Dead Man Talking

  Chapter 17

  Jack wasn’t anywhere around by the time I stumbled into the kitchen the next morning around seven a.m., Trucker and Miss Molly padding behind me. An officer I hadn’t met sat at the table, sipping a cup of coffee. I garbled a greeting in return to his “good morning,” and headed straight for the coffeepot. I am not a morning person — not until after my second cup of caffeine. And especially after a lack of sleep.

  “Good dog,” the officer said tentatively. I turned from the inviting coffee aroma. Trucker sat at the kitchen door, ears alert, but he wasn’t growling.

  “Sorry, officer. Trucker, it’s all right. This is a policeman. Uh...sorry. I didn’t get your name." My hand wandered toward the coffeepot. He was young, probably mid-twenties, with an open, honest face.

  “Sergeant Smith,” he answered. “Detective Roucheau left me in charge when he left for Jefferson about fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Ouch!”

  “You all right, ma’am?”

  “Fine, sir,” I semi-snarled. “I touched the coffeepot, and it’s hot.”

  “I just made it, ma’am,” he said reasonably.

  I poured coffee into one of the foam cups on the counter, wondering where they’d come from but not caring right then. Flavored creamer was stacked in a bowl of ice beside the pot. I dumped in three containers of chocolate amaretto.

  “Look, Smith,” I said after a sip of coffee. “I’ll make you a deal. I won’t call you Smitty if you don’t call me ma’am.”

  “My friends call me Smitty. But point taken about the ma’am. Don’t tell my mama, though. She raised me to call all women ma’am.”

  “It makes me feel old,” I said between slurps.

  “Can’t see why,” he mused. “You can’t be more than a couple years older than me. And I’m twenty-five.”

  His compliment jolted me better than the coffee. I actually smiled at him and said, “Thank you,” not bothering to mention the huge discrepancy in his guess. “And me without even my hair combed yet.”

  He grinned back at me, then picked up a book I hadn’t noticed until then on the table. “Hope you don’t mind, but I was passing time in between rounds and noticed your books in the Great Room. Been reading this one. Doubt anyone could miss who you were, ma’ — Miz Carpenter, with this picture on the back.”

  Nobody but Officer Quick, I thought, but wandered over to sit down with him. “You have good taste in reading material,” I purred.

  “Yeah. Well, I’m still learning about investigative techniques. I plan to take the detective exam some day. And mysteries and true crime novels have a lot of information in them. You writers must do a lot of research.”

  “We do,” I agreed. “And we get lots of information from policemen. By the way — ”

  Trucker nudged me, and I nearly spilled my precious coffee. I knew what he wanted. Out. That meant I had to go with him, especially with other officers on the grounds whom he hadn’t met. There would also be the guards Katy was hiring to introduce him to later on. Sighing, I carried my coffee towards the Garden Room. “Come on, Trucker.”

  He bounded after me. I nearly closed the door on Miss Molly, but she slipped through. They both headed off into the dew-wet grass, and I strolled down a path to sit on one of the concrete benches. Forgot it, too, was dew-soaked and stood up immediately, the seat of both my gown and robe wet. Shoot, that spot of the bench was dry now, so I sat back down.

  Morning mist shrouded the rose bushes, trellises, and tree trunks. It lingered later and heavier in the shorter, cooler autumn days. Overhead, though, the puffy-cloud, blue sky gave promise of a beautiful day. Football weather, East Texans like to call it. I enjoyed the game on TV once in a while, though I have no desire to wade through crowds to watch it live in a packed stadium. Maybe it was the uniforms. You saw them — and the cute butts — better on TV.

  The first view I’d had of Jack was his jeans-clad, firm buttocks as he bent over a bare-breasted blonde who’d tripped over her own feet on Bourbon Street one Mardi Gras evening. I think what impressed me the most was that Jack only lifted Blondie up and wandered off, not paying that much attention to the firm 38Cs peeping out from a slew of beads. Well, not that much attention, anyway. After all, he is a man.

  I didn’t know he was a cop. But my friend Leslie called his name, and he strolled over to us. Seems Les knew Jack from one of her frequent book signings in the area, where he bought her books as presents for his mother, who passed on a year after we met.

  The three of us spent the evening together, drinking hurricanes and beer and gazing at the outlandish sights on Bourbon Street. Laughing at them, too, rather than sneering, like some of the out-of-town tourist trade. Despite the rumors of sordidness and crime mixed in with the gaiety of Carnival, I’ve always enjoyed it. Mainly the drunks are happy drunks, and I relished an opportunity to let my hair down along with them after periodic bouts of solitude while I wrote.

  Jack and I got to know each other over the course of our fun. When he asked me for my phone number as we searched for a cab to head home, I gave it willingly. I’d rented an apartment for a few months on St. Charles Avenue, since I was working on a book set in my favorite city then, too, and hadn’t quite made up my mind where I’d light next. I loved the freedom my writing gave me, and hadn’t bothered to buy an actual home for myself until the one I had now.

  By the time my book was finished, Jack and I weren’t. That took another three years.

  Trucker completed his business, and I called to Miss Molly, who was pawing around beneath a rose bush, probably covering up her droppings. She was neater than Trucker. I reminded myself to come back out and scoop up Trucker’s mess before Katy found it. I also needed to get Katy out of bed so we could get to Jefferson for our statements. And groceries. And I had to drive into Dallas, an eight-hour round trip, to meet Twila. I’d have to leave by noon at least, and hope I didn’t run into any construction traffic jams.

  When the three of us reentered the kitchen, Officer Smith was waiting for me.

  “Someone’s at the gate,” he said, indicating the transmitter in his hand. “Do you know a Clarence Devereaux?”

  “He’s our uncle,” I confirmed. “Both Katy’s and mine. Please. Tell the officer down there to let him come on to the house.”

  “He’s cleared,” Smith said into the transmitter. “Let him in.”

  I replenished my coffee and wandered down the hall to open the front door before Uncle Clarence arrived. He drove a black pickup so new he hadn’t removed the sticker from the window. I admired the truck as I sipped coffee and he pulled to a halt in the circular drive.

  Uncle Clarence slid out and came around the truck. He hadn’t noticed me in the doorway yet. A dapper old Southern gentleman — that’s the way I always think of him — even this early in the morning, he wore a starched, snow-white shirt and string tie. His lush, white hair had been dark at one time, and only whitened, never fallen out to leave him bald. A white, brushy mustache filled the space beneath his nose and down the sides of his mouth.

  He stood for a moment at the front of his pickup, studying the grounds. He was a sturdy-bodied man, just under six foot, one of those men who could eat half a barbecued brisket and drink a case of beer yet never gain weight. Today he carried a walking stick and leaned on it while he gazed around. I frowned. He appeared to be catching his breath, although he’d only walked a few steps.

  One of those damned peacocks strutted out from behind an ornamental shrub, and Uncle Clarence watched it as it wandered toward him. Head bobbing and tail trailing on the ground, it stopped by his feet. He reached in his trouser pocket and scattered something on the ground. Corn, it looked like. The peacock gobbled the offering, and three more birds rushed from the shrubbery. Uncle Clarence’s hand returned to his pocket, and he scattered some more food.

  He left the birds eating and slowly strolled toward the veranda, pausing now and then to look around. As he got closer, I noticed that he’d lost weight. His
leather belt was notched a couple holes past its normal closure, the faded, lighter tan streak testifying where he’d belted it in years gone by. He climbed the steps, still swiveling his head. I took a swallow of coffee, and he caught the movement. He smiled, a huge, Southern smile, and leaned on his stick.

  “Alice, mah dear child,” he said in that wondrously smooth, Southern drawl. “Ah’m so glad you came to be with Katy.”

  He held out his arms to pull me into a tight hug. I could feel his ribs as I clasped him.

  “Uncle Clarence." I kissed his dear, wrinkled cheek, then stared into his bright blue eyes. Despite my worry over his physical condition, his eyes gleamed merrily back at me. “How have you been?”

  “So-so,” he replied. “I woke up this morning, so that’s always a good day.”

  I chuckled at the standard reply I’d heard for more years than I liked to think about. His mustache lifted with the corners of his mouth.

  “You got a new truck, I see.”

  “And she’s a sweetheart." He gestured his walking stick at the truck, an arm around my shoulders. Maybe to steady himself? “Ah been meanin’ to get me one of those beauties for a couple years. Ordered one a while back, so’s Ah could get all them bells and whistles Ah wanted. Bubba Joe just got it in yesterday mornin’. Got one of those Bose stereo systems in it, too, and Ah got all the Old Hank songs on them new CDs. You want to take a little spin with me? Ah’ll even let you drive.”

  “Maybe later. Katy and I have a pretty full day scheduled.”

  “How is my dear Katy this mornin’?” he asked in a concerned voice.

  “I haven’t seen her yet.”

  “She needs her rest, Ah’m sure.”

  I opened the door to allow Uncle Clarence to go in first, but he’d have nothing to do with that. Ladies preceded Southern gentlemen, no ifs, ands, or buts. We slowly made our way down the hall, Uncle studying the walls and ceiling. Or appearing to. I had a feeling his intent examination was a ploy for him to stroll slowly and not let me know his physical capabilities were somewhat wane. What else could it be? He appeared to scan every inch of the hallway.

  “Wonderful job dear Katy’s doin’ with the house,” he murmured as he headed toward the kitchen. “Ah haven’t been inside since Ah moved out.”

  I took his arm and steered him away from where the kitchen door used to be, assuming he would make the same mistake I did. “Katy moved the door,” I explained.

  “Ah see. Yes, yes, this is a good place for it.”

  In the kitchen, I steered him to the table. Trucker and Miss Molly strolled over as he sat in a chair. It didn’t surprise me that both of my pets gravitated to this wonderful old man without a hint of suspicion. Animals and children loved Uncle Clarence. We all did. I introduced Sergeant Smith and Uncle Clarence, then left them making inane conversation while I fetched Uncle a cup of coffee. He allowed that simple courtesy, since women in the South waiting on men in that capacity was totally acceptable.

  “I’m sorry we don’t have anything to offer you to eat right now,” I said as I set the coffee and bowl of creamer on the table and moved the sugar bowl closer to him. “Unless you want a banana or orange. Maybe toast? We’re rather afraid to eat anything around here except for the stuff we bought at the gas station last night.”

  Uncle Clarence added sugar and creamer to his coffee. “Ah’ve already eaten. Ah understand that someone tried to poison y’all yesterday evenin’." At my amazed look, he continued, “Word’s already spreadin’. Y’all know what small-town gossip’s like.”

  True, I mused, recalling Katy’s late-night phone call. I’d bet she was talking to Uncle. But before I could ask him, Katy wandered in, already dressed for the day in a lime-green dress and low-heeled pumps. She’d pulled her hair into a chignon, a few curls brushing her cheeks and nape of her neck. Carefully applied, nearly invisible makeup didn’t completely cover the dark circles beneath her eyes. She raced over to throw her arms around Uncle Clarence.

  “Oh,” she said after the required kisses and hugs. “You didn’t have to come.”

  Uncle Clarence patted her shoulder. “Now, let’s not have any of that, dear Katy. When have Ah not been there for my favorite niece when she needs me?”

  “Never,” Katy admitted, tears in her eyes. “But actually coming to Esprit d’Chene — ”

  Uncle Clarence tenderly placed a finger on her lips to shush Katy. “Ah see you’ve kept the peacocks fat and sassy,” he said. “They look wonderful.”

  “I order that special corn mix from Ray Bob that you told me to feed them. They’ll always have a home at Esprit d’Chene.”

  “There’s coffee,” I told Katy. “I need to get dressed, so we can leave by eight-thirty.”

  Katy barely glanced at me. “Whenever you’re ready. I’m going to call the hospital.”

  I thought I’d have to call Trucker with me, since he remained rapt at Uncle Clarence’s side, but the instant I moved toward the doorway, he rose. He accompanied me to my room, and when we got inside, he cocked his head and whined. Sir Gary stood by the window seat. Trucker padded over, but I propped my hands on my hips.

  “I don’t tolerate ghosts in my bedroom." For good measure, I glanced at the asafetida bag I’d left on the bedpost once again instead of remembering to carry it with me.

  “I apologize,” he said. “However, I was wondering what time you wished to appoint for our chat today. And don’t worry. I’m not about to come any closer with that blasted bag of...whatever it is, hanging on your bed.”

  “It’s —" I changed my mind about identifying my protective charm. He might do some research and find some way to counteract it. “Never mind. And I told you last night that you’d have to wait for Twila. I’ve got my hands full with Katy right now.”

  “I wasn’t exactly demanding that we chat about your true purpose for being summoned here." He ignored my semi-snarl and continued, “I believe we have a new problem here, and your powers don’t seem strong enough to master it.”

  “Bucky,” I agreed.

  “I do not believe he realizes that we can see him.”

  “He sure doesn’t seem to see us,” I mused. “Not without his eyes in his head.”

  Suddenly I remembered the doll’s head, and stared at the lady’s boudoir desk. It was gone! “Oh, no!” I gasped. “I — you didn’t take the head, did you?”

  He grimaced in distaste. “I have no use for another soul’s head. I have my own.”

  “No! No,” I said. “A doll’s head. I stumbled over it in the hallway last night, and it nearly scared the crap out of me. I put it right there on the desk.”

  “It wasn’t here when I came in,” Sir Gary said with a nonchalant shrug. “Perhaps you misplaced it.”

  “It was right there!" I pointed at the desk to reinforce my words. Then rubbed my index fingers in a circular motion at my temples. Damn, I was getting a headache. “Tell me something. How long did it take after you...died...to be able to manipulate objects?”

  “I honestly cannot recall. One day I was just aware that I could do it.”

  “Can you do anything about Bucky?” I demanded.

  “Like what? I cannot communicate with him. He has no auditory abilities. I cannot scare him away. He has no — ”

  “ — eyes to see with,” I finished with him. “Can you at least keep track of him? Let us know if he’s doing something dangerous to us?”

  He shook his head. “He appears to...well, appear with no warning. And disappear the same way. Believe me, after last night, I’ve been trying to contact him. But I’ve had no luck.”

  I stomped over and opened the wardrobe. Grabbed my briefcase and slung it on the bed. I removed my cell phone and dialed Twila. Her answering machine picked up, and I disconnected. She hadn’t told me what time her flight left, but I knew she had at least an hour’s trip to the nearest airport. Still, it was fairly early for her to have already left the house.

  Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, blew it o
ut. I grounded myself with a few more breaths, then — my cell phone rang in answer to my mental call for help.

  “What’s going on?” Twila asked.

  “Where are you?”

  “On a payphone at the drug store." Twila didn’t own a cell phone. Or a computer, for that matter. “I have to get Jess and Caroline’s prescriptions before I leave town.”

  Jess and Caroline were her husband and mother, and both of them depended on her for so many things. Neither drove, and she probably had a half-dozen errands to run before she left. She cared deeply for both of them and wouldn’t want to worry while she was gone.

  “I just wanted to know if you have any more advice about how to handle Bucky until you get here,” I said. “I’m really concerned about the havoc he can cause, and I’ll be gone from the manor house quite a bit today.”

  “Bathe the manor house and all the occupants in white light before you leave,” Twila said. “That should help. And I’m bringing a kit of stuff for us to use.”

  “Twila —" I hesitated, but then went on, “Could a headless ghost use a substitute head?”

  “Hmmm,” she mused. “I’ve never heard of that. But I suppose it could be possible.”

  “Mrs. Brown?” I heard someone say in the background. “Your prescriptions are ready.”

  “I need to go, Alice.”

  “All right. I’ll see you at the airport.”

  “One thing you need to do is think positive,” she reminded me before she hung up.

  “Think positive,” I said to the dead phone. “Sure. That’s easy as hell.”

  She was right, though. She’d told me that over and over when we started out on a ghosthunt. Our mental attitude had as much to do with protecting us as the various wares we carry to keep the ghosts in line. I didn’t have a very positive attitude about Bucky, though. I was only positive that I hoped I never laid eyes on him again until Twila was here with me.