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

  “You can do this,” I assured him. “I’m here for you.”

  Frankie’s face hardened at my reassurance, and he pointed at me. “Don’t start.”

  And we were back to the ghost having trouble facing his feelings. He was going through some heavy emotions, but he didn’t have to face them alone. He needed to understand that.

  He had a hard time letting me or anyone—even his ghost girlfriend—help him cope. Just last week, I’d gotten him a book from the library on dealing with his emotions. I probably shouldn’t have pushed it on him, and I’d definitely made a mistake when I’d sat outside his shed and read it out loud to him. I’d thought it might help him understand what he was feeling.

  Until Frankie had insisted he didn’t have emotions.

  “I’m sorry if I’m doing this wrong, but I’ll do everything I can to support you,” I insisted. “I know I don’t always say the right thing, but I care,” I added when he clenched his jaw and stared at me. “And I know you’re hurting.”

  We’d been through too much together for him to shut down on me like this. Since he’d been trapped on my property, we’d learned he could lend me some of his ghostly power and I’d become a ghost hunter. Seeing the other side had become more than a career for me—it was a calling. Frankie had given me a new way to look at the world. That was about as intimate as you could get.

  As ghost hunters, Frankie and I were partners. I’d shown him that angry spirits weren’t necessarily bad spirits, just ones who needed to get over their hurt. He’d taught me that sometimes it’s better to bluff a little than to show the entire world your poker hand. I was still perfecting that one. Together, we’d talked our way into a Great Gatsby–era house party and had the time of our lives. We’d narrowly escaped, but, oh—it had been worth it.

  He could certainly count on me to listen to what he was going through.

  Frankie glanced behind him. “Enough talk.”

  But we still hadn’t worked anything out. “I know it makes you sad a lot of your friends won’t talk with you about your death,” I said, watching his eyes widen.

  He looked over his shoulder like the police were onto him. The air went cold, and goose bumps scattered across my skin. “Ix-nay on the death talk,” he gritted out.

  “But you told me that yourself last week when I made you do that worksheet,” I reminded him, watching his eyes bug out. Was that a sign of denial? I’d have to check the book. In any case, he had to talk about his feelings with someone—a safe person, like me. “Are you lonely?” I asked.

  “Who says I’m lonely!” he squawked as if he were being strangled.

  “See? This is what I’m talking about.” He needed to deal with his emotions, and he needed to know I cared. I’d listen to what he needed to say, no matter what. It was the least I could do.

  Living with me had separated him from the old gang. He couldn’t carouse unless I sat on a bench outside knitting. He couldn’t go on runs to Chicago unless I drove him, which was one thing I refused to do. Why, at one point, he’d tried to tunnel under the vault of the First Bank of Sugarland just to let off some steam.

  He deserved the kind of cheering that went with a bottle of wine and a bit of girl talk, although I didn’t think he’d go for it quite that way.

  “You have every right to be upset about your afterlife right now,” I assured him, rubbing a fresh scattering of goose bumps from my arms.

  Frankie tended to use cold spots to express his discomfort. We must be really digging deep.

  “You’re making it worse,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “I’m helping you grow.” As long as he didn’t freeze me out of the room. His refusal to talk about his death had kept him trapped for years. It was time to move forward. “Your feelings are valid, and you should deconstruct them so you can process this.”

  Frankie glided straight at me as if I were tap-dancing on his last nerve. “I am going to die—again—unless you shut it.”

  “Would it kill you to let a friend help you find peace?” Dare I say we’d become friends over the course of our adventures. “Have you at least let yourself cry?”

  I met his jaw-clenched, bug-eyed stare. Then he said something I could barely hear through gritted teeth. “Some of the South Town Boys dropped by. They are right behind me, and they are listening to every word!”

  “Oh,” I managed before Frankie hit me with his power. The cold, wet sting of a thousand tiny pricks of energy radiated through my skin and settled in my bones. It doubled me over, stung me to the core.

  It never felt particularly pleasant, but when he did it without warning, it was worse. My teeth vibrated like I’d chomped down on tinfoil. As I recovered, a trio of gangsters shimmered into view behind Frankie, laughing.

  They poked each other with the butts of their tommy guns as they took turns doing impressions of Frankie crying, which wasn’t fair because Frankie hadn’t admitted to anything. Or gotten in touch much with his emotions. And so much for my rule about no machine guns in the house.

  “Don’t you dare make fun of him,” I said to the gangsters, shaking out my tingling hands. Frankie’s power vibrated all the way to my fingertips.

  “Can you please stop defending me?” Frankie said, his voice going high.

  “Frankie has feelings,” crooned a guy with a jagged scar running up his cheek and over his eye.

  “I wish I had a girl to cry with,” added a skinny guy riddled with bullet holes.

  “Go cry with your mother,” Frankie shot back half-heartedly.

  These jerks were probably the reason he was afraid to share. “You’d better watch it, or Frankie’s going to make you beg for mercy like he did that biker gang from Tulsa,” I said to his testosterone-soaked buddies.

  Frankie shot me a warning glance. “That’s enough, Verity.”

  But I had the guys’ attention. The least I could do was use it to help rebuild my friend’s gangster cred. I stood straighter, planting my hands on my hips. “Frankie was manly, very tough,” I said, making it up as I went. Frankie should be glad I was a solid friend who supported him instead of a person who would hold a grudge over an unwanted power transfer. “You should have seen Frankie in Tulsa. Karate chopping and all that,” I managed, giving the best demonstration I could come up with on the fly based on tough-as-nails movie heroes. Perhaps Charlie’s Angels wasn’t the best inspiration.

  The guys stared at me, Frankie included.

  “He whipped them single-handedly,” I added. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I was terrified.”

  “Enough,” Frankie ordered. He’d reverted back to gangster mode. “Meet me at the Lucky Dime at dusk,” he commanded the trio. “Bring extra ammo. Don’t shoot nobody unless I give the signal.” The wiseguys filed out of the house in front of us. “Tell anybody what you heard here, and I’ll use your eyeballs for fish bait,” he added after them.

  Frankie let them get out the door before leveling an accusing stare at me. “There are no gangsters in Tulsa.”

  “There could be,” I offered, hurrying to grab my purse. He was upset, and I certainly hadn’t helped. If he really needed to wait around with his friends, or even start his raid early, I’d skip my event. “We can go to the Lucky Dime now if it makes you feel better.”

  “Nah.” Frankie sighed wearily and adjusted his hat over the hole in his forehead. “I’d rather avoid those mugs until the job goes down, or I might be tempted to shoot a couple of ’em myself.” He looked at me appraisingly, almost amused. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but let’s go to the church fundraiser.”

  “Oh, let’s,” I said, with an enthusiasm that made him stiffen. Well, I couldn’t help it. The yearly event at the Three Angels of the Tabernacle Blessed Reform Church of Sugarland might be exactly what he needed to take his mind off his troubles. “You haven’t been to anything like it,” I promised.

  Chapter Two

  The Three Angels of the Tabernacle Blessed Reform Church of Sugarland stood ne
ar the north edge of town, past the town square and the old, established neighborhoods surrounding it.

  Gatherings of cows grazed with their calves in the pastures scattered along the highway as we exited on Jackson Boulevard and continued on, traveling past the Sugarland Fair grounds, which were no more than a gravel parking lot and a field this time of year.

  Despite the fact you could get almost anywhere in Sugarland in ten minutes, most folks considered this church too far out to bother. There were so many other places to find the Lord these days, with livelier congregations, choirs, potlucks, and bingo nights.

  That, and the place had kind of an odd feel. Every time I’d ever set foot on that property felt like a cloudy day.

  We came upon a deserted crossroads surrounded by green fields. Even though we were still somewhat close to town, this particular place felt like the edge of the earth.

  Despite the absence of any traffic for miles, I stopped because there was a sign, and that was the law. I ignored Frankie’s muttered plea to his maker.

  “It would do you good to learn a little patience,” I said, turning left at the crossroads after a thorough look in all directions.

  “You’re always talking about what other people need to learn,” Frankie said, sticking his arm straight through my window and flicking the ghostly ash from his cigarette with his thumb.

  “Dare I ask what you mean by that?” I countered, wishing the gangster were a bit more shy with his opinions.

  He took another drag. “You always want other people to look at life—or the afterlife—the way you do.”

  Wasn’t that human nature? We all had our blind spots. I’d keep an eye out, I vowed, as I caught the first glimpse of the church steeple past a copse of trees at the crest of a hill.

  The church was a gorgeous white clapboard structure, built in 1832. Sure, it had seen better days, I decided wistfully as we climbed the hill and reached the low iron gate surrounding the property. Layers upon layers of black paint clung to the spindles like moss.

  “I’m gonna cut your power,” Frankie announced.

  I gripped the wheel. The tingle of energy slid down my arms and legs as it left me. At least he’d been gentle about it this time. “Why’d you do that?” Not that I minded. I’d kind of forgotten I had it.

  Frankie stared at the approaching cemetery gates. “This business with Lou has me feeling zapped.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” I said. Ever since he’d fallen in love with a ghost named Molly, he’d had power to spare. I found myself doubly glad he’d be facing Lou tonight. “I appreciate you sharing your energy issues with me.”

  “Better than my other issues,” he smirked.

  Although the way he watched the cemetery gates as we passed made me wonder if he’d told the whole truth. I had a hunch we’d come across something he didn’t want me to see.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” Frankie murmured, drawing his arm back inside the car.

  “I’m not going to melt if you show me what’s lurking around in this place,” I reminded him. Truth be told, I was curious.

  “Nah. You’re here for happy times, remember?” he said, and I had the distinct impression he was mocking me. “I also need to save my energy for tonight.”

  “Good point.” I let it slide. I’d come here to relax, and Frankie could stand to take a break as well.

  At the same time, I tried not to think about the uneasy feeling trickling down my back. Perhaps I’d let Frankie’s anxiety rub off on me.

  The cemetery appeared serene enough. Weathered graves dotted with lichen leaned to-and-fro under a smattering of towering oaks.

  “Look at that,” I said, pointing up the long drive toward the historic gem of a church, trying to focus on the positive.

  Paint flaked from the white clapboard walls, but it didn’t mar the simple beauty of the modest rectangular main building or the small square reception area jutting from the front. The steeple rose front and center, and even from this distance I could see a woman waving excitedly from one of the tall windows at the top.

  “She’s going to fall out if she doesn’t watch it,” Frankie warned.

  “She’s excited,” I said, grinning at her enthusiasm. It was Kelli Kaiser, a woman I’d met while solving a murder at the Sugarland Heritage Society. She and her group of well-to-do friends volunteered for the heritage society mainly as a social outlet, but they did do a fine job, and that was all that mattered.

  “There’s a ghost behind her,” Frankie said. “From the shovel he’s hefting, I’d say he’s a gravedigger.”

  “Charming,” I said, chancing a wave back at Kelli, although she was probably too far away to notice.

  Kelli liked me because her archrival—the town matriarch, Virginia Wydell—did not. I’d been on Virginia’s list ever since I broke off my engagement to her youngest son. Then she’d gotten truly frosty when I started dating my current boyfriend, who also happened to be her middle son, Ellis. I had to admit it sounded a little reality-show crazy unless you knew the whole story. Maybe even then.

  No doubt Virginia lurked somewhere up ahead. I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.

  For the time being, I concentrated on what a blessing it was to do my part to preserve the nice things our ancestors had left in our care. I admired how each church window came to a point at the top, with trim painted the same green as the slanted roof. A craftsman had fashioned those windows by hand, every last one of them.

  “They don’t make buildings like this anymore,” I told Frankie as I slowed to navigate a series of potholes in the road. Maybe he’d be impressed when he saw the inside. “You should see the three angels carving behind the altar. We’re raising money to restore it. They’ve already redone the old bell tower, which is why Kelli is up there. We get to take tours today.”

  As if on cue, the bell rang, a long, low bong.

  “Ask not for whom the bell tolls,” Frankie said, his attention fixed on a spot on the side of the road. “Is that…Easy Eddie?” he marveled, leaning forward.

  “A friend of yours?” I asked, slowing down.

  “A politician. Always on the take,” he said, rubbernecking as we passed.

  “You should talk to him,” I said.

  “I have my standards.” Frankie scoffed.

  He did?

  “Ooh…” I strained to see what lay ahead. “It looks like they set up a tent with balloons next to the church. How festive!”

  “I thought I taught you how to party.” Frankie groaned.

  So much for him keeping an open mind. “You can either come with me, or you can find your own friends.” I cringed as the car lurched over a craterlike pothole. Tombstones rose on either side of us, some leaning precariously, others worn to stubs.

  “Huh,” Frankie said, doing a double take.

  “What do you see now?” I asked, slowing to a crawl. As much as I sometimes regretted having his power, I felt a little left out now that I didn’t have it.

  “That’s the shoeshine kid from Third Street.” Frankie said, rubbernecking. “He didn’t have folks. I always tipped extra.”

  “How sweet.” Maybe Frankie did have a heart.

  He grinned. “Davey saw everything that happened outside the Dubliner bar on Third. The Irish ran numbers out the side door.”

  Lovely. “Maybe Davey grew up to be a member of the Three Angels Church.”

  Frankie snorted. “If you didn’t keep an eye on him, that kid would steal your shoelaces.”

  People changed. “Go talk to him,” I pressed. “Or you could always go to the party tent with me and check out the balloons.”

  “I’m out of here,” Frankie said, passing straight through the car door.

  That had worked better than I’d hoped.

  It would do the gangster some good to reconnect with an acquaintance from the old neighborhood.

  My Cadillac lurched over another large pothole in the road. Yes, this place definitely needed a f
undraiser.

  I parked in one of the last spaces left in the lot, glad to see the event had drawn a crowd. Grabbing my bag, I fished past Frankie’s urn and located my donation envelope. It wasn’t as fat as some of the other envelopes would be, but it was generous for me. I sighed and put on my best smile. It would be fine.

  I made my way to the bustling tent at the side of the church.

  Several ladies clustered together, talking around a lemonade station decorated with a tablecloth and streamers. Nearby stood the cookie station—for show only. Most of these society ladies would rather eat a garden slug than touch a cookie.

  To the left of it all, nearest the church, stood a special round table topped with a vase full of pink and white lilies. There sat Emily Proctor, looking pretty as a peach next to the donation basket. She had gone to high school a year behind my mom and ran the Twinkle Toes Dance Studio, where I’d been a star pupil from age four to ten.

  “I do declare,” Emily said, her ruddy face beaming as I approached, “aren’t you just a diamond in a rhinestone world. Did you do something with your hair?”

  She would notice I’d added a sprig of baby’s breath to the barrettes holding it back. “This is from a bouquet Ellis brought over.”

  “Aww,” she clucked, “I’m so glad you found a good one, sweetie.”

  I smiled. “Me too.”

  I was pleased to see the basket on the table full to near bursting with envelopes, most of which had the names of the donors scrawled on the front.

  “Oh, I didn’t write my name,” I said, searching the table for a pen, as if that were my concern and not the icy breeze at my back, or the tickling sense someone was sneaking up behind me.

  I glanced over my shoulder, expecting Frankie, but I saw no one.

  “Oh, don’t bother printing your name on the outside,” Emily said. “It’s the richest ones showing off, making one hundred percent sure the pastor knows how charitable they are.” She leaned closer as I added my envelope to the stack. “Times like this, I really wish the Bible would let me judge.” Emily pushed past the unopened box of name tags—it wasn’t like anyone from Sugarland needed one—and picked up a roll of pink raffle tickets. “We’re also selling these today. You can win dinner with the very handsome and available Pastor Clemens. Hosted at the winner’s house. Only fifty dollars each.”