southern ghost hunters 02 - skeleton in the closet Read online

  "Of course you are." I knew exactly where this was going.

  "Come by after ten," he said, as if it were no big thing. "I'll let you in." Ellis might be a sexy, sweet paragon of justice, but even he had to see how ridiculous this sounded. "This is important," he stressed.

  Of course it was. A woman had died, and the police had no idea who killed her. "I know you want to follow up on every lead you can, but how are you even going to introduce any evidence I uncover?"

  "Leave that to me." He hesitated briefly before he said more. "Marshall is a solid officer, but he's never led a murder investigation. He's in over his head."

  "And you're going to help," I stated.

  "We are," he corrected. "Come on, Verity. It's a chance to use your powers for good."

  He had a point. "Why can't things just get back to normal?" I asked out loud. Everything had been so simple before.

  "I have a feeling it's going to get weirder before it gets better," he said, heading for the door. "Speaking of such, you may want to leave early. My brother is planning to drop by tonight with a ham pizza and a DVD of The Notebook."

  I about choked, and not just because I didn't like ham on my pizza. You'd think Beau would have realized that by now.

  "I did nothing to encourage him," I said quickly.

  Ellis hunkered down to pet Lucy, who had evidently decided he was a good catch and followed him to the door. She rubbed her face into his palm as he scratched her on the head. "I wouldn't be surprised if he stopped by the gas station for roses and massage oil."

  I cringed. "You know there's no way on this earth…"

  "He says you give a hell of a back rub," Ellis added, as my skunk gave him the kind of loving she usually reserved for fresh bananas.

  I had no idea what Beau thought he'd accomplish by showing up unannounced, but he wouldn't make it past my door. I wasn't about to let his grand fool attempt at reconciliation mess up my budding romance with his older brother.

  "Ellis, I'd rather sit in a locked room with fifty of Lucy's wild cousins than get back together with Beau." He had to believe that. "You know how stubborn your brother can be. He's not going to drop this until he can't ignore the fact that I've moved on." Then the horror of it hit me. "He might not stop until he knows about whatever is going on between you and me."

  Ellis's jaw ticked. "Is there something going on between you and me?" he asked, teasing, but not.

  A small laugh bubbled from me. Something going on? I hardly dared to hope. He was the most interesting man I'd met in a long time. And did I mention gorgeous?

  I wished I could have been the seductress in that moment, said something to draw him in and let him know how I felt. But I was still trying to figure it out myself. It was bad enough to be the crazy girl in town, the fool who ruined her own wedding day. Did I really need to be known as the girl who started seriously dating her ex-fiancé's brother?

  Then again, it wasn't fair to let Beau keep ruining my chance at happiness.

  I hesitated before reaching out and touching the handsome officer on the arm. "You have a murder to investigate. I'll talk to Frankie about tonight."

  He posture relaxed and he shifted, his hands buried in his pockets. He glanced past me, as if he was looking at something else. "Where is Frankie?"

  "Probably still outside. Overseeing our experiment. I'll find him." And hope he was in a good mood.

  Ellis gave a sharp nod. "Thanks." He started to leave, but then stopped suddenly to give me a quick, almost guilty kiss on the cheek. "I'll see you soon."

  I watched him go, wishing I could say something to make things right, but unable to imagine what that could be. As his squad car bounced down the gravel driveway, I sighed and closed the door.

  "You two are precious," a voice crooned behind me.

  "We are something," I said, turning to find Frankie hovering next to my kitchen island. I wasn't even mad at him for spying. Just the opposite. I needed him to reinstate my ghost-seeing skills, but I didn't want to ask directly. Allowing me into the world of ghosts took a lot of energy, and Frankie wasn't what you'd call a giver. "Did you hear what's going on?"

  He shrugged a shoulder. "The gist. You want to use my powers while you moon over some cop. You want me to show you the other side, when there ain't nothing in it for us."

  He must not have heard right. "We'd be helping a murder investigation."

  He rolled his eyes. "Pfft."

  I was wrong. He'd heard right. He just didn't care.

  "It'd get you out of the house," I told him.

  "So will a kiddie pool and a few aquarium nets." Frankie glided straight through the kitchen island. "The library ain't what I had in mind."

  "Look, a woman was killed," I said, appealing to his sense of right and wrong. "You know what that's like." He'd refused to tell me much about his death, or who murdered him, but I knew it weighed on him. This was his chance to help someone else avoid that kind of pain.

  He took off his hat. "There's no money in it," he said, looking up as if invoking the heavens. "You never go after the money." He shoved his hat back on his head. "It's the first rule when striking a deal. If you're gonna rake me over the coals, we need to benefit."

  I didn't want to be some mobster protégé. "You are not my life coach."

  "Your what?" Frankie gave a funny squint. "Don't matter," he said, shaking it off. "Tell you what. We'll start off small. Ask for a few hundred bucks, buy yourself a decent place for your skunk to hide. Maybe buy her some blueberries."

  Blueberries were too expensive. Bananas worked fine. And leave it to Frankie to show consideration for the one creature who couldn't care less for him.

  "I'm doing okay. Lucy too." Well, maybe not Lucy. She'd wedged herself back under the covers pretty good.

  "She don't like me," the ghost said. I could tell he was bothered by it. "Why don't she like me? I didn't do nothin'."

  "I know." They say animals are good judges of character, but in Frankie's case…well, it could be that. But it could also be because ghosts scared wildlife like Lucy. "Look, I don't need to ask for money. My graphic design business should take off any day now. I have a lot of work samples out to local merchants." They were bound to forget about my public shaming and hire me eventually. In the meantime, I'd do what was right. But Frankie had to know; he needed to understand. "My real business is art. I'm not a ghost hunter."

  "We agree on that," he said, hovering near my skunk. She grunted and buried herself deeper under the covers. Frankie sighed. "We can't keep doing this."

  True. It cost him every time I borrowed his powers, and it wasn't doing anything for my home life, either.

  "We won't," I told him. "For all we know, you might be free tomorrow." Although I highly doubted it. "You need to do something while the dirt separates outside."

  He shoved his hands into his pockets, making lumps. "What if that doesn't work?"

  It was the first time he'd expressed any doubt. I tamped down a twinge of sympathy. I knew he wouldn't want that from me. "If our first try doesn't free you, then we'll try again. And while we work on that, I'll take you out. We'll go someplace fun."

  "One with dames," Frankie said. "Blondes with nice stems."

  "Deal," I promised, wondering where that might be. Perhaps he'd enjoy a trip to the farmers' market to look at flowers. But I wouldn't dwell on that right now. I had enough worries about what we'd find in the library.

  Chapter Four

  WE PREPARED TO leave early so I could be out of my house before Romeo Beau showed up. I'd bathed and changed into my dress with the blue hydrangeas and the white trim. This one was terribly out of season. I'd have to run by the thrift store soon for something more fall-like. But I'd cleaned and pressed it nice, and it would have to do for this evening.

  I secured the front door of the house and stood in the kitchen giving my bag a final check.

  "What am I missing?" I had a flashlight, my phone, a granola bar, and Frankie's urn.

  I rubbed my
thumb on one of the square-cut green stones circling the flare at the top of the urn. It had started to come loose after our last adventure, so I used superglue to stick it back on. It seemed tight enough now.

  "You didn't have to tape the top shut," Frankie groused, leaning over me to look into the bag.

  "Oh, yes, I did. We don't want to lose any more of your ashes." There wasn't much of Frankie left. Most of him was under the rosebushes, and now hopefully in the kiddie pool. Still, if we didn't keep a least a little bit of Frankie in that urn, he wouldn't be able to leave the house. He'd be stuck in my rosebushes for eternity. "Urns have lids for a reason."

  If anything, it could use even more masking tape at the top. Burial displays aren't designed to be toted around all over town. Frankie's especially. I hated to admit it, even to myself, but his final resting place didn't appear to be put together very well. The copper felt thin. A healthy dent already gouged the lower half. I owed it to him to keep it as clean and presentable as possible.

  "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 lea
ving," 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.