Valentine’s Day marks the anniversary of Grandmother and Grandfather’s deaths, a day our entire family embraces the Southern tradition of calling upon our deceased family members. In previous years there’d been other families similarly visiting throughout Bonaventure Cemetery. This year it was only the three in our group as far as I could see.

“Here, Tabby. Take this.” Sage shoved her picnic basket my way and bent down to scooch out of her strappy sandals. Relief radiated from her face. The ruffles on her filmy dress and her curtain of shiny dark hair fluttered in the light breeze of an unseasonably warm winter day. “The sand gets in my shoes every time. It’s annoying.”

I eyed my fraternal twin sister with suspicion. Due to centuries of changing sea levels, all of the Georgia coast and north to the fall line running across the state from Columbus to Augusta was a succession of sand dunes and prehistoric ocean floor. In high traffic areas like the cemetery, sand predominated the narrow ruts of unpaved lanes. “It’s always sandy here. You prefer going barefooted in the graveyard. Why can’t you own it?”

“I admit nothing,” Sage shot back, darting away before I could hand off the basket.

As if I could make her wear shoes. She preferred going shoeless year-round while I had opted for hiking boots to make sure in an absent-minded moment I didn’t twist my ankle again. I hefted my double load and followed her, thankful for the ponytail holder keeping my blonde hair out of my face.

My boyfriend, Dr. Octavian “Quig” Quigsly, gazed my way, his brown eyes masked by dark glasses, his arms bulged from carrying the large cooler of pie and drinks. There’d been a time when I compared his physique to that of Clark Kent. Now that I knew him in all senses of the word, I accepted him as a full-on Superman. He brightened my world and accepted my quirks without asking too many questions.

And I did have some quirks.

Quig also carried three collapsible canvas chairs on his back. We’d parked in a distant lot because Sage insisted we needed the exercise. “Are we there yet?” he asked.

“Follow me,” Sage said, forging ahead on the sandy lane. Overhead, Spanish moss draped over oak branches in ghostly swags, framed by a vibrant blue sky. The thick limbs gleamed with the Kelly green resurrection fern fully hydrated from yesterday’s shower. Beside us, six-foot-high azaleas and camelias screened many of the graves, with buds prominently displayed on the camelias. Soon this place would be camelia blossom central.

The cemetery was roughly three miles from our Bristol Street home in downtown Savannah, though that was too far to walk lugging all this stuff. Thank goodness Quig insisted on driving. Usually I felt peace when I entered the cemetery, but today my skin felt prickly, as if someone walked over my grave. Then my thighs and shins chilled in a most irritating way.

I shrieked and dropped the picnic basket and the blankets I held, feeling foolish about the outburst even as the icy sensation subsided. I gathered everything and stomped after my sister. “Dadgummit. Ghost dog mugged me again. Why can’t he leave me alone?”

“He luuuuvs you,” Sage teased as she spun in a circle. “Good thing he’s drawn to you because I’d retaliate if he pounced on me every time we visited.”

“There’s a ghost dog?” Quig asked.

“The cemetery boards claim Savannah cemeteries aren’t haunted,” I hedged, not wanting to get into why a ghost dog liked my energy.

“But you felt something?”

“Oh, yes, though the chilling sensation is gone already. Sage never gets ghost-hugged. Just me, the ghost dog magnet of the family.”

“You’re special that way,” Quig said.

“Perhaps.” I hated keeping certain secrets from him, but I had no choice. It was the Winslow way.

I rested the picnic basket on the Johnny Mercer memorial bench, named for Savannah’s renowned songwriter, who penned the lyrics for Henry Mancini’s “Moon River,” “Jeepers Creepers,” “I’m an Old Cowhand” and more, to shift my blankets to the other side and move the basket to a different hand.

Our family kept shrinking in number, but Sage and I continued keeping the family tradition of running The Book and Candle Shop with Gerard Smith and his cousin Eve as our clerks. Without their help, we’d be in a world of hurt.

“Where is everybody?” Sage asked, tiptoeing along one of the block borders as if it were a balance beam. “Usually this place is crawling with people. It’s unnaturally quiet. Might be a swarm of zombies around the next bend.”

So far we had encountered no one in our hike from the parking area. Guess people were keeping away from the area due to two recent homicides near the historic cemetery. We’d considered the wisdom of staying home for about five seconds. Tradition mattered more to us. Besides, Sage and I could take care of ourselves.

I drew in a breath of fresh air, that perfect blend of right-off-the-river freshness and pungent evergreen scents. “No thanks on the zombies. I look forward to a peaceful lunch. But you’re right. Even the birds are silent today.”

“Zombies,” Sage said over her shoulder as she hopped into the lane again. “Just sayin’.”

“Cut it out.” I warily scanned the headstones and monuments surrounding us. Zombies weren’t here, and I wanted the day to be perfect for Quig. “Show respect for the departed. And the quiet could stem from the recent murders in this area.”

Sage pointed to the sky. “Look.”

I looked. Six vultures circled above us, their piercing gazes stone cold. “Must be roadkill nearby.”

“Or something.” Sage halted, her voice drifting off.

I caught up with her in four quick strides and set the picnic basket in front of her. “What?”

“Looks like someone else got here first.”

I followed her gaze to the Wayfare block where my grandparents were interred. Unlike the other graves in the same plot, Dwayne and Rosemary Waltz’s twin slabs looked immaculate. Not one oak leaf remained, no bits of moss clung to the headstone either. “Huh. Wonder who cleaned their gravesite?”

“Who cares? It’s one less thing on our to-do list today. Probably a taphophile anyway.”

“A what-o-phile?” Quig asked.

“My sister is showing off, that’s what,” I said. “See the inscription underneath their dates?”

Quig read it aloud. “Felled by an assassin.”

“People who are drawn to the rituals of death, taphophiles, often make rubbings or take photos of this headstone because it’s unusual.”

His confusion radiated in erratic energy pulses. “People do that?”

I sent out a cancelling wave, and Quig’s aura calmed immediately. He didn’t know anything about my extra energetic gears, and out of necessity I kept it that way. He still gazed expectantly at me. I realized I’d forgotten to answer his question. “Some people plan their vacations around visiting historic cemeteries to take rubbings or photographs of the inscriptions.”

“This is news to me. Guess I spend too much time at the morgue and not enough at cemeteries. Nobody considers that hobby unusual?”

“Don’t know about that, but it’s usual to the people that do rubbings. There’s even an association for this group. We looked it up after Sage discovered that two-dollar word.”

“An assassin killed your grandparents?” Quig asked after reading the headstone. “Why?”

I shrugged. “We never knew. Mom said she’d tell us one day, but one day never came. Sage found their obituary in the newspaper archives, but the scant information didn’t clarify matters. We don’t know our ancestry beyond this point.”

“That’s quite a mystery,” Quig said. “With your interest in puzzle solving, I’m surprised you didn’t dig into it further. What about your aunt? Did you ask her?”

“Repeatedly. She was no help at all. Auntie O said if Mom wanted us to know she would’ve told us.”

He chuckled in disbelief. “The two of you couldn’t hound it out of her?”

“Let’s just say stubbornness is a family trait,” Sage said from the next lot over where she’d been murmuring to the plants.

She does that a lot because plants are her thing like candlemaking is mine.

“I’m the third wheel here, and I don’t want to overstep, but I don’t understand the need for secrecy within a family,” Quig said.

I shrugged in answer though I appreciated his diplomacy. “Let’s set up our chairs outside of the block outline. Last year the new grounds guy chased us out of the main plot. Just as soon not have to move once we get settled in for our visit.”

Quig lowered the cooler and placed our chairs. Sage dug inside the basket for the tin of Mom’s ashes, which she placed on the headstone. My gaze lingered on the small bronze plate with her name, Marjoram Waltz Winslow. Maybe one day we’d agree on where Mom should be buried. Until then, we’d keep her with us in the tin.

I knelt beside my twin as she said the honorary words in a reverent voice. “In the name of the heavens and earth and all the directions, we share our love for Rosemary and Dwayne and Marjoram. May their ways of spreading peace and joy be reflected in us as we make our spiritual journeys. Grant them a sacred rest, peace, and radiance until the new day dawns. So be it.”

After the ancestors’ prayer, Sage poured water from a small chalice in each ordinal direction. When she finished, we held hands and touched the ground with our other hands for a moment, sealing the prayer by grounding our shared energy.

Then she lit a small cemetery-sized tea light candle in my Savannah Sunshine scent and placed a glass globe around it so that it wouldn’t blow out or be inadvertently knocked over on the stone. The candle created an atmosphere of energetic support and heaven knows, we needed that.

Candle burning connected the physical world with the spiritual world, as we’d always been taught. However, every visit here had been calming and meditative, and I hoped that would be the case today. I focused on the inviting glow and the flame’s aura until it grew and grew. As I inhaled the sweet scent of my creation, I sent out my good intentions for family past and present.

When our ritual ended, Quig gave me a hand up and then offered one to Sage. “Ready to eat?” he asked.

I grinned at him. “Oh yeah.”

We unwrapped subs from Southern Tea on Bristol Street and then raised our canned sodas in a toast to our relatives. The coconut and salt air fragrance of my golden candle perfumed the air. Pride swelled in my chest that I’d created this scent, this sacred connection linking us to our heritage.

Quig ate methodically and fast. Sage, as usual, picked at hers. I inhaled my spicy meatballs. Didn’t know where the huge appetite came from, but I had my sights on Sage’s leftovers until I remembered the pecan pie in the basket. My mouth watered at the mere thought of that decadent treat. Definitely needed to save room for pie.

“You’re quiet today,” I said to Quig.

“Busy at work. Everyone wants answers to the new homicide cases. I don’t have any.”

“I see.” Even though I’d promised Quig I wouldn’t get involved with any cases that didn’t involve my family and friends, these new cases tugged at me in the worst way. As the Medical Examiner, Quig had inside information, but so far he’d been mum about the investigations. “Can you share any details?”

“Ongoing investigations,” he said. “The cops are withholding key facts from the media about both murders, and that’s the part I can’t discuss with you.”

“Because you need to keep your job.”

“Yes.”

Though I admired Quig’s integrity, I dearly wanted the inside scoop in this case. My extra skill set had nothing to do with mind reading, but my sister had become adept at getting though locked doors in the guise of sleuthing. We could get into the morgue and its records if we wanted. However doing so might point back to Quig, and I wouldn’t risk his career.

Right on cue, a cemetery security person arrived and asked what we were doing. I explained that we were the Winslows, the granddaughters of Dwayne and Rosemary Waltz, and this was our annual family tradition to visit with them.

The guy called it in, and then he nodded to us. “Sorry to have disturbed you. You’re cleared to stay as long as you like. Wish more families honored the old traditions.”

After he pulled away, Sage said, “If worker bees didn’t change so frequently, the staff here would recognize us. I’m glad their boss remembers our names.”

“Me too.” I glanced over at her plate. “Not hungry?”

“Appetite has been squirrely lately.” My sister paused to take in my rounded eyes. “And it’s not that either.”

By that, she meant our aunt’s unrelenting campaign for us to reproduce before our family line died out. Right now there were exactly three of us: Sage, Auntie O, and me. “Funny. My appetite is greater these days. My mouth’s watering for that pie.”

Quig smiled but didn’t comment about appetites or reproduction.

Smart man.

“Each slice of pecan pie is loaded with more calories than we should consume in a meal,” Sage continued. “I’ll pass. You can have my slice.”

I studied her with my other vision. She’d insisted on bringing pecan pie this year, her fav, and now she didn’t want to eat it? Something felt off about that. Though we were fraternal twins and originated from different eggs, our energy manipulation abilities were more similar than I’d initially believed.

Each family member descended from Rosemary Waltz inherited the talent to manipulate energy. Sage and I saw auras and could give and take energy at will. Sage hated to run at less than a full tank, so she topped off by asking for energy from me or by taking it from whoever passed into her orbit. I recharged naturally every night so I never stole energy from anyone.

Sage’s dark aura pulsed erratically, alerting me something was amiss. “You never pass on this pie. What gives?”

She stabbed her fingers through her hair. “Something’s up with my weight. I’ve lost a few pounds, but my clothes fit the same.”

“That is weird.” No point suggesting my sister visit a doctor. We’d never been sick a day in our lives. Whatever might be happening with Sage, we’d figure it out sooner or later.

“I must’ve eaten something that disagreed with me. You wouldn’t believe the things Brindle fixes for us to eat. I’ve had more natural, raw, and fresh everything in the last few months than I’ve eaten in my entire life. He’s trying to convert me to a healthy lifestyle. I will not go into that darkness willingly.”

Sage and her live-in boyfriend hit a rough patch when he got spelled, thought another woman was Sage, and got caught in a state of undress with said interloper. It took heavy duty persuading for Sage to forgive him, but she’d accepted him back in her life and home.

The candle on the headstone flickered wildly. “Look!” Sage knelt before the candle.

I joined her. “This has never happened on a calm day. The spirits are telling us something.”