But when the memory of that one bad experience slid into my mind, a shiver ran down my spine, reminding me why I’d stopped assisting the ghosts in the first place.
Helping Haywood was a big enough step outside my self-imposed ghostly comfort zone to give me peace of mind. I was doing the best I could right here and now.
The phone on my nightstand rang, and when I reached over to pick it up, I saw who was calling: My mama. I set the handset back down and let the call go to voice mail.
Later. I’d deal with her later.
I said good-bye to the two feline lumps under my duvet, told them the house would soon be theirs for a while, and reached for the bedroom doorknob. Willed myself to turn the handle.
Now that it was almost time to leave the house, my nerves were kicking up something fierce. I didn’t want to go out there.
Didn’t want to want to have to deal with Haywood.
Didn’t want to think about murder.
But I also knew I had no other choice. Not really. Not if I wanted to help Haywood cross over so I could return to my regularly scheduled hibernation period. Taking a deep breath, I gave myself a silent pep talk and swung open the door just as my front bell pealed. I left the door ajar for Roly and Poly to have free rein and dashed down the narrow steps.
The first thing I noticed was that Haywood was nowhere to be seen.
Was it possible that he’d decided he didn’t need me after all? My hopes picked themselves up, dusted themselves off.
The second thing I noticed was that it wasn’t Dylan on my front porch but rather my aunt Eulalie. She had her hands cupped on each side of her face and her nose practically smushed flat as she peered through the leaded glass of my front door. Her sullen features brightened when she spotted me.
A gentle rain was falling outside as I unlocked the door, and although the gray weather fit my melancholy mood, I hoped the skies would clear by evening. Once upon a time I had been a happy-go-lucky trick-or-treater, and there had been nothing worse than bad weather while going door to door.
“Carly Bell, I’m glad you answered, what with you being in your current state of hibernation.” She noisily kissed my cheek.
I quickly closed the door behind her before any wayward ghosts wandered by. There was a nervous energy around my aunt as she sashayed into the living room, her pleated full skirt swinging like a pendulum.
“What’s going on?” I asked, studying her. “Everything go okay on your date with Mr. Butterbaugh last night? Well, minus the murder?”
She wrinkled her nose. “It was fine.”
Fine. That was the kiss of death for poor Mr. Butterbaugh. “Not your type?”
Aunt Eulalie rarely looked anything other than perfectly put together. It helped that she could easily pass for Meryl Streep’s twin sister, but her fashion sense played a huge role as well.
She preferred retro-looking fashions. From the forties, fifties, sixties . . . she loved them all. Today she had on a fitted navy blue blouse, a purple cardigan, a gray, blue, and purple plaid skirt, and dark purple Mary Jane heels—with sheer hose of course. Aunt Eulalie seemed to have an endless supply of stockings. And gloves, too. Today she wore a pair of cream-colored wrist-length gloves with a ruffled cuff.
“I’m coming to believe, Carly Bell, that my type does not exist. Wendell is a perfectly lovely gentleman. For someone else. I need someone with a stronger . . . constitution.”
“The ulcer?” I asked with a small smile.
“And the headache from the music. And the sore throat from a possibly tainted piece of shrimp.” She peeled off her gloves. “Bless his heart.”
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
“Just one more frog crossed off the list,” she said on a long sigh. “But never mind that right now. I’ve come over because I want to talk to you about a particular guest staying at the inn. A young woman. Very sweet. Extremely kind.”
All three Odd Ducks owned inns on this street. Eulalie’s, the Silly Goose, and Hazel’s Crazy Loon were almost always filled to capacity. Aunt Marjie’s Old Buzzard had never once seen a guest and had a NO VACANCY sign hanging out front. She was contrary that way.
Eulalie’s place was two doors down, one of only three homes on this side of the street. Sandwiched between her place and mine was Mr. Dunwoody’s house, and I was grateful for the buffer. Though I loved my aunts, being directly next door would be a little too close for comfort.
“A bride-to-be?” I asked. With Hitching Post being the wedding capital of the South, most visitors to the town were involved with a wedding in some way. Before Eulalie could answer, I added, “Would you like some coffee?”
“Yes, please,” she said, following me into the kitchen. “My guest has been extremely tight-lipped as to why she is here. Not for a lack of my trying to get a reason out of her, mind you.”
Eulalie had probably wheedled the woman endlessly. Poor thing. I set about making the coffee.
She said, “As far as I knew this young woman had no connections to this town, wedding or otherwise.”