A Ghostly Undertaking (13 page)

 

Chapter 21

W
here are you?” I phoned Charlotte when I noticed she wasn't at work. Completely out of her normal routine, which made me a nervous wreck since she was always the sensible one and always on time.

“I had to go into Lexington with the stuff Granny told me.” She put my anxiety to ease.

“You talked to Granny?” I was anxious to hear what Granny's explanation was about the taxes.

“Yes. She said she did pay the taxes. She gave me a copy of the ledger and her accounting files. Earl kept a meticulous file system.” There was a bit of relief in Charlotte's voice. “She said she left all the original ledgers in the storage at Eternal Slumber, but I couldn't find any of them.”

“Do you have the copies?” This was probably the best news we could have gotten about the tax-­evasion claims.

“I do. I'm taking them to the accountant now.” Charlotte's voice stilled. “I'm scared that someone has planned this all along.”

“Planned what?”

“I think someone took Granny's payments and killed Ruthie to set her up.” Her voice dropped in volume. “Earl had a separate account for the taxes and the money has been taken out, but the checks that were written to the IRS were cashed and not by the IRS. Granny and I went to the bank and no one can seem to figure out where the money went or who took it out. I'm scared, Emma Lee.”

“We will figure this out. Just be careful,” I warned her. “They found Beulah practically strangled to death last night.”

“Oh no,” Charlotte gasped. “Is she . . .”

“No, she isn't dead—­yet.” I decided not to inform her of my little comment about getting back at Beulah if she spread a rumor about me and Jack Henry. “Jack Henry said that she was on life support.”

“Emma Lee.” Charlotte's voice escalated. “I completely forgot. How was your date? Granny couldn't stop talking about how happy she was that you were going out with Jack Henry.”

“It was good.” I didn't really lie this time. It was good, up until I had too much wine. “We had a nice dinner at that little Italian place on the outskirts of Lexington.”

“Bella Vino?”

“Yeah, how do you know the place?”

“Emma Lee, I don't spend all my time with the dead.” She laughed. “Listen, I'm here. I'll let you know what I find out.”

Without letting me say good-­bye or be careful, Charlotte hung up.

I crossed off the tax-­evasion thing on my figure-­things-­out to-­do-­list, and was happy that Charlotte had spoken to Granny about it and there was some sort of trail. But where did it go wrong? Who could possibly have stolen Granny's money? Could it be tied to Ruthie's murder? And if it was tied to Ruthie's murder, had this person planned it out for years?

“There you are.” I was happy to see Ruthie in my office. The closet door was shut, but Ruthie stood outside it.

“I've been looking at this picture.” She pointed, but I couldn't see what she was pointing to.

“Move out of the way.” Having to put my hand through Ruthie's ghost to open the closet door wasn't on my list. The thought gave me the heebie-­jeebies.

The picture was leaning up against the closet wall with the tin box next to it. I took both of them out to get a good look.

The picture was old. The paper backing it was mounted on had rips in two corners.

“You think there is some tie-­in to your history here?” I questioned Ruthie.

“Yes,” she said softly.

“Are you going to get upset if I tear this backing off?”

She shook her head.

There was no saving the paper when I peeled it off. It was dry-­rotted and crumbled into pieces without my help.

I brushed my hand over the back of the picture to get off the dust. There was some writing in the corner. I got closer to read it.

“Slicklizzard, Kentucky?” Now, there were some strange counties in Kentucky, but I'd never heard of Slicklizzard.

“Oh!” The eyes on Ruthie's kitty cat slippers jingled as she bounced up and down. “Earl Way mentioned Slicklizzard a few times.”

Ruthie bent down and looked at the name. She stood back up. Her mouth and eyes turned down.

“What's wrong?” I asked. “We have a name to start with. I can go to Slick . . .” I looked at the name again, “ . . . Slicklizzard and do some research at the courthouse in the records room.”

She shook her head. Tears filled her eyes.

“I can find your next of kin,” I assured her.

“I think this is Earl's family, not mine.” She touched the picture. “He had fond memories of being in Slicklizzard as a boy.”

“Still?” I shrugged. “You said it spoke to you.”

“It's probably because it was Earl's.”

I turned around to look at her, but she was gone.

Without hesitation, I opened the old tin box. There were a ­couple of pictures, some old coins and a tarnished ring.

It was a man's ring with an old family coat of arms, with a shield as the focal point and the name Payne engraved in a banner at the top. Triangular red rubies garnished the two top points of the shield. There was a triangular hole at the bottom point of the shield; I came to the conclusion that it was missing a ruby.

This was obviously Earl's. He had probably put it up in the attic since it didn't have much value.

I put the ring back in the tin box and took out one of the old photos, an old snapshot, in particular, that had caught my eye. The edges had yellowed from aging.

It was the exact same picture as the big framed one from Slicklizzard. I flipped it over.

“Slicklizzard, Kentucky,” I read out loud. “Earl Way Payne, Becky Dawn Payne, Dugger Bob Payne.” A few more names were listed.

I flipped the picture back and forth. Someone had taken the time to write the names of all the individuals on the back. Something Granny would've done with her pictures so we would have known what family was who when she was dead and gone to the great beyond.

I snickered looking at Earl Way. He looked to be a rascal as a boy. Thank God he'd had his teeth fixed. I couldn't help but zero in on his crooked smile.

Ruthie Sue was right. This old stuff was probably nothing. It was Earl's junk. Nothing more, nothing less. There were a few other odd things in the box, but nothing significant to help solve Ruthie's murder.

I was still going to tell Granny about the stuff. She'd get a kick out of it. But then again, she'd probably already seen it.

I stuck the picture and box back in the closet and shut the door. I was back to square one. There was no time to wallow in self-­pity. There was still a murder to solve, not to mention the assault on Beulah.

The next clue that would help clear Granny was the fact that she had a solid alibi the night Ruthie was murdered—­Doc Clyde.

I reached into my bag and pulled out Zula Fae Raines Payne's file. If Granny ever decided to get remarried, they'd have to extend her file tab somehow.

There were a lot of regular things in there that Granny had seen Doc Clyde for, but nothing that looked to be alarming.

“Last visit.” I paged through the file and reached the end. I dragged my finger down the page to the last entry. “March 2012?”

I read it again. “March 2012? Over a year ago?”

But her eye didn't twitch. I recalled her reaction when I asked her about her alibi when Ruthie and I paid her a visit after Jack Henry had told me about his suspicions that Ruthie was murdered.

Granny was up to something. The taxes . . . the lying about going to the doctor . . . in the back of my head, I knew Doc Clyde wasn't open at three
A.M
., but I knew someone that was. Well, not open, but up. Cheryl Lynne Doyle and John Howard Lloyd.

 

Chapter 22

I
t wasn't long after I wrote Cheryl Lynn Doyle and John Howard's names in my sleuth notebook that I heard John Howard's heavy footsteps coming up the front steps of Eternal Slumber, through the hall and down the stairs to the basement, where the morgue, tools and prepping rooms were located.

He was a sucker for a hot cup of coffee—­my ticket to get him to talk.

“Morning, John Howard.” I held out a cup of coffee that I had poured before I came down to ask him my questions. The coffee would help break the ice before I started to drill him with questions about Beulah and the night of Ruthie's murder. “I brought you down a cup of coffee.”

He reached out his dirt-­stained hand and took the cup. “Thank you, Miss Emma.” He smiled. The steam from the coffee curled around his nose when he held it up to his mouth. “That's good coffee.”

“Why, thank you.” I looked around. He was cleaning the tools that he needed for digging graves.

“Are you sure you don't want a machine to help?” I asked, hoping new equipment would change his mind about leaving.

With the new equipment out there, I had offered to buy John Howard something different than the little backhoe he liked to use along with a few shovels, but he always refused.

“No, ma'am.” He flexed his arms. “I like the workout it gives me. But the rate we are going with deaths, I might not be able to keep up with the work.”

What work?
In case John Howard had been under a rock lately, no one was using Eternal Slumber for their beloved ones' final resting stop.

“You mean with Ruthie and now the attack on Beulah?” I couldn't have planned his timing any better.

I walked around the room and pretended to take inventory so he wouldn't think I was being nosy.

“It's a shame.” He shook his head and took another drink. “Someone is preying on the elderly women in the community.”

“I would hardly call Beulah old at forty-­two.” I referred to Beulah's age.

“She's only forty-­two?” He pulled back in shock. “She hangs out with the older Auxiliary women; I thought she was older than that.”

“You are out pretty late, aren't you?”

“I guess you could say that.” He sat his cup on the old metal shelf and used a worn rag and paint thinner to clean the blade of one of the shovels. “I don't sleep much, so I walk around.”

“That's what I wanted to talk to you about.” I picked up another one of his rags and dipped it in the tin of paint thinner. I grabbed the shovel and cleaned the dirt from the blade. “These attacks are happening in the middle of the night. You and I both know that Granny didn't kill Ruthie, but I have a sneaky suspicion she is a suspect.”

John Howard put the rag and tool down. His eyes narrowed, casting a shadow on his face. No one messed with Granny when John Howard was around. After all, she was the only one in town who had given him a chance and a job when he came to town.

“And I wanted to know if you saw anything or anyone out of the ordinary that might give me a lead on who to ask if they saw anything.”

“You know”—­his eyes lit up as if he remembered something—­“on two occasions I saw someone that I know doesn't live here walking around three
A
.M
. I know it was the same person because they had on overalls and some crazy hair. I'm sure it was one of them hippie visitors going camping or hiking the caves.”

“Do you remember the days?” I was getting somewhere, I knew it, though it wouldn't be unusual for hikers to come into town. But in the middle of the night?

“Yea,” He scratched his head. “One was the night before I heard Ruthie died and the other was last night.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” He nodded. “Especially last night. How was your date with Jack Henry?”

“I'm guessing you saw that?” I questioned in an apologetic tone.

“Not your finest hour.” His mouth turned up in a crooked grin. “If Beulah wasn't in the hospital, I'd probably be laughing right now.”

“Yeah, me too, John Howard. Me too.” I picked up my mug and went back upstairs.

There was at least one person of interest sneaking around Sleepy Hollow, and I had a description.

Before I forgot what John Howard told me, I wrote it in my notebook.

I grabbed my purse, locked the door to Eternal Slumber and headed straight for Higher Grounds Café.

Hettie Bell crossed the street from the square and into the courthouse. She had papers in her hand, which made me wonder if she got all those signatures she needed in order to stop the development.

Cheryl Lynne wasn't going anywhere and I was curious to see what Hettie was up to. I snuck up the courthouse steps and slipped in the door.

Hettie went into a room with a sign hanging over the door that read
RECORDS
.

“Morning, Emma Lee.” Mayor May sashayed down the hall, sporting an all-­white one-­piece dress and electric-­blue high heels. “What are you doing in here this morning?”

“I was . . .” I bit my lip. I had to think fast. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Well, you are in luck.” Her eyebrows rose and so did her lips. “I have about five minutes before my meeting with my new campaign manager.” She took me by the arm and guided me toward her office—­the opposite direction of Hettie. “Isn't this exciting!” She let go and put her hands up in the air like she was framing something. “Small-­town mayor becomes the governor.” She sighed with happiness.

“Yeah, great.” I smiled.

Being mayor must be pretty nice.
Her office was as big as Eternal Slumber. The biggest oriental rug I had ever seen lay on top of the hardwood floor. There was a floor-­to-­ceiling wooden bookshelf that spanned the entire length of her office, filled with books.

“I've read them all,” she said when she noticed I was staring at them. “Reading is knowledge, Emma Lee. Knowledge is power. You remember that.”

Her desk sat in front of the bookshelf wall. Her view was phenomenal with the tall windows overlooking the square.

“I see it all.” She walked over to the windows, folded her arms across her body and looked out. “What did you want, Emma Lee?”

She turned on her heels, with her arms still crossed.

“I wanted to ask you about this development thing.” I lied, but it would be good to know. “Hettie Bell is determined to stop it and I think it might be good for the community.”

“You do?”

“Charlotte is always telling me that we need to support the community more and this might be a good way to do it.”

“Does she?”

“Yes, ma'am.” I was beginning to think the mayor knew I wasn't at the courthouse to see her.

“I'll keep that in mind when the town votes and if Hettie gets the signatures, but for now, Zula and I are in talks with the development company.” She slinked back to her desk and sat in the large leather chair. “We will provide an update in the
Journal
. Thank you for your time.”

It was my cue to leave.

“Thank you for listening to me.” I gave a slight wave to leave.

“Emma Lee,” she called after me. I turned around. “I like your new haircut.”

I brushed my hands through the layered tresses. “Thanks.”

Just as I walked out of the office, Hettie was walking to the exit. I rushed into the records room, where the deputy county clerk was putting away some files.

“I'll be with you in a minute.” She stood on a stool and pushed in a record book.

I watched and counted over to the ledger she was replacing. I had to know what Hettie had requested. The record had to be what Hettie had asked to see, because they didn't let you retrieve your own material. That was the job of the deputy clerk.

“Now.” She brushed her hands together. “Getting those P's kills me every time.” She smiled. “What can I help you with?”

“I need to see any records on . . .”
P? Payne?
“Payne.”

“You are the third person who has come in here researching the Paynes.” She sighed.

“My granny is a Payne and I'm working on a family tree.” Why would Hettie be looking up Payne? “Is there any way I can request the records be copied?”

“Sure, but it's going to be a day or so.” She brushed her bangs out of her eyes. “I'm swamped.”

“Sure.” I really didn't care about records here. I had to make a trip to Slicklizzard, Kentucky. Hettie was trying to dig up some dirt and I had to know all I could.

Who was Hettie Bell? Where did she come from? And why was she so interested in the Paynes or saving the Sleepy Hollow Inn?