“Yes.” I search for the right words to alleviate their confusion as Rosie shows the pastor into the room. “But since I won’t be there, and I haven’t been in on all the planning, I’d appreciate it if you’d run through the vows here for me, right now.”
I’m not taking chances. If this house is protected from Calista, and I believe it is, I’m taking matters into my own hands. “Trust me,” I tell him with a big smile. “Practice makes perfect.”
Protected in Aunt Willa’s house, I watch Ty and Miranda smile happily into each other’s eyes, as Reverend Stout walks them through their wedding vows.
Chapter Thirty-Six
When I arrive at the speakeasy an hour later, I’m amazed at the transformation Logan has already pulled off. Things are clean, organized, and I jump in to help him finish wiping down tables and chairs.
We unload Aunt Willa’s van, where I’ve stowed the decorations. Rosie pulls up shortly after me, bringing a bunch of the fall flower arrangements and endless strings of lights.
Being the helpful assistant she is, she’s created a map for where everything should go based on the description I gave her of the place. She gives Logan and I each a copy, and with just a few tweaks we go to work.
Mrs. Cross shows up around three, bringing her sommelier and some of the other staff. I can see she’s impressed, even though she tries to keep it off her face. Several employees of the Durhams deliver chocolates and I put all of them to work lining up various bottles of wine to go with the candies.
The tables take on a life of their own, decorated with fall leaves, tiny pumpkins dipped in white sparkles, and an assortment of fine china and crystal glasses.
Logan repairs a weak spot in the dance floor, while Rosie and I set up a table and add a few minor decorations to the DJ area so it flows easily with the rest. The DJ himself will set up later that evening.
Logan and one of the winery employees erect tents outside the back doors of the speakeasy, and more tables and chairs are set up under them. Rosie takes over those decorations.
Mrs. Cross and her sommelier stock the bar, and Brax and Queenie check in with an update on the food preparation for the reception. The country club chef has offered to help Queenie create much of the original menu.
At three-thirty, Mrs. Cross lets us know she has no intention of attending the parade and tells us she’ll continue working on a few of the last-minute items while we go. She and I discuss her concerns about the tour on Sunday, and then Logan and I leave her and Rosie and head back to town.
On the way, Logan teases me. “I know you have a lot on your plate, but that’s the least amount I’ve heard you talk since you got here.”
I admit to being very distracted, and he has no idea of everything I’ve discovered in the past day. “I could use a clone,” I tell him, wishing my latent magical abilities could conjure one, but as soon as I think that, I remember Calista and decide it’s probably not a good idea to venture into that territory. With my luck, instead of cloning myself, I’d raise a ghost. Or a dozen.
He continues to make easy conversation, letting me know he’s impressed with what I’ve pulled off in the last couple of days. Normally, I would appreciate it, but today all I want to do is get through this parade and back to figuring out how to prove my theory about Aunt Willa’s death.
Everyone is already in the church parking lot when we arrive, and we’re directed to the front of the parade line-up. Mama flies by, leaning down into the convertible to give me a quick kiss before she flutters away, her speech notes clutched in her hand.
Logan pulls out a couple of magnetic signs from the trunk and puts them on each side of the doors. He motions me to get in the backseat and sit up on the convertible top area. Then teases me about practicing my parade wave.
I consider giving him a finger wave instead, but the enthusiasm of everyone around me buoys my spirits. I laugh, giving in, and pretend for a moment that I’m an elegant princess waving to the common folk. This draws laughter from Logan, and I smile secretly to myself.
At the direction of Reverend Stout, we begin the trek to the start line downtown. As we pass Mr. Uphill, waving his arm in a “let’s go” gesture at the lineup, I send him a glare, but he’s too busy to notice. Prissy’s nowhere in sight, and it’s a good thing. Thankfully, the poltergeist/revenant seems to be absent as well.
As we reach the start of the parade, I see hundreds of people lining Main Street. “This event has grown since the last time I was home during Fall Fest,” I tell Logan.
“Another reason to come home more often,” he counters.
There’s a podium stationed to the side of the start line, and the sound system emits various squeaks and squawks as someone adjusts it while Mama stands waiting to announce the kickoff of the fall festival.
She’s smiling and happy, and that makes me happy as well. I’m not sure whether to tell her my theory tonight or wait until after the festivities are done.
Eventually, the sound system is working properly, and Mama raises a hand in the air. The crowd begins to fall silent, stretching out block after block down the road. She clears her throat and begins to speak, the last of the conversations falling quiet.
“Welcome,” she says, looking out over the crowd.
Many folks respond in kind, raising their hands to wave. There are many smiling faces, and the general air is one of anticipation and joy.
“What beautiful weather we have today,” Mama says, and another response from the crowd echoes off the Main Street buildings, affirming it. “This whole weekend is going to be an amazing time, and we welcome our out-of-town visitors as well as those who live and work here in Thornhollow.”
She knows just how to pause and let the crowd do their thing before she resumes her speech. “Today is the parade, and tonight I hope to see all of you at the hotly contested homecoming football game.”
A huge roar goes up from different areas on both sides of the street. There’s cat-calling, whistling, and clapping. Mama smiles and eventually gets the crowd to settle once more. “Tomorrow will be a beautiful day for shopping and sightseeing. Remember all of the fall festivities going on in the various locations. Be sure to pick up your map”—she points to a stack of brightly colored fliers on a folding table near the podium—“and if you don’t get one here today, you can find them at any of our downtown shops.”
She glances at her notes, but I don’t think she needs them. She’s memorized all of this, and some of it has come through years of kicking off this weekend. Seeing her in the limelight and how much she enjoys it makes me smile.
“On Sunday, we have the much-anticipated Peaches and Pumpkins Wine Tour that passes through our very own award-winning Cross Winery. Bring the kids and take home all your wine needs for the coming holidays.”
A small cheer goes up, and a few people near the start of the parade wave at Logan. He waves back.
Mama grows serious. “If you’ll all humor me for a moment, I want to thank my daughter, Ava.” She does a Vanna White impression with her arm, sweeping it over to me.
I feel a hot flush hit my cheeks as everyone turns their attention to me. Her voice continues to echo out of the speakers and down the line. People stand on tiptoes and try to get a better look at me. “It’s been a rough week for our family, and Ava has stepped up beautifully to help out with the fall festival after the death of her aunt. She’s running The Wedding Chapel and handling a very special wedding tomorrow in the midst of all of this. The wine tour on Sunday at the Cross vineyard is going to be even better than Willa planned, all thanks to Ava. Please visit the winery to show your support, and say hi to my daughter if you have a chance. Thank her for her help in keeping the fall festival alive this year.”
The cheer that goes up is louder than any of the previous ones. I feel like sliding down into the back seat, especially when Logan turns to look at me with admiration. He motions me to stand up and acknowledge the cheering crowd. I wave him off, a rush of modesty making my chee
ks hot.
But then I look at Mama and see her motioning for me to do the same, and I hesitantly get to my feet, standing on the nice leather of the seat and doing a rather weak parade wave to thank the crowd for their generosity.
I wish Aunt Willa was here more than anything, and her absence makes tears come to my eyes. This would be her night if she were alive, and I would still be back in Atlanta, eating cold pizza and getting ready for another dull weekend in my apartment.
I stop with the princess wave and give a genuine one instead, like she would do, and people return it. As my gaze scans the crowd, I see one person who’s not waving.
Priscilla Barnes. My attention stops on her and she turns, melting into the crowd.
As the applause and cheering die down, I resume my seat and smile at Mama. She smiles back and nods. Once again she commands the crowd and they fall silent. “And now…what you’ve all been waiting for! The kick-off to this year’s Thornhollow Fall Festival! Let the parade begin!”
Logan shifts the car into gear, and we are just about to pull forward when a police siren cuts through the air. People in the crowd turn to one of the side streets where a cruiser rolls up, lights flashing.
Logan hesitates, and Mama shoots me a confused look. Two police officers exit the car and race toward the raised podium. They both look slightly abashed, but one of them—the one who arrived the first day I was here when I fell off the porch—comes forward and says something under his breath to Mama.
Her hand flies to her chest and she takes a step backward. She shoots a fearful glance at me.
Instinctively, I jump out of the car and hustle to the podium. The police officer steps toward her and the mic picks up his voice now. “I’m really sorry about this, mayor,” he says, “but I’m afraid I have to take you in.”
I hop onto the edge of the podium, nearly falling, but managing to scramble up. “What are you talking about? Take her in for what?”
I realize too late that my voice is clearly coming through the speaker system, the agitation echoing back to my ears.
He pinches his nose and then gently holds out his hand toward Mama. “The autopsy is done on Willa, and I have to bring you in for questioning.”
There’s murmuring in the crowd, and my stomach falls. “What in the world for?”
He sighs dramatically, and stares Mama straight in the eye. “You are a suspect for the murder of Wilhelmina Duchamp.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
At the station, I pace back and forth near the front desk. Reporters crowd around the station entrance, but the woman in charge, Sandy, according to her name tag, is keeping them out.
Thank goodness for small mercies.
Thornhollow’s police station is relatively small and run down. It stinks of old coffee and body odor, and Sandy fields calls and directs people to various forms to fill out or to the chairs in the waiting area, all the while eyeing me behind her bright purple reading glasses.
I don’t know what happened with the parade, but Logan is here with me, ready to defend Mama. While he’s behind a closed door with Detective Jones, Doc arrives with the results of the autopsy. He greets me and plops into a chair, asking me what happened downtown.
I recite a brief summary, trying to keep my shaking fingers under control. “I hear you had a thing for my aunt.” I want to sound accusatory, as if I might get him to confess to her murder, but mostly I sound hoarse. Tired. Scared.
“I lov…” He clears his throat. “Your aunt was a light in my life.”
“Did you see her the day she died?”
His face contorts. “We were supposed to have a nice supper, then your mama asked her to eat with her instead. I never got to tell her…”
His voice hitches and I see him blink back tears.
Crude. I feel terrible guilt at suspecting he might have killed Aunt Willa. “I’m sorry. This must be as hard on you as it is me. She never mentioned you were a thing, so I was surprised about your relationship.”
He withdraws a white hanky and dabs at his eyes. “I thought we were going to have many more years together. Should have known something was up…she kept acting strange that week.”
“Strange how?”
“She seemed distracted, worried. Kept talking about her assets and making sure her business affairs were in order. I thought she was just having a bad week. We all go through that at times. Friends and family get ill, pass on. Makes us face our mortality, you know?”
“Do you know who might have done this to her?”
His mouth hardens and he shakes his head. He motions for me to sit next to him and then he shows me a copy of the autopsy.
The crux of it makes me shake as he explains. “Looks like Willa was not dead when she fell in the water of the creek,” he says. “It appears she may have had a heart episode, but it doesn’t fit the normal parameters of a heart attack.”
I give him a blank look, my mind a mess.
“Something happened with her heart,” he continues in the simplest terms possible, “but the coroner isn’t sure what.”
“Great,” I say, exasperated. “Then why have they arrested Mama?”
He glances at the paper, even though I sense he doesn’t need to. “There was a bruise on the back of her head. It wasn’t visible underneath her hair initially, but from the size, location, and angle, it suggests someone wacked her at the base of her skull, causing her to fall in the water.” He clears his throat. “Ava, the coroner believes the person held her face in the stream and drowned her.”
“Oh my heavens.” I clutch at my heart and reel back. He grabs on to me to keep me from falling out of the chair. “That’s horrible!”
I let myself cry and Doc gives me time to recover, offering his handkerchief. Sandy hands me a paper cup of water, but my hands shake so violently I can’t hold onto it.
While I’ve seen the amount of power Calista has, and I was nearly convinced the ghost had done the killing, now I’m not sure. Calista can knock heavy vases off a table, fiddle with the electricity, cause the plumbing to flood, but could she pick up a rock and hit a woman in the back of the head? Could she physically hold someone’s face underwater and drown them?
I find it doubtful, but I know someone who could…someone who wants to destroy us and get rid of Aunt Willa’s business.
And she’s no ghost.
Mama was the last to see Aunt Willa alive so she’s the prime suspect. Since it’s Friday night, no one can get her out on bail until Monday. I can’t exactly point the finger at Prissy unless I have solid evidence. Overhearing her and Mr. Uphill in the yard last night is not enough. I’ve watched crime shows and know hearsay isn’t proof. Also, I have to go about this very carefully, or my mother could be going to prison for a long, long time.
Doc tries to talk to me, comfort me, and insists that we’ll find a way to clear Mama’s name.
“I want to see her,” I tell him.
Logan and Detective Jones emerge from the back of the station.
“I’m sorry, Miss Fantome,” Jones says. “You can’t until her bail hearing on Monday. It’d be best for you to go home.”
I wonder if she’s scared. I know she’s horrified at this as much as I am.
Jones leaves.
“Logan?” I’m hoping for some kind of reassurance.
He opens his arms without a word. A sense of foreboding swamps me and I fall into his arms. His hug is solid and warm, reassuring me. Tears come again, fear and anger spilling over. I’m beyond embarrassed to cry into his shoulder, but it seems everything is out of my control.
He pats my back and assures me everything is going to be okay. I melt into his broad chest, and I hear him and Doc exchange several comments about what’s going on, but it’s background noise. I tune into Logan’s heartbeat, feel it bolstering me.
Eventually, he guides me out the door, Doc on our heels, and the two men exchange a couple of words about what they’ll both do to help Mama. All I can think about is trying to get a
confession out of Prissy, how to stop this runaway train before it goes any farther.
Logan doesn’t let go of my hand as he drives me back to the house. Two of the reporters from the station follow and he puts the top of the convertible up to shield me. Doc also follows and arrives shortly after we do.
Inside, Rosie rushes to me, having heard about what happened, but it’s Logan who explains everything to her.
In the middle of this, Winter arrives. We hug it out but I don’t cry, even though a flood of tears threaten again. I introduce her to the others and bring her up to speed.
Logan, Doc, and Rosie give us privacy, heading into the other room to discuss the autopsy. Winter sits at the table in Aunt Willa’s chair, two cups of steaming tea appearing with a wave of her hand, and the two of us put our heads together.
“Who’s the revenant’s master?” she asks.
Everything in me has gone very still. Tunnel vision, maybe. I sip the tea and feel whatever magic she’s infused it with working to unknot the tension in my muscles. “Her name’s Prissy Barnes. She’s probably having a good time right now. I doubt she was trying to set up Mama, but somehow she managed it.”
Winter places her hand over mine. “Is there a way we can lure her here to the house?”
Winter is a powerful witch and knows what she’s doing. Whatever she’s planning? I’m in. “I’ll drag her here kicking and screaming if I have to.”
Logan’s voice comes from the doorway, and I jump, realizing he was eavesdropping.
“Ty Durham’s going to be honored at the football game tonight. I’m guessing she’s there.”
Winter glances from him to me, as if asking if he can be trusted. I give a nod. “Do what you can to get her here, and I’ll take care of the rest. Where is this armoire with herbs in it?”
I take her upstairs and show her the hidden cabinet. She begins pulling out various dried flowers and sniffing at bags.
“What are you going to do with that stuff?” I ask.
She hands me a bag of what looks like cloves. “Truth serum. Got any good brandy?”
Pumpkins & Poltergeists, Confessions of a Closet Medium, Book 1 Page 16