Must Love Ghosts (Banshee Creek Book 1) (15 page)

"Right," Abby muttered. "Professional."

Caine drove his Harley chopper up to the campsite. The rest of the team was partial to touring bikes, which made sense as it would allow them to travel far and wide in relative comfort. Caine's goal, however, was not comfort. His bike was a custom job, black and shiny, with no fenders and lots of chrome. The back had a luggage rack, but it did not hold a bag, instead, it carried a large fabric-covered cage.

Caine parked the bike and took off his helmet. He looked around the site and nodded, satisfied.
 

"Very nice," he said, getting off the bike. "Yo, Cassie. Get the cameras ready. Let's get some landscape shots."

He glanced at Abby and Mike. "Suit up, guys," he said. "You might be in a shot."

"Whoa," Abby said, backing away. "Mike did not sign up to star in your movie, Caine."

Caine laughed. "Oh, he's not the star." He untied the cage and lifted it. "No offense, dude, but I found someone smarter, more talented, and a hell of a lot prettier."

He uncovered the cage and stood back.

A pair of black eyes stared back at them, unblinking. The eyes were set in a white, heart-shaped face. The creature blinked and spread its tan-colored wings, showing off its plumage

It was a large, cream-colored barn owl.
 

"Meet Rusty," Caine said proudly. "He's our leading man...er, bird."

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

"W
HAT
'
S
GOING
on, Caine?" Abby asked, concerned about her friend's latest scheme. "What's with the t-shirts, and the new equipment, and—" She pointed accusingly at the innocent-looking owl. "
This
? Who decided it was a good idea to entrust
you
with an endangered species?"

But Caine ignored her questions. He put on a complicated leather glove with lots of straps and opened the cage. The owl examined the glove carefully then jumped obediently onto the biker's arm. Caine cooed at the bird, grabbed the leash, and turned towards them.

"These guys are not even threatened," he explained, patting the bird on the head gently. "They're just troubled. And I have a good relationship with VRR." He pointed to his green t-shirt, which did, indeed, bear a falcon logo and the Virginia Raptor Rescue sigil. "VRR agreed to co-sponsor the film shoot as a way to increase awareness about the raptor situation in Virginia."

"How did you talk them into that?" she asked. She knew Caine was a persuasive guy, but she, personally, wouldn't trust him to keep a low-maintenance cactus alive.
 

"I volunteer there all the time," he said, smiling wolfishly. "I have a great affinity with predators."
 

And he wasn't the only one. Mike was staring at the bird.

"He's very impressive," Mike said. "But why doesn't he fly away?"

"He can't," Caine answered, with a sad shake of his head. "His left wing doesn't work. He hit a car a couple of years ago and injured himself. We took him in and rehabilitated him, but his wing didn't heal quite right." He aimed a fond glance at the bird. "He had too much nerve damage."

"Aw," Abby said. "Poor baby."

She glanced at the wounded bird. He sat, tall and majestic, on Caine's arm, looking around the campsite. He seemed perfectly healthy, but he did not try to leave Caine's arm.

Caine looked at the bird proudly. "Some birds don't make it. They pretty much lose the will to live, but Rusty, here, is a trooper. He's a teacher now. We use him to educate people on Virginia wildlife, and the kids love him."

"I can see why," Mike said. "He's quite the charmer."

"Yep," Caine said. "And now he's going to be a movie star."

Abby looked at the bird doubtfully.

"What is he going to do?" she asked. "After all, he can't fly."

"But he can glide," Caine explained. "He's got a two-foot wingspan and he's an incredible glider. He's going to help us test Mike's theory."

"Caine," Abby interrupted. "Movie crews have specialized trainers to handle the animal actors. Those people work for years to get a horse or a dog to do tricks. You can't just waltz in with a bird, a wounded one at that, and expect it to fly, or glide, on command."

But Caine paid no attention to her. He looked up at the forest canopy.

"We just need to find a good tree," he said.

"The tree," Abby replied. "Is the least of your problems."

"How about that one?" Mike asked, pointing towards a large oak.

Et tu
, Mike Stone? Had he gone nuts? He really meant to throw that poor animal off a tree branch? Apparently so, as he promptly walked off to measure a couple of likely candidates.

"I don't know," Caine said, following Mike. "Someone's going have to carry him up to the branch. You think you can climb that sucker, Captain America?"

Abby watched them walk away, totally confused. Mike, however, was in his element. He looked perfectly comfortable, measuring the tree and chatting about flight trajectories with Caine. She was trying to figure out a way to stop this when she noticed Cassie waving at her from the latrine station.

"Hey," her friend shouted. "T-shirt time. And can you help me with my hair? I want to do a take before the sun comes down."

Abby sighed, picked up her PRoVE t-shirt and went to help her friend. Rusty would have to take care of himself.

The latrine station was quite large. It didn't have running water, but the park was generous with the antibacterial lotion and there was a big mirror on the wall. Cassie had set up her make-up case on top of a plastic table, and was spreading out her supplies—purple chalk sticks, lavender mascara, and grape-colored eye shadow.

"Wow, that's a lot of purple," she said, searching for some neutral colors.
 

"It's called branding, love," Cassie replied, running a plum-colored chalk stick through her hair. "And we're doing a lot of it."

Abby helped Cassie with her braids then changed her shirt. The t-shirt didn't look bad. In fact, it did look kind of professional, as professional as you could look with a giant yellow eye spread across your boobs, that is.

"When did Caine get this stuff?" she asked Cassie, who was carefully outlining her eye in black kohl.

"I don't know. He distributed the t-shirts after we finished the party clean-up last night." Cassie flipped the pencil and drew a perfect cat's eye line under her lid. "I guess the sponsor was waiting to see if the party was successful before investing."

Abby frowned. She loved her friends. She had a lot of fun going off on UFO sightings with them, and they really helped her out with her research on Elizabethan ghost ballads.
 

But, still, who would spend real money—the kind that bought team t-shirts and technical equipment—on a crazy group of ghost hunters?

And what did they want in exchange?

"How big of an investment are we talking about?" she asked.

Cassie shrugged. "Big enough." She checked her makeup. "Tonight's taping will be turned into a pilot and we're shopping it around to various networks. Caine's really excited about it."

"I can't believe I didn't know about this."

"Well, it all happened last night." Cassie applied some lipstick, mercifully
not
in a purple shade. "And you were, shall we say, otherwise occupied?"

"You could have texted me," Abby complained.

Her comment elicited uproarious laughter.
 

"Oh my," her friend wheezed. "Look at that. You made me break my lipstick."
 

Cassie waved the mutilated stick in front of Abby's face.

"We did text you, you idiot," she said. "You haven't checked your phone in more than twenty-four hours. You've been a busy gal."
 

"Impossible," Abby said. She always checked her phone, always.

Or did she? She'd left the phone in the house because her Emma Peel costume didn't have any pockets, and she'd been a little distracted when she'd gotten home.

She couldn't recall checking it at all.

Cassie chuckled. "Cross my heart and hope for pie," she chanted, making the requisite motion over her chest. "But, don't worry, you didn't miss much. Just, you know, the t-shirt distribution, the secret handshake and Caine's plans for world domination." She smiled at Abby fondly. "We're happy for you, really."

"Oh." Abby didn't know what to say to that. She hadn't expected her friends, who were, after all, also Cole's friends, to be so supportive.

"I mean, it was pretty obvious that there was something going on. All we've heard from you for the past couple months has been 'Mike this' and 'Mike that.'"

"That's so not true," Abby exclaimed After all, Mike had been stationed overseas. Sure, there had been the occasional e-mail, some Twitter...and maybe a couple of Facebook posts.

Okay, and Skype. There had been a lot of Skype.

"Really?" Cassie asked. "How about 'Mike liked the Johnny Cash cover' and 'Mike thought the murder one was too creepy.'"

"I still taped the murder one," Abby interjected.

 
"The point is," Cassie said firmly. "That you've been talking about this guy for months now. And it's a good thing. It got you out of your funk."

"I wasn't in a funk."

Cassie patted her arm kindly.

"Hon, you lost your fiancée. You're allowed to be in a funk." Her friend's eyes darkened. "Heck, we were all funking with you. Cole was a big part of our lives."
 

Abby felt tears sting her eyes.

"But," Cassie continued. "We had to move on, and we did. But you kind of...didn't."

"I did too," Abby replied, stung. "I kept busy."

She'd worked her butt off waiting tables at Caine's bar, she'd helped Zach recover from his accident, and she'd served as Patricia's assistant at the bakery. Sure, it wasn't a textbook recovery, and she'd pretty much eaten her own body weight in donuts, but she hadn't exactly wallowed in her grief.

"You stopped writing music," Cassie accused. "And you stopped playing."

"That's because Zach got hurt."

Cassie shook her head. "The band was in hiatus before that. Cole died and you stopped singing altogether. That's why Zach had free time to go to Chile and play chicken with Mount Aconcagua."

"I think that's in Argentina," Abby clarified.

Cassie waved away the distinction. "Whatever. You know I'm right. You were stuck in a rut until Mike got back in touch with you and you guys started chatting. That's when you started writing again. Then you did some research and asked me about all the ghost ballad stuff."

Abby nodded. Cassie had been a big help. She had an encyclopedic knowledge of myths and folklore, but Mike?
 

What did Mike have to do with it?

"We were so happy for you. You started playing on the local bar circuit and those country music guys heard you and got you to tape a demo and now you're going to be a country music star. And it's all because of—"

"Whoa," Abby interrupted. "Hold your horsies. I was just helping out my friends. I haven't said I'm doing the country music thing."

"Oh, c'mon. Of course you're going to do it. Don't you have a bunch of shows lined up already?"

"Those are just try-outs. You know, to see if people like our sound."

"Yeah, right," Cassie scoffed. "The guys from Space Cowboys are great and Zach says that the producer has an excellent reputation."

"You talked to Zach about this?" Abby exclaimed, flabbergasted. She'd been very careful not to mention her new band in front of Zach. Heck, she'd spent the past couple of months assiduously avoiding all musical topics with him. Had everyone in town been asking him about her new band? Ouch.

"Yep," Cassie said. "Apparently all his Latin music buddies from Berklee record in Nashville. Who'd have thunk it, right? Anyway, he loves this guy. And, most importantly, he's heard that the Nashville guy loves
you
."

"Oh."
 

Abby didn't know how she felt about that. She didn't picture herself as a country music singer, but a gig was a gig, right? And Zach's music industry connections were rock solid. If he said that the Nashville guy was good, she could take that all the way to the Banshee Creek Savings and Loan.

"So," Cassie continued. "What does Mike have to say about
that
?"

"What? Oh, the band? He thinks I'd be great."

But would she? She knew she was a talented folksinger, with a distinctive, edgy sound. She could play bars and coffeehouses and festivals. But Nashville? Nashville was ginormous arena stages and glitzy videos and cowboy hats. Could she do it? She had no clue.
 

But, she had to admit, Mike's unwavering faith made her feel like maybe, just maybe, she could do it.

And, like Mike, her Banshee Creek friends had no doubts. Cassie's smile was brighter than her Radioactive Pixie Dust eye shadow. She grabbed Abby's shoulders and enveloped her in a tight hug.

"I'm super happy for you, Abby," she said. "A new gig and a new guy."

She took a step back and beamed at her.

"And an incredibly hot guy at that." She wiggled her eyebrows lasciviously. "It doesn't get better than that. You have to tell me all the details, about Mike and about Nashville. Just remember to not sign any contracts until after Thanksgiving."

Abby frowned. "Why?"

Cassie rolled her eyes. "Mercury is in retrograde. You remember what that means, right? No contracts and no big purchases. There will be lots of misunderstanding and people will behave erratically."

Abby laughed. "I'll remember."

A loud shout came from outside and Cassie sighed dramatically.

"That's Caine. I guess it's time for me to go and play second fiddle to the feathered diva with the taste for frozen rodents."
 

Cassie headed for the door. "Put your stage face on, country girl," she called out from the doorway. "It's showtime."

Abby bent over the makeup case, and stared at the colorful offerings—Neon Peachsicle lipstick, Vamp Me Around blush, and Zom-Bee Sting lip gloss—but her mind was somewhere else and the names and colors were a blur.