southern ghost hunters 01 - southern spirits Read online

  There had to be a way out of this.

  Lucy snuggled up to me and tried to climb my leg to get closer.

  "You want to help?" I asked making sure I reached clear of Lucy as I dumped the contents of the vase over Grandma's rose bushes. She gave the little pile a sniff and sneezed.

  "You said it." The dirt was loose and dry, which I was glad to see. I'd heard that sort of thing was good for the roots.

  It certainly couldn't hurt.

  When the last of the fine dust had settled down out of the air, I hosed out the vase and poured the water on the roses. They needed it. I'd been neglecting them lately.

  "How do you like that?" I asked my climbing vines.

  A chilly breeze whipped straight up my spine and shot goose bumps down my arms. It startled me, and I dropped the vase. Lucy darted away.

  "Nice work, butterfingers," I mumbled to myself, retrieving it. I spotted a stubborn patch of dirt down in the base and rinsed it out again, but the stuff wouldn't budge.

  The rose bushes shuddered. It had to be the wind, but this time, I didn't feel it.

  For the first time, I felt uncomfortable in my grandmother's garden.

  It was a strange feeling, and an unwelcome one at that. "It's getting late," I told myself, as if that would explain it.

  Quick as I could, I reached for the rose snippers I kept under the hose. I cut a full red bloom, with a stem as thick as my finger, and popped it into the vase with a dash of water. Then I hurried back toward the house, careful not to spill a drop.

  "Lucy," I called, half-wondering if the skunk wasn't the source of the strange rustling in the rose bushes behind me. "Come on, girl."

  She came running from her hiding place under the porch. Something had scared her, too.

  The house had never been what you'd call ordinary. We had fish in the pond, each one big as a cat; more often than not, I found fireflies in the attic.

  But this was unusual, even for my ancestral home. I didn't like it at all.

  Especially when the windows rattled.

  "What the hey, girl?" I asked Lucy. And myself.

  She turned around and headed back under the porch. Darn it all. She tended to snuggle under my covers at night and I didn't want her all dirty.

  You have no idea how hard it is to give a skunk a bath.

  A low creaking came from inside the house. The hair on my arms stood on end. Perhaps Lucy was the smart one after all. Unfortunately, there wasn't room under the porch for me.

  Instead, I took the steps slowly and crossed the threshold into the darkened kitchen.

  My eyes strained against the shadows. Not for the first time, I wished I'd kept at least one light. With shaking fingers, I lit the big, orange, three-wicked candle I'd been using for the last few days.

  The house stood still, quiet as a grave. Almost as if it were waiting.

  "Is it you, Grandma?" I asked on a whisper. "Are you mad I'm selling?"

  If she'd been watching down on me at all—and I knew she did—Grandma would understand I'd been given no choice in the matter.

  "Oh no," said a ghostly male voice. "You're staying put, sweetheart." With shock and horror, I realized it was coming from the vase. I dropped it.

  The door slammed closed behind me. The bolt clicked, locking on its own as the vase spun and rattled to a stop on the floor.

  A chill swept the room. I retreated until my back hit solid wood. I'd never seen a ghost or heard a ghost although I watched Ghost Adventures on television and I certainly believed in them and sweet Jesus I was trapped.

  I couldn't feel my fingers, or my limbs for that matter. My entire body had gone ice cold. "What do you want?" I asked, voice shaking. Seeing as I hadn't dropped dead on the spot from a heart attack, this had better well be my salvation. "Why are you here?"

  The voice laughed, as if it were honest-to-God amused. "I'm here because you chiseled me, princess."

  Chapter Two

  I had no idea what that meant, but by his tone, I knew he wasn't about to thank me. I had to escape. Run.

  But I couldn't go anywhere. A frigid chill radiated from the vase in front of me. I pressed against the locked door at my back, my skin slick with sweat and fear.

  I tried to stay calm, be rational. But there was no way I could reason my way out of this. Okay, then, think. Grandma always said she talked to spirits, that it was a southern thing. But I'd certainly never seen her do it. Or heard them answer.

  I blurted the first thing that came to mind. "I'll return your vase to the Wydells. Tonight. You'll be there before you know it." Back to the grave, or at least back home. Isn't that what ghosts usually wanted?

  A blanket of fog descended over me. My skin erupted with icy pinpricks. A disembodied voice spoke directly over my right ear. "We've got a bigger problem than that, babe."

  "No, you've got a bigger problem." I screwed up my courage, forced my voice to steady. "Leave," I commanded. "I order you from this home. Now."

  He chuckled low, right next to my ear. "Don't you think that's a little dramatic?"

  Flames shot up from the candle next to me, from the fat candles by the stove, from my little tea lights on the windowsills. "You think I'm dramatic?" I choked.

  A specter shimmered into view directly in front of me. He appeared in black and white, but I could see through him. Almost. He wore a 1920's-style pin stripe suit coat with matching cuffed trousers and a fat tie. His chest was level to my line of sight, which made him unnaturally tall.

  The blood froze in my veins as I forced myself to look up. He had a long face with a sharp nose, which made him appear utterly ruthless.

  He softened a bit when he let out a long sigh.

  I mashed my back flat against the locked door. He casually removed his white Panama hat and I gasped at the neat, round bullet hole in his forehead. He motioned toward it with one edge of the brim. "Hard to miss, right?"

  I didn't know what to say to that as he fingered the broad black band of his hat. Perhaps I'd take the polite approach and pretend I didn't notice the large hole placed squarely an inch above his eyes. I really had to stop staring. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

  "For what?" he asked, shooting me a scowl. "For dumping my ashes out onto your rose bushes?"

  A new horror bubbled up inside me. "Those were…" Oh my God. "I had no idea."

  He cocked his head to the side. "Are you sorry for trapping my spirit on your property?"

  My throat went dry. "Is that what I did?"

  He thrust his hat on. "This is worse than getting shot in the head," he grumbled.

  He began to pace.

  I stayed exactly where I was. "I suppose you would know," I ventured.

  He reared back as if I'd slapped him. "Is that supposed to be funny?"

  "No. Never." Just…terribly inconvenient. I didn't know what else to say. How does one have a polite conversation with someone so tragically deceased?

  He adjusted his shoulders, and shoved them back. "Nobody brunos with me. You hear? You know who I am? I'm Frankie the German. Men fear me. Women want me."

  I hated to get picky with the ghost who'd cornered me in my kitchen, but, "Shouldn't you be in Chicago or something?" Isn't that where the gangsters lived?

  He scoffed. "Let the Italians have Chicago. The South belongs to the Germans. And the flipping Harps," he reluctantly added.

  "Who?" I asked.

  "The Irish," he groused.

  "That sounds reasonable," I managed. I didn't know what to do. I was used to fainting widows and shrieking southern belles. Not real live—make that dead—gangsters. He was a criminal. Someone had seen fit to shoot him between the eyes, for heaven's sake.

  I didn't know what this man, this ghost, was capable of. Obviously, he was used to violence. I shoved back my fear enough to ask, "Are you going to hurt me?"

  He jerked his shoulders at the thought. "I don't do damage to skirts," he snapped, as if the mere idea offended him.

  I wasn't sure I believed him.
r />   "Listen, doll," Frankie said, his tone softening a hair. "When your great-uncle so-and-so dies, there's a reason you scatter his ashes. You scatter," he said, making a motion like he was feeding birds or something. "You let them catch the wind. You give the spirit freedom if he wants it." His voice grew tight. "You don't dump them all in one spot and then stomp on 'em," he added, fingers clenching.

  "I didn't stomp," I pointed out.

  He shot me a dirty look. "You've got to move your rear and get those ashes out of the dirt."

  "I can't," I said, wincing. "I hosed them into the ground."

  He huffed, as if physics were a mere technicality. "Well un-hose 'em. I'm on you like a tick until you fix this."

  That was impossible. "You don't understand. I'm sorry this happened, but there's nothing I can do about it now." I couldn't bend the laws of science and nature. Not even for an angry ghost.

  He retreated to my grandmother's oak center island. It was bolted down or it would have been gone with the rest of the furniture. "I got time." He said it like a threat, running a hand over the countertop, as if he could actually feel it. Heck, maybe he could.

  "Yes, well I don't. This house goes on sale tomorrow." A familiar knot tightened in my stomach. No doubt it would sell fast.

  He slammed a fist down onto the butcher block. "You're not going to ground me here and then sell."

  "I will unless I can find twenty thousand dollars by the end of the week," I snapped back.

  I'd asked my family. I'd asked my friends. Nobody could spare that much. We had a lot of pride down here in these parts, but it didn't always come with lot of money. I'd even applied for a bank loan. They took one look at my student debt and turned me down. It was hopeless.

  The ghost crossed his arms over his chest. "Twenty grand, huh?"

  Maybe now he'd see how impossible it was and scram. "My ex-fiancé, who gave me your urn by the way, sued me for that and a lot more after The Incident." I crossed my arms over my chest. "Although how Beau Wydell came across your urn" —and gave it to me as a gift, the rat—"I'll never know."

  The gangster sat on my Grandma's nice countertop, which would have earned him a whooping if either Grandma or Frankie were alive. "I'm his great, great uncle," he said, nonchalant.

  "That explains a lot," I muttered.

  The gangster shot me a look. "Damn. He must have done a number on you."

  "He cornered my sister in the hallway outside the bridal suite after our rehearsal dinner." I'd invited her to stay with me in the bridal suite on the eve of my wedding. She'd left to grab a bottle of wine and come back in tears. "He groped her, and he would have done a whole lot more if she hadn't kicked him in the balls."

  "I like your sister," Frankie concluded.

  I snorted. "I can't believe he managed to hide that side of himself until it was almost too late." When I'd confronted Beau, he tried to deny it. Then he said it was a mistake. That I'd have to deal. It wasn't as if I could call off the wedding.

  Little did he know.

  Frankie scooted to the edge of the counter. "Now listen up. 'Cause here's what we do," he said, clasping his hands in front of him, his elbows resting on his knees.

  "What we do?" I asked. I didn't recall teaming up with a dead gangster.

  "Oh?" He opened his hands. "So you have ideas?"

  "No," I said grudgingly.

  He scratched at his long, thin nose. "Okay, here's the deal. Old lady Hatcher's not-so-dearly departed husband came across some cash in 1965." He gave me a long look. "It's more than you need."

  My spine stiffened. He was talking about saving my house. Whatever he was about to suggest couldn't be good. Did I dare?

  "How did the money come about?" I absolutely refused to get involved in anything illegal.

  Frankie shrugged. "He bet his entire mortgage payment on a long-shot horse. The damn thing won. He hid the money on his property. Only he was an idiot and died right after he stashed it."

  I'd heard that last part of the story. Maisie Hatcher had dug up every tree, shrub, and flower patch in her backyard looking for the fortune her husband hid. "She swore there was money under one of the trees on her property. We always thought she was crazy."

  The corner of his mouth turned up. "It's not under a tree. It's hidden in a box with a tree carved on the top."

  Well, didn't that beat all? I strolled toward the ghost, feeling brave. Or maybe I needed to show him that I wasn't as scared anymore. "You'd think her husband could have left better directions."

  He shrugged. "Oskar Hatcher was an asshole. Still is."

  I cocked my head. "How do you know?"

  "He's behind you."

  The air left my body. I screeched and spun around fast, my heart jackhammering against my chest. I couldn't see anything in the dark. "Where is he?"

  Frankie's chuckle behind me sounded like gravel over rocks. "Your friend's right. You really are gullible."

  "You're such a jerk." A chill washed over me as the sweat on my body cooled. I turned back to him. "How long were you watching me?"

  He didn't buckle under my stare. "Don't flatter yourself. I spend most of my time picking up dames at the cemetery. Or I tool around, see who's manifesting." He grinned. "Those Johnny Rebs from the 12th Infantry throw a wicked poker game. And half of 'em don't know how to bluff." He stood taller. "I did stick around for the sale. I can't believe that crappy lawn furniture went before I did."

  He'd succeeded in wigging me out on about ten different levels. But now wasn't the time to think about it. I needed to channel my inner Scarlet O'Hara. I'd asked for a miracle and I'd gotten one…sort of. At least I'd been given one more chance, with money that was more or less clean. Abandoned, at least. "Okay, so we go to Maisie Hatcher's house," I began. "Wait. You can't leave here."

  He cocked his head. "I can if I'm with you."

  I stood surprised for a moment, and not in a good way. "Okay. We'll leave. We'll talk to Maisie," I said, thinking it through. "We certainly can't tell her you talked to Oskar."

  He popped down off the counter. "Of course not. We sneak onto the property. We take the money. Simple."

  I flinched as if he'd struck me. "I'm not going to rob her."

  "Technically, it's not her money," the ghost pointed out.

  I disagreed. It was her husband's win. Her property. "The poor woman's been searching for that treasure going on fifty years." I'd met Maisie several times through Grandma's church group, and I liked her. "She's an eccentric, and she doesn't have a lot in the bank."

  Frankie rolled his eyes. "Fine. We'll tell her you can dig up the cash if she gives you eighty percent."

  "No," I said quickly.

  He crossed his arms over his chest. "Sixty."

  "Forget it." My eye caught the shadows of candles dancing on the walls. "She might not even let us on her land. She's a recluse now."

  Frankie tossed up his arms. "Then what the heck are you going to do?"

  He stopped right in front of me. I stiffened my back and held my ground. "I'm not going to take advantage of an old woman." I had my integrity. And my pride. I thought for a moment. "I'll sneak onto the property, but only because we don't have a choice." It was for Maisie's own good. "Then if we find the money, we'll ask for a reward. Maybe Maisie will feel generous."

  "Oh, brother." He rolled his eyes. "You need to be more ruthless if you want to keep this place."

  I was tempted to point out exactly what being ruthless had gotten him, but I resisted. "I do just fine."

  He shook his head, as if my mere presence amused him. "It's amazing the world don't eat you alive."

  Sometimes it did, although I wasn't about to admit that to him. Not now.

  Despite it all, I had to believe that honesty would be rewarded. That if I lived my life doing the right thing, good fortune would come back to me. The alternative was unthinkable.

  "So are we really going to do this?" I asked, antsy down to my toes, trying to psych myself up. I'd never broken the law before
, unless you counted a speeding ticket or two. At least I was dressed for adventure. I still had on my Keds sneakers and a casual, purple sundress from a steamy day of cleaning and loading boxes. "I think it could actually work." I needed it to, desperately.

  An old woman would get her long-lost money, which would hopefully put her in a generous mood. And Frankie? Well, he'd still be trapped in my rose bushes, but we couldn't fix everything.

  "My plans always work," Frankie said, with the annoying self-assurance that had probably gotten him killed. Without meaning to, I glanced at his forehead, hidden by the brim of his panama hat. He caught my gaze. "Well," he corrected, "most of the time."

  I'd have to take his word for it. My nerves pulsed with excitement and something else…anticipation? I'd never done anything like this before, and I was surprised to find I wasn't exactly opposed to it. "If this is going to happen, it has to be tonight."

  Before the house showings tomorrow morning. Before I had time to think about how crazy this sounded.

  I jumped as the back door clicked open. With a loud creak, it swung wide.

  Frankie adjusted his hat and gestured toward the door. "After you, sweetheart." He lingered in the kitchen as I crossed out onto the porch. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

  I stopped and realized I'd breezed right by the vase I'd dropped on the floor.

  Urn. I corrected in my mind.

  I still couldn't believe I'd dumped out his urn.

  Slowly, I turned to face him. "So you can't leave with me unless I have your urn?" I was a little surprised at that. It's not like his ashes were in there anymore. Not that I was going to remind him.

  He frowned, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. "You didn't rinse all of me out."

  "Ah." I didn't know whether to be glad or sorry. "So if I don't have any of your ashes, you can't follow me."

  He shoved his hands into his pockets, not eager to admit anything. "I can drive you nuts while you're on your property, but otherwise… What part of 'grounding' don't you get?"