Ghouls Just Want to Have Fun (12 page)

I opened the car door and jogged back toward the house. If nothing else, I wanted to try to get a picture of Howard to run in the paper. Maybe if I shot a really unflattering photo of her, I could use it as leverage to convince the author that it would be in her best interests, public-relations-wise, to let me have a whack at her. For Main Street, USA, apple pie and all that.

I crept back to the evergreen and noticed that the curtains at the terraced windows were open and a light was on. I looked around for something that would get me to window level, saw a rather large, full, maple tree with low-lying branches off to my right and wondered what the odds of my being able to haul my carcass up and into the branches were. I was just about to grab a branch and make like a squirrel when someone grabbed my arm.

I whirled around.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, recognizing Shelby's unmistakable silhouette. "I told you to wait in the car."

"Your secret weapon left. He gave me the recorder and said something about finding his own photographic evidence so he could confront the old buzzard, and he took off," she explained. "So I came to find out what you were up to. Besides, I'm too old to be told to 'wait in the car' like a six-year-old."

I looked at Shelby and then at the tree, and decided that whoever said necessity was the mother of invention was brilliant.

"Okay, then make yourself useful and give me a lift," I said, raising my foot in front of Shelby Lynne.

"What?"

I put a hand on her shoulder and pressed down. "Come on. Give me a handhold," I said. "So I can reach the branch."

"Why do you want to reach the branch?" Shelby asked.

"Hello. So I can climb the tree," I told her.

"Okay. Why do you want to climb the tree?" Shelby asked.

"Because I want to look in the bedroom window," I said. "The second-floor bedroom window."

"You're planning to window-peek into Elizabeth Courtney Howard's bedroom?" she asked. "Isn't that illegal?"

"Only if you get caught. Do you think you can give me a boost into that tree?" I asked.

"Why are you the one who gets to climb the tree and window-peek?" Shelby asked. "Why not me?"

"Uh, because I have about as much chance of boosting you up to that branch as I do getting into last year's exercise outfit," I told her. "And it's spandex."

Shelby grunted. "Being six feet tall ought to have some advantages," she said, bending over to cup her hands. "I suck at sports. I'll never be thin enough or pretty enough to be a model. I hate house painting. Now I'm a friggin' stepladder. It's not fair."

"Quit yer whining, Nancy," I said, gripped her lowered shoulder, stuck my foot in her cupped hands and jumped once, twice, three times, reaching and grabbing hold of the nearest branch on my fourth hop. Shelby Lynne wobbled beneath me, and I struggled to get enough of a grip that I didn't plummet downward. I wasn't exactly keen on the idea of impacting with either the ground or with the girl who served as my human stepladder.

"Ouch! Watch out! I like my nose right where it's at, thank you very much," Shelby Lynne said with a loud grunt.

"Sorry," I said, with some not-inconsequential grunting of my own. "But if you can manage just one more boost, I think that will do it. And put some stank on it," I added, remembering her earlier remark about my wussie door-knocking.

A second later I was propelled upward with a shove from below that had enough stank on it that, had I not known better, I'd have sworn there was a trampoline under me.

I reached for a nearby sturdy branch, pulled myself up onto it and waited to catch my breath before ascending several more layers of branches, situating myself so that I could get a bird's-eye view of the windows leading to the second-floor bedroom. I was just thankful this particular maple still retained many of its fall leaves. I spent spent some time rearranging them so that I would have an unrestricted line of vision into the author's boudoir.

For a brief moment I had second thoughts. How low had I sunk? I was no better than the hated paparazzi who chased poor Princess Di all over the globe. The newshounds who stalked Jen and Ben (and baby makes three), Angelina and Brad (and baby makes--oh, I can't remember), who terrorized veteran entertainers on their beach outings, trying to shoot photos of their flabby midsections and cellulitic thighs.

Then I had a stern talk with myself. Tressa, I said, you're really performing more of a public service here, I told myself. You're trying to promote your hometown. Put Grandville on the map again--this time without the need for body bags. If at the same time you happened to put yourself on the road to journalistic credibility and financial freedom, who could fault you for that?

Once I got through lecturing myself, I decided it was all very upstanding. Very commendable. Altruistic, really.

Okay, so what I was really doing was trying to talk myself out of feeling like a shameless Peeping Tressa. What can I tell you? It worked.

"What do you see?" Shelby Lynne whispered up to me.

"Leaves," I said, hoping I hadn't crawled up into the domain of some nocturnal creature who couldn't abide company that didn't call ahead.

"Can you see inside the bedroom?"

I altered my position on the uncomfortable branch and peered through the foliage. "Yes. I can see the room. No activity yet," I reported, wondering if this was going to turn out to be a waste of time, effort and a plethora of bruises in rather interesting places all for nothing.

"Do you want me to come up? I think I can manage it."

"No!" I hissed, thinking the poor tree needed more weight on its limbs like I needed more around my waist and hips. I was about ready to shush her when a light in the room went out, leaving behind only the soft glow of a lamp.

"We've got action!" I said, making sure my camera was set to record history at the touch of a finger.

I shifted slightly on the branch, my butt already becoming stiff and sore from the narrow perch. I watched closely as a figure walked into the room from the open door on the opposite side. It was the guy from the other night. The one who'd helped Vanessa unload the van. I looked on, my mouth dropping open when the man reached up and began to unbutton his shirt. Just my luck. I'd picked the wrong room to window-peek into. Or had I? I know--naughty me.

The guy finished unbuttoning his shirt.

Okay, what now?
I thought about it for a while. Long enough to watch the guy slowly pull the shirt from his shoulders and toss it to the side in a blatantly steamy look-at-me kind of way. All right, all right. So I looked. Tell me you wouldn't do the same.

I'd just decided I'd do the noble thing, the decent thing, and climb down and leave the guy to his little striptease show when I saw the fellow crook a finger in one of those come-here-you motions. I paused, finally getting it for the first time that there was someone else in the room. I know. Duh. Blame it on the altitude.

The door to the terrace was slightly ajar, and I could pick up the muted hum of voices. I stuck my head through the opening in the branches, trying my best to make out what was being said and who was saying it.

"So,
Lizzie,
you sent the old beau away, huh? Didn't want to rekindle any old sparks for old time's sake? That's not very hospitable of you."

I almost fell out of the tree. Lizzie? Lizzie! I couldn't believe my luck. The man was talking to Elizabeth Courtney Howard.

The response to his remark was inaudible, and I frowned. Speak up, Lizzie, I urged. And put some stank on it!

"Ah, Lizzie, what am I going to do with you?" the well-built dude said, and I cocked my ear in the direction of the window to enhance the acoustics. "I think I know. Don't I always know what my Lizzie wants?" he added, and I almost fell out of the tree when the man reached down, popped open the fastener at the top of his pants and slid the zipper down with a slow hand.

"Come here and I'll provide some inspiration for your next lovemaking scene, Elizabeth," he said, moving slowly out of my line of sight. A second later I heard a soft moan, and the lamp went out.

I stared at the darkened window with equal parts shock, puzzlement and a feeling not unlike the one I get when I think about my parents having sex. No wonder Joltin' Joe couldn't reignite his old flame. She had one hot tamale on her payroll to stoke her furnace. Eeewww!

CHAPTER TEN

"What did you see? What did you see?" I was treated to Shelby Lynne's version of "Are we there yet?" all the way back to my house. I still wasn't comfortable putting to words the tryst I'd witnessed through the bedroom windows. Ugh. People ought to keep their drapes closed, I thought--and then reminded myself that if they did, I wouldn't have a story. I frowned. What was I saying? I didn't have a story. I had no pictures. No proof. Besides, who would be interested in the fact that a sixty-eight-year-old world-famous author had a boy toy? I gave myself a pinch. Uh, like everyone.

"What did you see?" Shelby asked again. "Did you see Howard? What was she doing?"

"Having the time of her life, no doubt," I said, thinking there was something definitely screwy (no pun intended) when a woman old enough to be my gramma was getting more sex than I was. I stopped. Heck, my gramma was probably getting more sex than I was.

"What does that mean? Did you get a picture?"

I shook my head. "I got, uh, distracted," I said, thinking that a man's unexpected naked chest certainly qualified as a distraction. "Something came up," I added, and winced.

"Like what?"

"I couldn't get a clear shot," I explained. "Too much... interference."

"Great. Another dead end." Shelby slammed a hand on the steering wheel. She pulled into my driveway, and I stared. Every light in the trailer was on. "So what do we do now?"

"We investigate," I said.

"Huh?"

"We investigate why my place is lit up like the Vegas strip," I said, opening the door and exiting the Jeep. "Uh, you're coming, too, aren't you?" I asked, remembering the time I'd come home and my house had been broken into. Let's just say trailer trash took on a new meaning that night.

"Me? What do you need me for?"

"There might be a burglar in there," I said.

"A burglar who turns on every light in the house? You probably left them on without remembering," Shelby Lynne responded.

"You picked me up and left with me," I reminded her. "Were they on then?"

She thought about it. "Okay, I'll come," she said. "But then we need to talk about what we're going to do next to get this interview."

"First things first," I said. "First, we defend hearth and home."

We climbed up the porch steps, and I could hear dogs barking in the house. Now, my pooches are smart, but I didn't think they had the motor skills to turn on light switches, although Butch will sometimes jump up and turn off the microwave when I'm popping popcorn. He hates the sound.

I turned the doorknob. The door was unlocked. I gave Shelby Lynne a quick look. "Be ready for anything," I said.

"Uh, you want to be more specific?" she asked with, I thought, a touch of skittishness.

"Just make like a Boy Scout and be prepared," I told her. I opened the door a smidgen. Then a bit wider. The barking grew louder. I opened the door wide enough to step in--and Grandma's cat, Hermione, tore by me, a blur of dark fur, and out the door. Butch and Sundance weren't far behind. They whipped past my legs, almost knocking me sideways. I looked around to see whether Shelby Lynne was still standing. She was. It probably took a NFL linebacker to get her off her feet.

"Butch! Sundance!" I whistled through my fingers, but the beasties were in hot pursuit of cat flesh and ignored me completely.

"I didn't know you had a cat," Shelby Lynne said. "You don't strike me as a cat person."

"I don't and I'm not," I said, stepping farther into the house and motioning Shelby to follow, then closed the door behind me.

"Aren't you worried the dogs will catch the cat and do what dogs like to do to felines?"

I shook my head. I wasn't worried about Hermione. She'd taken the dogs on many a wild chase before and had always managed to best the dynamic duo. What did give me paws--I mean pause--however, was why Hermione was in the mobile home at all.

"Hello?" I called out, and began to make my way through the house. I hadn't gotten far when I tripped over a large box sitting in front of the couch. "What the heck?" I bent over and opened the lid. I got a sudden uncomfortable sensation in the pit of my stomach. A definite queasiness. One of those Maalox moments.

"Oh, this is not good," I said, looking at the contents of the box. "This is not good at all."

Shelby Lynne moved around the end of the sofa and looked over my shoulder. "What is it? What's not good?"

I pulled out a DVD of Lawrence Welk and His Champagne Music Makers.

Shelby looked at me. "So? What does that mean? Someone broke into your house and left Lawrence Welk DVDs? What?"

"Tressa! Tressa, is that you?"

I heard my grandma's voice from the back bedroom, and I wanted to run out the front door faster than the pets had exited.

"That," I told Shelby.

"Tressa?"

"It's me, Gram," I said with a long exhalation of breath.

"I'm so glad you're home! I've been waiting to surprise you."

I nodded. She'd certainly done that. "Uh, what are you doing back there?"

"Why, I'm just putting a few things in the closet," she said. "I hope you don't mind, but I dumped your winter coats and twenty pairs of cowgirl boots on your bed."

I shook my head. I'd be lucky if I uncovered my bed by spring.

"You have twenty pairs of boots?" Shelby asked.

I shook my head. "I'm almost certain I don't." My eyes widened when Gram wandered down the hall, clad in a maroon velour sweat suit with matching fuzzy slippers. I glanced down at her hands and saw that she carried a piece from her collection of fertility gods and goddesses: one that had the unmistakable shape of a phallic symbol. Heaven help me. She
was
moving in!

"Gram, I thought we were going to discuss this move of yours before you took the leap. You know, come to some arrangement." Seek an emergency commitment order.

"The timing seemed right," she said. "So I jumped."

I rolled my eyes. "You were lucky you didn't break a hip. And how the heck did you get all this stuff moved?" I asked. No way would she convince my folks to help her. Well, maybe with the exception of the administrator of the "penal institution" from which my gramma was trying to escape. There were many days, I was sure, when my mother would gratefully turn her back that particular resident's jail-break.

"Oh, Rick helped me."

I looked at her. "What did you say?"

"Rick helped me."

I'm fairly certain that at this point I started to make the transformation from Dr. Bruce Banner to Incredible Hulk. Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde. Without facial and body hair growth, of course.

"Rick Townsend? Rick Townsend helped you move?"

Gram nodded. "Joe told him I was thinking of making the switch, so he came over and offered to help me move a few things. Very thoughtful of him, wasn't it?"

"Oh. Very thoughtful," I said. I was sure Ranger Rick had put considerable thought into this little homecoming treat for Tressa--the conniving, low-life, two-bit, backstabbing brigand. I had a sudden compulsion to rip off my clothes and howl at the moon. "You can't imagine how anxious I am to thank him in kind," I told Gram. "You just can't imagine."

"Holy-moley, who's that?" Gram looked beyond me to where Shelby Lynne stood. "Do I know her? Do I know you? The face looks familiar."

"You probably know her grandfather, Homer Sawyer," I said. "This is Shelby Lynne. Shelby, this is my grandmother, Hannah Turner."

Gram looked at Shelby Lynne a second longer. "You've got your grandfather's face," she said.

"I guess I'd better give it back then, huh?" Shelby replied with a smile. "Nice to meet you." She turned back to me. "Uh, do you think we can get down to business now? Or do you have more personal dramas to play out? Intrigues to attend to? I've got homework to do."

"Business? What kind of business? Investigative reporting? I'm pretty good at nosing around, aren't I, Tressa?" Gram looked at me. "Did you tell her about the fair? How Joe and I cracked that case wide open?"

I shook my head. "There really hasn't been time--"

"Is this the same Joe who just left Haunted Holloway Hall? The jilted suitor?"

I made a hacking motion at my throat, but apparently Shelby Lynne wasn't privy to directorial hand gestures like "cut"--and I wasn't sure how else to demonstrate "shut your piehole" with easy-to-follow hand maneuvers.

"The little guy was fit to be tied when he took off," Shelby continued.

"Joe? Joe Townsend? You've been with Joe this evening? And what's this about a jilted suitor?" Gram pounced on Shelby Lynne like I do on Great-aunt Eunice's homemade custard pie at family gatherings. "Why were you at Haunted Holloway Hall?"

I took the rather well-endowed statue from Gram and grimaced.

"I told you, we were trying to put a story together about the history of the Holloway house, Gram," I reminded her, setting the fertility figure on the bookcase in the corner and turning it to face the wall. "Given the long-standing tradition of spooky tales associated with the house, rumors that a real estate developer has his eyes on the place make it topical. And, remember, you told me that Joe knew the family through the lumber business, so I thought he might have more luck getting us into the house to have a look around and maybe snap a couple pictures." I felt proud of myself. The seat-of-my-pants explanation sounded reasonable even to me.

"So what's this about the jilted suitor, then?" Gram asked. Hello. What did I expect? Of course she'd pick up on the "jilted suitor" reference. Gram went to bed with
True Confessions
and woke with
Modern Romance
. Gram was in love with love.

"Well, it's not exactly like that," I told her, "but Joe was a tad disgruntled that you were busy with Rom--Mr. Rivas last evening, and I expect that's what got him out of sorts. Not so much jilted suitor as a frustrated friend. He thinks Rivas is a bit of a skirt chaser, you know."

"I don't wear skirts anymore," Gram said. "Not since that Fourth of July that was so windy my skirt was around my shoulders. Remember, Tressa? I was on a float in the parade at the time," she added.

I did. It was five years ago, and Gram had been wearing red-white-and-blue-striped underwear. Patriotic to the core.

"I just meant that Rivas has a love-'em-and-leave-'em reputation, Gram," I explained. "I expect Joe just doesn't want anyone to take advantage of you."

"Let 'em try," Gram said. "You remember the frozen turkey legs we used as weapons at the fair, don't you? If I'da beaned someone with one of those, it would have inflicted some serious damage, so I reckon I'm able to defend myself."

I nodded. Up until the time my gramma started taking spills, I never for one moment fretted about her being able to look out for herself. I figured, considering her granddaughter was a younger, hotter, blonde version of Xena, the Warrior Princess (Okay, folks, keep the guffaws to a minimum here. You're disturbing my concentration.) that maybe my grandma was the original warrior queen. The apples don't fall far from the tree and all that, you know.

"How could I forget?" I responded.

"Well, that's sweet of Joe to be looking out for me, but like I said, I can take care of myself in the male department." She winked at Shelby Lynne. "That's
m-a-l-e,
not
m-a-i-l
."

Shelby nodded. "Gotcha."

Gram gave Shelby a long, measuring glance. "You look like you've moved a box or two, young lady," she said. "Come with me."

Shelby gave me a questioning look, and I put up my hands.

"I've just got a few more things I'd like to move over this evening. And Tressa is strong, but she's a complete butterfingers when it comes to my collection of fertility gods and goddesses. She knocked the winkie off one of them. Never would stand at attention once I had to superglue it."

I gave Shelby another what-can-I-tell-you look.

"Come along, dear." Gram reached out and took Shelby's hand. "This won't take long."

I waved good-bye to Shelby Lynne, who looked like she was being dragged off to Merle Norman for a makeover. If I'd been feeling compassionate and nice, I'd have volunteered to rescue Shelby Lynne. As it was, I was still fuming over two-faced Townsend's duplicitous, underhanded dirty trick that definitely wasn't a treat for Tressa. So the guy thought it was hilarious to be a willing--even eager--accomplice to my grandma taking up residence with me, did he?

I had to admit: His treachery was brilliant in its simplicity and effectiveness. And it deserved a response that was equally inspired.

I chewed my lip. I'd have to do some heavy-duty brainstorming. This was war.

I sat down, opened my bag and pulled out my binder. The material from the Grandville Police Department slipped out.

"Son of a Buick," I said. Sidetracked by flower-selecting and candy-choosing, I'd totally forgotten to stop at the sheriff's department to pick up their call summary sheets. I looked at my watch. Eight-thirty. Still early enough to drop by the courthouse and have them buzz me in so I could pick up the printed-off information--and avoid a butt-chewing by Stan the man.

I debated rescuing Shelby Lynne before I left, but I knew she'd want to hash out a plan of action for the Howard situation and, I gotta tell you, I was running on empty there. I really had no clue what approach to use next, short of taking up residence in the tree outside Howard's window and settling for some salacious expose rather than an in-depth, well-researched literary piece. Either way, I wasn't ready to face Shelby Lynne Sawyer when she came back carrying a box full of trinkets representing exaggerated body parts and demanding action.

I grabbed my backpack and hightailed it out the front door, hoping I didn't leave too many chicken feathers in my wake. I hurriedly filled the dog bowls with chow and water, then jogged to the Plymouth, casting a look at the red Jeep in the driveway. I didn't suppose Shelby Lynne would buy the fact that I was taking the Jeep for a test spin.

I shook my head, remembering what had happened the last time I borrowed an automobile. I jumped into my Plymouth, repeated my traditional "please start" mantra, and turned the key. It took a couple of tries, but the Reliant sputtered to life. I pulled out, hit the gravel road that ran along our little slice of the good life and headed to town.