by Nic Saint
“You better!” warned the old ghost.
Brian quickly nodded and practically dove into his car. Even though he knew there was no escape from the dead, he slammed the door shut, shoved his finger on the keypad and the car engine roared to life. He tore away from the curb and drove straight past the dozens of ghosts watching him through haunting eyes. He was going to have to do his darndest to help out Mabel, but first he needed to get to the bottom of this Castle Windermere thing.
He had a pretty good idea what had taken place there, and if what he feared was true, things weren’t looking too good. He retched when suddenly the stench of rotten eggs invaded the car and his nostrils. A final reminder from Mabel’s father not to forget about his daughter.
“Oh, all right!” he called out to no one in particular. “Damn ghosts.”
Perhaps being a ghost hater wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
Chapter 6
“What do you think?”
Felicity wasn’t asking the question to anyone in particular. She was wondering whether Brian had been telling the truth or not.
“I think he was lying through his teeth,” said Reece. “And the way he weaseled out on us? I’m pretty sure we’ll never see his face again.”
Rick was fiddling with the device that had hopefully captured Brian’s lies and deceit, the others all gathered around.
“He struck me as honest,” said Alice, offering the contrarian note.
“Me too,” Felicity said reluctantly. “No, he did,” she said when Rick looked up and eyed her curiously. “He seemed genuinely surprised by the whole story, as if he’d never set foot inside Castle Windermere before.”
“But why would Jack lie about something like that?” Rick asked.
“Rats lie,” Alice pointed out. “It’s a well-known fact.”
“Is it?” asked Rick skeptically. “Is it?”
Felicity had to admit she’d never seen a documentary on lying rats on the Discovery Channel or National Geographic, but if she had to choose between Jack and Brian, she was prepared to give the latter the benefit of the doubt.
“I still think he was lying through his teeth,” said Reece. “And I should know. I’ve been on the receiving end of so much nonsense from studio heads, producers, directors and fellow actors that I can spot a fib a mile away.”
There was something to be said for that, of course. But then Felicity was no stranger to the human condition either. As a member of the Bell family she was used to working at the bakery and it often happened that customers claimed to have paid for an item while it was obvious they hadn’t. From an early age, she’d been trained to tell the liars from the honest customers.
“We’ll know soon enough,” Rick grunted, as he placed a bulky laptop on the coffee table. It looked like the kind that electricians use to check the wiring of a house, and Felicity watched in fascination as an image appeared on the small screen. It was Brian Rutherford, seated on the ‘hot seat’, a thermal image of his body appearing. “Now we’ll be able to see if he was telling the truth or not,” Rick said with a note of triumph in his voice. Usually it was Reece who came up with the cool stuff and the connections, but this time, Rick had trumped the actor.
Reece eyed the contraption with a supercilious eye. “I don’t need this mumbo-jumbo to tell me what I already know, Ricky. Brian is a ghost hater.”
But then Rick hit the play button, and they watched the conversation unfold on the screen, the voices sounding scrambled but still recognizable. The question was posed to Brian if he was indeed a ghost hater, and suddenly a section of his body lit up in blue as he vehemently denied the charge.
“Did you see that?!” Alice cried out, pointing at the screen.
“What does it mean?” Felicity asked, and she saw that Rick’s expression had turned from triumphant to worried.
“Let’s just let the footage roll,” he suggested. The interview drew to a close, and by now a vivid blue was coloring Brian’s entire body. Rick pressed the pause button, and fiddled with some of the dials, spiriting a series of graphs and numbers onto the screen. He studied them intently. Finally, he sat back and raked his fingers through his shaggy hair. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said softly.
“What is it?” Alice asked.
“Yeah, don’t keep us in suspense,” Felicity chimed in.
Rick gave them a goofy grin. “Looks like our boy is right after all.”
“What do you mean? What boy? You mean Reece is right? Brian is a liar?” Alice asked.
“Of course I’m right,” Reece said complacently.
But Rick gestured to the door. “That boy. Looks like he didn’t do it.”
Reece’s gasp of shock echoed through the room, as Alice and Fee sharply drew in breaths.
“What do you mean he didn’t do it? That’s impossible!” Reece cried.
“According to this machine he was telling the truth about Castle Windermere,” Rick said. “He was never there.”
Felicity didn’t get it. “But then why would Jack tell us that he was?”
Rick spread his arms. “I don’t know, honey. But the machine doesn’t lie.”
“I’ll bet it does,” Reece grumbled. He shifted in his seat and gave the laptop a withering look. “Where did you get this piece of junk? Ebay?”
“I got it from a buddy of mine who works for the CIA. They use it to interrogate terror suspects.”
“Well, that’s your problem right there,” Reece pointed out. “Brian isn’t a terror suspect.”
“They used it to figure out the hiding place of Osama Bin Laden.”
“Oh,” said Reece, then his frown deepened. “Well, Brian may be a lot of things, but he ain’t no Osama Bin Laden. I’ll bet he simply beat the machine.”
But even Reece recognized a lost cause when he saw it. Brian had told them the truth; there was no way around that simple fact.
“So what do we do now?” Felicity asked.
“Now we wait and see what story Brian comes up with,” Alice said. “There must be a logical explanation for what happened at the castle, and it looks like Brian needs some time to trust us enough to share it with us.”
Alice was right. They’d accused Brian of something he didn’t do. Felicity wondered what this would mean for the future of the Wraith Wranglers. There needed to be a relationship of trust between the leader and his team. They’d just shown that they didn’t trust Brian. Would Brian ever trust them again? Enough to send them on a mission? Or was this the end for the team? They could go on without Brian, of course, but Rick seemed reluctant. And without Rick, they had no team. She didn’t feel like doing this without him.
Chapter 7
“I don’t want to go!” Grover Calypso said. He was staring at the letter that had just arrived and shaking his head like an irascible child. And a big head it was, bulbous and covered with a mass of frizzy hair, it looked like a moldy old soccer ball left unattended in the back of the garden for years. And then there was the beard he’d recently insisted on growing. Ever since he’d seen a news item on hipsters, he’d insisted he needed a beard like that if he wanted to keep up with the times. Unfortunately, the hirsute appendage only covered parts of his face, leaving other spots bald. It did look pretty funky.
“Well, then don’t,” his wife suggested.
“I won’t,” Grover insisted mulishly.
Mrs. Calypso merely smiled sweetly. As the wife of the well-known billionaire, she was used to her husband making a spectacle of himself each time he was invited to attend some charity event. Even though he wasn’t the least bit interested in attending, he still felt obliged. He argued that when you were as rich as he was, people expected certain things from you, and attending these events was one of them.
She usually encouraged him to go anyway, as, unlike her husband, she was a social animal and always loved to meet new people, but she knew better than to press on when he was in this kind of mood. Emilia Calypso was a strikingly beautiful woman, with long platinum hair and classic feat
ures. The only thing that marred perfection were her eyes, which were cold and calculating, a perfect representation of her character.
“Why don’t I call these people and tell them you can’t possibly attend?”
“Would you do that?” he asked gratefully. “I don’t feel so good.”
She gave him a tight smile. “Of course, darling. I’ll do it right now.”
She moved over to her husband and placed a cooling hand on his brow. “Is darling having a bad day today?” she asked with a pout.
“It’s this merger business preying on my mind,” he grumbled.
She gave him a peck on the top of his head. “You leave everything to me.”
“Thanks, darling,” he said. Even though they’d been dubbed the beauty and the beast by their small circle of friends, Grover was devoted to his wife. Granted, he was not an Adonis, and the fact that he’d still managed to snag Emilia, a former beauty queen, still amazed him. It didn’t amaze her, however. Her aim in life had always been to become rich and famous, and marrying Grover Calypso was simply one step on that long ladder.
She strode to the phone, took a seat on the gilded chair, and soon was engaged in lively conversation with the person responsible for the charity.
“No, Mr. Calypso won’t be able to attend,” she said loud enough for Grover’s benefit. She nodded to her husband, who gave her a grateful smile.
“Well, that’s just wonderful,” her correspondent said, well pleased.
“But I will be there, of course,” she added.
“Even better,” the man said, and this time, she smiled to herself.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she whispered.
“Neither would I, my turtledove. Same place, same time?”
“That’s right.”
“See you later.”
She replaced the receiver and felt the usual flutter in the pit of her stomach. Conducting a torrid affair right under her husband’s nose did much to enliven an otherwise pretty dull life. And as usual, Grover hadn’t a clue.
She walked over to where he was staring out the window of their Park Avenue condo. Central Park was an oasis of green in the morning sunlight, and outside on the terrace breakfast was just being served. Black coffee and scrambled Eggs Benedict for him, orange juice and toast for her.
She placed a hand on Grover’s arm. “Ready for breakfast, darling?”
“Yes—yes, of course,” he said, surfacing from his pondering.
“What’s on your mind?” she asked, wondering if he suspected.
He flashed her a quick smile, his new dentures glittering brightly. “Just business, darling,” he said. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Then I won’t,” she said pacifically. She never did bother about Grover’s business. That was his department. Her department was to make sure that their social life was in order, and that the household was running smoothly.
She hooked her arm through his, and they stepped through the sliding door onto the terrace. Time for breakfast, and a new and glorious day.
Chapter 8
Mabel Stokely was washing the dishes and placing them in the drying rack, thinking dark thoughts. She was a full-figured woman in her late fifties, with black-framed glasses and a dignified manner. She was thinking about the letter that had arrived that morning, the missive from the bank that they were about to foreclose on the mortgage if the Stokelys didn’t fork over fifty thousand dollars within the next couple of days. The long and steady stream of letters had started to arrive a month ago, each one more threatening than the last. Until then, she hadn’t a clue they were behind on their mortgage. They’d always paid on time, but a visit to Armstrong & Tillich had revealed that a great portion of the money had ended up in a different account.
The previous bank manager’s account.
Neil Domino had been in charge of Armstrong & Tillich for decades, until he was arrested for the murder of a number of people and now spent the remainder of his life in prison. Apparently killing people hadn’t been his only crime. Before he went away for life, he’d skimmed several accounts and appropriated the money. And one of those unfortunates were the Stokelys.
She and Mark had argued that since it was obviously not their fault that the money they paid into their mortgage had been stolen, they couldn’t be held accountable, and, more importantly, couldn’t be considered in default.
But apparently sound logic wasn’t one of the hallmarks of Armstrong & Tillich. The new manager insisted they were as much to blame as the former manager. They should have done a better job monitoring their account.
That was simply ludicrous, of course, only now they were about to lose their house, and even the lawyer they’d hired said the process of righting this wrong could take months, at which point they’d already be evicted and forced to move in with their daughter Natalie and her fiancé.
Only a few more years and the house would have been paid off. And now this…
She muttered a few choice curse words under her breath, aimed at Armstrong & Tillich. The worst part was that the new manager was an old high school friend of Mabel’s, and she would have expected that she would have set the record straight just for old time’s sake. But no. She had to do things by the book, eager as she was to make regional manager and show her higher-ups that she was as tough as they came.
Mabel slammed another plate onto the drying rack and plunged her dishcloth into the soapy water, then dumped another couple of plates into the sink. Doing the dishes usually helped to clear her mind, but today it only served to infuriate her even more. She scrubbed and scrubbed until she was afraid she was going to make a hole in her late mother’s china, her cheeks burning red.
Then she noticed her husband Mark had sidled up to her.
“Are you all right, hon?” he asked, worry lacing his voice.
“No, I’m not all right,” she snapped, throwing down the dishcloth, the soapy water splashing up and hitting her in the eye. “Dammit!” she cried.
Mark took a dish towel and dried her face, wiping her graying locks from her brow. She was in the habit of dying her hair, but with the stress of the last couple of weeks she hadn’t had time to go to Rita.
Well, her appearance was the least of her problems right now.
“I know it’s hard to imagine,” Mark said softly,” but I’m sure something will come up to make this problem go away.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, a little less snappish than before. Mark always had a soothing effect on her. She was prone to volcanic tempers, and only when at work at Town Hall was she able to keep those stormy emotions in check. Here at home, when it was just her and Mark, she didn’t bother trying to be nice and civil. She knew that he was man enough to take it, and calm her down with a simple gesture like this, or crack a joke to clear the air.
“Well, I do think so,” he said, and she looked up into his eyes, wondering if there was something he knew that she didn’t.
“What do you mean? Have you heard back from the bank?”
He shook his head. “I’ve heard from your father.”
Her jaw dropped. “My father?” Dad had died years ago. He’d been a disgrace to the family and had died destitute, living on the street. “How can you have heard from my father when he’s been dead for five years?”
Mark shrugged and gave her a sheepish grin. “I had a dream that was so vivid it was practically as if he was in the same room with us.”
“Last night?”
“Last night.”
It was odd, she felt. She’d also dreamed of her father, only her dream had been vaguer. He’d appeared before her, along with a legion of his seedy buddies, and then had vanished. “What did he say?” she asked trepidatiously.
“He said that as long as we stick together, everything will be fine.” He was gently massaging her shoulders and neck. “And I believed him.”
She thought for a moment. Only recently she’d shared an awfully weird adventure with other members of t
he Happy Bays neighborhood watch committee. She’d seen things that other people would deem impossible. Things that she had thought impossible until a short while ago. She’d seen ghosts, and they’d talked to her and had convinced her to throw out her old ideas of what was possible and impossible. Could it be that her father had appeared in their bedroom last night? And that Mark—always a light sleeper—had talked to him? She wouldn’t put it past the old coot. He’d been a pain in the patootie even when alive, so why would he be different when dead?
“Did he tell you anything specific?” she asked, looking up at her husband.
He shook his head, the crow’s feet around his eyes deepening as a smile creased his face. “Nope. But I believed him. I don’t know how or why, but I think all is not lost. We just might save this old house of ours after all.”
She nodded. The mayor had suggested pulling some strings, but apparently his strings didn’t reach high enough to sway the powers that be. Happy Bays was just a small town, and Ted MacDonald only a small-town mayor. The owners of Armstrong & Tillich weren’t inclined to let their policies be swayed by the likes of some local politician. But could they be swayed by the cranky old ghost of an inveterate drunk and troublemaker?
For the first time in weeks, hope surged in her bosom, and she allowed herself to be hugged by Mark. If her father was getting involved things might just turn around, she thought. And she sincerely hoped they would.
Chapter 9
There was something to be said for spending a summer morning on the beach, Reece thought. He’d been stretching his legs after his customary morning run when he spotted a gorgeous young woman walking out of the surf. The sunlight picked up every nuance and curvature of her body, and glittering droplets sprinkled down like a curtain of Swarovski diamonds. He involuntarily pursed his lips in admiration. If he hadn’t been engaged to Alice, he wouldn’t have minded making this beauty’s acquaintance.
