Ghouls Just Want to Have Fun (22 page)

I stopped by the
Gazette
and threw together a piece on the acquisition and upcoming renovation of Haunted Holloway Hall into a bed-and-breakfast, and called it good. I decided to wait until the next day to do the article on Joe and his old acquaintance Elizabeth Courtney. It wouldn't run till next week, anyway. By that time, the reclusive author would be back home in rural Connecticut, and life in Grandville would return to normal--whatever normal in Grandville is.

I stared at the ring on my hand the entire trip home, wondering what it would be like to really be engaged to be married. I pulled into the driveway around five. On the way. I'd picked up a pizza from the Thunder Rolls Lanes, our local bowling alley. They have some of the best pizza in the county.

The pups picked up the scent of the supreme ingredients and frolicked hopefully about my heels all the way from the car to the house. I opened the pizza box, pulled off several cheese-covered sausage balls and tossed those over, promising the dogs any leftovers.

Yes, I occasionally have leftovers. Okay, so maybe not pizza leftovers. Anyway, all that bread isn't good for a dog.

I opened the door and called out to Gram that I was home and that I'd come bearing pizza. She was in the living room, watching the local news, cotton balls between the toes of one foot.

"You don't have cable," Gram said. "Why didn't I know you don't have cable?"

"I can't afford cable," I told her. "Besides, we live in the boonies. We can't get cable out here. Only satellite or DirecTV."

"You need one of those, then. All you get are the network channels."

"It's all I can afford, Gram," I said. "Besides, I'm not home all that much, and I don't have time to watch TV."

"I'll pay to have one of them big dishes stuck in the backyard," Gram said. "We'll beam in channels from Greenland."

"You do that, Gram," I said, carrying the pizza into the kitchen. "You do that."

"What time is Shelby Lynne coming over?" Gram asked, hobbling into the kitchen behind me, one foot still decorated with cotton.

"Any time," I said. "You all set to work your magic?".

"Hannah's House of Beauty is now open for business," she said.

I snared a can of light beer from the now fully stocked fridge, fetched a paper plate from the cupboard, sat down at the kitchen table and helped myself to a slice of pizza.

"Shelby Lynne won't know what hit her," I told Gram with a wink. "Will she?"

Gram also took a large slice of pizza, opting for a can of cream soda to wash it down with. She opened it and raised her can. "To makeover magic," she said.

I raised my can high. "That kind of magic I can live with," I said. "To Shelby Lynne!"

Poor, poor Shelby Lynne. She didn't know what hit her. The independent-minded young lady had already rejected two faces Gram had made up. The first one, she said, made her look like Howdy Doody. The second one? Howdy Doody's grandmother.

I sat in the living room, dressed in gray sweats, my feet up on the coffee table, finishing the last chapter of
Shadows of the Night
for only, like, the eleventh time in my life. I still couldn't get over the way I could so easily lose myself in the world Elizabeth had created. She reached out and grabbed a reader from the get-go and didn't let loose until that very last word--leaving you content yet strangely melancholy that you'd finished her story.

"Now this this is a masterpiece," Gram said. "You'll have no cause to complain about this face. You look like you're ready for the red carpet like one of them Hollywood starlets."

I grinned, wondering when Shelby Lynne had last heard the term "starlet."

"Come take a look, Tressa. Did we do good?"

I got up and went over to the kitchen. I stopped in the doorway and almost tripped over my lower lip. Shelby Lynne looked... not bad. Gram had played up her peaches-and-cream complexion, and she had a soft, radiant glow about her.

"You look terrific, Shelby Lynne," I told her honestly. "You've got to let Gram make you up tomorrow night. You'll be a knockout."

Shelby Lynne gave an uncertain smile. "Are you sure? I wouldn't want people to make fun of me."

"Not to worry," I said. "Now, what about the hair, Gram? Up or down?"

"Up," Gram said.

"Down," Shelby said.

Circle the wagons. Here we go again.

I sat on the couch long after Shelby Lynne left Hannah's House of Beauty, having compromised on the great hair debate by going with a half-up-half-down do. Worked for me.

I'd picked up my copy of
Satan's Serenade
and found myself reading it again, seeing for the first time in black and white the subtle differences in Howard's earlier writing as opposed to her last several books. In her earlier work, Elizabeth Courtney Howard had a way of seducing her readers, reaching out and grabbing us by the throat with ribbons of sensuality and mystery rather with than violent imagery or shock talk. That quality was lacking in her later books, which, while okay reads, were hardly the compelling page-turners her earlier works had been. Her last books didn't have the depth of character her earlier ones had. Or maybe it was her characters who didn't have the depth of character. Which led this nosy Nellie to wonder if the changes in her writing could possibly be linked to a serious illness, which in turn could also provide a reason for her inability to remember her own high school prom and, I might add, her rather dapper prom date.

I continued to read her latest book, and shook my head. Used to be you could tell by the time you got to the bottom of page one that the book was an Elizabeth Courtney Howard book. There was just something unique about her writing. And while her later works held glimpses of that certain something, they fell just short of the certain something that earmarked her early books as one-of-a-kind Courtney Howard classics. It was almost as if they'd been written by someone else "in the tradition of Elizabeth Courtney Howard.

I shook my head. Maybe she was just burned out. After all, the woman had written uberbooks. Maybe the well had run dry.

I picked up my backpack and decided to call it a night. Tomorrow was homecoming, with all the associated pageantry. The parade, the pork-fry, the game, the popcorn, the crowning of homecoming king and queen, the caramel apples. And there was also the little matter of a pretend engagement to take care of.

I gathered up my paraphernalia and was ready to stuff it in my bag, when I noticed the folded sheet of paper I'd pilfered from the round file at Haunted Holloway Hall that morning.

I unfolded it.

"'Ghostwriter,'"
I read. I scanned the one-page document and couldn't believe what I was reading. In my grubby little purloining hands I held what appeared to be the back-cover blurb for the absolute final Elizabeth Courtney Howard book. My palms grew sweaty as I read the short blurb.

What would you do when loyalty and passion war--

and you alone must keep a devastating secret that can shatter a multimillion-dollar house of cards?

Out of work freelance writer Tina Clarke can't believe her good fortune. She's just nabbed a job as live-in administrative assistant to Cydney Scott, beloved storyteller and record-setting author. Cydney Scott has sat atop all the literary lists that count. But far away from the publishing mecca of New York City, behind the closed doors of a mansion far off the beaten path hides a secret that, if revealed, will end the author's career. Tina's employer has a terminal case of writer's block--and a megabuck book deal pending--and she's just offered Tina Clarke the chance to ghostwrite her book.

Tina is thrilled to accept this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. But when one book turns into five and Tina's secret life threatens her real life--and sanity--it's time to stop the madness. Unfortunately for Tina, Scott's ghostwriter has taken on a life of her own.

I must have read the half page of material ten times before it hit me like a two-by-four between the eyes. All right, so sometimes it takes a mighty powerful force to make an impact on my skull. I couldn't believe what I was thinking, but deep down I knew I was on to something. Like maybe the truth?

And with it, the mother of all stories.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I jumped up from the sofa and tossed my copies of
Satan's Serenade
and
Shadows of the Night,
along with the page with the cover blurb for
Ghostwriter,
into my backpack. I grabbed my cell phone, car keys and camera, and then remembered I was wearing my gray grungies. I tore down the hall and into my room, grabbed a pair of jeans, replaced the gray sweats with the jeans, washed my face, smeared on some shiny lip gloss and called it good. I stuck a black ball cap onto my head and checked the time. Ten thirty. Miss Manners would frown on the lateness of the hour, but breaking news, I reminded myself, had no timetable.

I remembered that I should probably leave a note for Gram in case she got up and wondered where I was, so I left her a short note saying that I'd gone out to work on my story and would be back for breakfast. It's hard to have someone keeping track of your comings and goings all of a sudden. I hadn't decided yet whether I liked it or not.

I raced out to the Plymouth, also picking up some flack from my dynamic duo of dogs, who were grumpy at having their sleep interrupted. The wind was howling and a cold drizzle began to fall, so I took pity on them and let them into the house. Gram would rip me a new one the next day, but I figured it beat them howling outside her window all night.

I crossed my fingers, performed my little pleasestart ritual and started the car. I backed up and turned around in the drive and headed for town.

I called Shelby Lynne's cell and left a message for her to meet me at Holloway Hall if she wanted to get the real scoop on her idol, and drove like a bat out of you-know-where through Grandville and out the west side of town.

I drove up the driveway to the Holloway house, not bothering to kill the lights to hide my approach. The worn-out windshield wipers squeaked back and forth, leaving behind a fogged-up windshield. Through the raindrops on the windshield, I watched Haunted Holloway Hall come closer and closer, the dreariness of the night making the house appear even more ghostly.

The house was lit up both upstairs and down, and the blue van was pulled up close. I imagined they were packing up for the return home the next day.

I stopped my Plymouth, shut it off and opened the door. I grabbed my backpack and got out, leaving the stubborn driver's door open a hair so that I wouldn't have to walk around to the other side if the fool thing stuck again.

I turned toward the house. No more hiding in trees or skulking around bushes. No more creeping about in cemeteries or running scared through cellars. This was a main-door, no-subterfuge frontal assault.

I walked to the front door, raised the horse-head knocker and brought it down on the door half a dozen times.

The porch light came on. Curtains to the side of the door moved. The door opened. Vanessa McCormick stood there, looking surprised to see me.

"Trick or treat," I said.

She stared at me.

"Ms. Turner! What are you doing out here at this time of night?" she asked.

"My job," I said. "We need to talk."

She shook her head. "It's not a good time. We're in the middle of packing. We leave in the morning, if you recall."

"All the more reason for concluding our business this evening, Ms. McCormick," I said. "Or should I say, 'Ghostwriter'?"

Vanessa McCormick's face grew sickly pale, like mine gets when I open my bank statement every month. Or when Gram asks me to take her around to all the cemeteries around the tricounty area for Memorial Day.

"What did you say?" Vanessa asked.

"I think you heard me."

She hesitated for a second, looking to her left and right, before she opened the door. "You'd better come in," she said.

I walked in, and she shut the door behind me.

"How did you find out?" she asked, moving into the room and motioning for me to have a seat on the couch. Instead, I chose the turquoise Queen Anne walnut wing chair. (My mum likes to go antiquing.) Vanessa sat on the edge of the sofa.

I shrugged. "I'm a reporter, remember?"

She didn't seem as impressed as I'd anticipated.

"The publisher has been hounding us for the premise of Elizabeth's last book. I knew it was just a matter of time before something leaked out."

"So what happened? Why does the incomparable Elizabeth Courtney Howard require a ghostwriter?" I asked. "Is it writer's block? Health? Dementia?"

Vanessa got up and moved to stand by the fireplace. "I'd been with Ms. Courtney Howard for more than seven years when it started. It was subtle at first. Fatigue. Memory lapses. Difficulty with her motor skills. Irritability."

"Did she consult a doctor?" I asked.

Vanessa shook her head. "Elizabeth refused to see a doctor. I begged her to go, but she said there was nothing wrong with her that exercise, a proper diet and writing wouldn't cure. But I think she just didn't want to face the truth. About six years ago, it got really bad. She was under contract for a book and still hadn't settled down with one story. Elizabeth has always kept files and files of story ideas, but this time she'd start one, write maybe a chapter of it and then abandon it. This went on for months. She was frustrated. I was worried. She was adamant that it was just a fluke, and that once she found the right story it would take off. And that's the way it usually happened. She'd try several stories until the one she was meant to write appeared."

"But it didn't happen this time."

Vanessa shook her head. "Her block only got worse, until she was really frantic and I was extremely concerned for her health. That was when she approached me about collaborating on the book with her. I'd helped with editing and polishing on her earlier books, and had even rewritten scenes that her editor requested without anyone being the wiser, so it really didn't seem like that big of a deal."

"So you wrote the books together?"

Vanessa looked up at me in the mirror above the fireplace. "She tried, she really did, but she just couldn't concentrate. Couldn't focus. And I had to take over. I'd grown up on Elizabeth's work, adored her way of telling a story, of connecting with the reader's deepest, strongest emotions. I was a student of her literature. I lived with it day and night. In early days sometimes she would dictate it to me and I'd read it back to her, and we'd laugh at the parts that weren't so good and cry together over the ones that were just right. It broke my heart to see her slip away into a lonely shell more and more each day."

I felt tears sting my eyes. Hardly the jaded reporter type, huh? The truth is, Elizabeth's story got me to thinking of my gramma retreating into a world I couldn't see or reach, and it messed me up. More than I'd expected.

I sniffed and nodded. "That's tough," I said.

Vanessa smiled, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. "Elizabeth was like a mother to me. Before. And then all of a sudden..."

"You had to become a mother to her," I finished.

She turned away from the mirror and nodded.
"Ghostwriter
seemed a fitting way to end it all. To explain. To come to terms. To get closure. A catharsis."

Thanks to Dr. Phil, I knew what "catharsis" meant.

"I have to ask. Didn't her publisher or editor notice the difference in her writing?" I asked Vanessa. I had, and I didn't know a scene from a sequel.

Vanessa shook her head. "You have to understand--in the publishing business, name recognition counts for a lot. And Elizabeth's publisher knew anything with her name on the spine was guaranteed to be a moneymaker. And if the book wasn't quite what she usually dished up, well, she was getting up in years."

I supposed I could see Vanessa's point. And publishers couldn't catch everything. Look at the hoopla around that bestselling memoir that wasn't a memoir at all.

"So, just what do you plan to do with this information, Ms. Turner?" Vanessa asked, crossing her arms in front of her, ever the protective surrogate daughter.

I joined Vanessa at the fireplace. "It's a story with national interest, as you are well aware, Ms. McCormick." I also went with a formal, professional tone. Of course, when I caught a look at my reflection in the mirror and saw my sweatshirt hood jammed inside my back collar and my hair sticking out at weird angles, I had to concede that I hardly looked like a professional anything. Except maybe a plumber. Or handyman.

I'm going to ask you one favor," Vanessa said. "For Elizabeth's sake. Could you please wait to run the story until we're back home? I don't want the media to turn Elizabeth's story into a sideshow. And a day or two's delay on your part in releasing the story won't hurt you at all."

I thought about it. She was probably right. I'd still have my scoop. And I really didn't want Elizabeth to suffer any more than she already had.

"Okay," I said. "I reckon that'll work."

Vanessa gave me a broad smile. "Thank you so much," she said.

I picked up my backpack and remembered the books I'd brought along.

"I do ask one favor in exchange for holding off on the story," I told Vanessa, pulling out the hardbacks. "You remember Shelby Lynne Sawyer." I put my hand out about a foot above my head. "Tall, redheaded--Howdy Doody's daughter."

Vanessa nodded.

"She is just about the biggest fan of Elizabeth Courtney Howard as you could find. Would it be possible, do you think, for you to have Elizabeth sign these books for Shelby Lynne? It would mean so much to her. Really."

Vanessa stared at the books.

"I'm afraid that's impossible," she said. "Elizabeth is basically bedridden. I doubt very much if she could even sign her name. That's why I take care of all that for her."

I frowned. Bedridden? "Lizzie" had been ambulatory enough for boy toy Tony to suggest a little riding in bed several nights before. Then I remembered that Vanessa here had been doing some role-playing herself, and felt like giving myself a good-ol’-girls' slap upside the head.

"Lizzie" was standing right in front of me. Vanessa was Lizzie. By her own admission, Vanessa had become Elizabeth II when she started ghostwriting Courtney Howard's books. And Tony, the boy toy? He was Vanessa's plaything. On the night I'd climbed the tree, he'd been about to give Vanessa some technical assistance on her love scenes. Vanessa. Not Elizabeth.

So if Vanessa and Tony were the ones frolicking in the locked bedroom, where had the bedridden Elizabeth I been? And where was she now?

I watched Vanessa play nervously with her sweater, and it occurred to me that I only had Vanessa's word that Elizabeth Courtney Howard was ill.

But what if she wasn't? What if Vanessa was lying about the illness? What if she'd actually been controlling the old woman--and her fortune--for years? What if she'd kept Elizabeth isolated from everyone around her, forcing her to sign over her power of attorney to Vanessa? What if all the while Vanessa and her boy toy were living the high life, compliments of a victimized old woman, and I was the only one around to prove it?

I thought about my own gramma back home in the double-wide, leaving blue hair in the bathroom sink and snoring up a storm down the hall, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I could not leave Haunted Holloway Hall until I knew for sure, with my own two big blue peepers, that Elizabeth Courtney Howard was okay.

"In that case, I'll be content with just taking a quick peek at the legendary author," I told Vanessa. "She won't even know I'm there. Really. I'll be quiet as my dad at family reunions," I assured her.

"That's not a good idea," Vanessa said. "She's down for the night--"

"I'm used to old folks," I went on. "As a matter of fact, my grandma is living with me right now, and she has her friends in and out all the time. So, believe me, I know how to get along with the older generation."

"But she needs to be rested for our trip back east tomorrow--"

"I'll just pop in and out. If she's sleeping, I won't wake her up. Girl Scout's promise." No snide comments here, please.

"I just don't think that's a good idea."

Vanessa McCormick was getting more and more agitated the more and more I insisted on seeing her employer.

"You'd better go," she said. "Now."

"Or what?" I finally asked. "You'll call the police? Go ahead," I told her. "And when I tell them what's going on, we'll see whether they think it's in Ms. Courtney Howard's best interest to conduct a welfare check. I'm bettin' they will."

Vanessa walked over, picked up a cell phone off the coffee table and walked back to the middle of the living room. She flipped the phone open. I didn't budge.

She looked at me for a full minute, and then slowly shut the flip cover and put the phone down. She sat down in the Queen Anne chair. "You won't understand," she said.

I walked to the bottom of the staircase and looked up the dark and winding banister. I put my hand on the cherry wood and my foot on the first step. My heart pounded in my chest like the big bass drum that accompanied the football players out on the field.
Boom. Boom. Boom.

I climbed the steps to the landing, then turned to continue my ascent. One. Two. Three. Four steps. I put my foot on the fifth and was suddenly grabbed from behind. I lost my balance and tumbled down the stairs.

I lay there for a few seconds, a forlorn fact finder, and adjusted the ball cap that had fallen forward over my eyes. When I could see clearly again, it was to discover boy toy Tony looking down at me. And from the look on his face--jaw muscle ticking like a time bomb and a dark scowl that said he wasn't a fan of the press--I knew I was about to become part of my story. Again.

"So, you want to see Elizabeth Courtney Howard?" Tony asked, and I decided it didn't have the urgency now that it had earlier.

"Uh, on second thought, Vanessa over there is probably right," I said, sliding to a sitting position. "It's pretty late, and old people do need their sleep."

Tony smiled down at me, but for some reason I wasn't put at ease. Or charmed by his dark good looks. Maybe that was because the smile showed too many teeth that were clenched. And it didn't reach his dark eyes.

"Oh, but a few seconds ago you were so concerned about Elizabeth that you were threatening to call the police yourself to check on the old lady. What changed your mind?"