A Ghostly Undertaking (2 page)

 

Chapter 2

M
urdered? There had never been a murder in Sleepy Hollow—­that I knew of.

I hadn't known what to say to Ruthie, and needed time to think things through, so I punched open the swinging door leading to the employee gathering space and headed for my office.

If I didn't think I'd be interrupted, I'd pull the shades and lie down on one of the couches to rest. That was too much to ask. Even though the employees hung out there during their breaks, during funerals the guests would also go back there to talk or visit, away from the body. Today was no different.

The couches were lined with the good citizens of Sleepy Hollow, gossiping about the abrupt death of one of Sleepy Hollow's staple residents: Ruthie.

I overheard a few of them saying they were in shock and didn't realize she was so unstable.

They
are shocked
?
I passed by them. I was shocked.

Once inside my office, I planted my back against the door. In the darkness, my heavy breathing bounced off the wood-­paneled walls, breaking the stillness in the room.

Silence.
The ghost of Ruthie Sue Payne was nowhere to be seen—­she hadn't followed me here. She'd dropped her little bombshell and skedaddled.

“Murdered.” I closed my eyes. Was it possible?

Of course one of my staff would have noticed some sign of that while they were prepping Ruthie's body. But a niggling doubt had appeared. I gave myself a good shake. “Emma Lee Raines, take ahold of yourself.”

Slipping off my high heels, I ran my hands along the wall and walked into the bathroom, flipping on the light switch. The cold tile shocked my feet, making me jump a little.

I turned the hot water faucet on. The old pipes groaned as I held my hand under the stream, waiting, waiting. Tonight, the sound sent chills up my spine . . . and the cold stream felt like ice. My nerves were definitely on edge.

I looked in the mirror at the dark circles under my eyes.

“You
can
get control of your life.” I tapped the bags under my eyes. I once heard the power of positive affirmation could do wonders for your psyche. I was banking on that.

At last the water ran warm. Using cupped hands, I splashed warm water on my face until I felt like a drowned rat.

I grabbed the towel, dabbed the water off my face and eyed my reflection. My dull brown hair—­not to mention the dripping mascara halfway down my cheek from the water—­made me look like a boring funeral girl who just might have a case of the crazies.

“Better.”
Positive affirmation
. I smiled as I opened the medicine cabinet.

Ruthie's voice came from behind me. “Whatever you're looking for, you might want to take two. You're looking a little ghostly yourself. I'm sorry if I knocked you for a loop with my murder news, but I need your help, Emma Lee.”

The towel dropped to my feet as my mouth dropped open, too. My stomach hit my toes and bounced up, lodging in my throat. I tried to speak, but couldn't.

Surely this wasn't Ruthie. Ruthie Sue Payne would never be caught in hot pink pajamas, kitty-­cat slippers and her hair tucked in a night cap. Fingers full of rings, maybe, but
this
?

Ruthie eyed me. “What? Ghost got your tongue?”

“You
are
a ghost?” I squeezed my eyes shut and slowly opened them. I was seeing things. But she was still there, hot pink pj's and all. I dragged my finger up and down in the air. “Ruthie would never be caught dead, no pun intended, in those.”

“If I was sleeping, I would,” she said. She flung her foot out to the side; the kitty-­slipper eyes jingled along with the jewels on her hands as she did spirit fingers. “I'm a ghost and someone killed me. You are seeing me. You are the only one who sees me.”

“Doc Clyde said something about hallucinations. And I think I might be having one right this moment.” I bit my lip and paced back and forth, wondering if I should yell for Charlotte.

“He's a moron.”

Since Ruthie was so chatty, I was about to pepper her with questions. Lots of hows and whys.
How was I able to see her? Why was she talking to me?
And why did she think she'd been murdered?
But before I could, I heard a tap on my office door, then the room flooded with light. “Emma Lee?”

Ruthie's eyes widened and she put her finger up to her mouth, “Shh . . .”

“I'm here!” I screamed, hoping that it would scare the hallucination or Ruthie's ghost off. It didn't matter which one left, as long as it left.

I had never been so relieved to see Charlotte Rae poke her pretty little head into my bathroom. “Emma Lee, what are you doing in here? What happened to your makeup? Are you okay?”

She took her hand and rubbed it across my cheek, wiping off smudged makeup. For a second there, I thought she was going to spit on a napkin and go in for another rub, so I dodged to the side.

“What are you looking at?” Charlotte glanced over her shoulder. Her perfectly coifed red hair didn't move.

“Nothing.” I smiled, brushing down the front of my skirt as if there was some stray lint. “There was a lull in the visitation, so I wanted to come freshen up my makeup.”

I lied . . . for the second time tonight.

Charlotte Rae took the opportunity to look in the mirror. She grabbed the hand towel and rubbed the jeweled buttons on her jacket, making them sparkle even more. “Hurry up. The visitation is almost over. You need to go over all the final touches for the burial before tomorrow.”

Tomorrow!
Would Ruthie be gone tomorrow? I'd been so sure that Ruthie was going to be like Chicken Teater: here one minute and gone the next. Once Ruthie's body was in the ground, would she be gone . . . forever?

I had no idea—­but maybe Ruthie knew. “I'll be right out—­I just need a few more minutes.”

Charlotte Rae grabbed my arm. “No, now. The place is packed and I need your help.”

As she grabbed my arm and dragged me along, I grabbed my high heels, and actually hoped that Ruthie would stick around a while longer so I could ask those questions. Murdered. It didn't seem possible.

Back in the viewing room, the place buzzed with Sleepy Hollow residents. The first and last hours of a funeral visitation were the busiest. ­People believed that if you got there early, you got out early. Or if you got there late, you had to leave by closing time. Let's face it, who wants to be face-­to-­face with a corpse for any length of time?

Besides my crazy family, that is.

As I made my way back to Ruthie's casket, I overheard a conversation between two men sitting in one of the rows. I paused for a moment to hear exactly what they thought about her sudden death.

One gentleman hung his head and stared at his fingers, which were folded in his lap. He said, “I knew those stairs were too steep.”

The other man, who couldn't take his eyes off of Ruthie's casket, added, “That inn needs to be bulldozed. It's dangerous and old.”

“You never know.” The first man shook his head. “Ruthie was getting up in age and maybe she wasn't as with it as we thought.”

“She wasn't crazy.” The second gentleman was offended.

“Not crazy,” he corrected himself. “We aren't as spry as we use to be.”

The other man nodded in agreement. His eyes deepened along with his lines.

Leaning up against her casket, Ruthie fiddled with the jewels on her fingers. “Half of these ­people are only here to be nosy. Most of them hated me, you know. And I bet my murderer is in this very room. Who could it be . . . ? Hmm. I suppose there's no lack of suspects. Someone came up behind me and shoved me down those stairs. Could be just about anyone, including your granny, you know. She'd been itching to push me down those steps for years.”

That was true. Granny hated Ruthie. But Granny wasn't the type to murder someone and not take blame for it. She'd be going around town bragging about what she'd done.

“You're going to have your hands full trying to figure it out,” Ruthie added.

I smiled and nodded at all the ­people walking past and gawking at Ruthie's body, wondering if they could tell that I was listening to a ghost rant. But even though I couldn't openly speak to Ruthie here and now, she did have me thinking . . . about who could have killed her.

Even if Ruthie was right and all of these ­people were here to see what was going on, they all did seem to have some sadness about them. No one said a foul word about her.

“It's so good of you to stand up here to greet everyone.” One of the local elderly women patted my arm when she walked by.

It really wasn't my place to stand by the casket, it was the job of the next of kin or any sort of family. Unfortunately, Ruthie didn't have any next of kin listed on her pre-­arrangement form, nor could I find any.

I'm all she had.

I glanced over at the grandfather clock that stood in the corner. The brass weights and pendulum were polished to a high shine. Only twenty more minutes to go before everyone left and I could talk to Ruthie without fear of being overheard.

Charlotte walked up and nudged me. “I can't help but feel a little victorious that Ruthie is lying in the same spot from where she stole Earl.” There was a little pleasure in her voice. “That's some kind of karma.”

I glanced over at Charlotte and couldn't help but smile. Old Ruthie had her hand up to her nose and was wiggling her fingers with her tongue stuck out, like a six-­year-­old. Ruthie had never been this funny when she was living.

Five years ago, Earl Way Payne, Ruthie's deceased ex-­husband, had lain in the exact same spot as Ruthie . . . until Ruthie stole him.

On the day of his funeral, Earl Way's will was read, leaving Granny his half of the Inn.

Apparently, Earl Way hadn't changed his “pre-­need” funeral arrangements when he married my granny and hadn't let her know what his plans were. So, Granny had Earl Way laid out in this very viewing room as if he were the king of En­gland, with a room full of Sleepy Hollow residents here paying their respects, when O'Dell Burns marched in, rolling a casket cot, with Ruthie right behind him.

“Pick him up,” Ruthie had demanded, pointing back and forth from Earl Way's body to the basic wooden box O'Dell had wheeled in. “Go on, put him in.”

I had never seen Granny speechless, but she was that day. O'Dell picked up Earl Way's body and plopped him into that cheap pine box.

Granny had stood at the front door with her arms crossed as O'Dell barreled out of the viewing room with Earl hopping and bopping and Ruthie scurrying alongside.

And no one could do a darned thing about it, because old Earl hadn't changed the orders to make Granny in charge of his eternal rest. That duty had been left to Ruthie, and she was determined to see it out. Her way.

That was the moment when Granny decided to move into Earl's side of the Sleepy Hollow Inn and make Ruthie's life miserable.

A hymnal played through the intercom, bringing me back to reality, or the reality that I had come to know.

Some of the ­people had filtered out into the employee gathering space, while others mingled in the hallway just outside of the vestibule.

“ ‘Low in the Valley?' ” Ruthie cried out. “I know that song wasn't in my pre-­need packet. I couldn't stand that song living, let alone dead!”

We both looked at Charlotte. She had a smug smile on her face.

“Charlotte Rae Raines,” I gasped at my sister. “ ‘Low in the Valley' was not in Ruthie's ‘pre-­need' arrangements.”

Charlotte shrugged her shoulders. “Sometimes the music gets mixed up.”

This was no mix-­up. Charlotte was making a dig at Ruthie on Granny's behalf.

Ruthie was spitting mad. She vanished into thin air, which made me feel a little bit better. I was too busy watching her instead of doing my job.

I refilled the memorial cards and made sure there were plenty of mints in the glass bowls as I walked around and greeted the mourners.

There were a few ­people here I didn't recognize. Casually I walked over to the chairs and sat diagonally behind Mayor May and a gentleman I didn't know.

“Is this little hiccup going to hinder our little deal?” the man asked. He was shaped like a bull and looked like a sausage in a gray pin-­striped suit. His beefy fingers scratched his nose before rubbing the back of his football player's neck, like he was trying to work out the stress of the conversation they were having.

Mayor May smiled, batting her long eyelashes. Her teeth were as white as the strand of pearls around her neck. “I'll take the proposal to the town council.”

“You better figure out who the next of kin is,” the man hinted a threat. “We'll need approval.”

I could only assume he was talking about Ruthie's next of kin. No one in town seemed to know anything about her. When I was filing all the paperwork for her arrangements, the next of kin was supposed to sign off on it. I went to the mayor and the local sheriff, Jack Henry Ross, to see if they knew anything. Neither of them had a clue. There wasn't a will to be found, either. Nothing.

Per the funeral director code of ethics, I had to do everything in my power to find Ruthie Sue Payne's next of kin.

Reaching into my suit pocket, I grabbed my cell phone and tapped the calendar application. The town council meeting was coming up and I wanted to make sure I didn't miss it—­the proposal Mayor May was talking about had me intrigued.

Ruthie appeared out of nowhere . . . again.

This time, there was something wrong with Ruthie, and it was more than just her listening to “Low in the Valley.” She darted back, forth, and leaned over her dead body.

“Where is my brooch?” She yelled so loud, I put my hands over my ears. The woman sitting next to me oddly smiled and casually got up as if the “Funeral Trauma” was like bedbugs.