DH candy empire.”

  Priscilla steers Miranda around, holding out the casserole to me with her other hand. The 9x13 glass is covered with foil. “Sorry about Willa,” she says, offhandedly, but she’s hiding a smile. Probably because she’s stealing one of Willa’s biggest customers this year. To Miranda, she says, “Avalon doesn’t know much about weddings, having never had one herself.”

  Mama raised me to be polite and respectful to all people, but she also raised me to stand up to bullies.

  Ignoring the casserole, I grab Miranda’s other arm, the one holding the books and brides magazines. “Miss Burnett, you know you’re in good hands with me. Willa taught me everything I know, and I’ve dressed nearly two hundred brides, including the mayor of Atlanta’s daughter. I even helped our beloved governor’s niece in my time as head bridal consultant at Southern Bridal Flair in Atlanta. Plus, as I mentioned, Willa had a good influence on me. I spent my teenage years working for her at every event she coordinated.”

  I flash the ladylike smile Mama ingrained in me for the campaign trail from the time I was four and lean toward Prissy, lowering my voice like I’m trying to keep this between us, when really I’m not. “You know, last time I heard, being married three times hasn’t helped your business in the least. Makes me wonder if you’re jinxed.”

  Miranda gasps, pulling her arm from Priscilla’s hand. Over Prissy’s shoulder, Logan smothers a laugh.

  An older red Celica draws up to the curb. Rosie Rodriguez hops out, big hair, even bigger attitude, and a handbag the size of Texas.

  “Come on, Miss Burnett.” Miranda moves closer to me. “Let’s go over the details together inside.”

  Prissy raises her nose in the air and looks down at us. “You’ll regret this.” I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or Miranda. “She’ll screw this up like she does everything else, I guarantee it.”

  Okay, must be Miranda. But the criticism is meant to cut me.

  Prissy turns on her heel and whizzes by Logan in a hasty retreat with her nose in the air. He gives a small wave goodbye but she ignores him.

  Maribelle Rosie Rodriquez, my aunt’s right-hand assistant, hustles by her, nearly knocking her off the path, the giant bag slung over one shoulder. A tiny chihuahua head peaks out the top as she nods at Logan then looks genuinely alarmed at my appearance. “Ava, I didn’t realize you would be opening up The Chapel today.” She manages to hug me, her ample bosom squishing up between us. The dog sucks its head inside the tote. “Blessed Mother, you should be with your mama.”

  “She’s sleeping,” I offer, “and Miranda needs reassurances about her wedding.”

  Even in her three-inch heels Rosie’s barely my height. A heavy gold cross lies on her collarbone. “I’m just devastated about Miss Willa. Is there anything I can do for you or Miss Della?”

  “Mama and I have a lot to figure out,” I admit, shooting a sideways glance at our nervous bride. “Can you take Miss Burnett inside and get her some coffee? I need to look for Tabby. She’s missing.”

  Her hand goes to the handbag. “Oh dear!”

  Miranda looks around, as if searching for the cat. “Do you want us to help you look?”

  I lay a hand on her arm. “Thank you. I appreciate that, but I’ll handle it. You go in with Rosie and make sure all the details for the wedding are in order, okay?”

  Rosie gives Miranda a full smile and ushers her up the steps. “Are you excited?” she asks the bride, glancing over her shoulder at me and winking to let me know everything is handled. The two disappear inside as Priscilla peels off from the curb.

  Logan and I watch. “Nicely done,” he says to me, reaching down to scratch Moxley between the ears. The two head for the steps.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” I block them, noticing the apple I tripped over earlier is back in its place on the display.

  “To look for Tabitha,” he says as if it isn’t obvious.

  “I appreciate your reviving me after my fall and giving me a ride home from the clinic, but I’ll take it from here. Thanks.”

  “I save your life and that’s the thanks I get?” There’s a sparkle in his eyes. He lifts Moxley up, brushing past me, to get to the top. “I’ll go get your cats and bring them over. Then I’ll help find Tabby.”

  My cats! Poor babies. I’ve nearly forgotten about them in the melee.

  I stare down at Moxley. “Come on, t
hen.” I step onto the porch, the eyes of the gargoyle cats following me as Logan heads for his place across the street. “Don’t you dare say a word,” I mutter to them.

  “What was that?” Logan calls.

  “Nothing,” I yell over my shoulder, holding the door for the waddling dog.

  Thankfully, the gargoyles remain silent.

  Chapter Seven

  My aunt’s house smells like roses and her floral perfume. There are always fresh roses because her friend, Betty Lee, the town florist, brings a dozen every week for Aunt Willa’s desk. In turn, Willa promoted Betty’s services.

  The front entryway, with rooms to the left and right, were long ago remodeled into one large open space. Each room showcases a large display window, and Rosie’s desk is on the right.

  Behind her, a fireplace, once anchoring the formal living room, is surrounded by bookshelves. Arranged in front is a couch and chairs with a coffee table between them piled with assorted bridal books and magazines, offering a comfortable space to work with clients.

  At the far end is an old grandfather clock that bongs with a deep baritone as I study this home away from home.

  To the left are double doors that open into Aunt Willa’s office. Stacks of binders filled with dresses, tuxedoes, and other wedding essentials are piled high on a nearby credenza. Her grand desk has no computer, but rather pictures of the family and a large calendar with all of her upcoming events listed in her bold handwriting. There are assorted tables with books and binders, posters of upcoming town events, and samples of wedding cakes, invitations and décor.

  As Rosie talks Miranda off the wedding disaster cliff, I make my way to the kitchen. Moxley follows, his own waddling pace a match to mine. I might as well make the coffee since Rosie and her dog aren’t going to get a break from our client anytime soon.

  As I slip into the lemony-scented space, Moxley, nose to the ground, disappears toward the back of the house. Sipping what’s left of Queenie’s coffee from the travel mug, I pull out the ancient coffee pot and get it brewing.