Dixieland Dead Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Dixieland Dead

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Please turn the page for a sneak peek at

  Utterly Deadly Southern Pecan Pie

  Chapter One

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  “Ahhh!” I said with vexation,

  my eyes taking in the discarded jars lining the counter top. A dusting of fine powder covered the floor. “This room’s a mess. It’ll take hours to clean.”

  “They must’ve taken a sample of everything.” Deena piped up behind me. “What’s on the floor?”

  Billie Jo bent down and ran her finger over the floor, leaving a thin trail. “It looks like oatmeal. Carla said she mixed everything she could get her hands on into that death mask.”

  Mama stuck her head in the door. “Don’t touch anything and get out of there right now. We need to get over to the hospital. Jolene, if you don’t come out of there this instant, I promise you that when the roll is called up yonder, you’ll be there!”

  Deena backed out of the room. “She’s right; the hospital is expecting me.”

  “I’m ready to leave, too,” Billie Jo said, joining Mama and Deena in the hallway.

  There wasn’t any need to try and argue my point with them—my vote would be vetoed immediately. The facial equipment was unplugged, so I turned off the lights and shut the door. A loud crash sounded from inside the room. Quickly, I flung open the door, flipped on the overhead lights, and screamed with every ounce of my being—for there, on the facial bed, sat the faint, ghostly image of Scarlett Cantrell.

  Dixieland Dead

  by

  Penny Burwell Ewing

  The Haunted Salon Series

  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.

  Dixieland Dead

  COPYRIGHT © 2016 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: [email protected]

  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, 2016

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1092-3

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1093-0

  The Haunted Salon Series

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For my mother, Dixie Lee Joiner,

  who inspired the creation of Jolene

  and her unwavering dedication to family.

  Cast of Characters

  Jolene Claiborne—The oldest Tucker sister wants Dixieland Salon to be the best full-service beauty shop in Whiskey Creek, Georgia. Nothing, or no one, had better stand in her way.

  Deena Sinclair—Is this Tucker sister really the shy one? Or is the pretty brunette hiding something more sinister behind her demure, sisterly smile?

  Billie Jo Hazard—Bold and outspoken, no one dares to push around the youngest Tucker sister. Such a mistake could find you staring down the barrel of a gun.

  Annie Mae Tucker—The matriarch of the Tucker clan is smart, sassy, and dead serious when it comes to protecting her family.

  Harland Clayton Tucker—The patriarch of the Tucker clan played badly on the roulette wheel of life and came up with the losing hand.

  Scarlett Cantrell—Destiny dealt a deadly blow to Channel Ten’s beautiful TV star.

  Mandy Brown—Blackmail is a dirty word. How much will it cost this savvy nail tech?

  Anthony Vogel—His secret could destroy Dixieland Salon. How far will he go to keep it silent?

  Carla Moody—A facial with Dixieland’s aesthetician could be a dangerous undertaking. You might wake up on the Other Side.

  Robert Burns—the CEO of WXYB is on Scarlett’s hot list—but if you play with fire, you’ll get burned.

  Cherry Hill Burns—This socialite isn’t sharing her millionaire husband with a younger woman—she has too much to lose.

  Henry Payne—Whiskey Creek’s mayor will do anything to get the vote—maybe even commit murder?

  Linda Payne—The mayor’s wife is desperate to keep her place in society. Does madness mask itself behind those serene eyes?

  Samuel Bradford—This Whiskey Creek detective has more women on his trail than a blood hound has fleas.

  Chapter One

  The Dead Don’t Speak, Right?

  In a small town like Whiskey Creek, Georgia, where the statue of a local Confederate war hero still stands tall in the courthouse square, there’s a strong sense of community for the living and the dead. The old wrought-iron gates at Peaceful Valley Cemetery were open year round for residents wishing to celebrate birthdays or holidays with family members who’d passed over to the Other Side.

  The Easter holiday had brought me here to visit my father and grandparents this early Saturday morning. Looking around, it seemed I had the place to myself, so I exchanged heels for flats and climbed out of my Mustang convertible. Armed with several fresh bouquets of Easter lilies, I picked my way through the gravestones until I stopped beneath a timeworn oak, its heavy branches dusted with shades of leafy green.

  “Good morning, my dears,” I said, placing the bouquets on a stone bench beside their graves, and bent down to remove the wind-beaten silk flowers from the bronze vases. “The rest of the family will be stopping by later on, but I wanted some private time alone with y’all.”

  My father’s parents had both taken the journey to their final reward when I was just a young child, but I remembered them well. Grandpa Tucker always smelled of sweet pipe tobacco, and Granny Tucker, well, I remembered her soft, comforting voice, most of all. And then, four years later when I was only twelve, we lost Daddy. He was killed in a bank robbery attempt in Atlanta while on a business trip. One moment he was standing in line to cash a check and the next, gone forever. The thing I remembered the most about that time was Mama’s strange behavior. She refused to talk about the shooting with me and my two younger sisters, Deena and Billie Jo. And because of that, deep down inside, I’ve always felt as if there was some dark secret surrounding his death.

  Daddy used to say that secrets were like candy. At first, the
y’re sweet on the tongue and bring such pleasure, but then with time the decay sets in, and you find yourself wishing you’d left that bonbon alone.

  I brushed away my depressing thoughts and finished arranging the lilies in the vases. Once finished, I sat down on the bench to enjoy the beauty of the warm morning before I had to rush off to work. Hopefully, the chocolate-covered donuts I’d picked up earlier from the bakery would be okay for a little longer in the front seat of my car. I didn’t want them to melt before the staff meeting at the salon, but I wasn’t ready to leave yet.

  I closed my eyes as birds sung overhead and took a deep, relaxing breath, wishing I could hear Daddy’s voice once again.

  “Jolene honey, open your eyes.”

  My eyes popped open at Granny Tucker’s voice. Startled, I studied my surroundings, but no one lingered nearby. Feeling a little silly, I stood up from the bench and went to stand over her grave.

  Okay. That was weird.

  Again, I cast a quick glance over my shoulder. A family had congregated nearby, and I could just make out a couple of words as they placed flowers on the grave, so it must’ve been them I’d heard and not the voice of my long-dead grandmother.

  Which made perfect sense. According to Pastor Inman over at the First Baptist Church, once we’d left behind our fleshly homes, we weren’t allowed to cross back over into the land of the living. The dead can’t speak, only the living. Right?

  Briefly, a long-buried memory of another disembodied voice from my childhood flashed into my consciousness and then fled as quickly as it had surfaced. Now completely weirded-out, I said a hasty goodbye, put the discarded silk flowers in my trunk, exchanged shoes a second time, and headed for the salon.

  On Main Street, I passed a cluster of shops where tourists and local residents strolled down the tree-shaded, rustic brick sidewalks, peering into storefront windows or entering the establishments in search of the best sales. Farther down, restored Victorian homes offered respite from the heat with broad, covered porches filled with decorative wicker furniture. Tall, ancient magnolias branched out like sentries, and beneath their leafy canopies, bright swaths of azaleas, hydrangeas, camellias, and roses dotted the well-manicured lawns.

  I zipped past Colonel Nathaniel Taft, keeping his ever watchful eye on the town from the courthouse square. Two streets over, I pulled onto Love Avenue and drove around to the rear of Dixieland Salon where I usually parked and spied my two younger sisters gesturing toward the back of the shop. When I pulled my car into a vacant space beside Billie Jo’s old Dodge Charger, I saw the back door standing open, splintered wood littering the walkway.

  Oh, no, not a break-in. Not today!

  I joined my sisters at the front of my baby sister’s car. “I knew there was a rash of break-ins in the neighborhood, but I never expected this to happen to us. How bad is it? Did you check to see if anyone is still in there?”

  “No, Deena wouldn’t let me,” Billie Jo said. “So I called 9-1-1. The dispatcher advised us to wait out by our cars until an officer arrives and checks out the inside.”

  Deena pushed a damp strand of hair from her eyes. “I wish they’d hurry. It’s awfully hot for April. I believe my makeup is melting.”

  Several more minutes passed without help arriving. Impatience made me antsy. “Is the property insurance up to date?” I regretted the words the moment I uttered them. At times, Deena was as touchy and snippy as her Chihuahua puppy, Gator Bait, and the expression on her face said I’d smashed her self-esteem again. I sighed inwardly. The slow economy had me fretful about the future. We’d even expanded the salon to include skin care in hopes of attracting more business. A scary move in these times, and I kept my fingers crossed that it would pay off.

  “I’m sorry, sis,” I said, backpedaling. “You’re the best manager Dixieland Salon has ever had.”

  “Sounds right since I’m the only one we’ve ever had,” she said, rolling her eyes but looking mollified.

  Just then, a police cruiser pulled up, and a young, fresh-faced officer climbed out. Warning us to stay put, he disappeared through the broken doorway.

  I dabbed a Kleenex across my brow. “This heat is murder, and I have a dozen chocolate-covered donuts in my car.”

  Several minutes later, he emerged from the rear of the shop where we joined him.

  “Well, someone broke into your cash register, ladies.” He slipped his gun back into its holster. “Everything else looks undisturbed, but I’ll let you go in and check the premises shortly.”

  I craned my neck around him to peer into the shop. “How long is this gonna take? I’d like to see the damage before the staff arrives.”

  This morning, I’d squeezed into a low-cut jean dress that emphasized my ample curves, and as I dabbed the tissue on my abundant cleavage, I noticed the officer’s gaze riveted there. I gave him a raised eyebrow, and he flushed.

  “There’s the backup now, if you’ll excuse me.” The officer started toward the arriving squad car, but then he stopped, turned back with a smile. “Oh, and the name’s Clark, ma’am.” He tipped his hat. “Officer Charles Clark.”

  Officer Clark headed off to greet the uniformed man retrieving a large silver box from the back seat of his squad car. Both men disappeared inside the rear entrance leaving us to wait, again, in the thick, humid air.

  Deena’s sharp gaze locked onto my attire. “You know why he did that, don’t you?”

  I answered with a sisterly smile. “No, but I believe you’re going to tell me.”

  “You’re spilling out of that dress. And it’s entirely too tight for a woman of your advanced age. You look like Barbie’s mother.”

  Billie Jo’s smile turned into a chuckle. “I wish I looked like Barbie’s mother.”

  I gave my youngest sister a beaming smile. Billie Jo and I share many similar characteristic traits, although physically we’re very different. She’d been born blonde and petite, whereas I’d inherited Mama’s large frame and kinky, dark blonde hair. Deena, two years younger than I am, at thirty-five, fell through the cracks somewhere in the family gene pool. She had a nice figure and glossy brown tresses—from Daddy’s side of the tree.

  Thankfully, Officer Clark’s reappearance cut off any further discussion of my questionable attire.

  “You ladies need to take a quick look around to see if anything other than the cash from the register was taken.”

  I pushed past him into the hallway leading to the main salon and looked inside the dispensary where we kept all our chemicals for processing and dying hair—its usual disarray completely normal and no cause for concern. I moved to the opened door of the facial room and peeked inside. It, too, appeared untouched by scavenging hands.

  “The hundred dollars starting cash is gone.” Billie Jo’s voice came from the front of the salon.

  I closed the facial room door and headed to Deena’s office where my sisters had gathered at the threshold. At the reception desk, Officer Clark stood next to the other officer snapping pictures of the opened register.

  “So what’s next?” Billie Jo asked him.

  Officer Clark glanced up from his notepad. “Other than the hundred dollars, did you find anything else taken?”

  “Not that I could see,” I said. “The staff will have to check their stations before I can be sure.”

  “I found something strange.” Deena moved into her office. We followed and stopped beside her desk where she picked up a dark green bank bag. “This was left untouched.”

  “Is that yesterday’s deposit? There’s over a thousand dollars in there!” I couldn’t believe that much cash had been left overnight in the salon.

  Deena nodded. “I know I’m supposed to drop it off after closing, but I feel like a sitting duck at the night deposit slot.”

  “Well, that’s going to change,” Billie Jo said. “You need to either embrace the gun movement, or Jolene or I will accompany you from now on. We both carry guns for protection.”

  “Ladies, I need to see
your weapons and licenses, before we proceed,” Officer Clark said.

  I pulled a pink holster from my shoulder bag and handed it and the license over to him.

  He pulled my .32 caliber snub-nosed revolver from the holster. One eyebrow lifted. “Never seen a pink gun with pearl grips before,” he said as he turned it over in his hand. “Seems to fit you though.” His gaze once again rested on me.

  I rewarded him with a brilliant smile. “I named her ‘Mini Pearl’.”

  Officer Clark examined my permit to carry license. He did the same thing with Billie Jo’s Cobra derringer. Satisfied that we were in compliance with state gun laws, he handed them back and took the bank bag from Deena. He pulled out the contents and quickly counted the money. The amount matched the deposit slip. “You said this was left here overnight in an unlocked drawer in plain sight?”

  “Yes.” Deena opened the top drawer of her desk. “Right here on top of this file folder. Why would burglars take cash from the register and leave this much money behind?”

  “Maybe something or someone spooked them and they took off before they had a chance to search your desk,” Billie Jo said.

  I agreed with her. “Sounds to me like kids broke in here.”

  “There’s been a rash of break-ins with the same M.O. in the area.” Officer Clark closed his notepad and shoved it into his shirt pocket. “I’ll let you know if we get any leads, but there’s not much to go on. Call your insurance company and have the damage fixed as soon as you can.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” I said. “There are a dozen chocolate-covered donuts melting in the front seat of my car.”

  “I could take those off your hands, ma’am,” he said with a flirtatious wink.

  Oh, what the hell. I winked back. Perhaps destiny had stepped in to save me from the gazillion calories I was sure to consume if those donuts made it through the back door.

  ****

  I emerged from the rear entrance to see our staff had arrived. Upon viewing their horrified expressions at the damage to the door, I assured them the situation would be explained in a meeting first thing. Carla Moody, our aesthetician, dabbed her watery, blood-shot eyes with a tissue.