A Ghostly Grave

Excerpt

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Chapter 1

Just think, this all started because of Santa Claus. I took a drink of my large Diet Coke Big Gulp that I had picked up from the Buy and Fly gas station on the way over to Sleepy Hollow Cemetery to watch Chicken Teater’s body being exhumed from his eternal resting place—­only he was far from restful.

Damn Santa. I sucked up a mouthful of Diet Coke and swallowed. Damn Santa.

No, I didn’t mean the real jolly guy with the belly shaking like a bowlful of jelly who leaves baby dolls and toy trucks; I meant the plastic light-­up ornamental kind that people stick in their front yards during Christmas. The particular plastic Santa I was talking about was the one that had fallen off the roof of Artie’s Deli and Meat just as I happened to walk under it, knocking me flat out cold.

Santa didn’t give me anything but a bump on the head and the gift of seeing ghosts—­let me be more specific—­ghosts of people who have been murdered. They called me the Betweener medium, at least that was what the psychic from Lexington told us . . . us . . . sigh . . . I looked over at Jack Henry.

The Ray Ban sunglasses covered up his big brown eyes, which were the exact same color as a Hershey’s chocolate bar. I looked into his eyes. And as with a chocolate bar, once I stared at them, I was a goner. Lost, in fact.

Today I was positive his eyes would be watering from the stench of a casket that had been buried for four years—­almost four years to the day, now that I thought about it.

Jack Henry, my boyfriend and Sleepy Hollow sheriff, motioned for John Howard Lloyd to drop the claw that was attached to the tractor and begin digging. John Howard, my employee at Eternal Slumber Funeral Home, didn’t mind digging up the grave. He dug it four years ago, so why not? He hummed a tune, happily chewing—­gumming, since he had no teeth—­a piece of straw he had grabbed up off the ground before he took his post behind the tractor controls. If someone who didn’t know him came upon John Howard, they’d think he was a serial killer, with his dirty overalls, wiry hair and gummy smile.

The buzz of a moped scooter caused me to look back at the street. There was a crowd that had gathered behind the yellow police line to see what was happening because it wasn’t every day someone’s body was plucked from its resting place.

“Zula Fae Raines Payne, get back here!” an officer scolded my granny, who didn’t pay him any attention. She waved her handkerchief in the air with one hand while she steered her moped right on through the police tape. “This is a crime scene and you aren’t allowed over there.”

Granny didn’t even wobble but held the moped steady when she snapped right through the yellow tape.

“Woo hoooo, Emma!” Granny hollered, ignoring the officer, who was getting a little too close to her. A black helmet snapped on the side covered the top of her head, giving her plenty of room to sport her large black-­rimmed sunglasses. She twisted the handle to full throttle. The officer took off at a full sprint to catch up to her. He put his arm out to grab her. “I declare!” Granny jerked her head back. “I’m Zula Raines Payne, the owner of Eternal Slumber, and this is one of my clients!”

“Ma’am, I know who you are. With all due respect, because my momma and pa taught me to respect my elders—­and I do respect you, Ms. Payne—­I can’t let you cross that tape. You are going to have to go back behind the line!” He ran behind her and pointed to the yellow tape that she had already zipped through. “This is a crime scene. Need I remind you that you turned over operations of your business to your granddaughter? And only she has the right to be on the other side of the line.”

I curled my head back around to see what Jack Henry and John were doing and pretended the roar of the excavator was drowning out the sounds around me, including those of Granny screaming my name. Plus, I didn’t want to get into any sort of argument with Granny, since half the town came out to watch the 7-­A.M. exhumation, and the Auxiliary women were the first in line—­and would be the first to be at the Higher Grounds Café, eating their scones, drinking their coffee and coming up with all sorts of reasons why we had exhumed the body.

I could hear them now. Ever since Zula Fae left Emma Lee and Charlotte Rae in charge of Eternal Slumber, it’s gone downhill, or my personal favorite, I’m not going to lay my corpse at Eternal Slumber just to have that crazy Emma Lee dig me back up. Especially since she’s got a case of the Funeral Trauma.

The “Funeral Trauma.” After the whole Santa incident, I told Doc Clyde I was having some sort of hallucinations and seeing dead people. He said I had been in the funeral business a little too long and seeing corpses all of my life had been traumatic.

Regardless, the officer was half right—­me and my sister were in charge of Eternal Slumber. At twenty-­eight, I had been an undertaker for only three years. But, I had been around the funeral home my whole life. It is the family business, one I didn’t want to do until I turned twenty-­five years old and decided I better keep the business going. Some business. Currently, Granny still owned Eternal Slumber, but my sister, Charlotte Rae, and I ran the joint.

My parents completely retired and moved to Florida. Thank God for Skype or I’d never see them. I guess Granny was semi-­retired. I say semi-­retired because she put her two cents in when she wanted to. Today she wanted to.

Some family business.

Granny brought the moped to an abrupt stop. She hopped right off and flicked the snap of the strap and pulled the helmet off along with her sunglasses. She hung the helmet on the handlebars and the glasses dangled from the V in her sweater exactly where she wanted it to hang—­between her boobs. Doc Clyde was there and Granny had him on the hook exactly where she wanted to keep him.

Her short flaming-­red hair looked like it was on fire, with the morning sun beaming down as she used her fingers to spike it up a little more than usual. After all, she knew she had to look good because she was the center of attention—­next to Chicken Teater’s exhumed body.

The officer ran up and grabbed the scooter’s handle. He knew better than to touch Granny.

“I am sure your momma and pa did bring you up right, but if you don’t let me go . . .” Granny jerked the scooter toward her. She was a true Southern belle and put things in a way that no other woman could. I looked back at them and waved her over. The police officer stepped aside. Granny took her hanky out of her bra and wiped off the officer’s shoulder like she was cleaning lint or something. “It was lovely to meet you.” Granny’s voice dripped like sweet honey. She put the hanky back where she had gotten it.

I snickered. Lovely wasn’t always a compliment from a Southern gal. Like the gentleman he claimed to be, he took his hat off to Granny and smiled.

She didn’t pay him any attention as she bee-­lined it toward me.

“Hi,” she said in her sweet Southern drawl, waving at everyone around us. She gave a little extra wink toward Doc Clyde. His cheeks rose to a scarlet red. Nervously, he ran his fingers through his thinning hair and pushed it to the side, defining the side part.

Everyone in town knew he had been keeping late hours just for Granny, even though she wasn’t a bit sick. God knew what they were doing and I didn’t want to know.

Granny pointed her hanky toward Pastor Brown who was there to say a little prayer when the casket was exhumed. Waking the dead wasn’t high on anyone’s priority list. Granny put the cloth over her mouth and leaning in, she whispered, “Emma Lee, you better have a good reason to be digging up Chicken Teater.”

We both looked at the large concrete chicken gravestone. The small gold plate at the base of the stone statue displayed all of Colonel Chicken Teater’s stats with his parting words: Chicken has left the coop.

“Why don’t you go worry about the Inn.” I suggested for her to leave and glanced over at John Howard. He had to be getting close to reaching the casket vault.

Granny gave me the stink eye.

“It was only a suggestion.” I put my hands up in the air as a truce sign.

Granny owned, operated and lived at the only bed-­and-­breakfast in town, the Sleepy Hollow Inn, known as “the Inn” around here. Everyone loved staying at the large mansion, which sat at the foothills of the caverns and caves that made Sleepy Hollow a main attraction in Kentucky . . . besides horses and University of Kentucky basketball.

Sleepy Hollow was a small tourist town that was low on crime, and that was the way we liked it.

Sniff, sniff. Whimpers were coming from underneath the large black floppy hat.

Granny and I looked over at Marla Maria Teater, Chicken’s wife. She had come dressed to the nines with her black V-­neck dress hitting her curves in all the right places. The hat covered up the eyes she was dabbing.

Of course, when the police notified her that they had good reason to believe that Chicken didn’t die of a serious bout of pneumonia but was murdered, Marla took to her bed as any mourning widower would. She insisted on being here for the exhumation. Jack Henry had warned Marla Maria to keep quiet about why the police were opening up the files on Chicken’s death. If there was a murderer on the loose and it got around, it could possibly hurt the economy, and this was Sleepy Hollow’s busiest time of the year.

Granny put her arm around Marla and winked at me over Marla’s shoulder.

“Now, now. I know it’s hard, honey, I’ve buried a few myself. Granted, I’ve never had any dug up though.” Granny wasn’t lying. She has been twice widowed and I was hoping she’d stay away from marriage a third time. Poor Doc Clyde, you’d have thought he would stay away from her since her track record was . . . well . . . deadly. “That’s a first in this town.” Granny gave Marla Maria the elbow along with a wink and a click of her tongue.

Maybe the third time was the charm.

“Who is buried here?” Granny let go of Marla and stepped over to the smaller tombstone next to Chicken’s.

“Stop!” Jack Henry screamed, waving his hands in the air. “Zula, move!”

Granny looked up and ducked just as John Howard came back for another bite of ground with the claw.

I would hate to have to bury Granny anytime soon.

“Lady Cluckington,” Marla whispered, tilting her head to the side. Using her finger, she dabbed the driest eyes I had ever seen. “Our prize chicken. Well, she isn’t dead yet.”

I glanced over at her. Her tone caused a little suspicion to stir in my gut.

“She’s not a chicken. She’s a Spangled Russian Orloff Hen!” Chicken Teater appeared next to his grave. His stone looked small next to his six-­foot-­two frame. He ran his hand over the tombstone Granny had asked about. There was a date of birth, but no date of death. “You couldn’t stand having another beauty queen in my life!”

“Oh no,” I groaned and took another gulp of my Diet Coke. He—­his ghost—­was the last thing that I needed to see this morning.

“Is that sweet tea?” Chicken licked his lips. “I’d give anything to have a big ole sip of sweet tea.” He towered over me. His hair was neatly combed to the right; his red plaid shirt was tucked into his carpenter jeans.

This was the third time I had seen Chicken Teater since his death. It was a shock to the community to hear of a man passing from pneumonia in his early sixties. But that was what the doctors in Lexington said he died of, no questions asked, and his funeral was held at Eternal Slumber.

The first time I had seen Chicken Teater’s ghost was after my perilous run-­in with Santa. I too thought I was a goner, gone to the great beyond . . . but no . . . Chicken Teater and Ruthie Sue Payne—­their ghosts anyway—­stood right next to my hospital bed, eyeballing me. Giving me the onceover as if he was trying to figure out if I was dead or alive. Lucky for him I was alive and seeing him.

Ruthie Sue Payne was a client at Eternal Slumber who couldn’t cross over until someone helped her solve her murder. That someone was me. The Betweener.

Since I could see her, talk to her, feel her and hear her, I was the one. Thanks to me, Ruthie’s murder was solved and she was now resting peacefully on the other side. Chicken was a different story.

Apparently, Ruthie was as big of a gossip in the afterlife as she was in her earthly life. That was how Chicken Teater knew about me being a Betweener. Evidently, Ruthie was telling everyone about my special gift.

Chicken Teater wouldn’t leave me alone until I agreed to investigate his death because he knew he didn’t die from pneumonia. He claimed he was poisoned. But who would want to kill a chicken farmer?

Regardless, it took several months of me trying to convince Jack Henry there might be a possibility Chicken Teater was murdered. After some questionable evidence, provided by Chicken Teater, the case was reopened. I didn’t understand all the red tape and legal yip-­yap, but here we stood today.

Now it was time for me to get Chicken Teater to the other side.

“It’s not dead yet?” Granny’s eyebrows rose in amazement after Marla Maria confirmed there was an empty grave. Granny couldn’t get past the fact there was a gravestone for something that wasn’t dead.

I was still stuck on “prize chicken.” What was a prize chicken?

A loud thud echoed when John Howard sent the claw down. There was an audible gasp from the crowd. The air was thick with anticipation. What did they think they were going to see?

Suddenly my nerves took a downward dive. What if the coffin opened? Coffin makers guaranteed they lock for eternity after they are sealed, but still, it wouldn’t be a good thing for John Howard to pull the coffin up and have Chicken take a tumble next to Lady Cluckington’s stone.

“I think we got ’er!” John Howard stood up in the cab of the digger with pride on his face as he looked down in the hole. “Yep! That’s it!” he hollered over the roar of the running motor.

Jack Henry ran over and hooked some cables on the excavator and gave the thumbs-­up.

Pastor Brown dipped his head and moved his lips in a silent prayer. Granny nudged me with her boney elbow to bow my head, and I did. Marla Maria cried out.

“Aw shut up!” Chicken Teater told her and smiled as he saw his coffin being raised from the earth. “They are going to figure out who killed me, and so help me, if it was you . . .” He shook his fist in the air in Marla Maria’s direction.

Curiosity stirred in my bones. Was it going to be easy getting Chicken Teater to the other side? Was Marla Maria Teater behind his death as Chicken believed?

She was the only one who was not only in his bed at night, but right by his deathbed, so he told me. I took my little notebook out from my back pocket. I had learned from Ruthie’s investigation to never leave home without it. I jotted down what Chicken had said to Marla Maria, with prize chickens next to it, followed up by a lot of exclamation points. Oh . . . I had almost forgotten that Marla Maria was Miss Kentucky in her earlier years—­a beauty queen—­I quickly wrote that down too.

“Are you getting all of this?” Chicken questioned me and twirled his finger in a circle as he referred to the little scene Marla Maria was causing with her meltdown. She leaned her butt up against Lady Cluckington’s stone. Chicken rushed over to his prize chicken’s gravestone and tried to shove Marla Maria off. “Get your—­”

Marla Maria jerked like she could feel something touch her. She shivered. Her body shimmied from her head to her toes.

I cleared my throat, doing my best to get Chicken to stop fusing and cursing. “Are you okay?” I asked. Did she feel him?

Granny stood there taking it all in.

Marla crossed her arms in front of her and ran her hands up and down them. “I guess when I buried Chicken, I thought that was the end of it. This is creeping me out a little bit.”

End of it? End of what? Your little murder plot? My mind unleashed all sorts of ways Marla Maria might have offed her man. That seemed a little too suspicious for me. Marla buttoned her lip when Jack Henry walked over. More suspicious behavior that I duly noted.

“Can you tell me how he died?” I put a hand on her back to offer some comfort, though I knew she was putting on a good act.

She shook her head, dabbed her eye and said, “He was so sick. Coughing and hacking. I was so mad because I had bags under my eyes from him keeping me up at night.” Sniff, sniff. “I had to dab some Preparation H underneath my eyes in order to shrink them.” She tapped her face right above her cheekbones.

“That’s where my butt cream went?” Chicken hooted and hollered. “She knew I had a hemorrhoid the size of a golf ball and she used my cream on her face?” Chicken flailed his arms around in the air.

I bit my lip and stepped a bit closer to Marla Maria so I couldn’t see Chicken out of my peripheral vision. There were a lot of things I had heard in my time, but hemorrhoids were something that I didn’t care to know about.

I stared at Marla Maria’s face. There wasn’t a tear, a tear streak, or a single wrinkle on her perfectly made-­up face. If hemorrhoids helped shrink her under-­eye bags, did it also help shrink her wrinkles?

“Anyway, enough about me.” She fanned her face with the handkerchief. “Chicken was so uncomfortable with all the phlegm. He could barely breathe. I let him rest, but called the doctor in the meantime.” She nodded and waited for me to agree with her. I nodded back and she continued. “When the doctor came out of the bedroom, he told me Chicken was dead.” A cry burst out of her as she threw her head back and held the hanky over her face.

I was sure she was hiding a smile from thinking she was pulling one over on me. Little did she know this wasn’t my first rodeo with a murderer. Still, I patted her back while Chicken spat at her feet.

Jack Henry walked over. He didn’t take his eyes off of Marla Maria.

“I’m sorry we have to do this, Marla.” Jack took his hat off out of respect for the widow. Black widow, I thought as I watched her fidget side to side, avoiding all eye contact by dabbing the corners of her eyes. “We are all done here, Zula.” He nodded toward Granny.

Granny smiled.

Marla Maria nodded before she turned to go face her waiting public behind the police line.

Granny walked over to say something to Doc Clyde, giving him a little butt pat and making his face even redder than before. I waited until she was out of earshot before I said something to Jack Henry.

“That was weird. Marla Maria is a good actress.” I made mention to Jack Henry because sometimes he was clueless as to how women react to different situations.

“Don’t be going and blaming her just because she’s his wife.” Jack Henry was trying to play the good cop he always was, but I wasn’t falling for his act. “It’s all speculation at this point.”

“Wife? She was no kind of wife to me.” Chicken kicked his foot in the dirt John Howard had dug from his grave. “She only did one thing as my wife.” Chicken looked back and watched Marla Maria play the poor pitiful widow as Beulah Paige Bellefry, president and CEO of Sleepy Hollow’s gossip mill, drew her into a big hug while all the other Auxiliary women gathered to put in their two cents.

“La-­la-­la.” I put my fingers in my ears and tried to drown him out. I only wanted to know how he was murdered, not how Marla Maria was a wife to him.

“She spent all my money,” he cursed under his breath.

“Shoo.” I let out an audible sigh.

Over Jack’s right shoulder, in the distance some movement caught my eye near the trailer park. There was a man peering out from behind a tree looking over at all the commotion. His John Deere hat helped shadow his face so I couldn’t get a good look, but I chalked it up to being a curious neighbor like the rest of them. Still, I quickly wrote down the odd behavior. I had learned you never know what people knew. And I had to start from scratch on how to get Chicken to the great beyond. I wasn’t sure, but I believe Chicken had lived in the trailer park. Maybe the person saw something, maybe not. He was going on the list.

“Are you okay?” Jack pulled off his sunglasses. His big brown eyes were set with worry. I grinned. A smile ruffled his mouth. “Just checking because of the la-­la thing.” He waved his hands in the air. “I saw you taking some notes and I know what that means.”

“Yep.” My one word confirmed that Chicken was there and spewing all sorts of valuable information. Jack Henry was the only person who knew I was a Betweener, and he knew Chicken was right here with us even though he couldn’t see him. When I told him about Chicken Teater’s little visits to me and how he wouldn’t leave me alone until we figured out who killed him, Jack Henry knew it to be true. “I’ll tell you later.”

I jotted down a note about Marla Maria spending all of Chicken’s money, or so he said. Which made me question her involvement even more. Was he no use to her with a zero bank account and she offed him? I didn’t know he had money.

“I can see your little noggin running a mile a minute.” Jack bent down and looked at me square in the eyes.

“Just taking it all in.” I bit my lip. I had learned from my last ghost that I had to keep some things to myself until I got the full scoop. And right now, Chicken hadn’t given me any solid information.

“You worry about getting all the information you can from your little friend.” Jack Henry pointed to the air beside me. I pointed to the air beside him where Chicken’s ghost was actually standing. Jack grimaced. “Whatever. I don’t care where he is.” He shivered.

Even though Jack Henry knew I could see ghosts, he wasn’t completely comfortable.

“You leave the investigation to me.” Jack Henry put his sunglasses back on. Sexy dripped from him, making my heart jump a few beats.

“Uh-­huh.” I looked away. Looking away from Jack Henry when he was warning me was a common occurrence. I knew I had to do my own investigating and couldn’t get lost in his eyes while lying to him.

Besides, I didn’t have a whole lot of information. Chicken knew he was murdered but had no clue how. He was only able to give me clues about his life and it was up to me to put them together.

“I’m not kidding.” Jack Henry took his finger and put it on my chin, pulling it toward him. He gave me a quick kiss. “We are almost finished up here. I’ll sign all the paperwork and send the body on over to Eternal Slumber for Vernon to get going on some new toxicology reports we have ordered.” He took his officer hat off and used his forearm to wipe the sweat off his brow.

“He’s there waiting,” I said. Vernon Baxter was a retired doctor who performed any and all autopsies the Sleepy Hollow police needed and I let him use Eternal Slumber for free. I had all the newest technology and equipment used in autopsies in the basement of the funeral home.

“Go on up!” Jack Henry gave John the thumbs-­up and walked closer. Slowly John Howard lifted the coffin completely out of the grave and sat it right on top of the church truck, which looked like a gurney.

“Do you think she did it?” I glanced over at Marla Maria, as she talked a good talk.

“Did what?” Granny walked up and asked. She turned to see what I was looking at. “Did you dig him up because his death is being investigated for murder?” Granny gasped.

“Now Granny, don’t go spreading rumors.” I couldn’t deny or admit to what she said. If I admitted the truth to her question, I would be betraying Jack Henry. If I denied her question, I would be lying to Granny. And no one lies to Granny.

In a lickety-­split, Granny was next to her scooter.

“I’ll be over. Put the coffee on,” Granny hollered before she put her helmet back on her head, snapped the strap in place, and revved up the scooter and buzzed off in the direction of town, giving a little toot-­toot and wave to the Auxiliary women as she passed.

Once the chains were unhooked from the coffin and the excavator was out of the way, Jack Henry and I guided the coffin on the church truck into the back of my hearse. Before I shut the door, I had a sick feeling that someone was watching me. Of course the crowd was still there, but I mean someone was watching my every move.

I looked back over my shoulder toward the trailer park. The man in the John Deere hat popped out of sight behind the tree when he saw me look at him.

I shut the hearse door and got into the driver’s side. Before I left the cemetery, I looked in my rearview mirror at the tree. The man was standing there. This time the shadow of the hat didn’t hide his eyes.

We locked eyes.

“Look away,” Chicken Teater warned me when he appeared in the passenger seat.

 

Chapter 2

Chicken Teater messed with the buttons on his red plaid shirt. His black hair had always been nice and parted to the right every time I had seen him, which was often. He came around when I was younger because he was friends with my father, even though he was about ten years younger than Dad. His deep-­set blue eyes showed worry.

“I guess it’s time for me to get to work on trying to figure out who killed you.” I gripped the steering wheel. This entire sleuthing thing was still so new I wasn’t sure where to begin. But questions were what the TV mystery shows always started with. “Tell me about Lady Cluckington.”

“Oh, Lady.” There was pride in his voice. With his chin in the air, he poked out his chest. “She’s a feisty one. I knew she was special the first time I laid eyes on her.”

“And she’s a chicken?” I asked. He acted as though she was a person.

“No. That is what everyone thinks when I first talk about Lady Cluckington. She’s a hen. More than a chicken. She’s a beauty queen.” He didn’t take a breath. “She is a prize-­winning hen. I only wish I was here to take care of her because I know Marla isn’t. She was so jealous of Lady Cluckington.”

“Do you think Marla killed you?” I knew it was a painful question, but he was the one who planted the idea in my head.

“I’d hope not, but you never know.” He shook his head. “I’m just mad at her right now. After seeing her, she doesn’t look like she’s grieved a day for me.”

“It has been almost four years,” I reminded him and tried to recall how Marla Maria acted the days, weeks, even months after he was laid to rest. She still went to Girl’s Best Friend Spa to get her nails and hair done on a regular basis. I had even seen her a few times at Artie’s picking up some fresh cold cuts, but I never saw her truly grieving, nor did she ever thank my Granny for the beautiful ser­vice Eternal Slumber had given Chicken.

“Why was she jealous of a chicken?” It seemed odd for a beautiful woman such as Marla to be jealous of a seed-­eating, beady-­eyed, feathery creature.

“She’s a hen. A prize hen.” He took offense to calling Lady Cluckington a chicken.

“My bad.” I veered the hearse around the town square, making sure I went slow. The annual Kentucky Cave Festival committee was setting up for the dance in the square to kick off a weekend of festival activities. Four years ago at the festival was the last time I had seen Chicken Teater alive. He and Marla were there. I remember because I was envious of Marla’s skinny jeans and cute plaid shirt tied at the waist.

I had never been a fashion queen, and it wasn’t until a few months ago that I went to Girl’s Best Friend Spa and let the owner, Mary Anna Hardy, create a new style for my brown hair. Not that caramel highlights and a little layering were going to make me a beauty queen like Marla, but it did give my dull hair a little more oomph.

“What makes Lady Cluckington a prized possession?” I kept one hand on the wheel and the other twirled a strand of my hair. There was a lot of talking in the beauty chair and Marla Maria was known to flap her lips a little too much; I made a mental note to make an appointment at Girl’s Best Friend Spa. Mary Anna would be more than happy to fill me in on any gossip. With the exhumation of Chicken, I was sure this was going to be headlines in the gossip circles. Everyone knew that if you wanted the latest gossip, you went to Girl’s Best Friend Spa.

Marla was officially my first suspect. I read about it all the time on the Internet how the spouse was the first person questioned by the police when there was a murder investigation. If she was jealous of a hen—­what would she have to gain by killing her husband? So he didn’t have money. Why not divorce him? Why kill him?

“Lady is the apple of my eye.” He looked over. I’d never seen a man get emotional about a chicken . . . he . . . unless he was eating it. There was a thin line of tears across his lower eyelid. “I went to the state fair when I was a boy and saw all the prize hens. I knew I had to have one, only I didn’t realize how expensive the sport was.”

Sport? Prize chickens were a sport? Whatever happened to the good old sports like baseball and basketball? I eyed him, but listened closely for any clues as to why Marla would have wanted him dead.

“The desire to raise a prize chicken never left my soul.” He fisted his chest like Tarzan. “When I made a lot of money on a real-­estate deal, I took some of my commission and bought Lady Cluckington.”

Real-­estate deal? As far as I knew, there hadn’t been any big deals around Sleepy Hollow since all the land was locked between the caves. That was why the Inn was the only place to stay, unless you brought a tent, which many visitors did.

Plus, if he made such a big deal, why did he and Marla live in the trailer park next to the cemetery in a double wide? Surely, the beauty queen wanted something fancier.

“Oh, and I bought my Cadillac.” He nodded.

“I didn’t even know you had a Cadillac,” I said.

Chicken Teater always drove a pickup truck so beat up that there was no way of telling what make or model it was. All I really remembered was seeing him driving around the town square in the old clunker with chicken cages stacked up in the back.

“That old beater? Nah!” He waved his hand. “I used that for me and Marla to get around in and to deliver eggs to Artie’s every Saturday morning. Lady Cluckington and I took the Cadillac to the state fair every year. You know . . .” He fanned his hands in front of him. “ . . . in style.”

“How did Marla feel about that?” I’d put money on it that she was pissed.

“Not happy. But I was always up front with Marla before I married her about my dreams.”

“What exactly was your dream?” Now Marla had motive to kill him. She took second place to a chicken. I’d imagine that wasn’t a beauty queen’s big accomplishment.

“To own the number-­one prize hen in all of Kentucky.” There was a gleam in his eye. Kind of like the one I see when a local tells me that their child was accepted into the University of Kentucky for college . . . a big feat around these parts. “Then go international and get mentioned in the Cock and Feathers magazine.”

“Cock and Feathers?” Good golly, was there really a magazine dedicated to the fowls?

“It’s an international magazine for prize hens,” his voice trailed off as though he realized his dream had never come true.

“I’m sorry.” There wasn’t much more I could say to make him feel better. Not only had his dreams not come true, he was also murdered. Poor guy couldn’t get a break.

We pulled into Eternal Slumber. There was a news crew there from Lexington.

“Un-­holy hell.” Chicken craned his neck to see all the commotion. “The festival is really getting some good coverage.”

In my rearview mirror, I saw the anchorman for the five o’clock news rushing up behind the hearse.

“I have a sneaky suspicion they aren’t here for the festival.” I took a deep breath and opened the door.

“Ms. Raines,” the man stuck the microphone in my face. “Can you tell us why the Sleepy Hollow police exhumed the body of Colonel C. Teater?”

“No comment.” I darted to the back of the hearse. I felt like a celebrity. A local one at least.

“Is it true they have reopened his death case and changed it to homicide?” The man threw questions at me left and right.

Whoop, whoop. Sirens blared behind me, causing me to look. Jack Henry jumped out of his police car and put his hands out.

“Okay, give Ms. Raines some room.” He backed up the reporter away from me. Luckily, the reporter started to drill Jack with all sorts of questions, but Jack was truly tight-­lipped about the whole thing.

“If only they could see me.” Chicken stood next to the camera and put his face in the lens. “Hello!” He waved, hoping to get his five minutes of fame. Unfortunately, his five minutes looked like it was going to be more like national coverage. . . . If only it wasn’t because he was murdered.

 

Chapter 3

That was crazy,” I said to Jack Henry. My heart was pounding a mile a minute. I glanced out the front door of the funeral home.

News about Chicken Teater’s exhumation was spreading like wildfire. Two more news crews showed up before we could get the church truck safely into the funeral home. Jack had a heck of a time fending off the camera crews. They were positioned on the sidewalk in front of Eternal Slumber and across the street in the square.

“I wonder how they found out about the exhumation.” Jack peeled back the curtain on the front door and looked out.

“Oh I don’t know.” Sarcasm dripped from my lips. “Duh. The entire town came out to see what was going on. I’m sure one of them tipped off the news.” I signed off on the papers and handed them to Vernon, who was waiting near the elevator to take Chicken to the basement, where he could begin his work on the remains.

Jack just looked at me. I crinkled my nose and smiled. He smiled back, causing my heart to flutter. If he didn’t stop making cute faces at me, they were going to have to make a spot on the church truck next to Chicken, because I swore my heart stopped every time Jack looked at me.

“This should be fun.” Vernon took the papers and slapped them on top of the dirty casket before wheeling the church truck into the open elevator.

“Remember, this is a closed investigation,” Jack Henry warned Vernon. “No talking to the media or friends or family about this.”

“Scout’s honor.” Vernon put up two fingers before the elevator door shut.

“Dinner tonight?” Jack Henry asked.

“Dinner? How about breakfast, so I can tell you what I know about Chicken and who I think might have done it?” There was still an assumption on my part that I would play some sort of roll in the investigation of the death, even though he had already told me to stay out of it.

“Emma Lee, you know I believe you see Chicken, just like you saw Ruthie.” He rubbed his hand over my cheek, leaving me momentarily paralyzed. “But you said Chicken didn’t know how he was murdered, which means you need to leave it up to the professionals. I’ve already warned you. I can’t have you getting involved in something that could possibly put you in danger. I couldn’t live with myself if that happened.”

I nodded. For a moment, I lost all my marbles and all cohesive thoughts melted away.

“What?” Chicken jumped out of the curtains. “You tell that little whippersnapper that I was murdered and he needs to check Marla out. She was so jealous of Lady Cluckington. She signed the agreement! You have to find the agreement, Emma Lee.”

What agreement? If he and Marla had an agreement, it was news to me.

Agreement or not, Jack Henry wasn’t going to let me get my hands dirty.

“But he’s my client.” I protested and kept the little information about Chicken and Marla’s agreement to myself. This agreement might be the first bit of information that would help lead to more clues. And completely pin Marla Maria as the number-­one suspect, which she already was in my book.

“Four years ago he was Eternal Slumber’s client.” He put his hat on, a sure sign he was leaving. “Today he is my client.” His expression grew serious.

“But he’s here.” I pointed to Chicken standing right next to Jack Henry. I smiled, trying to break his icy look. “Doesn’t that mean something?”

Jack Henry looked to his right and did a little shimmy shake. “Don’t do that to me, Emma Lee.” He shook his arms and hands like he was shaking off the dead. “You know I can’t stand to know there is a ghost next to me. It creeps me out.”

“Fine, but he is my client,” I noted. “From the afterworld.”

“What?” Jack cocked his eyebrow. “You have a business going with them now?”

“No, but that’s a good idea.” Hell no, I wanted to shout. There would be no other ghosts after Chicken. Even though the psychic said, once a Betweener, always a Betweener. She also said it was probably limited to people I knew and there weren’t too many people I had buried that I knew. Especially those who had been murdered.

Granted, I never thought Chicken Teater was murdered, nor Ruthie, but Ruthie proved otherwise and I guessed Chicken was trying to do the same.

“Dinner?” Jack walked back over and grabbed both of my hands before he pulled them up to his lips and gently kissed them.

My heart skipped a beat. Jack Henry was a dream come true. When I was in high school, I would have done anything to catch his eye. But no one really wanted anything to do with the creepy funeral-­home girl. Or so I thought.

“That was something to see.” Granny walked into the vestibule. She must have let herself in the back door. “I’ve never seen that in all the years I’d been in the business.” She walked over to the curtain and peeled it back; then yanked it again to open it wide.

The sounds of clicks could be heard from the outside, as Granny stood smiling and waving to the media from the vestibule window. Chicken was right behind her doing the same thing.

“It’s something we try not to do often.” Jack Henry let go of my hands and walked over to shut the curtain. Granny waved until it was closed. He didn’t scold her. He knew better. Granny did what Granny wanted to do. Apparently, Chicken did too.

“Dinner, Emma Lee?” He asked again—­this time wanting a definite answer. “What do you say I take you to Bella Vino?”

“What time?” No-­brainer. I could already taste the delicious chicken parmesan from my favorite restaurant . . . our restaurant. I ignored Granny, who was still trying to sneak a peek at the media. I had to admit, this was the only time Sleepy Hollow had seen so much press.

“Seven.” He bent down and kissed me on the cheek before he left out the door to the waiting camera crew.

“True love.” Granny giggled. Over her shoulder, I snuck a peek out the window where the cameramen were trying to coerce Jack into talking. They had no clue he was as ironclad as they come.

“He is a keeper,” I said to Granny. “You have to be careful on that scooter. You are going to kill someone.”

I walked back through the family gathering space that was next to the kitchen to start the coffee Granny had told me to brew.

“So.” Granny rubbed her hands together. “What exactly is going on? I know you had to have a good reason to dig him up. Murder? Someone steal something out of his coffin? I’ve heard of grave robbers.” A devilish look came into her eyes. “Who’s the suspect?”

Although it sounded really sick, there were people out there who stole items off the dead. I couldn’t even think of that, in fear of being haunted all my life. That thought scared me.

“Granny, you know I can’t mix business with pleasure.” I ignored her beady little eyes staring at me.

“Need I remind you that I still own this establishment and have the right to kick you out of it?”

“You wouldn’t.” I gasped, and stared at her in disbelief.

“Then tell me what is going on.” She straightened up and spoke in a pretty little Southern tone.

“Granny, I have Southern charm just like you, lest you forget that you taught me.” Please hurry up and brew, I thought, looking at the coffee. The quicker she got her cup of coffee, the quicker she’d be out of here. “And you can’t keep holding it over my head that you own the joint. We have a contract—­signed papers.”

“Oh, I forgot about that.” Her mouth twitched to the side. “Well I’m just curious. I won’t tell anyone. Besides, what good is it that you are dating the sheriff if we don’t get the scoop?”

She did have a point. Still. I couldn’t betray Jack Henry and his trust.

“I’m telling you right now that I’m going to have the papers drawn up and you can sell the place to Charlotte and me.” My eyes narrowed. Granny and I both knew it was time to sell the place. She hadn’t had her hand in any part of the business since Charlotte and I took over.

“So you aren’t going to tell me?” There was no doubt Granny was persistent.

“No,” my voice was thick and unsteady because I was itching to tell her.

“Fine.” Granny took a deep breath and pulled her shoulders back. “Now, tell me.” There was a spark of interest in her eyes.

Without telling her a word, I handed her the papers Jack Henry had given me with the warrant.

“What kind of evidence do they have?” Granny’s mouth formed an O. There was no way to hide the surprised expression on Granny’s face. “Marla Maria?”

“Don’t go pointing fingers.” I grabbed the pot of coffee and poured each of us a cup. “Jack Henry isn’t going to tell me what evidence he has.” Which wasn’t a lie. He didn’t have any evidence except Chicken’s ghost and me. Thank goodness, Jack Henry was in charge. This type of evidence to exhume a body would have never gone this easily in a big town. “And we don’t know if Marla Maria had anything to do with it. She did look sad today.”

“Sad my patookie.” Granny sipped her coffee as she referred to her behind. The steam swirled up around her face and clouded over her eyes. Without seeing Granny’s expression, she knew as much as I did that Marla Maria was a great actress.

end of excerpt