He wore a pair of dark cargo shorts, a short-sleeve dark tee, and flip-flops. His hair, which I recalled to be snow-white, was buzz-cut short. In his ghostly state, his black skin looked the same as Haywood’s: gray. In death, all of us had the same skin color.
As I held on to my locket, I quickly went over the rules with him, told him how the ghost thing worked, and informed him that he was second in line for my services. And that if he couldn’t abide by these rules he could turn himself around and go find Delia.
He backed up ten feet, and I took that as consent to my terms.
“Are you looking for the person who hit you with their car?” I asked, hopping right onto his ghost train. The sooner I could figure out why he was here, the sooner he could be on his way, crossing over, and never coming back.
Shaking his head, he moaned, and I took a quick second to explain that he couldn’t talk.
After a minute, he stuck his tongue out, panted, and brought his hands up in a begging gesture.
“Your dog. You’re looking for your dog.”
Yes.
I racked my brain trying to think of the dog’s name. L-something. Lovey. Lucky. No, no. “Louella.”
His head bobbed. Yes.
What a cranky scraggly mutt of a dog she had been, too. Brownish white, she was part Lhasa apso, part terrier of some sort, and part she-devil. She was a biter, and seemed to like no one but Virgil.
Nodding enthusiastically, he hunched his shoulders and turned his palms up.
“Where is she?” I interpreted.
Yes.
Where was she? It was a good question. I realized I hadn’t seen her around town at all after the accident, so no one local had taken her in. “I’m not sure,” I finally said. “But I’ll find out.”
It was impossible not to feel a pang for this man. He seemingly didn’t care who’d killed him. He wanted only to learn the fate of his beloved dog, which spoke volumes about the kind of person he had been. I wished I’d made more of an effort to get to know him while I’d had the chance.
Dylan came back out of the house. “Who’re you talking to out here? Haywood?”
“No. Virgil Keane.”
“Virgil . . .” His eyes widened, then he shook his head. “You can tell me about it later. I’ve got to go. My mother’s been arrested.”
Wincing, I said, “I was afraid of that.”
He headed down the steps. “A bail hearing is in an hour.”
“So soon?”
Smiling, he said, “A few favors were called in. Judge Wilfork took over the bench when my daddy died. They’d been good friends, which my mama’s lawyer made sure to remind him about.”
Dylan’s father, Harris Jackson, had been one of Darling County’s most beloved elected officials. He’d been dead and buried some ten years now, and I knew Dylan missed him fiercely.
Even though Judge Wilfork was a Jackson family friend, I knew the man to be fair. Although he had been agreeable to a bail hearing on a Sunday afternoon, he wasn’t going to give Patricia a get-out-of-jail-free card simply because of a long-standing friendship.
“Will you go see what’s up with Avery Bryan?” he asked.
I nodded.
He kissed me. “I’ll check in as soon as I know something.”
As he walked away, I called after him. “Are you going to tell the sheriff about Haywood inheriting the mansion?”
Dread filled his eyes as he looked back at me. “I have to. It might be the only way to keep my mother out of prison. No doubt it’s going to stir up one hell of a hornet’s nest.”
That’s what I was afraid of.
Because when a hornet’s nest was disturbed, someone always ended up getting stung.
? ? ?
Eulalie’s inn, the Silly Goose, wasn’t nearly as theatrically dramatic as she was, but it was just as full of Southern charm. Painted a pale gray color that in certain light looked green, it had pure white trim that accented three-paneled shutters, the detail work on the wraparound front porch, and the peaks on the triple-gabled roofline. Two stories tall and fairly wide, it had six guest rooms plus a deluxe honeymoon suite. The lush gardens in the big yard were a source of pride and joy for Eulalie, and she spent a lot of free time fussing, pruning, and fertilizing. Climbing vines covered a series of multiple arbors that created a tunnel leading from the driveway into the backyard. Walking through it felt like entering a magical world. One where wood nymphs and elves might play.
Eulalie was a gardener at heart. Even in these cooler months when colorful blooms waned into dormancy, she often could be found outside cooing to her beloved plants.
Today, however, I found her in the inn’s front parlor. I wiped my feet on the braided welcome rug, took off my sunglasses, and hung my raincoat on a stand near the door. Flames jumped inside a gas fireplace set into a stunning floor-to-ceiling surround made of beautiful ledgestone. Its heat chased away a late-October chill that had come in with the rain. A rustic redwood mantel was decorated in autumn leaf garland, pumpkins, black metal ravens, and candles.