Rocks & Gravel (Peri Jean Mace Ghost Thrillers Book 3) by Catie Rhodes Page B
Authors: Catie Rhodes
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tonight. Hope the weather’s been warm enough for you all.” He waited while the polite laughter died down. “Peri Jean and I want to welcome you all to the barbecue.” He tightened his arm around me as they applauded. “Thank you all for coming out, and I hope you enjoy—”
“Deputy Dean?” The voice came from the dimly lit area where some tables had been set up, so we couldn’t see the speaker, but I recognized the voice right away. Myrtle Gaudet was a harmless busybody by herself, but she became a formidable biddy when she joined forces with Loretta Brent, who happened to be the mother of Felicia Brent Fischer Holze. The two of them sat at a table near the bandstand. The tension I’d almost let go of came roaring back with its friends migraine and backache. Dean stiffened next to me as he made the same connection I had. We could do nothing but wait to see what horror she was about to shit upon all of us.
“What’s the necklace around Peri Jean’s neck?”
My legs went soft as cooked noodles, and I struggled to keep my face impassive and stand as tall as someone my height could. Dean glanced over, saw the necklace, and his shoulders relaxed a little.
“My mother gifted it to Peri Jean. It goes back several generations in my family.”
“Didn’t it used to belong to a witch?” Myrtle stood from her table and picked her way toward the stage. People hurried out of her way. They probably hoped she’d keep talking. No matter how much people like other people, they love seeing them suffer even more.
Several gasps came from around the room. I searched for Memaw, looking for support. Her face was stiff with rage. When our eyes met, she gave me a small nod of encouragement. I stood a little straighter.
“My great-grandmother was absolutely, positively not a witch.” Dean probably didn’t sound angry to anybody else in the room, but I knew him well enough to know that tone of voice. “She might have been an eccentric old lady who visited local traiteurs , but that does not make her a witch.”
Myrtle stood in front of the stage by then. She held up an electronic tablet of some sort. “But it says right here online that the necklace is magical, and you’re descended from witches. Burns County don’t want no hocus pocus happening behind the scenes.”
Dean took the tablet with a trembling hand. On its screen was a post by Felicia Brent Fischer Holze on a popular social networking site. It said pretty much everything Myrtle had told the room. Dean gaped at it, his normally golden tan turning yucky green.
“Myrtle?” Julie Woodson, owner of Silver Dreams Antiques, appeared at Myrtle’s side.
Myrtle slowly turned, the triumph on her face souring. The two women exchanged sneers. Earlier in the year, Julie outbid Myrtle at an estate auction. The war started then, each woman searching for ways to make the other one look stupid.
“Who cares if the necklace belonged to one of the Salem witches? The design of the chain and setting indicate they’re at least two-hundred-fifty years old.” Julie stared down her thin nose at Myrtle. “It’s a wonderful antique piece of jewelry with a great family history. Any real antiques person should be able to appreciate it.”
I shot Julie a grateful smile. She nodded in acknowledgment. Her on-again-off-again romance with Eddie probably fueled her desire to defend my honor, but every little bit helped.
Myrtle’s mouth opened and closed several times, then her face lit with glee. “But Peri Jean Mace is a—”
My cellphone picked right then to start ringing. I dug it out of my jeans pocket and saw Eddie’s face on the screen. Had it been anybody else, I’d have ignored it, but I needed to talk to Eddie no matter what. I pressed the answer button, and Dean’s mouth dropped open in shock. Everything was going wrong for him, and I was making it worse.
“Eddie?”
“Peri Jean, baby, you gotta help me. It’s here, and I can’t stop it.” He took a
“Deputy Dean?” The voice came from the dimly lit area where some tables had been set up, so we couldn’t see the speaker, but I recognized the voice right away. Myrtle Gaudet was a harmless busybody by herself, but she became a formidable biddy when she joined forces with Loretta Brent, who happened to be the mother of Felicia Brent Fischer Holze. The two of them sat at a table near the bandstand. The tension I’d almost let go of came roaring back with its friends migraine and backache. Dean stiffened next to me as he made the same connection I had. We could do nothing but wait to see what horror she was about to shit upon all of us.
“What’s the necklace around Peri Jean’s neck?”
My legs went soft as cooked noodles, and I struggled to keep my face impassive and stand as tall as someone my height could. Dean glanced over, saw the necklace, and his shoulders relaxed a little.
“My mother gifted it to Peri Jean. It goes back several generations in my family.”
“Didn’t it used to belong to a witch?” Myrtle stood from her table and picked her way toward the stage. People hurried out of her way. They probably hoped she’d keep talking. No matter how much people like other people, they love seeing them suffer even more.
Several gasps came from around the room. I searched for Memaw, looking for support. Her face was stiff with rage. When our eyes met, she gave me a small nod of encouragement. I stood a little straighter.
“My great-grandmother was absolutely, positively not a witch.” Dean probably didn’t sound angry to anybody else in the room, but I knew him well enough to know that tone of voice. “She might have been an eccentric old lady who visited local traiteurs , but that does not make her a witch.”
Myrtle stood in front of the stage by then. She held up an electronic tablet of some sort. “But it says right here online that the necklace is magical, and you’re descended from witches. Burns County don’t want no hocus pocus happening behind the scenes.”
Dean took the tablet with a trembling hand. On its screen was a post by Felicia Brent Fischer Holze on a popular social networking site. It said pretty much everything Myrtle had told the room. Dean gaped at it, his normally golden tan turning yucky green.
“Myrtle?” Julie Woodson, owner of Silver Dreams Antiques, appeared at Myrtle’s side.
Myrtle slowly turned, the triumph on her face souring. The two women exchanged sneers. Earlier in the year, Julie outbid Myrtle at an estate auction. The war started then, each woman searching for ways to make the other one look stupid.
“Who cares if the necklace belonged to one of the Salem witches? The design of the chain and setting indicate they’re at least two-hundred-fifty years old.” Julie stared down her thin nose at Myrtle. “It’s a wonderful antique piece of jewelry with a great family history. Any real antiques person should be able to appreciate it.”
I shot Julie a grateful smile. She nodded in acknowledgment. Her on-again-off-again romance with Eddie probably fueled her desire to defend my honor, but every little bit helped.
Myrtle’s mouth opened and closed several times, then her face lit with glee. “But Peri Jean Mace is a—”
My cellphone picked right then to start ringing. I dug it out of my jeans pocket and saw Eddie’s face on the screen. Had it been anybody else, I’d have ignored it, but I needed to talk to Eddie no matter what. I pressed the answer button, and Dean’s mouth dropped open in shock. Everything was going wrong for him, and I was making it worse.
“Eddie?”
“Peri Jean, baby, you gotta help me. It’s here, and I can’t stop it.” He took a
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