Some Like it Haunted (A Sophie Rhodes Ghostly Romane Book 2) (10 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

L
illiana’s house took me by surprise. I guess I’m one of those people who still believed witches wear tall pointy black hats and live in dark Gothic houses covered in cobwebs. She lived in a neighborhood that I drive through and only dream about living in some day. The houses were recently-built almost-mansions on pristine streets with long, sloping, perfectly manicured lawns. Extortion must pay well.

Her stately stone-front home sat at the end of the cul-de-sac and while it was covered in cobwebs, so were her neighbors’ houses since Halloween was just around the corner.

Shane hadn’t arrived yet, but I walked to her front door. I ignored the paper skeleton hanging there and rang the doorbell.

A tall woman with wavy black hair answered the door. She resembled the attractive picture on her website, with maybe a few more wrinkles around her brown eyes.

“Buona sera,” she said with a smile. “Sophia, yes?”

“Sophie,” I corrected her again.

“Yes, yes. Sophie. I apologize.”

She seemed nice enough. “That’s okay. I get that a lot.”

“I’m sure you do.” She held out her hand, palm up. “The money now.”

“You haven’t reversed the spell yet. You haven’t even invited me in.”

“No money, no come in, no reverse the spell.”

Scratch that. She wasn’t so nice after all. I had just about had my fill of nasty women. “What if it doesn’t work?”

“No refunds.”

“But you’ve done this before, right? You’ve removed a lust spell before?”

“You have my business card, no?”

“Yes.”

“What does it say on this business card? Does it say I fix your toilet or I mop your floors or I walk your dogs?”

“Um...”

“No! It says I remove spells. You want to wait three days, I give you my Halloween half-price discount. You want to stop craving this man tonight, two hundred dollars in my palm now.”

“It’s a scam,” I mumbled while pulling the bills from my wallet. “I ought to report you.” I slapped the money into her hand.

“You may come in,” she said, her smile returning. “Listen, Sophie, I get many people who do not want to pay for my services. Much like medical doctors, you know? I am a businesswoman like anybody else. I used to accept checks but too many bounced, you know?”

Much like medical doctors. She sure did think highly of herself. “Yeah, yeah. I gave you your money. Can we get on with it?”

“Do you have the picture?”

“What picture?”

“The object of your lust. I told you to bring this picture.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Well, I need this picture.”

“Will the man himself do?”

“That would work too,” she said. “But make it quick. I have a client arriving at seven o’clock. Need to reverse his bad luck spell.”

I gave her my best evil eye and dialed Shane. “Where are you?” I snapped into the phone.

“On my way. I was called to an accident scene and just finished.”

“How far away are you?”

“Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.”

“He says ten minutes.”

“If my bad luck spell arrives, you are out of luck. I do not let myself run late. After bad luck I have two poverty curses back to back. And I won’t be late for my yoga class at eight o’clock.”

Wouldn’t you know, Mr. Bad Luck arrived right on time and still no Shane.

Lilliana shoved me out the door. “Come back tomorrow with the picture or the guy. I have an opening at two. I give you a courtesy discount.”

“But I already paid you.”

“I told you, no refunds.”

She closed the door just as Shane pulled into the driveway. I told him what happened. “Can’t you go in there with your gun drawn and threaten her or something?”

He paced in front of his car. “You know I can’t do that.”

“I just thought you could scare her a little.” Scare her. Hold the phone. That gave me an idea. I called out for Marmaduke. “Marmi, are you there? Hello? Marmi, I need you.”

“Yes, Sophie?” I heard him say.

“Can I get your help here? You can use some of your new skills.”

“Can Myrtle come?”

“The more the merrier,” I said, grinning an evil grin. The woman deserved what she had coming.

Marmaduke and Myrtle appeared. “What is this dire need?”

I explained our plight and my plan.

Not five seconds after they walked through Lilliana’s walls, every window in the house lit up like a Christmas tree. A moment later, an ear-piercing wail sent birds flying from the surrounding trees. An octave higher and the windows probably would have shattered.

“That sounds like Myrtle,” I said, proud of my new friend.

The lights flicked off, then on again. Off again, on again. Bad Luck Spell tore out of the door, followed by two yowling cats and a yelping Great Dane.

Lilliana’s terrified client screeched away in his car, burning rubber.

“I should go ticket him for speeding,” joked Shane.

Lilliana appeared at her open door, scowling. “Are these your ghosts?”

“Yes. And if you don’t reverse the spell for the money I gave you, I’ll see to it that they scare the rest of your evening’s clients away as well. And maybe tomorrow’s too.

Apparently, two hundred dollars buys a very short ceremony.

Shane and I stood in the middle of her kitchen, backs against each other. Miss Swindler shook some smelly oil at us and chanted a few words in Italian. “There,” she said. “Now turn around and kiss.”

“Kiss?” I was outraged. “You did understand we wanted to break the spell?”

“Trust me,” she said, “I’ve done a million of these. You won’t enjoy it. The kiss unfastens the link of desire. Come on. Get moving. We don’t have all day. Kiss. Kiss!”

Shane grabbed my shoulders and planted his lips on mine. Lilliana was right. I didn’t enjoy it. The repulsion was glorious.

“Gross!” I yanked away and wiped my mouth with my sleeve. “What did you have for dinner? An onion sandwich with a side of garlic?”

“What about you? Did you roll in a cow pasture before coming here?”

“My work is done,” Lilliana declared, ushering us along. “If you enjoyed your experience here, please leave a good review. Just so you know, I put hexes on those who review badly. Buona Sera.” She slammed the door behind us.

I dialed Cal from the car but he didn’t pick up. “Hi,” I said to his voicemail. “I have good news. Call me.”

Marmi and Myrtle appeared in my rear view mirror. They sat apart with their arms crossed. Instead of staring deeply into each other’s eyes like before, they looked straight ahead.

“Miss Babcock,” Marmaduke said hesitantly. “It is with deep regret...I, erm, must declare...that is...”

She patted his hand. “I know what you’re gonna say, Mr. Dodsworth.”

“Please understand, it is me, not you.”

“No,” she corrected him, shaking her head. “I think it was all that silly spell. Ain’t no need for apologizin’. If I was being completely honest, you’re a bit old for me anyway.”

“Old? I died in my prime, I will have you know.”

“I’m sorry guys,” I said. “Why don’t you just shake hands and remain friends?”

Marmi relaxed. “I say. That is a fine idea.” He offered his hand to Myrtle. “Friends, then?”

“Wouldn’t have it no other way.” She gave his hand a hearty shake. “I ain’t ever had no friends from England before.”

“Yes, well, since you have been so generous in tutoring me on the finer points of levitation, maybe I could offer you some lessons in return. We can begin with grammar.”

My phone rang. Hoping it was Cal returning my call, I pulled over to answer safely. “Hello?”

“Ms. Rhodes? This is James Haviland. From Spencer House.”

I tried to hide my disappointment. “Yes, Mr. Haviland?”

“You said I could call this number if I had any information to share, so I hope you don’t mind.”

I straightened, curious. “You have information? About what?”

“More like about whom,” he said. “I’ve been digging in the Spencer House archives. I have something here I think you and your spectral friends might find helpful.”

My eyes felt heavy from lack of sleep, but he had piqued my curiosity. “I’ll be right over, Mr. Haviland.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

C
al called as I was parking my car.

“Hi handsome,” I answered. “What have you been up to this fine fall evening?”

“You’re perky.”

I locked the car and started walking toward Spencer House. “I’m happy. You’ll be thrilled too when you hear what I have to tell you. Ask me why I’m happy. Ask me, ask me.”

“You sound wired.”

“I broke down and had a cup of coffee. Tastes horrible, but I put four packets of sugar in and a lot of creamer. The sweetness helped. Had to stay awake. Soda wasn’t going to cut it.”

“Stay awake for what?”

“For you. I’m at Spencer House right now. Mr. Haviland found something about Myrtle. But I can come to your place when I’m done. Oh no, that doesn’t work, your mom is still there. My place then. Because I’m spell-free, baby. Spell-free. No more Shane on the brain. And don’t worry, I’m not even mad at you for what you did today.”

“Why would you be mad at me?”

That’s what he pulled from my speech? “I’m not. I just told you I’m not. So what do you say? My place in an hour?”

“But if you were mad at me, why would you be? For the sake of argument.”

I stopped just outside of the entrance. “Come on, you know. You’re not completely clueless. Laughing and having your jolly time with Bug Repellant Rachel. But I’m not mad about it anymore. It’s not your fault she’s playing you for a fool.”

Oops. That came out of my mouth sounding different than I’d intended. Darned coffee. Never again.

“This not-completely-clueless fool has work tomorrow and a soccer team to coach tomorrow night,” he said. “I think I’ll hit the hay. I’m glad you’re not mad though.”

“Cal, come on.” I didn’t get a response. “Cal?” The line was dead. “He hung up on me.” I dialed him back to apologize, but my call went straight to voicemail. “Ah geez.” I shoved the phone into my purse. “What did I just do?”

“It’s just a little lovers’ spat, sweetie,” Myrtle said. “Nothin’ that can’t be fixed tomorrow after you’ve both had a good night’s sleep. Now let’s get in there and see what this man has for us. I’m dyin’ to find out.” She giggled. “That’s funny. I’m dyin’ to find out, but I’m already dead. Get it?”

My sense of humor felt dead at the moment.

We proceeded past the line of visitors waiting for a tour and found Mr. Haviland in his office.

He rose from his desk and shook my hand with exuberance. “I’m so glad you could come down so quickly.” He glanced around the room expectantly. “Are the others here with you? The ghosts, I mean.”

I nodded. “Myrtle and Marmaduke. They’re here.”

“What’s he got for us?” Myrtle asked anxiously.

“We’re all curious to know what you found,” I told him.

“So many things!” He waved his hands around. “So many things. Come, I’ll show you.”

We followed him down a set of stairs to the basement. Apparently the basement served as the archive room. Tall metal shelves lined white plastered walls. The shelves were stacked with gray plastic file boxes. White labels marked their contents. Bright ceiling lights kept the place illuminated nicely. I noticed an open file box and stacks of papers on the long table in the center of the room.

“That’s a lot of file boxes,” I said.

Mr. Haviland nodded. “It is,” he agreed. “Things aren’t quite as organized as it might appear, though. It took me several hours today to sift through and find what I have here.” He indicated the stacks on the table. “Our ghost tours are semi-scripted. Individual guides add their own personal touch, but the stories for each room are standard as directed by tour managers. I was confused by Myrtle because, well, she isn’t part of our tour. At least, not the inside part of the tour and definitely not the Red Room.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Currently, ghost tour guides tell visitors about a tall and thin ghost that appears dressed in a flowing white dressing gown. They’ve nicknamed her Sad Alice. People have reported seeing her pace before the window during the full moon.”

“I never seen no lady wearin’ a gown in my room,” Myrtle complained. “Full moon or not.”

“That doesn’t sound like Myrtle,” I said.

“No,” he agreed, “it doesn’t. But the ghost story we tell in the courtyard does. We call her Moaning Misty because she can sometimes be heard moaning, crying out for her stillborn child. Some believe the baby was buried in the courtyard before the fountain was built.”

“Myrtle says she never left the Red Room until she left the house with Shane.”

“Well, I believed all of these stories to be just nicely scripted myths to please the paying public. Until last night, that is.”

Mr. Haviland went on, explaining in great detail how he traced the origin of the Moaning Misty story. “Apparently, tour scripts had changed many times over the years. They often changed with managers. When the house first opened for ghost tours, Moaning Myrtle was the topic of the Red Room portion of the tour. I can’t find any actual account of someone seeing or hearing a moaning ghost, however. As far as I’ve deduced, the story was scripted based on verbal accounts from former tenants when Spencer House was an apartment building. Regardless, hers was the story told for the Red Room tour for some time. But then along came a famous little book called Harry Potter and people accused us of being unoriginal, because of course, Hogwarts has its own Moaning Myrtle. Hence, the lady in white became the story told in the Red Room,” said Mr. Haviland, “which, if you ask me, is just as unoriginal.”

The coffee was wearing off and my eyelids were feeling droopy again. “So Myrtle’s story was moved to the courtyard and changed to Moaning Misty. That’s interesting, but it doesn’t really tell us anything new about Myrtle. I’ve been hoping to learn something about this Victoria woman—the one Myrtle says killed her and stole her baby. Or at least something more concrete that could prove Myrtle is my friend’s grandmother.”

“Yes, I know. That was the background to what I want to show you.” He plowed through the stacks of papers until he found one he was happy with. “Look at this. Notes left from the manager in two thousand and two. A woman named Victoria used to visit every April and leave flowers in the courtyard.”

“On the fountain?”

“No, in front of the rose garden.” His eyes flashed. “Oh! And look at this. I can’t believe I didn’t show you this one first. I sidetracked myself.” He pulled a faded black ledger from under one small stack of papers. He had marked his place with a sticky note. “This is the list of tenants in 1958.”

I scanned the list using my finger to guide me and stopped when I found Myrtle’s name. “Myrtle May Babcock,” I said. Proof at least that she’d lived here. That was promising.

“Keep going,” Mr. Haviland said. “She’s about four or five more names down.”

“Oh wow,” I said. Now that was really promising. “Victoria Rose Poplawski. That’s not a common name. I wonder if she’s still alive.”

I turned my head, looking for Myrtle but she’d vanished. “When did she leave?” I asked Marmaduke.

“When Haviland mentioned the rose garden.”

We found her there. A tour group passed us, glancing curiously behind them.

“Myrtle,” I said, treading lightly, not wanting to upset her. But the question had to be asked. “Is that your baby Scarlett buried there?”

She shook her head. “No, I told you. Scarlett is alive. You dig this garden up, though, and you’re gonna find my bones, sure enough.”