Death Crashes the Party (24 page)

Chapter 1

I entered Town Square Diner and spotted Morgan Robison, who despite my druthers was meeting me for lunch. She was strategically positioned in a corner booth licking her chops, peering over the top of her menu at a well-built, younger man seated at the lunch counter. If he was typical of Morgan's usual choice in men, he was also married.

I was seemingly invisible until I cleared my throat and spoke her name.

“Liv McKay,” she said, lifting her butt just high enough off the seat to give me a limp shoulder hug. “Sit down. I've been waiting for ages.”

“Am I late?” I asked, knowing I wasn't.

“No matter. You're here now, and we have so much to talk about.”

Morgan is president of the Professional Women's Alliance of Dixie. The group's unfortunate acronym is commonly pronounced
pee wad
. Our conversation mostly consisted of Morgan giving me marching orders for PWAD's annual retreat, set for the coming weekend.

“You're just a doll for taking care of this for me, Liv,” Morgan said, answering the buzz of her cell phone as she leapt up from the table and hurried on her way—leaving me with the bill. But I figured picking up the check was a small price to pay for her to go away.

I strolled back to the office on the opposite side of the square, from which I operate my party-planning business. The October air was crisp and the red maples in front of the courthouse dabbed flames against the sky. Hay bales, gourds and scarecrows decorated several storefronts.

Before going up to my office, which is located above Sweet Deal Realty, I tucked into the real estate office to chat with Winette King, who works there as an agent. The bell on the front door jingled as I entered.

“How was lunch?” Winette said.

“I had lunch with Morgan Robison.”

“You have my condolences,” she said. “I suppose Morgan issued your assigned duties for the retreat. She e-mailed me my to-do list.”

“What's she dumping on you?” I asked.

“Clean-up. I'm sure she thinks my people are well suited to cleaning. I probably remind her of the mammy she had as a child.”

“No, she didn't,” I said.

“Oh yes, she did.”

Since Winette is the only active member of PWAD who's African-American—not to mention that she stands head and shoulders above Morgan in intellect, heart and moral fiber—it really chapped my hide that Morgan would ask her to do the clean-up. I can't say, however, that it came as a complete surprise. Morgan was raised with a silver spoon, the only child of one of the wealthiest families in the county. She's a vice-president of Dixie Savings and Loan. Her major qualification for the job is that her daddy owns the bank.

After standing with my mouth agape for a moment, I said, “I'll help with the cleaning up.”

“You bet you will,” Winette said, matter-of-factly.

“Better yet if you'd like, I'll swap jobs with you. Morgan wants me to babysit our guest speaker, Lucinda Grable.”

“That ghost woman on TV?”

“Yep.”

“No, thank-you. I'd just as soon hang onto my broom and dustpan,” Winette said.

Unless you count the lady who won a set of luggage on
The Price is Right
, Lucinda Grable is the only television celebrity that the town of Dixie, Tennessee can lay claim to. She hosts a “paranormal reality” series on cable, called P.S. Ghost Encounters. The P stands for psychic and the S stands for scientific. I'm not sure how much of the show qualifies as scientific, or reality, for that matter. But it is entertaining.

Lucinda provides the psychic element as she senses and sometimes even talks to ghosts. She works with a team of investigators who use infrared cameras and other specialty equipment to demonstrate that some otherworldly phenomena are supposedly present.

“This may be a silly question, but is there any practical or sane reason that we're having a psychic as the guest speaker at our professional women's retreat?” Winette asked.

“Lucinda's supposed to tell us how she built her local ghost hunting business into a television empire. But, she's also going to try to make contact with ghosts in that little family cemetery down the hill from the lodge.”

“Lord, help us,” Winette said.

“Okay, Winette, I'm headed upstairs. Do you know what Mr. Sweet is up to? I haven't seen him at all today, or yesterday for that matter.”

Nathan Sweet is my landlord and the “Sweet” of Sweet Deal Realty.

“He's involved in the development of that new shopping center they're building up on the highway. He spends more time investing in new development these days than he does in selling existing properties,” she said. “The old coot's probably still got the first dollar he ever made, but he's busy making more money. You'd think at his age he'd want to retire and enjoy spending some of that legal tender before he kicks the bucket.”

“Are you kidding? I bet he outlives both of us,” I said.

“You're probably right,” Winette said, tossing her head back and letting loose a room-filling laugh.

While my office is directly above Sweet Deal Realty, the entrance to the staircase leading up to the office is next door beneath a green awning that displays the name of the business, Liv 4 Fun. I had to choose a short business name, since the width of the glass door comprises the entirety of my street frontage. There's no restroom upstairs, so my rent includes use of the facilities in the real estate office. Not completely convenient, but the rent's cheap and the location on the square is primo.

I had settled in at my desk and had touched base with a couple of vendors when my cell phone rang. I knew from the ringtone that it was my mother, but I answered anyway.

“Liv, jump in your car and get over here right this minute,” she said in a panicked voice.

“Mama,” I said. “What's happened? Are you okay?”

I heard some kind of tapping sounds.

“Oh, dear Lord,” Mama said in a breathy voice before the phone went dead.

I grabbed my purse and raced down the stairs, hurrying to my car without even taking time to lock the office door.

My mom lives in a neighborhood just east of the town square, so I was in her driveway within four or five minutes of backing out of my parking space.

I rushed in through the kitchen door, which is never locked, and started calling for her. I ran through the house worried I might find her unconscious—or worse.

I finally found my mama, who stands almost six feet and weighs well over two hundred pounds, cowering in the doorway to the back porch, her eyes transfixed. She had one hand clutched to her chest and the other was holding a hoe.