Honeysuckle Haunting Page 8

  “Only the folks that know him, of course.”

  Ruth sat across from me. “Now that I think of it, I’m sure the Robertson’s had a boat. For goodness’ sake, they owned a lake house. Probably still do.”

  “Good. Because I’m speaking to him today.”

  “By yourself?”

  “No, with Roan.”

  She spit her coffee back into the mug. “You’re kidding.”

  I frowned. “No. Why?”

  “Why on earth would Roan go to the preacher with you?”

  Oh great, now it was my turn to confess. “He’s sort of helping me with the investigation.”

  “Oh, so now it’s an investigation?”

  “It definitely is. He caught me harassing Tom Sewell, who’s been doing some work for him, and after that, it was all over. He insisted on helping. We spoke to Homer Hicks together.”

  Ruth crossed to the sink and dumped her coffee into the basin. “Who wants to drink backwash?” She poured another cup and sat. “What’d you find out from Homer?”

  “That he sweats whenever Susan Whitby is mentioned.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “Maybe he has a gland problem.”

  “And maybe my instincts are broken, which they’re not. Trust me, the guy’s hiding something.”

  “But you’re still going to talk to the pastor.”

  I smiled. “Of course. Roan’s got a plan. I can’t wait to find out what it is.”

  She studied me. “He must really like you.”

  I waved in dismissal. “I’m trying not to think about that. He’s got his own secrets, remember? A monster in the basement?”

  She leaned back. “So it’s true.”

  Crap. I’d forgotten I hadn’t told her. “Yes, it’s true. According to Roan there’s a spirit trapped in the basement. Some big bad that can’t get loose.”

  “Well then, that’s good enough for me. If he doesn’t want it loose, I don’t either.” She pointed to the bread pan. “More?”

  “No. I need to be able to fit into a dress, remember?”

  She laughed. “Come on. I’ve got some of my niece’s clothes here. She’s small like you. Let’s find you something appropriate to speak to Pastor Robertson in.”

  An hour later I had a navy-blue dress and black pumps that were about as far from my own personal taste as you could get—me preferring more in the leather and cotton variety. But the dress was classy and the shoes fit, so I deemed it a win.

  I returned to the house, changed into the clothes and had just yanked up the zipper, doing a little dance in the process, when the doorbell rang.

  My hair was a mess, so I quickly brushed it, grabbed my coat and threw open the door. Roan stood on my porch wearing a plaid shirt, cream V-neck sweater and corduroys. His hair was swept back from his face. I couldn’t help but notice that he looked like the poster child for the Boy Scouts of America—all grown up, that is.

  He smiled. “You ready to meet with the pastor?”

  I nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  THIRTEEN

  Roan and I sat across from the good pastor George Robertson. He was a tall man in a silk shirt and expensive leather shoes. His dark hair had a hint of gray above the ears. It looked perfect, as if the preacher were a walking billboard for a Touch of Gray ad.

  He smiled kindly and had a perfect set of teeth. It was no wonder. First Baptist of Haunted Hollow was a megachurch. There was no doubt the good reverend was well compensated for his time and energy leading the wonderful people of Haunted Hollow on the right path.

  “Tell me what’s going on, Roan?”

  Roan rubbed his hands together. He wouldn’t tell me a thing on the way over. He refused to reveal his game plan. My stomach was coiled in knots. I never, and I mean never, entered a situation without knowing what I would be facing.

  Type A, meet Roan Storm, Type B.

  Try not to run away screaming.

  Roan coughed into his hand. “Thanks for seeing us today. Blissful and I are going through a trying time in our relationship.”

  Pastor George folded his hands. “Tell me about it.”

  “See, we’ve reached a point where we’re ready to take the next step.” Roan looked at me for agreement. “At least I am.”

  Both men were watching me. “Oh, I am too, absolutely.”

  Roan took my hand. “We want to be together, but there’s just this tiny thing stopping us.”

  “What’s that?” Pastor George said.

  “Blissful has this one big fear. She wants to commit. Says it’s what she wants.”

  I laid my free hand atop his. “Oh, I do. I want to commit.” Where was this going?

  “But the thing is, she’s afraid.”

  “We all have fears,” the pastor said.

  “But hers is different. She’s been having dreams of the past.”

  Oh, I got it. I knew where this was headed.

  George turned to me. “Are these dreams about your own past?”

  I did my deer-in-headlights thing. “Oh no, sir, I’ve been dreaming about someone else. I see so many things—a boat, and a young woman.”

  “Do you think these are hopes of yours, figments of what you crave?” Passion filled his voice. George was getting all preacher-y on me.

  “No, they’re not hers,” Roan said, shooting me a sympathetic smile. “That’s what she says. They’re someone else’s.”

  I nodded glumly. “Yes, sir. They are.”

  Roan squeezed my hand. “We want to be together so desperately, Pastor George. It’s what we want, but we have to make it past this.”

  The preacher drummed well-manicured fingers on his desk. “Whose past is it?”

  My voice quivered. “I think…I think it’s Susan Whitby’s.”

  His brows hitched. “What makes you say that?”

  “She comes to me, sir. Comes to me and tells me she was murdered. Then I dream of her. Do you know about that man who was killed in the park? He said he was going to reveal Susan’s killer. I feel compelled to help the situation. Any way I can. I just know she needs me.”

  Roan cleared his throat. “Tell him what you found, honey?”

  I thumbed to Roan. “It was actually what you found. But anyway, we found some of Neal—the man who died—his research on who killed Susan. We haven’t given it to the police yet, but it looks pretty damning. Sorry, can I say that word?”

  The preacher nodded. “It’s a word that means many things. My suggestion would be to hand over whatever you’ve found if it will help the authorities.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  George’s gaze dragged from me to Roan and back. “I think for now the two of y’all need to focus on each other. Just the two of you. Forget about all the spirits between you, all the other stuff in the way.”

  He threaded his fingers together. “If you’re committed to one another, let God light your path. Not ghosts and darkness.” He smiled. “Now, do you have any other questions for me?”

  “I feel pretty good about that, do you?” Roan said.

  I smiled. “Thank you, Pastor George. You’ve helped so much.”

  The preacher shook Roan’s hand. “Stop by any time.”

  I had to bite my tongue to stop from laughing all the way to Roan’s truck. When I finally climbed inside, I bellowed.

  “Oh my goodness, are you kidding?” I shook my head at him.

  He shrugged. “What? We needed a legitimate excuse to see him.” He patted down his pompadour. “We couldn’t walk in and pepper him with questions about Susan Whitby.”

  I wedged my back in the seat and fastened the belt. “He didn’t seem particularly impressed with us.”

  Roan glanced in the rearview as he backed out of a spot. “I don’t think he expects our relationship to go anywhere. Too many spirits between us.”

  Roan shot me a look, and I laughed again. I knuckled a tear away. “But seriously, he didn’t blink when he said I should hand over the evidence.”

  “No,
he didn’t. But I guess we’ll find out.”

  “Find out what?”

  “If he comes to murder one of us.”

  I stared at Roan.

  He laughed. “I’m kidding.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  He pulled up to a red light and stopped. “You’re right, I’m not kidding.”

  I crossed my arms. “Your plan is worse than mine. Your brilliant idea is to provoke the murderer into killing someone else. Let’s go pretend to be lovers for the pastor, tell him we know he might’ve killed someone, and when he shows up to kill me, I’ll be asleep in bed, totally unsuspecting that the kindly preacher of First Baptist is a closet murderer.”

  “You make it sound so final.”

  I scoffed.

  He raised a finger. “First of all, my goal is not to get you killed. Hard as that is to believe, I’m trying to flush out the murderer same as you. Second, the last thing I was going to do was toss you back to your house right after that.”

  “It was?”

  “Yes. You’re spending the night with me.”

  My blood stopped running. “What?”

  He did a double take. “Don’t look so scared. Not in my bed. I own an inn. There are empty rooms. You can have any of those.”

  “Oh.”

  He shook his head and stared straight ahead. “Seriously, Killer. For such a tough exterior, you sure are a scaredy-cat inside.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  His face swiveled to mine. “When it comes to me you are.”

  Roan might be right, but I’d never admit it to him. Not if it killed me.

  I wiggled farther into the seat. “Okay, so we had to give them our addresses, which means if someone shows up at my house, we won’t be there to capture them. There’s a hole in your plan.”

  “I thought for sure you’d wrangle one of your ghost friends to help.”

  “Oh, so now you believe in my abilities.”

  “I never said I didn’t.” He stared at me. His gaze was like a barb to my heart. “You made assumptions. Probably based on the past. The past doesn’t always equal the future.”

  “I don’t need a math lesson.”

  “Seems you do.”

  Roan pulled up in front of my house. “I’ll pick you up at six. Maybe we can eat someplace where there won’t be a murder victim a few days later.”

  I couldn’t help but to laugh. “Okay.”

  “So you’ll be ready?”

  I scoffed. “You’re acting like I’m going to run screaming from you.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

  I wouldn’t put it past me, either. “I’ll see you tonight.” I hopped from the truck before he had a chance to kiss me. No need to complicate things more than they already were.

  Not that a kiss was a complication, but if we kissed and then spent the night under the same roof—it would be too much. I’d need to spend the entire night being doused under the showerhead.

  I waved goodbye and trotted up my steps. A thick package lay in front of my door. I snatched it up and stared at the address. It was the package I’d asked Anita Tucker for.

  It was thick, but not twenty-years-worth-of-work thick. But still, she’d taken the time to compile some of my late dad’s files on Lucky. I tucked it under my arm and headed inside.

  I shucked out of the clothes Ruth had loaned me, showered and slipped into leggings and a baggy sweater—lounging clothes. I made a pot of coffee and stared at the package.

  Inside it was information my father had compiled. Would there be any clues as to what Lucky had accused him of? Would those secrets be tucked between two folds of paper? Glued together from being pressed firmly after years of being hidden in a filing cabinet?

  Or would it be a big nothing? Just another compilation of cases and notes?

  There was only one way to find out.

  I poured a cup of coffee, pulled back a chair and wedged my finger under the seal.

  “Don’t give yourself a paper cut. I remember those. They hurt like hell.”

  Lucky Strike graced me with his presence at the exact moment I wanted him to vanish. Great timing, ghost.

  “I’m trying not to,” I murmured.

  He flipped the head of his Zippo opened and closed.

  Open and shut.

  A spike of annoyance jutted down my back. “What is it?”

  “Oh nothing, just thought you might want to know what I found on that paper.”

  I peeled my gaze from the package to him. Lucky smirked. “Got your attention now, don’t I?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, but yeah, you’ve got my attention.”

  He pulled a smoke from a pack and slipped it between his lips. The cigarette dangled precariously.

  Lucky pulled a paper from inside his jacket and unfurled it like a scroll. He flattened it on the table and pointed at its center.

  “It’s still blank,” I said flatly. “Did you find a spirit who could read it?”

  Lucky shook his head. “Found a spirit that does that sort of thing. She tried, but no use.”

  I narrowed my gaze. “What do you mean? Is it written in pig Latin?”

  Lucky shook his head. Long, grimy stands of hair floated around his face. “No. It isn’t written in pig Latin. There’s nothing written on it at all.”

  I gripped the package until my fingers hurt. “You mean it’s blank?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That sheet doesn’t have one lick of writing on it. It’s completely blank. Whoever left it for you was playing a hoax.”

  FOURTEEN

  As soon as Lucky left, I called Ruth. “The sheet that Maple found didn’t have anything on it.”

  “Really? That’s strange. Hold on.” Sounded like she placed a hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s Blissful. I don’t know if she’s coming over. How would I know if she’s hunted any spirits? I just got on the phone with her.”

  Ruth’s voice came through crisp as a cold wind. “Alice is over here in case you haven’t guessed.”

  “How is she?”

  “Panicking about anything and everything. Thinks Kency Blount’s going to kick down the door and drag her from the house by her hair.”

  “It’s not out of the realm of possibility. But listen, about Maple—can she be trusted?”

  “Hand to heart with my life.” It sounded like Ruth spat.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Ah, every once in a while, when I get stressed, I have a dip.”

  “Of tobacco?” Disgusting. Like, double disgusting. I wanted to vomit thinking about sticking a sticky clump of brown dirt in my mouth. “How can you do that?”

  “My grandmother and mother did it. Sometimes I do it, too. Don’t judge. If you had to listen to Alice whine twenty-four seven, you’d be doing a lot worse.”

  She had a point. “Do you mind if I ask Maple more about the paper?”

  “Not at all, but it could’ve been left by the murderer. They might’ve beaten her to the place, stole Neal’s stuff and left that.”

  I shook my head. “I doubt it. Doesn’t make sense. Why would his room catch fire if the killer had the documents?”

  “Good point. Hold on.” Ruth’s muffled voice filled the background. “What’s that? I don’t know. I’ll ask her.” To me: “Alice wants to know if you’ve run into Kency.”

  I hesitated. “I have. She didn’t say anything about Alice, but I got the feeling that Kency is considering her.”

  “Great, because Alice plans to lay low until Kency forgets she exists.”

  I laughed. “Not sure how well that’s going to work.”

  “I reckon you and me both, kid.”

  We said our goodbyes, and I checked the clock. I had a few hours before Roan would pick me up. There was time to talk to Maple beforehand, but not time enough to crack the seal on my dad’s documents. I sighed, emptied my cup of cold coffee in the sink and headed out.

  The package would wait.

  I arrived at the Haunted
Hollow library about ten minutes later. I parked out front and headed in. Plastic fall-colored leaves bordered a bulletin board announcing all the upcoming events. I found the circulation desk and a very tidy-looking Maple seated behind a stack of papers.

  I peered over the Formica counter. “Hi, Maple.”

  She dragged her gaze from her computer and smiled. “Hi, Blissful.” She leaned forward and whispered secretly, “What’d you find out? Anything good?”

  I clicked my tongue as if it was the darnedest thing. “It’s so crazy, but the sheet you gave me was blank.”

  Maple’s eyes bloomed wide. “What?”

  I studied her. “There wasn’t anything on it.”

  She scanned her desk as if the answer was buried under a slab of papers. “But how could that be?” She lowered her voice. “The door was unlocked. He’d left it for someone.”

  “Did you see anyone else near the room? Anyone leave? Anyone watching you?”

  She shook her head. “No, the only person who knew anything was the clerk. The teenager—Billy Hudson. He told me which room. But now that I think about it, Billy mentioned something about the room having a funny door handle.”

  I leaned in. “What’d you mean?”

  “Said sometimes it didn’t lock.”

  I rocked back on my heels and rapped the desk. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  I turned around. “For helping me figure this out.”

  It took me about five minutes to track down Lucky Strike and head over to the Happy Spirits Motel. Most of the motel had been saved. Neal Norton’s room had been located along a row of rooms that were separated from the main building. Luckily the office was open and ready for business.

  Billy Hudson, aka acne cracking-voice kid, stared at me from behind the glass. I leaned over and smiled. “Hi, Billy.”

  The knot sliding down his throat made Billy look like he’d swallowed his teeth. “Um. Hello?” Voice crack.

  I draped one arm over the other. “Why’d you do it, Billy?”

  “Do what?”

  “Why’d you sneak into Neal Norton’s room, steal his files and replace them with a blank page?”

  “I didn’t do that.” Sweat sprinkled his brow.

  “You sure did. Who put you up to it?”