A crisp fall breeze blew in through the kitchen window as I cracked fresh-ground black pepper over my pecan and apple salad. With a final twist of the grinder, I smiled down at my pet skunk, Lucy. She turned a tight circle and stomped her feet in front of the door that led out to the back patio.
“Oh, now, sweetie. I just let you in.” About ten seconds ago. Right after I’d slipped the tomato, cheddar, and bacon pie into the oven. I gave the salad a stir.
Lucy quirked her silky ears back and forth before she dashed straight for me, whipped around my legs, and head-butted me on the shin.
The jolt knocked a slice of apple out of my bowl. I popped it in my mouth. “I’m sorry, Lucy, but I have my hands full at the moment.” And I was running behind.
I’d given in to a last-minute temptation and treated Lucy to a bubble bath and a brush-out before I’d started preparing a nice, fancy lunch for some long-awaited guests. My little skunk looked like a princess and smelled like peach blossoms, but it had put me behind.
My mom and stepdad would be arriving at any minute. In true Sugarland tradition, I planned to show my love with food, and plenty of it.
They were back in town for the 106th annual Sugarland Homecoming Festival and football game. The celebration lasted four days—Wednesday through Saturday—starting with this afternoon’s Welcome Home Jamboree in the town square. There’d be food booths, music on the main stage, a visit from the high school marching band, and a special performance of 106 Years of Homecoming Highlights, a play written and performed by The Sugarland Players theater troupe.
And even bigger this year—we’d be opening the time capsule under the flagpole by the football field.
It was all anyone could talk about.
My mom’s graduating class had been in charge of organizing the time capsule back in 1985. Now you may be thinking that’s not long to keep the thing buried, and it isn’t. That’s the catch. The homecoming day newspaper and autographed football from the big game—along with Darcy Johnson’s secret apple pie recipe—well, they were originally supposed to stay buried for a hundred years.
Only fate, in the form of a much-needed expansion to the Sugarland football stadium, got in the way.
Now in private, most folks would admit that the home of Sugarland football was more of a large field than a stadium, but we liked to think big. And thanks to Roan’s Hardware, which had donated a small fortune to build an even larger scoreboard and stands big enough to fit most everyone in town, that optimism was finally paying off.
Too bad the school flagpole stood in the way.
A group of concerned citizens had banded together to save it, and coincidently keep the time capsule buried. The daughter of the late pie maker Darcy Johnson had spearheaded the effort. But there was no stopping progress.
Besides, the rest of us couldn’t wait to crack open that time capsule, and not just to keep Darcy Johnson’s daughter from dominating the Sugarland Bake-Off for the next thirty years. A good many groups and organizations—not to mention individuals—had kept what they had tucked in the capsule secret. There’s nothing a town like Sugarland loves more than digging into someone else’s secrets.
And now? It would all see the light of day.
It seemed like anyone who’d ever left Sugarland was coming back for the festivities. You could smell the family barbeque pits firing up for miles around. Streamers and bows trailed from cars cruising town, and many had soaped their back windows—for school spirit and all.
I’d done my part by lining my front steps with red and white geraniums, on account of our football team, the Sugarland Biscuits, wore red and white. I’d wound red and white holiday lights up the columns that graced the front porch and taped a pennant to the door. I’d also decorated my 1978 Cadillac with red streamers and balloons tied to the antenna.
When my grandmother had passed, she’d left me the car and the antebellum home. I liked to think I’d done her proud.
Lucy gazed up at me with those adorable eyes, and I flicked her a slice of apple. “I know you’re excited, sugar. I am, too.”
When Mom had heard about all the people from her class coming back, she’d decided to join in the fun. I couldn’t wait to see her. Less than a month after my grandmother passed away, my mom had skipped town and rarely come home since. She’d used her inheritance to buy an RV and had crisscrossed the country with my stepdad at least six times that I could count. They called it wanderlust. I’d hoped it was a phase. How could they not see that they had everything they needed right here in Sugarland, Tennessee?
Evidently, they thought otherwise. Mom and Carl hadn’t been back since my failed wedding two years ago.
“It’s not like she stayed away on purpose,” I told my skunk. At least I didn’t think so.
Things had gone so wrong that day I could hardly blame Mom for wanting to hop into her RV and blow town as fast as possible. I might have done the same if I hadn’t had the house and a job to consider.
And Lucy. She needed a big backyard.
Lucy ran straight into my leg and bounced off, but she didn’t seem to notice. Instead she made a beeline for the back door.
“What the—?”
The crackle of car tires on my gravel side drive explained it all.
Lucy let out a loud grunt and waved her white-striped tail like one of the color guard girls in the high school marching band. She turned to me, her shiny black eyes imploring.
“I’ll bet that’s Mom and Carl, and you want to be the welcoming committee,” I said, drying my hands and nudging the door open for the skunk, who took off across the white painted porch like it was on fire. I smiled as she toddled as quick as she could down the steps that led to our generous backyard.
My mom doted on Lucy whenever she saw her, and that skunk remembered.
I’d join them in a few seconds, but first I needed to grab the trifle dish out of the fridge. I arranged everything on the kitchen island before stepping back to take it all in. Lunch was fixing to look like a page out of the church cookbook and would taste even better. I wanted my mother’s homecoming to be perfect.
“Mom?” I called, untying my apron and tossing it onto the counter as I banged out the back door.
I’d left my avocado green Cadillac out back by the rosebushes, and my mom had parked her one-of-a-kind RV directly behind it. My stepdad had custom made their vehicle out of an old school bus. He’d painted it gray with silver trim, adding an awning and a nice pop-up camper on top. It was huge—a paradise on wheels, with plenty of living space down below and a lot of privacy up top.
Just then, Lucy came tearing out the open doors of the school bus, wearing a skunk-sized red and white Sugarland football cheerleading uniform. She was the picture of school spirit. Never mind that she managed to shake the matching bow off her head as she dashed to greet me.
“Look at you, gunning for homecoming queen,” I said, scooping her into my arms.
“I’m so glad it fits,” my mom gushed, laughing as she followed the path blazed by my excitable skunk.
“You always did like to push the accessories,” I teased, holding Lucy up to show that she’d at least kept the bow on her tail.
Mom wore a pink tunic top over white jeans, her gold earrings jangling as she walked. Her platform wedges made her taller than me, even though we were the same height. “A lady must always look her best.” She winked, repeating what my grandmother had drilled into both of us. “Speaking of such, I love your dress!”
“I found it last week at the resale shop,” I managed as Lucy wriggled in my arms. My finances were looking better lately, but I didn’t want to take my savings account for granted. Besides, New For You had some great bargains.
I let Lucy down so she could start jumping and chasing her tail all over my porch.
She knew she looked good.
Mom gave me a hug that smelled like roses. When she pulled back, she whipped off the pink and orange scarf that held back her long, graying blonde hair. “I think this would look great on you.”
“I can’t take your clothes,” I said. And I certainly didn’t want her thinking I needed them. “Honestly, it’s fine,” I insisted while she brushed off my objections, turning her scarf into a headband for me.
“Oh, come on. It’s so cute. I got it at a flea market in Denver, and ah!” She stepped back to admire her work. “I was right. It looks better on you.”
“Thanks, then,” I said, touching the silky fabric. I knew better than to argue with my mother. “Where’s Carl?”
“I dropped him off at his brother’s. They’re behind on their float for the parade, and you know how Carl likes any excuse to wield a power saw.”
Carl had been a custom cabinetmaker before he’d retired and taken off on the road with Mom. His family owned Roan’s Hardware downtown.
“What’s their float theme?” I asked, holding open the door for Mom.
“Building Sugarland,” she said, breezing past me. “They would have been done last week if they hadn’t gotten the harebrained idea to make a double-decker replica of the original Roan’s storefront.”
“You know every one of those boys is in heaven,” I said, glad they were using those power tools at the Roans’ house instead of mine.
“Verity!” my mother gasped when she saw my spread on the kitchen island. “You made grandma’s banana pudding.”
“And your tomato bacon pie, but that’s still got another twenty minutes in the oven.”
She eyed the handmade white oak kitchen table that had been cherished by one of my grandma’s dear friends. “I remember this,” she said, making her way over to it. Jorie Davis’s daughter had passed it down to me after I’d helped the family solve the mystery of Jorie’s sudden death. I couldn’t bear to hide the polished wood under a tablecloth, so I’d decorated the four-chair round-top with red and white place mats and colorful cork trivets. “You’ve done it up so cute,” Mom gushed. “I like how you’ve made it your own.” Then she sighed. “It’s good to see you’re recovering from that awful attempt Virginia made to bankrupt you.”
“It wasn’t easy,” I admitted. Virginia had sued me for the cost of the wedding after I’d ditched her youngest son just short of the altar. Never mind the fact that he’d cheated on me.
“I love that purple couch,” Mom burst out, looking past the table into the parlor. She strolled over to get a better look. “And wow. That rosebush by the mantel is growing like a weed. What are you using as fertilizer? Frankie himself?”
“Oh, my stars. Mom!”
Frankie was my ghostly housemate and sort-of friend. And his ashes were in that dirt, but that didn’t mean…I didn’t want to think about it.
Frankie was invisible to every living person except for me, and that was only because I’d accidentally tied him to my ancestral property. I hadn’t meant to do it. I’d simply dumped some ashy soil from an old vase onto my late grandmother’s heirloom rosebushes. Only it turned out that vase was actually Frankie’s burial urn, and I hadn’t realized my error until I’d hosed him in good.
So now he was trapped here with me until we figured out a way to fix my mistake. Only nothing we’d tried had worked.
“I think it would be nice if Frankie turned into a flower,” Mom mused happily, fingering a deep red bloom.
“You’d better not tell him that.” Frankie was upset enough that he’d been grounded onto my property.
I did try to make him feel welcome, though. That was why I’d dug up his rosebush and relocated it to an industrial-sized trash can in my parlor. My boyfriend had also built the gangster a wooden shed out by the back pond so Frankie could have a little privacy.
Mom waved off my concern. “In any case, I’m happy you’ve made this house your home. And his, too.” She turned her attention to the battered urn resting on the mantel. “Maybe you could make this a little nicer for him.” She ran her fingertips over the dull green stones near the lid. “Maybe tie a bow around it.”
“Mom—” I barked as she lifted the lid.
“What?” she asked, already peeking inside. “Is he in here?”
“No,” I said, rushing over to her. “Well, yes. Some of his ashes are.” A small portion had remained stuck along the bottom. In fact, the only way he could leave my property was if I took the urn—and that smidge of ashes—with me. “But Frankie doesn’t live in his urn.” This wasn’t I Dream of Jeannie. “Besides, even if he was in there, you can’t barge in uninvited. You have to treat ghosts like people.” I retrieved the lid from her and placed it back onto my ghost’s final resting place. “I mean, they are people.”
“Were people?” she offered.
Heavens to Betsy. I sighed, making an effort to rein in the lecture. She was already pushing my buttons. I’d been missing Mom so much I’d forgotten what it was like to actually have her around.
“I’m sorry,” she said, contrite. “I’m just interested in what you’ve been up to.” She moved back to the rosebush, which seemed safe enough. “I have to admit,” she said, running the tips of her fingers through the soil, “I can’t wait to meet your friend. You know, I sometimes catch a shadow here or there out of the corner of my eye, and I wonder if I see ghosts.”
“My situation isn’t hereditary, Mom.” More like an unhappy accident.
She caressed a silky rose petal. “Well, all the same, I’d love to say hello.”
“You won’t be able to see Frankie,” I cautioned, hoping to manage her expectations. Besides, the 1930s gangster who haunted my property wasn’t exactly the type to hang around and drink sweet tea with my mother. He preferred speakeasies, illegal racetracks, and the occasional armed robbery.
“Well, I bought your ghost a present,” she announced. “Only—whoops—I set it down when I went to dress up Lucy.”
“What did you get him?” I asked as she led me back out onto the porch. Frankie was notoriously hard to buy for, seeing as he couldn’t touch anything on the physical plane.
“It’s a little something I discovered at a roadside stand on the way into town,” she said, heading down the back stairs. “I was hoping it would go with Frankie’s homecoming decorations, but,” she said, glancing at the shed by the pond, “I don’t see that he’s done a thing.”
He hadn’t. The mobster didn’t give a fig about the big game. Even if he had, she wouldn’t have been able to see his decorations anyway.
Mom led me inside the RV into a blue and white shabby chic living area.
“Wow, Mom. This is ruffle city,” I said, taking in the floofy pillows on the couch, as well as the white painted antique chandelier over a hammered stainless steel table most likely salvaged from an old diner. “Carl lets you get away with turning your home into a girly-girl paradise?”
“Carl lets me do anything as long as I let him drive,” she said, fetching a flower-encrusted wreath from a hook by the door. “Isn’t it darling?” she asked, lifting it up. White magnolias competed with red footballs to escape a candy-cane-striped ribbon. The red and white fabric wound all around the wreath and made a huge bow at the bottom. “And look. I added little whiskey bottles,” Mom said, pointing out the airline-sized bottles tucked into the straining bow.
Frankie might actually like that part, I decided.
“Let’s go deliver some homecoming spirit,” I said. “With spirits!”
“To the spirit,” Mom added.
She knocked on the wooden door to the shed, and while we waited for the ghost to answer, she held up the wreath. It fit perfectly.
Frankie had no reason not to love it, but then again, Frankie was good at not loving things. And as the air temperature around us dropped like a rock, it became clear he wasn’t thrilled to see us.
“Is he here?” Mom asked, shivering.
I had a feeling. “Frankie,” I said, knocking on the door myself. It wasn’t like he could leave the property. “Franklin Rudolph Winkelmann,” I said, using his proper name. I heard something clatter to the floor inside. “I know you’re in there.”
He could at least be polite and answer the door.
“Franklin Winkelmann,” my mom repeated, grinning.
A cold breeze whipped past, and I heard the groan of the ghost. “Why don’t you yell my name again? I don’t think the entire neighborhood heard yet.”
Frankie appeared in black and white between me and the shed, his image transparent enough that I could see through him if I really tried. He wore a 1920s-style pin-striped suit coat with matching cuffed trousers and a fat tie. His shoulders stood level to my line of sight, which would have made him unusually tall if he weren’t floating a foot off the ground.
He used his ill-gained height to full advantage as he glared down at me with those sharp features that made him look every bit like the killer he was.
“You have company,” I reminded him, hoping he’d mind his manners.
“I’m laying low,” he hissed, throwing his arms out like an Italian grandmother, “and you two aren’t helping.”
Oh dear. “What did you do now?” I asked.
“It’s more like what I did eighty-five years ago,” he said, looking over my shoulder. “If you see any Cuban gangsters, run.”
“Do Cuban gangsters look different from the local mob?” I asked. As usual, Frankie wasn’t giving me much to go on. “Should I be watching for a shifty-eyed rum swiller?”
“Don’t look El Gato in the eye,” Frankie warned, leveling a finger at me. “That’s the easiest way to get iced. He’d kill you as soon as look at you and then kill you again.”
“He’s warning you about Cuban gangsters? Oh dear,” my mom said, her shoulders slumping.
“It’s fine,” I rushed to reassure her. “He means ghost gangsters. You’re perfectly safe.”
“No, it’s just that I was hoping I could see Frankie,” my mom said, waving a hand in the general direction of the gangster. “Since he’s tied to the land. I grew up in this house, you know.”
And she’d been quick to leave it behind. “I don’t think you have the same tie to the land that I do,” I said diplomatically. Plus, I’d been the one to do the accidental ash dumping.
“It’s bad enough Verity pesters me every waking second,” Frankie balked. “I don’t need two of you. Now get out of here and stop calling attention to my shed,” he said before disappearing through the wall.
I glanced at my mom.
“Did he like the wreath?” she asked.
“Yes,” I brightened, figuring I could be forgiven one little white lie. He hadn’t said he didn’t like it, after all.
She positioned the colorful homecoming decoration on the door. “Oh, look. There’s already a nail.”
Frankie’s head whipped through the door so fast, I let out a yelp.
“Don’t even think about it!” he said, his face framed by magnolias, toy footballs, and whiskey bottles.
Then he hit me with a blast of power that about knocked me sideways. My head spun as the cold energy prickled over my skin and sank down to the bone. I’d never get used to the feeling.
I could always see Frankie because it was my mistake that had grounded him, but when Frankie lent me his energy, I could see the ghostly realm the same as he did. Often, it felt like stepping back in time. At the moment, it was like standing outside a shed.
Only on the other side, my backyard lay bare.
Frankie stood in front of…open grass. At least that was how it looked from the ghostly standpoint.
“You made your shed disappear?” I marveled.
“It’s right there,” my mom insisted, pointing at the wreath that hung from the door on our side of the veil.
“I can decide how it looks on this side,” Frankie said defensively. “And in this case, I like it invisible. Nobody can know I’m here.”
“What about Molly?” I asked. “Your girlfriend is going to want you to at least take her to the homecoming dance.”
The kids had their homecoming in the school gym, but because we had so many Sugarland High graduates living in town, there was also a formal alumni reunion dance in the town square. It was always a huge fundraiser for the PTO, but this year, they’d sold almost fifty more tickets than usual.
Not that ghosts needed tickets.
“Now that you have a girlfriend, you really should go,” I advised Frankie. He could be so clueless in the love department. “I’m sure Molly is expecting you to ask.”
He looked at me like I’d suggested he take up macrame. “What part of laying low don’t you get? No one goes in or out, and no visitors.”
Goodness. “You really are in trouble.” Frankie had never tried to hide his shed before. And he adored Molly.
Frankie cocked his chin. “You’re looking at the guy who pulled off the great cigar heist of ’36.”
“What was that?” I asked.
“Only the most famous cigar heist of all time,” he pointed out.
Amazing. “I never heard of it.” Maybe I needed to watch more History Channel.
He dragged a hand through his hair. “I also set up El Gato’s baby sister with a rumba dancer. They eloped.”
“Aww,” I crooned. “I’m all for true love.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not a gangster,” Frankie scoffed.
As if I could forget.
He rested a hand on his hip and nudged back his jacket to reveal the ugly black revolver at his belt. “Then there was the small incident where I accidentally told the police how El Gato stole the frame off the Mona Lisa.”
He had to be kidding. “Why the frame?”
“He’s crazy that way,” Frankie insisted. “He also opened a dog track with puppies. The guy is nuts. Completely unpredictable.”
Wow. “I can see where a murderous gangster with no limits would be dangerous.”
Frankie gave a quick nod. “I’m number twelve on his revenge list, and he just polished off the guy at number eleven.”
That didn’t sound good. “Maybe he’ll take a break.” I hoped.
“Maybe I’ll wake up at the bottom of the river, wearing cement shoes,” he said, eyes narrowing.
“You’d be fine.” It wasn’t like the gangster could kill him again. Besides, the only things Frankie could permanently keep were the objects he’d died with, so the cement shoes would fade over time.
“You don’t get it,” Frankie said, glancing over my shoulder once more. “El Gato specializes in torture. He toys with you. He takes his time. The guy takes pride in his ability to make grown men scream.”
I chewed my lip. “Okay, that could be bad.” If this ghost wanted to hurt Frankie, he could make him suffer.
He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. “He tortured number seven for two decades before the guy escaped into the light. I don’t want to go to the light.” His voice creaked. “I’m not ready.”
Nobody should be forced to make a choice like that. And I didn’t want to lose Frankie yet—not unless he was willing to go. This was starting to get scary. “Are you sure he’s coming for you?”
He planted the hat on his head once more. “Suds and some of the gang saw El Gato this morning in the town square.”
Right in the heart of Sugarland.
Frankie lowered the brim of his hat. “He was asking questions about me.”
“We’ll keep you safe,” I vowed, taking the real-world wreath off the door. It wasn’t entirely necessary. Frankie could make the wreath disappear in the ghostly realm, as he had the shed. But I wanted to show him I was willing to do my part.
“What’s going on?” my mom pressed. “He doesn’t like the wreath?”
I’d almost forgotten she was there.
I glanced to Frankie. “Well, Frankie ticked off a Cuban gangster.”
“By pulling off the greatest cigar heist of all time,” he added, as if that justified it.
“And now El Gato is in town for revenge, so Frankie can’t have a homecoming wreath.”
“That’s a shame,” my mom said.
“We’ll put it on my front door,” I said, glad for one problem I could solve.
“So Frankie isn’t coming to the time-capsule opening tonight?” my mom asked, hesitating when I made a move to leave the gangster to his hiding.
“I am a time capsule, lady,” Frankie shot back. “Besides, I’m working on a plan,” he assured us, his image fading. “I’m talking intrigue. Explosions! And little tiny Cuban gangster bits.”
Could you even blow up a ghost? I didn’t want to know. Frankie’s last big plan had ended with him in a ghostly prison on my property. I’d scarcely survived what it had taken to get rid of it.
“Don’t do anything rash,” I warned the ghost.
He just laughed before his voice faded away entirely.
“I think it would be a nice gesture if you helped him with this El Gato,” my mom said, taking the wreath off my hands. She began to fluff the ribbon and straighten the whiskey bottles. “I could pitch in too if you’d like.”
Normally, I was all for showing I cared, but… “Frankie’s plans have a way of getting out of hand. Besides, trying to solve Frankie’s problems for him only leads to worse trouble.” Been there. Done that. Barely survived the car chase. “Let’s just enjoy homecoming.”
“And trust Frankie to do the right thing,” she agreed.
“Riiiight,” I said, hoping I’d made the correct call.