A Ghostly Undertaking

Excerpt

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Chapter 1

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 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!”

 

Chapter 2

M
urdered? There had never been a murder in Sleepy Hollow—­that I knew of.

I hadn’t known what to say to Ruthie, and needed time to think things through, so I punched open the swinging door leading to the employee gathering space and headed for my office.

If I didn’t think I’d be interrupted, I’d pull the shades and lie down on one of the couches to rest. That was too much to ask. Even though the employees hung out there during their breaks, during funerals the guests would also go back there to talk or visit, away from the body. Today was no different.

The couches were lined with the good citizens of Sleepy Hollow, gossiping about the abrupt death of one of Sleepy Hollow’s staple residents: Ruthie.

I overheard a few of them saying they were in shock and didn’t realize she was so unstable.

They are shocked? I passed by them. I was shocked.

Once inside my office, I planted my back against the door. In the darkness, my heavy breathing bounced off the wood-­paneled walls, breaking the stillness in the room.

Silence. The ghost of Ruthie Sue Payne was nowhere to be seen—­she hadn’t followed me here. She’d dropped her little bombshell and skedaddled.

“Murdered.” I closed my eyes. Was it possible?

Of course one of my staff would have noticed some sign of that while they were prepping Ruthie’s body. But a niggling doubt had appeared. I gave myself a good shake. “Emma Lee Raines, take ahold of yourself.”

Slipping off my high heels, I ran my hands along the wall and walked into the bathroom, flipping on the light switch. The cold tile shocked my feet, making me jump a little.

I turned the hot water faucet on. The old pipes groaned as I held my hand under the stream, waiting, waiting. Tonight, the sound sent chills up my spine . . . and the cold stream felt like ice. My nerves were definitely on edge.

I looked in the mirror at the dark circles under my eyes.

“You can get control of your life.” I tapped the bags under my eyes. I once heard the power of positive affirmation could do wonders for your psyche. I was banking on that.

At last the water ran warm. Using cupped hands, I splashed warm water on my face until I felt like a drowned rat.

I grabbed the towel, dabbed the water off my face and eyed my reflection. My dull brown hair—­not to mention the dripping mascara halfway down my cheek from the water—­made me look like a boring funeral girl who just might have a case of the crazies.

“Better.” Positive affirmation. I smiled as I opened the medicine cabinet.

Ruthie’s voice came from behind me. “Whatever you’re looking for, you might want to take two. You’re looking a little ghostly yourself. I’m sorry if I knocked you for a loop with my murder news, but I need your help, Emma Lee.”

The towel dropped to my feet as my mouth dropped open, too. My stomach hit my toes and bounced up, lodging in my throat. I tried to speak, but couldn’t.

Surely this wasn’t Ruthie. Ruthie Sue Payne would never be caught in hot pink pajamas, kitty-­cat slippers and her hair tucked in a night cap. Fingers full of rings, maybe, but this?

Ruthie eyed me. “What? Ghost got your tongue?”

“You are a ghost?” I squeezed my eyes shut and slowly opened them. I was seeing things. But she was still there, hot pink pj’s and all. I dragged my finger up and down in the air. “Ruthie would never be caught dead, no pun intended, in those.”

“If I was sleeping, I would,” she said. She flung her foot out to the side; the kitty-­slipper eyes jingled along with the jewels on her hands as she did spirit fingers. “I’m a ghost and someone killed me. You are seeing me. You are the only one who sees me.”

“Doc Clyde said something about hallucinations. And I think I might be having one right this moment.” I bit my lip and paced back and forth, wondering if I should yell for Charlotte.

“He’s a moron.”

Since Ruthie was so chatty, I was about to pepper her with questions. Lots of hows and whys. How was I able to see her? Why was she talking to me? And why did she think she’d been murdered? But before I could, I heard a tap on my office door, then the room flooded with light. “Emma Lee?”

Ruthie’s eyes widened and she put her finger up to her mouth, “Shh . . .”

“I’m here!” I screamed, hoping that it would scare the hallucination or Ruthie’s ghost off. It didn’t matter which one left, as long as it left.

I had never been so relieved to see Charlotte Rae poke her pretty little head into my bathroom. “Emma Lee, what are you doing in here? What happened to your makeup? Are you okay?”

She took her hand and rubbed it across my cheek, wiping off smudged makeup. For a second there, I thought she was going to spit on a napkin and go in for another rub, so I dodged to the side.

“What are you looking at?” Charlotte glanced over her shoulder. Her perfectly coifed red hair didn’t move.

“Nothing.” I smiled, brushing down the front of my skirt as if there was some stray lint. “There was a lull in the visitation, so I wanted to come freshen up my makeup.”

I lied . . . for the second time tonight.

Charlotte Rae took the opportunity to look in the mirror. She grabbed the hand towel and rubbed the jeweled buttons on her jacket, making them sparkle even more. “Hurry up. The visitation is almost over. You need to go over all the final touches for the burial before tomorrow.”

Tomorrow! Would Ruthie be gone tomorrow? I’d been so sure that Ruthie was going to be like Chicken Teater: here one minute and gone the next. Once Ruthie’s body was in the ground, would she be gone . . . forever?

I had no idea—­but maybe Ruthie knew. “I’ll be right out—­I just need a few more minutes.”

Charlotte Rae grabbed my arm. “No, now. The place is packed and I need your help.”

As she grabbed my arm and dragged me along, I grabbed my high heels, and actually hoped that Ruthie would stick around a while longer so I could ask those questions. Murdered. It didn’t seem possible.

Back in the viewing room, the place buzzed with Sleepy Hollow residents. The first and last hours of a funeral visitation were the busiest. ­People believed that if you got there early, you got out early. Or if you got there late, you had to leave by closing time. Let’s face it, who wants to be face-­to-­face with a corpse for any length of time?

Besides my crazy family, that is.

As I made my way back to Ruthie’s casket, I overheard a conversation between two men sitting in one of the rows. I paused for a moment to hear exactly what they thought about her sudden death.

One gentleman hung his head and stared at his fingers, which were folded in his lap. He said, “I knew those stairs were too steep.”

The other man, who couldn’t take his eyes off of Ruthie’s casket, added, “That inn needs to be bulldozed. It’s dangerous and old.”

“You never know.” The first man shook his head. “Ruthie was getting up in age and maybe she wasn’t as with it as we thought.”

“She wasn’t crazy.” The second gentleman was offended.

“Not crazy,” he corrected himself. “We aren’t as spry as we use to be.”

The other man nodded in agreement. His eyes deepened along with his lines.

Leaning up against her casket, Ruthie fiddled with the jewels on her fingers. “Half of these ­people are only here to be nosy. Most of them hated me, you know. And I bet my murderer is in this very room. Who could it be . . . ? Hmm. I suppose there’s no lack of suspects. Someone came up behind me and shoved me down those stairs. Could be just about anyone, including your granny, you know. She’d been itching to push me down those steps for years.”

That was true. Granny hated Ruthie. But Granny wasn’t the type to murder someone and not take blame for it. She’d be going around town bragging about what she’d done.

“You’re going to have your hands full trying to figure it out,” Ruthie added.

I smiled and nodded at all the ­people walking past and gawking at Ruthie’s body, wondering if they could tell that I was listening to a ghost rant. But even though I couldn’t openly speak to Ruthie here and now, she did have me thinking . . . about who could have killed her.

Even if Ruthie was right and all of these ­people were here to see what was going on, they all did seem to have some sadness about them. No one said a foul word about her.

“It’s so good of you to stand up here to greet everyone.” One of the local elderly women patted my arm when she walked by.

It really wasn’t my place to stand by the casket, it was the job of the next of kin or any sort of family. Unfortunately, Ruthie didn’t have any next of kin listed on her pre-­arrangement form, nor could I find any.

I’m all she had.

I glanced over at the grandfather clock that stood in the corner. The brass weights and pendulum were polished to a high shine. Only twenty more minutes to go before everyone left and I could talk to Ruthie without fear of being overheard.

Charlotte walked up and nudged me. “I can’t help but feel a little victorious that Ruthie is lying in the same spot from where she stole Earl.” There was a little pleasure in her voice. “That’s some kind of karma.”

I glanced over at Charlotte and couldn’t help but smile. Old Ruthie had her hand up to her nose and was wiggling her fingers with her tongue stuck out, like a six-­year-­old. Ruthie had never been this funny when she was living.

Five years ago, Earl Way Payne, Ruthie’s deceased ex-­husband, had lain in the exact same spot as Ruthie . . . until Ruthie stole him.

On the day of his funeral, Earl Way’s will was read, leaving Granny his half of the Inn.

Apparently, Earl Way hadn’t changed his “pre-­need” funeral arrangements when he married my granny and hadn’t let her know what his plans were. So, Granny had Earl Way laid out in this very viewing room as if he were the king of En­gland, with a room full of Sleepy Hollow residents here paying their respects, when O’Dell Burns marched in, rolling a casket cot, with Ruthie right behind him.

“Pick him up,” Ruthie had demanded, pointing back and forth from Earl Way’s body to the basic wooden box O’Dell had wheeled in. “Go on, put him in.”

I had never seen Granny speechless, but she was that day. O’Dell picked up Earl Way’s body and plopped him into that cheap pine box.

Granny had stood at the front door with her arms crossed as O’Dell barreled out of the viewing room with Earl hopping and bopping and Ruthie scurrying alongside.

And no one could do a darned thing about it, because old Earl hadn’t changed the orders to make Granny in charge of his eternal rest. That duty had been left to Ruthie, and she was determined to see it out. Her way.

That was the moment when Granny decided to move into Earl’s side of the Sleepy Hollow Inn and make Ruthie’s life miserable.

A hymnal played through the intercom, bringing me back to reality, or the reality that I had come to know.

Some of the ­people had filtered out into the employee gathering space, while others mingled in the hallway just outside of the vestibule.

“ ‘Low in the Valley?’ ” Ruthie cried out. “I know that song wasn’t in my pre-­need packet. I couldn’t stand that song living, let alone dead!”

We both looked at Charlotte. She had a smug smile on her face.

“Charlotte Rae Raines,” I gasped at my sister. “ ‘Low in the Valley’ was not in Ruthie’s ‘pre-­need’ arrangements.”

Charlotte shrugged her shoulders. “Sometimes the music gets mixed up.”

This was no mix-­up. Charlotte was making a dig at Ruthie on Granny’s behalf.

Ruthie was spitting mad. She vanished into thin air, which made me feel a little bit better. I was too busy watching her instead of doing my job.

I refilled the memorial cards and made sure there were plenty of mints in the glass bowls as I walked around and greeted the mourners.

There were a few ­people here I didn’t recognize. Casually I walked over to the chairs and sat diagonally behind Mayor May and a gentleman I didn’t know.

“Is this little hiccup going to hinder our little deal?” the man asked. He was shaped like a bull and looked like a sausage in a gray pin-­striped suit. His beefy fingers scratched his nose before rubbing the back of his football player’s neck, like he was trying to work out the stress of the conversation they were having.

Mayor May smiled, batting her long eyelashes. Her teeth were as white as the strand of pearls around her neck. “I’ll take the proposal to the town council.”

“You better figure out who the next of kin is,” the man hinted a threat. “We’ll need approval.”

I could only assume he was talking about Ruthie’s next of kin. No one in town seemed to know anything about her. When I was filing all the paperwork for her arrangements, the next of kin was supposed to sign off on it. I went to the mayor and the local sheriff, Jack Henry Ross, to see if they knew anything. Neither of them had a clue. There wasn’t a will to be found, either. Nothing.

Per the funeral director code of ethics, I had to do everything in my power to find Ruthie Sue Payne’s next of kin.

Reaching into my suit pocket, I grabbed my cell phone and tapped the calendar application. The town council meeting was coming up and I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss it—­the proposal Mayor May was talking about had me intrigued.

Ruthie appeared out of nowhere . . . again.

This time, there was something wrong with Ruthie, and it was more than just her listening to “Low in the Valley.” She darted back, forth, and leaned over her dead body.

“Where is my brooch?” She yelled so loud, I put my hands over my ears. The woman sitting next to me oddly smiled and casually got up as if the “Funeral Trauma” was like bedbugs.

Contagious.

“In my arrangements, I specifically said that I wanted my spider diamond brooch on my left side.” She pointed to her chest. “Right here! Where is it?”

I shrugged. There wasn’t anything I could do about it now. It was my job to make sure the funeral arrangements were taken care of. Charlotte Rae had taken a vested interest in Ruthie and insisted that she dress Ruthie for the viewing.

A high voice came from behind me. “My-oh-my.”

Oh boy.

Standing right in the doorway of the viewing room was all five feet four of Granny.

Zula Fae Raines Payne was the epitome of a true Southern belle. Any insult that came out of Granny’s mouth was often followed up by “bless her heart.” Which any Southern woman knew was a phrase used to soften the blow of the previous statement.

Someone could stab Granny in the back and she’d send them a thank-­you note.

And I’d put money on it that Granny had already prepared some sort of dish for Ruthie’s ser­vice tomorrow. That was about the only good thing that happened in a Southern funeral. Whether you were liked or not, all the ladies in the county made sure you went out with a large meal.

“I do love this song.” She pranced past me with her head held high. Her short flaming red hair, tousled and mussed up with the perfect amount of gel, complemented her emerald-­green dress perfectly.

For a seventy-­seven-­year-­old widow of two, Granny looked great and behaved fifty years younger. The Southern saying “When the husband dies, the widow blossoms like a morning glory” was true with Granny. She looked better than ever and I’d heard she did the same after my grandfather had died. Unfortunately, he passed when I was a baby and I didn’t remember anything about him. That was when my parents stepped up and helped Granny run the funeral home.

As she made her way up to the casket, Granny’s eyes were on old dead Ruthie. If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn Granny had a little bit of a happy twinkle in her eye.

I stepped up beside her. “Granny, what are you doing here?”

Granny didn’t say a word, but I remembered exactly what she’d told me after Ruthie had O’Dell Burns wheel Earl out of Eternal Slumber Funeral Home. Never underestimate a Southern belle.

The next day she moved her belongings into the Sleepy Hollow Inn and Antiques, right next to Ruthie’s room. “We Southern gals don’t get mad”—­she patted my hand when I tried to stop her from moving out of the funeral home owner’s quarters—­“we get even.”

Ruthie leaned across me, swinging fists in Granny’s direction. “You thief! She is a thief! I want her arrested!”

There was no denying what Ruthie’s panties were in a wad about. As sure as I was alive, Granny stood over poor old dead Ruthie with a diamond spider brooch neatly pinned on the right side of her dress.

 

Chapter 3

H
ave a good night.” I waved off the last attendee at Ruthie’s visitation and locked the door behind me.

There were a million and one things I needed to do but that list was going to have to wait. As much as I didn’t want to, I needed to talk to Ruthie and ask her why she believed she was murdered. Ruthie might not have been the most popular citizen in Sleepy Hollow, but she didn’t deserve to die . . . or worse, be murdered.

If there was a murderer on the loose—­I shuddered thinking about it—­he or she needed to be caught. Not that I was a capable of catching anyone, but I certainly could take my concerns to Sheriff Ross.

I slipped back into the viewing room, going from flower arrangement to flower arrangement, pretending to straighten the sympathy cards. ­People loved to look at the cards to see who they were from.

Believe it or not, someone’s status in a small town was often based on the size of the arrangement they sent to the funeral home. Right or wrong, the higher price tag equated to how beloved you were. The larger the floral design, the higher the price tag.

Truth be told, I was procrastinating, working up my nerves to talk to Ruthie.

The funeral home was quiet. Being around dead bodies in caskets really never bothered me. It was a normal daily routine. However, being around a dead body in a casket with its ghost standing next to it was an entirely different story.

“Emma Lee, I’m leaving!” Charlotte hollered through the door from the office, causing me to jump. “I’ll see you bright and early.”

“Good night!” I yelled loud enough for her to hear me, my voice as shaky as my knees.

I heard Charlotte’s high heels click out the door, and the door clicked closed.

Here goes nothing. Where was the Ouija board game when you needed it?

“Ruthie?” The sound of her name as it crossed my lips—­and the thought that I was actually trying to talk to her—­ sent chills up and down my spine.

“I’m here.” Ruthie stood in the back of the room, nowhere near her casket. “Seeing myself gives me the willies.” She shivered. Her jewelry jangled. “Come back here.” She waved me over.

“Aren’t you supposed to be foggy or see-­through?” Wasn’t that how ghosts were portrayed in the movies? Sort of free floating?

I straightened some of the chairs on my way to the back of the room, making sure the cream cotton slipcovers were perfectly matched up at the seams. The old wooden folding chairs looked much better covered up, even though they still squeaked when someone sat down.

“That’s only in the movies.” Ruthie smiled as she squeezed a hair clip back in place. She always wore her hair pinned up on one side.

I smiled back, taking in her hot-­pink pajamas and kitty-­cat slippers. I just couldn’t get used to seeing Ruthie in such an outfit.

“What?” Ruthie looked down at her clothes. She did a little jig. The kitty eyes on her slippers jiggled around.

“I never figured I’d ever see you in kitty slippers.” My eyes squinted from the smile that crept up on my face. Ruthie was wealthy. She would never be caught dead in anything other than her fancy jewelry and a cardigan sweater.

“It was late when I got pushed down the stairs. It was bedtime.” She brushed her hands down the front of the silk pj’s and held her head high. Even in death, Ruthie still had dignity.

“What is this business about you being murdered?” There were no more reasons to beat around the bush.

Her brows snapped downward. “I don’t know who did it.”

“How do you know someone pushed you?” I remembered the men talking at the funeral. I paused for a moment. “Those steps are steep, and you do have that bad hip.”

“Emma Lee Raines, I am not feeble and I did not fall down those steps.” She shook her finger at me, and then comically wrapped her hands around her body. She pointed to a spot on the center of her back. “Right here. Right here is where I felt two hands push me.”

“And why do you think I can help you?” I dug my finger into my chest. “I’m not a cop. I’m not a private investigator. I’m just a funeral girl.”

“Because I know you have access to all the rec­ords on the autopsy.”

“There wasn’t an autopsy.”

“What?”

“You fell down the steps. There was no reason for anyone to think anything else.”

“I’m telling you, I was murdered.” Ruthie’s voice escalated. She pointed her bony finger at me. “You are going to help me get to the other side by figuring out who killed me.”

“Other side?”

“Great beyond. The light. The big guy in the sky.” Ruthie looked up to the ceiling and then back to me. “I can’t cross over until I can rest eternal. And that means catching my killer.”

“Killer?” The sound of it made me more worried than scared. Was there really a killer on the loose in Sleepy Hollow? Or was there just one person out to get Ruthie Sue Payne, and why?

“Fine.” I bit my lip. I couldn’t believe what I was about to say. I paused and thought one more second before I spoke. “If trying to find out who killed you will get you out of here and not let everyone think I have a case of the ‘Funeral Trauma,’ I’ll do it.”

I reached over and picked up one of Ruthie’s memorial cards and the pen from the visitor log. “Tell me what you remember.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m taking notes.” I tapped the pen to the card. “This is how I’ve seen it done on NCIS.”

Ruthie rolled her eyes. She didn’t argue. “I felt something pinch me, like a ring.”

“Ring,” I stated out loud as I wrote it down. There was no significance to the word, it just seemed like I needed to write it down. “Big hands or small hands?”

I had no idea where I was pulling these questions from, but I needed to gather any information I could. What I really needed to do was go back and watch past episodes of Ghost Hunter or Paranormal Mysteries to see how they handled ghosts.

“What does that matter? It was two hands.” Ruthie shoved her arms out in front of her like she was pushing something. “Wait.”

She paced back and forth making the forward pushing motion several times as if she was replaying the incident in her head.

“Hello?” A male voice called out from the vestibule.

I bit my lip. Ruthie was about to tell me something.

Dang. It seemed important too.

“Emma Lee?”

“I’m sorry. The viewing is over for the night,” I called out on my way to see who it was. Normally I would let a latecomer visit, but Ruthie was about to tell me something important and this was far from normal.

I stepped out in the foyer to find Sheriff Ross. He was looking official in his Sleepy Hollow brown uniform.

I couldn’t help but inwardly swoon when he took off his hat, exposing his high and tight haircut and deep brown eyes. He could rock a five-­o’clock shadow like no one’s business.

“Hey, Jack.” I put my hand on my chest. “You scared me to death. Don’t you know how to knock?”

His mouth tilted to the side, giving me an irresistible smirk. In a low Southern drawl he said, “Emma Lee, I saw you through the window talking to someone.”

“Me?” I pointed to myself. I shrugged, trying to keep a straight face, “Nope, not talking to anyone.”

He put his hat back on and walked past me into the viewing room. He craned his neck as if he was looking for something. He turned around, narrowing his gaze.

Ruthie fluffed her hair. “Whooo-­eeeee he sure does come from good stock.”

I chuckled and threw my hand to my mouth.

“I . . .” I couldn’t tell him about Ruthie’s ghost. He would have me committed. It wasn’t like we were good friends. He had been popular in school—­you know, the hunky athletic type. His crowd didn’t hang around the creepy funeral-­home girl. “I was singing and cleaning up for the night.”

“Were you?” He weaved in and out of the chairs, making his way to the casket. “I didn’t know you were a singer.”

“I’m not.” I ran my hands through my hair. My nerves were shot and standing here with Jack made them even more electric.

“Why did you laugh out loud?”

“Umm . . .” Great. He was going to think I was crazy anyway. “I can only imagine how I looked from the outside as I was in here singing my heart out.”

He studied me for a moment. I tried to stand still and not give any sort of crazy-­girl vibe. Yes, I was going to have to go back and watch some reruns of NCIS. They always watched body language, and my insides were like a ball of electricity.

“I went by and saw your granny tonight.” He took off his hat again when he stopped at the casket and held it close to his chest. Like a good Southern gentleman, he was paying his respects to Ruthie. His lips moved like he was saying a silent prayer.

“You did?” I questioned after he turned back around.

Ruthie fanned her hands toward Jack like she wanted me to tell him that she had been murdered. There was no way I was going to do that. Not yet at least, not until I had more information.

“I did. I even had some of that fine sweet iced tea she makes.” He grinned. His eyes bored into me. “And some cookies.”

Granny could make some dang good tea. She boiled her tea in the same pot, every single time. She claimed it was “seasoned.”

“I’m a little curious about her relationship with Ruthie Sue Payne.” He rubbed his chin, making a little scratchy noise. “Something isn’t right with Ruthie’s death. I thought I’d pop over before Zula went to bed to ask a few more questions I had.”

“I thought she already told you everything she knew.” I ran my hands through my hair. It had been an exhausting day and it only seemed to be getting worse. “Granny came home from the doctor and found Ruthie facedown, nose planted in the worn green carpet at the bottom of the steps.”

“It’s no secret they weren’t close. Enemies in fact.” He pulled out a little notebook. He showed me a page with all sorts of chicken-­scratch writing I couldn’t make hide nor hair of. “I have a few witnesses that came to me after Ruthie’s fall, giving me details of just how much Zula and Ruthie fought.”

“Oh, Jack.” I brushed past him and pretended to straighten the slipcovers on the back row of chairs. “You can’t possibly think that Zula Fae Raines Payne could murder anyone.”

“Murder? I didn’t say Zula murdered Ruthie.” He paused. I could feel him staring at me, and couldn’t help but be a little paranoid that he was watching my every move. “I said something wasn’t right. Maybe Zula missed something or overheard something. Did Ruthie have a bad hip? Arthritis?”

Ruthie rushed up to him, creating a whiff of air.

I shrugged, a little angry at Jack. He might be a cutie patootie, but I suspected he thought my granny was a suspect.

“Do you feel that draft?” Jack put his hands out to see where the puff of air had come from.

“I know he can’t see me, but can he feel me?” She tried to blow on him several times. He didn’t flinch. “Tell him that I was murdered.”

“Draft?” I said through chattering teeth, pretending like I had no clue what he was talking about. I shook my head at Ruthie as she took a seat in the last row. Jack didn’t take his eyes off the curtains as he walked over there. He used his hands to feel for a breeze. “What are you, a weathervane?”

“Funny, Emma Lee.” He pushed the velvet curtains back and ran his hands along the window. “Strange. It’s tight, but you should get that checked out. I bet this old place has some big heating bills.”

“Luckily it’s spring.” My heart fell to my feet when Jack came back and nearly sat right down in Ruthie’s lap. I rushed over and grabbed him by the biceps, veering him toward the chairs on the other side of the aisle. “Is this too far back from the viewing? I’ve been trying to decide if we have too many rows of chairs.”

“I really wouldn’t have minded that hunk to sit in my lap.” Ruthie grinned.

I laughed out loud. I couldn’t help it. Jack jerked away.

“Emma Lee, is everything okay?” His dark eyes clouded with suspicion. “You’re acting funny.”

“I’m fine.” I waved off the notion. What I really wanted to say was that I was not okay. I could see ghosts.

He didn’t look like he believed me. He’d always been pretty smart.

“What were you saying about Granny and this silly notion she had anything to do with Ruthie’s death?” I had to change the subject before I cracked and he had me committed.

Ruthie leaned in her chair, taking in our conversation.

“I’m not going to leave any stone unturned.” He pulled a piece of paper out of the back pocket of his brown polyester pants and jabbed it toward me. “I’m here to serve you a warrant. I am stopping the funeral.”

“For what?” Speechless, I stood there trying to wrap my head around the folded papers he handed me. Warrants were for those types of ­people who were troublemakers. As far as I knew, I wasn’t one.

“Ruthie Sue Payne is not to be buried until I get to examine all the evidence, police reports, autopsy reports and any other reports I deem necessary in order to rule out any foul play.” By the look on his face, he was not joking.

“I have to put Ruthie’s funeral on hold?” I asked, watching him jot something down on that little pad of paper.

“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m telling you.” He nodded but continued to write. “Until further notice.”

“Further notice?”

“Yep.” He tapped the folded paper in my hands with the edge of his pen. “It’s all in the warrant.”

“That could take days.”

“Maybe weeks. Months,” he casually said like it was no big deal.

It was a big deal. Keeping a body in the refrigerator was not on a funeral-­home director’s high-­priority list.

Ruthie stood up and wrung her hands. Her jewelry jingled. I watched to see if Jack could hear her noisy baubles, but he didn’t turn Ruthie’s way.

Thinking about keeping Ruthie in the refrigerator made my stomach curl. Especially with no next of kin to claim her.

“I guess you are going to have to figure that one out.” He pointed toward the casket. “That is not going anywhere near the ground.”

He placed his hat back on his head.

“How do you know it wasn’t some random accident or killer on the loose?” I asked. “Think about it. ­People come in and out of the inn all the time. ­People we don’t know.” Granny was always telling me how strange some of the earthy hikers that came to Sleepy Hollow to explore the caves and gorges were.

“I’m checking all of that.” He started to walk to the entrance. “Like I said, no stone unturned. No Ruthie in the ground.”

I snarled. He didn’t have to talk to me like I was a child and didn’t understand what he was telling me. I got it. Ruthie or her ghost was going nowhere until I solved the crime.

“Wait.” I jumped in front of him. “What about Granny?”

“I told her to get a lawyer just in case.” He reached out and touched my arm. “I adore Zula. But sometimes ­people do things out of character when they get mad. I’m not saying she did it. But I am saying that something isn’t adding up with the whole falling accident.” He pointed to his gut. “Call it intuition.”

“I told you!” Ruthie stood behind Jack, nodding in agreement over his shoulder. “I was murdered. Ouch.” She reached around and pressed on her back. The same place she had told me the hands that shoved her were placed.

“Trust me.” He reached out and put his warm, strong hand on my shoulder. Giving it a little squeeze, he said, “I want to prove Zula didn’t do it. So make sure she cooperates, and you too.”

“We will.” I pictured Granny on one side of me and Ruthie on the other. Ruthie’s spider brooch began to haunt my memory of Granny wearing it exactly where Ruthie had specifically written in her arrangements. And they really didn’t get along.

But murder? No way. Now I had to find out exactly who had done this to Ruthie. Granny’s future was at stake. The Sleepy Hollow Inn was the first stop.

end of excerpt