Sweet Tea and Spirits Page 9

  “I can hear you. I promise to listen.” I stepped past the mannequins, toward the back of the foyer, past the elegant otherworldly furniture groupings, to where a ghostly piano stood.

  I returned to the grisly scene. I didn’t understand it, but perhaps I could use it to my advantage.

  “This display looks terrible,” I said, to any soul who might be listening. “I think I’ll move it back to the way it should be.”

  I reached for the woman’s sprawled body, forcing myself to touch the garish twisted head. It was just a mannequin.

  Ignoring her vacant eyes, I snapped her head back into place. “All better,” I said, forcing a bit of cheer. “Now let’s put you back.”

  I lifted the body and said a quick prayer of thanks that it was more awkward than heavy. Chin up, shoulders straight, I began ferrying it back to the museum, hoping…what? That I’d stirred up an angry spirit?

  With a cringe, I admitted to myself that was exactly what I was doing—hauling a plastic murder victim in the hope that a real spirit would descend upon me in a closed, haunted museum.

  All in a day’s work, I reminded myself as I entered the narrow hallway leading to the museum. It felt narrower than before, darker.

  I pressed on. I’d been in haunted places before, and scarier ones at that. Today, I merely needed to find Julia’s death spot and perhaps a ghost or two who had seen the crime. It was encouraging to see that they were aware of what happened.

  Even if their display creeped me out.

  I pressed forward, despite the unsettling prickling sensation at the base of my neck.

  Bejeweled women watched me from painted portraits and an eerie chill prickled my bare arms.

  I lowered the mannequin and turned. “Hello?”

  The hallway behind me remained dark.

  The only light came from the gray glowing portrait at the very end of the row, the one with the dark-haired woman. I could swear her eyes followed me. She wore an intriguing necklace, with a scripted gold C linked between two strands of pearls.

  “Hello?” I asked.

  She didn’t speak, and I was glad, so very glad to step out into the small reception area. Heart pounding, I approached the white stone bust near the desk. But her face remained stony.

  Within minutes, I had arranged the mayor’s wife back on her stand. When I had her stable, I looked up to the corners of the room.

  If I were Julia, I’d have placed cameras up high, so that they had a good view of the room and wouldn’t be disturbed. I saw large unrepaired screw holes in three of the four corners, but no cameras. I searched further, then returned to those holes. The cameras had to have been there. It was the most logical placement, and I doubted the society ladies would tolerate long-standing damage to the house. Those holes must have been made recently. Julia had simply died before she could have them repaired.

  Darn it all. Those cameras might have come in handy.

  I’d simply have to rely on the ghosts and my own powers of observation.

  I returned for the figure of the mayor and the rest of the collection. No spirits stopped me, which I found exceedingly strange.

  Why go through all the trouble of creating an elaborate scene, only to watch me take it apart piece by piece?

  Out the window, I saw Larissa getting into the yellow BMW, with Constance at the wheel. They were leaving me, which was just as well. I didn’t need an audience.

  But inside the house? That was different. I could feel at least one set of eyes on me as I returned to work on the mannequins.

  No spirits interfered. Still, I remained braced for them, even as I finished my work. My fingers shook as I smoothed the netting on the widow’s veil.

  The ghosts had given up their scandalous display and turned their attention to the killing of Julia, showing her dead at the bottom of the stairs, with five witnesses.

  Perhaps the spirits were trying to tell me something. Had more than one person in the society wanted Julia dead?

  Truly, I didn’t know what to make of it.

  “Frankie?” I called, hoping to tap into his criminal mindset, but if the gangster heard me, he didn’t respond.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’d abandoned me as well. But I still had his power. I could tell from the silvery gray chandelier glowing overhead, its ghostly candles flickering in an invisible breeze.

  Maybe now that he was safe from Mick, he could hold his energy together long enough for me to at least find Julia’s death spot.

  A nondescript door crusted with several generations of white paint stood near the back of the room. I slipped past an antique spinning wheel and turned the crystal handle. I pushed it open with a grating creak.

  A butler’s pantry lay beyond, stuffed with boxes and shopping bags gathering dust. Beyond it, I saw a small kitchen in dire need of updating. The speckled Formica countertop housed an industrial coffeemaker, a half-dozen white plastic carafes, and a basket stuffed with apples and browning bananas.

  Tucked into the rear of the house, a steep back stairway led both up and down. And, while I’d much prefer to go up, my gut told me I’d most likely find Julia’s death spot if I ventured in the other direction.

  I reached into my bag and retrieved my keychain flashlight, keeping it close as I started down the sharp descent toward the basement. There was no door blocking the way, nothing separating me from the yawning blackness below. I shuddered as the air grew cooler and the scent of wet earth enveloped me.

  If there had been a light switch, I missed it. Rather than turn back and risk running headlong up the staircase and out into the sunny, light-filled yard, I flipped on my flashlight. It would help me see well enough. Besides, what I was truly searching for lay in another realm entirely.

  I stepped down onto a rough concrete floor, uneven and marred by brushstrokes, as if it had been hastily poured over the bedrock itself. Dozens of thick wood boards leaned up against the walls on both sides of me, creating a tunnel effect that forced me deeper into the gloom.

  My light hit a sign advertising the time the circus came to town for a fundraiser. I shifted the beam to the right and revealed a wild-eyed clown, tall as a man, his painted face grinning down at me. Lord almighty. I brought a hand to my chest. I’d never particularly liked clowns, even when they weren’t in creepy basements.

  I turned my back on the ghoulish figure and ventured further into the darkness. A metal bingo counter with wood balls loomed out of the shadows. It sat on top of a stack of boxes marked Casino Party and I had the fleeting thought that Frankie might actually like it down here.

  My light danced off the low ceiling, catching dust motes and the faint gray hue of the ghostly side. Nestled among cardboard boxes and tightly zipped covered clothing racks, ghostly wooden crates glowed with an unearthly pallor. I bent over one, hardly believing the label.

  * * *

  1847 Robertson’s Genuine Bourbon Cordial

  Harrison Co Kentucky

  * * *

  Next to it lay an open wooden crate labeled King’s Lane Champagne. A single corked bottle remained inside.

  “Heavens,” I whispered, noticing for the first time the image of earth underneath the boxes. I saw each room as the dominant ghost did, and right now I was squatting over the sharp outline of a freshly dug grave.

  I took a chance and touched the loose, soft gray earth piled near the foot of the grave, shivering as the icy touch of the other side invaded me.

  “Who are you?” I whispered, letting out a small yelp when an orb shot out of the dirt.

  The gray, swirling ball of light hovered over where the deceased’s head would be. It flickered as it floated a few feet off the ground, and I wondered if I’d startled it as much as it had startled me.

  “Hello,” I croaked, from my spot on the floor. I don’t think I could have stood up if I’d tried.

  It floated toward me, and I let it, my harsh breathing the only sound in the basement tomb. My heart fluttered as it drew close enough
for me to see the swirling darkness at its very center.

  My palms scraped against the harsh concrete floor, my legs and arms numb from the cold as the spectral ball of light halted near the tip of my nose.

  Then it darted to the side, surging straight past my ear.

  I whipped around, watching it zip toward the stairs.

  What the—?

  “Don’t leave,” I called, grabbing for my light. I at least needed to know whose grave that was.

  It shot up the stairwell while I dodged a clothing rack and knocked over a box of casino chips. My bag slid off my shoulder and I caught it on one elbow as I barreled after the spirit. This was the first ghost I’d managed to contact in this house and I wasn’t about to lose it.

  It fluttered at the top of the stairs, with me pounding up after it.

  “I’d love to meet you,” I called, watching it dip and float near the kitchen.

  The orb kept its distance, refusing to stay in one spot as it skirted past a narrow window and up the steep switchback stairs to the second floor. I kept pace, the blood pounding in my ears and my breath coming short.

  The stairs emptied into a hallway on the second floor and the orb halted just inside.

  I slowed, not wanting to scare it.

  “Molly Fletcher,” a woman’s voice echoed from the other end of the hall, “are you teasing that sweet lawyer again?”

  The orb giggled. “Not this time.” Her image lengthened into the gray, swirling shadow of a young woman.

  She didn’t appear afraid of me or ready to attack, which I appreciated.

  “I’m so glad to meet you, Molly,” I said, venturing up a step. “My name is Verity, and I’m from Sugarland, too.” At her lack of response, I quickly added, “I don’t know about that lawyer who is sweet on you, but I want to assure you I don’t make a habit of chasing young ladies up the stairs.”

  She laughed, her features coming into focus, and I recognized her as the attractive woman Frankie and I had seen in the window. She was even prettier in person, with a fresh, roundish face with an upturned nose and perfect bow lips like an old silent movie star.

  A disembodied head shimmered into view behind her, another young woman, with a dusting of freckles on her cheeks and light hair pulled back into a messy bun. “You’ve got to stop bringing people up here,” she hissed in her friend’s ear. “It’s not allowed.”

  “Pishposh,” Molly said as the rest of her body came into focus. She wore a black Civil War-era dress with lace detailing on the long sleeves and high neck. “This girl was about to step on my grave,” she said, more amused than put out. “Besides,” she said, sizing me up, “I didn’t know she could see me.”

  “Excuse me,” I said, clearing my throat, “why are you buried in the basement?”

  I might have stumbled upon a century-old murder, or even a long-dead serial killer preying on widows and orphans.

  “You try digging a grave in a February snowstorm,” Molly said, as if I’d offended her. “The girls did the best they could for me.”

  “She died on Valentine’s Day,” the light-haired ghost said before clapping a hand over her mouth. “Now you’ve got me talking to her.” Molly smiled, but the other woman appeared slightly terrified. She turned her attention on me. “Go away. Leave. Before Mother Mary finds you.”

  Molly gave a small sigh. “She doesn’t like us talking to strangers and she especially wouldn’t want us talking to the living. Surely you can understand that.”

  Not particularly, but we’d work it out. “I’ve heard of Mother Mary. She founded the home for widows and orphans,” I said, glad to finally know what was going on. At least mostly. Mother Mary might seem stern to her charges, but I was sure she had a heart of gold. “Everyone alive in Sugarland knows about this place, how the good widows and orphans of Sugarland lived here, finding shelter and friendship,” I added, making that last part up. But, truly, these two widows did seem to be friends. “This place is a landmark.”

  “You don’t say,” Molly beamed. “Did you hear that, Henrietta? We’re a respected landmark.”

  “We are something,” Henrietta remarked.

  But there was one thing I didn’t understand.

  “Do you have any orphans with you?” The child ghosts I’d met in my adventures had been some of the most openly curious spirits I’d ever encountered, yet they seemed strangely absent in a place built for them.

  “I was an orphan here,” Molly said. “My parents died in the war.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “That must have been awful.”

  She brought a hand to her throat and nodded. “I was so scared until I came to live under Mother Mary. Henrietta helped raise me.” She shot a grateful glance at her bodiless friend. “She didn’t have any children of her own.”

  “You don’t need to tell her our business,” Henrietta admonished.

  “If you won’t let me flirt with the nice lawyer, you can at least let me talk to a girl my own age,” Molly said, gliding straight toward me.

  “Well…” I began. I wasn’t exactly her age, seeing as she had to have died in the late 1800s.

  Molly glanced back at her friend, then focused on me once more. “I’ve never gone to dances. I’ve never taken a Sunday picnic.” She stopped by my side. “I’ve never even been in love.”

  “What a shame,” I said. Every girl should have that.

  “It’s overrated,” Henrietta groused.

  I gave Molly a wink. “It’s not,” I whispered.

  Molly hovered close enough to touch, close enough to see the subtle pain in her expression at Henrietta’s dismissal of her romantic hopes, and the spark of amusement at my response.

  “I’ve always fancied myself as a bit of a romantic,” she said, as if we were two girlfriends sharing a secret.

  “There’s nothing wrong with that,” I said. “When the right man comes along, you’ll know,” I promised. “You just can’t give up in the meantime.” It could be hard for all of us, but I’d seen ghosts find love just as I’d seen it happen for the living, breathing people I cared about.

  Henrietta grew a bit misty. “Sometimes I forget what you’ve missed,” she said reluctantly. “I had all of that. At least until John died.”

  “He was killed at Sharpsburg,” Molly supplied.

  Henrietta closed her eyes briefly. “We weren’t even married a year.” She schooled her expression. “But that’s behind us now. We raised the children. Most of them moved away. Molly stayed to help take care of the place.” I could tell she was proud. I was as well. Women like these had built Sugarland. I was honored to carry on their legacy.

  “I’m so grateful to you both. I don’t know if you realize, but this place means a lot to the people in Sugarland.”

  Molly positively beamed. “I knew it would someday.”

  Henrietta’s mouth tightened. She directed her gaze at me. “Are you making fun of us?”

  “Of course not,” I said, hoping she wasn’t about to shut me down. “Surely, you’ve seen the museum downstairs. People really care about you and your story.”

  Henrietta shot me a dubious look, but I pressed on. “Perhaps you can tell me who is rearranging the displays.”

  Molly’s surprise showed. “We don’t go into the museum unless we must.”

  “Too many memories.” Henrietta shuddered.

  Molly’s mouth twisted into a wry grin. “And last time, I ran into Father Flagherty. He likes to lecture.” She leaned close. “He thinks he knows everything,” she added, as if she were telling tales out of school. “I wouldn’t put it past him to rearrange your museum, either.”

  I doubted the display I’d seen was the work of a priest, but I wasn’t about to describe it to a widow and an innocent orphan. “Do you think Father Flagherty would talk to me?” I asked. “I’d like to ask him a few questions.”

  “Please don’t,” Henrietta said, retreating from the doorway. “You’ve said quite enough already.” She shot a pointed look at
Molly.

  Molly’s face fell. “She’s right. I’m sorry.” She sighed. “Goodbye,” she added, trailing after her friend.

  I couldn’t lose them now. “Wait! I’m only here to help,” I promised, stepping up to the second floor. “I’m looking for a death spot, one that belongs to a woman named Julia who worked as a volunteer here.”

  Molly stopped on the landing overlooking the foyer. She turned to me, her brow knit. “No one has died in this home in at least a century.”

  “I found a body at the bottom of the stairs last night,” I told her.

  Molly gasped and glanced over the edge, as if it would still be there.

  Henrietta wrinkled her brow. “It has nothing to do with us. Now leave before Mother Mary sees you up here.”

  “I can’t leave until I check this floor for death spots,” I said. It would have been easy enough for someone to kill Julia up here and then push her down the stairs.

  Before Henrietta could object again, I opened the first door and found a bedroom. A shimmering gray washstand and pitcher hunkered by the window. Next to it stood a narrow bed strewn with petticoats and a corset. Beaded necklaces and other trinkets hung from hooks over the bed.

  “You seriously think we would have failed to notice a death spot?” Henrietta asked, as if I’d taken leave of my senses.

  They’d missed the body last night. Or at least Molly had. I wasn’t so sure about Henrietta.

  “I need to see for myself,” I said, moving down the hall.

  Two more open bedrooms revealed the same, with the last one containing no jewelry or clothes—simply a long table with a society mailing in progress laid out in the middle of where the ghostly bed stood.

  Molly cleared her throat. “This is our home,” she began, “I don’t go into your home and open your doors, and…”

  “Snoop around,” Henrietta supplied.

  “It’s not like that, I promise,” I said to them both. Only they were sort of right. Darn it. “It’s just that a woman was killed last night. It’s up to me to discover where the crime happened.” I certainly couldn’t count on Detective Marshall.