Ghost of a Chance (Banshee Creek Book 2) (2 page)

Patricia grabbed her by the shoulders and gently steered her away from the foyer table. "Don't look at those. You'll make your nerves worse. Let's talk about something else. Did you see the magazine article?"

"What article?" Elizabeth asked, feigning ignorance but grateful for the distraction. Of course she'd read the article about Gabe. She'd printed it out and attached it to her real estate brochures. She'd also highlighted the paragraph that described Gabe's Italo-Argentinian background, his years at Banshee Creek High, and his admission to Harvard and Wharton.
 

"I know you're lying," Patricia said with playful scorn. "Five years in L.A., and you still can't act. I bet you memorized the article. And you must have a pile of copies in your office."
 

Elizabeth glared at her friend. She did not have piles, and anyway, they were for work. She was trying to save her family's real estate business from the incoming paranormal hordes, wasn't she? And nothing sold a school district like an alumnus with a record-breaking Wall Street IPO. The fact that the graduate looked like a
telenovela
star didn't hurt either.

"My dad read it online," Patricia continued. "And he wants to set me up with one of Gabe's investors. He knows his grandmother." Elizabeth wasn't surprised. Patricia's dad knew everyone's grandmother.

"Is he setting you up with Gabe?" Elizabeth asked, careful not to sound jealous. Patricia was a very attractive woman, with long, dark hair and gray eyes. She was also kind and loyal, and kept an extensive collection of exotic margarita recipes for those occasions when kindness and loyalty were called for. Still, Elizabeth was surprised to find that she didn't at all like the thought of her friend and Gabe being together. She knew her childhood crush was hopeless, but part of her still felt that Gabe was hers. She stifled a giggle. Imaginary possession was nine-tenths of the law.

"Are you kidding?" Patricia said with a snort. "I'm his sister's best friend. That's too close to home for the Franco brothers."
 

Elizabeth nodded. Her brother Cole had been Gabe's best friend, and she was well aware of the Franco siblings' "almost family" dating restrictions. She pushed the thought away, not wanting to think about Cole.

The library door opened loudly and a chilly breeze enveloped her, making goose bumps crawl over her arms. The town residents were arriving.

"It's not too late to back out, Hunt." The deep baritone belonged to a burly, redheaded biker. He was carrying a large box covered in shipping labels and was followed by a gaggle of town children. A handful of fellow bikers, also bearing boxes, walked behind him. He put his box on the floor and smiled at Elizabeth. "I'm going to give you one last chance to give up and go chase your well-feathered lovebird around town."

Elizabeth scowled. She didn't like to be teased about her Gabe Franco obsession. But Caine, the owner of the local bar, met her frown with a broad smile. His beard and leather vest were stereotypical biker gear. But the T-shirt with the large purple eye that was the logo of the Banshee Creek Paranormal Research Institute wasn't. No, wait, they had a weird new name with fancy spelling now. TRuTH? PRooF? Something like that.

In any case, the paranormies were an unwelcome addition to the Banshee Creek Chamber of Commerce. Her brother, Cole (may he rest in peace, the little hood rat) had founded the group before signing up with the Army. Back then, the group had consisted only of Cole's fellow true believers, a pair of secondhand cameras, and a couple of shelves in the basement. Their early meetings had invariably devolved into
Mystery Science Theatre 3000
marathons. Her brother had died in Afghanistan and, after his passing, the organization had grown and mutated, like a runaway virus in one of his favorite late-night movies.

A tight lump formed in Elizabeth's chest, as it always did when she thought about her dead brother, but she fought it down. She loved Cole, but her feelings toward his Frankenstein creation were the complete opposite.
 

Caine opened the box and took out a tray full of caramel-coated apples with spooky faces drawn with licorice. In a split second, the stand was swarming with kids staring longingly at his offerings, and the tall biker looked overwhelmed by his unexpected popularity.
 

Elizabeth sighed. Caine didn't care about candies or treats. He just wanted to annoy the Historic Preservation Committee. And he was excelling at that goal. A member of Caine's posse opened another box, which contained a large orange-and-black banner that read "Voted America's Most Haunted Town." A third biker handed out bumper stickers featuring the town's new unofficial motto: "Suck it Salem."

"I see you've joined the dark side, Caine," Elizabeth said, arching a brow.
 

He took out a tray full of colorful treats. "Yep." His eyes twinkled. "They've got cookies. Heavily frosted cookies shaped likes pumpkins, spiders, and, of course, ghosts."

"You don't have to do this. I gave you brochures explaining the history behind your bar. The place has a fascinating past. That's a big draw."

"I still have them," he said with a gleeful smile. "All of them. Literally, we can't even give them away. Tourists like ghosts. That's what brings them to our town. They don't care that Paul Revere's horse pooped in my garage."

"Revere was in Massachusetts," Elizabeth corrected dryly. "Your poop belonged to Jack Jouett's horse."

"I don't know who that is, and I don't care. You're spending too much time with the Historical Correctness Junta. It's not good for you."
 

Her eyes narrowed. "And you're too enthralled by the Paranormal Research Institute."

Caine straightened to his full six-and-a-half feet height. "That's not our name anymore. We are now the Paranormal Research of Virginia Enterprises."

Patricia looked puzzled. "That makes no sense," she said.

"Spell it out." Elizabeth waited while her friend mouthed the words.

"PRoVE?" Her friend grimaced.

"Isn't it great?" Caine spread out his arms grandly. "It's search-engine friendly. We're now Google's number one English-language paranormal site."

"You say that like it's a good thing," Elizabeth snarked.
 

"Face it, Hunt, no one comes here for the Early American History seminar. They come for the ghosts." His gaze grew sympathetic. "I know that doesn't do much for the real estate values."

Her spine straightened. "And that's on my list of things that must change."

Caine shook his head. "You're a good egg. You were making it as an actress in L.A. and you gave that up to come take care of your mom. Now you're taking care of her business. The whole town is proud of you."

"Wow, multi-syllabic words. I'm impressed." She knew her tone was sharper than it should have been. He meant well, but she didn't want his pity.

"But this Joan of Arc act has to go." Caine looked at her sternly. "I know your brother's death put you off the otherworldly stuff, but you tend to take things too far, and this time you've gone all the way over the edge and
hic sunct dragones
. " His face softened. "Anyway, shouldn't you be chasing down he who makes your heart sing?" He looked around the room. "I hear he's around here somewhere."

"Oh, don't you start." She felt her face flush. The Saint Joan dig had hit its mark, but thanks to Caine, everyone would think she was blushing at the prospect of a Gabe Franco sighting. Small towns had long memories, and her love-struck teenage self was, unfortunately, one of those.
 

"You may have a chance with him now," Caine continued. "Your stint in the City of Angels did you good. You don't look like Wednesday Addams anymore."

Elizabeth shook her head in exasperation. Caine was incorrigible. She liked her new highlights and heels, but still, she had
rocked
the goth drama geek look in high school. Wednesday Addams, indeed.
 

Caine laughed again and turned to give a caramel apple to a little girl in pigtails and pink glasses. The girl's shirt sported a Mythbusters logo. Talk about corrupting today's youth.

Elizabeth assessed Caine's contributions to the refreshments table. Patricia's red velvet cupcakes were no longer the only baked goods on offer. The table was now laden with candy-corn cannoli, ghost-shaped meringues and candy-studded rice cereal treats. One of Caine's employees was unpacking bottles bearing Haunted Orchard Cidery labels. Elizabeth wasn't surprised. Haunted Orchard had developed an aggressive marketing campaign based on their spectrally challenged hometown. They'd probably donated the cider.

"Looks like the paranormies are pulling out all the stops," Patricia chimed in, picking up a cannoli and examining it. Her face hardened. "These are from Manhattan," she said, glaring at the innocent pastry cylinder. "Well, we can play dirty too."
 

Caine's laugh boomed out. "Don't bother, girls. Accept defeat gracefully."

Patricia put the cannoli down and stepped away from the table, dragging Elizabeth with her. "C'mon, time to counterattack. I have donuts and more lemonade in the car."
 

She pushed Elizabeth to the library entrance, making her stumble, and led her to the parking lot.
 
As they headed out the door, Elizabeth tried to pep herself up.
 

Cookies and banners didn't matter. She had logic on her side. Banshee Creek didn't need the ghosts to be successful; the town had many other attractions.
 

Take this street, for instance. The cobblestone streets glowed as the remaining sunlight streamed through amber leaves. The inevitable fall drizzle hadn't dampened any spirits and the crisp fall air smelled like wet leaves, burnt sugar and apples. The town's vintage houses looked lovely in their period-appropriate moldings and historically correct paint colors.
 

All except one.
 

Elizabeth frowned at a crowd of tourists snapping pictures of the mansard-roofed building that housed the Paranormal Research Institute—no, wait, PRoVE. The organization's home was as weird as its new name. With lurid purple siding and acid green trim, the house looked like it belonged in a Scooby-Doo cartoon.
 

She noted with chagrin that the edifice sported a banner that read "Banshee Creek: 137 documented hauntings." Great, just great.

The expensive new digs testified to PRoVE's very substantial resources. The organization owned high-tech cameras and expensive computers and had plenty of money to pay for fines and, in a few occasions, bail. But Elizabeth still had no idea why a Bahamian corporation would invest in a fly-by-night enterprise like PRoVE. Who'd convinced them to waste so much money on a group of conspiracy buffs and "certified" ghost hunters? Whoever it was, Elizabeth wanted to find him and tell him where to stuff his state-of-the art, Russian-made EMF meters.
 

"Here we go." Patricia opened the door of her van, which was filled to capacity with jars and boxes. "More ammo." She lifted a large glass jar of lemonade and gave it to Elizabeth. "Take this. I'll bring the donuts. No one can resist my apple cider donuts. But be careful, that jar is a vintage find and it leaks." She locked the car and walked briskly toward the library, carrying a pair of large boxes.
 

Elizabeth followed at a more sedate pace, carefully balancing the heavy lemonade jar.

Her presentation had to go well. No, not just well,
spectacularly
well.
 

She raised her chin and practiced her best auditioning-actress smile. The smile had made her a mainstay in the mutant monster movie industry when she'd lived in L.A., and it could certainly dazzle Banshee Creek. Her back straightened as she steeled herself.
 

The show was about to start.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

G
ABE
F
RANCO
looked over the library's balcony, then leaned back on the chair and waited for the Historical Preservation Committee to take the floor.
 

The Banshee Creek Library was just as he remembered it—dark wood, old books, and threadbare oriental rugs. This had been his favorite spot in the building, between the Stephen Hawking books and the Isaac Asimov compendiums, and he'd sat in this tattered wingback chair many times. The chair felt smaller than he recalled and the seat sagged under his adult weight, but the secluded spot was every bit as comfortable as he remembered. He felt an overwhelming urge to pull out a book and start reading. The Foundation Series Omnibus looked particularly tempting.

But nostalgia wasn't the reason why he'd sneaked up to the second floor, and Mr. Asimov would have to wait.
 

From this chair he had a clear view of the podium and screen, and yet the attendees couldn't see him, hidden as he was by the antique balustrade. Even if they saw a shadow in the balcony, they'd assume it was Good Sergeant Atwell, the Civil War soldier who haunted the second floor of the library, smoking his pipe and moving all the Shelby Foote books to the front tables.
 

Unfortunately, sneaking into the library was the only thing that had gone according to plan.

Caine had been entrusted to make the case on behalf of the Paranormal Research Institute. No, wait, what was the new name? His marketing team had come up with a list and he couldn't quite remember which one had won. VeriGhost? TruGhoulz? No, PRoVE. That was it. Anyway, Caine's presentation had been a total fiasco. He'd mixed up the slides, cursed a couple of times, and skipped right over the economic benefits section.
 

Caine had managed to put up a spirited defense of the Banshee Creek Ghost Tours, but a question about the proposed Horror Movie Festival had baffled him. He'd readily admitted that costumed tourists were expected and had enthusiastically described a few of his favorite, risqué costumes. The head librarian had interrupted his colorful description of the gang's reenactment of
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow
and confiscated the fake blood and dismembered limbs. When the ruckus had died down, the Town Council president had kindly asked Caine to leave the podium.