Ghouls Just Want to Have Fun (4 page)

I stopped shoveling pie long enough to defend my actions. "Hello, it was creme-filled," I said by way of explanation, and shoveled in another mouthful followed by a long swallow of coffee.

"So, Ranger Rick," I said, "what's up with you? Is the hunting community behaving itself? Is everyone wearing those lovely orange vests and hats so they don't get mistaken for some poor unsuspecting stag?"

Townsend took a drink from the tall glass of milk Donita had placed in front of him. I found myself staring at the taut line of his neck and the way his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. I shook my head. I was totally pathetic.

He set down the glass and wiped milk from his lips. "So far so good. A few near misses, but nothing out of the ordinary. How's the news business? And the retail sideline? Oh, and the ice cream hawking, too. I expect with the weather getting colder, most folks aren't eating much ice cream."

We both looked down at the remains of gooey cinnamon ice cream on my plate. I resisted the urge to lick the saucer. Hey, I'm not a totally uncouth hillbilly.

"Ice cream sales have tanked," I acknowledged, "but it's that way every year at this time. But we still sell a lot of ice cream cakes, and all year long the sales of dogs, burgers and tacos are steady. I just hope Uncle Frank doesn't decide to close down during the winter. He's talked about it for years, but he's never done it. Still, now that Frankie is busy with community college courses and courting Dixie the destructor, I'm wondering if Uncle Frank will decide this is the time. If that happens, I'm in deep financial doo-doo." I relied on the income from my job at the Dairee Freeze to take care of my tiny herd of horseflesh and two golden Labs with serious tartar buildup.

"You've heard the saying 'don't borrow trouble from tomorrow, 'cause it's got more than enough of its own'?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Sure."

"Well, that's my advice for you here. When it happens, if it happens, worry about it then."

I looked over at Townsend--just to make sure it was Townsend. These words of wisdom ran counter to everything Rick had drilled into my head for the past five years.
You gotta think down the road, Tressa. Look beyond today. Live with a care for all the tomorrows to come, Calamity.
Now, all of a sudden, Townsend was, what--telling me to stop and smell the freakin' roses?

I put down my cup and swiveled on the stool to face him. "Okay, Mr. Ranger, sir. What gives?"

Townsend drained the last of his milk and looked at me. He had a Groucho-sized milk mustache, but didn't bother to wipe it.

"I'm actually really glad we ran into each other, Tressa," he said, and I watched his tongue sweep over his lip to retrieve some of the milk.

Glad we ran into each other?
I felt my cheeks grow warm--and not all because of the tongue thing. "Oh yeah?" I said. "Why is that?"

The ranger leaned in my direction and put a tanned, lean hand on the back of my stool. "There's something I've been wanting to talk to you about," he said.

The ranger wanted to talk? I felt my body move not-so-subtly in his direction. Hey, I warned you I was pathetic.

"Oh yeah?" I managed. "What is that?"

"It concerns both of us."

I moved closer, my nerve endings crackling. "Oh yeah? How so?"

"Because it also concerns our families--people we are very fond of."

Ranger Rick's milk breath fanned my face. I imagined my cinnamon-coffee breath was assaulting his olfactory orifices, too.

"Is this about Craig and Kimmie?" I asked. "Because if it is, I'm ready to accept your admission that you were totally out of line taking off with Craig for some dumb moose hunt in Canada when Kimmie was ovulating."

My brother and sister-in-law had been having some issues relating to parenthood. Craig wasn't sure if he was ready for a child, and Kimmie was tired of living only with one who got a five-o'clock shadow. And Townsend hadn't helped matters by whisking Craig off to the wilds of Ontario with the issue still unresolved.

He shook his head. "I'm not getting in the middle of that mess, and I'd advise you to steer clear, too. No, this is about other beloved family members."

Holy-moley. Where was this leading? I pressed closer. I could see light flecks of amber dancing in irises of rich brown.

"Oh yeah?" I felt my breath catch in my throat. Was the announcement of a permanent truce about to pass Townsend's lips? Maybe, God help me, a real declaration of affection, even? "Like who?"

"Our grandparents, of course," Townsend said. "Who else? I think they may be moving too fast in the romance department."

"What!" I thought about Townsend's sermon on borrowing trouble for about as long as it took for my hands to reach out for his thick, clueless neck, but unfortunately my butt had run out of chair. I slid over the side and the stool tilted, dumping me to the floor. I heard a loud rip as I descended.

"Ye gods! I hope that was your pants and not a ligament," Townsend said, reaching down a hand to help me up.

I stood and put a hand to my backside, which was beginning to feel a bit drafty. "Shoot. I just got these pants," I said, pulling off my zippered hoodie and tying it around my waist. "They sure don't make clothes like they used to."

Or, sadly, men.

I grabbed my purse, threw money on the counter and headed for the door, but Townsend stopped me on the sidewalk outside.

"Were you aware that since the end of the state fair, my grandfather and your grandmother have become almost inseparable?"

I kept walking. "Yeah? So?"

Townsend ran a hand through his dark brown hair. It settled back into place as if by magic. If I did that, I'd never see my hand again. Unless someone shaved my head.

"Doesn't that concern you at all? Have you even noticed?"

I shrugged. "I've been busy, Townsend. Besides, they're both consenting adults. What they do together is none of our business." I pushed the pedestrian button on the traffic light pole and tapped my foot.

"Your grandmother stays over," Townsend said.

My toe-tapping faltered. "What are you talking about?" I asked.

"Your grandmother. She's been staying over at Granddad's. At night." He raised his eyebrows. "All night," he elaborated.

"Yeah, so? Maybe it got late and Gram didn't want Joe to drive. I didn't want to mention this to your granddaddy, Townsend, but I think I left some things behind in his vehicle on the few occasions I've ridden with him. Look for them the next time you're in his car, would you?" I asked.

He gave me an absentminded glance and ran his other hand through his hair. "Yeah, sure. What did you leave?" he asked.

"My fingernails," I told him.

We crossed over and headed down First Street.

"Very funny," Townsend said. "I think I laughed about as much as I did when I opened my grandfather's medicine cabinet and found that bottle of K-Y lubricating oil," he said. "Or, as you're fond of saying, hardy har har."

I winced. What were my gramma and Townsend's grandfather up to now? And did I want to know?

"That stuff has a variety of uses," I told Townsend. "It could be purely medicinal. Totally innocent."

Rick took hold of my elbow and stopped me. "Innocent? When Hellion Hannah, grandmother of Calamity Jayne, local celeb, finder of stiffs and the state fair queen of intrigue, is involved? Fat chance." He let go of my elbow and took my hand in his. I wished I'd taken the time to do my nails that morning. My peach frost nail color was chipped, and it really didn't go all that well with my tan hoodie and black pants with a butt-crack rip. "You've got to have a talk with your grandmother, Tressa. It's been less than a year and a half since my grandmother died, you know. I think Granddad needs to take things slow and easy. Keep things light and loose."

I shook my head. Slow and easy? Light and loose? Did Rick Townsend know Joltin' Joe Townsend at all?

I looked up at him. "You want me to have the sex talk with my seventy-five-year-old grandmother?"

Townsend suddenly grabbed me and gave me a quick bear hug. "I knew I could count on you, Tressa. Thanks!" he said, and he was off before I could tell him he still had a bit of a milk mustache. Served him right. Cheeky ranger.

"Uh, you rang?" a deep voice rumbled to my left. I turned to find a figure every bit as intimidating as Lurch from
The Addams Family
--and only slightly more animated--looming over me.

"Yeah," I said, looking up. "I rang. I need more information. About our special visitor. You know--the who, what, when, where, why and how of it all. We journalistic types live by those six little words."

"Or die," Shelby Lynne Sawyer replied.

I winced. The last thing I needed was to be reminded of just how close I'd come to buying the farm six months earlier.

I grabbed Shelby's arm and steered her to my car, the white Plymouth that is as conspicuous in my hometown as Hawkeye black-and-gold on the Cyclone side during the annual football showdown. I ran around to the driver's side of my car and opened my door. Shelby stood on the sidewalk near the front and stared for a moment before she shook her head and climbed in the passenger's side.

"You weren't kidding about the pay, were you?" she said, getting in and tossing aside a Sonic bag.

"'Fraid not," I told her.

She sniffed. "This car smells like dog."

"Two dogs, actually," I agreed.

I put the Plymouth in reverse and backed out of the parking space. Shelby gave me a sidelong look.

"So, where are we going?" She asked.

I put the car in drive. It stubbornly hesitated a bit before the traditional backfire. I tossed Shelby a copy of Elizabeth Courtney Howard's last book,
Satan's Serenade
.

"You tell me, Deep Throat," I said. "You tell me."

CHAPTER THREE

My old jalopy
chug-chugged
along the rutted lane leading to the Holloway house. The once-stately home was on a hill on the outskirts of town, up a poorly maintained, dead-end gravel road.

"Are you sure this car will make it up the hill?" Shelby Lynne asked, pulling at her seat belt and trying in vain to get it to lock into place.

"Why? You volunteering to get out and push?" I asked.

Shelby shook her head and chuckled. "You are so weird," she said. She opened the hardback book I'd handed her, and looked at the back cover. "I wonder what she looks like now," she said.

I looked over at the black-and-white author photo. It showed a plain-looking middle-aged woman posing with her chin resting in one open palm--also known in some quarters as "writer's chin."

"What do you mean?" I asked. "There's her mug shot."

Shelby shook her head. "This picture practically came over on the
Mayflower,
" she said. "She's used it for over a decade now. I wonder if I'd even recognize her if I passed her on the street."

I made a
tsk-tsk
sound with my tongue. "Vanity, vanity," I said. "But it's probably not all that unusual for an author to keep the same publicity photo. Face recognition and all that. Personally, I figure if you luck out and get a picture that doesn't make you look like one eye is higher than the other or you have something disgusting caught between your teeth, you'd better stick with it. Besides," I continued, "who would want their wrinkled old puss on the cover of a gazillion books when they can simply halt the aging process and use an oldie but goodie from the past? Plus, Howard has that recluse thing going, so maybe she's camera-shy, too."

Shelby sighed. "I suppose you're right. But somehow it seems beneath the great Elizabeth Courtney Howard to pawn off an old picture on the reading public." She stared at the photo for a few seconds longer, sighed again, then reverently closed the book, resting a palm on the front cover. "So, what are we doing again, exactly? My source tells me that Howard and her entourage aren't due to arrive until tomorrow."

Shelby's "source" turned out to be her mother, Judy Sawyer, who operated a house-cleaning business and had been employed by the probate attorney handling the estate of Benjamin Holloway to clean the house and ready it for temporary occupancy. Judy had been told to keep the identity of the occupants secret; however, she obviously hadn't made allowances for a daughter with an eye at the keyhole or an ear to the heat vent. Or, considering Shelby's stature, both.

I reached into my pocket for a mint I'd pilfered from Stan's candy bowl, unwrapped it and popped it in my mouth.

"We're conducting a preinterview reconnoiter," I stated, managing to get this out without choking on the hard candy. Shelby gave me a confused look. "It's a military term," I clarified. "Meaning to explore an area to gather information."

Shelby still looked confused. "What information do you plan to gather? No one is there yet."

I sucked on my mint. How did I explain to this high school girl, who was probably suckled on corn-fed beef broth and could toss me and break shot put records, that I wanted to make my initial visit to Haunted Holloway Hall in the light of day and with an able-bodied companion by my side to dispel the long-term aversion I had to the old house? To diminish the mystique of the place. Okay, okay. What can I say? The place creeped me out.

"I just want to get the lay of the land, so to speak. You know, get a feel for the setting. So I can include my impressions in my article, of course." I was proud I'd made my little preinterview visit sound so innocuous.

”Our
article," Shelby reminded me.

I frowned. This girl listened to each word I said like she was a closed-captioner. "Whatever," I said.

My plucky Plymouth made it up the incline without external help, and I pulled into the circular driveway, which ran through the front yard and past the now-gray peeling columns of the dark stone structure. I put the car in park and stared at the rambling three-story facade, feeling a sudden thickening in my throat that had nothing to do with the mucus-producing dairy product I'd just consumed. The drapes on all of the house's windows were pulled shut, upstairs and down. On the second floor, French doors led to a flat roof that was home to an outside terrace of sorts. It was surrounded by a black fence made of bent iron and twisted rails.

A dark cat passed lazily by my car door and stopped to bask in the warm afternoon sun, smack-dab in the middle of the rocky lane. I took a loud, shaky breath and saw Shelby glance over at me. I rolled down my window and sucked in another breath, then tapped my chest and burped at will--one of various little talents I happen to possess.

"Indigestion," I said. Shelby raised an eyebrow.

"So, how does this preinterview reconnoiter work again?" she asked. "I'm hoping there's more to it than staring down an old building. Did you even bring a camera?"

I'd left it at the newspaper office, but I wasn't about to admit that to my young apprentice.

"What do you suggest as being picture worthy?" I asked. "The crow poop on the stoop? The yard that hasn't seen a good weeding since ol' Ben Holloway expired? The black cat licking its nether regions?" I watched as the cat in question slowly finished its ablutions, performed a slow I'm-all-that stretch and proceeded to cross the road in front of us. Damned cat. (Can you tell I'm a dog person?)

"No, but maybe that graveyard over there is worth a Kodak moment."

I'm sure both of us could hear my accompanying swallow. "Graveyard?" I followed the direction of her nod.

"Family cemetery. Lots of families had their own cemeteries back in the day," Shelby Lynne told me. "Especially the rich, snobby ones who didn't want their remains to decompose alongside the commoners. Care to check it out?"

I didn't even try to swallow past the wad in my throat. Instead I made a gaggy, coughing noise to clear it.

"Sure. Why not? No harm in taking a peek, right?" Yeah. That's what I'd told myself when, back in June, I'd opened a trunk looking for a jack and a tire iron and instead discovered one dead-as-a-doornail lawyer with a really awful toupee and a hole the size of Shelby Lynne's fist in his head.

Shelby opened her door and got out. She scooped up the cat and cuddled it while I surveyed the front of the house now shrouded in gloomy shadow. Shelby gave the cat a final squeeze, put it down and came to my window. "Is there a problem?" she asked.

Only with my fine motor skills. My hand did not want to grasp the door handle, and my feet wanted to stay right where they were--among discarded the gum wrappers, stale fries and pebbles that populated the floor of my front seat.

"No problemo," I said, pulling the handle, laying my left shoulder into the door and shoving. My door has a tendency to stick. I don't mind. Sometimes the nudge I give it is the only exercise I get.

I exited my vehicle, leaving the door slightly ajar. Getting the door open from the inside is easier than getting it open from the outside. One icy winter morning last winter I slid all the way under the car trying to get the driver's-side door open.

I pulled a notepad out of my pocket and followed Shelby around to the back of the Holloway house. Brown leaves crackled underfoot as we made our way to the tiny cleared area surrounded by a circle of the thick hedges where Holloway ancestors no longer living were laid to rest. The cemetery, like the sprawling yard, was unkempt and untidy. Tall unpulled weeds framed both weathered and polished marble headstones like fragile, brittle sentries.

I shivered and rubbed my arms. The only thing more depressing than a neglected cemetery is neglected pets and kids. Not necessarily in that order...

I wondered if Shelby Lynne experienced the same level of uneasiness I did staring down at the lonely headstones. That question was answered seconds later when she pulled weeds away from the front of an ancient headstone and whistled.

"Man, here's an oldie for you. Roswell Benjamin Holloway. Born 1797. Died 1853." She whistled again. "Oh my gawd! Here's Loralie's headstone!
The
Loralie Holloway! You know, the lady in white!"

I felt some more of my spit dry up. "Is that right?" I managed.

Shelby grabbed my hand and pulled me down beside the tiny flat stone that served as a grave marker.

"Surely you remember the story of Loralie Holloway: the spinster who is rumored to have been rejected by her lover at the altar--after dear old dad, Roswell here, paid him off, that is--and lived out her years a lonely, bitter old woman wandering about the family estate in her faded wedding gown clutching a wilted bouquet of forget-me-nots and bloodred roses to her chest. The virgin specter that, to this day, still walks the grounds of her ancestral home humming the wedding march and pining for her long-lost love."

"Oh. That lady in white," I said, a sudden shiver sending the willies down my body. I looked at the modest headstone. "Loralie Amelia Holloway," I read. "Born April first, 1827." I blinked and slowly got to my feet, feeling a bit unsteady. "We have the same birthday," I said, totally weirded out by the coincidence.

"You were born on April Fools' Day, too?" Shelby brushed dirt from the lettering. "And look. She died on Halloween. Like, how freaky is that?"

I continued to look at the writing on the stone for a second longer.

"I think I've seen enough," I said, and made my way with long, hurried strides out of the shadows of the cemetery and into the light of the afternoon sun.

"They say Loralie walks the night in search of a lover," Shelby said, catching up to me with little difficulty. "Some people swear they've heard a woman weeping in despair and loneliness, and the next day lonely little red rose petals are blowing about the yard."

I shrugged. "We do grow roses here in Iowa," I pointed out.

"Ah, but this was in the dead of winter," Shelby clarified. "Can you imagine how those red rose petals looked on fresh, unsoiled snow? Like blood droplets falling on a blank canvas."

I stopped. "Do you have to be quite so graphic?"

"Graphic? That's a good thing for a writer to be, right? It lends authenticity to one's story. A sense of realism. Of being in the moment."

"Sure. Yeah. That sounds right," I said, hurrying to my car, pulling the door open and jumping in.

"What's your rush?" Shelby asked, folding her legs and arms into the Plymouth.

"I've got an appointment," I told her. "Family stuff."

She slid her seat belt across her middle and fought with the fastener until she had it secured. "I guess I'd better get home and start my homework. So, what say you pick me up around six-thirty tomorrow and we come out and set up surveillance? There's a lane down the road a piece where we can stash the car, and we can come up on foot and watch the place from the grove of trees. That way we won't miss her arrival if she comes in early."

"Six-thirty?" I was still in full pillow-drool mode at that hour of the morning. I looked over at Shelby. "Don't you have school?" I asked.

"I'm a senior. My first class is at ten. Besides, if something comes up, you can pretend to be my mom and call in sick for me."

Yeah. Like that was gonna happen. No way was I gonna be called into the principal's office at my age.

I pulled around the circle driveway, past the dark front of Holloway Hall, and headed for the dirt road at the end of the lane. I gave the house one more look in the rearview mirror as I prepared to pull out, my eyes drawn to the French doors on the second floor of the old house. You know, the doors that led to the small terrace. The doors that had been shut, drapes closed, when we'd pulled in. The doors that were now ajar, the curtains swaying in the suddenly chilly afternoon breeze.

I quickly looked away, deciding that if a ghostly white apparition wearing a white gown and clutching red roses appeared, I didn't care to see it.

Let's see. Just what does an ace cub reporter with a nose for news do when confronted with a seemingly newsworthy phenomenon? I hit the accelerator like someone had waved a green flag in my face--or a dozen krispy kremes with chocolate frosting and a gooey white center. The Plymouth skidded sideways out of the driveway and onto the road, gravel spraying and striking the hubcaps I had left and the wheel wells on the tires that went without, and we narrowly missed crashing into the ditch on the other side of the road.

"What the--?" Shelby slid to the side, and her seat belt popped out of the catch and smacked the passenger window.

"Guess I need to fill up the power steering fluid," I said, giving her a wobbly smile.

"Power steering, like hell," Shelby Lynne said, righting herself. "Get rid of the lead foot, would you?"

I nodded. And I'd do it, too. Right after I shed the yellow streak a mile wide running down my back.

I don't believe in spooks. I don't believe in spooks. I don't. I don't. I don't. I don't believe in spooks.

"Are you sure you don't want something to eat, Tressa?" My mom was clearing the supper table when I popped my head into the kitchen over the bar that separated it from the dining room. "Meat loaf and cheesy potatoes," she added.

I rubbed my stomach. "Who made the meat loaf?" I asked.

My mom bit back a smile. "Your grandmother did the honors," she said.

"Maybe later," I said, knowing my grandmother's love for green peppers and onions. "Where is Gram, by the way?" I asked, picking up the pan of potatoes and snitching some with a finger. My mother picked up the meat loaf pan and carried it to the kitchen. I followed.

"She's getting ready to go out. Again," my mother said, setting the meat loaf pan on the stove with a loud thump. "Third night she's been out this week." My mother is a CPA and does bookkeeping and taxes in her basement office. She tends to lean toward economy in conversation.

"Bingo?" I asked.

My mother shook her head.

"Funeral home visitation?"

Another shake of the head.

"Church? Water aerobics? Senior night at the VFW?"

My mom grabbed the potatoes from me, stuck a plastic lid on them and shoved them in the fridge.