A Ghostly Murder (17 page)

 

Enter the world of Tonya Kappes!

Be sure to read the first three novels in her

Ghostly Southern Mystery Series!

A GHOSTLY UNDERTAKING

A GHOSTLY GRAVE

and

A GHOSTLY DEMISE

Available now from Witness!

 

A GHOSTLY UNDERTAKING

A funeral, a ghost, a murder . . . It's all in a day's work for Emma Lee Raines. . . .

Bopped on the head from a falling plastic Santa, local undertaker Emma Lee Raines is told she's suffering from “funeral trauma.” It's trauma all right, because the not-­so-­dearly departed keep talking to her. Take Ruthie Sue Payne—­innkeeper, gossip queen, and arch-­nemesis of Emma Lee's granny—­she's adamant that she didn't just fall down those stairs. She was pushed.

Ruthie has no idea who wanted her pushing up daisies. All she knows is that she can't cross over until the matter is laid to eternal rest. In the land of the living, Emma Lee's high-­school crush, Sheriff Jack Henry Ross, isn't ready to rule out foul play. Granny Raines, the widow of Ruthie's ex-­husband and co-­owner of the Sleepy Hollow Inn, is the prime suspect. Now Emma Lee is stuck playing detective or risk being haunted forever.

 

 

A
nother day. Another funeral. Another ghost.

Great
. As if ­people didn't think I was freaky enough. But, truthfully, this was becoming a common occurrence for me as the director of Eternal Slumber Funeral Home.

Well, the funeral thing was common.

The ghost thing . . . that was new, making Sleepy Hollow anything
but
sleepy.

“What is
she
doing here?” A ghostly Ruthie Sue Payne stood next to me in the back of her own funeral, looking at the long line of Sleepy Hollow's residents that had come to pay tribute to her life. “I couldn't stand her while I was living, much less dead.”

Ruthie, the local innkeeper, busybody and my granny's arch-­nemesis, had died two days ago after a fall down the stairs of her inn.

I hummed along to the tune of “Blessed Assurance,” which was piping through the sound system, to try and drown out Ruthie's voice as I picked at baby's breath in the pure white blossom funeral spray sitting on the marble-­top pedestal table next to the casket. The more she talked, the louder I hummed and rearranged the flowers, gaining stares and whispers of the mourners in the viewing room.

I was getting used to those stares.

“No matter how much you ignore me, I know you can hear and see me.” Ruthie rested her head on my shoulder, causing me to nearly jump out of my skin. “If I'd known you were a light seeker, I probably would've been a little nicer to you while I was living.”

I doubted that.
Ruthie Sue Payne hadn't been the nicest lady in Sleepy Hollow, Kentucky. True to her name, she was a pain. Ruthie had been the president and CEO of the gossip mill. It didn't matter if the gossip was true or not, she told it.

Plus, she didn't care much for my family. Especially not after my granny married Ruthie's ex-­husband, Earl. And
especially
not after Earl died and left Granny his half of the inn he and Ruthie had owned together . . . the inn where Granny and Ruthie both lived. The inn where Ruthie had died.

I glared at her. Well, technically I glared at Pastor Brown, because he was standing next to me and he obviously couldn't see Ruthie standing between us. Honestly, I wasn't sure there was a ghost between us, either. It had been suggested that the visions I had of dead ­people were hallucinations . . .

I kept telling myself that I was hallucinating, because it seemed a lot better than the alternative—­I could see ghosts, talk to ghosts, be touched by ghosts.

“Are you okay, Emma Lee?” Pastor Brown laid a hand on my forearm. The sleeve on his brown pin-­striped suit coat was a little too small, hitting above his wrist bone, exposing a tarnished metal watch. His razor-­sharp blue eyes made his coal-­black greasy comb-­over stand out.

“Yes.” I lied. “I'm fine.” Fine as a girl who was having a ghostly hallucination could be.

“Are you sure?” Pastor Brown wasn't the only one concerned. The entire town of Sleepy Hollow had been worried about my well-­being since my run-­in with Santa Claus.

No, the spirit of Santa Claus hadn't visited me.
Yet
. Three months ago, a plastic Santa had done me in.

It was the darndest thing, a silly accident.

I abandoned the flower arrangement and smoothed a wrinkle in the thick velvet drapes, remembering that fateful day. The sun had been out, melting away the last of the Christmas snow. I'd decided to walk over to Artie's Meats and Deli, over on Main Street, a block away from the funeral home, to grab a bite for lunch since they had the best homemade chili this side of the Mississippi. I'd just opened the door when the snow and ice around the plastic Santa Claus Artie had put on the roof of the deli gave way, sending the five-­foot jolly man crashing down on my head, knocking me out.

Flat out.

I knew I was on my way to meet my maker when Chicken Teater showed up at my hospital bedside. I had put Chicken Teater in the ground two years ago. But there he was, telling me all sorts of crazy things that I didn't understand. He blabbed on and on about guns, murders and all sorts of dealings I wanted to know nothing about.

It wasn't until my older sister and business partner, Charlotte Rae Raines, walked right through Chicken Teater's body, demanding that the doctor do something for my hallucinations, that I realized I wasn't dead after all.

I had been
hallucinating
. That's all. Hallucinating.

Doc Clyde said I had a case of the “Funeral Trauma” from working with the dead too long.

Too long
? At twenty-­eight, I had been an undertaker for only three years. I had been around the funeral home my whole life. It was the family business, currently owned by my granny, but run by my sister and me.

Some family business.

Ruthie tugged my sleeve, bringing me out of my memories. “And her!” she said, pointing across the room. Every single one of Ruthie's fingers was filled up to its knuckles with rings. She had been very specific in her funeral “pre-­need” arrangements, and had diagramed where she wanted every single piece of jewelry placed on her during her viewing. The jewelry jangled as she wagged a finger at Sleepy Hollow's mayor, Anna Grace May. “I've been trying to get an appointment to see her for two weeks and she couldn't make time for me. Hmmph.”

Doc Clyde had never been able to explain the touching thing. If Ruthie
was
a hallucination, how could she touch me? I rubbed my arm, trying to erase the feeling, and watched as everyone in the room turned their heads toward Mayor May.

Ruthie crossed her arms, lowered her brow and snarled. “Must be an election year, her showing up here like this.”

“She's pretty busy,” I whispered.

Mayor May sashayed her way up to see old Ruthie laid out, shaking hands along the way as if she were the president of the United States about to deliver the State of the Union speech. Her long, straight auburn hair was neatly tucked behind each ear, and her tight pencil skirt showed off her curvy body in just the right places. Her perfect white teeth glistened in the dull funeral-­home setting.

If she wasn't close enough to shake your hand, the mayor did her standard wink and wave. I swear that was how she got elected. Mayor May was the first Sleepy Hollow official to ever get elected to office without being born and bred here. She was a quick talker and good with the old ­people, who made up the majority of the population. She didn't know the history of all the familial generations—­how my grandfather had built Eternal Slumber with his own hands or how Sleepy Hollow had been a big coal town back in the day—­which made her a bit of an outsider. Still, she was a good mayor and everyone seemed to like her.

All the men in the room eyed Mayor May's wiggle as she made her way down the center aisle of the viewing room. A few smacks could be heard from the women punching their husbands in the arm to stop them from gawking.

Ruthie said, “I know, especially now with that new development happening in town. It's why I wanted to talk to her.”

New development?
This was the first time I had heard anything about a new development. There hadn't been anything new in Sleepy Hollow in . . . a long time.

We could certainly use a little developing, but it would come at the risk of disturbing Sleepy Hollow's main income. The town was a top destination in Kentucky because of our many caves and caverns. Any digging could wreak havoc with what was going on underground.

Before I could ask Ruthie for more information, she said, “It's about time
they
got here.”

In the vestibule, all the blue-­haired ladies from the Auxiliary Club (Ruthie's only friends) stood side by side with their pocketbooks hooked in the crooks of their elbows. They were taking their sweet time signing the guest book.

The guest book was to be given to the next of kin, whom I still hadn't had any luck finding. As a matter of fact, I didn't have any family members listed in my files for Ruthie.

Ruthie walked over to her friends, eyeing them as they talked about her. She looked like she was chomping at the bit to join in the gossip, but put her hand up to her mouth. The corners of her eyes turned down, and a tear balanced on the edge of her eyelid as if she realized her fate had truly been sealed.

A flash of movement caught my eye, and I nearly groaned as I spotted my sister Charlotte Rae snaking through the crowd, her fiery gaze leveled on me. I tried to sidestep around Pastor Brown but was quickly jerked to a stop when she called after me.

“Did I just see you over here talking to yourself, Emma Lee?” She gave me a death stare that might just put me next to old Ruthie in her casket.

“Me? No.” I laughed. When it came to Charlotte Rae, denial was my best defense.

My sister stood much taller than me. Her sparkly green eyes, long red hair, and girl-­next-­door look made families feel comfortable discussing their loved one's final resting needs with her. That was why she ran the sales side of our business, while I covered almost everything else.

Details. That was my specialty. I couldn't help but notice Charlotte Rae's pink nails were a perfect match to her pink blouse. She was perfectly beautiful.

Not that I was unattractive, but my brown hair was definitely dull if I didn't get highlights, which reminded me that I needed to make an appointment at the hair salon. My hazel eyes didn't twinkle like Charlotte Rae's. Nor did my legs climb to the sky like Charlotte's. She was blessed with Grandpa Raines's family genes of long and lean, while I took after Granny's side of the family—­average.

Charlotte Rae leaned over and whispered, “Seriously, are you seeing something?”

I shook my head. There was no way I was going to spill the beans about seeing Ruthie. Truth be told, I'd been positive that seeing Chicken Teater while I was in the hospital
had
been a figment of my imagination . . . until I was called to pick up Ruthie's dead body from the Sleepy Hollow Inn and Antiques, Sleepy Hollow's one and only motel.

When she started talking to me, there was no denying the truth.

I wasn't hallucinating.

I could see ghosts.

I hadn't quite figured out what to do with this newfound talent of mine, and didn't really want to discuss it with anyone until I did. Especially Charlotte. If she suspected what was going on, she'd have Doc Clyde give me one of those little pills that he said cured the “Funeral Trauma,” but only made me sleepy and groggy.

Charlotte Rae leaned over and fussed at me through her gritted teeth. “If you are seeing something or
someone
, you better keep your mouth shut.”

That was one thing Charlotte Rae was good at. She could keep a smile on her face and stab you in the back at the same time. She went on. “You've already lost Blue Goose Moore and Shelby Parks to Burns Funeral Home because they didn't want the ‘Funeral Trauma' to rub off on them.”

My lips were as tight as bark on a tree about seeing or hearing Ruthie. In fact, I didn't understand enough of it myself to speak of it.

I was saved from more denials as the Auxiliary women filed into the viewing room one by one. I jumped at the chance to make them feel welcome—­and leave my sister behind. “Right this way, ladies.” I gestured down the center aisle for the Auxiliary women to make their way to the casket.

One lady shook her head. “I can't believe she fell down the inn's steps. She was always so good on her feet. So sad.”

“It could happen to any of us,” another blue-­haired lady rattled off as she consoled her friend.

“Yes, it's a sad day,” I murmured and followed them up to the front of the room, stopping a few times on the way so they could say hi to some of the townsfolk they recognized.

“Fall?” Ruthie leaned against her casket as the ladies paid their respects. “What does she mean ‘fall'?” Ruthie begged to know. Frantically, she looked at me and back at the lady.

I ignored her, because answering would really set town tongues to wagging, and adjusted the arrangement of roses that lay across the mahogany casket. The smell of the flowers made my stomach curl. There was a certain odor to a roomful of floral arrangements that didn't sit well with me. Even as a child, I never liked the scent.

Ruthie, however, was not going to be ignored.

“Emma Lee Raines, I know you can hear me. You listen to me.” There was a desperate plea in her voice. “I didn't fall.”

Okay,
that
got my attention. I needed to hear this. I gave a sharp nod of my chin, motioning for her to follow me.

Pulling my hands out of the rose arrangement, I smoothed down the front of my skirt and started to walk back down the aisle toward the entrance of the viewing room.

We'd barely made it into the vestibule before Ruthie was right in my face. “Emma Lee, I did
not
fall down those stairs. Someone pushed me. Don't you understand? I was murdered!”