Free Southern Ruby by Belinda Alexandra Page A

ground for a moment to compose myself so they wouldn’t catch me smiling.
    â€˜When people asked Mrs Parkinson where her husband was, she answered that he’d deserted her and gone to Chicago. Given her cantankerous disposition, nobody found the story too incredible to believe or questioned that Mr Parkinson’s tolerance might have finally broken. But for years afterwards, on the anniversary of the murder, a headless ghost appeared in the neighbouring houses, pointing to the blood dripping from its neck and beckoning the occupants to follow it. Of course, people were terrified and made all sorts of bedlam to scare away the ghost.
    â€˜One night, two young men who were visiting an elderly aunt saw the hideous apparition in her parlour. One of the men shot at the wraith with his pistol, but the other said he was surethe ghost was trying to tell them something. He followed the eerie figure out the door and down the steps, struggling to keep up with its supernatural speed. It led him to the house you see here, to its back porch, before it disappeared. Although it was summer and the garden was alive with the scents of jasmine and magnolias, the young man detected a whiff of a foul odour. The next morning he went to the police, convinced there was a body under that porch.
    â€˜Sure enough, when the police investigated they found the decayed corpse of Mr Parkinson — but not his head. The wife was found guilty of murder and hanged for her crime, but even as she went to the gallows she refused to say what she’d done with her husband’s head. Some say she burned it in the fireplace. Others say she cooked it and served the flesh to the niece as a chicken jambalaya.’
    I paused, readying myself for the clincher. One of the Los Angeles men was opening and closing his fists, the other was staring at me, waiting for what was going to come next.
    I turned and pointed to a live oak tree in the garden. ‘But one thing is for certain: people around here say that on that same night once a year, Mr Parkinson’s severed head appears in that tree there and laughs raucously, knowing that his death has been avenged.’ I stared at the tree as if I was seeing a vision, then turned back to the group. ‘Today is the anniversary. Who dares to come back here with me tonight?’
    Everyone looked very uneasy and slipped me their tips quickly before slinking away. But when the men from Los Angeles tipped me five dollars each I knew that Selene Moon had triumphed!

    I gave most of the money I earned from my growing tour business to Mae for the housekeeping, but once I kept a littleback to buy Maman a lilac satin and lace slip and a chiffon peignoir to replace the ones that were worn and frayed. The delighted expression on her face when she found them hanging in her wardrobe made me feel like we were in high cotton again. If I could keep up my success as Selene Moon, maybe I could slowly get us out of our money problems.
    What could possibly go wrong? I thought, lying on my bed and dreaming up more ghost stories. But as Mae always said, it wasn’t a good idea to count your chickens before they hatched.

FIVE
Amanda
Sydney, 2005
    â€˜A mandine,’ repeated Tamara. She sipped her carrot juice and stared at the exposed brick walls and pipework of the Newtown café, deep in thought, before turning back to me with an air of appraisal. ‘It sounds exotic. It suits you. But I’m wondering why you’ve waited so long before telling me about your Grandmother Ruby’s letter?’
    â€˜Anything to do with my past always brings up complicated feelings that I need to process first,’ I explained. ‘It’s a big name — one that probably comes with an aristocratic history and a sense of duty. I’m not sure I can live up to it.’
    Tamara put down her glass. ‘You could grow into it,’ she replied, grinning. ‘I’m picturing a Southern belle in a satin and