A young woman who talks to the dead in her dreams is accused of murder.
While planting a cherry tree, landscaper Baxley Powell’s shovel strikes something solid. Intrigued, she clears the sand away and reveals a human skull. After calling the sheriff, Baxley use her dreamwalking abilities to get a jumpstart on identifying the victim.
The deputies arrive to secure the scene. They believe she’s tampering with evidence and Taser her. Emotions flare, but the sheriff agrees to hire her as a consultant, if she closes cases. With a daughter to support and bills she can’t pay, Baxley is motivated to succeed.
Things get dicey when she unearths a murder victim on the same jobsite, planting Baxley in the suspect pool. For calling unwanted attention to her private retreat, Baxley’s landscaping client fires her, stiffing her for the plants and labor.
Meanwhile, her father retires as county dreamwalker, passing the community service responsibility along to her.
Baxley’s dreamwalking sideline competes for her time with her day jobs of landscaping and pet sitting. Folks show up on her doorstep at all hours to pass messages to the departed. Though her money problems persist, food randomly appears at her door, and her dark hair develops a telltale white streak in the forelock overnight.
Just what every young woman wants, a permanent bad hair day.
Threats to her safety mount as Baxley delves into the victim’s life – in both worlds. With a killer dogging her heels and spirits nipping at her mind, Baxley follows her dreams to find the truth.
Excerpt
Dropping to my knees, I widened the bottom of the hole with a smaller spade. When the hole was large enough for the cherry tree’s root base, I’d lime the soil to neutralize the acidity to suit the cherry. Another reason I wouldn’t have chosen this plant to go in next to pine trees.
I was making good progress, opening the hole and deepening it when my shovel glanced off a hard object.
Something rock-like.
In coastal Georgia, we had few rocks. Granted, an early settler might have placed a rock here, but what were the odds of me digging it up? No rocks had been unearthed near the big house, and they’d pushed mounds of dirt around, evening up the land, filling a natural swale where Carolina wanted the house sited.
I could pry the rock out of there. But there was something about the distinctive gray color that riveted me. Something barely detectable on a sensory level. Unease rolled through my gut, weighing me down, making it hard to breathe.
Should I touch the object?
Whatever it was, the energy coming from it was minimal. Was it plant matter from the roots I’d exhumed? Possibly. But I doubted that explanation.
More likely, it was a gray rock I’d found. Rocks had found their way to the Georgia coast as ship ballast during Colonial times. This could be a ballast rock.
Despite my logic, my unease mounted. After learning the hard way to trust my instincts, I respected them. Something about this hidden object tripped all my senses.
I could call someone. But who? And what would I say? I dug up a rock and it might be important? Who would believe that I was scared to touch a rock?
Get a grip, Baxley. It’s probably just a rock. I fetched my new trowel and knelt beside the hole. I held my gloved hands about a foot over the object and concentrated, hoping that the closer proximity would give a stronger signal.
No change.
Only a faint wisp of energy.
Self-preservation wouldn’t let me dig unshielded. I fortified my senses with sturdy imagery and moved sandy soil away from the object, bit by bit. With each pass of the trowel, my nerves pinged.
The exposed shape was rounded like a summer melon. It didn’t resemble a polished rock. The smooth texture seemed bony.
I shivered. Was this the remains of something or someone? A lump formed in my throat. Let it be an animal, I wished silently. Let it be something other than human remains.
I lowered down on my belly and brushed away the remaining dirt with my gloved fingers. Stroke by stroke until the empty orbs of twin eye sockets stared back up at me.
There was no mistaking the species.
I’d found a human skull.
Professional Reviews
Gone and Done It
“A landscaper uses her psychic powers to solve murders old and new . . . the last thing she wants is to unearth an ancient skeleton right where she’s supposed to plant a weeping cherry tree. The unfortunate discovery brings her job to a grinding halt . . . as Baxley moves closer to taking over her father’s role as county dreamwalker, her waking life is threatened by a murderer who’d prefer not to be caught. Toussaint takes a break from her Cleopatra Jones series for a brisk plunge into the paranormal.” -- Kirkus Reviews
Gone and Done It
A landscaper uses her psychic powers to solve murders old and new. Baxley Powell is desperate to finish her latest job. Carolina Byrd won’t pay her a cent until Mallow Plantation’s grounds are completely planted, and Baxley needs the money to keep herself and her daughter, Larissa, afloat, since the Army won’t concede that her MIA husband is dead and won’t pay death benefits. So the last thing she wants is to unearth an ancient skeleton right where she’s supposed to plant a weeping cherry tree. The unfortunate discovery brings her job to a grinding halt as Sheriff Wayne Thompson sends deputies Virg and Ronnie to investigate. Even Bo Seavey, the county’s lecherous coroner, can see that the folks Baxley unearthed died a long time ago. But that news just brings Running Wolf and his wife, Gentle Dove, to the site claiming the remains must be part of a First Nation burial site, so Baxley still can’t get back to work. Since touching the skull triggered visions of a family of white settlers, Baxley knows the remains aren’t Native American—so she sneaks back onto Mallow to try to plant apodocarpus. This time, the body she unearths is much more recent. Her latest find sets off visions of a beautiful young woman named Lisa who sits weeping for her lover, Jay, and the baby born of their illicit affair. Finding the third side to the triangle may help Baxley convince Wayne to hire her as a police consultant. As Baxley moves closer to taking over her father’s role as county dreamwalker, her waking life is threatened by a murderer who’d prefer not to be caught. Toussaint takes a break from her Cleopatra Jones series (Dime if I Know, 2013, etc.) for a brisk plunge into the paranormal. -- Romantic Times
