Downright Dead Read online

  Like father, like son.

  “I’ll drive out to his place in the morning and check on him if he’s too sore to work,” Holly said.

  “He may be,” Miss Alice said. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”

  Holly paced. “Lordy, all I was trying to do was keep him busy and sober, and I nearly killed him.”

  “But you didn’t.” Nelda picked up another scrap of yellowed paper. “If he hadn’t fallen through the roof, I wouldn’t have found that old biscuit box.”

  “I remember these.” Miss Alice picked up the biscuit tin from the counter. Her old eyes stared at the box like it was a window to her past. “My father had one just like it. He hid things away in it for safekeeping. Before air-conditioning, humidity and bugs were a problem. We looked for it for years after he passed and never found it.”

  “Mackie and me were waiting for ya’ll to come back, and the thing fell from the hole in the ceiling. Mackie thinks someone hid it there years ago and he knocked it loose.”

  Holly picked up one of the scattered scraps of paper, a receipt dated 1929, written in beautiful script, and signed with a name she didn’t recognize. “Why would anyone hide receipts?”

  “There’s lots of those, but that’s not what I’m lookin’ for.”

  Miss Alice inspected the receipt. “Because selling alcohol was illegal in 1929.”

  “Right. Prohibition,” Holly said. “You think these are from when Holly Grove was a speakeasy?”

  “If bettin’ wasn’t a sin, I’d put my money on it.” Nelda picked up another scrap of paper with the same beautiful handwriting. She dangled it between her sturdy fingers. “You know what else I found in this box?” She grinned. “And it ain’t a receipt.”

  Nelda hid the paper behind her back. “You go get ready to pick up the Sinclairs at the airstrip. You ain’t gonna believe it.”

  “Oh, crapola.” Holly slapped her forehead. “He’s waiting in the parlor. With all the excitement, I forgot to check him in.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Holly stopped outside the parlor to collect herself before she apologized to her guest for leaving him so long—and for smacking into him. Lordy. Nothing strange going on here. Enjoy your relaxing vacation.

  No doubt, she looked a mess but didn’t dare confirm it by looking in the pier mirror next to the door. She pressed her hands over her skirt then pushed her hair out of her face and plastered a smile on her face. Shoe leather tastes yummy. She stepped into the parlor and stared at the empty settee. Odd. Where could Mr. Sinclair be?

  Maybe he had given up on her. A familiar squeak from the seventh step on the staircase came from behind her. She slowly turned to the sound.

  The pudgy guy stood on the squeaky step and stared at her. A roll of pasty-white hairy flesh showed between his black hoodie and cargo pants that made her want to wash the sight from her eyes. Evidently, he’d been upstairs, uninvited. And he was alone—where was Mrs. Sinclair?

  He adjusted his glasses then shifted his weight, purposefully making the stair moan. What adult does that? Had she accidentally let in a passing hitchhiker, a mental patient, or what?

  The creeper moved down the hall and stood in front of the bulletin board filled with guest snapshots of supposed ghostly sightings. He leaned in to about six inches in front of the photos.

  Holly marched up to him. “You are not Mr. Sinclair.”

  He shrugged without looking away from the photos. “I didn’t say I was.”

  “You can’t just knock on the door and then roam around my house without a reservation.”

  The reflection of the gasolier flashed on his glasses as he turned. Behind the lenses, flat mud-brown eyes floated in a don’t-give-a-flying-flip look. “You said to make myself at home. I took that as the Southern hospitality I’ve heard about. Guess that’s just part of the act.”

  “What act? I thought you were Mr. Sinclair. He has a reservation. You do not.”

  He gave a nod back at her publicity board. “Is there really paranormal activity here?”

  Oh. He’s one of those. “Sir, I appreciate the interest, but if you don’t have a reservation, you’ll have to come back during tour time at ten o’clock in the morning. We can talk about my ghost then.” She folded her arms across her chest.

  He squared his body with hers, uncomfortably close. His stale tobacco breath loitered in the air between them. “Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked.

  “I didn’t until I got one,” she said. “I’ll tell you all about him during a tour anytime but right now—”

  “Right,” He cocked his head back and drew the word out. “It’s all about the money. Always is.”

  A real peach of a guy. Mercy. “Sir, I have guests I need to take care of. It’s time for you to leave.” She made a flourish of pointing to the door.

  He glanced at the door and then back at her. “I have a confirmed reservation. Prepaid in fact.” He assumed the close-talker position again.

  Holly held her breath.

  “Are you refusing to accept my reservation and if so, why?”

  She took a step back. Last she’d checked, only Miss Alice and the Sinclairs had reservations tonight. “Of course not, if you have one.”

  “I booked it via your website today.” He pulled out his phone and made a few clicks, then flipped the phone around and held it in front of her face.

  She read the email, an automatic confirmation time-stamped 3:45 CST. How had she missed that? Holly blew out a deep breath. Mr. Instant Obnoxious must have made the reservation about the time Sylvia had called and sent Holly into a panic. She vaguely remembered a second alert tone. Not once during this day from Hades had she thought to check that alert. This was no way to run a business, especially one that promised Southern hospitality and relied on reservations from the public.

  “My mistake.” She showed her teeth in a failed effort to smile at a less desired member of the public she could not refuse service. “Like I told you when I nearly mowed you down, I had a small emergency earlier.”

  He used his index finger to slide his glasses up the bridge of his nose, then looked down at her. “An emergency that is small is a misnomer.”

  What a jerk. “Okay, well . . . It’s been a crazy day. I just missed seeing your reservation. If you’ll give me your driver’s license, I’ll get you registered. You can wait in the parlor.”

  “I waited in the parlor for seventeen minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Fifteen minutes is considered long enough by polite society. I gave you an extra two minutes and thirty-seven seconds.” He pulled a stump of a cigar out of a pocket in his cargo pants. “Unless you want me to smoke in your parlor, I’ll be outside. Bring me the key when you get your act together.”

  “Jerk” doesn’t do this dude justice. “Mr. . . . I don’t believe I caught your name.” If she’d scrolled down his confirmation email a bit farther, she would have read the personalized autogenerated greeting she sent all her guests.

  “Truman Jeremiah Stalwort, III,” he said, handing her his driver’s license. “Everyone knows me as Tru.”

  Tru? Tru the truly obnoxious troll . . . Tru the truth teller. Holly nearly gagged. “Sylvia told me all about you.”

  “Correction.” He pointed his cigar at Holly. “She told you what she believes about me. She doesn’t know me.”

  “I wasn’t expecting you until Wednesday when Sylvia and her crew come in for the shoot.”

  “It’s only fair to arrive first, since she’s familiar with your so-called ghost and I’m not. Don’t you agree?”

  “I agreed to a follow-up shoot that starts Wednesday. Sylvia didn’t mention you’d be here early. Did she agree to that?”

  He shrugged. “It’s in my contract.”

  “It’s not in mine.” Holly folded her arms. “All I agreed to is a follow-up shoot.” Evidently, Sylvia’s “let me be perfectly honest” fell short of mentioning Tru’s early arrival. That woman could make the Pope cuss.

  “That’s not my problem.
” He stuck the stump of a cigar in his mouth and ambled to the front door. He turned and yanked the cigar out of his mouth. “Can’t wait to see your ghost on Inquiring Minds tonight.”

  “He’ll be there.” And somehow she had to make Tru believe Burl still haunted Holly Grove.

  “Sure he will.” Tru stretched out his words and nodded with a sardonic smirk. “But will he show without TV magic on Wednesday?” He stuck his stogie in his mouth, then walked out, leaving the door wide open.

  A gust of winter wind blasted through the hall. The ghost pics fluttered against their pushpins on the bulletin board and reminded her of Burl’s old tricks. Instinctively, she looked around for him. Of course, he wasn’t there, but Tru didn’t know that.

  “Better watch out,” she called out to Tru. “You’re upsetting my ghost.”

  Tru turned halfway toward her. “Good one,” Tru said, pointing his cigar butt at her. “Wind gusts up to forty miles per hour. Sixty percent chance of rain. Low forty-four degrees. It’s called a weather forecast. A scientific measure. Not the power of suggestion. That’s all you’ve got.” He thumbed his chest. “Tru knows.”

  “You don’t know jack about my ghost.” She marched to the door and slammed it hard enough to rattle the paintings of all five generations on the wall. Holly slumped against the door. A good bluff. That’s all I’ve got. “The Ghost in the Grove” will be debunked. Reservations will fall off. Bills will pile up. I’ll be forced to sell. And Nelda . . . what would she do?

  Holly shook her head. I can’t let that happen. There will not be a follow-up show even if I have to sabotage it at every turn.

  * * *

  The lights on Holly’s Tahoe bounced across the rutted dirt road. Her butt lifted off the seat with every pothole she hit, but she tolerated the rough ride for speed. Inquiring Minds would start in less than thirty minutes. She tightened her grip on the wheel. The Sinclairs had been in the dark at Burl’s abandoned runway and failed aviation business for thirty minutes. Folks stuck on tarmacs too long get testy with the airlines and take to Twitter or Facebook to tell the world. That wouldn’t look good on a review. She goosed the gas and hit a big hole in the dirt road. The thermos Nelda had given her as she rushed out the door went airborne and clattered on the floorboard. Holly huffed. The recipe Nelda had found in the biscuit tin had said shaken not stirred. That Sazerac was shaken for sure.

  As she approached the runway, red lights flickered on the far end. She parked her Tahoe and squinted. The lights didn’t look right. Too close together. She blinked.

  The tiniest plane she’d ever seen taxied toward her end of the runway. That kind of plane is exactly why some people believe in UFOs. Of course, she didn’t believe in UFOs, but she hadn’t believed in ghosts until her ex came back as one.

  Holly stretched across the seat and retrieved the thermos, then unwrapped the linen napkins from around the two crystal lowball glasses she’d wedged in the console. Maybe a little liquid hospitality will help Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair forget they’d sat on the runway in the middle of nowhere for half an hour. She inhaled the soothing aroma as she poured two Sazeracs and wished she’d brought another glass. Jake canceling. Mackie falling through the roof. The electrical problems. The debunker. The show coming up tonight. What a freakin’ day and it’s not over yet.

  The plane couldn’t have been much bigger than a glider. She’d been to lots of air shows with Burl, back in the day, and had never seen anything like it. Other than the call numbers and its name, No Regrets, there wasn’t any indication of the make or model.

  A bald guy with a perfectly trimmed silver beard climbed out of the plane carrying a leather duffel bag. He stood just staring at Holly for a beat too long. Probably ticked.

  “I’m so sorry to keep y’all waiting,” she said as she walked toward him.

  He finally waved at her and smiled like he meant it—as though she hadn’t left him stranded on her back forty in the kind of dark that usually freaks out city folks.

  “No problem.” He looked toward the stars. “I never see the stars like this in San Francisco.”

  A fellow stargazer. Maybe the renovations on the widow’s walk would be complete before he checked out. He’d love her new telescope.

  “Welcome to Holly Grove.” Holly lifted both lowball glasses. “I brought y’all Sazeracs to relax after your flight.”

  Mr. Sinclair glanced behind him then back at Holly and snapped his fingers. “I forgot to tell you my better half isn’t coming until later in the week. Is that a problem?”

  “Not at all.” Holly eyed the extra cocktail. If she wasn’t driving, she wouldn’t let that go to waste. “Holly Grove is only a half mile away on the other side of the cane field.”

  He sipped his Sazerac and didn’t make a face. A good sign. He seemed to study her, especially her hair, which was probably frizzed to the max in the night air. Maybe there was a bug in it or something. She smoothed her hand over her hair.

  “I used to have curls when I had hair.” He chuckled, then took another sip of his drink. “There is nowhere on earth you can get a Sazerac like this except in Louisiana.”

  “Have you been here before?” She accidentally took a sip of the extra cocktail. As she swallowed the smooth liquid, her taste buds applauded a perfect mix of chilled bourbon, Peychaud’s Bitters, sugar, and lemon zest. The extra shaking may have helped, but this was as close as she’d come to as good as Grandma Rose’s Sazeracs.

  “I haven’t been to Louisiana in over thirty years, but this cocktail left a lasting impression. I’ve ordered it other places, but it’s never lived up to my memory.” He swirled the ruby cocktail in his glass. “Until now.”

  Holly could have just about hugged him, but that may have made the man think she was one egg short of a dozen. Instead she said, “It’s a secret recipe that’s been in my family for generations.” Thank you, long-gone kinfolk, for saving the recipe and Holly Grove in hard times.

  “Hold on to it.” He winked at Holly and hefted his bag over his shoulder. “If it gets out of Louisiana, everyone will be drinking these.”

  Holly pretended to lock her lips. She liked Mr. Sinclair already. Maybe he’d balance out instantly obnoxious Tru.

  “What kind of plane do you have there?” She asked. “I’ve never seen one like it.”

  “And you won’t. I built it from a kit and customized it.” He seemed to swell with pride. “It’s part of my retirement bucket list.”

  “Wow! I’m impressed. My ex was a pilot, but I don’t think he could have ever built a plane.” Or even a picnic table. Holly ambled toward her Tahoe. “What else is on your bucket list?”

  “This, for one thing. I’m flying cross-country and stopping at interesting places a week at a time as a reward for building the plane.”

  “I’m flattered you decided to make one of your stops here at Holly Grove. How did you find out about us?”

  “Um, a friend has an interest in Inquiring Minds. He suggested we time our trip to watch the ‘Ghost in the Grove’ episode on location.”

  “Really?” Holly opened the back of her Tahoe. That on location jargon sounded like someone in the business. Mr. Sinclair may be nice, but he may be a producer looking out for his investment, too. At the very least, he’s got a friend invested in the show. First Tru and now this guy.

  Lordy. Wait. “Interest” could mean an interest in the supernatural. Maybe I’m just being too suspicious, but maybe not. I’ll have to keep an eye on Mr. Sinclair.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A blinding light flashed. Startled, Holly blinked and steadied herself by holding on to the banister on the stairs.

  “Tarnation! You closed your eyes,” Sam said after his paparazzi-style ambush for the umpteenth time since he’d arrived to document the TV premiere of Holly Grove B&B for the Delta Ridge Gazette. “Don’t move.”

  “I don’t have time to stand still, Sam.” And she’d only invited him at Jake’s request, and Jake wasn’t even coming now. What’s fair about
that? “Don’t you think you have enough pre-show photos?” The weekly newspaper only printed about a dozen pages.

  “Nope.” Sam aimed his new 35mm camera at her again. His bushy gray brows hung over the camera like twin caterpillars. “This new digital camera lets me take all I want for cheap.”

  Cheap. Exactly why Sam was the richest man in Delta Ridge and could keep a weekly rag in the black in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it town. “Well you’re going to have to catch me in motion.” Holly crossed the hall to the swinging kitchen door. She noticed Nelda’s handwriting on a note taped to the door. Private.

  “Keeping the riffraff out?” Sam asked.

  Holly pushed through the door and held it for Sam.

  “Gumbo’s nearly ready,” Nelda said as she stirred the pot. “Fifteen minutes ’til showtime.”

  Rhett lay curled up snoozing under the planter’s table as Miss Alice and the Deltas put away the cards from an impromptu hand of bridge.

  Sam meandered to the ladies and started snapping photos.

  Holly crossed the kitchen to Nelda, then leaned in close and whispered, “What’s with the note on the door?”

  “That Tru’s been up in my kitchen askin’ questions, and I ’bout had enough.” Nelda hadn’t made an attempt to whisper. The Deltas stopped. A whisper always raised their gossip antennas to high alert. Just what Holly didn’t need right now.

  Sam snapped a blast of photos of their concentrated stares.

  Holly turned her back on them and raised a finger to her lips at Nelda. “Shh.”

  “Don’t shush me. They know all about him.” She rapped her wooden spoon on the side of the pot. “Debunk my big toe.”

  Holly’s stomach swirled in a downward spiral. That was the last thing the gossip cartel of Delta Ridge needed to know. As if faking a ghost wasn’t enough of a challenge, she’d now have to fight the gossip mill again. “You told them he’s a debunker?”

  “Sure did. Told ’em about that TV challenge too. They need to know he’s out to ruin Holly Grove.”

  “And that’s not good for our town tourism,” Miss Alice said. She stood and held her chin high. “Holly Grove is the only attraction in a thirty-mile radius that brings in buses of tourists during the season to visit downtown. It’s my civic duty to make sure this establishment is successful.”