Pecan Pies and Dead Guys

by Angie Fox

  I ventured around the corner and stepped smack-dab into quite the celebration between Marjorie and Shane.

  “Excuse me,” I said, attempting to make a graceful exit.

  “Get back over here, you goof,” Marjorie ordered.

  I did. A bit slower this time. “I’m glad to see you can leave the Adair property now.”

  “Marcus isn’t holding me back anymore,” she said, beaming. “Thank you.”

  “You were as much a part of that as I was,” I reminded her. She’d directed me upstairs on the night of the second party. She’d saved my hide a few times in the menagerie.

  “I do what I can.” Marjorie winked and adjusted her hair and the straps on her dress as Shane wrapped his arms around her from behind. The stoic diamond dealer still wasn’t someone I’d want to cross, but he appeared softer now, less tortured. I supposed it would be hard to watch the woman you love be controlled and abused for so long. As for Marjorie, she seemed to have chiseled away some of the hard edges and unearthed the man.

  She linked her fingers in his. “We wanted to say goodbye.”

  “Really?” That surprised me. I’d imagined they’d be as tied to the Adair property as the Adairs themselves. “No more parties?” I asked. “No more crazy costumes? You were quite the natural.”

  She laughed. “We’re taking a break. Although we may drop in for the Christmas Casino Bash.”

  “Good for you,” I said.

  She leaned back into Shane. “We’re getting away, moving to Shaney’s family home in Memphis. I’ve cut all spiritual ties to Marcus. We’re making a fresh start.” She took a deep breath and owned it. “Marcus is in prison. He can’t touch me now.”

  And then it struck me. We hadn’t just helped Frankie, we’d changed the game for Marjorie as well.

  “I’m free,” she said, testing out the idea, reveling in it. “I mean I’m truly free.”

  “You deserve it,” I told her. “You earned it the hard way.”

  “I’m working up the courage to go to New York. There’s no telling what will happen next,” she said, her image fading. Then suddenly, her eyes went wide, and she came back full force. “Shaney,” she said, gripping his arm, staring past me as if she’d seen a ghost.

  I turned and saw an unfamiliar black Lincoln Navigator pull up.

  A driver emerged and hurried to open a door with a tinted window. I couldn’t see who was behind it, but I’d bet money Marjorie could.

  The man held out a hand to help an older woman out of the back. She wore a fashionable dress with red and tan swirls—definitely not from Sugarland—and big black sunglasses. Her snow-white hair hung straight down her back in an avant-garde style, and when she pulled off her sunglasses, there was a twinkle of keen interest in her eyes.

  “It’s her,” Marjorie said, gasping. Tearing up. And I knew exactly whom she meant.

  “Eliza Jean,” I said. EJ, the woman from New York—Marjorie’s daughter.

  “I-I don’t know what to do,” Marjorie said as I hurried to greet our most honored—and unexpected—guest.

  EJ shook my hand. She was no spring chicken, but she looked and acted younger than her years. “I had to come back and see this place,” she said, her gaze traveling over the library and the square. “The nice ladies at the heritage society said I might find you here.”

  Whoops. It appeared they’d backed my story at least. Or perhaps had believed it themselves.

  “May I have a moment?” she asked, directing me to a quiet place away from the crowd. She withdrew an envelope from her purse with fingers that shook, from age or from excitement I couldn’t say. “I know you’re with the heritage society, and that’s why I’m letting myself hope…” she said, opening the envelope. “As I was looking for pictures for you, I found this among my mother’s things.” She withdrew a copy of her adoption paperwork, signed by Judge Larry Knowles. “Have you ever heard of a woman named Marjorie Gershowitz?”

  “I have,” I said gently as Marjorie drew close to her daughter and gazed down at her with enough love to last the rest of eternity. “You know her, too. As Marjorie Phillips.”

  A smile lit her features. “I’d wondered…I’d hoped.”

  She looked a bit unsteady. “Let me help you,” I said, leading Eliza Jean to a nearby park bench.

  “Marjorie truly was a mother to me,” she said, leaning on me, letting me help seat her. She looked down. “I wish I could have told her that.”

  “She knows,” I said, sitting next to her, watching Marjorie take the seat on the other side. “She’s here.”

  “I can feel her in this place,” EJ said, closing her eyes as if she could absorb the moment, as if she knew on some level Marjorie was close by.

  “Your mother has always loved you,” I told EJ. “I know that firsthand. And I’d like to tell you how.”

  I took a deep breath and began my story. I wasn’t sure how she was going to take this, but I owed it to her. EJ deserved to know the truth. And now that I had her comfortable and sitting, I told her everything—about my ability to see ghosts, about her real parents and how much everyone cared about her.

  EJ drew a hand to her chest as I spoke. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t say one word. I wasn’t even sure if she believed me until I’d finished and directed her attention to the empty spot on her other side, the place where her mother sat.

  It was then that the lines at the corners of EJ’s eyes deepened. “If you’d told me this last week in New York, I never would have believed it.” She shook her head slowly. “But here? In this place…” She closed her eyes briefly and drew a deep breath of warm summer air, tinged with the scent of magnolias. “There’s something about being in Sugarland that almost makes it possible.”

  “I’m telling you the truth,” I assured her. “Your mother is here. She’s as real as you or me.”

  EJ chuckled. Maybe it was my phrasing or the very idea.

  She pursed her lips together and looked, truly looked at the empty place where her mother sat. “Not a day goes by that I haven’t loved you,” she said to a glowing, radiant Marjorie, who promptly burst into tears.

  EJ turned to me, and a slow, brilliant smile burst over her like a sunrise. “Oh, how I’ve missed my home.”

  “You can go back. Anytime,” I assured her. “It’s not too late.”

  EJ blinked back tears. “And you’ll show me?”

  I looked from her to Marjorie, to the solid red bricks and gleaming limestone that made up the town square of Sugarland. “Nothing would please me more.”

  Chapter 26

  The following morning, EJ and I visited the Adair estate. Graham and Jeannie had been overjoyed to see her. Marjorie took over as tour director, and I simply interpreted everything for everybody, with Frankie looking on and rolling his eyes a lot. I think the old gangster feared this would be a new career direction for me. But it wasn’t. It was my gift to a family who had already lost too much time.

  Later that week, I sat on my back porch swing, listening to the sound of Ellis working with power tools. Lucy curled next to me, asleep despite the racket.

  “Nobody is going to be able to get through this,” Ellis said, drilling my new lock into the back door. It was a security-grade Mul-T-Lock, sturdy as the ones they used in military high security zones. He’d bought more locks for the front door and the windows, and at this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if he attempted a barbed-wire fence à la De Clercq.

  True to his word, the detective had left us in peace.

  He had gone to a better place, knowing his job was done.

  I paged through the Sugarland Gazette, admiring old photos of the Adair mansion in its heyday. Eliza Jean had brought them with her, and so much more.

  By that time Eliza Jean had returned to her family home several more times, with city officials, historical experts, and various contractors. Knowing that this was her family home, her parents’ legacy, made all the difference. And, with her connecti
on to the town renewed, she wanted to invest in it.

  Turned out she’d amassed a sizeable fortune in New York, with no children or heirs to bequeath it to.

  According to the paper, she’d pledged two million dollars to restore the Adair Mansion and Menagerie to its former glory, with her remaining fortune secured to create the Adair Preservation Society. The estate would become a permanent animal park and Sugarland Heritage site.

  Once again, children would visit animals at the menagerie. Families would picnic on the grounds. I imagined weddings at the old mansion and fireworks over the lawn.

  She’d even promised a giant cuddly snake: Sir Charles II.

  The Adairs were back.

  This was the biggest gift the town had ever been given for historic preservation and city pride.

  It was a legacy that would last for generations.

  And there, in black and white, she’d credited me and the Sugarland Heritage Society for making it all possible.

  It was the biggest coup for the Sugarland Heritage Society in its one-hundred-and-ten-year history, and I had to think it might go far in repairing my reputation in this town.

  I folded the paper over to read it again.

  “You did it,” Ellis said, blowing the sawdust off his drill. “I’ll bet you win the Sugarland Heritage Society Lifetime Achievement Award.” He grinned. “My mom’s been after that one for years.”

  I caressed my necklace. “I can’t believe EJ sent me a check.” She’d delivered it by courier not even an hour ago, from the new Adair Preservation Society. Made out to me for “historical preservation services rendered.”

  It was much too much, more than I’d ever made for a single job. I’d immediately called her and said I didn’t earn it, but EJ had insisted. She had this idea that when I’d brought her back home, she’d found a piece of herself she’d always felt was missing. She wanted to spend the time she had left in Sugarland, bringing life back to the mansion, making her parents proud.

  I was sure she’d accomplish that and then some.

  Heck, her father had been over the moon just to see her again—and watch her use her phone. I felt complete. Everything was right with the world. Except…

  Frankie lounged under the apple tree, staring out at nothing. Whatever Lefty had said had put him on edge. He hadn’t wanted to talk much since.

  Well, I’d given him his space. Now it was time to see what I could do to help.

  I walked down to him. “How are you doing?” I asked when I’d drawn near. “I’m surprised Molly isn’t over here,” I added, taking a seat next to him in the grass.

  “She came by earlier,” he said, slouching deeper against the tree, pushing his hat down farther over the bullet hole in his forehead. “She thinks I need to go after Lefty.”

  “What? That ghost is bad news.” Then again, Frankie had probably told Molly more than he’d told me. “Does Lefty know something about what went down the night you died?”

  Frankie didn’t speak for a long moment. He was always tight-lipped about the night of his death. It was a sensitive subject, one he’d been unwilling to explore before now.

  “Frankie,” I said, “you know I care.”

  His gaze drifted to a spot over my shoulder. “It’s a delicate matter. I’m not sure I’m up to it.”

  “Believe me, I’m not a fan of Lefty.” The guy gave me the creeps on about a hundred different levels. “But I’m starting to think your freedom might hinge on addressing your death.”

  Most ghosts weren’t so tied to their ashes like Frankie was. It was like he clung to his past, unable to acknowledge what had killed him.

  “Was Lefty really with you the night you were shot?” I asked.

  Frankie glanced at me. “More than that. He knows who did it.”

  I sucked in a breath. “Did he tell you?”

  “No.” Frankie’s jaw flexed. “He wants a favor first.”

  No, thanks. “You don’t need to be doing his dirty work while he’s in prison.”

  “Not prison. Worse. He’s been transferred to the Pikesville Sanatorium.”

  “I know that place. It’s been abandoned for years.”

  “Not by the dead,” Frankie said. He turned and looked at me. “It might be worth giving him what he wants if he’s willing to talk.”

  I hated to admit he might be right.

  “I’ll probably need help with the favor, though,” Frankie said, not exactly asking for my help. “You seem pretty good with people, dead and alive.”

  “I have my moments,” I admitted. I’d prefer to stay away from Lefty Scalieri, and whoever else haunted that sanatorium. But Frankie was my friend. I’d stand by him. “If you want my help, you have it.”

  “All right then,” Frankie said, nodding, trusting me, coming to his decision. “I’ve got a story for you.”

  * * *

  Note from Angie Fox:

  Thanks so much for exploring a whole new side of Sugarland crazy with Pecan Pies and Dead Guys. These characters are such a kick to write and can’t wait to see where they “grow” next. In fact, I’m already hard at work on the next book in the series.

  We don’t have a release date for the next one yet, but you like these mysteries, and want to know when each one comes out, sign up for new release updates. You’ll receive an email on release day, and in the meantime, your information will be kept safe by Lucy and a pack of highly-trained guard skunks.

  Also, follow me on BookBub and you’ll always get an email for special sales.

  Thanks for reading!

  Angie

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  The following Angie Fox titles are also available in print and audio formats.

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  THE SOUTHERN GHOST HUNTER SERIES

  Southern Spirits

  A Ghostly Gift (short story)

  The Skeleton in the Closet

  Ghost of a Chance (short story)

  The Haunted Heist

  Deader Homes & Gardens

  Dog Gone Ghost (short story)

  Sweet Tea and Spirits

  Murder on the Sugarland Express

  Pecan Pies and Dead Guys

  * * *

  THE ACCIDENTAL DEMON SLAYER SERIES

  The Accidental Demon Slayer

  The Dangerous Book for Demon Slayers

  A Tale of Two Demon Slayers
>
  The Last of the Demon Slayers

  My Big Fat Demon Slayer Wedding

  Beverly Hills Demon Slayer

  Night of the Living Demon Slayer

  What To Expect When Your Demon Slayer is Expecting

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  SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS:

  A Little Night Magic: A collection of Southern Ghost Hunter and Accidental Demon Slayer short stories

  About the Author

  New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Angie Fox writes sweet, fun, action-packed mysteries. Her characters are clever and fearless, but in real life, Angie is afraid of basements, bees, and going up stairs when it's dark behind her. Let’s face it: Angie wouldn’t last five minutes in one of her books.

  Angie earned a journalism degree from the University of Missouri. During that time, she also skipped class for an entire week so she could read Anne Rice's vampire series straight through. Angie has always loved books and is shocked, honored and tickled pink that she now gets to write books for a living. Although, she did skip writing for a week this past fall so she could read Victoria Laurie's Abby Cooper psychic eye mysteries straight through.

  Angie makes her home in St. Louis, Missouri with a football-addicted husband, two kids, and Moxie the dog.

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  Copyright © 2018 by Angie Fox

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any informational storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.