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

  Southern Bred and Dead

  Angie Fox

  Contents

  Also by Angie Fox

  Prologue

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  About the Author

  Also by Angie Fox

  Also by Angie Fox

  Keep track of Angie's new book releases by receiving an email on release day. It's fast and easy to sign up for new release updates.

  The following Angie Fox titles are also available in print format.

  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 Mint Julep Murders

  The Ghost of Christmas Past

  Southern Bred and Dead

  The Haunted Homecoming

  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

  SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS:

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

  Verity Long would really like a day off. Between uncovering the culprit who capped her gangster ghost housemate and dodging the bomb her boyfriend just dropped on their relationship, her spiritual calling has gotten complicated. But when she steps out for a little fun at a church fundraiser, she has another mystery on her hands when a family friend plunges from the bell tower.

  With her pet skunk and a spectral mobster buddy in tow, Verity charges back into the world of furious phantoms. But as she follows a shocking trail of clues through a dangerous speakeasy, a possessed movie theatre, and a spooky mob safehouse, she could end up sleeping with the ghostly fishes.

  Can Verity lay everything to rest before a mysterious murderer reads her last rites?

  Chapter One

  It isn’t every day you walk into the parlor and find a skunk in your purse. But there she was, nestled in the pink leather bag my sister had lent me this morning. My skunk snuggled in so tightly that the side of the bag smushed up the fur on her face and sent one ear poking sideways in a manner that made me want to smooth it down and tell her she was adorable.

  Still, I was raising her to be polite, and this just wouldn’t do.

  “Lucille Désirée Long,” I said, using her full name to let her know I was serious. Truly, she owned a perfectly good bed, a brand-new one my boyfriend Ellis bought as a present for her. It was pink and white and fit for a Disney princess, complete with a canopy. “You should try to sleep in your fancy bed.”

  The little skunk leveled an appraising eye in my direction before she closed them both and snuggled deeper into the purse.

  She was a Southern girl, which meant she had a stubborn streak.

  My heels clicked on the hardwood as I approached her to deliver the sad truth. “Taking a nap in my handbag won’t keep me from leaving.” I was due at a somewhat dressy gathering, and it wouldn’t do to arrive with a skunk in my purse. At least not today in front of the ladies from the Sugarland Heritage Society.

  Lucy flicked her bushy white-striped tail and wedged it into the bag with the rest of her. Poor thing. I smoothed the flowing skirt of my magnolia-patterned dress and crouched down in front of my skunk-in-a-purse. “You know I’d take you along if I could.”

  She twitched her nose but made no move to leave the bag. I leaned in to stroke her on the head, my thumb skimming the little stripe of white between her eyes. “How about you come out of there, and we can have a Cinnamon Banana Skunk Crumble before I leave?”

  Lucy’s ears perked up and she lunged forward, dragging the purse with her a few feet. That didn’t last long before she gave it a kick with her back foot and sent the bag spinning across the floor without a second thought.

  Her little claws pitter-pattered as she about ran me over on her way to the kitchen. Not that I could blame her. Cinnamon Banana Skunk Crumbles were heaven on a plate. They were also the perfect way to slip Lucy some extra vitamins. I’d gotten the recipe online from a skunk owner in Alabama, and yes, I’d tried them. They’d smelled so amazing when I’d taken the cookie sheets out of the oven, I couldn’t resist a nibble.

  “Here you go, sweetie,” I said, drawing one out of the cookie jar on my kitchen island, grinning at my little girl as she snorted and danced in circles. She whipped the treat from my outstretched hand like she was afraid I’d eat it myself and dashed straight for her princess bed.

  “Look at you, trying out your bed!” I said, savoring the small victory.

  A distinct chill seeped through the air, and I suddenly understood why my skunk had sought out a safe place.

  We were about to have company.

  Lucy hunkered over her treat, her gaze fixed on the empty space she’d just vacated.

  My pet had strong opinions about the ghost of the 1920s gangster who haunted our property. Frankie “The German” was a particularly cantankerous spirit Lucy snubbed on a good day and outright feared on a bad one.

  He shimmered into view decked out in the clothes he’d died in—a depression-era gray pinstripe suit over a white French-cuffed shirt. He wore a white Panama hat pulled low to hide the bullet hole smack in the middle of his forehead. It was the shot that had killed him, and he was sensitive about it.

  Today, Frankie also wielded an ugly black tommy gun in one hand, his finger poised on the trigger.

  “Ohmyheavens, no,” I exclaimed. It was one thing to belong to a ghostly criminal syndicate, but it was quite another to bring his work home with him. “You are not allowed to bring that gun into my house.”

  He gave me a long look, his lip twitching into a snarl under his hooklike nose. To my relief, he held the weapon out and let it dissolve into nothingness. “You do realize I’m packing heat every day,” he said, not at all contrite. “I have a shoulder holster, a belt holster, a sock holster. If I could put a Luger in my underwear, I’d do it.”

  “A pistol in your pants would certainly get you some attention from the ladies,” I reasoned.

  The tips of his ears reddened. “Anyone ever tell you to mind your manners?” he asked, watching me retrieve the purse from the floor.

  Not that I recalled.

  “You scared Lucy,” I said, plunking the purse onto my kitchen island and gesturing to the skunk, wh
o kept one eye on the ghost while hunting for cinnamon treat crumbs in the tufted pillows of her bed.

  “You’re scaring me,” Frankie countered, giving me the once-over as I fished a lipstick from the bottom of the purse and applied a coat of Revlon Fire & Ice. “Heels and a dress? You said you’d take me on a manhunt today.”

  “I certainly did,” I assured him before rubbing my lips together then adding a coat of gloss. I always kept my promises.

  “I didn’t mean the blonde-bombshell type of manhunt,” he clarified.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said, tossing the gloss into the bag.

  Frankie not only lived here; he was stuck on my property. Or as he would put it, “unavoidably detained.” I’d grounded his spirit to my land, quite unintentionally, and he couldn’t leave unless I took his burial urn off the property with me.

  It wasn’t always fun for either of us.

  “This,” I said, smoothing the blooming magnolias at my waist, “is my going-out dress.” I directed a firm, yet reassuring smile at the frowning ghost. “I told you last night, I’ll be more than happy to drive you to meet your mafia buddies.” He couldn’t exactly take off without me, and I owed him some sort of afterlife. “I’ll even read a book in the car while you stake out that other gang’s speakeasy, but you said yourself the raid doesn’t start until dusk, and it’s barely noon. We have plenty of time to go to the Sugarland Heritage Society fundraiser first.”

  His eyes bugged. “I thought you were joking.”

  Hardly. “I assure you the yearly church fundraiser is a serious responsibility. It’s the only thing that keeps the doors open at the Three Angels of the Tabernacle Blessed Reform Church of Sugarland. They barely have a congregation anymore.”

  “That’s because nothing good ever happens at the Three Angels,” he warned.

  “This fundraiser is good,” I countered. “The work they do in the community is good.”

  He ran a hand over his face. “Can you for once, just once, stop trying to boost up every cause, charity, fundraiser, man, woman, child, circus, and stray dog in town?”

  “Sure,” I said sweetly, “but then I’d be sitting at home tonight reading a book instead of helping you.”

  He shot me a withering look. He was in such a mood today.

  I moved Lucy’s skunk treats to the cabinet lest she be tempted to scale the kitchen island in my absence. “Jorie Davis called last night,” I said, changing the subject, hoping it would help. “Jorie was very close friends with my late grandmother. I believe they met in grammar school.” He ran a hand down his face, and I tried to deliver the happy news over his groan. “Jorie is moving to a suite in the old Sugarland Grand Hotel on the north side of town. They’ve turned the whole place into luxury senior apartments. I hear it’s amazing. Anyhow, while she was cleaning out her bungalow, she found a few things of my grandmother’s she’d like to give me. She’s bringing them to the fundraiser.”

  Frankie looked to the ceiling. “Just shoot me now.”

  “Someone already did,” I said, with a pointed glance toward the jagged bullet hole in his forehead.

  He caught me looking and quickly straightened his hat. “All I ask is for one simple clip on a gin joint, and instead you have to drag me to a church ladies’ event and remind me about my death.”

  Heavens. His raid would go much better if he could relax and shake that awful mood. Although I didn’t think telling him so would help. I headed to the parlor to fetch his urn.

  “How about we get to the stakeout two hours early instead of six?” He’d still have a few hours to sulk and ruminate. I’d get my fundraiser in. Just as important, an afternoon’s diversion might give him a new perspective on his raid. “Keep an open mind,” I called. “I daresay you’ll enjoy visiting the historic church. There’s an old graveyard outside.”

  “I’m aware.” He stood in the arched entryway to the parlor, glaring at me.

  “You might make a new friend,” I added.

  Frankie reared back so fast you’d have thought I took his Popsicle and called him ugly. “What? Just because we’re all dead, I’m supposed to get along with random strangers?”

  Lucy leapt out of her bed near the doorway and toddled into the front room. She had no patience for ghostly sass.

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” I told him. Being dead was a very broad thing to have in common, but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t find something else to talk about. “Never mind.”

  Any other time, I might not have put up with his attitude, but I knew why the gangster had wound himself so tight. Today was a big day, and it had everything to do with that bullet hole in his forehead.

  Frankie had gone his entire afterlife not knowing who killed him. On our last adventure, we’d learned it had been Frankie’s own brother who had pulled the trigger.

  I couldn’t imagine his pain or his shock.

  Frankie hadn’t seen his brother, Lou, since the revelation, despite the fact they were in the same gang and ran with the same crowd. Lou had been lying low, avoiding a confrontation. But Frankie had learned the location of his brother’s hideout and would face him tonight.

  I lifted Frankie’s urn from underneath the rosebush I kept next to the mantel. The heirloom red had lived outside until that fateful day when I’d mistaken Frankie’s urn for a vase. I’d found the dusty old thing stashed in my attic, and it had been in need of a fine and thorough rinsing. So I’d taken a hose to it and washed the dirt—I mean his ashes—into the soil under my favorite rosebush.

  Of course, it was only after Frankie had appeared and scared me to death, I’d learned those ashes were his earthly remains and I’d mixed him in good. So I dug up the bush and the soil underneath and planted the entire kit and caboodle in an oversized plastic trash bin. Even better, I gave it a place of honor in my parlor. Frankie had been satisfied, mostly. Although he’d resisted my every attempt to replace the ugly trash can with a pretty painted pot or whimsical planter box.

  I held the urn over the trash can and carefully brushed the dirt from the bottom. “What are you going to say to your brother when you see him?” I asked quietly.

  Frankie stood silently for a long moment, motionless under the arched entryway to the parlor. The morning sun streamed through him.

  “I’m going to ask him why,” he said, his tone even, his eyes dead. “I’m not going to forgive him. I only want to know why he did it.”

  I clutched his urn to my chest, wishing I could make it better. “I realize this is hard.” In Frankie’s case, it was a big step for him to even talk about his death. “I know you don’t like to think about that night.”

  He cast an uncertain gaze at me, then down at the floor. “I think about it plenty, I just don’t tell you. Believe it or not, sometimes it’s better not to talk about every thought and emotion the second it enters your brain.”

  “It can be equally harmful to block things out,” I reminded him.

  “Not when it’s the kind of messed-up stuff I’m used to dealing with.” He raised his eyes, looking past me. “Just because I couldn’t remember doesn’t mean I didn’t care.” He ran a hand along the back of his neck. “I didn’t want to get my hopes up that we’d ever figure this out.”

  Yet we had.

  “And now I learn it was my brother.” Frankie sighed and dropped his hand. “I mean, things weren’t exactly sunshine and roses between Lou and me before we were dead. I hardly saw him.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “But now I know he’s avoiding me. So yeah, I kind of feel like shooting something.”

  “You have every right.” Except for the shooting part. But I wouldn’t win that debate.

  I closed the distance between us. “Try not to drive yourself crazy in the meantime.”

  “Too late,” he groused, retreating into the kitchen. “He’s my family—the only family I have left on this earth.” He paced the kitchen, walking straight through my kitchen island in the process. “And worse, what if I need to make budd
y-buddies with him in order to be free? What if I need to tie up the loose ends, you know?”

  Stars. I hadn’t considered it. “This could be afterlife changing.”

  “No pressure there.” He turned to face me.

  We’d been trying to free Frankie for more than a year now, and nothing else had worked. Our first attempt had been science-based—a middle-school lab experiment I’d found on YouTube. We used it to try to separate Frankie’s ashes from my garden soil. It had resulted in a mess, along with the trash can full of garden dirt and ashes, topped with a rosebush, that now resided in my parlor.

  We’d called in a psychic. She’d proceeded to give Frankie a complex he’d soothed by opening an illegal racetrack in my backyard.

  We’d attempted to reunite Frankie with the only thing he’d claimed to love: a long-lost favorite revolver. It had led to a gangland shoot-out I’d barely survived, and to the beat-up, empty revolver now gathering dust in the trash can under the rosebush.

  Yet he remained stuck.

  So we were working on a new theory. Frankie was so attached to his ashes and the life they represented that he’d created a sort of prison for himself. I hoped if he could come to terms with what had happened to him, if he could make peace with his sudden death, then maybe Frankie could be free.

  Making peace with his brother could be a huge part of it.

  I mean, Frankie had made an enormous step even deciding to pursue closure. He was growing as a person, although I wouldn’t tell him that. It would only upset him.