Utterly Deadly Southern Pecan Pie, page 1
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Utterly Deadly Southern Pecan Pie
Copyright
Dedication
Cast of Characters
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Annie Mae’s Utterly Deadly Southern Pecan Pie
And for a sneak peek at the 3rd book in the Haunted Salon Series to find out what Jolene gets into next, just flip the page!
A Dead Pig
Chapter One
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Theo’s distorted face twisted
as he struggled to breathe. His body jerked, and his clutched hand dug at his swollen throat. He made a harsh sound.
“He’s having an allergic reaction,” Barbara Herrington screamed, her hands plowing through his coat pocket in a frantic search. “Where’s his EpiPen? I can’t find his EpiPen!”
I recognized the gurgling sound having heard it in my facial room just before Scarlett choked to death on her own vomit.
With a flash, I remembered that shortly after Scarlett’s grisly incident, the entire staff at Dixieland Salon had been trained in CPR and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Scrambling to Herrington’s side, I fell to my knees, the remembered sound of the instructor’s voice guiding me through the steps.
Titling his head back, I placed my ear close to his mouth and then it checked for any obstruction. Taking a deep breath, I pinched his nose closed and sealed my lips around his, blowing deeply until his chest rose with the force of my breath.
I paused, again inhaling deeply.
“What are you doing?” a voice screamed in my ear. “You…get away from my husband!”
Whack! Barbara’s shoe connected to my jaw. I gasped, toppling over onto my back, hitting my head on the hard concrete. I must have blacked out for a minute or two because the next thing I remember was intense pain spreading throughout my body. Sagging against the strong hands lifting me from the floor, I inhaled Bradford’s familiar woodsy scent, gulping in air and the coppery taste of blood.
Utterly Deadly Southern Pecan Pie
by
Penny Burwell Ewing
The Haunted Salon Series, Book Two
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Utterly Deadly Southern Pecan Pie
COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Penny Burwell Ewing
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by Angela Anderson
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Fantasy Rose Edition, 2017
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1437-2
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1438-9
The Haunted Salon Series, Book Two
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For my aunt, Mary Sue Altman,
who inspired the character of Deena and
her passionate pursuit of perfection.
Here’s to you, Aunt Sue.
The Salter sisters are together again
within the pages of this book.
Cast of Characters
Jolene Claiborne—Word around heaven is this busybody hairstylist is the one to haunt if you have a mystery to solve.
Deena Sinclair—This Tucker sister is looking for love in all the wrong places.
Billie Jo Hazard—Her psychic abilities keep letting her down.
Annie Mae Tucker—This proud southern mama doesn’t want to share her secret pecan pie recipe.
Harland Tucker—The Tucker patriarch is back from the dead, but he finds himself buried under suspicion when a long-time rival is murdered.
Detective Samuel Bradford—The Whiskey Creek detective is back in the saddle again after political mayhem almost cost him his job. If he’s not careful, he could find himself roped and hog-tied into matrimony with a sassy salon owner.
Theodore Herrington—The bank president ended up in the hottest part of the south.
Barbara Herrington—She married an older man for money. Money can buy many bobbles, but what about love?
Ellie Malone—Her bonnet’s set for the banker’s son, and she doesn’t need permission from his father to rob the cradle.
Victor Redding—Pineridge Plantation is the crowning prize of this southern gentleman’s heritage and no damn Yankee will take it from him.
Nancy Chance—The Pecan Festival is her only claim to fame.
Josiah Redding—The red dirt of his plantation hides blood-soaked Confederate gold, and a secret that has imprisoned him there throughout the 150 years since it claimed his life.
Scarlett Cantrell—This lively spirit refuses to stay within the boundaries of heaven—especially when rumor is her new best gal-pal is headed straight for another war between the states.
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, wi
“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.
