Ghouls Just Want to Have Fun (2 page)

I shook my head. "No. Not yet."

Kylie conducted a sensory sweep around the commons area, similar to the sweep my gramma performs when she's about to pass along a bit of idle gossip. Or invent it.

"Her queen candidacy is someone's sick idea of a joke," Kylie said. "A bunch of kids thought it would be a hoot to get Sasquatch on the ballot."

I blinked. "Sasquatch?"

"That's Shelby Lynne's nickname. She's over six feet tall and her feet are, like, bigger than Herman Munster's. And she had this real nasty overbite and has been in braces for, like, ever. Somebody got the idea that it would be funny to see Sasquatch and Tom Thumb on the royal court together. Frankly, I think it's insulting to the rest of us with bona fide royalty credentials."

My tongue slid over my own front teeth, and I winced. I myself was not all that many years away from a what's-up-Doc situation that had been corrected only by enduring four long years of painful orthodontic treatment and metal-mouth jokes from a adolescent horse's behind turned carp cop DNR employee.

I shook my head to clear it. "Uh, who's Tom Thumb?" I asked.

"Tom Murphy. He's the shortest kid in the school. He had some disease or something that stunted his growth when he was in elementary school. He was homeschooled until this year, but his folks thought he needed some socialization and decided to send him here for his senior year. He's barely five feet tall, but he's got a chip on his shoulder the size of a bowling ball. Some wise guys thought it would be fun to see Sasquatch and Tom Thumb paired up on homecoming night like something out of a Saturday afternoon horror movie. To tell you the truth, I really resent these people turning my senior homecoming into a freak show."

Queen-candidate Kylie's well-modulated my-wish-for-the-world-is-peace-on-earth beauty-contestant voice became fractured and shrill. It boomed off the walls of the large, open commons area even louder than the intercom days of
"Tressa Turner to the office"
I remembered so clearly. Ah, memories.

A shadow fell over the off-white table between us. Like, a really long shadow.

"Freak show, huh? I guess I'm in the right place, then."

I looked to my right and up. And up. And up. Right into the armpit of a girl who'd give any basketball coach who ever dreamed of a state championship a championship-sized woody. Not because she was gorgeous, you understand; carrot-colored hair and copper-colored freckles aren't exactly a sought-after look. But, man, she was gargantuan. All she had to do was stand in front of the basketball hoop with her arms up, and the opposing team didn't stand a chance. I knew my mouth was wide open, but honest, I couldn't stop myself. State tournament, I thought, here we come!

"Can't you see that we're busy?" Kylie greeted her competitor with one of those someone-didn't-use-their-roll-on looks.

"I think I've got enough material," I told Kylie, and stood to greet my final interview subject of the day. I was a bit taken aback when my head only reached Shelby Lynne's shoulder. And I'm no squatty body. "Thanks, Kylie. And good luck in the voting," I added, though I'd already decided Miss Radcliffe would not receive my vote--if I'd had one, that is. I'd really wanted that new used car.

Kylie shoved back her chair and got to her feet, shooting a dark look at Shelby Lynne. "I can't imagine why you don't withdraw," she told Shelby. "You're only humiliating yourself, you know. And it's just going to get worse."

Shelby shrugged. "No pain. No gain," she remarked, and I raised an eyebrow. Maybe she wasn't homecoming queen material, but she could definitely be the queen of snark. Finally, someone I could relate to. I'd gone through the roster of king and queen candidates, reliving my own girlish angst at not being considered good enough or popular enough or pretty enough to serve as "Her Royal Highness," recalling instead how I'd assumed the role of homecoming court jester and feeling some slight embarrassment--okay, and some level of pride--at the jokes I'd played on the prepettes who were cut from the purple royalty swatch. Like my little sis, Taylor, the Turner version of a little princess.

"I'm Tressa Turner from the
Gazette,
" I said to Shelby, sticking out my hand. "As you know, we're running a feature on the homecoming king and queen candidates, and I just have a few questions."

"Answer one: I'm six feet two. Answers two through three: No, I don't play basketball or volleyball or throw the shot-put, so you can put any state championship dreams away until the next Amazonian high schooler--hopefully one more athletically inclined than I am--enrolls. And answer four: There's absolutely no reason anyone would vote for me. Like Kylie said, my being nominated is a big joke." Shelby Lynne crossed her long arms. "So, get enough for your article? Did you bring your long-angle lens? You know--to snap a picture of me. Of course you might have to run it in sections one
and
two to get it all in."

I felt a smile lift the corners of my mouth. Sarcasm is something I understand. As a matter of fact, I earned As in Intro to Sarcasm through Advanced Sarcasm during high school. Not that I'm proud of this accomplishment, you understand. It was just the way it was. Just the way
I
was. And in lots of ways, probably still am.

Being back in my old high school, coming face-to-face--okay, face-to-upper torso--with someone who, rather than hide her flawed but human self behind a blond-bimbo mask, chose to hide in plain sight as the jolly mean giant sort of freaked me out. I was just starting to come to terms with certain things about myself. About why I'd played it safe--and dumb--for so many years. And how to give myself permission to risk letting folks see the "sensitive, feeling" Tressa once in a while. Okay, so I was basically a work-in-progress with the mushy stuff. God knew there was still enough Calamity Jayne in this country girl to wreak havoc with good ol' Grandville, USA. And I liked it that way.

"Not to worry," I replied. "With computer technology, we can resize you." I motioned to the chair Kylie had vacated. "You got a minute?"

Shelby shrugged and took a seat. I sat, too, happy that I was now able to maintain eye contact without getting a crick in the neck.

"If you think this is all a lame joke, why not withdraw as Kylie suggested?" I asked. "Why put yourself through it?"

Shelby rolled her broad shoulders again. "To mess with people's heads. Jerk them around." She paused and eyeballed me. "Or then again, maybe I really do want to be queen. Can't you just see me in heels and a tiara?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Like I can see me on the runway modeling the latest Versace fashions."

Shelby threw me a surprised glance. "Aren't you supposed to be kissing up to me for your article?" she asked, her eyes narrowing.

It was my turn to shrug. "Kylie gave me enough material for an entire series," I said. "Besides, a newspaper reporter lives for truth. It's the lifeblood of journalism.

Shelby had the uncouthness to snort. "You call writing about something as banal and prosaic as homecoming king and queen 'journalism'? I call it bourgeois and stereotypical tripe. But, hey, who am I? Just a representative of the reading public who doesn't get their news from MTV or
Saturday Night Live
."

I'd have to look up "bourgeois," "banal" and "prosaic" later just to make sure Sasquatch was really saying what I thought she was saying, but "stereotypical tripe"? Even I could interpret that message loud and clear.

I started to get that weird spastic sensation, characterized by twitching in my right eye and blood pooling in my cheeks (facial), that generally occurred just before I was about to do or say something that would require me to draft letters of apology--or recite huge mea culpas. Since neither of these came easily for me, I generally tried to avoid putting myself in situations where I might have to extend them.

I raised my eyebrows. "Oh? And this assessment from someone who--what? Worked on the high school yearbook committee, jotted soulful ditties in iambic pentameter for English class and scribbled little woe-is-me dear-diary entries in her journal about how much life bites? Thanks for the critical analysis, Miss Sawyer. If there's extra space in the article, I'll be certain to add your insightful quote."

Shelby gave me another incredulous look and then started to laugh. "Geez. And I thought
I
had an attitude, Miz Calamity," she said. "Or do you prefer to be called Jayne?"

My eyes crossed. I'm fairly certain of this, as I suddenly saw two Shelbys, and neither was vastly appealing.

'"Scuse me?"

"Calamity Jayne. That's your nickname, right? You're actually pretty famous around here. Or maybe I should say infamous. Not everybody discovers multiple murder victims in small-town Iowa, or is stalked by a felonious clown at the state's premier tourist attraction. With such impressive credentials, I guess I thought you'd be writing better material. You know. More hard-core stuff."

I looked at her through narrowed eyes. Hard-core? What kind of writer did she think I was, anyway?

I said, "What were you expecting? Something along the lines of 'Desperate Homecoming Queens'? 'Confessions of a Teenaged Homecoming Drag Queen'? Sorry. I'm a
serious
journalist." Or aspired to be one someday. When I grew up. And finally finished college. And could cover the cost of my shoe binges with something other than plastic with interest rates higher than my age.

Shelby Lynne leaned forward in her chair. It protested with a loud squeak. "Prove it," she said.

I threw her a "huh?" look. I should protect this particular facial expression with a trademark. It's been invented, improved upon and perfected by yours truly over a span of twenty-three years and counting.

"Prove it," Sasquatch--I mean, Shelby--repeated. "Prove you're a serious journalist."

I fought the urge to find out if the neck across from me was capable of being spanned with two hands. Purely for scientific purposes, you understand.

"How?" I heard myself saying.

"By nabbing the interview of a lifetime," Shelby Lynne replied, her remarkably pretty green eyes all of a sudden bright and alert.

"Interview? With who? One of the throng of presidential hopefuls who'll bring their dog-and-pony shows to Iowa to press voters' palms just in time for the Iowa caucuses? Sorry. Politics really isn't my specialty."

"What about famous authors?" Shelby Lynne asked. "What about
New York Times
-bestselling
reclusive
authors who haven't been seen in public for almost twenty years and haven't given an interview in well over a decade? Would that kind of story be your specialty?"

I could feel my spit dry up in my mouth and my ticker pick up the pace. Anyone who'd ever read a book was familiar with the unparalleled career and accompanying bizarre story of Elizabeth Courtney Howard, whose books flew to the top of the bestseller lists with the speed of my gramma to the potluck tables once the minister had blessed the food and said amen. A perennial favorite with critics and readers alike, Howard had suddenly disappeared from public view two decades ago, but had continued to pen her thrillers and chillers with clockwork regularity.

"You know E.C. Howard?" I asked.

Shelby shook her head. "Not exactly. But I know where she is. Or, I should say, where she is going to be in the not-too-distant future. Of course, information of this magnitude does not come without a price."

I gave her a you've-got-to-be-joking look and pointed to my white Plymouth beater parked illegally right outside the front doors. "That's my mode of transportation. You think I can afford your asking price?" I said.

Shelby Lynne shook her head. "I don't want cash. I want to meet Elizabeth Courtney Howard. Be there when you interview her. Talk to her. Pick her brain about writing. She's been my inspiration since I discovered her when I was a child. Nobody writes like E.C.Howard."

I nodded. Howard's earlier stuff could scare the Shinola out of me in broad daylight while I was sitting in a church pew in the sanctuary reciting the Lord's Prayer.

"She's awesome, all right. Or was when she was on her game. Her last several books got tanked by the critics. The reviews sucked."

"Doesn't matter. She's still the best writer ever. And I just have to meet her. But finding a way to do that? Well, that's the dilemma. I figure since you're a member of the local press and have a reputation for, uh, persistence, you might have a shot at getting an interview. And all you have to do is take me along. You won't even know I'm there."

I rolled my eyes. Like anyone could miss a six-foot-two redhead with freckles, Bugs Bunny chompers, and a 'tude that only Roseanne Barr could love.

"Okay," I said. "I'll bite. So where is E. C. Howard, reclusive mystery writer and all-around enigma, going to be in the very near future?" I was thinking that maybe I was being taken for a ride, but on the off chance this was legit, I was in for a penny, in for a pound.

"Oh no." Shelby got to her feet and stuck out a freckled, long-fingered hand. I shook my head. With a paw like that, how could the girl
not
play basketball? Sacrilege! "Serious journalist type that you are, I must insist we shake on this deal before I divulge further information."

She looked so serious that I wanted to laugh. Who did she think she was, anyway? Deep Throat? And let's face it, I was not what you'd call Woodward/Bernstein material.

"I'm in," she said. "For any and all interviews or attempts at interviews with E. C. Howard. Do we have a deal?"

I hesitated briefly. "How old are you?" I asked.

"Eighteen and legally entitled to enter into binding contracts and legal agreements," she said. "Just in case you thought you could slip one over on me."

Rats. The girl was too darned shrewd for my own good.

"I'm hurt, Shelby," I said. "Really hurt."

"You'll live," she replied. "So do we have a deal?"

I wondered what I was letting myself in for, but decided that on a bad day I could handle a homecoming queen candidate--even a six-foot-two bogus one with a personality only a mother could love.

I put out my hand. "Deal," I said, slipping my hand into the much larger one. "So tell me, where do we find the elusive Elizabeth Courtney Howard?" I asked.