Ghouls Just Want to Have Fun (19 page)

It was fortunate that I wasn't right behind Townsend; he stopped so suddenly, I'd have been crawling up his back. Not too awfully unpleasant an activity, you understand. For me, that is. For Townsend not to object, I'd probably have to drop about ten pounds.

He looked around the room at the candles, spotted the card table and seance accoutrements, took in the kooky collection of participants and stood there for a second. I sighed, completely simpatico. I knew just how he felt. Trying to process a scene like this was harder than
CSI
trying to process a crime scene in the desert after a sandstorm.

"What the hell is going on here?" Townsend finally said.

"A low-budget remake of
Rocky Horror Picture Show?
" I suggested. Rick gave me a dark look and walked over to the card table. He touched the Ouija board with a finger.

"Pops? Don't tell me you've been participating in a seance," he said.

"Okay," Joe agreed.

"Okay, what?"

"Okay, I won't tell you I've been participating in a seance," Joe said.

I could imagine just how Rick was feeling right about now. I almost felt sorry for the guy. Until I remembered that he could drop his granddad off at home and drive away, and I was stuck with an inhouse matriarch with an air horn and gross statues.

"I've already read them the riot act, Ranger Townsend," I said, "and we were just getting ready to close down the seance shop permanently. Right, folks?"

Mumbled agreement was forthcoming.

"Who are they?" Rick pointed to Shelby Lynne and Tom Murphy. Standing side by side, they looked like the odd couple they were.

I made hurried introductions. "Shelby Lynne and Tom are homecoming queen and king candidates," I told Townsend, who raised an eyebrow.

Shelby Lynne must have caught that gesture and--not knowing that it was a chronic repetitive motion on Townsend's part--she took it the wrong way.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked Rick. "What? You don't think we're cut out to be homecoming royalty? What?"

Townsend looked at me. I looked away. He was on his own.

"Uh, I've really got no opinion on the subject at all," Townsend said. "I'm sure you'd both make great, uh, royalty."

Shelby Lynne sniffed. "Right. Right," she said.

"If you all wouldn't mind," I said, "I'd appreciate it if we could wrap things up here so that I can, like, forget tonight ever happened." I started blowing out candles, thinking that I'd run out of air before I finished.

Shelby Lynne and Tom moved to help me, leaving Gram and Joe to pick up the Ouija board and box it up. I figured they thought the older pair might not have the wind for candle duty. Ha. They didn't know Hannah and Joe like I knew Hannah and Joe.

In ten minutes' time, all evidence that a group of wannabe spiritualists had met there to commune with the dead had been removed, and I was herding all nonresidents out the door and my dogs back in.

"Where do we stand on the interview?" Shelby Lynne asked as she was heading out with Tom.

I gave her a direct look. "I wish I knew, Shelby Lynne," I told her honestly. "I wish I knew. But I'm still working on it."

She nodded. "I'll call you tomorrow," she said.

"Do that," I found myself saying.

Gram and Joe said their good-byes, and I was just glad said farewells didn't include any overt displays of affection. I didn't think I could handle that this evening.

When Joe trotted by with a cake carrier, I stopped him.

"Just a minute. You're taking the chocolate cake?" I asked. "Isn't it, like, customary for one to leave the goodies they brought at the host's house?"

"Not when the host kicks everyone out," Joe said.

The only thing that had gotten me through the cleanup and Rick Townsend's sullenness throughout was the prospect of cutting a generous slice of chocolate cake and pouring a large glass of cold milk and heading off to my room. Now the cake was walking out the door with a grumpy old goat.

"I bet Abigail Winegardner baked that cake," I told Joe in a voice loud enough to be heard down by the barn.

Joe stopped and looked around to see if my gramma had picked up on the reference to the infamous Mrs. Winegardner.

"Keep it down, girlie!" Joe snapped. "And for your information, I bought this cake at Town Square Bakery," he told me.

"Oh yeah? Well, then why is it in a cake* carrier rather than a cake box?" I asked.

Joe dumped the cake into my hands. "Okay, okay. Here's the cake. Just don't point out the box discrepancy to your grandma," he requested.

I clutched the cake container. "The next time you have your cholesterol checked, you'll thank me for this, Joe," I told him.

"Fat chance, girlie," he replied. "I've probably got better cholesterol than you!" He headed down the porch steps and hoofed it to his Buick before firing it up and driving away.

"Better get a move on," I told Rick when he appeared on the porch beside me. "Your granddad has a head start on you, and he looked like he was gonna put the pedal to the metal."

Townsend shrugged and, to my surprise, took a seat on the bench on my front porch, looking a lot like he planned to stay for a while.

"He can find his way home," he said.

I looked down at the cake I was hankerin' for. Plus, I wanted to get into the surreal subject of Manny and his "great-ahnt" Mo like I wanted to run for the school board.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

Townsend motioned to the empty space beside him on the bench. "Come sit for a minute, T," Rick said.

I looked at the cake again and then at Townsend looking totally hot now that he had a ten-o'clock-shadow whisker thing going. I wasn't sure which was more tempting at the moment, the chocolate cake or the gorgeous ranger-type relaxing on my front porch.

"It's pretty late," I said. "And I need to check on Gram."

"Please," Townsend said, patting the seat next to him. I couldn't remember Townsend ever using the word with me. Unless it was like,
Puh-leaze, Tressa!

I moved to the bench and sat down, feeling really, really nervous. We sat silently for a few minutes.

"This is nice," I said, trying to figure out what the heck was going on.

I heard Townsend release a long gust of air, and he rotated in his seat and stuck a knee on the bench between us, putting his arm across the back of the bench. Oh, buddy, here it came.

"Manny has a personal problem. Well, not exactly a personal problem. More like a family problem. A family member who has a problem. And he needs a teensy favor. It'll take an hour, tops. I'll meet him there. In and out. No big deal. And no risk."

I rattled off the information before Townsend could even open his mouth. Thank goodness I wasn't entrusted with any national security secrets. Townsend looked at me like I did people who wear socks with sandals.

"Nothing is no-risk when it comes to Manny Dish-man," Townsend said.

"Does that go for Manny DeMarco, too?" I asked.

"What?" Townsend said, and I shook my head.

"Never mind. Besides, Manny just wants me to visit a sick relative of his at the hospital, is all," I said, leaving out the fiance role he wanted me to play.

"Why does he want you to go with him? Do you know this person?" Townsend asked.

"It's Manny's great-ahnt," I said, trying the pronunciation myself. From the look on Townsend's face, it didn't come across as being me. "She's very ill, and he needs someone to go with him when he visits her."

"And he doesn't have family to go with? How well do you know this guy, anyway?"

Well enough for him to ask me to marry him.

"I don't know him all that well," I admitted, "but he's been very helpful to me in the past. I'm not sure about his family situation."

"What do you know about him--other than the fact that you've bailed him out once and he was jailed at least one other time? Oh, and that he uses an alias." Gee, Townsend was good.

I searched for a plausible excuse for me to accompany Manny to the hospital the next day. One that didn't include any references to phony engagements, lying to dying old women and last wishes.

"Uh, Manny has a thing about hospitals," I said, hitting on the only reason I could come up with. "He's scared to death of them. Hasn't been in one since his mother died when he was ten. Since that day, he hasn't been able to set foot in a hospital."

Okay, so I bent the truth a bit. Tell me your weight on your driver's license is accurate. Or that's your natural hair color. We all lie. And this lie could be true as far as I knew, so maybe it wasn't a lie at all. See how I think?

"You're telling me a guy big enough to perform the job of a hydraulic jack with his back has to have you hold his hand and lead him into a hospital? You've got to be joking." Townsend reached out and opened the top of the cake carrier. He stuck a finger in, snared some frosting and slowly brought it to his mouth. He consumed the frosting as I watched. I felt my heart pick up the pace like it does when I spot a clearance sign at the Fashion Bug at the mall.

"Uh, looks can be deceiving. Manny actually is more sensitive than you'd think," I said, watching as Townsend's finger descended on the cake again.

"I wouldn't have pegged Manny the Mobster as being the 'sensitive' type," Rick responded. "Of course, maybe that has something to do with his calling me Rick the Dick whenever we happen to cross paths," he added.

Townsend brought out another scoop of frosting. His finger stopped in front of my face. I looked crosseyed down my nose at it.

"Be my guest," Townsend invited. "It's fingerlickin' good!"

The mother of all understatements.

"It'll melt in your mouth, T," Townsend promised. Despite the chill of the autumn night, I was beginning to think the cake I was holding on my lap was in danger of baking a second time.

"What are you up to, Ranger Rick?" I asked.

Considering Townsend's displeasure with me at the end of the summer and my own disapproval with him over his little Canadian expedition that had caused big-time problems between my brother, Craig, and Craig's wife, Kimmie, we'd kept a safe distance. We'd shared kisses and some pretty intense clinches in the not-so-recent past, but Townsend and I were such polar opposites (except for the fact that we were both total hotties, of course--hee-hee) that I seriously questioned whether we could collaborate on anything without inflicting serious hurt on each other. I'm talking the emotional kind here, folks. Well, for the most part.

All I knew was that before I invited any buckaroos to put their boots under my bed, I was gonna make pretty darn sure they didn't use them to tromp all over my heart afterward. In other words, they had to have staying power. No. Not that kind! Staying as in over the long haul. From this day forward. "Till death parts us" and all that sappy sentiment that means so much to us ladies.

Townsend and I had locked horns for so many years that a shift to making nice was like switching from a western saddle to an English one. You know--a little awkward at first. A bit tricky. Maybe even risky.

"What are you up to?" I asked again.

"Would you believe a peace offering?" he asked.

I felt my eyebrows rise. "Peace offering? Are we at war?"

He smiled. "It does seem as if we're always at odds," he said. "Always have been. And that was understandable when you were a rotten little kid who'd kick me under your family's dinner table or steal my car keys when I visited. You were just plain ornery as hell."

I winced. I still kicked him under the table on occasion. So what did that make me now?

"What is confusing to me is that we make some progress--or at least I think we do--and then something happens and we end up back at square one. I don't want to be your enemy anymore, Tressa," he said with an intent look, and brought the chocolate-covered finger to his mouth. I found myself reaching out and stopping him.

"Even though it's no pic-a-nic basket, I accept your peace offering, Mr. Ranger, sir," I said. I took hold of his hand and pulled it over to my mouth, taking his finger and gently sticking it in my mouth and sucking off the frosting. I heard his intake of breath as I gave his finger a last lick and released his hand.

"And you were right, Townsend," I said. "That's finger-lickin' good!"

He stood and pulled me to my feet. I kept my hands around the cake between us.

"I guess I'd better get going," he said. "You're right. I'll have to drop by and do a bed check on Gramps."

I nodded. I'd be performing one on my gramma, too.

"I'm not sure exactly what went on here this evening," Rick said, "but--" He stopped himself. "Nope," he said, shaking his head. "I'm not going to do it. I'm not going to say it. Fact is, I don't want to know what happened here tonight. Just, please, Tressa, don't let it happen again."

"Like I want this place to be known as Spook Central," I said. "'Night, Townsend."

"I thought we'd gotten beyond Townsend some time ago," he said.

"Old habits die hard," I told him, not meaning just my manner of address. "But I'm trying. I'm really trying. Rick."

He tilted my chin up with one hand, and I looked into his eyes. Rick has the nicest eyes. Rich brown orbs with flecks of amber.

"Good night, Tressa." He bent toward me, and his lips touched mine briefly. Too briefly.

"Good night," I said again, and reached up to give him another short good-bye peck.

"Good night," he said, and he kissed me again, this time longer. And hotter.

"Ditto," I said and found my lips on his again. This kiss was hot enough to curl my toes.

"Ditto," Rick said against my mouth as we continued to kiss.

I finally broke off the kiss when I realized this was moving faster than I was prepared to deal with. And me an engaged woman and all.

Besides, there was the cake to consider. It was wedged between us like a cocoa-flavored chastity belt. There was also the matter of one very nosy roommate who no doubt had her ear to the door and her eye to the peephole at that very moment.

"I'd really like to invite you in, Townsend," I said with a long sigh, "but, well, I've got a roommate now, so no can do." I patted his cheek and gave him a saucy grin. "Toodles." I blew him a kiss as I entered the house. "Good night!" I giggled as I shut the door.