“My mama says we’re born in sin.”
Uh-oh. She had that crazy look in her eye. “Sip that nice cocktail,” I said.
“I’m only sixteen. I’m too young to drink. That would be a sin.”
Oh, legions of the devil, that was the wrong thing to say. “Sure.” I reached up for the drink. “I’m old enough to drink.” I knocked it back.
“I’m going to the prom.”
I realized then she was in a pastel prom dress. “Maybe you should rethink that choice.”
“Tommy is taking me. I’m his date.”
“Eh, maybe go to dinner instead of the prom.”
She shook her head. “I have a date. No one is going to stop me. Not my mother, and certainly not you.” Sparks flicked in her eyes and I saw dancing flames.
“Right. I have no desire to stop you. Just giving some alternatives. Dances are so … last year.” I had little experience talking with teenage girls. Especially not fictional teenagers from a bloodbath horror movie.
Carrie held out her hand and a little flame jumped up from her palm. That was my signal to head inside and alert the others to run for their lives.
“Ha-ha, hold up, Sarah Booth.” The voice that called out to me was rich, lazy with an old Mississippi Delta drawl. “I really had you going, didn’t I?”
When I turned around, Jitty stood there with buckets of blood dripping off her. I gave a little shriek and nearly tripped over a wicker chair.
“Hold up there, missy,” Jitty said, wiping the blood out of her eyes. “I never realized scaring you could be such fun!”
“If you weren’t dead, I’d kill you.” I had been within twenty feet of rushing in the door of the B and B and making a total fool of myself.
“Now, now. I was just spoofin’ you.”
“I think you just aged my ovaries another two years.” That would get her goat. “Stress isn’t good for the reproductive system. What if you killed off my last viable egg? And what are you doing pretending to be the victim in a horror movie from the 1970s?”
“Makin’ a point about sin.”
Her very direct answer stopped me in my tracks. “What point?”
“What was the biggest sin in that movie?”
It was so Jitty to answer a question with a question. “Why don’t you just tell me to be sure I get it straight?”
She grinned, and slowly the blood disappeared and my favorite haint, wearing some really bad 1970s fashion, took a seat on the arm of a sofa. “You can figure it out if you give it some effort. And you’d better figure it out.”
“Jitty!”
She was starting to fade just as a choir began singing an old classic hymn. “Are you washed in the blood, in the soul-cleansing blood of the Lamb? Are your garments spotless? Are they white as snow?”
“Jitty, you are going to burn in hell for co-opting a real hymn in your foolishness,” I whispered fiercely after her. Just as the back door opened I heard a little yip of laughter and she was gone. Cece stepped outside.
“Are you out here rehearsing by yourself?” she asked.
“Exactly.” It was better to own up to being an insecure actor than a crazy woman who talked to dead people and fictional characters.
“Come back inside. It’s cold out here.”
And indeed it was. I simply had been so scared that I hadn’t noticed. “Good plan.” I picked up my empty glass and hurried inside behind Cece before Jitty decided to pop out and scare another ten years off my life.
At last I had a moment alone with Coleman and I was able to share with him Jerry Goode’s actions. I tugged him toward the terrace to talk. He slipped on his heavy coat and followed me.
“You sure you saw his shoes and shirt?” Coleman was having difficulty buying into the story that Goode was bumping uglies with Clarissa Olson.
“The uniform shirt and those spit-shined black shoes were in her parlor.”
“There’s more than one police officer in town,” Coleman pointed out.
“I know what I saw. And then Tinkie and I both saw him driving away.”
“In a patrol car?”
“No, it was a silver sports car.”
“Did you get the plates?”
“No. But we saw him. He was wearing his uniform hat.”
“That’s what I’m having trouble with.”
I leaned my head against Coleman’s shoulder. “Why?”
“Most officers don’t wear their hats when they’re driving. They take them off, then grab them as they get out of the vehicle, and put them on.”
It was an action I’d seen Coleman perform at least a million times. He was right. Driving in a hat wasn’t all that comfortable. “So what are you thinking?” I asked him.
“Not certain. Yet. Waiting for a hunch to kick in.”
Coleman certainly had hunches, but he didn’t base his law enforcement decision on his “gut.” “I’m serious, Coleman, what do you think?”
“I think I’m going to have a conversation with Goode. Until then, I withhold an opinion. Now…”—he checked his watch—“I’m going to find the good law officer. Make my excuses to Darla and the others. I’ll be back in an hour, in plenty of time to get into my costume and be ready for the mumming.”
“What about something to eat?”
“I’m stuffed full of Darla’s party snacks. She sure knows how to bake. And I think Harold was offering her some solace about her friend.”
“Good.” Harold was tenderhearted to a fault.
“Darla writes poetry. Harold says she’s pretty good.”
That would be another shared interest between her and Kathleen. “Is it really good poetry?” Meaning, could I understand it?
“Haven’t sampled the wares yet, but when Harold mentioned it, while you were outside, he said she’d been published.”
“She and Kathleen had a lot in common. Darla is really going to miss her friend.”
“And there’s nothing you can do about it.” He sighed. “The big Christmas parade is tomorrow, and then we head home.”
He said the last with some longing. I understood. I, too, was missing Zinnia and Dahlia House. Mostly I was missing my critters. “I hope we can wrap up this case.”
“Any indication of who’s behind
