Pumpkins & Poltergeists, Confessions of a Closet Medium, Book 1 Read online

  My fingers rifle through the scarves, one of them covered with gold coins. It tinkles. I lift it out and examine the see-through material, the sound of the coins invoking images of belly dancers. I lift out a wig of long, dark hair, a peasant skirt, a bright orange shawl.

  Sitting back, I let go a relieved laugh. This is nothing more than a kid’s dress-up trunk. Not one I ever got to play with, but certainly nothing to cause the anxiety I’d felt about opening it.

  The icy sensation on my skin doesn’t go away, though. The tinkling scarf meant to go around a dancer’s hips suddenly feels heavier in my hands.

  Tabitha stretches a paw out and bats at a black leather-bound book. It’s long and thin, with a leather cord wrapped around it, keeping it shut.

  “Ledger” is stamped in gold on the front cover.

  Setting the scarf aside, I reach for the book. Tabitha sits up straight and looks me directly in the eyes, as if encouraging me. Arthur and Lancelot mosey in and jump up onto the bed, watching with something akin to anticipation. It’s almost as if Tabby has called them.

  I remove the band and open the book. Columns fill the pages, entries on each line. Across the top, the headings list Day, Name, Service, Fee, and whether payment was received or in arrears. The dates span back years; the names seem to be made up, and all sound like food—Maple Taffy, White Eggs, Candy Lane.

  A child’s game, I think, ready to toss the book back into the trunk. Aunt Willa and I used to make up codes for people when we wanted to talk about them without them knowing it. It was simple, innocent fun.

  That’s all this is, I tell myself. Before I close the book, my eye catches on one of the services listed: house clearing. I continue to go down the column.

  Hex breaking.

  Great grandmother’s ring—found.

  Baby prediction: boy.

  Protection prayer and charm.

  And one that chills my bones—Evicted evil spirit.

  I slam the book shut. This is definitely not a child’s game.

  I drop the book on the seat and look at Tabby. “What is this nonsense?”

  She blinks at me, blank.

  I’m talking to a cat. Worse, I expect her to answer.

  I’ve lost it. My marbles are gone.

  From inside the trunk, another thick-bound volume awaits, the binding old and worn. There are metal grommets in the corners and a lock on the book, giving it a somewhat gothic appearance.

  Shaking off the fear the other book has left in my mind, I hesitate to take it out but can’t resist the draw. The thick book’s lock is fashioned like a cat head—one that matches the door knocker out front.

  The keyhole is the cat’s mouth, and my memory flashes. The necklace! Aunt Willa’s key pendant was shaped like a cat’s curling tail.

  I never knew what the key went to. She always told me it was just a necklace. Dollars to doughnuts, it went to this book.

  The tome weighs a ton and covers my lap with its generous size. I try to open it, but the lock doesn’t give.

  I pry a finger under one worn corner, attempting to read the yellowed page underneath. I can’t make out much, but I see faded script. Tabby leans over and licks my hand, startling me and making me jump. An orange pamphlet falls from between the pages.

  A cartoonish toad with a crown is emblazoned on the top. Thorny Toad Psychedelic Saturdays is stamped underneath it. There’s a list of names and a date from several years before. I scan the list, realizing these are attractions for this Saturday night get-together. My focus is drawn to Mina the Medium.

  Mina, as in Wilhelmina?

  Aunt Willa went by Willa and Willa Rae. I never heard anyone call her Mina. I replace the book in the trunk, chewing my bottom lip and wondering if I could pry the lock open with a knife, or a letter opener. Maybe a screwdriver? I set the orange flyer on top of the books and wonder what Aunt Willa was playing at.

  Suddenly, Tabby meows and I see her looking out the window. She arches her back, hair standing up all along her spine.

  “What is it, girl?” I brush back the lace curtain.

  Moonlight winks off metal on the other side of the hedgerow fence in Mr. Upton’s yard. Dirt flies through the air.

  I scrunch my forehead, narrowing my eyes and leaning as far over as the window will allow. The tip of a shovel flings dirt, once, twice, three times, behind the tall barrier of boxwoods lining the fence between our properties. If I remember correctly, that area’s his prized gardenia garden.

  “Why is he planting something in the middle of the night?” I wonder out loud.

  I know he’s had trouble in the past with moles. Aunt Willa did, too, so maybe he’s on the path of one of those pesky critters. They seemed to like this area close to the creek.

  Like my aunt, Mr. Upton has added rich garden soil to his yard over the years and his gardenias have thrived. He’s won awards at the county fair and some of Willa’s brides have used that corner of his garden for more pictures. There was always a slight competition between him and my aunt for who could have the most beautiful garden.

  I’m considering wandering over to ask him if he saw or heard anything unusual last night when the doorbell rings, making me jump.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Logan Cross is on the front porch.

  “What’s up?” I ask, after cracking open the door.

  He gives me a crooked grin. “Saw the lights on. Couldn’t sleep? You okay?”

  “Define okay.” I think about talking cats, the ledger and the flyer. Mina the Medium.

  The grin broadens and he throws a casual hand up on the frame. “Rough day with the ladies auxiliary, I take it?”

  “Good guess.”

  “They mean well.”

  He looks like a lawyer tonight in a dress shirt, tie, and slacks. “No one should look that good at this time of night.” I give him another once-over. “Aren’t you off the clock by now?”

  “Long day,” he says on an exasperated sigh. He loosens his tie. “The Pumpkins and Peach Wine Charity Dinner was tonight with my parents.”

  The wine tour on Sunday stretches over three counties and is a huge tourist draw to the area in conjunction with the festival. The Cross Winery has won dozens of awards for their specialty wine, Peachy Keen Pinot, and they hold a charity dinner every year before the tour, the family being well known for their philanthropy.

  “Let him in.” The whisper near my ear makes me suck in a breath.

  The door knocker’s talking again.

  Logan doesn’t seem to hear it, and I guess that’s a good thing, although it might confirm I’m simply crazy. Easing the door open another inch, I silently bemoan the fact Logan is once more seeing me in my pajamas with no makeup and frizzy hair.

  But a plan to get a few answers hits, and we are now alone. “Could I interest you in some ham and beans? Cookies?”

  “Real food? Yes, please.” He follows me into the house. “That catered stuff Mom has at these things looks appetizing, but it never fills me up. Got any cornbread to go with the ham and beans?”

  In the kitchen, I glance around at the countertop selections. “I saw some earlier.” I point to a blue glass dish with a plastic lid. A piece of masking tape on it reads “Teresa Maples.”

  “Excellent.” Logan rubs his hands together. “Terry makes the best cornbread.”

  A split-second passes, my focus zeroing in on her name. There’s something about it…

  “Hey, you okay?” Logan asks.

  “Yes.” My voice is a little too bright as I try to cover my mind travel. “Just trying to place her face.”

  He goes on to describe her, who she’s related to, stuff about her brother—an all-star basketball player at Thornhollow High—and other stuff I don’t really listen to. I stick two bowls of ham and bean soup in the microwave.

  As they heat, Logan gathers silverware, once more revealing he knows this kitchen well. I grab out plates, my brain still stuck on Teresa’s name.

  I pour sweet tea for b
oth of us, not bothering to ask Logan what he wants, but he doesn’t complain. I’m struck by the fact that this pitcher of tea is the last my aunt will ever make.

  Logan sheds the tie and unbuttons the top of his shirt, then rolls up the sleeves to his elbows, revealing strong forearms that are beautifully tan. The cats meander in and check their bowls.

  “You found Tabby,” he says, smiling.

  “Brax did. Said she showed up at the back door at dinnertime.”

  We dig into the food, neither of us talking for several quiet moments. I nearly moan at how good it all tastes.

  Coming up for air, I wipe my mouth and ask Logan how much the charity raised. He tells me about one of the wine vintages that sold in the silent auction for nearly $800 tonight.

  “That’s crazy.” I’ve never understood people’s fascination with expensive wine. A five-dollar bottle tastes about the same to me as the pricey stuff.

  He seems to agree, nodding his head. “Good for the kids though.”

  The Cross charity grants money every year to our local kids’ club. The charity supplies sports uniforms, band instruments, and funds educational trips for many of the children in the area.

  Around us at the table are multiple dishes of dessert items. Logan fishes through several, snagging a homemade turtle candy and chomping down on the yummy mix of pecans, caramel, and chocolate.

  “Are you having trouble sleeping?” he asks again, pointing to my pajamas.

  “Nah. I napped, but I have a lot on my mind. Questions with no answers.”

  He inhales another candy. “You want to know why, right? Why Willa Rae? She was such a pillar of the community and seems young to have died so soon. It doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

  No, it doesn’t. “Actually,”—I push away my plate and pin him with a stare—“What I want to know right now is why you have a key to this house?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Logan’s gaze is steady and calm. “She needed money and asked me to buy the house from her.”

  My stomach drops. “She sold you The Wedding Chapel? Her home?”

  He puts up a hand in a wait gesture. “Not the business or the grounds. Just the house. She planned to buy it back, and I’ve been putting her rent checks toward it.”

  “What did she need money for?” And why didn’t she come to me? “Is the business in trouble?”

  “She wouldn’t say.” He shrugs. “I suggested she take out a short-term loan, but she refused. Said she didn’t want anyone but me, her lawyer, knowing she needed help, especially the busybodies at the bank.”

  Help with what? My mind reels with possibilities. Was she sick? Bankrupt? Again, I feel distraught she didn’t come to me.

  “A copy of our agreement should be in her files.” He’s watching me carefully. “If you don’t find it, I’ll make another.”

  I’m stunned speechless. After everything I’ve experienced in the past twenty-four hours, this might be the most perplexing. “Welcome to the Twilight Zone,” I mutter. Making a pillow of my hands, I rest my forehead on them.

  Logan stands, removing our plates and taking them to the sink to rinse them. I hear the squeak of the dishwasher door as he sticks them inside.

  Returning, he places a warm, sturdy hand on my shoulder. “I should get going. You need rest.”

  He digs in a pocket and places a key on the table next to my elbow. “You keep this. It’ll make you feel better. And I don’t need it with you here.”

  I lift my head. Nothing will make me feel better, but his gesture actually does ease my tension a bit.

  I sit up fully. “Mama heard Willa arguing with someone at the creek before she died, but never saw the person. Do you have any idea who it might have been?”

  His hand slides off my shoulder, and he frowns. “No idea. People came and went from here all the time.”

  I rise and see him to the door. The house seems too quiet, too…empty. I almost hate to let him go.

  At the door, he gives me that steady gaze again. “Get some sleep. Let’s talk tomorrow. But if you need anything tonight, I’m just across the street.”

  “Sure.”

  I watch him go down the path, through the gate, and cross the street to this place. After I make sure he’s safely inside, I lock the door.

  Then I sit at Aunt Willa’s desk and start looking for clues as to why she would sell Logan the family home.

  Chapter Fifteen

  By 9 a.m., I’m showered, dressed and feeling more like myself. No ghosts, no talking cats, and I’ve spoken to my boss to secure time off, had a chat with Winter about the ghost activity—which has reassured me about my psychic abilities—and been through all of Aunt Willa’s financial accounts.

  Business accounts anyway. I can’t find her personal banking information, but between Mama and Rosie, one of them should know where her bank statements are.

  Aunt Willa was old school and didn’t bank online. There are a few credit card statements in her files, but nothing looks out of place. The charges and payments align with recent wedding expenses.

  Rosie arrives ten minutes before Mama. Her little dog is once again in her tote as she settles at her desk. I hand her a cup of coffee. “Do you know why Aunt Willa sold this house to Logan Cross?”

  Her face pinches, the cup stopping in mid-air on its way to her pumpkin-colored lips. “She did what?”

  The little dog, Fern, hides her head in the tote.

  “You didn’t know?”

  She sets down the cup with a thunk that nearly splashes coffee over the sides. “Heavens no. Why did she do that?”

  “Your guess is better than mine. And I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this between us. Logan said she needed cash, but I haven’t figured out why. He claims he doesn’t know. I’ve been through the business accounts and everything looks solid, but I can’t find her personal stuff. You wouldn’t happen to know where she kept that, would you?”

  “I believe Miss Willa has a lockbox at the bank. Maybe she kept it there? Would Miss Della know?”

  Seems inconvenient. “I hate to suggest such a thing, but Logan has a key to the house, and…”

  I let the accusation hang between us. Rosie catches my drift. “No way. Logan’s a good guy. Why would he take Miss Willa’s bank statements?”

  I feel like a heel even insinuating it. “I don’t know, but with everything that’s happened I’m a little suspicious of a whole lot of people.” I shrug and see her rear back as if offended. “Not you, Rosie. I know you loved Willa like I did.”

  “You bet your Sunday dinner I did.” She shakes her head and champions Logan again. “Logan would never do anything underhanded.”

  This reassures me a little. I can’t stomach thinking he would hurt my aunt or steal papers from her house after her demise. I make a mental note to ask Mama for ideas and cross my fingers she knows where those bank statements might be.

  Rosie and I spend the next few minutes discussing the possibilities for the estate, and I try to reassure her that The Wedding Chapel will continue in business for now. “I’m not letting everything Aunt Willa worked so hard for go down the tubes. We’re keeping this place open as long as possible.”

  As the words leave my mouth, I wonder how I’m going to accomplish that, considering my boss only agreed to one week off before I need to return to work. Fall is always busy for our salon with brides planning for Valentine’s Day weddings as well as those getting fitted for holiday ones.

  “Ava, I honestly can’t believe she wouldn’t tell me if she needed money,” Rosie says.

  “You and me both. Was she acting odd lately? Any change in her routine? Did she seem healthy to you?”

  Fern climbs out of the tote and Rosie cradles her in her arms. “I worked with that woman five days a week and sometimes on Saturdays when we had a big event. She was like a mother to me.”

  Rosie’s eyes well with tears, and she nuzzles Fern. “I swear I never saw anything different. I know they said she had a lot of anx
iety, and she definitely worked too hard, but I thought the meds were helping. She never seemed overly anxious to me, or sick in any way. She was healthier than I am…at least that’s what I thought. Do you think she had cancer or something? That she just didn’t tell any of us?”

  I’ve heard stories about folks who have terminal illnesses and don’t tell their family because they don’t want them to worry. It does seem like something Aunt Willa might do. “You or Mama would have noticed if she was sick, I’m sure.” I attempt to relieve her worry as I walk to the front display window on her side of the office. The sun is shining on the fallen leaves out front and glinting off the wagon display in the yard. “She sure loved this time of year.”

  “This and Christmas. And Valentine’s.” Rosie chuckles. “Actually, she loved all the holidays.”

  Across the street, I see Logan moving around in his office. “When you left here the day she died, was there anyone else around?”

  “I had to leave early and take little Mikey to see Dr. Abernathy. Mikey threw up at school and was running a fever. Doc said it was something he ate, nothing serious, but because of the fever, I needed to watch him overnight.”

  She joins me at the window, Fern now at her feet. Arthur and Lancelot are curled up near Snow White’s red shoes in the window, and they eye the small dog with a mixture of annoyance and boredom. “Mikey has food allergies, which we never would have found out about if it weren’t for Willa.”

  “Is that so?”

  Rosie continues with a nod. “My hubby’s insurance wouldn’t cover the cost of testing, and Willa gave me the money for it. I swear on the Blessed Mother, she saved his life—and my sanity. He’s so much healthier now since we keep him away from dairy and corn.”

  I imagine life without those two things and internally cringe. “Aunt Willa was a generous person.”

  “I paid her back,” Rosie assures me. “Every month, I made an installment. Some of the other folks, they couldn’t afford to pay back the money she gave them.”