The sun dipped low in the sky, its golden light filtering through the stately old apple tree shading the pond out behind my house.
“C’mon, Lucy! You can do this!” She was the smartest skunk in six counties. I knew because she was mine.
My furry companion hesitated in front of the Hula-Hoop I’d propped up between two metal stakes. Her shiny black eyes peered up at me, and her nose twitched as if considering the absurdity of the contraption in front of her.
She might have been too smart for her own good.
Luckily for me, she also liked homemade Banana-Walnut Skunk Tasties. And luckily for her, I’d baked up a fresh tray this morning. “I have a scrumptious treat with your name on it.”
I really did. I’d cut it into a heart shape and written Lucy on it in pet-safe, pink frosting.
With renewed energy and a lick of the lips, Lucy burst into an animated waddle and cleared the hoop as if she’d been born to it. I cheered the same as if she’d just won the Purina Classic and presented her with her grand prize. She gulped it down in three bites and spun in a happy circle.
“You’re a natural,” I said as I scratched the white stripe down her back. We were in training for the annual Sugarland Pet Parade and Festival to be held next spring. Every year, I’d watched the dog agility course and thought—why not skunks? This year, I checked the rules, and there was nothing about contestants being dogs. “Just a few more obstacles and we’ll call it a day.”
I wanted to get her back inside before dark. I also wanted to call my boyfriend, Ellis, before he went to work. His parents were going through a complicated divorce, and he’d been acting as peacekeeper after his dad made it back to town the night before. I hoped he was doing all right. And that an invite to a cozy dinner at my place tomorrow might cheer him up.
Lucy eyed the treat bag. “Ramp,” I instructed, thrilled when she dashed for the incline I’d made from an old washboard.
She barreled up the metal rungs, not even hesitating at the top this time. What did I say? A natural. Then she zipped straight through the canvas tent that served as our tunnel and came trotting out the other end, her little legs moving double time.
I couldn’t take it. She was too darling. Not to mention talented. I scooped her up and nuzzled my cheek into her fur. “I’m so proud of you,” I declared. “But how am I going to let you finish a race when I can’t keep my hands off you?”
She buried her face under my arm, which meant she was either snuggling or about to go after my bag of banana-walnut treats. Probably both.
Then she suddenly stiffened.
“What’s up, girl?” I asked at the exact time I saw the reason for her fear.
The ghost of a 1920s gangster shimmered into existence between Lucy’s tunnel and the small pond in my backyard. He appeared in black and white, but I could see through him. Almost. He wore a 1920s-style pin-striped suit coat with matching cuffed trousers and a fat tie. His chest was level with my line of sight, which made him appear unnaturally tall.
Until you realized he liked to hover about a foot off the ground.
The gangster’s mouth settled into a frown as he glided through the tent and straight for us. “What did I ever do to that skunk?” he muttered as Lucy wriggled out of my arms and scampered away from us, straight under my white-painted porch.
Lucy and Frankie didn’t tend to get along. Well, he liked her. She didn’t fancy him.
He was an acquired taste.
“Give it time,” I said to the gangster by way of encouragement. Technically, he had eternity.
His gaze followed her until the tuft of her tail disappeared. “Fine, but she’s going to miss the unveiling of my greatest achievement.” He turned to me with a twinkle in his eye. “It’s new. It’s one of a kind. It’s, dare I say, epic.”
Wow. “I hadn’t even realized you were striving for epic-ness.” He spent most of his time entertaining his old gangster buddies and romancing his girlfriend. That and trying to steal stuff.
Old habits die hard.
His face brightened. “It came to me in a dream last night.”
Wait. “Can ghosts dream?”
He pointed a finger at me. “Don’t get technical.” He lifted his hands to the sky. “In a flash of brilliance, I knew I had to build it.”
“Oh no.” I didn’t like it when Frankie built things in my backyard.
He dropped his hands. “I recognize that look. It’s the same one Tommy Three Sticks had when I laid out the plan to swipe the mayor’s diamond cufflinks smack in the middle of his big speech.”
I raised a brow. “Did it work?”
“No, but that’s beside the point. My point is you need to see this,” he declared, his power washing over me.
“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” I countered. In fact, I knew it wasn’t, but it was too late. The energy cascaded over me in a flurry of tiny pinpricks that made my skin dance. I stiffened as the sensation spiraled down my spine and anchored itself into my very marrow.
On my own, the only ghost I could see was Frankie. But when he tuned me in to his power, I could see the other side exactly as he did.
Sometimes, I’d rather not.
I had a feeling this was one of those times as a curious contraption began to take form directly behind the ghost.
“Ta-da!” he exclaimed, beaming at me like Lucy did the first time she’d mastered the tunnel. Only Frankie was no cute skunk training for the blue ribbon. The gangster was up to something.
As usual.
He swelled with a showman’s flair. “Feast your eyes on the future.”
I blinked once. Twice. “The future of what?”
My mouth dropped when it came into focus. It reminded me of a mad scientist’s experiment gone very wrong. But trust me, Frankie was no academic. He was a thief and a whiskey runner at heart. And as a Southern girl, I recognized all too clearly what he’d built beside my gorgeous pond.
A dented old oil drum stood on rickety legs, connected by a twisting maze of rusty pipes to a copper coil that looked salvaged from an ancient water heater. The whole thing had been haphazardly welded together with what seemed to be paper clips and old gum wrappers. An ominous, foul-smelling vapor oozed from several leaks in the pipes, and the entire structure tilted at a precarious angle as if it might collapse into a heap of scavenged junk at any moment.
Of course, Frankie mistook my wide-eyed horror for awe. He flung his hands out like a demented Price Is Right model. “Meet Betsy Sue the Third,” he crowed. “Isn’t she a beaut?”
If beaut meant large and ugly and smelly, then yes.
“What happened to Betsy Sue one and two?” Maybe I didn’t want to know. “Did they fall apart?”
This one was well on the way.
Frankie scowled. “For your information, Betsy Sue the First was glorious. She had an actual bathtub attached, and her gin-infused hooch put more crooks and congressmen under the table than a lawyer laying down a bribe.”
Charming. “She exploded, didn’t she?”
He notched up his chin. “She burned bright and left her tub in a tree.”
“So Betsy the Second fell apart,” I concluded.
The gangster hitched up a shoulder. “After she exploded.”
“Frankie!”
“I refuse to justify my stills to you or to anyone,” he snapped.
“Fine, but Betsy Number Three isn’t staying there. Not under my apple tree.” I didn’t want anything on my property—ghostly or otherwise—exploding so near the house. And I didn’t know what I’d do if the undead police got wind of the thing and decided to raid my property.
I’d had enough trouble in the past when it came to Frankie bringing unwanted paranormal attention to my lovely, formerly quiet home.
“Relax,” said the ghost, who’d probably been running illegal alcohol since he could say the word still. “It’s not permanent. I built it to impress my girl,” he explained as if that were the only reason men did anything. “Molly is coming over tonight, and I’m making a special recipe just for her.”
I chewed my lip. I supposed it was nice when two people who cared about each other spent quality time together. Even if those moments were fueled by lighter fluid.
At the same time… “I’d recommend roses instead,” I told him. Big ones. Especially when she saw this still. “I’ll even let you pick some from the bushes next to the back porch.” The ones my grandmother had planted.
His expression soured. “Those rosebushes are the reason I can’t be with Molly anytime I want.”
Not exactly true, but he did have a point.
I’d tied Frankie’s spirit to my land when I’d emptied his funeral urn onto my rosebushes. In my defense, I’d believed my ex-fiancé had gifted me a slightly ugly antique vase long overdue for a rinse with the hose. And perhaps a fresh flower. But as it turned out, there was a reason ashes were customarily scattered to the wind, or at least spread out a bit. When I poured the entirety of Frankie’s remains in one spot and then hosed him into the ground, the poor gangster had become quite stuck.
As soon as he’d been tied to my land, I could see him clear as day. He could also show me the ghostly realm if and when he chose to lend me his power to see it.
Spoiler alert: I didn’t always want to see.
Still, I had to give the ghost some grace. Where he’d once had the run of the world, Frankie was now confined to my property. The only way he could leave was if I brought his urn with me. It still contained a smidge of his earthly remains, which I kept secure by keeping the lid taped down tight.
In the years since the unfortunate incident, we’d tried everything to get him free. So far to no avail. We’d only seen one ghost manage the feat, and she did it by changing and growing and essentially becoming a different person than the one trapped in the dirt.
Only Frankie the gangster wasn’t always so keen on change. Case in point: the moonshine still in my backyard.
“Okay,” I conceded. “Maybe instead of roses, you could make your girlfriend something nice, something personal to make her feel extra special.”
“I did,” he concluded, standing proudly beside the still.
And we were back to square one.
I sighed. I hoped Molly would be more impressed than I was.
At least he’d made an effort.
Frankie had been dating a gentle, pretty Victorian ghost who thought the world of him despite his rough-and-tumble past. I supposed she liked the bad boys. Although, I had hoped some of her good nature would rub off on him.
I was still hoping.
“Okay, Frankie, I’m not going to ask you to get rid of that still before your date tonight,” I conceded, not saying that tomorrow was another matter. “But you can’t give that sweet girl moonshine.” She was a true lady. “She won’t be able to handle that toxic sludge.”
“Sludge?” Frankie balked as if I’d called his baby ugly. “This is my famous pine needle and chili pepper ’shine, smoother than a silk stocking. I’m known countywide as the Rembrandt of moonshiners. My still is precision meets craftsmanship!”
“Meets battery acid,” I added.
“It does have a kick,” he said fondly. “I just wish I knew what was holding Molly up,” he added, glancing at the sun lowering over the horizon. “She promised she’d be here well before dark.”
I stiffened as the coils above the contraption began to shake. “Her days haven’t been exactly predictable lately. I’m sure she’ll be along soon.”
Frankie’s girlfriend lived with several Civil War-era ghosts at a former bordello that now housed the Sugarland Heritage Society, a historical preservation club. Molly had been an orphan, taken in by the working girls. She’d kept up the house while they’d entertained their guests. The house was mostly a warm, welcoming place, but every once in a while, a few of the more dangerous ghosts from the cemetery out back tried to move in. When that happened, Molly and her friends worked together to clear them out. This time, they’d been at it off and on for weeks. It seemed they had a few stubborn spirits on their hands.
I knew the feeling.
While Frankie focused on the horizon, the still began to rattle and wheeze, and a loud pop of heated air burst from where the coil met the barrel.
I took a step back. “So, when you said it wasn’t permanent, you didn’t plan for it to explode tonight, did you?”
Frankie’s eyes bugged. “Betsy Sue the Third is my greatest creation yet. She has a double filtration system at the cost of both my socks, and she’s perfect the way she is.”
“Right.” I nodded one too many times.
At least we weren’t dealing with the bank robber he’d stashed at my place, the goats he’d tried to raise on my porch, or the illegal race track he’d tried to open in my backyard.
No, it was more straightforward than that. It was my fault Frankie couldn’t build his still in the backwoods or down by the river or anywhere else. I alone had trapped Frankie “The German” on my ancestral property. And unfortunately, I’d told him to make himself at home until we could free him.
“Just as long as Betsy Sue is gone by tomorrow,” I said. Maybe then we could avoid any trouble. If not the smell.
“You never support my dreams,” Frankie lamented as if his goal in life were to build a still by my pond. “You shoot me down every chance you get.”
More like I had a home and had standards. “Maybe Ellis will lend us his truck so she can go live in the country,” I suggested. “We could pick her out a great spot down by the river.”
“That I could never visit by myself,” he snapped.
True. Also, I wasn’t so sure Deputy Sheriff Ellis Wydell should be moving an illegal shine operation, even on the ghostly plane.
I was saved from answering when Frankie’s attention whipped toward the road at the front of the house. “Make yourself scarce. I hear Molly’s carriage,” he said, running his fingers through his hair and straightening his jacket.
A second later, I heard it too—the pounding of horse hooves from the direction of my driveway.
“Be good,” I couldn’t resist adding, pleased when the hardened gangster’s cheeks flushed.
I turned back toward the house, ready to fish Lucy out from under the porch for her supper, when a faint shriek echoed in the distance. I paused and heard a string of panicked shouts.
A ghostly carriage barreled into my backyard like a runaway train, kicking up dust and startling the birds from the trees. It slammed to a halt in front of the gangster, and three ghostly women in low-cut, frilly dresses plunged out in a mad rush.
The first one tripped over her skirts and nearly sent the rest tumbling after her. “Frankie!” she called.
He rushed to the trio. “Lottie! Violet! Ruth!” he demanded. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s awful,” Lottie wailed, catching her balance.
The ringleader of the group, Violet, zipped past her, her angular features drawn tight, wisps of hair escaping from her bun. “It’s Molly. Something’s wrong with Molly.”
Frankie steadied her. “What do you mean something’s wrong with her? Where is she?”
Ruth gasped and began trembling. “We don’t know.”
The gangster grabbed Violet by the shoulders. “What happened?”
She gulped, unable to speak.
“We were clearing out the cellar, same as always,” said Lottie, clutching her cameo necklace, “when Molly started acting peculiar. Her eyes went glassy, and she said in a strange voice, ‘Well, isn’t this the cat’s pajamas!’”
“Cats don’t wear pajamas.” Ruth shook her head, fighting tears. “It made no sense.”
“Then she said she was a woman named Kitty Cunningham,” Violet added.
Molly had never mentioned anyone by that name. I looked at Frankie. “Kitty Cunningham? Who’s that?”
“Your guess is as good as ours,” Violet insisted.
Lottie shook her head, hair in loose ringlets tangling at her shoulders. “Before we could ask, Molly jumped up on the washroom folding table and started dancing like, like…”
“A wanton,” Violet finished. “We should know,” she added with a nod to her friends. “Then she declared there was no stopping Kitty ever again, and she ran off before we could stop her!”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “How can she suddenly decide she’s someone else?”
“She’s possessed,” Frankie said with a rare tremble in his voice. His hands clenched into fists and went white.
I gasped.
Ruth let out a wail.
“How can we be sure?” Violet challenged.
“Because Molly would never run off like that,” Lottie insisted.
“Wait,” I said. “Possessed?” I hadn’t known it was possible. “How can a ghost possess a ghost?”
The gangster tensed his jaw. “It’s a lot like a ghost possessing a live person, only worse.” He brought his hands to his head. “A ghost can take over a human body for a time. It’s rare because it takes a boatload of power. Not to mention only the crazy ones do it because it hurts like a shotgun blast. Eventually, the ghost loses the power to maintain the connection and gets kicked out.” He ran a hand down the side of his face. “The living person comes back, and the ghost develops an awful hangover that’s been known to last for centuries.” Frankie dropped his hand. “Ghost-on-ghost possession is more dangerous and deadly. Once the invading spirit attaches itself, it begins to drain the energy of the host, taking it and transforming it into itself.” He looked to the girls, then to me. “A ghost that is possessed by a spirit that can’t manifest will first think and act like that ghost, then slowly become them.”
Ruth let out a small cry.
“That’s awful,” I said on an exhale. I couldn’t imagine what Molly must be going through.
Frankie’s expression went cold. “The more powerful the spirit, the faster the change, until the second spirit manifests completely and the first spirit is lost.”
“Lost?” I didn’t even want to think it. “Gone?” To be taken like that. To be drained of your energy, your life force, what makes you…you.
The gangster shot me a frigid look. “Yeah, well, it ain’t gonna happen to my Molly.” His mouth set in a grim line as he turned to her trembling friends. “Tell me what happened right before Molly said she was Kitty. Leave nothing out.”
Violet nodded. “Molly was coaxing out a dark shadow from the corner. I’d tried it right before her. It was sticky, but it didn’t act like it was about to attack.”
Frankie’s lip curled in a silent snarl. “That’s the best way to get the jump.”
Violet brought a hand to her mouth. “I figured Molly was fine on her own. I went to help Ruth and Lottie dispel that creepy guy who likes to steal our hairpins.”
“I turned to ask Molly to join us,” Lottie warbled. “Then I saw her face. For a split second, Molly had a different face. The face of some girl I’d never seen before.”
“You most likely saw Kitty’s face.” Frankie’s voice thudded dully. “That’s fast.” He gritted his jaw. “Faster than I’d expect.”
Violet blinked hard. “What does it mean?”
The gangster had gone paler than I’d ever seen him. “It means we don’t have much time. We have to find her, now.”
“But we don’t know where she went,” Lottie said helplessly. “Right after that face flashed, she said she was Kitty, and then she was gone.”
Then we’d just have to think. “Who is this Kitty Cunningham, and why would she do this?” I asked, trying to recall if I’d ever met a ghost by that name. “That might lead us to where she is now.”
“We’ve never met her,” Violet insisted.
I didn’t think I had, either.
“She could be a wandering spirit,” Frankie said tightly. “With nowhere to manifest except in my Molly.”
“She could be an outsider,” I suggested. We’d never been warned of a ghost by that name. And this Kitty was definitely dangerous.
Lottie shoved a lock of hair behind her ear. “We checked the cemetery records. There’s no one by that name in the ledger.”
Ruth nodded and wrung her hands. “No Cunninghams alive, either. At least none who belong to the Sugarland Heritage Society.”
“I don’t know of any Cunninghams in Sugarland,” I agreed.
And I knew pretty much everybody.
“Okay, an outsider, then,” Frankie determined, his eyes as sharp as broken glass. “Or wait. It could be an alias.”
Or it could be a matter of looking in the right place. “I think I know a way to find Molly,” I told the group. “Follow me.”