A Dead Pig in the Sunshine Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Penny Burwell Ewing’s

  A Dead Pig in the Sunshine

  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

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  And now for a sneak peek at Jolene’s next escapades!

  Chapter One

  A word about the author…

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

  Staring down at the mangled, half-eaten body

  lying face up behind an old headstone gave me the sense of an outer body experience. The Snow White costume had been ripped and torn away by the scavenging forest creatures. The cracked headstone with splatters of blood, the bloated corpse with part of the mouth ripped away, and the white teeth exposed in a taunting smile with Mini Pearl clasped in the victim’s hand. The wind whistled through the tall grass and trees spreading the stench of death. God, how I hated that smell.

  Twice I swept the flashlight beam across the grisly scene, imprinting the ugliness into my memory to be recounted I’m sure hundreds of times in the days ahead. Bradford’s hand was strong, firm, protective, but still I shivered.

  “Can you identify the gun?”

  “It’s mine.” My breathless voice faltered as my gaze roamed over the pink gun with pearl grips. “Not another like it in the States. Custom made. I had Mini Pearl engraved on the barrel. I thought I’d never see it again.”

  My mind flashed back to the day I’d discovered my .32 caliber snub-nosed revolver stolen from my car. I’d arrived out at Pineridge Plantation to conduct tours of the antebellum mansion for the annual fall Whiskey Creek Pecan Festival. Increased activity from the re-enactors arriving could be heard, so I followed the sounds around past the back terrace and into the rose garden. During my absence, my wallet had been emptied and Mini Pearl taken.

  And used in the commission of a crime. Just as I’d feared.

  Penny Burwell Ewing’s

  The Haunted Salon Series

  DIXIELAND DEAD

  UTTERLY DEADLY SOUTHERN PECAN PIE

  A DEAD PIG IN THE SUNSHINE

  BEIN’ DEAD AIN’T NO EXCUSE

  A Dead Pig

  in the Sunshine

  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.

  A Dead Pig in the Sunshine

  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: [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, 2017

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1680-2

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1681-9

  The Haunted Salon Series

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For my aunt, Dorothy Jean Salter,

  who inspired the character of Billie Jo

  and her vivacious love of life and family.

  Cast of Characters

  Jolene Claiborne—Planning her sister’s wedding is hell enough, but coupled with a new mystery from the netherworld has the oldest Tucker sister wishing heaven would give her a break.

  Deena Sinclair—Her wedding plans threaten to go up in smoke.

  Billie Jo Hazard—Midlife hands the youngest Tucker sister a big surprise.

  Annie Mae Tucker—Now that her newly published cookbook has been launched, it’s time for sun and fun on the warm beaches of Florida.

  Harland Tucker—The Tucker patriarch wants to sell the peanut farm and retire to sunny Florida where the only problem will be his golf game score.

  Detective Samuel Bradford—The pragmatic police detective never gave much thought to the afterlife until a citizen of the invisible world invaded his aura and refused to leave.

  Vanessa van Allen—Her Dark Enchantment Vampire Series is worth millions. There’s even talk of a movie deal. There’s only one problem—someone’s out to take a bite of the Queen of Vampires.

  Maylene Lovett—This book critic is referred to as “The Terminator” because her reviews can make or break a writer.

  Peaches Noble—This Romance Writers Southeastern Division Leader is sick and tired of playing second fiddle to her best friend. If only she could stab her friend in the back and get away with it.

  Purvis Dupree—He’s hot to land a big name author for his small Atlanta publishing company.

  Cash Hitchcock—Vanessa’s Atlanta literary agent knows how to suck the blood out of any deal.

  Careen Halsey—Sometimes dreams do come true. Unfortunately, some dreams can turn into a nightmare.

  Michael Halsey—Careen’s older brother is double-dealing from the bottom of the deck.

  Betty van Allen—Vanessa’s mother keeps secrets close to home.

  Sophia—The van Allen’s maid is loyal to the bone.

  Sheriff Cleaster Snellgrove—What’s this good ole boy really up to?

  Scarlett Cantrell—Heaven’s PI is on the job again. Her newest assignment has her rounding up a wayward ghost with no sense of direction.

  Chapter One

  Halloween Hoedown

  The trouble began on Halloween. I awoke that morning with a keen sense that my world was, once again, about to change. The initial signs pointed to an all-out frontal attack from the Great Beyond. A black, hazy film skirted across the October sky, reminding me of the old classic Hitchcock film, The Birds. Static electricity buzzed through the walls of my redbrick home, causing Tango, my orange tabby, to prowl about the house screeching like a banshee. His fur standing on end like an angry pufferfish gave me cause for concern. And then, the undead started arriving shortly after my first cup of coffee with threats of retribution over unfinished business among the living.

  With the creep factor off the charts, I didn’t linger long over breakfast and hurried off to a full appointment book at my beauty shop, Dixieland Salon—where the day spiraled downhill from there. Strange incidents plagued the shop, and I suspected th
e undead shadowed me and had taken up residence in the facial room. By the end of the day, one frazzled hairdresser had packed her implements and stormed out, and there were several threats of lawsuits from disgruntled clients with fried hair.

  By evening my patience had taken a hike when I ran out of trick-or-treat candy and a couple of loveable demons in the neighborhood toilet-papered my front yard and smashed my jack-o’-lanterns all over the front porch steps.

  Halloween. A rent in the veil between the living and the dead, and once my favorite holiday. Not anymore. That sentiment had died a quick death when the dead made a startling appearance during my mid-life crisis. People might call me a psychic, a seer, a medium, or whatever the most popular term at present would be. I prefer “ghost coordinator.” The term makes me sound hip, cool, even slightly normal. Which I’m not.

  Daddy says I was born this way and not the result of some tragic event in my life. Since my childhood had been chaotic at best, I tended to believe him. For a time, Mama scoffed at the idea that her eldest daughter could communicate with departed souls, but after several visitations from friends and acquaintances that had met with violent, premature deaths, she began to explore the possibility that perhaps she’d been wrong in calling me crazy.

  The first time had been when Scarlett Cantrell, a local television celebrity, had been murdered in my beauty salon with a facial mask, of all things. Sound crazy? Well, the crazy part happened later when her ghost showed up threatening to take up permanent residence in Dixieland Salon if I didn’t help solve her untimely demise. Owning a haunted beauty shop in the Deep South wasn’t a prize to be desired, so I tracked down the killer and before long, Scarlett zoomed off to that fabled golden city in the sky.

  The second time had come in the midst of the fall Pecan Festival. While conducting tours out at Pineridge Plantation, I stumbled upon a ghost with a terrible secret that kept him bound to the blood-soaked land. Before I could high-tail it out of there, I had an ancient key that would unlock a century-and-a-half old mystery involving lost Confederate gold and murder. Of course, to make my life a living hell, Theodore Herrington keeled over dead during the pecan pie contest, and the finger of suspicion pointed directly at Daddy. I solved that case, too. Well, with Scarlett’s help, of course. She describes herself as an overworked heavenly private eye who hires her services out to the dearly departed.

  It sounds like a child’s tale, but believe me, I’m not making this stuff up. But thankfully everything had finally calmed down, and at the moment I find myself ghost-free. Of course, with it being Halloween, and the evening still young, I’m keeping my fingers crossed that I’ll make it through the night without all hell breaking loose on my quiet, sleeping hometown. Little did I know, Halloween was to herald in one of the biggest mysteries I would ever encounter.

  Later that evening I was finishing up the last touches of my Halloween costume for Mama’s cookbook launch party when the doorbell rang. I glanced over at the digital clock on the bedside table, noting that my date had arrived several minutes early. Settling the mask over my eyes and the cowboy hat on my head, I hurried to the front door to discover a tall, dark-haired Native American standing on my front porch. He whistled, flashed me a wicked smile, and pointed at his white Lexus SUV. “Ke-mo sah-bee, your horse awaits.”

  Laughing, I locked the door behind me and took Preston’s hand. “Then let’s saddle up, Tonto, and hurry along before we miss all the fun.”

  “Didn’t you tell me that this party is being given by that famous author who writes those erotic vampire books?” Preston asked me once we’d settled into his car.

  I adjusted the toy gun and holster strapped to my hips before fastening the seat belt. “Yeah, Vanessa van Allen and Mama are close buddies. She mentored Mama through the process of writing her cookbook. Since it was just released, Vanessa had the idea of combining a Halloween party with a book launch. The caterer used only recipes taken from Mama Tucker’s Ole Fashioned Southern Good Eats.”

  “Hey, catchy name,” he said. “How do I get my hands on one? No, make that two. I’d like to give one to my mother for Christmas. She collects cookbooks, you know. She’s got all of Trisha Yearwood’s. Maybe your momma will become a famous Southern chef, too.”

  I considered my newest beau and a warm, fuzzy feeling washed over me at his enthusiastic prediction of Mama’s future. Preston Neally was a nice guy. Not handsome, but presentable. Younger than me by several years, and a successful doctor to boot. We’d met through an online dating service, and he’d been a welcome surprise after I’d endured several disastrous first dates with my other daily matches. At least he still had his natural teeth! You wouldn’t believe how many toothless guys I’ve met this past year. I’m tempted to swear off dating completely. I can’t face another blind date no matter how “cute” he promises to be.

  Bradford’s rugged face resurfaced in my memory before I could stifle it. The previous warm, fuzzy feeling vanished under the onslaught of piercing blue eyes that seemed to mock me and cause my insides to clench with despair. Whiskey Creek Police Detective, Samuel Bradford, my former boyfriend. He dumped me over a ghost, and I’m still fantasizing that he’ll see the error of his way and beg me to take him back. At the moment, my fantasy’s failed to materialize. He’s moved on with another woman more to his liking.

  A heavy sigh escaped my lips. Preston reached out, lacing his fingers with mine. “Worried about tonight? I wouldn’t fret overmuch. I’m sure your mother’s cookbook will be well received.”

  My face relaxed into what I hoped was an engaging smile. “You’re right, Preston. Everything will go off without a hitch. What could possibly go wrong on a night such as this? Although anything can happen with that weird group of writers Mama’s hanging around with. Wait till you meet them and you’ll see what I mean.”

  He brought my hand to his lips and dropped a gentle kiss on my gloved knuckles.

  “Everything will be perfect, you’ll see. Most authors are normal people. I’ll bet they’ll be on their best behavior tonight.”

  “You would think that, but writers and alcohol don’t mix, and from what I’ve heard of their parties, I’m not sure someone won’t end up face-first in the punch bowl.”

  “Relax, sweetie. It’ll be an enchanting evening.”

  Whether or not it would be an enchanting evening I couldn’t predict. Bradford would be there, and the grapevine had it that he and Vanessa van Allen had hooked up, and this would be the first time we would come face-to-face in a social setting with our new lovers since our breakup last year.

  Oh well, one could hope. But for good luck I crossed my fingers and sent up a silent prayer. Oh, Sweet Jesus, Chief of the Supreme Mystery, please don’t let me be the first one in the punch bowl.

  ****

  Vanessa’s Doublegate home blazed like a giant, leering jack-o’-lantern. The landscapers had festooned the white brick, three-storied, colonial mansion to the hilt with the newest and scariest Halloween decorations. Warm, yellow light spilled from every window mingling with the music and laughter that could be heard from the open, front, double doors as we pulled up behind a line of cars parked along the street.

  “I believe the party has started without us.” Preston handed me out of the passenger side, tucking my hand into the crook of his arm, and led me up to the front entrance and into the crowded foyer—where Snow White and her Prince stood waiting to greet their guests.

  Vanessa van Allen welcomed us with a light handshake and a demure smile, all the while eyeballing me up and down. “Do come right in.” She waved an impatient hand. “Ah, Jolene, Annie Mae said you had a flair for the dramatic.” Her drawl was cool and amused, but her amber gaze turned frosty upon my entrance. “And who is this handsome Tonto?”

  I ignored her and stole a quick glance at her Prince. Sam Bradford. Blue hypnotic eyes moved over my person in one slow, continuous movement bringing to mind the many times his fingers had taken the same stimulating trail across my naked flesh. I
shivered, broke eye contact, and took a deep, steadying breath. Preston’s solid arm slid around my shoulders reminding me of his presence and my lack of manners.

  “Vanessa van Allen and Samuel Bradford meet my date, Dr. Preston Neally,” I said over the increasing din.

  The two men shook hands and eyed each other pleasantly, but with a subtle undertone that lightened my mood. Really, this might turn out to be a great party after all. Perhaps Preston had been right in saying this would be an enchanting evening. But first, a tall, cool glass of something intoxicating to ease me into the mood.

  “Your parents are here, as are your sisters.” Vanessa interrupted my thoughts. “I believe you’ll find them over by the book display.”

  I turned away and scanned the jammed room. Billie Jo, dressed as a Raggedly Ann doll, stood only a few feet away, fanning herself and looking wilted. Her husband, Roddy, costumed as Raggedly Andy, bent close over her with a worried expression. Despite the opened double doors, the cool evening air made hardly a dent in the warm, stuffy house, and I wondered if she too felt stifled by the press of bodies.

  As Preston and I wove our way across the room, I caught snatches of conversation:

  “…Vanessa has outdone herself with this cookbook. It’s sure to be a best-seller…”

  “…Peaches Fletcher Noble is surely to be the winner in this year’s Romance Writer…”

  “…I heard the Terminator is here and ready to slash her latest work.”

  “…I actually talked with her agent. He wants to see my work!”

  “…Firebrand Publications is always on the lookout for fresh, young faces, and voices, of course…”

  A woman in a blue feathered costume lifted her glass in a toast with her identically dressed partner as we scooted past and reached my sister and brother-in-law. A passing waiter stopped to offer us a glass of wine, either red or white. I seized a glass of white from the tray, took a sip, and then another. Preston and Roddy shook hands.

  I fanned my face with a free hand. “Whew, it’s warm for October. Are you okay, Billie Jo? You don’t look well.