southern ghost hunters 01 - southern spirits (19 page)

"Mom's going to find out," Melody warned. "She has a sixth sense whenever one of us is about to screw up."

I wasn't messing up. Besides, "We're not telling anyone," I reminded her.

She handed me a red folder full of papers. "You'd think that would be enough to keep a secret around here, but it's not."

Didn't I know it?

"This has copies of everything I've shown you so far," she said. "I'll keep digging here. I didn't have a chance to look into those burials you talked about."

"See if you can learn about any unusual architecture. Specifically," I cringed, "if there are any hidden passages or secret hiding spots."

She looked at me as if she could dissect me with her stare. "You are not just doing branding for that man."

"I love you," I said, in the most sincere way possible.

She closed her eyes for a moment. "I know I'm the worst one to be giving this kind of advice, but for the love of all that is holy, you need to think about what you're doing."

"I will," I promised her. "Starting now."

Like right now, I was thinking it would be a good idea to drop in on our mayor and learn his side of the story. And ask if he'd seen anything unusual at the former Southern Spirits distillery. 

Chapter Fourteen

I made my way across the square, toward city hall.

"Now that is one anatomically correct horse," Frankie said, chuckling as we passed the statue of Colonel Ramsey Larimore and his stud.

"Truly?" I asked. I couldn't stop myself from hazarding a look. I hated to admit it, but the gangster had a point.

Frankie had gone invisible, somewhere to my left. It was disconcerting to say the least. "You doing okay?"

"I think those books relaxed me enough to take a little snooze."

"You didn't even read any of them."

He sighed, ignoring me. "If you need me, I'll be in the ether."

"Okay." I'd let him rest. Until tonight, at least.

The air inside the city hall building felt unseasonably cool, as if someone had cranked up the air conditioning at the worst possible time. I rubbed at my arms, wishing for a sweater, as I checked a directory on the wall. The mayor's office was on the second floor.

My sandals clacked against the marble stairs, the mish-mash in my bag rattling along with it. Heaven above. Where was my sense of southern decorum? If I didn't know better, I'd think I sold it with my grandmother's antique fainting couch.

I slowed, smoothing my hair, trying to exhibit an air of professional calm as I approached the door with hand-painted gold letters that read Mayor Thaddeus Bolivar Steward III. I hoped he had the decency not to assume too much based on where he'd seen me this morning.

Nancy Tarkington sat at the outer desk, as she had for the past three decades. She wore her auburn hair short, paired with diamond chip earrings and a fall sweater. 

She braced a black office phone against her shoulder while she wrote out an incident report. "Yes, Mr. Lemon. I agree. Those teenagers should not have positioned your garden gnomes like that. Yes. I do believe I've heard that is in the Kama Sutra. No, I don't know what page."

She wheeled her chair over to one of the massive file cabinets and pulled out a yellow folder packed with paperwork. "Just tell Mrs. Lemon the gnomes were wrestling," she said, stuffing the report inside. "I'm sure there is a non-violent solution, but I don't see how the mayor can help. Nevertheless, I'll put it on file immediately." She held the phone away from her ear. "Oh my. I'm losing the connection. Have you tried calling the police? They filed a report as well? I'm so glad," she said, before she swung around in her chair and dipped a finger down onto the hang-up button. "Whoops."

The smile on her face faded when she saw me standing there. I tried not to fidget. People saw me differently now, even those who should know better. 

It would pass.

It had to.

"Hi, Mrs. Tarkington," I said, with a bit more cheer than necessary. 

At least one thing hadn't changed. I found it impossible to call the woman by her first name. Growing up, my mom would have boxed my ears for addressing adults by their given names. Mrs. Tarkington attended our church and used to play bridge with my mom every Tuesday afternoon. I'd climbed trees with her daughter Callie and tried not to lose my shoes in the creek every time I'd visited.

Mrs. Tarkington frowned slightly, as if she were trying to figure out exactly what to do with me. I pretended not to notice. 

"How's Callie doing?" I asked. We'd lost touch when I went to college and she moved to Atlanta. 

Mrs. Tarkington played with the large, Home Shopping Network-style ring on her right hand. "I'm sure she thinks about you, Verity. We all do. Bless your heart."

It seemed that was the best I was going to get, at least for now. 

Rather than make her more uncomfortable, I stated my business. "I'm here to see the mayor."

"He's not here," she said, dismissing me. 

She busied herself gathering papers on her desk, re-arranging them, no doubt wishing her phone would ring again, even if Mr. Lemon decided to call back.

I'd heard most of what people said about me after The Incident. That I was out of control, a manipulative gold digging fool. That I didn't appreciate what the good Lord had given me. That I'd used my womanly wiles to sway the prince of Sugarland. 

As if boobs in a push-up bra wielded some kind of magic powers.

Maybe I could have handled things better. In fact, I know I could have. But I was no PR expert, and I'd been heartbroken at the time. Nobody's perfect and if you wanted to get right down to it, I was probably a lot less perfect than most people. But I did my best. 

I couldn't spend all day trying to change Mrs. Tarkington's opinion of me. I still had a job to do, so I pressed on. "Do you know when Mayor Steward will be back? I'd like to talk to him about a property he used to own."

Mrs. Tarkington tensed, as if she feared I'd park myself in the outer office and wait. "He'll most likely be gone all day," she said, searching through her immaculate pen drawer for something that evidently was not a pen—or she would have found it lined up with the half-dozen already there.

The door behind her clicked open and out stepped the snowy haired man that, in my youth, I had sworn was the real Santa Claus. He'd grown even more round over the years, as if he were auditioning for the part. He kept his white beard clipped short and wore a gray suit with a white shirt, a tie with pumpkins on it, and gold cufflinks. 

"Hello there." He moved slowly, leaning heavily on the 'walking stick' he'd been using for a few years now, ever since his old Vietnam War injury started acting up again. 

Mrs. Tarkington flushed with embarrassment. 

I was just grateful I wouldn't have to come back.

Our encounter this morning had embarrassed me. Before that, the last time I'd seen the mayor, I'd thanked him for his service and my coffee had gone cold while he told me stories about the men he fought with. He'd been kind to me in the middle of a diner where many might not have even passed me the salt shaker, and I was grateful.

I met him halfway around Mrs. Tarkington's desk. "I'm so glad to catch you here, Sir," I said, shaking his hand.

He smiled and adjusted his glasses. "Has anyone ever told you how much you resemble your sister?"

Even if I'd had black hair and twelve tattoos, I would have agreed. "All the time."

He pressed against his cane, and reached with his other hand to steady himself on the wall. "I was expecting your sister. Melody drops by with the minutes from the Sugarland Heritage Society meetings. I keep them all. They're planning an antique quilt display at the senior center. You could join, you know."

"I've been a little busy lately," I told him.

"So I've seen," he commented. 

I let it go. I didn't owe him an explanation for this morning. Although if it meant he'd answer a few questions, I'd offer to stitch him a king-size Irish Swag Bohemian Bell quilt. With my toes. 

"Can I talk to you?" I asked. "I only need five minutes of your time. This does have to do with town heritage," I added, sweetening the pot.

"Of course," he said, leading me back into his office. "I need to sit down anyway. How's your mother?"

"She's great," I told him, checking out his office. It was smaller than I would have expected for an eleven-term mayor. He'd certainly had the time to build himself some fancy digs if he'd wanted them. 

Framed photographs jammed the walls, many of them black and white prints that showed Sugarland's early development. Other, more recent pictures showed Mayor Steward posing with prominent citizens, church groups, and school kids. I probably knew everyone in those pictures—if they'd been born in the last fifty years, at least.

He had two more canes leaning up against the wall. One had been done up in red, white, and blue stripes with a brass eagle head handle. The other was metallic toned, stylized to look like a sword, with a woven metal handle on top. He placed the walking stick he'd been using, a carved wooden cane with a brass handle in the shape of a trout, against the wall with the others.

 "Is your mother coming back soon?" he asked, struggling a bit as he situated himself in a red leather tufted chair. "It's a real shame she felt she had to leave in the first place."

I took a less fancy, but quite comfortable chair across from him. "She's enjoying the new RV," I said, as if she were the child. I felt a twinge of guilt at that. She had every right to live her life the way she wanted. She'd certainly been supportive of me. "I think mom's down along the Gulf Coast this week. Pensacola." In fact, I was one hundred percent certain. She'd been there since June. 

Chances were the mayor knew as well, if he'd talked to Melody. He didn't need the conversation. He was trying to make me feel at home. I used to take that kind of gesture for granted until some of the people I thought I knew began doing the opposite.

He leaned back in his chair, the leather crackling. "Your mamma was never one for politics," he said fondly, folding his hands over his ample stomach, "but your father went door to door for me on my first campaign. He was a good friend."

"I remember him telling me about that," I said, almost wishing we hadn't begun a whole new line of small talk. Normally I enjoyed sharing stories, even ones I knew quite well. It was what living and working in a town like this was all about—being seen as a person, someone to be remembered and cared about. I liked that he wanted to honor my father, who had died when I was in fifth grade. Only right now, I needed to talk about passageways and ghosts. About who might be sneaking around the old distillery.

So I launched right into it. "I'm so glad my dad helped you. And I'd love to chat more, but I actually came to you because I need your help." 

The request lingered between us.

Perhaps it was the abrupt switch in topic or the fact that I'd barreled right over Sugarland etiquette, either way, I'd gotten his attention. 

His focus sharpened. "What is it, my dear?"

I leaned forward. "I know you used to own the Wilson's Creek property." If my knowledge surprised him, he didn't show it. Then again, look where I was living. I pressed on, trying to figure out how to start the conversation without being so crass as to discuss Ellis Wydell, or what had happened with the mayor's divorce. That would shut him down for sure.

I really should have thought about this before I brought it up. 

It felt awkward, but I gave the gentlest summation I could. "I was hired as a…consultant on the new renovation there—"

It didn't work. 

His breath came in even puffs, like an idling freight train. "You went to work for Ellis Wydell," he said, as if I'd set fire to the square. 

"Yes," I admitted. "I ran into trouble last night. Bad."

His expression changed as a realization dawned over him. "Did he hurt you?" the mayor asked, horrified. 

"Wait. No. That's not what I meant—"

His face flushed and he appeared flustered. "My dear child, if this is something you're afraid to go to the police about, we can go directly to the chief." He reached across the desk, as if to take my hand. "I'm so very honored you felt you could come to me. Your daddy would be proud, too."

Why did he keep bringing my dad into this? "It's not like that," I said quickly. "Ellis has treated me fine. Better than fine." My ears heated and I pushed past the skepticism I saw. "I know it's crazy to work for him after what happened with Beau, but he's paying me well and heaven knows I need the money if I want to keep my grandmother's house."

"Oh dear," the mayor ran his hands along the arms of his chair.

"What I wanted to talk to you about," I said, hoping I still had his attention, "are some strange goings on at the old carriage house. We had an intruder last night. I think he wanted to tear up the place. It was really scary."

He rubbed his fingers along the chair arms, his chin tucked back. "That Wydell boy is with the police. He should be able to handle it."

When he put it that way, I almost felt silly for stopping by. Damn. This conversation wasn't going the way I wanted and I had no clue how to turn it around. In a minute, the mayor would remember he was terribly busy and I'd get left out in the cold. 

"The place is also haunted," I said, before I could change my mind.

"What?" he sputtered. "Are you daft?"

In for a penny, in for a pound. "You never saw any ghosts in the carriage house?" I pressed. 

He looked at me like I was crazy. "Absolutely not."

"So the people who owned the property before you never said anything about a tragic event occurring there? Something that might cause a haunting?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. "My dear, I don't have time for such nonsense. I think you'd better leave. I have a lot of work to do."

"I'm sorry. Forget about ghosts for a minute. I came to you because I want to learn more about who might be vandalizing the site. My sister is helping me research," I said, throwing him a bone. "She said something about treasure hunters looking for an old stash of jewelry on the property, and I thought that might be related to the damage we've found."