southern ghost hunters 02 - skeleton in the closet (7 page)

"You're making it look stupid," he said, hesitant, as if he were reluctant to admit he cared about such things.

I nestled his urn gently in my bag. "You know it's a work of art." At least to him, it was. His friend Suds had spent a lot of time decorating it. I ran a finger over the crude hand-painted scene that marred the dull metal exterior. Sure it would never make the front cover of
Artist Weekly
, but it had been illustrated with care and affection, and that made it special.

He appeared a bit horror-struck at my soft side. "You want to meet up with them ghosts or you want to flap your gums?" he huffed, passing through my kitchen wall and abandoning me for the back porch.

So much for sentiment.

I locked the back door good and tight. I didn't usually. But I didn't want to return and find that Beau had made himself at home. I squared my shoulders as I descended the porch steps and wound around to the side drive.

Frankie had settled into the passenger seat of my 1978 avocado-green Cadillac. My grandmother had bought it new and maintained it well before handing it down to me. She'd loved that car, and so did I. Good thing it was worthless or I would have had to sell it.

The engine cranked up with a wheezing rumble that didn't sound all that healthy, but the car had started, so I considered it a victory. 

Frankie eyed me, his hat pulled low over his forehead. "Good thing we're not trying to sneak up on anybody."

"Do you have a car?" I asked sweetly, as I turned the oversize manual steering wheel.

He shrugged a shoulder. "No."

"Exactly," I said, hitting the gas.

He rolled his eyes as we bumped down the long, snaking drive from my house. It was barely past six o'clock and I wondered how we should occupy ourselves while we waited for Ellis to sneak us into the library. We didn't need to be shopping or eating. Both cost money. 

So I decided to drop in on an old friend.

We bypassed the main part of town and headed for the neighborhood just south of it. Thick, mature trees lined the road. The neat bungalow-style houses along Magnolia Street had stood since the early 1900s. I loved the wide variety of styles and personal touches as well as the inviting porches. No two were alike.

Lauralee and Tom lived in yellow house that reminded me of a picture on the cover of a child's storybook. It wasn't just the white brick porch and bright blue shutters, or the blanket of ivy that kept the front yard in an eternal state of green. Birdhouses, painted by the children, hung from mature black oaks. Colorful pots of camellias lined the walk, and large Thunder Cloud sage bushes burst in a riot of deep purple flowers on either side of the front steps. 

I smelled honeysuckle and lilac in the breeze and tried not to let the cushioned Adirondack rocking chairs tempt me as I knocked gently on her front door. 

It flew open, but I didn't see anyone right away. 

With a thick screech, Tommy Jr. fled from behind the open door and was tackled from the side by his skinny little brother George. They rolled on the floor wrestling while three-year-old Ambrose tossed Legos into the mix. Hiram was nowhere to be seen, which could be good…or bad.

Frankie appeared shell-shocked. "What is this place?"

"Heaven," I told him. No wonder he wanted to get out.

I left him staring and found Lauralee in the kitchen, her dark hair tied back in a messy ponytail as she took fresh rolls out of the oven. Five-year-old Hiram sat on the floor driving Hot Wheels over an obstacle course made from wooden kitchen spoons. 

Lauralee had three standing mixers going on the counters and pots bubbling on all six stove burners. "I know you have four boys," I said. That alone should keep her busy for the next twenty years. "But this is overkill."

"Ha!" she said, stirring each pot in turn. "The terror squad doesn't get to touch any of this. You're looking at the official caterer for the Wydell Studios production of
The Battle of Sugarland
."

As soon as she finished, she came over and wrapped me in a warm hug. "I heard about this morning. How are you doing?"

"As good as I can," I told her, taking in the controlled chaos surrounding her. "I figured you'd use the kitchen at the diner."

"I wish! But I don't own the diner or that kitchen." She checked on several loaves of bread baking in the oven. "And I don't have to tell you what a big opportunity this is." 

"Can I help?" I asked. I wasn't much of a cook, but I took orders well.

"No. I've got this down to a science." She turned to me. "You eat yet?" she added innocently, knowing I probably hadn't. "I just put individual portions of pulled pork in the fridge."

"I didn't come over here to steal your food," I said. Naturally, my stomach picked that moment to growl.

Lauralee smiled knowingly and handed me a plastic plate from a stack on the kitchen table. "You can be my taste tester. It's an important job." 

Yeah, right. "I showed up just in time." 

"While you're in there, you can also get Hiram more grapes," she said, pointing to the almost-empty bowl in the middle of a Hot Wheels traffic jam.

"That I can do," I said, wading through the cars. Hiram didn't even notice me as I refilled his bowl. Then I retrieved a portion of pork out of the fridge and leaned against the wall next to the table to eat. It was the only free place in the kitchen.  

Lauralee fished around in her refrigerator and pulled out a small container of potato salad. She plopped it on my plate. "Big Tom took the boys to a casting call this afternoon at the VFW Hall. They're looking for drummer boys with lots of energy," she said excitedly, "to lead the Yankee charge. Tommy Jr. is just old enough. And he likes to drum. Big Tom got a callback right after he and the boys came home with some take-out chicken noodle soup from the diner. They want Tommy Jr. back tomorrow and Tom's going back tonight to try on uniforms."

I jabbed my fork in her direction. "Remind me to ask him for his autograph."

The still-warm pork was tender and delicious. It was the best meal I'd eaten since Melody pretended to cook too much lasagna and brought me over the entire tray, with the grocery price tag still attached.

"Tom called and said the callback line's about a mile long. Word has it Virginia Wydell is overseeing final casting decisions and she rejected a man because the gray on his temples didn't match up right."

"Yikes," I said, finishing my meal. "I guess that's show business."

She paused, holding a wooden spoon. "Tom doesn't have any hair. Does that mean I should worry more, or less?" 

That earned a snarf from me and a mock glare from my friend. "Thanks. I needed this," I told her. It was more than the food. It was the company.

Lauralee grinned. She knew.

My left side went cold as Frankie shimmered into view way too close. "The smallest one is shrieking. The skinny one decided I'm his imaginary friend. And now they say they're gonna turn the couch into a hideout. As if you could hide from the fuzz in a piece of furniture." He let out a shudder. Frankie could join the mob, but he couldn't hang out with a couple of kids for ten minutes. "We're leaving," he said, as if his word were final.

I was tempted to tell the gangster to shake it off, but I heard the desperation in his voice and saw the way his left eye had begun to twitch. We didn't need him rattled for tonight. 

"Sorry I can't stay," I said to Lauralee. I hadn't quite told her about Frankie yet.

She waved a hand at me, as if to say
no big deal,
and went to her kitchen table to grab a large brown sack. "I'm always glad to see you." She proceeded to load fresh bread and tubs of pulled pork into the bag. "You going right home?" she asked casually. 

"No. Ellis needs my help."

She didn't approve any more than Melody did, but so far, Lauralee had kept her concerns to herself. She took out the pork and added a brand-new jar of peanut butter and a jar of homemade jelly before pressing the bag into my hands. "Now you listen to me. The Wydells do well enough on their own." 

"Not this one," I told her, accepting the food. "It's going to be fine. I promise."

She gave me a long look. "Don't you be too sweet, at least when it comes to Ellis. You know I worry about you."

"I'll be careful," I said, heading out into the family room, past the fort-in-progress. Lauralee gave me another hug at the door before I walked out toward the car. Frankie hovered in the driveway. 

"It's about time," he said, when I stashed my bag in the back and slid into the driver's seat. "Now what do we do until ten?"

"That was my solution," I said, waving at Lauralee, who stood at the front door. "I suppose you've got a better idea?"

I glanced at my unfriendly ghost. And at the dashboard clock that read fifteen minutes after seven. 

It might not hurt to run past the library and take a peek. Ellis had said his shift started in the evening.

Most of Main Street stood empty, the storefronts lit with security lighting and only a few darkened vehicles parked in front of the vintage-style meters along either side of the street. Shops closed early on Sundays, if they opened at all. 

We turned right into the historic square, and after circling around the town founder's statue we drove slowly along the front of the library building. The first-floor windows blazed with light in sharp contrast to the darkened second and third floors. Police tape crisscrossed the front steps, held tight by the century-old iron lampposts with their glowing glass dome lights. 

"Don't look too welcoming," Frankie said as I slowed.

"Yes, but get a load of that." Ellis's squad car hunkered against the curb a little ways down. I didn't see any other parked cars on the square, not even at the town hall. "Let's do this early," I said, speeding up again. "It's not like we need to ghost-hunt only when it's super late and dark." 

Frankie leaned his arm through the closed window, catching his fingers on the cool autumn breeze. "It's like you want to take all the fun out of it."

I drove around back, looking for an inconspicuous place to park. "So did you ever haunt anything?"

"On a permanent basis?" he asked, eyeing the old library. "Nah. Too much of a commitment."

I found a parking spot behind the old Episcopal church next door. The single security light at the rear entrance buzzed, casting a weak yellow beam. I purposely pulled the car into the farthest back corner, under the canopy of a large oak tree. It would appear suspicious for me to return to the library when I had no business there. I didn't need my car giving me away.

The green monster didn't exactly blend.

I hurried to cross the parking lots, Frankie's urn clanking in my bag. This should be simple. I needed it to be. All we had to do was talk to the ghosts who were there when Darla was killed and get a lead from them, any kind of a clue as to who committed the crime. Or even better, a ghostly witness who could point us directly to the killer.

Then Ellis would feed it to Marshall. Once we had something for Marshall to latch onto, a real lead in the case, I could leave the rest of this to the police. Most importantly, poor Darla Grace would have justice.

It should be simple. It should be fine. Except when I approached the back door of the library, the place felt…foreboding. Actually, it was the area about ten feet in front of the door. An icy shiver drew up my spine as I edged past the spot. It was more than just cold. It was as if someone or some
thing
stood in the center, just beyond my sight. 

And even though it didn't communicate with words, I could tell in an instant it wanted me to leave. Now.

I gathered up my courage. Frankie hadn't even opened me up to the other side yet.

Ignore it.
I just needed to put one foot in front of the other. This should be the easy part. Walking to the door. 

With a sigh, I edged all the way around the anomaly in the parking lot and approached the same back door Melody and I had used when we discovered the body this morning. It was locked, which didn't surprise me. This was a crime scene.

I could dial Ellis on my cell phone and ask him to let us in, but if things went wrong and I got into some sort of trouble, he'd need to look like my impartial, unlikely ally, not the guy I called at night. I could ask Frankie to handle the entire job for me, but he wasn't very friendly, or diplomatic…or reliable for that matter.

I turned to Frankie. "Can you go make sure the street out front is still deserted?"

"We breaking in?" he asked, with a little too much relish for my taste.

"No," I said quickly. "But Ellis will probably be near those front doors. In fact, you might even want to take a peek. If we can get his attention, maybe he'll let us in early." 

"Spoilsport," the gangster said. But he disappeared, so I assumed he went off to do as I'd asked.

That left me standing by myself in the darkened parking lot. 

A frigid gust of air seized me. Dead leaves swirled at my feet, prickling my legs. All normal for fall. Or for a haunting. My heart thudded and I had the overwhelming urge to run.

Screw it. Frankie would find me even if I didn't wait.

I took off, sticking to the shadows of the building, afraid to look behind me to see what might follow. 

Whatever lingered back there felt dead. It couldn't hurt me. I was safe from the not-so-happily departed when I wasn't using Frankie's powers to reach the other side. 

Of course, that was exactly what I planned to do.

I stumbled over the uneven grassy ground, relieved that the air on the side of the building felt warmer. My foot hit another dip and my ankle twinged. I risked a glance behind me and saw only darkness. It could have hidden anything.

"Okay," I said, voice shaky, my arms and legs weak with fright as I made it to the last remaining deep shadow before reaching the lights at the front of the building. I planted my back against the rough, hard limestone and waited.

"Verity," hissed a disembodied voice, right in my ear.

I shot off the wall, stumbled. "What do you want?"

"Oh, I could go for a nice steak dinner, a ritzy babe on my arm"—Frankie appeared in front of me, stroking his chin—"some bathtub gin with a dash of absinthe, and maybe a fresh pack of smokes."