Eyeing the court-length train of the dress, I said, “It shouldn’t be an issue considering I plan on standing in a corner with a very large drink all night.”
Smiling, she nodded, but then caution crept into her eyes. “Just do me a favor, Carly Bell Hartwell, in case it wasn’t just a dream . . . Be careful tonight, okay? I don’t want one of the ghosts I help cross over in the next few days to be yours.”
Just the thought of being one of those ghosts gave me the willies.
But if Delia’s dream had revealed the future that left a big question . . .
If it wasn’t me Patricia had hit on the head with that candlestick, who was it?
Chapter Three
The radiant moon, full a day ago, peeked out from behind thin clouds, highlighting crimson leaves as they skittered across the newly sodded lawn of the Ezekiel mansion.
Dylan and I sat in a wooden bench swing that hung from a strong branch of a scarlet oak tree on the edge of the property. As we swayed, we watched partygoers glide up the walkway to the circular front entry of the house, where hired help stood at the wide walnut door to take coats and wraps.
“Eventually we’re going to have to go inside,” Dylan said, giving my right hand a squeeze.
“I know.” My left hand was curled around my locket. Here, in the distance of the party, I was safe from other people’s feelings, emotions. I could control them. However, as soon as I stepped inside that mansion my protective walls would start crumbling as surely as the house’s foundation had before the Harpies got their hands on it. “But I like it out here.”
He gave the swing a push. “The longer we’re out here, the more time my mother gets with that candlestick . . . from this I deduce that you’d like her to get arrested.”
I nudged him with my elbow. “Deduce?”
“Words like that come with the badge.” Smiling, he patted his fancy suit jacket where his badge was tucked into an inside pocket.
Although he looked mighty fine dressed to the nines, I had to admit seeing him in his uniform was what truly got me a little hot under the collar. “Delia said the crime would be committed at nine thirty, so there’s no deduction needed. And as much as your mama and I have our differences, and shoo, we do . . .”
“Don’t I know it,” he cut in.
Giving him some side-eye, I went on. “I don’t want to see her get arrested. Not really. Okay, yes, it’s true that I’d love to see a mug shot of her. Maybe get a copy. For posterity. And my Christmas cards. And maybe a keepsake key chain. No biggie.”
Laughing, he shook his head, his moss green eyes looking brown in the night.
On the outside, Patricia Davis Jackson was the epitome of Southern beauty and grace.
On the inside, I was convinced she was ugly as sin.
“Hey,” I said, poking him with my elbow again. “There’s the mayor. She has brown hair . . . Does your mama hold any ill will toward her?”
Mayor Barbara Jean Ramelle was the Harpies’ treasurer. She and her husband, Doug, who was owner of the fancy Delphinium restaurant, were stalwart members of the Hitching Post community.
Picking up an acorn, Dylan flicked it deep into the darkness. “Care Bear,” he said, using his pet name for me, “the only person my mama has ill will for is you.”
My lips pursed. “That’s not very comforting.”
“How’s this for comfort?” Tipping my head up, he leaned in and gently pressed a few playful kisses all around my lips before finally settling his mouth on mine.
I curved into him, snuggling into his warmth, getting lost in all the wonderful sensations flowing through my body. These were the kind of tingles a witch could get used to.
“Better?” he asked, his voice soft and husky.
Wrinkling my nose, I said, “It’s a little better, but I think another—”
A bloodcurdling scream split the air. I grabbed on to his lapels and sucked in a breath.
Dylan’s body had gone rigid. “It came from the backyard.”
When another scream sounded, he suddenly relaxed. “Barn owl.”
Usually, I liked owls. Not tonight. Even though Dylan and I had a plan to deal with Delia’s dream, I was a little on edge.
Come nine twenty, Dylan intended to stick to his mama like glue. Nothing untoward was going to happen under his watch. I was more curious about who she’d planned to club. And why.
Dylan shifted to look at the woods at the rear of the property.
Where the Ezekiel family cemetery was located.
From here, I could see only the dim outline of the wrought iron fence that surrounded the burial ground and the eerie silhouettes of stone grave markers. “What time is it?”
Pulling up his cuff, he held his watch up to the moonlight. “Eight thirty.”
“We should go in,” I said sullenly, making no move to do so.