“But what about the ghost?” Newland Tran balanced the tiny saucer of cookies in his too-big hands and nodded politely to his hostess.
Bitty Duncan gave him the sweetest smile, her wrinkled cheeks dimpling. If he had to guess, the woman was close to eighty-five, yet she had a spring in her step and a sparkle in her eyes that belied her age.
She was the quintessential grandmotherly type. Well, if a typical grandmother had lavender-colored hair to go with her crocheted shawl and flowered housedress.
“Would you like another glass of tea, Mr. Tran?”
She said his name with the short “a” sound, but Newland didn’t bother to correct her. It seemed most everyone in the South wanted his name to rhyme with ran, and there was nothing he could do to squelch that desire.
“No, thank you. I would like to hear more about your ghost though.” For someone who wanted a tabloid reporter to write an article about the ghost she had in her house, Bitty seemed reluctant to talk about it. Or maybe she just wanted someone to keep her company.
Great. That was just what he needed. To come all the way out here from Chicago to keep an old woman from being lonely.
Turtle Creek, Mississippi. And he had thought that Jefferson County, Tennessee, was bad. That was where he’d lost the only woman he’d ever loved. The woman he’d proposed to, albeit somewhat out of the blue, and who’d turned him down. He wasn’t even supposed to be in Tennessee at the time—he was supposed to be in Arkansas, working on a story—but he found out that Roxanne was in Tennessee, accused of murder and digging up the story to end all stories. One she wouldn’t allow anyone to print after she got it.
Well, he understood that part. But what he didn’t understand was how in three days she fell in love with Malcolm B. Daniels IV, state senator from District 27. He was a stuffed shirt if Newland had ever seen one, always wearing a tie and a coat and little wire-rimmed glasses. What was up with small-town Southerners that made them put on airs like none other?
Turtle Creek was twice as bad as tiny Jefferson County. He’d only been here two hours and he was already itching to get back north of the Mason-Dixon Line.
“Oh, the ghost. Of course.” Bitty nodded. “Well, he only shows himself on the last Thursday of the month.”
Well, it would have been nice if she had explained that in her original letter to the paper. Newland resisted the urge to check the date on his watch. Today was Tuesday. He had a week and two days before the last Thursday of the month.
“Are you sure?” he asked as he wrote the tidbit in his notebook. No full moon stories or anniversary dates. Just the last Thursday of the month. “Why do you suppose that is?” he played along. What choice did he have really?
He’d lost his job at I Spy after he had gone off the deep end. But only just a little bit. So he had tipped Roxanne’s desk over at the magazine. He’d been angry when he returned last year from Tennessee. But the editor-in-chief had gotten upset, and the next thing Newland knew, he was out on his can.
He had taken a of couple months and nursed his broken heart, but by then news of his “volatile nature” was all over Chicago. Any job he did get, he was watched like a hawk, and every photographer who was sent out with him trembled as if he were going to smash their face in. Newland couldn’t take it anymore so he went freelance. Didn’t that sound better than “I quit”?
It had at the time. But now things were getting tight. He needed this story. He needed it badly. And that meant sticking around to see this alleged ghost in person.
Though at this rate, he supposed he could leave and come back closer to the day the ghost would turn up, but that would cost gas and time. And it wasn’t like he had any place else to go.
“I couldn’t possibly know why.” Bitty shook her head in a sad sort of way. “Who knows why Confederate ghosts do anything they do?”
Newland wanted to write something in his notebook, hoping that taking down pertinent information would make him appear attentive and understanding. But he didn’t know what the heck he would write.
“So it’s a Confederate ghost. And you’ve seen him in the cemetery behind your house, correct?”
“Oh, he comes in, too.” Bitty pointed to an empty spot on a shelf across the room. “See those decanters there? I used to have the whole collection, and he knocked one of those down about … let me see, that must’ve been about two weeks ago. Just crashed onto the floor.”
Newland studied the line of glass cars. He had never seen anything like it in his life. The back end of each one had a screw-off lid, like the kind that came on a toothpaste tube.
“So he appears at the cemetery on the last Thursday of the month, but he comes inside whenever he chooses?”
“Yes.” Bitty nodded her purple-rinsed head. “That’s right.”
He stood and went over to the bookcase, looking at each one intently. He turned back to Bitty. “Do you mind?” He gestured toward one of the cars.
She waved a hand. “Go right ahead. The collection’s ruined now.”
Newland picked up one of the cars and examined it. It was made of dark glass, sort of brown, almost black. It had red painted accents and a matching red lid on the back.
He flipped it over and looked at the bottom. It came from one of those makeup catalogs with the door-to-door salespeople. He didn’t even know how he knew that; there’d never been any makeup in his house. Maybe some joke from high school or something. After his mother, father, and brother died in a car accident when he was five, he’d been raised by his uncle with no women around to speak of. Unless he counted his uncle’s occasional dates, but Joey Tran was not the kind to date women who wanted to hang out with kids.
Newland placed the decanter back on the shelf as gently as possible—careful not to set it too close to the empty spot that Bitty seemed to have reserved in memory of the broken decanter—and returned to his seat. The chintz sofa boasted a print made up of two-toned pink roses the size of dinner plates and a crocheted throw tossed across the back.
“You were in the room when it fell?” he asked.
Bitty shook her head. “Oh no, I don’t ever see him in the house.”
Newland had picked up his notebook and pen, ready to record all the details of her paranormal experiences. He let it fall again. “If you’ve never seen him in the house, how do you know he’s ever been in the house?”
“Oh, it’s the little things. The stove will be on and water boiling or the refrigerator door will be left open. And then there’s my Stanley’s decanter. God rest his soul. He collected those for years.”
“I see,” Newland said. But he didn’t. He was not a collector of anything really. Maybe because his life had been sparse, growing up without parents. Or maybe it was just a personality thing. But most of his possessions would fit in a duffel bag or, at the very most, in the trunk of his compact car. He never saw the need to hold onto things. It just weighed a person down.
“Let me make sure I have everything correct.” Newland looked at the sparse summaries he had in his notes. Most everything that Bitty Duncan had told him was stored in his brain. “You have a Confederate ghost. He shows himself in the cemetery the last Thursday of the month, but he comes into the house on other days and wreaks havoc.”
“Oh no,” Bitty said. “He’s not dangerous or destructive. Just sort of mischievous.”
“I see,” Newland said again.
Bitty nodded approvingly. “So you’ll do it? You’ll stay here until my ghost appears and then write a story to tell the world?”
Newland nodded. “Of course.” It was the very reason he had come here, after all. This was the story that was going to put him back in the game. And he would stop at nothing to get it.
• • •
Oskar barked out his welcome as Natalie pulled her little red convertible into the familiar driveway off Sycamore Lane. She’d been shocked when she got the call from her aunt’s neighbor, Josephine, telling her there was a strange car at her aunt’s house. Natalie had an uneasy feeling she knew exactly who it was. She had to put a stop to this. And now.
“Come on, baby.” She hooked Oskar’s leash onto his red-studded collar and carefully set him on the uneven sidewalk. She had other things to do today besides get rid of the stranger her aunt had invited into the house. Again. This had to be the third reporter Aunt Bitty had invited in to write about her “ghost.”
These days Natalie’s life consisted of going around and cleaning up after all the members of her family. What she wouldn’t give for just one day of no drama, no craziness, and no ghosts.
She gave one courtesy knock and let herself in. The house smelled like it always did, like old wood, furniture polish, and lilac. If she had her way, she would bottle that scent and keep it with her forever. But today she didn’t have time to bask in that glorious aroma. She had things to do.
“Aunt Bitty, it’s me, Natalie.” Her shiny red heels clicked against the hardwood, the sound echoed by Oskar’s toenails. She still had to attend Gerald’s sister’s wedding tea this afternoon, so hopefully this wouldn’t take very long. How long did it take to kick the paparazzi out of one’s elderly aunt’s house?
She wound her way across the waxed wooden floors and threadbare rugs until she made it to the parlor. Her aunt always entertained in the parlor.
“Just as I suspected,” she muttered under her breath.
Sitting across from her aunt, dressed in an unlikely corduroy blazer, some sort of t-shirt, and jeans that had seen better days, the two-bit reporter who had come to take advantage of her aunt balanced a glass of iced tea and a small saucer of sugar cookies.
Her aunt pushed herself to her feet, and to his credit, so did the reporter.
He had to have been the tallest Asian man she had ever seen. He was at least six foot, with blue-black hair and dark, exotic eyes. And when he smiled, a tiny dimple winked at her from one corner of his mouth.
He took a step forward, extending his hand as he approached. “Newland Tran.”
Natalie looked at his hand, then back up into those deep brown eyes. She searched her brain for something pithy to say, but before she could come up with even the smallest remark there was a flash of white, a growling howl, and a whimper.
“Aunt Bitty! Do something!” Thank heavens she hadn’t taken Oskar off his leash. She used the strap attached to the harness to swing the poor pooch into her arms. But it was the handsome reporter who picked up the wallowing bundle of white Persian cat.
“Poor baby,” Natalie crooned to Oskar. “I don’t know why that mean ol’ Mr. Piddles doesn’t like you.”
As if in answer to Natalie’s words, Mr. Piddles hissed. Though Natalie wasn’t much of a cat person, she normally didn’t mind them, but Mr. Piddles was in a league all his own. He got along with Oskar some days—usually when Piddles was put in the sunroom for Oskar’s visit— but there were times when he attacked for no good reason.
“Aunt Bitty, would you please get your cat?”
Her aunt took the spitting white bundle from the reporter and cuddled him close. “He’s not normally like this, you know,” she said.
Natalie shook her head and mouthed to their visitor, “He is, too.”
Except the cat didn’t seem to mind this tall stranger.
“Won’t you come in, dear? I’d like to introduce you to—”
Natalie interrupted. “Can I talk to you for a minute, Aunt Bitty?” She looked pointedly at the reporter. “Alone.”
If she had offended him, he didn’t show it. He merely stood there looking back at her. It was as if he had already won.
Won? There was nothing to win. This was not a competition. So why did it feel that way?
“I don’t know, dear. I don’t think we should—”
“He’ll be fine, Aunt Bitty.” Natalie took her aunt by the arm and led her into the hallway. She scooted her down a couple more feet for good measure then asked, “Why is he here?”
“Why, the ghost of course.” Her aunt said the words in such an offhand manner that sometimes Natalie believed there might actually be a ghost in the house. But they all knew that wasn’t true.
“Aunt Bitty,” Natalie started, her voice softened with love and compassion. “There is no ghost. We’ve been over this.”
Her aunt narrowed her gaze. Although her blue eyes still twinkled, Natalie knew this was the closest she got to angry. “There is so a ghost. And that’s why Mr. Tran is here. He’s going to help me prove it.”
“There is no—”
Her aunt shook her head. “If there’s no ghost, how do you explain my stove being left on and the refrigerator door being open and doors shutting throughout the house? And things falling off the shelves when no one’s in the room?”
Natalie bit back a sigh and tried to keep her understanding tone. “You own a cat. He knocks the things off the shelves. The house is drafty, and one good gust of wind through the front window will pull doors shut on the second floor. And … ” She chose her words carefully as to not hurt her aunt’s feelings, but something was going to have to be done about this and soon. “Are you sure you’re not the one leaving the stove on and the refrigerator door open?”
“Posh.” Aunt Bitty waved a dismissive hand at her. “I know y’all think I’m going senile, but that’s not true. I’m as sharp as I ever was, and I have a ghost.” She said the words with a staggering finality and left Natalie standing all alone.
“Now, Mr. Tran, about those cookies … ”
Natalie shook her head and followed her aunt back into the parlor.
They were seated in the same places they had been when Natalie had burst in and all heck had broken loose between Mr. Piddles and Oskar. Except now her aunt held the cat in her lap stroking his fat, furry head. Even from this distance Natalie could hear the beast purring. She didn’t know what her aunt saw in the creature.
“Oh, Natalie, dear, there you are.”
Where else would I be?
“I was just telling Mr. Tran here all about my ghost.”
Somehow Natalie managed to bite back the words “imaginary ghost” and found a seat across from the reporter. That way she could keep a good eye on him.
“So you’ve never actually seen him, is that correct?” Newland Tran asked.
“Oh no, dear,” her aunt said, still stroking her cat. “I told you I’ve seen him in the cemetery.”
“But never in the house, correct?” he asked.
“Just what are your credentials, Mr. Tran?”
Tran looked up at Natalie with those exotic brown eyes and shot her a fake smile. “You want to see my press pass?”
Natalie felt the heat rise in her cheeks and knew that she was turning as red as her shoes. “That won’t be necessary. But who exactly do you work for?”
“I’m freelance.”
A euphemism for can’t keep a job. “Freelance?”
“That’s right.” His voice had turned to steel.
“Who do you plan on selling this story to, Mr. Tran?”
“Whoever offers the most, of course.” His eyes turned as hard as his voice.
“I see. So this is all about money?”
“Oh no, dear,” her aunt interrupted. “This is just to get the word out. I think people should know that ghosts exist.”
Natalie refused to roll her eyes at her aunt’s insistence that ghosts were real and that one resided in her house. Right now she just needed to convince her aunt that there was no ghost, and that she was becoming forgetful in her advancing age and needed to go live in an assisted living home. Why, Meadowbrook was just down the road from here and it was a perfectly fine place to live. Natalie had checked it out herself, on the insistence of her parents of course.
“That’s why I called I Spy,” her aunt continued.
“I Spy? Like at the checkout counter at the grocery store I Spy?”
Her aunt nodded. “Yes, of course. They always have stories about Big Foot and aliens and all sorts of things like that. I figured they would be most interested in my ghost.”
Natalie shot the reporter as hard a look as she could muster. “If she called I Spy, how did you get the information?”
Tran shifted uncomfortably on the Louis Some-teenth divan and cleared his throat. “I, uh, used to work for them.”
“Used to?”
“That’s right.” He seemed to regain some of his confidence and managed to straighten his spine and meet her steady gaze.
“Why don’t you work for them any longer?”
“I decided to go out on my own,” he said, teeth clenched.
“I see.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“If you don’t work for them, then how did you hear about my aunt’s story?”
He shifted in his seat. “I just remember seeing it one time.”
Hacked into the company computer was more like it. People just didn’t change their passwords like the really should. He probably even deleted the file so no one would follow him south and try to take over the story.
“Have we forgotten about the cookies?” Aunt Bitty interjected.
“Oh no, Aunt Bitty.” Natalie took up a cookie and nibbled one edge to prove her enthusiasm for the treat.
Her aunt smiled. Just the reaction she wanted.
“Well, now that that’s all settled, I’ll show you to your room.” She stood and placed Mr. Piddles in the chair where she had been just seconds before.
Tran stood as well.
Natalie jumped to her feet. “What do you mean show him to his room?”
“Oh, Mr. Tran’s going to stay here.”
“What? There’s a perfectly good hotel just down the road.” This was going too far.
“Now, Natalie, you know he can’t find the ghost if he’s not in the house.”
“There is no ghost.” Natalie’s diplomacy where the specter was concerned was running thin.
“You don’t believe in the ghost, Miss … I don’t think I got your name.”
“No, I don’t,” Natalie said. “And it’s Natalie. Natalie Coleman.” She didn’t bother to reach a hand out to shake.
Tran made no move to greet her in such a manner either. Instead he wrote something down in his little notebook. But she couldn’t read it from this angle. Or maybe it was some sort of shorthand designed to hide secrets from the eyes of others.
She shook the thought away. She’d been watching too many late-night detective movies.
She turned to her aunt. “Aunt Bitty, surely you realize that he cannot stay here with you.”
“Who else is he going to stay with, dear? I mean I live here after all and if he’s here and I’m here … ” Her already wrinkled brow creased with her confusion.
Natalie took her aunt by the elbow and pulled her slightly away from the prying eyes of the reporter. It would do no good to take her out into the hallway again. She was certain that he would follow behind and hear every word.
“You don’t know him, Aunt Bitty. You can’t invite him to stay here at the house with you. He could be a murderer or a rapist—”
Aunt Bitty patted her on the hand reassuringly. “He’s none of those things, dear. He’s a reporter.”
• • •
Newland bit back his laughter as he watched the spunky Natalie engage with her aunt. Despite her obvious animosity toward him, he found her somehow … cute, with her brown hair pulled back into a perfect bun and her blue eyes flashing with distrust. She was feisty and loyal. And he was glad that sweet Miss Duncan had someone like Natalie watching out for her.
“I don’t care what he is. He can’t stay here,” Natalie said, her voice firm, as if she were talking to a five-year-old instead of an eighty-five-year-old.
Newland moved a little closer, trying to get more of their conversation.
Her aunt gave a firm nod. “See, I own the house, and I have invited him to stay.”
It was obvious where Natalie Coleman got her spunk.
Once again he hid his laughter. He lowered his head and rubbed his eyes hoping the motions would conceal his mirth.
Natalie sighed. “Aunt Bitty … ”
But the old woman shook her head. “I have decided.”
Another sigh. “Then you leave me no choice.”
“You do what you have to. And I’ll do what I have to.”
Bitty Duncan moved away from her niece and came to stand by Newland.
Once again, he flipped his notebook shut and gave her an understanding smile. “Come, Mr. Tran,” she said. “I’ll show you to your room.”
He picked up his duffel bag and gave Natalie a quick nod before following Miss Duncan out of the room.
As he left he thought he heard a growl of frustration. Certainly not. A girl as pretty as Natalie Coleman surely didn’t growl. Must have been her little wiener dog.