Austensibly Ordinary (9 page)

“Fine,” I agreed, just wanting to get this over with.

“Okay,” she said, grinning and pulling her hair into a quick ponytail. “I didn't get permission to go into room 525—still working on that—and the other two high-profile rooms are booked, so we're going to have to stay on the two main floors, taking readings near the grand staircase, the elevators, the bar, and maybe the bathrooms.”

In other words, we'd be skulking through the busiest areas of the hotel.

“But it's a Tuesday.” She shrugged. “So it's not likely we'll run into the usual crowds. Although . . . there is a cocktail party going on in the bar. Maybe we'll save it for last. Ready?” she said, clearly psyched. “I'll give you the lowdown on the rumored hauntings in each area as we get close.”

She slipped Casper's strap over her head and let it fall across her chest so that the black box settled on her right hip. She pulled two flashlights from her desk drawer, slipped one in her jacket pocket, and handed me the other. It hung limply in my hand. Next came an expensive-looking camera with a protruding lens, which she tried to pawn off on me. “I thought you could take the pictures.”

“Unless it's point-and-shoot, you don't want me in charge of getting documented proof,” I warned her.

“Good point.” She lifted Casper's strap over her head. “I'll take the photos, you can operate the ghost tracker.” I eyed it distastefully before eventually accepting the inevitable. Ironically, I was now thrilled to have the goggles—they'd seriously lower any chance I had of being recognized. Why I hadn't thought to wear a better disguise to this little party, especially given my current obsession with spies and alter egos, was beyond me.

Courtney loaded another pocket with a sharpened pencil and a notepad. Next she lifted a miniature tape recorder to her lips and pressed the Record button.

“November second, 2010.” She glanced at her watch. “Seven forty-six. The Driskill Hotel, Austin, Texas. The Lower Floors. Hunting with Cate Kendall.” I rolled my eyes, wishing I hadn't deserved a mention. Leaving the recorder running, she slipped it into a smallish pocket on her chest, with the microphone exposed and ready.

My patience was hanging by a thread. “Hey, Court, I don't have a lot of time here, so could we speed things up a little? Some of us have to be up by six.”

“Okay,” she agreed, patting down her pockets, obviously concerned she might be forgetting something. I was only conscious of needing to leave my pride behind. She reached for my hand, and rather baffled, I offered it up. She leaned over to read from a sheet of paper on her desk.

“Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil—”

While I was loath to interrupt a prayer against the devil himself, I didn't think I could take much more of this. Knowing Court's quirky mentality, I should have seen this coming, but honestly I hadn't wanted to give this any more thought than I had to, and besides, I had a little situation at home. When she squeezed my hand on the “amen,” I squeezed back—what else could I do? And then I hustled her out of the room before she could hold a seance and call forth a little evening entertainment.

We started with the enormous painting of Colonel Driskill, the hotel's first owner, overlooking the landing between the lobby and the mezzanine. Rumor had it that guests could occasionally smell cigar smoke lingering near the portrait, so Courtney and I led with our noses, sniffing like bunny rabbits until my lungs and pride were simultaneously exhausted. I glanced to Casper for a second opinion and was forced to give Courtney the bad news. “I got nothing.” One last glance at Colonel Driskill almost had me believing he was smirking at us and our measly attempt. We pressed onward.

“How'd your masquerade as a femme fatale go?” Courtney smirked.

I blinked at her. If she could see herself at this moment, in full ghost-hunting garb, she might think twice about that teasing little smirk.

“It was like I was born for the role.”

“Sweep the wand,” she bossed, and I dutifully swept it out in front of me as I climbed the steps to the mezzanine. Every now and then I'd glance at the box, ostensibly checking for a reading.

“Did your sex appeal intimidate or entice?” she quizzed. Before I could answer, she pivoted on the top stair and led us back down to sweep the other side of the split staircase. I rolled my eyes safely behind my goggles.

“I attracted at least one man's attention,” I said, preening a little. “A Cary Grant in Jimmy Stewart disguise.”

“Is that like a wolf in sheep's clothing?” she said, her blond ponytail swinging in an arc.

“In the best possible way,” I confirmed.

“So . . . ?”

“So, I flirted, and he flirted,” I said, sweeping, “and when the party was almost over, I gave him my number and a sorta sexy kiss on the cheek and disappeared into the night.”

Courtney turned to look at me, surprise in her eyes. She then grabbed Casper's wand and began sweeping it over my person.

I swatted her hand away, glancing around me in embarrassment.

“Sorry,” she said, clearly not. “I thought maybe I could get a read on you if you were possessed, because that doesn't sound like the sweet little schoolteacher I know.”

“Very funny,” I said, feigning amusement. “Well, the joke's on you, because I switched up my accessories. No heart on the sleeve for me . . . only a little cleavage and a lot of leg.”

“How va-va-va-voom of you!” she said, laughing. “I'm gonna have to look at you differently now.” She glanced over her shoulder at me. “Well, maybe when you're not wearing goggles.”

Skulking through the art deco lobby of the Driskill wearing goggles was a lesson in embarrassment. I had to keep reminding myself that I couldn't possibly be recognized, but there was a good chance that was simply wishful thinking. So I moved as stealthily as possible over the marble floors, dodging between the Grecian columns and lurking behind potted palms, sweeping Casper's sensor wand casually out in front of me. Our target: the ghost of a four-year-old girl, a Texas senator's daughter who'd fallen to her death down the grand staircase in 1887 while bouncing a ball. Creep-y!

We couldn't detect even a hint of her in the lobby or along the sweeping grand staircase up to the mezzanine. The two of us were not similarly inconspicuous. Alone I could have kept things discreet, but with Courtney following close behind me, camera at the ready, murmuring meaningless updates into the voice recorder, we were likely to be posted to YouTube within the hour. At the very least, we were entertaining the surplus of bellhops at the Brazos Street entrance. Every time the doors were pulled open for a hotel guest they'd all crane their necks for another peek at the geeks.

“Thank you for insisting on the goggles,” I said, sotto voce, as Courtney came close.

“This isn't my first rodeo,” she told me with a sassy little tip of her head. “Oops!” She glanced down at her recorder, overcompensating because of the goggles. “Probably should have switched off the recorder for that. Oh well. Okay, so the senator's daughter doesn't want to play with us tonight, but there's one more place we can look for her. Ladies' bathroom near the bar. Wanna risk it?”

“Sure,” I agreed. Whatever it took to get this over with.

“We might find Colonel Driskill in there too, so get ready!”

I blinked, wondering what the colonel might be doing in there, and my eyelashes brushed against the plastic. I swept my arm out in gallant fashion and waited for her to take the lead. I'd quiz the colonel himself if he decided to show.

So far we'd detected a “cold spot” beneath an air-conditioning vent and increased electromagnetic frequency outside the engineering room, I assume from whatever machines were stashed behind the door. The ghosts were, predictably, playing hard to get, but Court didn't seem to mind. She was content just to be on the hunt.

I'd never stepped foot in the hotel's bar, and having spent the last quarter of an hour surrounded by so much opulence, I couldn't resist sneaking a peek. I tipped my head around the corner and gawked at all that Texas good-ole-boy decor glowing burnt orange under the copper-plated ceilings. The cocktail party was in full swing, mostly guys in suits, their ties loosened ever so slightly, trying to look relaxed and casual and failing miserably. At least they had access to a full bar. The ghost hunt might be a whole lot more tolerable if I had a drink in my hand. Maybe next time I could convince Courtney to let us wear flasks. Then again, maybe there wouldn't be a next time. Wishful thinking.

As I started to turn back to the main hall, my eye caught a familiar profile, and I turned back, suddenly, avidly curious. Despite the suit and the stubble on his jaw, which seriously upped his sexy quotient amid the rest of the mingling suits, the man was unmistakable. I'd walked away from him on Sunday night, crossing my fingers that he'd call me. He hadn't. And now, here I was, standing not fifty feet from him, not as Cat Kennedy, sultry charmer, but as Cate Kendall, ghost-hunting sidekick.
Shit!
And worse still, he'd just leaned down to whisper in the ear of the only woman in the vicinity, causing a blush to crowd into her cheekbones as she crossed her legs and let her skirt ride up her thighs another unseemly inch.
Shit, shit!

I whipped back around the corner before Courtney came looking for me—two chicks in goggles would likely result in a domino effect of further goggling, and then my cover would be blown, my secret identity no longer secret.

I leaned against the wall, needing just a minute to assess the situation.

“What's the matter?” Courtney said matter-of-factly, sidling up beside me. She'd likely been scoping out the upper reaches of the lobby ceiling for ghostly avoiders.

“Taking a quick break,” I lied.

She pressed the Stop button on the voice recorder. “Want to go sit at the bar for a minute and strategize? I'll buy you a drink,” she offered, starting to pack things away.

“No thanks!” I said jauntily, pushing myself off the wall. “I'm ready to push on.” I definitely didn't want to go in there and come face-to-face with Jake Tielman and his little friend, particularly as a ninja geek. And I definitely did not want to explain to Court that this was the star who'd played opposite my femme fatale. Particularly given that he was flagrantly flirting with someone else. I would just have to make do without the drink that sounded really, really good right now.

She looked at me sideways, convinced there was more to the story, but unconvinced it was better than the paranormal possibilities. I smiled, channeling the gung-ho best friend, and Court tamped down on her curiosity and refocused on the hunt.

As we trekked off to the bathroom, I tamped down on my emotions (and frustrated lust) and tried to make an unbiased assessment. While it was true we'd flirted shamelessly and I'd very deliberately given him my number, no promises had been made, and any expectations I'd harbored of a romantic entanglement between us were my own. Besides, I wouldn't be surprised if The Skirt was the most interesting person at that cocktail party . . . other than Jake. I couldn't fault him for good taste. Cary Grant would have done the same. For all I knew, they were keeping a running tally of everyone in the room with visible nose hair or ear fuzz. Or he could have been letting her know she had a poppy seed between her front teeth. . . .

“I don't know any summoning chants, or we could try one of those,” Courtney said as we reached the door to the ladies' room.

“Nothing useable in Harry Potter?” I murmured grouchily. Aloud I spitballed, “Don't we want to observe them in their natural habitat, roaming and haunting unfettered? If we summon them, they're bound to be irritated. I mean, wouldn't you be?” Evidently I had some talent with a shovel.

The ladies' room was a fortress of beige marble and brass fixtures, and I couldn't imagine any ghost wanting to spend their time there. But I dutifully stepped into each closeted stall, swept the wand around each immaculate toilet, and then finished up with the vanity sinks. No cold spots, no EMF, and zero confidence that there was anything lurking here to find.

“One more spot,” Courtney begged.

“Where to?” I asked, trying valiantly to be supportive and tightening my grip on my patience. I gritted my teeth.

“The elevators. It's possible the senator's daughter could be lurking in one, or P. J. Lawless, the phantom railway ticket taker who lived at the Driskill for thirty-one years.”

Seeing my surprised expression, she seemed pleased. “I'll loan you my reference manual,
Haunted Texas,
and you can brush up on all the ghosts for next time,” she said, grinning. Naïve was actually cute on her.

As we padded over the hotel's plush but gaudy star-spangled carpet on our way to the elevators, I crossed my fingers and hoped desperately that the cocktail party had either dispersed or was still going strong . . . and that Jake hadn't slipped away with The Skirt to take a little ride upstairs. My steps faltered slightly, but I rallied. I had the goggles, and I'd keep my head down. And marvel that I'd taken on two semi-secret identities in the space of a week.

When the elevator doors slid open, Courtney strode in, uninhibited by a dark-haired dude in a navy sport coat and worn jeans giving her the eye. I stepped in more gingerly, smiling apologetically. Mostly I was just sorry for myself. The etched glass mirrors inlaid in mahogany paneling were having a field day with the pair of us, bouncing our goggled reflections into infinity. I turned to face the elevator doors, noticed the button was pressed for the third floor, and then tipped my head up. I met the eyes of our hostage and looked away.