Chapter One

The Key

The man leaning against the exquisite mahogany mantelpiece had been dead for one hundred and fifty years and appeared as if he had stepped from the pages of an antebellum romance novel. His hair, dark and flecked with silver, flowed back from a high forehead. Eyes darker than sapphires were set in a face bronzed by the rays of the hot Georgia sun. His lips, firm and sensual, pressed together in a cynical twist, and the gray frockcoat and vest fit snug over a pristine white shirt with a black stock expertly tied at his throat. Black boots shone from beneath gray trousers, and his large, tanned hand held a smoking cigar.

He belonged to another time.

We stared in frozen surprise at one another, as I stood in the open doorway of the library. My hand rested on the brass doorknob while a group of tourists waited at my back until my sister Deena noticed my hesitancy to enter the spacious room.

“What’s the holdup?” she asked in a hushed voice. “Did you forget your lines again?”

The acrid aroma of tobacco smoke stung my nostrils. I nodded, my gaze glued to the ghostly specter at the fireplace.

Deena brushed past me in her blue, cotton, hoop skirt and motioned for the group to follow.

“The Rococo Revival furniture was placed in the house by Josiah Redding around the time of 1836 when he built Pineridge Plantation for his bride-to-be, Savannah Childs, and has been lovingly cared for by Redding descendants throughout the years.”

She pointed to the dark, heavy pieces before speaking again.

“Josiah’s portrait hangs over the chimney, and you can see he was a handsome and wealthy Southern gentleman planter. Painted in 1858 by a local artist three years before the Civil War, Savannah wrote in her journal that her husband would retire to this quiet haven after dinner to smoke his imported cigars.”

My gaze lifted to the portrait. The likeness of the man in the painting failed to capture the sense of mystique in the fathomless eyes of the man himself. The illustrated man, and the one standing beneath it were one and the same. Josiah Redding, in his astral form. And of course, I was the only one in the room who could see him fade away into nothingness.

Perhaps I should explain.

I see dead people. Celestial citizens of inner space. Transcendent realities. And yes, I suppose in certain circles they are referred to as ghosts. Most are friendly. Some not so much. And then every once in a while I encounter a real pain-in-the-ass spirit.

It all started back about seven months ago, after a client, Scarlett Cantrell, with some help from an outside source, joined the Other Side. It happened in my beauty salon. Scarlett needed help bringing her murderer to justice, and she picked Dixieland Salon as her earthly headquarters. As all of this unfolded, I found myself drafted into helping her. Yep, me, Jolene Claiborne. Hairstylist extraordinaire, and spirit consultant.

Not everyone in my life is happy about my special gift inherited from my Granny Tucker. Namely, my younger sister, Deena, and my boyfriend, Detective Samuel Bradford, who happens to be her old high school sweetheart. (I picked up the habit of dropping his first name while investigating Scarlett’s murder. To me, he’s just plain Bradford. Hard nose cop, and my best squeeze.) But that’s a long story and Deena’s signaling for me to pick up where she left off.

Careful not to brush against the tables and upset the delicate porcelain quail figurines, with my bulky hoop skirt, I glided deeper into the room until I stood beneath the portrait of Josiah Redding.

“The legend of Piper’s Gold is well known in these parts,” I said with an exaggerated southern drawl. “On July 19, 1864, a small band of Confederate soldiers under the command of Major Travis A. Piper were quietly transporting a cache of gold from a bank in Thomas County to headquarters in Macon, Georgia. As evening approached, they arrived at Pineridge Plantation and were graciously received by Mr. and Mrs. Redding for the night. The officers were given rooms in the main house, and the others pitched tents in a nearby field. As they retired for the night, a message came in warning of an advancing Union troop. Immediately the officers gathered to discuss their orders to hide the gold and retreat south. When the Union troop moved on, they were to retrieve the gold and proceed to Macon taking every precaution to elude capture.

“The orders were carried out. Unfortunately, at dawn on July 20, 1864, the Union troops struck and massacred Major Piper and his small band of soldiers. Heady with victory, the Yankee soldiers stormed the house, and killed Josiah. His youngest son, Asa Douglas Redding mysteriously disappeared from the plantation and history on that same night.”

I paused as expressions of horror and gasps of dismay sounded from the group. When they settled down, I continued with my story. “The house and its furnishings were spared as an officer spotted a portrait in the front parlor of Josiah’s father wearing his Masonic ring. The officer, a Mason himself, ordered the house placed under guard. But the damage had been done. The eldest son, Randall Josiah Redding, was reportedly killed two days later on July 22, 1864 in the final battle for Atlanta. Savannah Redding and her young daughter Adeline died that winter when they both contracted pneumonia. The remaining son, John Milton Redding, survived the conflict and is the ancestor of the present owner, Victor Redding.”

Here I paused again and lowered my voice to achieve dramatic expectation from my listeners. “The gold has never been found. Rumors abound that Major Piper and his soldiers are still guarding their Confederate gold. And watch out for Tempy, the old slave woman. Many visitors claim to see her throughout the main house. Beware. You have been warned.”

Muffled cries of anticipation rang throughout the group of tourists. I could see many of them turning their heads to peer into the corners of the richly ornamented room.

“I saw something when I came in here,” a man stated.

“As did I,” echoed another.

And on it went for several minutes until Deena, with a worried frown directed at me, began ushering the tourists toward the opened library door.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that thing with your voice, Jolene,” she admonished as I joined her at the rear of the group. “It triggers their imagination.”

“In defense of myself, my dear darling sister, it’s in the guide brochure, and it’s what they expect to hear. People love haunted houses, and I can’t help it if Josiah presented himself over by the fireplace when we came in. I get the distinct impression he doesn’t like strangers in his house,” I teased.

“Please keep it light, not real,” she pleaded. “And please don’t let anyone see you talking to him. They’ll think you’re crazy.”

“All right, Deena.” I closed the library door firmly behind me. “Let’s finish this tour so I can get out of this dress and corset.”

We were standing outside the library, which occupies the northeast corner of the principle floor, in a large hallway. The walls were painted cream, reminiscent of ancient parchment paper, with electric wall sconces fashioned like candlesticks casting their soft yellow light over worn pine floors.

I took the lead once again. “As you have noticed, the manor house has been modernized by the Redding descendants, but still retains its distinctive historical flavor with nineteen century period furnishings. Before modern lighting however, the plantation mistress oversaw the making of candles for the main house and slave quarters. During the 1850’s candle manufacturers made it possible for the richer families to purchase candles instead of making them. Savannah’s household ledger, dated in 1860, details purchases of candles from a general store in the nearby town of Albany. Now if you will follow Deena to the front entryway, another guide is waiting to take you on a tour of the sole remaining slave cabin restored to its original condition.”

As the group trudged past me I let out a long breath and plucked the damp cotton dress from my sweating torso. Even though it was November in South Georgia, the coolness of fall had failed to arrive and the manor house had air-conditioning only in the upper living quarters. My dark blue gown buttoned up to my throat, and the sleeves were long and tight around my wrists. Not one inch of skin showed and underneath the heavy cloth, all kinds of female paraphernalia had me cinched up tighter than a horse’s saddle. All historically correct for the time period, Nancy Chance, the tour coordinator had parroted, but by God, I was hot as Hades and ready to take off these tightly laced ankle boots pinching my toes with every step.

Bringing up the rear, I could hear my sister’s voice drone on about the hand-painted wallpaper depicting a classic English garden gracing the entrance hall of the manor house. She spoke of the spacious circular room with a large square rug worn threadbare from years of traffic and the original French crystal and brass chandelier which still hung over the center of the room.

I made my way to the front door with its delicate etchings in the fanlight and sidelights to thank each tourist for their visit as they stepped onto the large front porch. There a man dressed in period clothing waited to take them on a tour of the grounds.

As soon as the door closed behind the last straggling tourist, I turned to Deena. “Thank God, that’s over. My feet are killing me, and I’ve got to lose the stays. Let’s go change and stop by Sonic for a cherry limeade on the way home.”

Deena eyed me critically. “You’re the one who volunteered us for this gig. Which, I’m glad you did, I should add.”

“Of course, you are. You’re like a cat lapping up cream in this environment.”

She performed a playful pirouette. “An age of enlightenment.”

I grimaced as the ankle boots bit into my flesh. “More like the age of confinement.”

A small bedroom in the back of the house had been set aside as a changing room for the volunteers, and as Deena and I passed by the library a soft thump sounded from behind its closed doors.

“There shouldn’t be anyone in there,” I said. We turned back to investigate. When I opened the door and peered into the empty room, I noticed a small book lying on the floor next to one of the cherry bookcases. “A book fell to the floor. You go on ahead. I’ll only be a minute.”

“Okay, but hurry. We have a tight schedule for the rest of the day. It’s eleven-thirty and Billie Jo is going to meet us at your house in thirty minutes to decide on a pecan pie recipe for the contest tomorrow night. And we have to be at the salon by four to do hair and make-up for tonight’s beauty pageant.”

I groaned. “Don’t remind me. It’s going be a long week.”

Deena left and I returned the book to its place on the shelf. A cold chill swept over my body as the scent of cigar smoke wafted in the stale air. I turned around to meet the appraising gaze of Josiah Redding. The hair on the back of my neck prickled with static electricity.

Once more our eyes locked in frozen tableau. His stare was compelling and magnetic, and I lost all fear. And then suddenly he reached inside his front vest pocket, withdrew a key, and held it out toward me. Without hesitation, I crossed the room until I stood directly in front of him. The shiny key glistened like new. Etched on it was a heart-shaped design with interlinking lines within the heart symbol. He dropped the bronze key onto my outstretched palm, and my fingers closed around the metal.

“What do I do with this?”

Silence met my question.

I opened my hand and stared down at the key, now scratched and dull with age as if the past one hundred and fifty years had accumulated on its surface in a few seconds of time. My head snapped up with the violence of uncertainty, but I stood alone in the cozy room.

I shivered in the warm air.

The murmurings of approaching voices pierced the silence and speared me to action. I dropped the key into the pocket of my dress and bolted to the doorway and paused, gazing around the room one last time before I stepped out into the hallway and eased the door closed. I stood for a moment, my hand on the knob, puzzled and curious about the mystery surrounding the vintage key and its possible meaning. When no answers appeared magically out of thin air, I went across the hall to the bedroom where my sister waited for me.

****

Billie Jo’s fork dropped with a clang onto her dessert plate. “Well, the best Pecan Pie Contest is in the bag for someone else. Worse pie ever.”

“Not so,” Deena admonished. “We just have to come up with a better recipe.”

“That’s what you said last week and the week before,” she complained. “How many pies do we have to bake before we admit we don’t have a shot at winning?”

“We’re staying in the contest if we have to bake a hundred pies,” I grumbled at my youngest sister. My stomach heaved at the thought of another bite.

Billie Jo frowned. “When this is over, I’ll never eat pecan pie again. Not even Mama’s.”

I nodded my head in agreement. It was two o’clock on Monday afternoon, the first day of Whiskey Creek’s annual week-long Pecan Festival, and we were sitting at my kitchen table trying to come up with a viable recipe.

“We can’t quit,” I said. “Dixieland Salon was nominated as one of the city’s ten best businesses, and we’re obligated to have an entry in the contest. Besides, I have every intention of winning the all-expense paid weekend trip for the entire staff to Disney World in Florida.”

Tempers flared as the afternoon baking progressed with no luck. I was sick to my stomach, had a dozen giggling, teenage girls ready to descend on my beauty shop in a couple of hours, plus two tired sisters, no winning recipe, and a mystery dumped in my lap by a closed-mouth ghost living in an antebellum plantation house.

Crap. Another bad moon rising over the house of Claiborne.

Deena’s strident voice crashed my thoughts. I glanced up to see my sisters frowning at me. Before I could speak, Billie Jo burst out, “Hells bells, Jolene, pay attention. Deena again suggested we get Mama’s recipe if we want to win. I told her since you’re the one who got us mixed up in this fiasco then you ought to be the one to steal it.”

“I’m not stealing Mama’s pecan pie recipe. Why don’t we ask her again? All she can say is no.”

“I tried that this morning,” Deena inserted. “She’s not interested in sharing her secret recipe with the entire population of Whiskey Creek.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, it’s a pie recipe,” I retorted. “What’s the big deal?”

“I say we blackmail her.”

“And how would you suggest we do that, Billie Jo?”

“She owes us, Jolene. For that whopper of a lie about Daddy. Think of the emotional scars we carry. That’s got to be good for one pecan pie recipe.”

The lie had been exposed some months back. In the middle of investigating Scarlett’s murder, Mama showed up at my front door one night out of the blue. It’s time to tell the truth, she’d said. Over coffee she told me the whole sordid tale involving the farm, Daddy, and a loan shark. When Daddy couldn’t repay the loan, Mr. Blackstone, the shark, threatened dire consequences. Daddy got desperate and that’s when he and Mama came up with ‘the plan’ to throw the dog off the scent. Well it worked and Mr. Blackstone went easy on Mama—giving her time to repay the loan. Another long story told elsewhere.

“Could work,” I said. “We could cry foul all over again.”

Deena shook her head. “I tried that. She said for me not to go digging up the past. I don’t believe there’s going to be anymore repentin’ from her.”

“Do you think she’d give in if we sprinkled holy water on her? I heard that works real well in exorcism. There’s a Catholic church in town.”

I grimaced in good humor. “She’d just fly away on her enchanted broom, Billie Jo. And speaking of brooms, there’s flour everywhere. Deena, you sweep the floor, and I’ll wash the dishes. Billie Jo, you clean off the table and then we’ll bake another pie.”

Billie Jo’s face twisted. “Another losing pie.”

As a team we cleaned the kitchen and then pulled out the baking tins. Deena had picked out three remaining recipes that sounded promising so we each took one, put it together, and placed them in the oven to bake for forty-five minutes. We were taking them out of the oven to cool when a knock sounded at the kitchen door, and the subjects of our earlier discussion sailed through the door—our parents, Harland and Annie Mae Tucker.

I shot my sisters a Mona Lisa smile then turned to Mama. “We were talking about your secret pecan pie recipe.”

Mama threw her purse down on the table. “Sometimes I wonder if the hospital switched you girls at birth. I told Deena this morning that y’all aren’t getting that recipe.”

“The topic of our conversation didn’t include using your recipe, Mama,” I said, reaching inside the refrigerator for a pitcher of sweet tea. “We were congratulating ourselves for coming up with a pie that would beat yours hands down. We don’t need your secret recipe.” I went to the cabinet. “Daddy, would you like a glass of sweet tea? Mama?”

He sat down at the table. “I would, sugar. Fall is awfully warm this year.”

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Mama’s face as she seated herself beside him. Like an unfinished sculpture, years of hard living had carved out places with an unsteady hand, yet the green fire in her eyes hadn’t dimmed with disappointment through the decades. She was pushy, opinionated, and at times, downright unstoppable, but Mama had a good heart, and we loved her dearly.

“Harland, wouldn’t you like a slice of that wonderful pecan pie?”

Crap. Up to this point, everything had been progressing smoothly, but Deena’s panicked gaze almost derailed my plan to con Mama into handing over her recipe. Whatever happened, I couldn’t let them taste those pies. Daddy would lie and make a fuss over our rejects, but Mama would know I was buffaloing her, and we would lose our all-expense paid trip to Disney World.

“It’s too hot to cut,” Billie Jo blurted out. “We’re timing it so we know how long it needs to rest to obtain its optimum flavor.”

Mama pushed herself away from the table and took down two dessert plates from the cabinet. She removed two forks from the silverware drawer.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

Mama’s mouth twisted. “I’m going to cut two slices from one of those pies behind you on the counter. I assume they’re cool since they’ve been cut into.”

Deena stood over by the oven so Mama couldn’t see her mouth open and close like a fish out of water but Daddy did.

He winked at me behind Mama’s back. “I don’t believe I would like anything right now, Annie Mae. I’m stuffed from that wonderful lunch you prepared.”

Mama didn’t bat an eye. “Well, I want a piece. We may not have a chance to eat later. You haven’t forgotten that we have to man the church booth for the Christmas Bazaar have you? And our granddaughter is in the beauty contest later in the evening. Lynette would be crushed if we missed any part of her special day.”

“There’s food booths set up out at the fairgrounds, Sugar Plum. We won’t starve.”

Deena expelled a heavy sigh. “She won’t give up, Jolene, until she tastes that pie.”

“I know, Deena. But I had hoped to spare her feelings.” I shot Mama a sweet smile.

“Humph.” Mama scooped up two large pieces of pie onto the dessert plates, returned to the table, and handed one to Daddy. He took a small bite and failed to keep a straight face as he swallowed the pitiful offering.

Mama spit hers back out onto the plate. “Too much salt.”

“We know,” we said in unison.

“And the others?” she asked.

“We’ve been baking pies for weeks now, and they’re either too salty or sweet or the pie crust is either burnt or mushy,” Billie Jo blabbed.

“We can’t figure out what we’re doing wrong,” Deena added. “And we followed the recipe instructions exactly, but not one has turned out right. They all taste bad.”

Daddy pointed to the three remaining uncut pies cooling on the counter. “Maybe one of those turned out.”

“Not by the looks of them,” Mama spoke up. “The middle sags and the crust is burnt. You’re probably using inferior ingredients and your oven temperature was too hot. The best way to judge them is to do a taste test.”

“Count me out,” Billie Jo grumbled.

“You only have to taste a small piece from each pie,” I coaxed.

“Let Mama and Daddy taste ’em,” she retorted. “My heart isn’t in it any longer.”

“We need your stomach, not your heart,” Deena huffed.

She shook her head. “My stomach’s on fire.”

“Your mother and I will do the honors,” Daddy volunteered, reaching across the table to pat Billie Jo’s hand. “I’m sure one of them will be a winner. Right, Annie Mae?”

“I doubt it,” Mama said. “But I’m willing to taste them and give my advice on baking the perfect pecan pie.”

Like Billie Jo, my stomach churned like a volcano, and while Deena dished up pie, I downed a couple of Tums with a glass of ginger ale. Billie Jo finished up the pack.

Daddy’s face registered surprise after tasting the first sample. “That wasn’t bad, girls. At least it wasn’t salty.”

“Harland, your taste buds are on strike,” Mama disagreed. “It smacks of maple syrup. This one is definitely a loser.”

Mama rejected the second and third pie as well. Neither one held up to her high baking standards.

“I’m glad it’s over,” Billie Jo said when Mama voiced her objection to the last pie. “Now we can stop wasting our time.”

“Dixieland Salon will have an entry,” I stated, “even if it’s in last place.”

“Annie Mae, are you gonna sit back and let our girls be humiliated by their lack of baking skills?” Daddy huffed. “You’re the best dang baker in Whiskey Creek. They would win hands down with your supervision.”

“Oh, no,” Deena wailed. “We couldn’t ask Mama to share her secret recipe with us. What if we won? Everyone would want her recipe. Why, I heard Diane Downey last Sunday in church bragging that if her son…you know, he owns Don Juan’s Plumbing on Pine Needle Drive? Well, she said that if his business wins, she’s going to write a cookbook and showcase the winning recipe.”

Mama’s face went red. “She stole my idea! I told her weeks ago about my dream to write a cookbook. I’ve even contacted Vanessa van Allen for some advice.”

“Not the Vanessa van Allen who writes the bestselling vampire books?” I asked, amazed at Mama’s resourcefulness. “She’s been on the best-selling lists for weeks.”

“Yes, that’s her,” Mama boasted. When I told her about my idea, she was interested.”

“She’s local, isn’t she?” Deena asked. “I heard she recently bought a big house in Westgate. How do you know her?”

“Her mother, Betty and I went to school together. Betty told me Vanessa didn’t want her living alone after her father died so she bought that big house for the two of them. Well, I had a chance to talk to her one day during a visit with Betty.”

“Wow,” Daddy said. “Here’s your chance, Annie. Think of the publicity and interest you’d generate with the first place winning recipe. Women would be lining up to buy your cookbook. Do you think Vanessa would help you find an agent?”

“She did mention the idea to her agent. He’s interested if she co-authors.”

“But you don’t want to share credit with her, do you?” I asked. “I mean they’re your recipes after all, Mama.”

“Vanessa said that I could pay her a modest fee to ghostwrite the cookbook.”

“If she writes your cookbook like she writes sex scenes, I’d buy it,” Billie Jo said with a giggle. “Roddy and I read her books together in bed.”

Deena rolled her eyes. “Really, Billie Jo? Sex and cooking? Do you ever think about anything else?”

Billie Jo’s smile widened. “Not lately. You?”

“How much is a modest fee for a best-selling author, Annie Mae?” Daddy interrupted. “I’m thinking your idea of dollars and cents differs from hers. She’s one of the rich and famous.”

“Harland’s right. I don’t have that kind of money,” Mama said. “But I know where to get it.”

“Does that mean what I think it means?”

“Yes, Jolene, it does. Dixieland Salon is going to win that contest with a little help from me and my secret recipe. Diane Downey can eat my dust!”