A Ghostly Murder

by Tonya Kappes

  “Yeah,” I laughed and headed the hearse down the curvy road where Happy Times was located. “Monopoly money isn’t going to keep the funeral home floating.”

  There wasn’t time to worry about trying to get more clues for Mamie Sue and Junior. I’d have to leave it up to Fluggie Callahan. I reached for my new phone and dialed.

  “Hey, Fluggie,” I left a message when her answering machine came on. “It’s Emma Lee. I haven’t heard from you. I need to know if you’ve figured anything out about the million Mamie left to the church and Dixie Dunn’s hand in Mamie Sue’s estate. I’m going to be working on saving my funeral home. Long story.” I sucked in a deep breath and turned the hearse into the parking lot of Happy Times. “Call me.”

  I parked in one of the visitor parking spots up front, right next to a Dusting Dixies fairy van. How many of these vans did they have? And why was I suddenly seeing them all over Sleepy Hollow?

  “Nice.” I looked around at the scenic backdrop. It wouldn’t be bad to spend the last days of your life looking out over the beautiful, mountainous landscape Sleepy Hollow had to offer. It was one of the main draws for visitors to the community. The Sleepy Hollow Inn kept Granny busy, because tourists loved to hike the gorges and caves surrounding our little paradise. The views at Happy Times didn’t disappoint.

  I opened the glove box and grabbed a handful of Eternal Slumber brochures. The idea of going in the nursing home gave me more of the creeps than being around the dead and their corpses. Just the fact they were on the verge of death and the next minute they were dead gave me the heebie-­jeebies. Going in here to drum up business was an O’Dell Burns tactic, not mine.

  “Well,” I took a deep breath. “O’Dell is no longer in charge. Neither is Charlotte.” I swept the large glass door open and said, “There’s a new sheriff in town.”

  “What?” A hunchbacked old lady sitting in a wheelchair used her heels to roll over to me. “That hot hunk Jack Henry Ross is no longer sheriff?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I felt sorry for her. Was this how the rest of her life was going to play out? Stuck in the wheelchair, never to go outside these institutional pale yellow walls?

  “Shoo.” Her lips pursed. “You nearly put one of my feet in the grave coming in here saying there’s a new sheriff in town.”

  I laughed. I hated to inform her, but one of her feet was already dangling in the grave.

  “What’s this about a new sheriff?” A little old man with paper-­thin hair and large hearing aids sticking out of both ears made his way over to us. His walker creaked with each step.

  He obviously didn’t hear the noise, or surely he would have had it oiled up.

  “Nothing, Sunny.” The old lady snorted. “You go mind your own business.”

  “Whatever, Imogene.” Sunny’s nose curled.

  “He can’t hear.” She lifted her head and looked at me. “Just nosy. What’s in your hand?”

  Talk about nosy.

  “My name is Emma Lee Raines, and I own Eternal Slumber.” I kind of felt good not saying I co-­owned it with my sister. “And we are featuring a special. If you sign up today for pre-­need arrangements, you get half off the cemetery stone.”

  “Good marketing coming here,” Imogene quipped. “Sunny! This here is Emma Lee, and she wants to bury you!” she yelled. “Gonna give you a deal if you die today!”

  “Pish posh!” Sunny threw his hands in the air and quickly grabbed the sides of the walker when he tipped backward.

  “Can I help you?” A young girl in blue scrubs greeted me. She eyed Imogene and Sunny. “Don’t mind those two. They are always at each other . . . in good fun.” She winked. “They might be old, but they still flirt.” She clapped her hands in front of her. “How can I help you?”

  “I wanted to talk to the manager or someone who would let me . . .” I had to pick my words wisely. “Um . . . let me hold a funeral fair.”

  “Funeral fair?” Her brows formed a V.

  “I own Eternal Slumber in town, and we know your residents are on a fixed income. It really isn’t fair that when the time comes, we leave all our arrangements to our families to be made. Leaving them with a large debt to the funeral homes.” I gave her a brochure. “My sister—­” Ahem, I cleared my throat. I was going to have to change my whole pitch now that Charlotte Rae was out of the picture. “I believe that when a loved one passes, it’s much easier on the family financially and emotionally if the deceased has already made all the decisions on the arrangements. Not leaving it up to the family. That creates a lot of stress.”

  “I see.” She sucked in her lower lip. Her eyes narrowed. “Do you think our elders can’t afford arrangements?”

  “I’m not sure what they can afford.” I wasn’t sure what she was asking me. “I was just trying to help out.”

  “And you thought coming here would be a great idea since we look like we are almost six feet under, like your clients?” The woman was offended. It was apparent on her face.

  “I’m sorry if I came across wrong, but that was not my intention at all.” I opened up the brochure to the middle, where there was a picture of Charlotte Rae visiting with a family making pre-­need arrangements. “Here are the statistics of stress when a loved one dies with no pre-­need arrangements, compared to the stress of a family who did have arrangements.”

  “I’m joking.” The woman laughed along with Sunny and Imogene. “Of course you can come in here and talk to our residents. Only you should know this is a high-­end retirement community. Not nearly ready for them to meet their maker.”

  “I might look almost dead.” Imogene poked her chest. “The ticker is good. I do have some needs made with Burns, but I’d be willing to change for the right price.”

  “Hmm . . .” I was going to play the hot hunk card. “What if I get Sheriff Jack Henry Ross to come give you a ride in his cruiser?”

  “Where do I sign?” Imogene rubbed her wrinkly hands together.

  The manager let me set up shop in the room where the residents held their poker tournaments on Tuesday and Thursday nights. There was an on-­site chef, on-­site lap pool—­I’d never seen so many old men in Speedos—­and an on-­site physical fitness room.

  Hettie Bell was missing out in the yoga department. This was for sure her target range.

  The entire joint was way nicer than my efficiency. I was sure it cost a pretty penny to stay here, and Junior Mullins apparently lived here for years.

  After I signed up three new clients, the word spread about the special, and I had a line of takers.

  Suddenly I found Dixie Dunn standing over me with her dusting wand. “It looks like you are drumming up business.” She was going to town on the chair rail.

  “Hi, Dixie.” I watched her with a curious eye. “Thank you for sending Tinsie over to the funeral home this morning. I truly appreciate it.”

  “Glad to. I hope it worked out.” Her hand went back and forth in a rapid motion, dusting anything standing still.

  “I’m shocked to see you here,” I made the observation. “I thought you said you worked for Beulah Paige Bellefry full-­time.”

  “I did before her seeing you put her in the hospital,” she whispered between her gritted teeth. “They aren’t even sure if she’s going to make it. You cost me a job. A big job. Now I have to come here and drum up business with all of these ­people.”

  “Oh.” I looked down, not sure what to say.

  “Kind of like what you are doing since your sister quit on you.” Her words stung.

  In fact, her words hurt. I could only imagine what the rest of the town was going to say when they found out Charlotte Rae had left Eternal Slumber. According to Charlotte Rae, the entire town thought I still had the Funeral Trauma, and they only stuck around because of her. I was quickly going to change that. I glanced down at the fifty applications.
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br />   “Oh, Dixie.” Mamie Sue stood next to us. “If only you would have taken my advice and done something with the money for your creams.”

  “What about your facial creams?”

  “What ’bout them?” Her eyes held mine.

  “Why don’t you do something with that? I mean, you do still have Mamie Sue’s business at her estate, and I’m sure it pays you handsomely.”

  “I don’t take handouts from no one. My mom didn’t, and I don’t.” She pointed the dusty wand at me and shook the dust out all over my new contracts. “You got that?”

  Whether I got it or not, she shuffled out of the room in a rage. I understood her being mad about the job at Beulah’s being on hold, but what she’d said about being hired by the residents here struck a chord with me.

  The manager walked past.

  “Excuse me.” I put my hand out to stop her. “Did you say everyone here pays for what they need?”

  “Yes,” she confirmed.

  “What about cleaning ser­vice?” I asked.

  “For the entire facility we hired Dusting Dixies, but each individual room is either done by themselves or they can hire out privately. Why? Don’t tell me you have a cleaning ser­vice too?”

  “I just buried Junior Mullins. I did pick him up here, and I wondered if he had a cleaning ser­vice.” I tried not to be too obvious.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Raines.” She smiled sweetly and said, “We aren’t allowed to give out client information. It would go against the HIPAA law. I’m sure you would understand.”

  “Of course.” I smiled.

  Of course I understood. It didn’t mean I accepted it. No way in hell did I accept it.

  If Dusting Dixies was Junior’s cleaning ser­vice, and Dixie was Mamie’s cleaning lady, and Beulah’s . . .

  “Oh my God!” I jumped up, with a line of clients ready to sign up. I gathered my belongings. “I’ll be back later. I have to go somewhere.”

  “Wait, I didn’t get a chance to sign up!” Sunny yelled over the crowd. “And I want half off my stone!”

  “Fine.” I got close to Sunny because I wanted him to hear me loud and clear the first time. “I’ll give you an entire package for free if you tell me all you know about Junior Mullins.”

  Beulah was in the hospital. There was nothing I could do about her situation. She could wait a little bit longer. I needed to get into Junior Mullins’s apartment. Fast.

  “You’ve got you a deal.” His lips puckered around his gummy smile. “I’ve been wanting to tattle on that little poker cheater for a long time.”

  “Great.” I smiled and took him by the elbow. He held on to his walker. “Why don’t we go down to the cafeteria and let me buy you a coffee.”

  “One of them fancy kind with chocolate and whipped cream?” he asked.

  “Anything you want.” There was something in my soul telling me there was more to Junior Mullins’s death than just old age. Dixie Dunn had had a hand in it, but how?

  Dixie Dunn seemed to have a little hand in everything around Sleepy Hollow and its residents, who were dropping like flies.

  Chapter 23

  The lattes in the Happy Times cafeteria would really give Cheryl Lynne Doyle and Higher Grounds Café a run for her money. I watched Sunny lick, slurp and sip his drink until he was ready to talk.

  “How well did you know Junior Mullins?” I asked as he licked the whipped cream on top.

  I glanced around the cafeteria-­styled room. Underneath awnings attached to the wall were different stations for different appetites—­Italian, Thai, Chinese, American, vegan. Anything any of them wanted was right there for their tasting palates. There was even the little café stand where we had gotten our fancy coffees.

  “Know me?” Junior bounced up and down, creating smoke rings all over the room. “He tried to take me to the cleaners every week during our poker tournament.”

  There was the money thing again. It seemed Junior had had money and everyone knew but me.

  “He was an old coot.” Sunny’s mouth dipped. “Though I never figured he was going to kick the bucket.” He elbowed me. “You know, eeck.” He drew his finger across his neck.

  “Are you telling me he was murdered?” I found it odd he would choose the cutting gesture.

  “Murdered?” He drew back. “Nah. I’m just saying he didn’t look good. Sorta bad.”

  “I was damn fine!” Junior spat at the ground.

  “What do you mean by ‘sort of’?” I cautiously asked, well aware it must be time for afternoon snack.

  The lunchroom-­style tables were filling up with many residents having a cup of coffee and afternoon treat.

  “A ­couple weeks ago, he started complaining of headaches. I thought it was because I was beating the pants off him.” Sunny smacked his leg in delight, and then grew serious. “For the next few days, he started to get pale. Even his eczema grayed.” He shook his head. A sadness bore deep in his eyes, like he could see that the ghost of Junior Mullins was right in front of him. “He said he couldn’t shake the headache and felt tired. I told him to go to the doctor, but he said it had to be his allergies acting up.”

  “Eczema?” I asked.

  “Hell, all us old ­people have skin conditions.” Sunny raised up the sleeve of his plaid shirt and showed me some flaky skin that would probably go away with a little bit of lotion.

  “Next thing I knew, Junior didn’t show up to play poker. I went up to check on him.” He patted his walker next to him. “It takes me a while to get up there, but when I got there,” he gulped, “he didn’t answer. The door was cracked, and I pushed it open to find him lying on the floor. Dead.”

  “His door was open?” I asked. He nodded. “Was his door always open?”

  “No. We all keep our doors locked. We have our own keys.” He patted his pants pocket, and the keys in them jingled.

  “Did you tell the police all of this?” I found it strange how the door was open and nothing was investigated.

  “I told them I found him dead.” He didn’t take his eyes off his drink. “The poor sheriff had to put up with all these old hens pecking around him like they was cougars.”

  “Did you tell him the door was open?” Jack Henry would have thought it was strange, just like I did.

  “No. The way I figured it was he was coming downstairs to play poker and he had a heart attack just like the coroner said.” He picked up his cup. “I’m gonna drink this now.”

  “One more question.” I held a finger up. “What was Junior’s room number?”

  “Fourth floor, number twelve.” Sunny had a cute whipped cream mustache on his upper lip. I handed him a napkin. In the corner of my eye, I could see Imogene and a few of her woman friends making their way over.

  “Number twelve.” I made a mental note. “Looks like you’ve got company, Casanova.” I winked and greeted the women before I excused myself.

  The halls of Happy Times smelled like mothballs. I had always heard old ­people loved to put mothballs all over, and now I knew it. Thank God Granny thought she was not old, because I could hardly take the smell. I found the elevator at the end of the hallway waiting for a passenger. I got in and punched the fourth floor. I took the downtime and ride up to text Fluggie.

  Something strange. Dixie Dunn is associated with a lot of rich ­people. She has cleaned for a few. I noticed she has new vans for her cleaning crew. Somehow Mamie’s death, Junior Mullins’s death, and Beulah Paige Bellefry’s illness have to be related. Beulah Paige is a local who suddenly took ill. Where are you? Call me.

  I hit send right as the doors slid open. I looked down the hall before I stepped out. No one was around. It was time to see what was in Junior’s apartment that might tie Dixie Dunn to him.

  The right side of the hallway was odd-­numbered apartments, and the left side was even. I didn’t bothe
r counting my way down, I just looked for the number as quickly as possible.

  “Twelve. One. Two.” I tapped the gold numbers nailed to the door. I grabbed the handle and turned, but the door was locked.

  “What’s going on?” Dixie Dunn asked from the next apartment over. She walked out of the door and put her cleaning pail on the ground in the hallway.

  “I was . . .” I paused. “I needed to collect the paperwork from Junior Mullins for his final burial.”

  “Maybe you need to ask the manager to let you in.” She grabbed an aerosol can from her bucket and disappeared back into the apartment she was cleaning. “I can’t stand here dillydallying. As it is, I’m going to be here all day.”

  A set of keys dangling from the wire handle of the cleaning bucket caught my eye. Without thinking, I grabbed them. Each one had a sticker with a number. The first number had to be the floor, then there was a dash, and the next set of numbers.

  “Four dash twelve.” My eyes lit up when I found Junior’s key. I stuck it in the keyhole and turned, opening the door.

  I put the keys back where I found them and ran into Junior’s apartment. Quietly I closed the door behind me and locked it, just in case she tried to open it to see if I’d made it in.

  A shadow of something or someone caught my eye, and I jumped around. No one was there. The place was a one-­room apartment that was broken up into sections. He had a queen bed with two side tables. Each with a lamp. Very tidy. His kitchenette was just as clean as the rest of his apartment. Every cabinet was stocked nice and neat with dishes, cups, and glasses. The inside of his microwave was even shiny clean. Not a speck of dried-­on splattered food anywhere.

  The room off the kitchen was his bathroom. There were a few creams with prescriptions on them for his eczema. I opened the mirrored cabinet on the wall.

  “What do we have here?” I picked up a jar of the moisturizer Dixie Dunn had given me.

  On the top, written in Sharpie marker, were instructions for Junior on how to apply the cream to the affected area three times a day for two weeks. Two weeks?