southern ghost hunters 01 - southern spirits (2 page)

I tried to imagine it and failed. "I'm starting to think you need the wine more than I do." She had four children under the age of seven—all boys.

She gave me the old pish-posh as she leaned against the wall. "It's the first two kids that get you. After that, you're broken in."

I'd take her word for it.

A beam of slanting sunlight caught the ugly vase and shone through the dust in the air around it in a way that reminded me of dozens of mini fireflies. The copper itself didn't gleam a bit. 

"Oh my God…" Lauralee, said, leaning forward, glass in hand. "It's dirty," she said with relish.

"I saw the dust," I told her. I'd give it a good scrubbing before the open house tomorrow.

But she was already halfway to her feet. "No. The painting on it is dirty. As in sexy time."

"No way," I said, practically leaping off the floor to get a look. 

"It's so bad it's brilliant," she laughed, as I pulled the vase from the mantel. "I don't know why I didn't notice it before. Now that I see it, I can't
not
see it."

"Where?" I asked. Yes, there were some highly styled, almost art-deco swirly bits. They were hard to make out. It looked like people dancing. Maybe. 

My friend rolled her eyes. "Has it been that long since you got laid?"

"I plead the fifth," I said, as I carried the vase over to a beam of fading sunlight by the window. I traced a finger over the crude painting. Then I saw it—a girl, and a boy…and another boy. Now how did that work?

"They're getting lucky," Lauralee said, crowding me to get another look. "It's a lucky vase."

I stifled a snicker. "Can you see Beau's mother displaying this in her parlor? Maybe she knows what the girl is doing with two boys."

"And I think there's a goat," Lauralee added.

"No." I said, yanking it closer to see.

"Made you look," she laughed. 

Did she ever. 

"Wait till the old biddies see this," I said. And they would. We'd have plenty of gawkers tomorrow.

Lauralee gave me a loving punch to the arm. "You might have to point it out to them. They'll gasp and moan but they'll secretly love it."

My friend's phone chimed again. She looked, and this time her sigh was heavier. "Rats."

"Trouble?"

She held up her phone to show me a text photo of her five-year-old son, sitting next to a pile of debris, grinning. "Hiram got hold of a screwdriver and took apart the hall clock while Tom was working on the banister. I'd better go."

Typical day in the Clementine household. I folded her into a hug. "Thanks for the support."

She squeezed hard. "Thanks for the laugh." She smiled as she pulled back. "I love you, girlie." She tilted her chin down. "And I, for one, am glad you came home."

She was a true friend, and for that I was grateful. "Me, too."

***

After she left, I took that vase off the mantel and traced my finger over it. Boy, girl…and that really could be a goat. I smiled to myself. Lauralee was right. I would make it through this, despite Beau and his mother and every damned one of them.

I'd be strong. Free. Maybe not quite as free as those happy fun time people painted on the vase, but I'd be a new woman all the same. My own woman.

I wet the pad of my thumb and used it to wipe the dust from the rim. As I did, something shifted inside of it. Strange. I lifted the small bronze lid and saw at least three inches of dirt. 

Well, no wonder. Nobody had cleaned the thing or showed it any love in ages.

No problem. I'd take it outside and rinse it down with the hose. I could turn the dented spot toward the wall and this little piece of faded glory might pass for something worth buying. 

Now would also be a good time to track down Lucy. That sneaky little skunk would spend all night outside terrorizing the neighbors if I'd let her.

I pushed past the screen door and saw she wasn't in her bed out on our sprawling back porch. A walk down the steps showed she wasn't under her favorite apple tree, either —or as she probably thought of it: the place where snacks dropped down from heaven. After a little bit of searching, I found Lucy catching the last bit of sun on the stone pavers lining the rose garden at the back of the house. 

As soon as she saw me, she rolled right off the paver and landed on her back in the grass. She gave a chipper, skunky grunt and waddled over to greet me. I loved the way she walked, with her head down and her little body churning with every step. It was the cutest thing ever.

"Hiya, sweetie pie," I bent down on one knee to greet her. She thrust her entire snout into my palm and then turned her head for easy petting, making husky, purr-like squawks. She had the softest little cheeks. I stroked her there, then down along the neck and between the ears in the way that made her right back leg twitch. "You enjoying your last day at the house?"

An apartment just wasn't going to be the same for Lucy. I'd found a place that accepted exotic pets, but believe it or not, people around here held a certain bias against skunks. It wasn't enough that I'd had little Lucy's scent glands removed. They wanted her to stop being who she was. 

Poor baby.

I'd have to make some adjustments as well after we moved. Our new home, The Regal Towers, was basically an old six-family flat down by the railroad tracks. So close, in fact, that the windows rattled every time a train went by. The doors were made of plywood. I wasn't even sure that was legal, not that management cared. Morton Davis, slumlord extraordinaire, had offered to save it for me on account of the fact we'd attended grades K through eight together at Stonewall Jackson Elementary. I knew it was available because no one else wanted it.

There had to be a way out of this.

Lucy snuggled up to me and tried to climb my leg to get closer. 

"You want to help?" I asked making sure I reached clear of Lucy as I dumped the contents of the vase over Grandma's rose bushes. She gave the little pile a sniff and sneezed.

"You said it." The dirt was loose and dry, which I was glad to see. I'd heard that sort of thing was good for the roots. 

It certainly couldn't hurt.

When the last of the fine dust had settled down out of the air, I hosed out the vase and poured the water on the roses. They needed it. I'd been neglecting them lately.

"How do you like that?" I asked my climbing vines.

A chilly breeze whipped straight up my spine and shot goose bumps down my arms. It startled me, and I dropped the vase. Lucy darted away.

"Nice work, butterfingers," I mumbled to myself, retrieving it. I spotted a stubborn patch of dirt down in the base and rinsed it out again, but the stuff wouldn't budge.

The rose bushes shuddered. It had to be the wind, but this time, I didn't feel it.

For the first time, I felt uncomfortable in my grandmother's garden. 

It was a strange feeling, and an unwelcome one at that. "It's getting late," I told myself, as if that would explain it. 

Quick as I could, I reached for the rose snippers I kept under the hose. I cut a full red bloom, with a stem as thick as my finger, and popped it into the vase with a dash of water. Then I hurried back toward the house, careful not to spill a drop.

"Lucy," I called, half-wondering if the skunk wasn't the source of the strange rustling in the rose bushes behind me. "Come on, girl."

She came running from her hiding place under the porch. Something had scared her, too. 

The house had never been what you'd call ordinary. We had fish in the pond, each one big as a cat; more often than not, I found fireflies in the attic. 

But this was unusual, even for my ancestral home. I didn't like it at all.

Especially when the windows rattled.

"What the hey, girl?" I asked Lucy. And myself.

She turned around and headed back under the porch. Darn it all. She tended to snuggle under my covers at night and I didn't want her all dirty.

You have no idea how hard it is to give a skunk a bath.

A low creaking came from inside the house. The hair on my arms stood on end. Perhaps Lucy was the smart one after all. Unfortunately, there wasn't room under the porch for me. 

Instead, I took the steps slowly and crossed the threshold into the darkened kitchen.

My eyes strained against the shadows. Not for the first time, I wished I'd kept at least one light. With shaking fingers, I lit the big, orange, three-wicked candle I'd been using for the last few days. 

The house stood still, quiet as a grave. Almost as if it were waiting. 

"Is it you, Grandma?" I asked on a whisper. "Are you mad I'm selling?" 

If she'd been watching down on me at all—and I knew she did—Grandma would understand I'd been given no choice in the matter. 

"Oh no," said a ghostly male voice. "You're staying put, sweetheart." With shock and horror, I realized it was coming from the vase. I dropped it.

The door slammed closed behind me. The bolt clicked, locking on its own as the vase spun and rattled to a stop on the floor. 

A chill swept the room. I retreated until my back hit solid wood. I'd never seen a ghost or heard a ghost although I watched Ghost Adventures on television and I certainly believed in them and sweet Jesus I was trapped. 

I couldn't feel my fingers, or my limbs for that matter. My entire body had gone ice cold. "What do you want?" I asked, voice shaking. Seeing as I hadn't dropped dead on the spot from a heart attack, this had better well be my salvation. "Why are you here?" 

The voice laughed, as if it were honest-to-God amused. "I'm here because you chiseled me, princess."

Chapter Two

I had no idea what that meant, but by his tone, I knew he wasn't about to thank me. I had to escape.
Run.

But I couldn't go anywhere. A frigid chill radiated from the vase in front of me. I pressed against the locked door at my back, my skin slick with sweat and fear.

I tried to stay calm, be rational. But there was no way I could reason my way out of this. Okay, then,
think.
Grandma always said she talked to spirits, that it was a southern thing. But I'd certainly never seen her do it. Or
heard
them answer. 

I blurted the first thing that came to mind. "I'll return your vase to the Wydells. Tonight. You'll be there before you know it." Back to the grave, or at least back home. Isn't that what ghosts usually wanted? 

A blanket of fog descended over me. My skin erupted with icy pinpricks. A disembodied voice spoke directly over my right ear. "We've got a bigger problem than that, babe."

"No,
you've
got a bigger problem." I screwed up my courage, forced my voice to steady. "Leave," I commanded. "I order you from this home. Now."

He chuckled low, right next to my ear. "Don't you think that's a little dramatic?"

Flames shot up from the candle next to me, from the fat candles by the stove, from my little tea lights on the windowsills. "You think
I'm
dramatic?" I choked.

A specter shimmered into view directly in front of me. He appeared in black and white, but I could see through him. Almost. He wore a 1920's-style pin stripe suit coat with matching cuffed trousers and a fat tie. His chest was level to my line of sight, which made him unnaturally tall. 

The blood froze in my veins as I forced myself to look up. He had a long face with a sharp nose, which made him appear utterly ruthless. 

He softened a bit when he let out a long sigh.

I mashed my back flat against the locked door. He casually removed his white Panama hat and I gasped at the neat, round bullet hole in his forehead. He motioned toward it with one edge of the brim. "Hard to miss, right?"

I didn't know what to say to that as he fingered the broad black band of his hat. Perhaps I'd take the polite approach and pretend I didn't notice the large hole placed squarely an inch above his eyes. I really had to stop staring. "I'm sorry," I whispered. 

"For what?" he asked, shooting me a scowl. "For dumping my ashes out onto your rose bushes?"

A new horror bubbled up inside me. "Those were…" Oh my God. "I had no idea."

He cocked his head to the side. "Are you sorry for trapping my spirit on your property?"

My throat went dry. "Is that what I did?"

He thrust his hat on. "This is worse than getting shot in the head," he grumbled. 

He began to pace.

I stayed exactly where I was. "I suppose you would know," I ventured.

He reared back as if I'd slapped him. "Is that supposed to be funny?"

"No. Never." Just…terribly inconvenient. I didn't know what else to say. How does one have a polite conversation with someone so tragically deceased?

He adjusted his shoulders, and shoved them back. "Nobody brunos with me. You hear? You know who I am? I'm Frankie the German. Men fear me. Women want me."

I hated to get picky with the ghost who'd cornered me in my kitchen, but, "Shouldn't you be in Chicago or something?" Isn't that where the gangsters lived?

He scoffed. "Let the Italians have Chicago. The South belongs to the Germans. And the flipping Harps," he reluctantly added.

"Who?" I asked.

"The Irish," he groused.

 "That sounds reasonable," I managed. I didn't know what to do. I was used to fainting widows and shrieking southern belles. Not real live—make that dead—gangsters. He was a criminal. Someone had seen fit to shoot him between the eyes, for heaven's sake. 

I didn't know what this man, this ghost, was capable of. Obviously, he was used to violence. I shoved back my fear enough to ask, "Are you going to hurt me?"

He jerked his shoulders at the thought. "I don't do damage to skirts," he snapped, as if the mere idea offended him.

I wasn't sure I believed him.

"Listen, doll," Frankie said, his tone softening a hair. "When your great-uncle so-and-so dies, there's a reason you scatter his ashes. You
scatter
," he said, making a motion like he was feeding birds or something. "You let them catch the wind. You give the spirit freedom if he wants it." His voice grew tight. "You don't dump them all in one spot and then stomp on 'em," he added, fingers clenching.