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  Holly trembled. She closed her eyes and imagined Tru’s mangled body on the ground below. “Oh, Tru.”

  She stepped back from the edge of the widow’s walk. Why didn’t he listen to her and stay off the widow’s walk? She turned and ran down all three flights of stairs and prayed for a miracle with every step.

  Maybe he’d survived. Maybe the balcony or tree limbs broke his fall. She’d thought the worst when Mackie fell through the roof, and he’d walked away from his tumble. Tru could too. He had to.

  When Holly reached the front porch, she found Miss Alice hunched over Tru performing CPR. Between breaths she shouted at Nelda to start compressions.

  “Lord, Lord, Lord.” Nelda stood in front of her car mumbling, then shrieking, then mumbling some more, all the while clutching her chest. “That man just fell right out of the sky, Lord help him.”

  “Nelda!” Miss Alice shouted. “Snap out of it. I need some help.”

  Poor Nelda. She wasn’t going to snap out of that any time soon.

  “I’ll do it.” Holly said, jogging over to Miss Alice.

  Tru lay there motionless, his limbs contorted in unnatural positions. She covered her mouth to hold back her gasp. “Just tell me what to do.”

  “You’ve done enough,” Miss Alice said with a quick glance toward the widow’s walk.

  “You don’t think—

  “Press on his chest like this,” Miss Alice barked as she pressed on his chest, palm over palm. “One compression per second.”

  Did she see me on the roof ? Blame me for not securing the widow’s walk better? An ever-expanding puddle of Tru’s blood circled his head. Her stomach curdled. How much blood could a person lose and not die? She copied Miss Alice’s hand placement on Tru’s chest and started chest compressions.

  Gasps, hushed whispers, and then the clicks of a camera came from behind Holly. She looked over her shoulder. Sam squatted behind her snapping pictures in rapid-fire succession.

  “Sam!” Holly yelled between compressions. “What are you doing?” Not that she was shocked, but it just felt wrong.

  “Same thing any newsman worth his salt would?” He held his camera out and checked his screen. “Get the story.”

  “Did you at least call 911 first?”

  “Thomas is calling,” he said, as he turned his camera lens toward the widow’s walk.

  Thomas raised his hand. His other hand held his phone pressed to his ear. “Yes, the roof. Holly Grove B&B on Highway . . .”

  Everyone filed out onto the porch. Angel clutched her black shawl so tightly her knuckles had turned white. Sylvia stood, arms folded, wearing the same thing she had on during the séance. Bob sat with his head in his hands on the front steps, and Liz paced back and forth, on the phone. Nelda stroked Rhett as she held him and seemed to have calmed down a bit. Holly had never thought of Rhett as a therapy dog, but he seemed to have risen to the occasion.

  Headlights flashed across Tru and Miss Alice as a sheriff’s patrol car rolled to a stop in the driveway. Holly grunted as she pressed down on Tru’s chest. “Where’s the ambulance, for crying out loud?”

  Coming up for air, Miss Alice grabbed Tru’s limp wrist and pinched it between her thumb and fingers as she looked at her large-face watch.

  “Is he—?” Holly winced.

  “Don’t stop,” Miss Alice said. “The paramedics may be able to bring him back.”

  “Back?” Holly froze mid-compression.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Buster Fuller, the former member of the nerd squad in high school and now temporary chief deputy sheriff, slammed the patrol car door and hitched up his pants. Even in his thirties, he’d never filled out his frame from their high school days. “What’s going on here?”

  “Where’s the ambulance?” Holly yelled still doing the best she could with her half of the CPR. “We need paramedics now!”

  “I was just down the road when I heard the call on my radio,” Buster said. He shook his head. “This one looks like the real deal.”

  “Seriously. You want to bring that up now?” Three false alerts and every 911 call from Holly Grove was suspect now. Sweat beaded on Holly’s brow as she continued chest compressions on Tru.

  “What happened to him?” Buster asked.

  He must not have listened to the 911 call very well. “He fell off the roof,” Holly said, glancing up at the widow’s walk.

  The chief deputy let out a long whistle and kicked back his hat as he scratched his head.

  Miss Alice huffed. “I’m getting dizzy from blowing. We’re going to have to switch.”

  Tru’s mouth, somewhere between purple and gray, hung at a slight angle as though he’d had a stroke. Holly choked back her dinner. “I think I might be sick.”

  “Get over it and do what I told you or he doesn’t have a chance,” Miss Alice barked.

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.” She couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t, but she didn’t have to like it. Her stomach curdled as she leaned over him. “How exactly do I do this?”

  “Pinch his nose shut, then take a breath and blow it in his mouth,” Miss Alice said as she placed her wrinkled hands over his heart. “If he starts breathing, stop.”

  When Holly touched Tru’s cold nose, a shiver ran through her, but she pushed it aside. She leaned over the last lips she would ever want on hers and sucked in a breath. The next one would be for him.

  Just breathe, Tru. I wanted you gone, not dead. Somehow she felt responsible, even though she’d warned him to stay off the roof.

  Sirens blared as red lights strobed across the oak trees and lawn. Holly looked up as a fire truck and ambulance pulled to a stop on the driveway. Thank goodness. What took them so long?

  “Over here.” The chief deputy directed them with his flashlight. “Real deal this time.”

  “What happened?” Sandy Wright jogged over with an EMT right behind her. It had been a while since Holly’s first ride in an ambulance, and the false rumors about a drug overdose had almost died out. She’d heard Sandy stepped up to paramedic since then.

  “He fell from up there.” Holly looked up at the widow’s walk.

  “Head trauma. Possible internal injuries. Broken bones,” Miss Alice reported.

  Sandy took his pulse. “How long on the CPR?”

  “Ten minutes,” Miss Alice said. Her knees creaked as she stood. “He needs a shot of adrenaline or whatever newfangled drug medics use these days to shock his system, ASAP, then—”

  Sandy already had a needle in Tru before Miss Alice could finish her instructions. “I’ve got it from here, Miss Alice. Thanks for stepping up.”

  “All right,” Buster said, herding back Miss Alice, Holly, and the guests who’d gathered around the tragedy. “Give the professionals some room to work.”

  “I am a professional.” Miss Alice huffed and stood her ground. “A registered nurse.”

  The chief deputy tipped his hat. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Holly’s legs may as well have been Jell-O as she watched Sandy and the other EMT poke and prod Tru. Just open your eyes, Tru. They can put you back together. It may take a while, but you’ll be just as obnoxious as ever.

  Buster sidled up to Holly. “That wouldn’t be Truman Stalwort, would it?”

  “Yes,” Holly said. “He’s one of my guests.”

  Sandy and the other EMT covered Tru with a sheet.

  “Was,” the chief deputy said.

  “No.” Holly staggered and sat on the grass. “This can’t be happening.”

  “Seems pretty surreal to me, too.” The chief deputy rested his hand on his gun. “I just talked to Mr. Stalwort a few minutes ago.”

  “What?” Holly’s head was in a fog. She couldn’t have heard Buster right. “What do you mean, you talked to Tru a few minutes ago?”

  She trailed after Buster as he weaved his way through the EMTs, firemen, and police officers at the scene. The red and blue flashing lights pulsing across the grounds made her feel disori
ented and dizzy.

  “Yep.” He stopped short and Holly nearly plowed into the back of him.

  “Why?” She took a backward step to gain a little personal space from Buster, who’d planted his boots like he was guarding ground. “What did he say?”

  “Privileged information at this time.” Static came across the radio strapped to his collar. Buster spit some numbers out and ended with “ten-four.” He tipped his hat to Holly and strutted away like he was a five-star general.

  Well, I’m not in the army and he’s not my general. “Buster, wait up.”

  He didn’t.

  She caught him by his sleeve. “I need to know what’s going on. This happened on my property.”

  He looked down at her hand holding a wad of his sleeve, then back at her. “Ma’am, release my uniform and step away. Failure to do so could result in arrest.”

  “Seriously, Buster? I’ve known you since we were at Fulton Elementary.” She let his shirt go. “I just need to know what’s going on.”

  “At this time, I have nothing to confirm.” He dusted off his uniform sleeve as though they were in sixth grade and she had cooties.

  “Fine,” she said to his back as he walked away. Nothing to confirm. Tru is dead. Confirmed. What kind of power trip is Buster on that he couldn’t say why he’d talked to Tru? Whatever it was, it can’t be good.

  The ground spun beneath her and her legs weakened. She plopped down on the grass and noticed she was missing a slipper. She groaned. How could any of this be happening? She pressed her hands to her head. It seemed impossible. Tru knew the railing was too low. Why would he chance getting so close? She should have evicted him for smoking in a no-smoking area or for just being a total pain in the tush, contract or not. At least he’d be alive.

  “I knew he was near the end of his life,” Angel said as she approached Holly. “I just didn’t know how close.”

  “He didn’t believe you anyway,” Holly said. “If he had, he would’ve never chanced going up on the widow’s walk. I told him about Mackie falling through the decking. I told him the railing was too low and rusted.”

  “His path was written into his soul.” Angel squeezed her shoulder. “May he rest in peace.”

  Holly nodded.

  “I’m going to pack up and drive back to New Orleans.” Angel glanced back at the house. “I won’t be able to sleep in there tonight. The spirits are restless.”

  “The laser pointer ghost?” Holly asked.

  “The forgotten one and others. You should have me back for a private session.”

  Holly held her hand up like a stop sign. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve had it with ghosts. If that ghost doesn’t bother me, I won’t bother it.”

  Angel’s long black skirt swished as she turned around and walked toward Holly Grove, then looked back over her shoulder. “It seems one ghost was very good for both of our businesses.” She paused. “And Sylvia’s.”

  “You mean is,” Sylvia said. Her stilettos poked holes in the grass as she walked up to them. “He didn’t really debunk ‘The Ghost in the Grove.’”

  “Really, Sylvia?” Liz said as she padded along in her Birkenstocks. “The man fell to his death. Can you have a little respect?”

  “I’m only saying what we’re all thinking.” Sylvia put a hand on her hip. “He can’t release his recordings from the grave.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about that at all,” Holly said, but now that she had she couldn’t help but feel relieved and guilty for it. Jeez.

  Angel ignored Sylvia. “I’ve got to pack,” she said as she walked toward the front door.

  Little lines creased between Liz’s brows. “But what are we going to put in that slot now?”

  “‘The Ghost in the Grove Revisited,’” Sylvia said, then flashed her thirty-two perfect teeth. “After some creative editing, of course.”

  “We should shelve it,” Liz said. “We can tell the producers the video is corrupt. That’s what you told Tru.”

  “I really don’t think you should do that.” Holly stood and dusted off her skirt. “I mean, that was his last work, and he did debunk ‘The Ghost in the Grove.’”

  Sylvia’s face morphed into shock. “Did you not notice your ex-husband invaded my body and made me speak for him?”

  “Yeah,” Liz said. “According to the tabloids, she’s in therapy because of the last time he did it.”

  “And my fans eat it up.” Sylvia turned her attention to Holly. “And you don’t have any say in what we do with the show anyway.”

  Sylvia glanced at Holly’s feet. “By the way, you’re missing a slipper.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jake McCann gunned his new-to-him motorcycle as he rolled down the highway to Holly’s place. He’d lucked into the bike a few months ago when a buddy of his with ICE in New Orleans decided to sell it—or his wife did—after they brought home baby number three. His loss. My gain.

  After all, Jake needed his own transportation if Delta Ridge was going to be his physical address between assignments. With his line of work, it would probably be a virtual address. He could be called out on an ICE undercover assignment any time.

  He’d spent half the night and part of the day in taxis, trains, and planes to get back to Holly, but this was the way to go. The only thing better would be to have Holly riding on the back with her arms wrapped around him as soon as she got over being ticked off, which would take some effort on his part, but he looked forward to that challenge.

  The blacktop glistened with a recent rain. If he hadn’t had to wait out the storm under an overpass, he would’ve been at Holly Grove for dinner. He could almost taste Nelda’s smothered pork chops, gumbo, and bread pudding.

  He leaned into a curve lined with political signs. BUSTER FULLER FOR SHERIFF. The old white water tower stood out against the night sky. His heart did a little uptick. Had it really been more than fifteen years since he’d painted that red heart on the tower for Holly? He squinted. Was it still there? Too dark to tell.

  The chilled night air blasted his damp leather jacket. Man, I hope Holly doesn’t put me in Abe’s cabin. He sped up. A lone streetlight on the highway glowed, marking the turnoff to Holly Grove just ahead.

  When he turned off on the gravel road, red and blue lights flashed from a fire truck, ambulance, and sheriff’s patrol car. What the—? He goosed the gas.

  It was most likely one of Holly’s older guests had a heart attack or broke a hip, but it could be Nelda. She was getting up in age. He couldn’t even think about if anything had happened to Holly. Especially since the last time he’d talked to her he’d ticked her off. Oh, man, I don’t want anything to happen to either of them.

  He gunned it to the end of the driveway, then dropped his kickstand and hopped off his bike. He worked his way through the crowd. A body lay covered in a white sheet on the ground. A couple of medics and an officer stood over the body, which appeared to be too big to be Holly’s but not big enough to be Nelda’s. Body ? What the hell?

  He strode up to the officer. “Who’s the victim?”

  “Back off.” The ninety-pound county mounty put his hand on his gun and his palm to Jake’s chest. “This area is restricted.”

  Jake’s jaw tensed, but he fought back the urge to disarm the joke of a cop. “My . . . friend lives here.”

  Friend? How lame can you get, Jake? He frantically searched the faces for Holly. When he spotted Sam behind a camera snapping pictures, he strode his way. “Sam!”

  The old man’s bushy brows slammed together. “You old son of a gun, what are you doing here?” He wrapped Jake in a hug, but he shook Sam off and looked past him for Holly.

  “Where’s Holly? She’s not . . .” In trouble again. Jake nodded behind him to the body under the sheet.

  “Nah. Freak accident.” Sam waved him off. “One of her guests.”

  Jake’s muscles relaxed as he blew out his breath like a release valve.

  “You didn’t think—

  “I d
idn’t know what to think.” Jake scrubbed his hand across his forehead. He hadn’t exactly expected a warm welcome, but this . . . This beehive of activity looked way too busy for an accident investigation. All he wanted to do was wrap his arms around Holly if she’d let him. “Where is she?”

  Sam pointed at the group of people Jake had passed through earlier. “Over there.”

  “Where?” Through the legs in the group, he spotted Holly, sitting on the ground hugging her knees. She rested her headful of crazy curls on her knees and she was beautiful. A beautiful mess.

  What kind of trouble had she found this time?

  * * *

  “Well, look who’s here,” Sylvia said, practically purring. “I thought you said Mr. Delicious was out of the country.”

  Holly followed Sylvia’s stare to Jake as he strode across the grass. He wore a leather jacket, worn jeans, biker boots, and a smile aimed right at her. Her heart did gymnastics that could cause a coronary until she remembered he’d been MIA for almost three months. As much as she wanted to jump into his arms, she stood planted on the ground. Now he shows up in the middle of all this! Mercy. And none for him.

  “Jake,” Holly said, her voice calm and level as she extended her hand. “I see you finally made it.”

  He took her hand and then leaned in and brushed a chaste kiss on her cheek, the way most Southern gentlemen greet a lady.

  She allowed it but didn’t reciprocate because that’s what ticked-off Southern ladies do.

  His smile faded a bit. “I’ve been traveling since the butt crack of dawn to get here.”

  He could have finished that out with to see you, but he didn’t. And that said all she needed to know.

  Sylvia extended her hand and wrapped her arm around his neck as she plastered a kiss on his cheek. “I love how you guys say hello.”

  Gag me. What does she know about Southern traditions?

  He didn’t reciprocate, but Sylvia didn’t seem to notice.

  Bless her heart . . .

  “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Nelda said, waddling up to them and giving Jake a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. “Can you believe that debunker fell off the widow’s walk and killed himself?” She made the sign of the cross. “God rest his soul.”