by Angie Fox
“Verity?” he asked.
“What?” I’d been woolgathering.
“You do know I’m going to marry you someday.”
He said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I like my coffee black. My cake chocolate. And oh, by the way, I’m going to marry you someday.
I felt my mouth drop open right before my face went numb.
“Where else did you think this was heading?” He laughed as if he didn’t quite understand my surprise. Or lack of ability to speak.
“Not today,” I reasoned.
“No,” he said, drawing me back into his arms. “Not today.”
He kissed me slow and sweet. And I decided I liked this new “tell it like it is all the time” Ellis. He might not be perfect. He might not be smooth. But I loved him, and he was mine.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
That night, I took Lucy out onto the back porch and we shared a bowl of strawberries while I told her about my amazing, shocking, and ultimately satisfying day.
She didn’t say much. She never did. But I knew she listened. And when the strawberries were gone, she hightailed it down the stairs and out into the yard.
I was perfectly fine with her adventuring—she needed it as much as I did. But I wasn’t as thrilled when she circled around the apple tree and scurried under the porch.
Darn it. There was something stinky under there, and I hadn’t quite gotten around to removing it.
“Lucy,” I called, standing, knowing full well she’d pretend she couldn’t hear me.
She’d be a mess if I didn’t fish her out. And fast. Lucy loved stinky things. “You come out or I’m coming in after you,” I said, my boots echoing off the wooden stairs.
She’d best learn now that ignoring me wouldn’t get her off the hook.
The sun hung low in the sky as I bent over and located the shadow of my skunk about half-way under, eating something she no doubt oughtn’t. Oh, my.
“Lucille Désirée Long. I just fed you!” I got low on my stomach and scuttled past a loose section of white-painted lattice. And then I smelled it full-on, a pungent sulfur-like odor that made my eyes water.
Something was definitely rotten in the state of Denmark.
Or at least under my porch in Sugarland.
Lucy began to eat faster.
“That could hurt you,” I warned, closing a hand around her warm little tummy and pulling her away. She bit down on her bounty and dragged it with her.
Once I’d secured my skunk, I grabbed her prize and found a rotting head of broccoli.
“Naughty girl. Have you been raiding Mr. Morris’s garden?” I hadn’t bought broccoli in weeks.
Lucy blinked up at me with her wide, button eyes, all innocence. She definitely had the look down pat.
“I know he feeds you carrots, but that doesn’t mean you should help yourself.”
She snuggled against my chest, as if that made everything right. Darn my weakness, it did warm my heart.
I ran a hand over her soft little head. “We’ll make better choices next time,” I promised her. And perhaps the next time I made cookies, I’d make a few extra for Mr. Morris.
I held her and stroked her under the ear, the way she liked it, enjoying the moment, even if we did both happen to be filthy and under the porch.
We were just about ready to scoot out and start talking about a bath when I saw a familiar pair of black wing tips shimmer into existence outside on the grass.
“You made it back,” Frankie said, and I thought he was talking to me until I saw the lower half of a ghostly couple appear directly across from him.
“We couldn’t rest,” Chastity said.
“Not with our little girl missing,” Lou said, his voice strained with worry.
“That’s why I found her,” Frankie said, his voice warmer than I’d ever heard it. “Me and Verity, anyway.”
Chastity let out a shriek and hugged Frankie while Lou gave a gut-deep exhale. “Thank God.”
“Where is she?” Chastity prodded. “Where’s my baby? Is she safe?”
“She’s alive,” Frankie said, as if he still couldn’t quite believe it himself. “She’s in perfect health, and she lives on the fourth floor of the Sugarland Grand Hotel.”
“She’s safe?” Chastity asked, as if she couldn’t quite believe it.
“The pastor raised her,” Frankie said. “Her name is MayBelle Clemens now. We can all go meet her tomorrow if you want. Me and Verity will help everybody talk.”
“I’m going to go see her right now,” Chastity said, disappearing.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Lou called after her before turning back to his brother. “Thanks, Frankie. I don’t deserve your help after what I did to you, but I want you to know you’ve given me my life back.”
Frankie let out a low huff. “I never thought I could forgive you for plugging me, but I do.”
“Thanks,” Lou said, his voice rough.
Frankie cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, I understand why you did it and I’m glad. I wouldn’t have a family right now if you hadn’t.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Not that I’m expecting you to stick around.”
“I’d like to,” Lou said, his voice going hoarse. “If you’d like me to.”
“We can try that,” Frankie said, noncommittal and fast as if he had to get it out before he lost his courage.
“I’m going to go see my kid,” Lou said, backing away. “You’re a pretty good brother.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” Frankie said, as Lou disappeared.
A few days later, we gathered at the Three Angels Church to say goodbye to my grandmother’s dear friend.
Pastor Bob had turned over his father’s record book, the one that contained all the names of the dead and the burial locations the original Pastor Clemens was able to gather.
I’d helped by recording the names of the ghosts I encountered and matching them to the notes, which were sometimes incomplete.
The coroner’s office hired extra hands in the form of University of Tennessee forensics graduate students. They dotted the cemetery in small groups, marking suspected grave sites and preparing them for exhumation.
Each group was watched over by a ghost, recognized at last.
These people had been forgotten for too long, buried and left to rot. Just noticing them, remembering their names—recognizing they’d existed at all—it seemed to give many of the ghosts a touch of their humanity back.
Even the woman in the bloody bathrobe didn’t seem as lost.
She stood near the front steps of the church and nodded to me as I approached.
I was so focused on her, I barely noticed Beau Wydell approaching.
“Hey,” he said, “where’s Ellis?”
“Oh,” I said, turning. “He’s waiting for me inside.”
Beau grinned. “Glad you two made up. And that Ellis got his head out of his ass.”
“Yes, well, he’s inside with your mother,” I clarified.
He’d arrived early with Virginia Wydell, who’d claimed amnesia about the entire cell phone incident. When Ellis didn’t let her off the hook, she’d confessed a burning desire to have him accompany her to the funeral, lest she faint at the shock of having Pastor Mike in custody rather than at the altar.
In short, honest talk worked on some people better than others.
“I’ll go take that bullet,” Beau pledged. “He’ll be out in five.”
“You’d do that for me?” I asked, warming.
“I stood down a gangster for you,” he said, with typical bravado. “For you and for my brother.”
“Thanks,” I said. And I meant it.
“Just make sure you sit far enough away from us,” Beau said. “Or else my sacrifice will be in vain.”
“I’ll remember you fondly,” I called after him as he took the church steps two at a time and left me with a salute.
While I gave him a minute, Fiera crossed the parking lot toward me. She w
ore her gray hair in a French twist that went well with her black dress.
“I’m sorry, Verity,” she said before I could greet her. “I lied to you.”
“About the pictures for the library.” Melody had already told me that the boxes of photos Fiera had taken weren’t for the donation she’d claimed.
She clutched the purse strap dangling from her shoulder. “Jorie’s daughter, Suzanne, asked me for a special favor. She wanted me to remove some…personal things.” She sighed. “Not just the photos, but a lot of private correspondence. Military life can be tough, and maybe it’s best not to have anyone else judging the family for things that are best kept private.”
A plump redhead approached us. She had Jorie’s eyes and Ray’s nose, and she wore a hesitant smile as she stood next to Fiera. “I’m sorry for the confusion,” she said to Fiera as much as me. “It’s just that you don’t lock your doors enough in Sugarland.”
“I’ll give you that,” I said. As far as I was concerned, that was a good thing.
It seemed Fiera had tried to do right by too many people. I knew the feeling and was certainly glad she’d done her best for poor Suzanne. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I told Jorie’s only daughter.
“Oh, come here.” Suzanne gave me a hug, in true Southern style, before accompanying Fiera into the church.
Ray stood a few feet behind her, watching her go. “She’s so grown up.” He smiled fondly.
“How are you doing?” I asked. This had to be so hard for him.
“I’ll watch the eulogies. It’ll be fun to hear people’s stories about her. But that’s just talk. The best part happens later, when she comes back here to find me.”
“How long do you think it’ll take?” I asked him, promising myself I’d have to make regular visits in the meantime.
“Could be a year, could be two,” he said with the shrug of a shoulder. “Time doesn’t matter much to me anymore. The important thing is she’s coming.” He started up the stairs. “Are you going in?”
“I’m waiting for someone.”
He smiled at that and continued on his way.
I looked to the place where Jorie died, where I’d seen her soul traces rise up from the ground. I said a silent, private goodbye and gave thanks, knowing she was loved and protected.
The gravedigger stood just beyond, next to the rosebush that concealed the hidden door.
I walked to him, seeing him tense at my approach. “Hi, Carl.”
He gripped his shovel and grunted an acknowledgment as he averted his eyes.
“I was just wondering how you’re doing.” I smiled at him as he shifted in place.
“Nobody usually notices me,” he said as if embarrassed by a simple hello, a minor acknowledgment. “But I watch,” he insisted. “I watched you, and I knew you were good.”
“So are you,” I told him.
His cheeks flushed, and he ducked his head. I also caught the hint of a smile before he disappeared.
“Look at you, walking on the lawn,” a gravelly voice called out behind me. I turned and saw a bare-headed MayBelle getting out of her convertible.
“Don’t forget your hair,” I called.
She reached into the back seat and pulled out a dark wig with tight Betty Boop curls. She slipped it onto her head with a grin.
“So I hear you’re related to the mob,” I said as she approached. “Are you scandalized?”
“Yes, and it’s fantastic,” she said, adjusting her hair. It really did look good on her. “Ellis explained to me about your ghosts. I’d like to invite them for a cocktail at my place. You’re welcome too, of course.”
It would be interesting to translate that conversation. “We’ll be there,” I told her. “In fact, they’re here right now.” She’d arrived with Lou and Chastity in the back seat. Frankie had joined them as soon as MayBelle pulled up.
MayBelle leaned close. “The night Mike was arrested, my apartment smelled like violets, and I don’t have any in the house.”
“That’s your mother,” I told her.
Ellis descended the front steps of the church. “My brother is a miracle worker,” he said, joining us. “Not to mention pushy.”
“Glad to see he’s using his powers for good,” I said as he offered me his arm.
“Would you like to sit with us, MayBelle?” he asked. “The service is starting soon.”
“I’d be glad to walk in with you,” she said, accepting his other arm. “But I promised my family I’d sit with them.”
She said that last part with a heaping dose of satisfaction.
I couldn’t have been happier for her.
The service was beautiful and funny and touching, the perfect send-off for a woman who had touched so many lives.
When Ellis and I returned to my home after the reception, I found two things waiting for me on the back porch; an ecstatic skunk, which was not at all a surprise, and a plain manila envelope, which was. It stood propped up outside my back door, with no return address, no note. No…nothing.
Ellis took care of Lucy while I handled the package. I slipped a finger under the seal, and inside, I found the letter Jorie had tried to give me the day she’d died.
“Look!” I said, drawing it out, holding it like the precious artifact it was.
“Ah, yes. They released it when they dropped the charges against Pastor Mike,” Ellis said, cuddling my skunk. “I asked Duranja to run it by as soon as he could.”
For once, Duranja had done something nice. The officer didn’t like me much, but perhaps he did have a good heart after all.
We took the show inside, where Ellis cut bananas and washed blueberries for Lucy—he didn’t like her eating junk—while I sat on the couch and read the letter my grandmother had written to Jorie. It was dated three days after I’d been born.
I read about how exciting she found all ten of my fingers and toes, how she looked forward to making cute dresses for me and teaching me to sew. Well, one of those things had taken. I did like dresses. She wrote how she couldn’t wait to bake with me. I let out a hearty laugh, thinking of the last point.
“What?” Ellis asked, raising his head from his banana chopping.
“I just wonder what Grandma would think of me baking skunk treats.”
“She loved animals, didn’t she?” he asked, flipping a slice of banana to Lucy, who gobbled it up.
“Yes, she did.” I smiled. Grandma would have loved Lucy. And Ellis. And the life I’d made for myself here in Sugarland, in this house that she’d cherished for so many years.
“Speaking of happy surprises, I have another one for you,” Ellis said, setting Lucy’s bowl down for her. She promptly attacked it, crashing it into his feet. “I like the enthusiasm,” he said to her. “Wait right there,” he added to me.
Oh my. I hoped my misadventure on the second floor of the Pastry Box hadn’t put any premature thoughts into his head. I mean, I loved Ellis and thought it wonderful he’d said he wanted to marry me someday. But he was the careful sort, and so was I—even if that didn’t always translate to ghost hunting.
It seemed too soon.
He returned with a flat, wrapped package a foot and a half wide and at least two feet high.
“What on earth?” I asked as he handed it to me.
“Open it,” he said, taking a seat next to me on the couch.
I tore at the magnolia flowered paper to reveal a framed photograph of my grandmother and Jorie on her wedding day.
“It’s the one from the heritage society. I tracked it down and had a copy made.”
“It’s wonderful,” I said, fighting back tears. “It’s perfect.” And I knew just where it would hang.
Ellis measured for the nail, and I hung the photo above the fireplace mantel in my parlor, right next to the trash can with the rosebush where I kept Frankie’s urn. We stepped back to admire the two friends smiling, ready to face the world, never mind the mobsters in the background.
They’d braved life’s ups
and downs. They’d made memories. They’d lived life to the fullest.
Together.
So would we.
Note from Angie:
Thank you so much for dropping in on Verity, Ellis, Frankie, and the rest of the gang in Sugarland, Tennessee. Southern Bred and Dead was such a joy to write—it was a kick to explore Frankie’s past and his world in a whole new way. I can’t tell you how many books I’ve spent trying to get that ghost to open up a bit. I mean, is it so hard? Don’t let him answer that.
The next book is a light-hearted romp through Sugarland, called The Haunted Homecoming. In it, Verity and Ellis are growing closer by the day, when Verity’s mother rolls into town in her RV, excited to visit some of her favorite local haunts. Too bad the discovery of a dead body interrupts the fun. Meanwhile, Frankie has no shortage of ideas on how to get his relationship with Molly back on track—all of them guaranteed to drive Verity crazy. And if that’s not enough, I have two words for you: 1980’s ghosts.
If you like these mysteries, and want to know when new ones come out, sign up for my newsletter. I don’t email often, but when I do, it’s always something good.
Thanks again for reading!
Angie
Don’t miss the next
Southern Ghost Hunter mystery
The Haunted Homecoming
Apple cider, bonfires, football, and—ghosts.
It’s homecoming weekend in Sugarland, Tennessee and ghost hunter Verity Long is tickled to see so many souls—living and dead—back in town to celebrate. But not all reunions are happy ones, and when Verity stumbles upon a dead body by the football field, it appears someone has already evened the score.
The Haunted Homecoming
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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.