Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1999

While it’s true Granny was dead set against the marriage, I had difficulty believing we should take that literally. I lowered my hand without knocking, turned, and walked into Granny’s room instead.

Granny’s belongings lay where she’d left them. I fingered a ball of yam from her knitting basket. A tear slid down my cheek.

“Well, it’s nice to know someone cared!” A voice behind my back startled me. “I knew I could count on you, Dallas,” said a young woman swathed in a fringed red chemise with matching headband and beads nearly down to her knees.

“What are you doing in here?”

“I spent a good portion of my life in here.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Really, Dallas! Don’t you recognize your Granny Grace?”

My Granny Grace? I was deciding what to do about this psycho when she said, “All right. If you must see.”

Right before my eyes she shifted into the shape of the old woman I had known. My knees didn’t take time to shake. They simply folded me ungracefully to the floor.

“Now, Dallas, you can’t possibly be afraid of your great-granny.” She faded, then popped back as the flapper. “Much better. Looking twenty-one again is the best part of being dead.” She floated up and hovered over the desk. “This is grand! Nothing hurts!”

I pulled myself to my feet. “How come you’re not knocking on the Pearly Grates, looking for Great-grandpa Rhett?”

“All in due time.” She dropped into a more normal position. “First, we have to do something about Savannah. She’s about to marry a reprobate.”

“It runs in the family. Why are you so excited about this particular one?”

“He’s a St. James.”

“A very prominent family, not to mention filthy rich.”

“Filthy’s the word all right. That’s how the old man made it — bootlegging, gambling, prostitution, and a few other rackets to boot. I’ll die before I’ll see a St. James in this family.”

“You did.”

“Don’t sass your elders.”

“Savannah is determined to marry Langston St. James. Just because his great-grandfather was a crook doesn’t mean he is.”

“Trust me. That polished veneer is covering the same sleazy genes. We’re going to stop this wedding.”

We? I didn’t like the sound of that. “Granny, it’s been very nice seeing you so... ah... young and spunky, but I’d really rather remember you the way you were. Savannah never listens to me anyway.”

“Not so fast, Dallas. I’ve been checking out this ghost stuff.”

“You always did keep up with the times.”

“Some of it is very liberating, but it has drawbacks. You pretty well have to be attached to something — a house, a person, something. I’ve latched onto you.”

“Me?”

“There’s no reason to haunt the house. It’s not going to the wedding.”

I ran a mental check of acceptable reasons for my not going either. It didn’t take long; death or the intensive care unit. Being kidnapped by terrorists was just a maybe. Anything less I would hear about until Mother’s dying breath.

Mother had completely rescheduled the wedding before the intended groom arrived for the funeral. (She is frightfully efficient at whatever she does except choosing husbands.) Of course, Savannah took full credit. She’d managed a complete metamorphosis for Langston’s benefit.

Overall, Granny was pleased with her official sendoff to the Great Beyond, even though she’d opted not to go, but her mood darkened when we returned home. She was bobbing around trying to dump Langston’s drink in his lap, but her hand passed right through it. Obviously, only I could see her.

The epitome of confidence, Langston stood tall, tanned, and muscular. Sex appeal oozed from his pores — so slick I was amazed he could stand up, let alone that Savannah could hold onto him. He was buttering Mother and Nana Nelle like a stack of flapjacks, and they were getting all syrupy.

Langston eased the conversation over to state politics, all the while feeling out Grandpa’s political clout. “We’re going to live here in Texas. I love the fresh air and open spaces.”

I opened a window. The heavy odor of crude oil tinged with the sour, weedy scent of manure tumbled off the breeze. Savannah slammed it shut. “We’re going to live in Austin.”

Open spaces? I suppose everything is relative.

“Although,” she continued, “I don’t know why. I think we should live on the East Coast.” Occasionally Savannah has a good idea.

“I want Savannah to be near her family. Besides,” Langston chuckled, brushing back his sunbleached hair with a well-manicured hand, “following our wives has become a St. James tradition. My brothers are scattered all over the country. We still manage to stay close.”

“And politically active,” I added. Alarms buzzed in my head. Langston’s father remained extremely influential in New York, while all his brothers had married heiresses from politically prominent families in different states — California, Pennsylvania, Illinois, Ohio. “Your relatives might add up to a lot of electoral votes.”

“Dallas!” Savannah glared at me. Mother’s mouth fell open, Grandpa frowned, and Langston fell silent. Nana just looked puzzled and ate another chocolate.