Toots contemplated Bernice’s story. “Where is this bakery located?”
“Three doors down from the Dock Street Theatre,” Bernice said.
Toots’s head snapped up so quickly, she felt her neck crack. A pensive shimmer shadowed her eyes. Awkwardly, she cleared her throat. “Do you know the girl?” Toots asked.
“Nope, and I don’t want to. I heard she’d inherited the place. Whoever she is, she’s brought bad luck with her.”
Toots shifted in her rocking chair. Suddenly, she felt hot, as though she were burning from the inside out. Close to what a hot flash felt like. But it had been years since she’d experienced one. For them to return at this stage in life was nearly impossible. She reached for her glass of tea and downed it. After she rattled the ice cubes at the bottom of the glass, she tipped it back again. Crunching on an ice cube, Toots took the few seconds to compose herself and her thoughts. This was just plain weird.
“What gives?” Sophie asked. “You look like crap. Is there something in the water that I should know about?”
Sophie looked at Toots. Toots nodded. Searching for an explanation for her sudden reaction would bring up the ghostly visits at the Malibu beach house. Even though The Informer’s column “Ghostly Encounters” was now one of its most popular features, Toots still didn’t like discussing her experience with . . . strangers? But Bernice wasn’t a stranger! Next to Abby and Chris, Bernice was as much a part of her family as the godmothers. Hating this feeling that set her apart, Toots did what she always did when her hand was forced. She simply told the truth.
For the next hour, Toots, with numerous interruptions from Sophie, explained what had happened at the beach house. She even went as far as telling Bernice about their weekly séances. Had she bet money on Bernice’s reaction, she would’ve lost.
Toots was sure Bernice would tell them they were crazy, and most likely those apparitions they saw were nothing more than hallucinations from too much booze. She didn’t tell her about Ida’s experience with the bathroom mirror. That could wait for later.
Bernice watched Toots. She was frightened of something, truly frightened. All that Marilyn Monroe confession stuff, well, she figured Abby’s column was just a crock, and left it at that. The Bing Crosby and Aaron Spelling stuff, she’d attributed that to just more Hollywood bull. Now she wasn’t so sure. Pure, raw fear glittered in Bernice’s clear blue eyes when she finally spoke. “This is why you returned to Charleston, isn’t it?”
Chapter 8
Toots was totally dumbstruck. Trying to maintain control of her newly fragile nerves, she swallowed back fear, unlike any she’d ever known. Even the experience the other night at the beach house hadn’t caused her such total and complete panic. The question was, why?
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Toots asked, her words sounding wobbly and unsure.
Bernice took a deep breath. “You’ve come back to . . . I don’t know, take care of things. Ghostly things. You know, like they do on television.”
Had she?
Toots didn’t have an answer. Other than a strong feeling of homesickness, there’d really been no emergency, no rush for her to come home. Well, there had been that ghostly husband thing, but she wasn’t going to tell that to Bernice just yet, either. Yes, she had some business to attend to, but it wasn’t anything that couldn’t have been handled through FedEx, fax, or e-mail. Maybe there was a purpose for her deep longing to return home. Maybe, just maybe, she was needed here, too, just not in the way she’d expected.
The five women were silent. When they could no longer stand the stillness on the enclosed patio, they all started talking at once.
“I brought my equipment,” Sophie stated.
“I think we need to check this out further,” Mavis suggested.
Ida shook her head. “I don’t know what to think.”
That left Toots, who still couldn’t come up with a proper reply, at least one that would explain Bernice’s statement.
Bernice stood up and grabbed the pitcher of tea. “I’m going to refill this and add a little something extra. You all can discuss what I said as soon as I turn my back.”
Even though she’d not spoken a word since Bernice’s proclamation, as the unofficial leader of the group, Toots felt compelled to take charge. After all, Bernice was her housekeeper.
“Sophie, tell me your thoughts. I know you’re just dying to,” Toots cajoled, hearing the shakiness in her own voice and not liking it one little bit.
“I think Bernice is right,” Sophie declared. “You wanted to come home for a reason, and it just might be it’s your new calling in life. We could be like those Ghost Trackers on television.”
Toots looked as though she’d been sucker punched, because that very thought had just that minute crossed her mind.
Would Sophie have known her thoughts if she wasn’t a mind reader? They were exceptionally close, but mind reading? That was too extreme even for Sophie. Lord, she needed to take a vacation. Maybe a stiff drink. Something to bring her back to her normal reality, though her reality, at least in the past year, had been anything but normal.
“I’m not a mind reader, you kook. I just know you, Toots. That’s why I’m always one step ahead of you. Business is just an excuse you’re giving yourself to justify this trip. Am I right or what? You’re more into this ghostly stuff than you care to admit,” Sophie said to Toots.
Heaving a sigh of relief, Toots tried to maintain control, act as though nothing were out of the ordinary, which was totally not true. “You’re always right, Soph. This newfound interest in the dead has me more intrigued than anything I’ve been involved with in a long time, even The Informer. You, of all people, should know that. I wanted to see Bernice, and, yes, I do have a few business matters, though they could have been handled through the mail, but I decided I’d rather do them in person. So if that makes Sophie a mind reader, then so be it.”
Bernice returned, carrying a bright red tray with a matching pitcher and tall glasses decorated with red and white polka dots. “I’ve made Long Island ice tea this time around. I’ll warn you, I didn’t skimp with the hard stuff.”
Toots removed a glass from the tray, set it on the table beside her, then took another, handing it to Sophie. Mavis passed, and Ida practically swallowed the entire glass in one gulp. Bernice helped herself, leaving the tray on a large wicker table next to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens.
A minute or two passed before anyone spoke. Toots took control as the alcohol warmed her insides and relaxed the tightness in the back of her neck. Fortified with false courage, Toots said, “Okay, tell me about the bakery.”
“Well, you know the stories about the Dock Street Theatre,” Bernice said. “It’s three doors down from them. Not the best place for a bakery, but who am I to say what’s best for anyone? Hell, I have trouble deciding which brand of coffee to buy from week to week.”
Sophie slurped her drink like a horse at a trough. “What’s the Dock Street Theatre? Never heard of the place.”
“You tell her,” Bernice said.
Toots took a sip of her drink and placed the glass on the table beside her. “It’s local folklore. In the early eighteen hundreds, the Calder family built a hotel in Charleston. They called it Planter’s Hotel. After that went broke, it was turned into a theater. It’s been said by more than one person that a couple of ghosts wander around the old place. Supposedly one of them was a famous actor named Junius Brutus Booth, or you might recognize his son’s name, John Wilkes Booth, the assassin who killed President Lincoln. The other ghost is some nameless prostitute the locals refer to as Nettie. It’s said she worked at the place when it was still a hotel and was standing on the porch one day, when she was struck by lightning and killed instantly. I certainly don’t believe any of this malarkey, but it is what it is.
“Bernice, you said the man at the bakery was the size of a house? It doesn’t take much to deduce he suffered a heart attack from his lifestyle.
I seriously doubt the location of the bakery had anything to do with his sudden death. He could’ve been waiting for a heart transplant, for all we know. Maybe this was his one last visit to a bakery before turning over a new leaf. As a matter of fact, I think we should visit this place first thing in the morning. I, for one, would love to have a praline. They do have pralines there, don’t they?” Toots asked Bernice.
“We’re in Charleston, for crying out loud! Car dealerships have pralines. So I would guess a bakery would have them, too,” Bernice mumbled.
“I mean real pralines. Not those artificial, prepackaged ones that are made in New Jersey,” Toots said.
“You can find out for yourself first thing in the morning. Pete made sure to fill up your Lincoln and the Land Rover, so you’re good to go. I’ll stay here, thank you very much.”
“Why don’t we have a séance here? I have all of my things, and it’s not like any of us have any plans tonight,” Sophie suggested, perking up at the idea.
Toots caught Bernice’s shocked look and smiled.
“I live in Charleston, remember? This place is about as ghostly and haunted as you can get. Séances? I’ve been to more than you can shake a stick at. I say bring it on.” Clearly, Bernice had imbibed too much. Toots knew she was afraid of her own shadow, but she wasn’t going to bring that up right now.
“Ida? Mavis? What about it?” Sophie asked.
“I’ll pass. I have some sewing I want to catch up on,” Mavis said. “And I have a few e-mails I need to take care of, too. I might need to make a trip to FedEx tomorrow, Toots. Do you think you could take me to town if I need to go?”
Toots and Sophie both raised their eyebrows. “Sure, whatever you need. Why FedEx? Can’t you just drop a letter in the mailbox?”
“I may have a few packages to send up north, that’s all. I said I would send some things, and, well, I just don’t want them to be late if at all possible.” Mavis stood up, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her navy slacks. “Did the driver take my sewing machine to my room? I just hate being without it.”
“Does this have anything to do with all that gray material you’ve been lugging around?” Sophie asked.
Startled by Sophie’s question, Mavis answered, her words rushed. “Not one thing. I don’t even know why you would say something so silly. Now, I am a bit tired, and poor Coco, well, it’s time for her dinner. Bernice, do you have a can opener I can use? I thought I packed one, but I’m not sure. I’ll just run upstairs for a can of food and her bowls. I’ll be right back.” Mavis zoomed out of the room at the speed of light.
“WTF? What’s crawled down her skinny spine and bit her on the ass?” Sophie asked.
Bernice quickly refreshed their drinks, then followed Mavis. “I’ll be right back.”
Toots nodded, taking a sip of her drink. “Mavis is up to something. I wish I knew what it was.”
“Whatever it is, it has something to do with her morbid obsession, reading the obits. She’s been acting strange lately. Grabs the paper before anyone has a chance to look at the headlines. She hasn’t been reading The Informer, either. That’s not like her. She’s always supported Abby’s work. Think we should spy on her?” Sophie smiled, her eyes lighting up like a Roman candle on the Fourth of July.
“You’re a sneaky old woman, but I don’t have to tell you that. Yes, I think we should spy on her. Not too much. Just a little. I’m curious why she needs to go to FedEx. Mavis never sends packages, says it’s not in her ‘budget.’ ” Toots made air quotes. “I’ll give her anything she wants. All she has to do is ask.”
“Me, too, but I believe Mavis wants to get by on her own, at least as much as her pension and Social Security allow. You’ve been good to all of us, financially and otherwise.”
Ida had remained silent. Sitting in the corner, she finally chose to make her presence known. “I think we need to do what we came here to do, then get back to LA. It seems we’ve, rather you two, are getting sidetracked. Aren’t we supposed to be finding ghost stories and Hollywood gossip for The Informer? Well?” Ida asked. “Am I right?”
Sophie jumped up like the Energizer Bunny. “Where does it say the stories have to come from Hollywood? At least the ghost stories. If it ends up Thomas really was murdered, don’t you want to find out? I would think a ghostly encounter, no matter the freaking location or who it is, would be newsworthy to The Informer. The Enquirer sure as hell gets around, and The Globe, too. Maybe that’s the secret to their success? We’ve been trying too hard to focus our . . . research . . . in one location. The beach house. If, and this is a big if, what if we could have séances wherever there’s been a sighting? Why can’t we do that? I’m not talking about traveling around the world, just within, say, each of our home states. As much as it ticks me off to admit it, we’re all going to go to our respective homes. Eventually, we have to. Why not kill two birds with the proverbial stone? Maine, New York, South Carolina. I’d bet my last Marlboro we could find something worthy to print. And speaking of Marlboro, I’m going outside to smoke.” At that pronouncement, Sophie swirled out of the room like a cloud of dust.
“I’m going to join her,” Toots announced and followed Sophie outside, where she sat on the steps leading to the back door into the kitchen.
Two seconds later, Ida plopped down beside them. “Don’t blow smoke in my face,” she said.
The two lit up and smoked three cigarettes apiece before going back inside.
Chapter 9
Los Angeles
Abby sliced the New York strip in half. Poor Chester deserved a special treat after sitting patiently in the car for three hours without a peep.
“Here you go, boy. Medium rare, just the way you like it.” She scooped the steak into his dog bowl and freshened his water. She stood at the kitchen sink, staring out the window. She wasn’t hungry but forced herself to take a few bites, anyway. What was that saying? Something about sleeping and eating when you can because you never know when you’ll have to be on a stakeout? Abby chuckled at her play on words.
She’d finally finished all the remodeling on her little ranch house. Abby had done most of the work herself on the weekends and nights when she wasn’t out chasing a story. She was quite pleased with her life at the moment but knew it could change on a dime. To date she still hadn’t met the new owners of The Informer, and, truly, at this stage of the game, it didn’t seem to matter. She was acting editor in chief, and so far her decisions hadn’t caused the paper to go bankrupt. Her boss seemed pleased with her work. Sales had almost doubled since she’d started her column, “Ghostly Encounters.” Maybe it was the public’s newfound fascination with ghosts, or it could be that most of her encounters just happened to be with dead movie stars. Whatever, she wasn’t about to question it.
Life was good.
Which always, always brought forth an image of Chris Clay, her best friend. Sort of. He just didn’t know it yet. She didn’t plan on telling him so anytime soon, either. She’d known Chris since she was a little girl, as her mother, her flamboyant, outrageous mother, had married Chris’s father, Garlan Clay. He’d died while Chris was still in law school. Her mother had continued to share her life with Chris, always including him in their small family events. It’d taken Abby by complete surprise when she realized she cared about Chris more than as a mere stepsibling. They really hadn’t grown up together. Chris was away at boarding school, and when Abby started high school, Chris went away to college. They’d been more acquaintances than anything. Until her mother had a wild idea and decided she wanted to live a bicoastal life. She’d issued several invitations that always included Chris. While on a stakeout of sorts, Abby and Chris had wound up at Pink’s, a ratty diner in LA famous for its hot dogs. He’d kissed her fingertips that night, one by one, and Abby had fallen completely, totally in love. She just hadn’t told Chris yet. There wasn’t any rush. At twenty-nine, she still had a few years before her biological alarm clock sounded. For now, she was content to enjoy the occasional dinn
er, a drive to the beach, or one of Sophie’s séances at the beach house, which Chris attended, albeit reluctantly.
Abby considered driving out to the beach. Chester would love to go for a run; but Coco was gone, and it would break poor Chester’s heart if the Chihuahua wasn’t there. Besides, Chris was house-sitting for her mother, and he’d invited a college buddy to hang out. She didn’t want to interfere with their “guy time.”
She forked a last bite of steak and rinsed her dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. Chester pushed his bowl aside with his big paw, his way of telling her he was finished.
“Okay, boy. I know what’s next.” Abby opened the kitchen door that led to her fenced-in backyard. Chester would spend the next hour or so watching squirrels. Watching but, for some unknown reason, never chasing. She’d lucked out when she’d found Chester at a local shelter. He’d been a Christmas gift to herself. Her sweet baby love, she liked to call him when no one was around. And he was her love. Her friend and protector. Wherever she went, Chester followed. He went to work with her daily, and since the fire at The Informer building, he’d become quite the watchdog, as most German shepherds were.
With the evening stretching out before her, Abby finished up in the kitchen and changed into a hot pink sleep shirt with an image of Tinker Bell splashed across the front. She clicked the TV to her favorite channel, Lifetime. When she saw the current movie was the same one as the night before, she grabbed her briefcase off the sofa and pulled out her laptop.
Once a reporter, always a reporter. Just because she wasn’t at the office didn’t mean her workday had ended. Abby was constantly searching for material for The Informer. It was a weekly, and if she wanted to stay on top of the game, she couldn’t let the competition get one up on her. She booted up, clicked on her e-mail client, hoping to find the next headline from “an unnamed source.” She was three columns ahead for “Ghostly Encounters,” courtesy of her godmothers, so she was safe for a bit. However, as editor in chief, it was up to her to provide leads for the reporters. It was one of the reasons she and Chester had spent three hours staking out Lobo’s, one of Hollywood’s newest hot spots. Supposedly, Simon Cowell and Paula Abdul were seen making out like two teenagers there the past three nights. Abby, quite well known to the stars as a tabloid reporter, had thought it would be in her and The Informer’s best interests if she remained hidden in her yellow MINI Cooper. Her parking place had afforded her a bird’s-eye view of the only exit. If the two former American Idol judges were there as a couple, Abby was going to catch it on film. Three hours had produced nada. She’d given up her stakeout and gone home. Tomorrow was another day.
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