Ghost of a Chance (Banshee Creek Book 2) (3 page)

It had been a complete disaster.

At least Caine had gotten the last slide right. It was currently posted on the screen and it detailed the attendance result from last year's event: The Cole Hunt Memorial Halloween Costume Party. Gabe still didn't know exactly how Cole's paranormie friends had managed to convince him to fund a party in his best friend's memory. His recollection of the night after Cole's funeral was fuzzy. All he could remember of the wake were sad songs, Caine's drunken rants, and copious amounts of Woodford's Reserve. But the next morning, he'd woken up to find his email inbox jammed with a proposed party budget, a rental agreement, and a letter from the Guinness World Records Association agreeing to tabulate the attendees.

The crazy, over-the-top feast had been an enormous success, and the final slide of the presentation laid out the results. The World's Largest Halloween Party had attracted thousands of attendees, massive social media coverage, and huge profits for the local retailers. That was what their proposal to the Town Council was based on, and it was a great pitch.

The irony wasn't lost on him. For years he'd been the rational foil to Cole's madcap ideas, the math and numbers guy who doubted everything and came up with reasonable rebuttals for each of Cole's pseudoscientific theories, the one who quoted Carl Sagan and James Randi.

The sensible one.
 

The skeptic.

And, yet, here he was, using all of his considerable resources to make his dead friend's dream come true. He was going to turn Banshee Creek into the country's foremost paranormal destination.

Well, at least he stood to make a lot of money out of it. The Haunted Orchard idea was inspired, even if he did say so himself. The income projections were quite impressive. And that was just the start. His research team had compiled a long list of future projects, all of them with significant income potential, for his hometown. Banshee Creek was a potential gold mine.
 

But only if he could get the stupid Ghost Tours approved. He had a long list of projects lined up, but the Ghost Tours were the thin edge of the wedge. If he didn't get the tours approved, his plan was toast.
 

If only Caine hadn't messed it up. Gabe should have done the presentation himself. True, the town may have resented being bossed around by someone who used to deliver pizza, but that was better than being grossed out by a lunatic biker.
 

But all was not lost. The Historical Preservation Committee, composed of a handful of desiccated old mummies, was up next. Caine had done badly, but the Committee would do even worse. Their slides certainly didn't inspire confidence. They were bland and colorless and featured cartoon frogs in colonial-era clothes as decoration.

Pathetic.
 

PRoVE should be able to win this vote in spite of Caine's dismal performance. Gabe wouldn't contemplate a different result. He had invested a lot of money in the Haunted Orchard Cidery, and its marketing plan depended on his hometown's Wes Craven-meets-Scarlet O'Hara mystique. He needed this plan approved and pronto.
 

He leaned forward to listen to the Committee's presentation. Mr. O'Reilly, the history teacher, approached the podium, and Gabe instantly relaxed. Mr. O'Reilly could be counted on for an hour-long digression into the basket weaving styles associated with colonial Williamsburg. The Town Council, bored to death, would become ghosts themselves.
 

He examined the audience while his old history teacher fiddled with the projector. Many of the attendees were skimming the PRoVE handouts. A couple of kids were eating ghost-shaped cookies, and a group of teenagers giggled as they passed around the "Suck it Salem" bumper stickers.

He allowed himself a satisfied smile. This vote was as good as won.

He pulled out his smart phone and started to compose an email. His partners would expect an update on the project before midnight. He was finishing the second paragraph when a burst of applause made him look up.

Mr. O'Reilly was no longer standing behind the podium. In his place stood a blonde-haired woman with a blinding smile and a steely, resonant voice. The lights were dimmed to focus attention on the screen so all he could see was blondish hair and long, lean legs.

 
But pretty was beside the point. What made her incandescent—hell, irresistible—was her energy, her intensity. The audience watched her, enthralled.

She ran through her slides smoothly, and his fists clenched in frustration as she pointed out the loss of revenue experienced by the real estate and retail businesses. PRoVE's presentation had data that indicated that entertainment and dining businesses would benefit, but idiot Caine had mixed up the numbers and made it seem as if local revenue would plummet.

This woman wasn't confused, not even a little bit.
 

She acknowledged the town's peculiar character and stated that the Historical Preservation Committee didn't intend to besmirch the town's spectral heritage. However, she noted with exaggerated sadness, the current vogue for the paranormal was overwhelming the town. That reputation brought in tourist dollars, but it frightened off potential residents. Her charts showed how Banshee Creek's population kept dwindling and contrasted that decrease with the burgeoning populations of the neighboring towns.
 

As Ms. Deadly Aphrodite steadily built up her case, Gabe tried to figure out who she was. He knew everyone in town, but he couldn't place this girl. The slide handout listed Banshee Creek Realty as the author, but this golden amazon wasn't anyone he could associate with the local real estate office.
 

Who the hell was she?
 

He'd heard that Mary Hunt was sick; she must have brought in an assistant to help out with the office. But where had she found this creature?

Too bad Mrs. Hunt hadn't asked Elizabeth to help with the presentation. He remembered the youngest Hunt sibling as a shy, dark-haired, accident-prone teenager who always dressed in black. He'd heard Elizabeth was an actress in L.A., but he couldn't picture her in front of a camera. As a kid, she was always following him around but was completely mute whenever he tried to talk to her.
 

Another wave of applause broke out, and Gabe pushed the chair back roughly and got up, wincing as the back of the chair hit the edge of a table. Luckily, the enthusiastic clapping dampened the noise.
 

But that was the only lucky break he'd had this evening. He'd done enough of these beauty contest presentations to know that this one was heading south, fast. Damn, but he hated losing.
 

He wished he could go back to Manhattan tonight and regroup, but that was impossible. He had to stay a couple of days and attend the reopening of the family pizzeria. He also had to buy a house in town.
 

The thought didn't improve his mood. A house in Virginia was a waste of money, but his Virginia tax break required an in-state residence, and his mom embraced the idea wholeheartedly. Nope, he had to stay.

He walked toward the library's back entrance and evaluated his options. None of them were particularly attractive. All of them involved significant amounts of time spent with his relatives, and that wasn't a prospect he relished, as his folks would spend the time nagging him for working too hard and neglecting his family. But he was going to have to do it. He'd already lost his best friend. He didn't want to lose his family too.

He ran down his to-do list. First, he had to buy a house and send the deed to his accountant. Second, he had to attend the pizzeria opening and tell his baby brother he'd done a great job with the family business. And, finally, he had to figure out how to outmaneuver the Historical Preservation Committee's blonde-haired, long-legged secret weapon.
 

Piece of cake.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

E
LIZABETH
DUMPED
the leftover handouts into the recycling bin. PRoVE's handouts and bumper stickers had proven quite popular, but her plain slides had found no takers. Or maybe the townspeople didn't like frogs? Oh well, she didn't care. After all, she'd won the vote. The ghost tours were deader than a Norwegian Blue parrot.

Caine and the paranormies had slunk off, forked tails firmly tucked between their legs. Her victory was complete. Nothing could possibly spoil this moment.

"Too bad Gabe didn't show up."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. The Assistant Librarian, Holly, was the polar opposite to extroverted Patricia, but apparently they had an interest in common. They were both obsessed with Gabe Franco. But then again, so was she. With the presentation out of the way, her limbic cortex now had time to ponder life's important questions, such as, was Gabe Franco really back in town?

"Liam saw him this morning," Holly continued, straightening her tortoiseshell glasses. "Gabe was helping his brother at the pizzeria. They're going to reopen this weekend." She shook her head, making her glossy black curls bounce. "Can you picture a billionaire defrosting mozzarella?"
 

"I can, if his last name is Franco," Elizabeth said as she cleaned the refreshments table. "Anyway, he's not a billionaire."
 

She placed the half-full lemonade jar on the floor. The crowd had demolished the baked goods, as well as the Haunted Orchard cider. But Patricia's ginger-apple lemonade had been widely rejected. Clearly, Banshee Creek was not ready for gourmet lemonade.
 

"You're such a party-pooper, Elizabeth." Holly's eyes grew dreamy as she handed Elizabeth a can of cleaning wipes. "Remember when the drama club asked Mr. Franco if they could use the pizzeria parking lot to paint scenery? Everyone wanted to ogle Gabe and his brothers."

"I remember." Elizabeth scrubbed the table with disproportionate enthusiasm. How could she forget? She'd spent weeks plotting how to move the painting chores to the Franco driveway, all in a misguided attempt to catch Gabe's eye. It hadn't worked, of course. Gabe hadn't paid any attention to her black-clad, drama-geek self that day and had steadily ignored her through various visits, picnics, and campouts.
 

Sigh.

She straightened and admired her handiwork. The table practically sparkled, and all she had left to do was to pack the leftovers.

"And when the cardboard spaceship fell on you?" Holly went on.

"Can we stop talking about this?" Elizabeth asked as she stuffed the box of leftover cupcakes in a bag.
 

To cap her humiliation, Gabe had had to rescue her from the rubble when the scaffolding—they were doing
H.M.S. Pinafore
meets
Close Encounters of the Third Kind
—had collapsed around her. He hadn't laughed. Instead, he'd scolded her for getting hurt, brushed the glitter off her hair, and asked her to be more careful. He'd treated her like she was five years old.
 

"The parking lot still has silver paint on it." Holly laughed.
 

"Well, Gabe can afford to have it repainted now, or he could, you know, stud it with diamonds," Elizabeth replied.

"Hey, did you see the article?"
 

Elizabeth sighed. Again with the stupid article.

"He must have gotten a personal stylist," Holly continued. "He was wearing a dark suit, and he looked sexy and intense, like the guy in that book."

"What book?" A professional bookworm, Holly was always lending Elizabeth books. She couldn't keep track of all them. Was she talking about the
Pride and Prejudice
rewrite with zombies on it? Gabe wasn't a Darcy type. He was more of a pizza-delivering Heathcliff.

"That bestseller," Holly said, pushing her curls out away from her face. "The one with the handcuffs on the cover. I loaned it to you weeks ago. Haven't you read it?" The question carried a not-so-miniscule hint of exasperation.

"No, you know I haven't had time." She had little time for reading. She was too busy running the real estate office. But her curiosity was piqued, as her mind associated the words
Gabe
and
handcuff
. Maybe she should take a peek at this book. "I wonder why he's back in town." Gabe didn't belong in Banshee Creek anymore. He belonged in Manhattan, or maybe the Hamptons. No, not the Hamptons. Ibiza was more like it.
 

"Liam says Gabe's mom dragged him back home. He's not spending enough time with his family, and Mrs. Franco rendered an ultimatum. He has to attend the pizzeria opening, and..." Holly paused for effect. "He has to buy a house nearby."
 

Elizabeth smiled. A house? She should talk to Mrs. Franco about the current inventory of very attractive properties. Or, better yet, she should talk to Gabe.
 

Now
that
was an intriguing thought. Would she dare call him?

"You should go and celebrate. Your presentation went great." Holly looked down at Elizabeth's feet and smiled. "I guess the lucky audition shoes worked."

"Yep," Elizabeth said with new confidence. "They haven't failed me yet."

Calling Gabe didn't seem like such a crazy idea, after all. He was looking for a house, and she had plenty of houses. Tons of them. A veritable cornucopia of real estate, in fact.
 

This could work. It was just a phone call, after all.
Hey, Gabe. Long time no see. Wanna buy a house?

Easy peasy. She could even wear her lucky shoes during the phone call. She didn't know if they worked over the phone, but hey, it was worth a try.

"Everyone thought you'd do well. That's why the Committee picked you to represent them. I didn't know you were such a good speaker. You totally looked like what's-her-face, that evil alien princess you played. You know, the one with the fur bikini."

"You mean Princess Verdala." Elizabeth recalled her favorite role with deep nostalgia. "And I'm not a good speaker. I just got lucky tonight. Caine made me look like Winston Churchill."