Dead Man Talking

  Chapter 11

  Hightailing it down the stairwell, I sharply scrutinized every nook and cranny and tuned into my psychic senses. No other-dimensional entity made contact, not even Sir Gary. In the library, I caught my breath and tried to think. I’d never dealt with a recent ghost; they’d all been dead for years. Some of my ghosthunting friends had handled frantic calls from residents of a scene where a recent death had occurred, but I’d never been that lucky — or unlucky, considering the tales I’d heard about dealing with a confused newly-departed. Newly-dead ghosts were unsure of themselves, befuddled — and dangerous. Some didn’t even know whether they were dead or alive — or half of each, which made sense to a ghosthunter but not to the deceased.

  Inexperience demanded I call in a heavy-hitter; someone trustworthy, who’d been at this ghost business a lot longer. Once she’d been called to a friend’s residence. While the friend was on vacation, a prisoner escaped and holed up in the house. Police officers shot and killed the escapee when he came out, the deer rifle from the well-stocked gun case inside blazing. Seemed he would rather die immediately than return for trial and a possible seat on death row.

  But when the owner returned, the prisoner’s ghost stirred up havoc before he even got in the door. Ongoing havoc: books, lamps, a chair, and even kitchen knives thrown at him. He got a glimpse of his shotgun lifting off the gun case rack just before he withdrew with all due haste and called for help from the one person he knew who had a chance against the entity.

  Aunt Twila reasoned with the unhappy ghost for several hours. The key came when the ghost insisted he’d been wrongfully charged with murder and found a receptive ear. Twila convinced him that he was prolonging his punishment by staying on this side of the veil, and that since he was innocent, he’d be much happier enjoying his after-life on the other side of the light.

  I punched in all eleven numbers on the phone before realizing there was no dial tone. “Crap!" I grabbed my cell phone from the briefcase instead of reconnecting Katy’s phone. Agitation made it impossible to stick that little plastic do-hickey into the hole with the phone jack down on the floor baseboard. Besides, crouching down would leave my backside unprotected, and the glimpse I’d had in the hallway lingered. I sure as hell didn’t want that evil-looking entity materializing anywhere near me without my knowledge.

  “Hello, Alice." Caller ID, not Twila’s psychic abilities.

  “I need you! Urgently.”

  “At Esprit d’Chene,” she said. Now that was her psychic ability working, since she certainly couldn’t identify where I was calling from by my cell phone number. “But why me?”

  “Early this morning, Katy found a corpse in her pool,” I whispered. “Someone cut off the man’s head with Grandpere Jean’s sword." Sue Anne’s footsteps — heavier than Katy’s dainty ones — sounded on the stairwell, and I glanced over my shoulder. “The murdered man’s ghost is roaming around. And...he’s headless.”

  “Hmmm,” Twila mused as Sue Ann passed by the library door toward the kitchen. “Looking for his head, I suppose. He could be dangerous in that mode.”

  “What should I do until you get here?”

  “Keep away from him!” she stated emphatically.

  “Oh, sure. How the hell can I hide from a ghost? Or keep him away from the other people here? Katy’s out of sea salt, and I only brought one canister. This house is huge!”

  “Good point,” she reflected. “Use white light, the sea salt you do have, and...uh…do you by any chance have any asafetida?”

  My nose wrinkled. “As a matter of fact, Granny gave me a kernel before I left.”

  “Break it into enough pieces for everyone. That should work until I arrive.”

  “For Sue Ann and Gabe. But can you see Katy walking around smelling like asafetida?”

  “She has to do it,” Twila insisted. “I’ll bring some quince seed and soap, since I don’t imagine you have any of that.”

  “No,” I confirmed. “And . . ." I bit my lip, debating whether or not to discuss my other worry. But she’d pick up on it anyway, so I went on, “Katy could be a suspect in this murder.”

  “True,” Twila agreed. “So you’ll need to make sure the police do a proper investigation, not just blame their first suspect and go on to some other crime.”

  “Jack’s in charge.”

  “Good — my God, what’s happening?" Her voice dropped, hushed and apprehensive.

  “Nothing." But before my frantic gaze could search the room, the commotion broke loose. Darn, Twila was so much more experienced!

  Something crashed, then Sue Ann screamed, “God damn you, dog!”

  A second later, preceded by frenzied howls and growls, Trucker raced into the library. Miss Molly right behind him. Scattering the throw rugs in his path, Trucker skidded across the hardwood floor and bumped into the desk, his weight trembling even that staid old piece of furniture. Miss Molly whirled at the doorway, arched her back, and hissed.

  “It’s Bucky,” I whimpered to Twila.

  “Yes, I’m getting that name,” she reflected — all too damned calm, cool, and collected on her end of the phone, a thousand miles away from the disturbance. “I suggest you dig out everything you can think of in the protective vein, including several layers of white light. The soonest I can get there will be tomorrow. I’ll have to check the flights.”

  I calmed down a little, knowing professional help was on the way. “Jack’s ordered me to stay here and be available for the murder investigation,” I explained as I stroked Trucker’s head but roved my gaze around, watching, seeking. “But I don’t care whether you can get here faster by coming to Shreveport or Dallas. Let me know which. If I don’t answer, leave a message on my cell phone voice mail. I’ll meet your plane wherever.”

  “Will do. I should know something in fifteen minutes or so.”

  She hung up, and I replaced the cell phone in the briefcase before inching across the library floor. Miss Molly still sat at the door, but at least she’d stopped hissing. As I approached, she padded past me and sat by Trucker, who leaned against the desk as though drawing comfort from the wood after I abandoned him. I peered left down the hallway. Then right — and screeched and clutched the doorjamb. Sue Ann blinked deep brown eyes and shook her head. My cheeks flushed when I realized she held a broom, not a sword.

  “What’s the matter you?” she asked. “I was comin’ to tell you that dog of yours broke Miss Katy’s crystal bowl when he bumped his big hind end into the kitchen table. I’m gonna clean it up, but I’m fixin’ to keep the kitchen door shut. Don’t like no animals in my kitchen.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, relief overcoming hysteria. “But you can’t shut the door. Trucker needs free rein. We’re depending on him as a watch dog until they catch the killer.”

  “Oh." Sue Anne stared at my trembling watchdog. “If you say so, guess I can tolerate him. He eat scraps? Mebbe he wouldn’t be so hyper, he had a full belly.”

  “I give him scraps now and then,” I said inattentively as my eyes roamed and probed for a trace of the headless ghost — who was no doubt the reason for Miss Molly’s and Trucker’s agitation. “But strictly limited. His bowels get runny if I don’t regiment his diet.”

  Her nose wrinkled as though she’d caught a whiff of the asafetida in my briefcase.

  “Sue Ann? Do you believe in ghosts?”

  Her hand flew to a leather thong on her throat. “H-haints? You betcha." She tugged on the thong, and a flowered hanky emerged from her bodice. “Me an’ Gabe always keep the gris-gris bags we got from Gabe’s gramma with us — 'specially when we’re workin’ in one of these old houses. Lots of folks done come through here. And some ain’t in no hurry to move on.”

  “Let me give you some asafetida to add to your gris-gris bag.”

  She shook her head. “Gabe’s gramma told us not to mix our charms.”

  “All right,” I conceded, knowing the power of gris-gris from research. “But promise me that if you
r gris-gris bags don’t keep all of the...departed entities away — ”

  “They will,” she said with a grim nod.

  “Well, if they don’t, will you let me know?”

  “I can do that. Miss Katy tells me that you’re one of them folks like Gabe’s gramma. Them who can talk to those that’s gone on. You seen any ghosts around here?”

  “Maybe,” I hedged. “But just let me know if you do.”

  Sue Ann headed back toward the kitchen. Indecisive, I wondered whether to pursue finding Bucky or try to contact Sir Gary and see if he’d run across his companion yet. Bucky Wilson-Jones, Senator John Wilson-Jones’s second son, was now a disembodied, confused ghost, an entity in need of control. On top of that, when the police released information as to his identity, even more hell would break loose in both the media and among the locals.

  I’d met John Wilson-Jones a few times, at parties among our relatives in New Orleans and once at Esprit d’Chene, since he traveled the same social circles as Katy. A stereotypical politician, always “on,” always on the lookout for someone whom he could glad-hand favors with. Not that he hadn’t done a lot for Texas, but ever alert for whatever faction of his political supporters could benefit his career in return. Bucky had been the one fly in the ointment of the senator’s career, but he handled that by not hiding the fact he had a black-sheep son. Rather, he acknowledged Bucky as a blight and concentrated on his older son Jeremiah’s accomplishments, which gained him sympathy and many of his constituents’ votes. Rather like President Carter and his brother Billy. Personally, both Katy and I sympathized with John’s plight.

  Trucker yipped. Well, one decision made. Sir Gary stood beside the desk, stroking Trucker’s head. “It’s nearly eight,” he reminded me.

  “It’s only seven,” I corrected. “You must still be on Boston time.”

  He frowned, pulled out a shiny gold pocket watch from his trouser pocket, and clicked the boar’s head cover open. Amazed that his watch still kept time, I explained, “There are different time zones in the U.S. these days. Boston’s an hour ahead of Texas.”

  "How can that be? Why would people want the time to be different?”

  “It’s a long story. And I hate to have to do this to you, but I really don’t think I’m going to have time to talk to you tonight. At least, not about — ”

  “We have an appointment,” Sir Gary snapped. “I honored your wish to work on your novel. Now it is your turn to keep your part of our bargain and — ”

  “We don’t have a bargain! I came here for Katy, not you! Given your shenanigans, I was afraid she’d do something foolish and try to run you off on her own. And let me tell you something, Sir Garfield/Gary Gavin! It might take me a while, but I can force you out of Esprit d’Chene and keep you away for good if I want. You can wander around all by your lonesome until you find someone else to bug. How do you like them apples?”

  Them apples were something he evidently thought he should gnaw on, because he evaded my glower and stared out the window into the front yard. “I see. If you do, how will I ever find my way on my own?”

  I waved a nonchalant hand, although that stab of sympathy for him jabbed me. “You’ll probably run across some other ghosthunter somewhere. There are quite a few of us around.”

  “I don’t want someone else, I want you." He gazed at me, this time sincerely. “I’ve read enough to know that you are very knowledgeable in your field.”

  Flatterers can be like cats —

  “There’s people better. My Aunt Twila, for instance. She’ll be here tomorrow, and she’ll have more time for you than I do. Katy and my book have to come first right now.”

  “Ah, I see." He stuck his thumbs in his belt and rocked back on his heels. “You are all talk, but no show.”

  — they lick just a’fore they scratch!

  I closed my eyes to count to ten, but only made it to two. Then I slipped my hand in my briefcase, pulled Granny’s asafetida bag out, and removed it from the sandwich bag. Dangled it on the end of the thong and thrust it out as I stomped toward him. Trucker and Miss Molly scrambled to the far side of the desk to escape the smell. Sir Gary threw up his hands in horror and backed towards the window.

  “All right, all right!” he shouted. “We’ll do this your way! Please, put that away! What the bloody hell is it, anyway?”

  Relenting, I dropped my arm and stared at the asafetida, bemused. I hadn’t used it before, but Granny — and Twila — evidently knew its force. Much stronger than sea salt!

  “What it is, is something you don’t want to experience again,” I said. “So you better mind me! Besides, Bucky’s roaming around here now, too. Go scout him out.”

  When I looked back at the window, Sir Gary was nowhere in sight. But he thrust one last message into my mind. I will keep my place, and see what I can find out about this Bucky person. But do not forget that I need your help, too!

  I’ll remember, I mentally telegraphed.

  And I just might have an idea that can help clear up this bloody murder, he thrust. If you see fit to honor our next appointment!

  Intrigued, I briefly contemplated allowing him back. But the ghost had tried to manipulate me too often. His supposed idea was quite possibly just another ploy for attention.

  “We’ll talk tomorrow,” I said aloud, and an exasperated “harrumph” answered. Anger fading, I replaced the asafetida in the bag, sat in the desk chair, elbows propped, face buried in cupped hands. Trucker whined and nudged my thigh, and Miss Molly scattered disks and strew papers when she leaped on the desk.

  “What on earth are we into?" I stroked them both. Neither answered. “A murder, a demanding, claustrophobic ghost, and a headless ghost. Not to mention that it’s looking more and more like I’ll have to ask for an extension on my novel." Overwhelmed with worry, including whether or not to contact a friend to recommend a good attorney for Katy instead of waiting on Jack’s advice, my eyes clouded. Furiously, I wiped the tears away. Nope, Alice Carpenter didn’t go down that road. Not at all.

  But — “Oh, Twila, hurry up.”

  As though in answer, my cell phone rang. I grabbed it. “Twila?”

  “I’ll be in Dallas tomorrow afternoon at four. American 2011.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “If Jack insists you hang around, I’ll rent a car.”

  “I’ll be there,” I repeated. “If it turns out you need a car while you’re here, Katy has at least three in her garage.”

  “Fine. Glad the asafetida worked.”

  She hung up, me in awe of her power. She’d zoned into the situation here, a thousand miles away, to keep an eye on it. We’d always had that link between us — known when some disaster or heartrending circumstance called for a phone call or visit. Never was that link between us more important and welcome than right now.

  Mindful of Jack’s orders, and asafetida sandwich bag in hand, I crouched to plug in the phone. Then I opened the bag again and broke the asafetida in two.