Southern Bred and Dead (Southern Ghost Hunter Mysteries Book 9)

by Angie Fox

  I gasped. “What happened to him?”

  “What happened to the lot of them?” Frankie shifted in his seat. “Just keep driving.”

  My fingers tightened on the steering wheel. I hoped to heaven that Jorie would go to the light and not come back, no matter how suddenly or tragically she died. After what I’d experienced today, I wanted her far, far away.

  I wanted her with Ray.

  Lost in thought, I almost drove straight through a dead reverend standing in the road.

  “Oh, my goodness!” I swerved, barely missing him.

  He didn’t notice me. None of them had…at first.

  A chill whipped down my spine.

  I slowed the car and dared to glance over my shoulder.

  It wasn’t as if the organist would show up in the back seat of my car, or the gravedigger would appear with his shovel, simply because other ghosts had done so in the past…

  The back seat lay empty save for my library book.

  “Just drive,” Frankie said, crossing an ankle over his knee and settling in. He glanced at the rapidly setting sun. “In fact, do me a favor and hit the gas. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s dusk, and we’re gonna be late to meet the guys if you don’t step on it right now.”

  Heavens. I’d forgotten all about Frankie’s manhunt.

  This after he’d told me over and over how important it was. Vital.

  “We’ll make it,” I said as we passed the church gates. “I’ll even speed,” I vowed.

  “Downtown. Near the intersection of Fourth and Spring Streets,” Frankie said, checking the bullets in his gun.

  “We’re on our way,” I promised, driving five miles over the speed limit the entire time.

  “Are we in a parade, or are we going to my manhunt?” Frankie groused as we turned onto Main Street and positively bolted past the Cookie Corner, Remember When Antiques, and the Yarn Barn.

  “Spring Street is a one-way,” I said. It ran parallel to Main, a block over. “This is the fastest route.”

  “You and your rules,” Frankie huffed.

  “Exactly.” I could only imagine what folks would say about my speeding. The avocado-green land yacht wasn’t exactly subtle.

  We turned left at the corner of Fourth and Main, and I slowed on the narrower street as we passed brick and stone storefronts that had graced downtown Sugarland since the early 1900s. I loved this part of town, not only for its tradition but also for its permanence.

  Although now, with Frankie in tow, I also wondered about its past.

  “This is a pretty public place for a manhunt,” I said, stopping for a senior couple holding hands as they crossed toward Suzie Brown’s Biscuit Heaven at the corner of Fourth and Spring Streets.

  “It’s right there,” the gangster said, pointing to a boarded-up BBQ place several storefronts down from the intersection.

  “The former Jurassic Pork?” I asked.

  Before that, it had been a bagel shop, a yarn store, and a coffee shop.

  “No business survives long in that spot,” I said, making a left toward the abandoned BBQ joint.

  “And you wonder why,” Frankie said as I pulled in and parked behind a ghostly black sedan. “Stick with me and I’ll show you.”

  Chapter Seven

  The closed BBQ restaurant stood in the shadow between stoplights, as if downtown Sugarland had forgotten it existed at all. Red, yellow, and green painted picnic benches lay stacked and abandoned behind rows of unlit tiki torches, smoke stained at the top. A cheery picket fence separated the outdoor seating area from the deserted sidewalk.

  “I remember when this place first opened,” I told Frankie, killing the engine. A pair of dead gangsters hustled past the boarded-up restaurant windows and ducked into the alley toward the back of Jurassic Pork. “People used to be lined up halfway down the block to get a table.”

  Now, the place was shuttered tight with a 1920s wiseguy holed up inside.

  How times changed.

  Still, this was our chance to locate Frankie’s brother. Lou had been lying low ever since Frankie learned Lou was the person who’d shot and killed him.

  “I set up a sting in case he runs,” Frankie said, scanning the street.

  I hated to bring it up, but Lou was a ghost. “What if he disappears?”

  Frankie chuffed. “I’ve got guys stationed at all the gang hideouts. I got a team at Lou’s old house, one at his death spot, another at his old thinking spot.”

  “Dare I ask?”

  “It’s a very nice bathroom,” Frankie insisted. “Anyway, he’s got to show up somewhere.”

  Not necessarily. “What if he goes into the ether?” Frankie might be able to wait him out, but I couldn’t.

  Frankie gave me a sour look. “Stop complicating things.”

  “Pesky logic,” I murmured under my breath.

  He touched two fingers to the brim of his white Panama hat, then flicked them toward the street, giving a signal to…somebody.

  The three wiseguys I’d met in my kitchen that morning melted out of the shadows near a closed-for-the-night dog grooming salon. They crossed the street several car lengths in front of us, carrying tommy guns. The guy with the scar down his cheek gave a tip of the hat to Frankie.

  We watched the trio walk straight through the darkened front window of the DMV across the street from the restaurant. It had closed for the day at five.

  “Those don’t seem like the guys I met this morning,” I said, marveling at their change in demeanor.

  “We’re on the job,” Frankie said, crossing his ankle over his knee and double-checking the gun in his ankle holster.

  “I still can’t believe this is happening in downtown Sugarland.”

  “This used to be disputed territory,” Frankie said as if it were a thing. “The Irish controlled south of Fourth Street. We worked the north side over to city hall.”

  “Sure. Why not?” I supposed gangs did divide territory, although I’d never thought of this part of town as a rough neighborhood.

  “It lasted about a day,” Frankie said, shoving his pants leg down to hide his sock holster and giving his ankle a wiggle. “Then my friend Suds needed to go see his sister, who is married to one of the Irish bookies. They lived in one of the apartments above the police station on Fifth. And the O’Malleys weren’t about to skip out on their cousin Tony’s Italian deli. Not after you’d had those meatballs.” He shrugged. “So we tossed the rules.”

  “How very gangster of you,” I remarked.

  He couldn’t help but grin. “We’re rivals—Sugarland style.”

  “Which means everybody pretty much goes where they want and knows each other’s personal business,” I concluded.

  “Exactly,” he said as if he’d planned the whole thing. “Now back to this Irish hole-in-the-wall,” he said, eyeing the building across the street. “I’ve got a team in the black sedan ahead of us, three guys on the roof across the street, and Ice Pick Charlie and his associates in the alley out back.” He clicked open the chamber of his revolver and checked to make sure it was fully loaded. It was. Frankie shoved it closed and returned it to his shoulder holster. “When it comes to running, Lou likes to go out the back. He doesn’t always remember he’s dead.”

  That was a lot of firepower directed at one man. “I’m almost starting to feel sorry for Lou,” I mused.

  “Yeah, well, don’t,” Frankie snapped, drawing a black 38 Special from his side holster and checking the bullets in that one.

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” I quickly corrected myself. “I’m always on your side.” It was a little unnerving to witness my housemate in full gangster mode. “I’m glad to see your friends are helping out,” I added as he dug out a pair of brass knuckles from his pants pocket and slipped them on.

  At least Lou was already dead. A kill shot would knock him out for a while, but it wouldn’t damage him permanently. It wouldn’t do anything to help the brothers resolve their differences, either.

&n
bsp; I just hoped it would turn out all right for both Lou and Frankie.

  Although I didn’t see how it could.

  “You know, maybe Lou will be glad to run into you,” I said, cringing at the small serrated dagger Frankie flicked from the base of the brass knuckles. “Your brother might be relieved to finally talk about this.”

  “Oh, he’ll be talking,” he said, folding the dagger back in.

  “Frank—” I began.

  He closed his eyes. “Look, I hope I talk to him, too.” He rested an arm on the back of the bench seat as he turned to face me. “I hope Lou’s finger slipped on the trigger. I hope he accidentally stalked me, took aim, and shot me dead between the eyes, but I’m not holding onto the fantasy that this is going to come out sunshine, roses, and puppies, okay?”

  “I get it.” I did. “I hope you get closure.”

  He nodded, his jaw working. “Why don’t you come with me?”

  He asked it so directly, so quietly, that for a second, I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him right.

  I stared at him.

  Frankie had never willingly involved me in gang business before. In fact, he’d actively avoided it. He said I was soft. He claimed I didn’t have the guts for it.

  He was probably right.

  “You’ve never wanted me to come with you before. Why now?” I asked.

  “Why not?” he countered, looking at me for an answer. I glanced past him to the abandoned restaurant across the street and managed to find my voice. “Well, for one thing, it’s breaking and entering.”

  He gritted his jaw. “Like you’ve never done that while ghost hunting.”

  Maybe once or twice. “It was for the greater good.”

  “So is this,” he said. He wasn’t backing down. Which meant this was important to him.

  While I wanted to help, he had to understand. “This isn’t only highly illegal, it’s not exactly an abandoned part of town, either.” Just a very unbusy end of the street.

  Frankie stared me down.

  “Even if I do make it inside, we’ll be hunting down a gangster with a gun.” Those guys tended to shoot first and ask questions later. Frankie alone had enough firepower on him to charge Sam Hill. While a gunshot to the head, or any other vital area, would merely knock Frankie out, it would kill me. Ghostly bullets tore through human flesh the same as real ones when I was tuned in to the other side.

  He of all people should understand my eagerness to remain gunshot-free and in one piece.

  He gave an overly casual shrug. “This’ll be an easy job.”

  I’d hung out with him long enough to know that was a stretch. “How can you say it’s going to be an easy job when you’re armed to the teeth?” I wouldn’t be surprised if he clinked when he walked. “Besides, it’s never an easy job.”

  “Good point,” he agreed. “But I didn’t bring my machine gun,” he informed me as if it were a point in his favor. “Look, all I want out of the guy is the why—why’d he pull the trigger on me?”

  “That’s it?” I asked. It was never so simple with Frankie.

  Frankie shrugged. “Well, if I don’t like the answer, I’ll probably shoot him.”

  “Of course.”

  Frankie glanced out the window. “There’s the signal. Everybody’s in place.” He turned to me. “You coming or not?”

  I’d promised my support when it came to working through his issues with his brother, but I’d really hoped it would be a matter of self-help books and emotional exploration rather than an armed raid in downtown Sugarland.

  It was now or never.

  My stomach fluttered. I’d agreed to drive him to the manhunt, not be in the manhunt. Frankie wasn’t particularly calm or predictable on a good day, much less when he got around his old gang.

  Not to mention the fact that this afternoon had been particularly trying. I’d witnessed my grandma’s good friend fall to her death, I’d fled a crazy organist with a knife, and I didn’t even want to start thinking about what would have happened if the gravedigger had gotten hold of me. Truly, it would be nice to just sit in the car with Frankie’s power off.

  Whatever went on between Frankie’s gang and Lou, I wouldn’t have to see any of it. I wouldn’t have to hear any of it. My friend Maisie had been teaching me how to knit, and so far, I had half a sock. If I kept at it, I’d have even more. I’d have my sane existence back, at least until Frankie and the gang finished raising Cain on the other side.

  My gangster buddy crossed his arms over his chest. “You owe me after this afternoon. I didn’t ask to go to a haunted cemetery, and worse, you almost made me late.”

  “I didn’t know the cemetery was haunted—”

  “When is a cemetery ever not haunted?”

  “And it’s not as if I had such a great time at the event, either.”

  He sighed. “You can go places I can’t. The dead don’t always pay attention to the living. You’ll give us an advantage.” When I made no move to get out of the car, he grimaced like he’d tasted something vile. “Fine. I’ll ask as a favor. This is important to me. I’d like your help. You’re good at talking to people and getting them to talk to you back.”

  I chewed my lip. There were plenty of times he’d helped me. Reluctantly, of course, but then again, I wasn’t necessarily doing cartwheels about taking part in a manhunt, so I’d call it even. “Okay,” I said, before I changed my mind. “I’ll help you.”

  “Fantastic.” He grinned and floated out of the car. “Let’s go.”

  Heaven help me.

  It was one thing to hunt ghosts and solve murders, it was quite another to run with the South Town Boys.

  “Coming.” I grabbed my bag with his urn and slid out of the car.

  I had no weapons to prep. It wasn’t like I kept any in the land yacht.

  Mortal weapons couldn’t stop a ghost anyway.

  Frankie looked me up and down as I walked around the front of the car to join him. Perhaps he, too, was having second thoughts about a girl in a magnolia dress and kitten heels tracking down a fugitive.

  “You bring a disguise?” he asked.

  I touched a hand to the baby’s breath in my hair. I’d planned on waiting it out in the car. “I brought my knitting.”

  “Yeah, that’ll help.” Frankie smoothed on a mustache, a pencil thin number that made him look like Errol Flynn gone bad.

  “That’s going to disappear,” I told him. He could only permanently keep the things he’d died with.

  “It should last long enough,” he said, crossing the street ahead of me. “I just need to get inside without being recognized.”

  This should be fun.

  I rushed to catch up.

  Frankie passed straight through the bright yellow fence while I found the gate near the front entrance. I hurried down the pathway lined with dead plants. A pair of windows with smiling pigs painted on the glass flanked a red door.

  “I’ll bet this is locked,” I said, testing the handle, noting the faded “Closed for Business” sign.

  Perhaps I wouldn’t be joining him after all.

  “Not a problem. The window’s open,” Frankie said, walking straight through the plywood nailed to the outside.

  “Truly?” This wasn’t how I’d intended to spend my Saturday night.

  His head popped out of the plywood-covered window. “I’m good at noticing things like this.”

  “I’ll bet.” I yanked at the bottom of the window to the right of the door and realized he was correct—it lifted from the red-painted frame and slid right up. “I can’t believe you talked me into this.” What would Ellis say?

  Frankie stared me down. “Keep standing there and I guarantee you somebody’s gonna walk by and recognize you,” he said, not helping my blood pressure at all.

  “Right,” I said, glancing down the deserted street. “Just this once,” I added before lifting a foot over the threshold and cramming my body into the tight opening.

  “Attagirl,” he said, waiting f
or me inside. “Remember, it’s not breaking and entering if you don’t use the door.”

  “Is that from the gangster bible?” I asked, wrinkling my nose at the stale air, planting one white-heeled shoe onto the dirty concrete floor.

  “Yeah, right after, ‘Thou shalt not shoot unless shot at first,’” Frankie said sanctimoniously before breaking into a wide grin. “Nah, I’m kidding. There’s no rule against shooting.”

  “Of course not,” I said, taking in the shadowy remains of the once-vibrant restaurant as I reached into my bag for my flashlight.

  My ghost-hunting habit had left me prepared.

  I flipped on my light, skimming the gutted room. The BBQ joint owners had sold off everything that wasn’t nailed down. That left a corrugated steel serving counter and a painted chalkboard on the wall advertising a Memphis-style ribs, baked beans, greens, and cornbread special.

  Yet as my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I began to see the silvery outline of the ghostly side. A pair of round tables stood at the center of the room, loaded with what appeared to be funereal floral arrangements. Large wreaths and sprays stood propped on stands.

  Potted houseplants lined the walls, and right in front of the steel counter of the BBQ restaurant stood a ghostly wood countertop featuring buckets of single blooms along with an old-fashioned cash register.

  I never knew this had been a flower shop.

  Why not? It had been everything else.

  “The O’Malleys were this building’s original tenants,” Frankie said as if that meant they could haunt the place forever. Well, actually, I supposed they could.

  A portly ghost stood behind the counter, chewing on a cigar, his bow tie visible above his white apron. “Welcome to Mildred’s Flower Heaven,” he said in monotone, his Northern accent thick around his stogie, “where every day is a blooming miracle.”

  “All right,” I said, wondering what kind of manhunt we were on. I didn’t expect to find Lou hiding out among the flowers.

  Gangsters were all about image, and this…was not the kind of place I imagined I’d find a gangster.

  I stepped farther into the shop. The ghostly scent of cut blooms had begun to overcome the stale, dusty air of the real-world former restaurant. Still, I kept my guard up as I checked out a row of potted palms in the corner, half-expecting to find a gangster or a hidden witness.