Demon Hunting in Dixie. Lexi George

herself from the casket and turned around. “What have you done, Shirley?” she hiccupped.

      Mrs. Farris opened her pocketbook and pulled out a ziplock baggie. Some kind of watery fluid smeared the inside of the see-through plastic. Formaldehyde, maybe. Addy tried not to think about the particulars of her brother’s work. At rest in the bottom of the bag like an abandoned hotdog was Dwight Farris’s one-eyed monster. Or, at least Addy hoped it was Old Man Farris’s one-eyed monster. She’d never met this particular monster . . . until now, thank goodness. As Addy stared, she could have sworn the thing winked at her.

      “Your sugar’s not here, and even if we find him, he won’t be the same,” Shirley said. “What’s more, you won’t be diddling my husband in the afterlife. Nobody will, ’cause I got his winky right here. This winky is finally all mine, and it’s going to stay that a-way. I’m going to have it buried with me. I’m going to hold it in my cold dead hand. I’m taking this winky with me through the Pearly Gates. Not even Saint Peter’s prying this cold dead winky out of my hand. But maybe—if Dwight asks me real nice, mind you—I might let him have his winky back in the hereafter. But only on special occasions and only if he plays tiddley winks with me, and nobody else.”

      “You crazy bitch!” Bessie Mae launched herself at Mrs. Farris.

      Growling like a pack of dogs after a meat wagon, the two women hit the floor and wallowed around. The family gathered in a circle to watch the catfight. Shirley’s dress rolled up like a window shade, exposing her chubby behind. The moon was full, and it wore support hose and flowery granny panties.

      “My eyes, my eyes.” Shep staggered back and collapsed into a chair beside his mother.

      “Shep, don’t just sit there,” Addy cried. “Do something!”

      “I can’t. All I can see is Shirley’s big flowery butt. I think my retinas may be permanently scarred.”

      “Well, somebody has to do something. They’re going to murder each other.”

      “Give me that weenie,” Bessie Mae screeched, making a grab for the baggie in Shirley’s hand.

      Shirley slammed her fist into the side of Bessie Mae’s head. “You stay away from this weenie, Bessie Mae Brown. This weenie’s been Fabreezed and Cloroxed. I like to never got your coochie juice off it.”

      “Mercy,” Bitsy Corwin moaned, and slid off the chair and onto the floor.

      “Mama!” Addy rushed over. “Shep, what’s the matter with her?”

      Shep’s shoulders shook. He lifted his head. Tears streamed down his face. “Fainted,” he gasped. “I think it was hearing the words ‘coochie’ and ‘juice’ in the same sentence.”

      Bessie and Shirley crashed into the flowers in front of the casket.

      “My flowers!” Addy cried. “Shep, call the police before they wreck the whole place over Dwight Farris’s ding dong.”

      Shep whooped and fell out of his chair.

      Addy grabbed a vase of cut flowers off the lacquered chinoiserie table by the door. She was standing over Shep and Mama pouring water on them when Brand stalked into the room.

      Chapter Eight

      Addy stared at Brand in shock. He’d traded his black leather warrior garb for a crisp white cotton shirt and a pair of silk and wool blend dress slacks. The new clothes fit him to perfection. If anything, modern apparel showed his magnificent physique to greater advantage. Talk about your sartorial splendor. Wowza. Conan meets GQ. Good God, it ought to be illegal for anyone to look so good. If he looked this yummy in dress duds, she couldn’t wait to see him in a pair of jeans . . . or better yet, out of them. She’d like to—

      “Adara, is it your intent to drown those two unfortunate humans?” Brand said, bringing her lustful, little fantasy to a screeching halt.

      “Uh, no.” Addy tilted the vase upright.

      “Then why are you watering them?”

      “I had to do something. Mama fainted and Shep was in hysterics.”

      “I’m all right.” Shep got to his feet. He wiped the water out of his eyes and squinted at the two women rolling around on the floor. “Looks like Shirley has Bessie Mae in a camel-clutch sleeper hold. This could get ugly. Guess I’d better call the police. Addy, you take care of Mama.”

      “Sure.”

      Shep turned to leave. He stopped in front of Brand and held out his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Shep Corwin, Addy’s older brother. And you are?”

      “Well met, brother of Adara. I am Brand.”

      “Nice to meet you.” Shep eyed the bigger man up and down. “You play any ball, Brand?”

      “No.”

      “Shame. Brand your first name, or your last?”

      “Just Brand.”

      “Just Brand, is it? What are you, one of those West Coast celebrities with only one name?”

      Uh oh, the West Coast, synonymous in Shep’s conservative Southern mind with pot smoking, free love, liberals, and worst of all—gasp—tofu burgers. No self-respecting Southern male would be caught dead eating tofu. Eating tofu led to all kinds of degenerate practices, like yoga and meditation, and God forbid, art appreciation. She’d better do something fast, before Shep classified Brand as a girly man. Not that she cared what her brother thought about the big galoot. But it seemed like the nice thing to do.

      “He’s teasing, Shep,” she said. “His name is Brand . . . uh . . . uh . . .” Her brain raced like a hamster on a wheel. “Dalvahni. Yeah, that’s it, Brand Dalvahni. He’s here for the Farris funeral.”

      “Delmonte, like Viola’s husband at the Sweet Shop?”

      “No, Dal-vah-ni.”

      “Don’t believe I know any Dalvahnis. Knew a Dalboski once, but they weren’t from around here. Think they were Lithuanian, or something. You Lithuanian, Mr. Dalvahni?”

      “No.”

      “You know any Lithuanians?”

      “No.”

      “Me, neither, ’cept for the Dalboskis, and I’m not sure about them.”

      A loud whoop from the circle of mourners surrounding Shirley and Bessie Mae recalled Shep’s attention to the wrestling match across the room.

      “Well, I guess I’d best make that call before the Farris boys crack open a keg and start taking bets,” he said. “Looks to me like Bessie Mae’s the Alpo in this fight. Shirley’s giving her a beat-down, and still ain’t let go of Dwight’s trouser snake.”

      Shaking his head, Shep left the room.

      Bitsy sputtered and sat up. “What’s happening?” She blinked up at Brand in confusion. “Who are you?”

      “This is Brand Dalvahni, Mama,” Addy said. “Brand, this is my mother, Bitsy Corwin. He’s here for the Farris funeral.”

      Amazing how the lie slipped off her tongue with ease the more times she said it. Before very long, she’d believe it herself.

      Bitsy groaned and covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Lord help us, the Farris funeral. What on earth could have happened to Dwight?”

      Looking at Mama nearly gave Addy a heart attack. Mama was always put together, her hair done and her makeup flawless. She was Donna Reed doing housework in a chic frock, high heels, and pearls, a gardening goddess in a red and white Malia sundress and matching flats. But not anymore. Mascara ran down her powdered cheeks, and her stylish champagne-blond tresses lay in a sodden wad against her scalp. A big wet spot and a sprinkling of wilted lily petals marred the front of her once pristine