Ghouls Just Want to Have Fun (23 page)

I got to my feet. "You know how women like to change their minds," I said.

He looked at me. "Yeah. But sometimes that can be a fatal flaw." Yikes. This guy should be the one writing books.

I shrugged. "Whatever." I bent over to pick up my backpack, which had tumbled down the stairs with me. "I guess I'll say good night." I attempted to move around the blockade that boy toy Tony made, one hand on the banister and the other on the wall. "If you'll excuse me," I said.

Tony didn't budge. I was hesitant about getting in a shoving match with him. Without Shelby Lynne, I didn't stand a chance.

"Please," I said.

Tony shook his head.

"You want to see Elizabeth?" he said. "You really want to see her?"

Okay, so the guy was creeping me out. I stood there scared shitless--I mean, witless.

"No, Tony." Vanessa moved to put a hand up. "Let her go," she said. "Just let her go."

Tony's eyes didn't leave my face. "You want to see Elizabeth, you'll see Elizabeth," he said. "Who am I to deny access to the press? Am I right?"

He reached out, grabbed my arm and dragged me off the landing and down the remaining stairs.

I looked back toward the second floor. "Isn't... she... up there?" I asked with a pathetic phlegmy quaver, in my throat.

Tony just shook his head and sneered. I'm hoping, with practice, I'll learn to sneer that well. He opened the door to the basement.

"No! Tony! Don't!" Vanessa ran to the basement door. "You can't do this," she said. "You're only going to make matters worse."

But apparently Tony was done taking orders. He pulled me down the stairs behind him, and I resisted. I felt like I was our closest neighbor, Verlin Little's, stubborn mule, Corky.

"Stop! Tony! Please!" Vanessa followed us down the narrow steps. Tony's fingers bit into my arms, and I yelped. That was gonna leave a mark.

He yanked me along like a rag doll and headed for a room at the northwest corner of the basement. He took out a key, unlocked the room and opened the door.

"You want to see the world-famous Elizabeth Courtney Howard?" he asked. "There she is."

He gave me a powerful push and I fell into the room face-first, my backpack the only thing that saved me from reconstructive dental surgery. That lasted only a second, as Tony reached out, grabbed the bag and ripped it out from under me. He slammed the door shut, and I heard the lock turn.

I was still for a moment and listened to Vanessa continuing to plead with Tony to think about what he was doing, and to Tony telling Vanessa to shut up and let him handle things for a change, as she'd gummed everything up.

Their voices grew faint as they apparently climbed the stairs and shut the basement door behind them. I heard another key turn and knew I'd been doubly locked in. But probably not for safekeeping.

For the second time in ten minutes, I picked myself up and dusted myself off. It was so dark that I couldn't make out my hand in front of my face. The room was as cold as a refrigerated meat locker. Or a walk-in freezer. (Trust me. I've had some firsthand knowledge of this.)

"Elizabeth?" I whispered, not really believing that they'd kept the old woman locked up in a room in the cellar, but I figured it gave me something to do instead of screaming in abject terror. "Elizabeth?"

Although I hadn't really expected Elizabeth to pipe up and say, "Who's there?" and would have wet my pants if she had, the idea that Tony expected me to find Elizabeth in the cold, dark cellar really twisted my innards.

I felt along the sides of the door for a light switch. The house was old, but I figured there had to be a light down here somewhere. I suddenly remembered that lots of old houses had old-fashioned lights on the ceilings, with long pull chains. Judging from the first time I'd been in the basement, I thought this house might be sufficiently ancient to qualify.

I got to my feet and felt around some more. I suddenly remembered my Bargain City indigo watch, and pulled up my sleeve and hit the button to turn on the light. I held it up.

"Let there be light!" I said, and began to move cautiously about the room. It's amazing how much light one of those cheapo watches will give off.

I played blind man's bluff for a couple of minutes before I found the light chain. I tugged on it, and the room lit up like Gram and I did at Bonanza Buffet with an all-you-can-eat five-dollar coupon in hand.

I took a look around the room--and for a considerable period of time thought I was going to do an Aunt Mo and have my own myocardial infarction. (Yeah, I Googled this.) There, positioned on two wooden saw-horses, was the wooden crate I'd seen Tony and Vanessa unload the night they'd arrived.

I moved to stand beside the box and looked down at it, debating on whether I should open it. The wussy part of me wanted to leave well enough alone. You know, what you don't know won't hurt you. Ignorance is bliss. My wussier self, however, didn't want to just sit there like a sap and have that crate cover slowly open up, and see an old, decrepit, rotting hand with black fingernails reach out and grip the wood. And Tressa, Warrior Princess? Well, she'd given up her throne and set up housekeeping with the warrior queen.

I took a deep breath, reached out and lifted the lid on the crate. A long, white linen cloth, a milky white shroud, covered the contents. I pulled the sheet away. Underneath, wrapped in what looked like a giant Ziploc bag, was a body. I nervously poked the plastic with a finger. It was cold to the touch. I winced as I moved to look down at the face beneath the plastic.

I shook my head.

"Ah, Elizabeth," I said, the prom photo coming to mind. "You haven't changed a bit."

CHAPTER TWENTY

I replaced the lid on the crate and, locating a jumbo roll of duct tape, proceeded to tape down the cover on the crate just in case. (Further proof that duct tape has innumerable uses.)

I looked around for any possible avenue of escape. For a second or two. I considered the tiny basement window. I could maybe get my head and shoulders wedged through, but my butt and thighs? No way were they sliding through, even if I stripped down to my skivvies, had waxed last night, and was greased down with Vaseline petroleum jelly.

I tried to pin my hopes on Shelby Lynne coming to my rescue. She knew I was here. Heck, my car was parked out front. And I was betting the minute she got my message, she'd hightail it out to Holloway Hall in righteous indignation that I hadn't waited for her.

I groaned. My car was parked out front with the door open and the key in the ignition. All Tony had to do was hop in and drive away, and all evidence of my ever being at Haunted Holloway Hall was erased.

I shook my head. Stupid, stupid, stupid. There was the note I'd left for my gramma, but after her late nights this week, no telling what time she'd be up and around to see it.

Upstairs the arguing continued. From what I could tell, Tony was winning. Suddenly the arguing stopped. Then, silence. I did what any ex-warrior princess would do under the same circumstances: I jumped up and started screaming at the top of my lungs and throwing paint cans, paint brushes and anything else I could get my hands on across the room.

"Help!" I yelled. "I'm in the basement! There's a body down here with me! Help!"

I screamed until I heard the door open at the top of the stairs. Holy shit. What had I done? If I wasn't mistaken, I was about to become bunkmates with Elizabeth. Roll over, Elizabeth; I always take the left side.

Okay, so I was getting a tad bit hysterical. I searched for a weapon, realized that the paint can was as good as it got and moved hurriedly to extinguish the light.

I positioned myself behind the door. My plan was simple. Step one: Reach out and bash Tony in the head. Step Two: Run like hell. Step Three: Okay, so I hadn't gotten to step three yet. I'd consider my options while I was hauling ass.

The lock clicked and I heard the doorknob turn.

"Some investigative reporter," I heard Tony say. "She couldn't even find the light. Blondes."

I raised the paint can above my head, thinking I'd just been handed more than what they call "adequate provocation" on the court shows. Whatever damage I inflicted was justifiable--as long as I had a jury of blondes, that is.

The door swung open. The light came on. I was momentarily blinded--long enough for me to discover there was a light switch by the door, after all; and for Tony to discover me, separate me from my paint can weapon and shove in a confused Shelby Lynne to join the little party.

"I believe this is a friend of yours," Tony said. He looked beyond me to the wooden crate, saw the duct tape wrapped around it and shook his head.

Ten minutes later, Shelby Lynne and I sat in the dark on the cold, dirty floor, duct-taped together like a pair of really grotesque-looking Siamese twins. Apparently Tony was taking no chances. He'd also duct-taped our mouths.

I worked my lips back and forth. Fool man. He must not have realized, Tressa Jayne Turner never ventured out without applying enough heavy-duty lip gloss to withstand a Hefty Gulp from the Git 'n Go, a French vanilla cappuccino from the Coffee Clatch, and a large fries from any number of places. I had enough gloss on my lips to wax a floor. In less time than it takes Gram to fall asleep when the news comes on, I had my mouth free.

Unfortunately, Shelby Lynne, who'd worn lip gloss for the first time the other night at Hannah's House of Beauty, was in danger of losing her lips altogether. Trussed together back-to-back as we were, it was almost impossible to move. Shelby Lynne hit her head against the back of mine.

"Ouch!" I said. "Watch it!"

She nudged me again.

"What? What do you want?"

She knocked her head against mine and mumbled something that sounded like "teeth, tape."

"What? I can't understand you."

She head-butted me again.

"Uh, news flash. That's starting to piss me off," I told her. I turned my head toward hers and our noses collided. Sharp pain. Instant headache.

"Are you happy? I think you broke my nose!" I said to the side of her face, feeling the duct tape that sealed her mouth next to my cheek. "Wait a minute," I said. "Turn your head this way as far as you can. More. A little bit more. I might be able to lift a corner of that tape with my tongue and then rip the rest off with my teeth," I told her.

I stuck out my tongue and started to work at the tape around her mouth, then stopped.

"Uh, we speak of this to no one, understand?" I told her. "And no
Brokeback Mountain
jokes or references. Agreed?"

I could feel her nod vigorously, and I set to work on the tape. Twenty minutes later I wished I'd left the tape in place.

"I can't believe she's dead! I can't believe Elizabeth Courtney Howard, my idol, the person I aspired to emulate, is lying over there in a pine box, wrapped in a Ziploc bag, stone-cold dead. I can't believe it!" Shelby railed. "It's just not right."

"I told you I saw a coffin," I said. "I told you, but oh no, you wouldn't believe me. You thought I had bats in my belfry. Well, I guess next time I tell you I saw someone unload a coffin, you'll believe me."

"Like that will ever happen again," she said.

I'd filled her in on what had led to my
Ghostwriter
discovery, as well as on Vanessa's explanation as to how it had all come about. There was still a rather big gap in the story. Like, how and when had Courtney Howard died, and what was she doing in the cellar of Haunted Holloway Hall?

"How did you know I was still here?" I asked Shelby Lynne.

"Duh," she said. "White beater car."

I frowned. "Tony didn't move my car?" What kind of criminal mastermind was he, anyway?

"Oh, he was in the process of moving it when I drove in. Man, was he ever cursing. Vanessa was behind the wheel, and he was in the van pushing like crazy to get that car out of the driveway."

"Pushing it?"

"I guess it wouldn't start. You know, if I hadn't seen your car, I might have just thought I'd missed you, and left."

I suddenly fell in love with the ugly white Plymouth Reliant. If I made it out of this mess, we were going to celebrate with a case of Valvoline 10W30 motor oil.

The arguing upstairs intensified. Doors were slamming. Footsteps landed hard against the wood floor.

"Hurry! Get up! We need to break that lightbulb out," I told Shelby.

"Why?" she said, but as a unit we made it to our feet.

"The element of surprise," I said. "Tony can't see in the dark any better than we can. He won't expect to be blindsided. But we have to hurry! I think they may be coming!"

"How are we gonna break the bulb?" Shelby asked.

"We'll have to get on that pine box over there," I told her.

"Elizabeth's casket?"

"It's the only way we can reach the light."

"It'll break with our weight," she said.

"It's not as if she'll complain," I replied.

"What'll we use to break the bulb?"

I searched around and discovered an old plastic bucket on a shelf. "We'll use the bucket. One of us will have to put it on our head. We climb up on the pine box, smash the lightbulb with the top of the bucket, and it's lights-out time," I told her.

"I see. And who's going to wear the bucket and smash the bulb?" she asked. "As if I didn't already know."

"It has to be you. You're taller. Me? I'd have to jump up to hit the bulb."

"But tomorrow's homecoming!" she said.

I maneuvered her over to the shelf with the bucket. "If we don't break that lightbulb, maybe there won't be a homecoming--for either one of us!" I told her. "Now bend over and stick your head in that bucket!"

It wasn't pretty. In fact, I imagine we were a pretty gruesome twosome, but Shelby managed to get the bucket on her head. It was a tight fit, yet somehow, back-to-back, hands bound, we managed to climb the pine box summit.

"Okay, Shelby Lynne, on the count of three, you hit that bulb! And don't forget to close your eyes! One, two--"

Crash!
Where were you when the lights went out?

Shelby Lynne and I stood huddled together in the cold. The temperature in the room grew colder. I could feel a body-length shiver along my back. I peered around at the inky blackness that surrounded us. A faint yet unmistakable scent of roses replaced the dank, musty, decaying smell of the room.

"Do you smell that?" Shelby Lynne asked. "It smells like roses."

It
was
roses. And I was fairly certain Drew Van Vleet was not responsible this time.

Shelby Lynne and I listened as the door at the top of the stairs was unlocked and opened. Someone was coming down. I held my breath. I felt Shelby Lynne's spine straighten next to mine.

"Now remember, Shelby Lynne," I said. "When that door opens, we rush the door and knock down whoever is in our way."

The room door opened again, and Shelby Lynne took off toward it. I tried to run backwards as fast as I could to keep pace with her, but I couldn't match her Bigfoot strides. I felt my feet go out from under me, and I found myself being carried like a human backpack.

Unfortunately, Shelby Lynne stumbled under my weight (don't even think about saying it), and that's all it took for us to go down, and go down hard.

"I'm sorry it has to be this way," Tony said from above our tangled, bruised bodies.

Me, too.
I tried not to whimper.
Me, too.

Tony shoved a bound and crying Vanessa into the room with us. "But five million dollars can ease a lot of sorrow." He sniffed. "What's that smell? Smells like roses," he said, and looked around suspiciously for a moment. Then he shut the door and locked it.

The front door slammed one final time, and everything was quiet.

Great. Now who we gonna call?

The female ability to bond under difficult, even bizarre circumstances never ceases to amaze me.

Once we were certain Tony had left for good--or, in this case, bad--we set about freeing Vanessa's duct-taped mouth, utilizing the same technique I used on Shelby earlier, and only after securing the same understanding that what happened between us girls in the cellar of Holloway Hall, stayed at Holloway Hall.

Three women, sitting bound and helpless in a cold, dark cellar of a house purported to be haunted, with the dead body of a famous person three feet away, waiting for daylight--or help whichever came first, to show up--and you guessed it. The subject eventually had to get around to men.

"Tony was my guilty pleasure," Vanessa told us in the eerie quiet of the basement, while rain pattered against the brick exterior and wind whistled outside through the trees. "He was young, almost ten years younger than I am. And so full of testosterone--I couldn't help myself. I'd been with Elizabeth for two years when Tony came along. We fell in love. And it was magic. For a while it was magic."

It was probably good it was dark. I hate to see people cry. And I hate it more when they see me.

"Tell us about Elizabeth," Shelby Lynne said. "Tell us all about her."

Vanessa let out a long breath. "Where do I start? All I told you about Elizabeth before was true, Tressa," Vanessa said, her voice soft and hushed. "All of it. Elizabeth was wonderful. I remember the first time I met her. She smelled of lavender and coffee. She was gracious and kind, understanding and giving. I wasn't lying when I told you she was like a mother to me. She really was. But she was also my mentor. My teacher."

Vanessa's words were almost like a tribute, as if she was speaking at a memorial service. And maybe she was, I thought. Maybe she was.

"Why did she never go out in public for all those years?" I asked. "Why shun the spotlight and public acclaim she'd worked so hard to achieve?"

"Elizabeth never got over the death of her husband, Kevin Howard. She loved him deeply and took his death extremely hard. She said she'd never wear any scent but lavender, because that's what Kevin liked. Elizabeth told me all she needed were her books and her memories of her beloved husband. And it's true. She was content to the end."

"How did she die?" Shelby Lynne asked.

"And when did she die?" I added.

"Elizabeth had Alzheimer's," Vanessa said.

"How can you know for sure? You said she wouldn't go to a doctor," I said.

"There was a history in her family. Her father. Even before that, I think. She didn't want anyone to know, and she knew that Tony and I could care for her as well as any nursing home. She didn't want to be in an institution. She wanted to be in her home. Several years ago her condition deteriorated, but before that she often spoke about this house, about how she visited as a child. She'd tell me about the legend of Loralie, as she called it. She'd tell me about how Loralie had lost her love, too, and how when she died, she wanted to be buried not next to her husband but here with Loralie. Tony and I used Loralie's legend to try and scare you off," Vanessa said, and I frowned. Drew Van Vleet had tried the same dirty trick. No wonder I had self-esteem issues.

"Go on," Shelby Lynne urged.

"I had been planning for some time to make this book the last book. It's not the usual Courtney Howard fare. It's our story, you know. Elizabeth's and mine. Our memoir, really." Vanessa's voice trailed off into a poignant silence.

"And?" I prodded.

Vanessa stirred herself. "Tony and I put away our earnings as well as the royalties and earnings from the sales of the books I wrote--only the books I wrote--I would never, ever steal from Elizabeth," she said. "And we opened accounts in various parts of the world. Grand Cayman. Switzerland. We always kept our passports up to date. One morning last week, I went in to wake Elizabeth and discovered she was dead. She'd died peacefully in her sleep.

"We'd been putting off this trip to settle up the estate issues, and we decided this was perfect time to bring Elizabeth back to Holloway Hall for the last time. We'd planned to bury her near Loralie tonight--we'd already dug the hole--and we were going to take off for Omaha as soon as we were through. We already had tickets out of Omaha for the Cayman Islands," she said.