Flesh And Blood. Caroline Burnes

young, and they both sounded unstable. Hopped up on some type of drugs more than likely. The best thing to do was to remain calm. If no one provoked them, they would probably take the money and some liquor and leave. Several stores in the downtown Jackson area had been hit by armed robbers lately. The Mississippi capital had never been a hotbed of crime, but the economic downturn and the high unemployment rate were taking a toll.

      The young woman several feet away had begun to whimper in fear. Frank wanted to warn her to stay quiet. These robbers wouldn’t need much to push them to another act of cruelty. They would certainly feed off the young woman’s fear.

      “Something wrong, bitch?” The robber called Diamond walked up to the woman’s side. He nudged her in the ribs with the toe of his shoe. “You got a complaint?”

      “No,” she managed to gasp. “No problem.”

      “That’s good. ’Cause if you had a problem, I’m afraid I’d have to solve it for you.”

      There was the sound of a gun cocking.

      “You wouldn’t like my solution!” The robber laughed, a high-pitched sound that mixed with his companion’s deeper laugh and the soft sobbing of the woman.

      Frank concentrated on their voices. If he ever heard them again, he’d know them. Diamond was obviously a nickname of some type. He carried an antique revolver. Frank looked at their shoes, searching for details that might prove useful when the police arrived. They were running shoes. Expensive. Brand new. He didn’t have to ask where a couple of punks found the money to buy two-hundred-dollar running shoes. They did some running, but not for fitness reasons.

      “Hey, this little mama’s sort of pretty.” The robber was still standing over the crying woman. He reached down and pulled her from the floor. She cried aloud with fear. “We got time for a little fun, cousin?”

      The robber in the blue windbreaker had sacked up the money. He came out from behind the counter and stood on the other side of the crying woman. “Make it quick, before anyone else stumbles in here.”

      Diamond grabbed the woman by her hair. She hid her face in her hands and sobbed.

      “Put her down.” Frank rolled onto his side where he could look at the two men. He’d tolerated all he could. They’d gone beyond their original goal of robbery. If he didn’t stop them now, they might kill everyone in the store. “Get the money and go. You don’t want any trouble here.”

      “That’s right, and we don’t intend to have any.” Diamond tugged the woman’s hair until she cried out.

      “You think you’re gonna stop us?” The windbreakered robber ended his question on a sneer.

      Frank held his position on the floor. He didn’t want to challenge them, but someone had to stand up to them. With a bit of luck, they’d decide it wasn’t worth the hassle. “Just take the money and go, before someone gets hurt.”

      “You giving orders to us?” Diamond asked. He raised his gun in a fast, practiced motion. His grip on the woman’s hair loosened and she fell to the floor, too scared even to cry.

      “You have what you came for. Be smart and go while you can.” To Frank’s relief, the gunmen started to back away, even though they both aimed their guns at him. The bottle of chilled champagne was still at his side, and Frank had a brief image of Emma. She’d be standing at the front window, looking out into the street and wondering why he was late. She wouldn’t be worried about him—not yet—and he’d never tell her of this episode. He’d convince Robert not to mention it to her, either.

      The robbers were at the door. The one in the leather jacket paused. “You know, you talk too much.”

      Before Frank Devlin could lift a hand in self-defense the bullet penetrated his brain. In a matter of seconds he was dead.

      Chapter One

      Grief is a peculiar emotion, as slippery as an eel. As deadly as a snake. It comes and goes in the dead of the night, or on the sunniest of days. It visits in the guise of memory, a dream or a too sudden thought of the future.

      I know it well.

      Before my decision to come to Ravenwood Plantation in Vicksburg, Mississippi, I thought I was beyond the anguish of first loss. There were times when the acuteness of missing Frank would take me unawares. I would suddenly miss him with an ache so deep that I had to stand and pace the floor.

      Two years had passed since his murder, and I thought I had accepted his death. He was in a liquor store buying champagne for our fifth anniversary when he was killed in an armed robbery. A senseless act of violence. An act that changed my life forever.

      I had adjusted to the grief, but I was completely unprepared for the guilt and desperation that came with Frank’s first “visit” to me—after his death.

      In all of our marriage we had respected and trusted each other. When Frank’s ghost stood at the foot of my bed and accused me of betrayal, the terror was even greater than the pain. Not a fear of Frank, but a deep and gnawing concern that I had begun to lose my mind.

      Self-doubt is almost as debilitating as guilt. Standing at the locked gate of the old plantation, I was filled with all sorts of loathsome anxieties. I was afraid, alone and confused. Once a proud and strong woman, I had been reduced to a superstitious creature willing to try anything to understand the nocturnal visits of a dead husband. Either I was going stark raving mad, or Frank’s ghost had something important to tell me. Before I gave in to my fears of the former, I was going to make one last-ditch effort to explore the latter. Ravenwood was the place where I might find the key to unlocking Frank’s words of accusation. I was a desperate woman.

      I had come to find Mary Quinn, a young girl dead since 1863. But her love for a young man called Charles Weatherton was stronger than death, stronger than war. If my prayers were to be answered, her love would prove stronger even than a hundred years of time. It is said in Mississippi legends that Mary’s ghost returns to earth to intervene in misunderstandings between lovers who’ve been separated by an act of violence.

      I haven’t taken on this mission lightly. I know that some people would call it macabre or morbid. Others would say that I am insane. I only know that I’m willing to try anything. Anything. To stop Frank’s accusations of betrayal. I can live with my grief at his death, but I cannot live with his condemnation, especially when I have no idea why he thinks I’ve betrayed him.

      Before I’m written off as a crackpot, let me assure you that when I first heard of Mary Quinn’s ghost, I was a complete skeptic. Mary’s legend is well known in Mississippi, part of the lore of the Old South. I’d never put much stock in such stories. They’re rich in local color and emotion but often short on fact. But I was younger then, happily married, and immune to the type of tragedy that might make one consider looking to a spirit for help.

      Life, and loss, have softened me. There are fewer blacks and whites and many more shades of gray. I suppose it could be said that now I want to believe. I need to believe in something, or someone.

      My friends accuse me of still being in love with Frank. That, I suppose, is the brush with which I’ll be tarred. I do still love him. Intensely. Ours was not a trivial love, not one easily dismissed by even the finality of death. Without being overly dramatic, I can say that I never expect to love anyone but Frank.

      So why, then, has Frank begun to visit me in the dark hours of the night, pointing his finger and speaking of betrayal? Five years ago I would have laughed at the idea of a woman so desperate that she would consult a spirit. Today I find myself standing at the gates of Ravenwood Plantation.

      Before I’m labeled a maladjusted hysteric, consider that I’ve done everything within reason to resolve my problem, including several trips to a highly acclaimed psychiatrist. He spoke to me of guilt and how it can manifest itself in dreams and visions. He has recommended “stringent rest,” a contradictory term that escapes normal comprehension, but when translated from the shadowy jargon of