Ghouls Just Want to Have Fun (20 page)

Woo-hoo. I was one witchy woman.

Ten minutes later, after making sure Gram was in for the night, I remembered I'd totally forgotten to fill the dogs' dishes. Rick Townsend could turn my brain soft as the tapioca pudding my gramma loves to eat. I was about to step outside, when the phone rang. I picked it up.

"Hello?"

I waited for Shelby Lynne to vent some more over the lost interview, or for Joe to ask for my grandma, or for my mother to remind me that my sister, Taylor, was coming home from college this coming weekend. Instead I heard crying. Soft, whimpering moans of sorrow and loss. (Waxing poetic there, wasn't I?)

"Hello?" I said again. "Who is this? Can I help you? Are you hurt? Do you need assistance?"

The crying went on for a minute or so longer. Then I got a dial tone. I frowned at the phone, wishing I hadn't been too cheap to pay for caller ID. Someone might be hurt out there.

Unsettled by the call, I turned on the porch light and stepped out to finish taking care of the critters' needs. Butch and Sundance followed me out, jumping and barking at the air.

I smelled the roses before I saw the red petals littered in a careless array across the front porch. I looked around the front yard. A sudden breeze scattered the dark petals around my feet. The dogs continued to bark, and beyond the house, somewhere in the darkness, an owl picked that exact moment to let out a long, drawn-out hoot.

I whistled at the dogs, pushed them into the house, and shut and locked the door behind us. Tressa, Warrior Princess, was in full retreat.

I know what you're thinking: Like a locked door is gonna stop a spook, Blondie!

Thanks for sharing.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The next morning found me sharing my bed with two hairy fellows and their slapping tails. I'd locked myself in my room for the remainder of the night, keeping my pooches with me, along with a baseball bat, the Bible and, of course, the chocolate cake. I'd spent much of the night trying to convince myself that I'd imagined it all, and the rest of the night trying to explain it all away. I also spent considerable time blaming the Bring 'Em Back bunch who'd passed the evening trying to bridge the great divide for screwing with the supernatural and sticking me with the tab.

I checked the clock, saw that it was past six and forced myself to get up. The dogs were still sleeping, so I left them where they were and hit the bathroom (mine is off my bedroom) and unlocked the door to my room. The aroma of fresh coffee didn't greet me this morning, so I figured my grandma's extracurricular activities of the night before had worn her out.

I headed for the kitchen, surprised to see Gram at the table, cup in hand.

"I don't smell coffee," I said, motioning at her cup.

"That's because this is tea," Gram replied. "French vanilla tea, to be exact. Want to try a cup? It's not bad."

"Does it have caffeine?" I asked.

"I'm sure it does," Gram said.

I grabbed the teakettle and a cup. "Then count me in," I said, filling the cup with hot water and joining her at the table. She handed me a tea bag.

"You still sore about last night?" Gram asked.

I looked up from dunking my bag. "You know I can never stay ticked with you, Gram," I said. "But don't ever do that again. You never know what could happen. Whose idea was it, anyway?" I asked, curious.

"It was one of them general consensuses," Gram said. "The youngsters wouldn't go for strip poker, so we improvised."

I looked at her. I hoped she was kidding.

"Well, just don't improvise like that again. You could have burned the house down with all those candles," I added. "It was glowing so much, I thought we had a radiation situation."

"So, what do you have planned for today?" Gram asked. "Still trying to beat that dog of a story to death?"

"If you mean the Holloway story, then yes," I said. "I plan to work on it this morning."

I dunked my tea bag a half dozen times and decided, like it or not, that there was only one thing left for me to do: grovel. It stuck in my craw like Gram's Thanksgiving turkey three years ago, but I'd do it.

"If you want to snap some pictures of the place, you should do it this morning," Gram said. "There'll be nobody around."

Gram had my attention.

"What do you mean?"

"Jack Rivas says they've struck a deal with the heir to the estate, and they sign the papers this morning. They've got a big meeting at the attorney's office at ten."

"They? Do you know who 'they' are exactly?" I was thinking I could sit down the road from the Holloway place and follow the Howard entourage right through the town square. When Howard got out of the vehicle, I'd hit my knees and beg for an interview. Okay, so I'd checked my pride at the door on this one; I wanted the story bad.

"Just a minute."

Gram got up and went into the other room. I sat there and continued to dunk my bag.

"Let's see. Jack said something about someone named Vanessa who has something called a 'power of attorney'--I think that's a legal term, dear--and this Vanessa would be 'negotiating the contract on behalf of the heir.' Does that make sense to you, Tressa?" Gram asked. " 'Cause it's all Greek to me."

I dropped my tea bag in my cup. If Vanessa McCormick was signing legal documents on Elizabeth Courtney Howard's behalf that morning, then that meant Elizabeth Courtney Howard would be without her keeper during that time. Of course, there was still the boy toy to consider, but it was possible he might have more influence with Howard than her assistant had, and could persuade Howard to talk with me. It was worth a shot.

"Did you take notes, Gram?" I asked, noticing the slip of paper she held in her hand.

"I wanted to make sure I got everything right. I knew you were interested in the Holloway real estate deal. Jack Rivas still has his nose in that business more than that ol' bitch Abigail Winegardner has in Joe's. I knew Joe was helping you out on the story, so I figger maybe Hannah can be of some help, too. Did I do good?" she asked. "Does the information help at all?"

The sting of tears crept up on me without warning. My teacup was suddenly blurry.

"You mean you went out with Romeo Rivas just to help me out with my story?" I asked, feeling all choked up at the thought. "Oh, Gram. That's so, so touching. So giving. So--not like you," I said.

"Hell no, I didn't go just because of your story," Gram said. "The man can dance like a dream, and he spends a fortune on his dates. But I tell myself, while I'm milking this, I might as well see what I can find out for Tressa and her story. And it doesn't hurt to keep Joe on his toes. Although, I have to say, Joe Townsend can't match Jack Rivas's fancy footwork," she said. "I saw how he dropped you on your hind end the other night. But don't tell Joe. We wouldn't want to hurt his feelings."

"It'll be our little secret," I told her, and smiled.

Good ol' Hellion Hannah. What a pistol.

I took a fast shower, pulled my mane into a tight ponytail and dressed quickly in brown trousers, a white open-collared shirt, and a short brown tailored jacket. I slipped into a pair of tan low-top Converse shoes--I felt like Ellen Degeneres, but I went for comfort over fashion--and grabbed my backpack and was out the door by seven.

My first call was to Shelby Lynne.

"What a coincidence. I was just about to call you," she said.

"Must be some of the psychic phenomena you summoned forth last night," I told her.

"You'll never let me live that down, will you?" Shelby Lynne asked. "I wouldn't be surprised if you did a story on it. Especially since you've choked on the Howard one."

Oooh. There was that 'tude again. I decided to let it go. I'd have Shelby Lynne eating crow before the day was out.

"I called to see if you'd like to accompany me to the Holloway house," I told her, and filled her in on Gram's snoop surprise of that morning. "But I don't suppose you can miss school, so I'll just let you know how it all turns out."

Shelby's voice boomed into my ear, and I held the phone a foot away to avoid hearing loss.

"Are you sure? Oh. You'll pretend to be sick? Do you have fake barf?" I asked when Shelby Lynne had calmed down and explained how she would get out of classes that day. "You'll need fake barf. Oatmeal works good. Mix a little with chicken broth, and it looks just like stomach juices." Okay, so I'd used the fake puke a time or two. This time it was for a noble cause.

Shelby Lynne told me to pick her down the street from her house at eight. When I rolled up to the corner to meet her, I felt like a doper making a buy.

I rolled my window down. "Hey, little girl, want some candy?" I teased.

Shelby Lynne shook her head and got in the car. "You are something else, do you know that?" she said.

"I know," I replied with a shrug. "You look quite chipper for being under the weather. Did you have to use the fake puke?"

Shelby Lynne shook her head. "I miss school so rarely that when I do say I'm too sick to go to school, my mom believes me."

Ah, for that kind of credibility. After my folks caught on to my homemade hurl recipe, they threatened me with a rectal temperature check if I faked being sick again. That sure cured me of hookyitis.

"So Elizabeth Courtney Howard will be all alone in the house?" Shelby Lynne asked.

I shrugged. "At least her keeper will be otherwise occupied, so we have another crack at getting in the front door," I said.

Actually, I wasn't all that gung ho about going back to Holloway Hall. Especially after my little visitor the night before had scattered rose petals on my porch like a frustrated flower girl. But the stubborn side of me--another legacy from my grandmother's side of the family--wouldn't let me give up without a fight. For Shelby Lynne's sake, as well as my own.

We set up shop in a rarely used country lane just down from the Holloway house. I backed the Plymouth as far into the foliage as I could, to avoid being detected. For once I was glad that my car was dirty, as it helped the white color blend in.

I settled back to wait for traffic to drive by from the Holloway house. For once, I'd forgotten to pack provisions. In lieu of food, I searched for an innocuous topic to occupy my mouth.

"So, Shelby Lynne, tomorrow's the big day. Do you have your fancy duds all ready to go?"

Shelby Lynne looked over at me--probably to see if I was serious or being jerky.

"I have a pantsuit to wear," she said, and I looked back at her.

"You're joking, right?" I said.

"Not at all," Shelby replied. "It's a very nice pantsuit. Very formal."

"You're not wearing a dress?"

Shelby raised her eyebrows. "Now you're joking, right? With legs shaped like Rolo rolls? Yeah, right."

I smiled. It seemed Shelby had picked up my habit of bringing food into the conversations.

"You could always wear a long dress," I told her, and she bestowed on me a "get real, girlfriend" look.

"Nobody wears long dresses anymore," she informed me. "They all wear those cute little black dresses with spaghetti straps, or even go stapless. Putting a dress like that on me would be like trying to stretch a too-small tarp over a wide load with not enough rubber tie-downs."

I grinned. Shelby Lynne might write a book, at that. She certainly had a way with words.

"What about your makeup? Who's doing your makeup?"

"Makeup? I never wear makeup," Shelby said. "I'll probably just slap on some of my mom's liquid makeup, brush on some blush and call it good."

I shook my head. "You poor thing. You poor, poor thing. You can't show up as a homecoming candidate looking like death warmed over. Even this close to Halloween. Good thing I have some expertise in this area," I said. "And my gramma sold cosmetics for that company with the pink cars years ago, so she's really in the know about what colors to use. Between the two of us, you'll look like you were airbrushed for the cover of
Vogue
."

Okay, so I exaggerated a bit. Still, Shelby Lynne had a flawless complexion, tiny orange freckles notwithstanding. I was sure Gram would have a ball with Shelby Lynne's makeover. And I always enjoy taking a crack at someone else's mug for a change.

"As soon as we're done here, I'll call Gram and tell her to get out her supplies, and we'll do a practice run later today," I told Shelby Lynne. "And just a reminder. Beauty is pain. So buck up."

Shelby Lynne's expression was reminiscent of mine the first time I let Gram have a go at my face. The power of that moment had corrupted her, and she'd used a heavy hand with her makeup supplies. I'd looked like I was ready for a stint on a dark street corner when she was done.

"So, that was Tom Murphy?" I said to get Shelby's mind off the makeover. "He seems... nice. Are you two an item?"

"An item?
Item?
" Shelby Lynne did an eye roll. She had been hanging with me too much. "What decade are you living in? And you saw us together. You think there's a future there? The guy barely reaches my boobs. But he's a real nice guy, and we are friends. Outcasts thrown together by circumstance, as it were."

"Sounds like the premise for a book or movie," I said.

"What about you?" Shelby asked. "What's the story with you and Rick Townsend? Did you know all the girls in high school have the hots for him?"

Girls in the middle school and women in the local nursing home had the hots for Rick Townsend. Maybe that's why I had such a difficult time believing his interest in me was something more than the irresistible lure of a seemingly impossible challenge. Was I crazy for wanting to be something more than a summit conquered? A hard-won notch on someone's bedpost?

"Officer Townsend and I have a complicated past," I told Shelby Lynne. "Our cat-and-dog fights make Punch and Judy fisticuffs look like
Sesame Street
. Changing the patterns of a lifetime can be a little tricky."

"But he's so... so... so... yummalicious."

I looked at Shelby Lynne. "Yummalicious" was not a word I had ever expected to hear come out of her mouth. Unless she was talking food again.

"That's what makes it so scary. One bite of that prime choice hunk, and can you imagine how hard it would be to have to go back to beanie-weenies?" I asked her. "See my dilemma?"

Shelby Lynne sighed. "That sucks," she said.

I nodded.

We sat in companionable silence until we heard the sound of a car. We both sat up in our seats. I grabbed my binoculars--Gram's binoculars.

"Don't make any moves that might draw anyone's attention," I cautioned Shelby as we caught sight of the dark blue van that had been parked at the Holloway house since the occupants' arrival. I put the binoculars to my eyes to check out the vehicle.

"Oh my gosh! It's Vanessa! And the boy toy is driving! Do you know what that means?" I turned to Shelby Lynne.

"Boy toy?"

"Forget it. It means Elizabeth Courtney Howard is home alone!" I said. "Like, how lucky can we get!"

We waited for a few minutes to make sure the van didn't come back, and then I made a left onto Dead End Lane. I pulled into the driveway and drove right up to the house. No more slinking or skulking about for this ace cub reporter.

I grabbed my backpack, pulled out my camera and snapped several pictures before Shelby and I proceeded to the front door. I was just about ready to lift the knocker and bring it down when I heard the crunch of gravel beneath rubber. Shelby and I turned to see a maroon SUV pull into the driveway and park.

"What the hell is he doing here?" That came from Shelby Lynne.

"You didn't maybe invite him?" I asked her. "You know, hedging your bets. A win-win for Shelby Lynne?"

Shelby straightened her spine, lengthening her advantage over me by another inch. "Do you really believe I would stoop that low?" she asked. I looked up at her. She had a point.