We watch as she steps toward him with handcuffs in her hand.
“This is all just one big mistake,” Mr. Plum says, backing toward his room and shaking his head from side to side.
“Do not resist,” Ruby Red tells him, grabbing his right hand and locking it in with a click.
“You don’t understand,” Mr. Plum goes on. “I was here to help. I was helping—”
That’s when Mr. Lozano bursts through the door from the hall with a badge hanging from his neck too.
“You good?” he asks Ruby Red.
“Yep,” she says, taking Mr. Plum’s other hand and locking that one in too.
“Mr. Lozano!” I exclaim. “You too?”
He grabs a radio off his belt and holds it up to his mouth. “Larimer County badge number 4432.”
“4432 Larimer County, go ahead,” a voice calls from the speaker.
“Subject in custody,” he says. “I’m out with 6314, looking for a patrol unit for transport to county jail.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“Mr. Plum has been behind the hauntings,” Detective Ruby Red tells us.
I suck air. “This whole time?” I ask.
She nods. “That’s right.”
“And you’re a detective?” I ask her.
She nods.
“You too, Mr. Lozano?”
“That’s right,” he says.
I turn to Mr. Plum, who is still standing in his polka-dot underwear, but now he has sparking silver bracelets, too.
And not in a good way.
“Mr. Plum,” I say. “You did all of it?”
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” he protests again. “This is all just a big misunderstanding.”
“What about the eyes in the portrait?” Mags asks. “Those were yours?”
He doesn’t say a word.
“You know Ms. Lettie took a header in the lobby because of that one,” I tell him.
Silence.
“What about the warning on the typewriter?” Mags asks.
He gives us a wide smile. “You can attach a remote control to just about anything nowadays,” he says.
“Wait…what about the chairs defying gravity that first night?” I say.
He shrugs. “I made that one up.”
Mags grins with a finger pointed in his direction. “You got it from Poltergeist, didn’t you?” she asks.
“Of course,” he says. “It’s a blueprint for all things haunted.”
I gasp again and Mags gives me a grin. “Told you,” she says. “Everyone who’s anyone knows it. Even Mr. Plum, and he’s a crook.”
“But why, Mr. Plum?” Nyx asks. “Why do all this? I mean, what was your end game?”
But Detective Ruby Red answers for him instead.
“The constant hauntings were keeping guests away,” she says. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Plum?”
“I have the right to remain silent,” he says.
“Why in the world would he want to keep the guests away?” I ask.
“The Plum family has been trying to buy the property for years from the Jewels, but the Jewels didn’t want to sell it,” Ruby Red explains. “So Mr. Plum devised this scheme so that the Jewel family would lose money and have to sell the hotel at a very low price.”
“That’s pretty bad, Mr. Plum,” I tell him. “Even worse than bobby pin infractions. Father O’Leary would charge you big for that one.”
“A lifetime of Hail Marys for sure,” Mags adds. “Not to mention a mess of Our Fathers.”
Mr. Plum just rolls his eyes.
“Detective Ruby Red,” I say. “What was in the suitcase? The one with the leather handle.”
She raises her eyebrows at me. “Evidence,” she says. “You’ve been digging deeper than we thought you were.”
“I’m Research for Totally Rad,” I tell her, pointing to myself. “And I take that very seriously. Very seriously.”
She nods with a slow-spreading grin. “You’re good, you know that?”
I don’t say anything, but I can’t help but grin back real big.
“Wait…what about the dag gum hooligans?” I ask Mr. Plum. “Did you fake that, too?”
“That wasn’t me,” he says. “I swear it wasn’t.”
I wide-eye Mags and she wide-eyes me right back.
That’s when Dad, Big John, The Faz and T. S. Phoenix come bursting through the first door from the main hallway.
“What’s happening?” Dad’s all out of breath. “Karma? You’re okay? Mags? You good? Everybody’s okay? Wh-what’s going on in here?”
I stand tall and clear my throat and give him the skinny.
“It happened just like on Dateline,” I say. “First the mystery unveils itself and then bam…the culprit is exposed. The perp lambasted. The hooligan nabbed.”
They stand there staring at me.
“What does that mean?” T. S. Phoenix asks.
“It means this,” I say, pointing an accusing finger at Mr. Plum. “It was Mr. Plum, in the tunnel, with the candlestick.”
“What?” Dad says.
“Let’s go,” Detective Ruby Red tells Mr. Plum, ushering him toward the door to the hall. “You’re being charged with disorderly conduct, trespassing, burglary, damage to property and, of course”—she clears her throat—“obscenity.”
And that’s when she stops next to me and whispers, “Once you see polka-dot boxers paired with matching socks on some old guy, you can’t unsee it.”
It’s day nine.
We fly out tomorrow, but T. S. Phoenix and Tally are driving back to Denver today.
With not even a glimpse of a ghost on film during our trip to the Stanley Hotel, there is no Netflix contract, season one or season two. Dad decided to wait until he gets back to New York to make the actual call and takes the last day to finally get some sleep after all those late-night investigations. And even though Dad promised every which way but Sunday that he wasn’t mad at me for ruining his big break, a part of me still feels like it’s all my fault.
And I bet you can guess which part of me it is, too.
WHAT-IFS
It’s your fault.
I’m Research.
It was my job to help Dad get a ghost on film, and it didn’t happen.
“Good detective work, Karma,” T. S. Phoenix is saying while he pumps my hand up and down in a hearty handshake. “You have quite the nose for investigation.”
“Not quite good enough,” I say.
“Well, if this place isn’t haunted, it isn’t haunted, right?” he says. “Science first. Always science first, but keeping an open mind to all other possibilities—”
“Without being pareidolic,” I add with a pointer finger in the air.
“Exactly.” He nods and grins. “We must follow the evidence.”
“We still haven’t figured out the dress or the dag gum hooligans,” I remind him.
He nods again, with another gigantic grin. “Karma, I think you may have a future in the paranormal business if that’s what you choose.”
Tally grabs my hands then and smiles a warm smile at me, her bracelets jingling. “She has talent in many areas,” she tells him, and then bends down so we are eye to eye. “I don’t know if you know this, but you have something very special inside you, Karma,” she says. “Don’t shy away from it or condemn it. Your sensitivity is a gift. Don’t ever wish it away.”
My mouth falls open.
“How did you—”
“Because I know…and also because…I was just like you when I was your age,” she tells me.
“You were?” I breathe. “The what-ifs and everything?”
She nods. “Still have them,” she tells me.
“No way.”
She nods again. “But now I use them to understand the world better. To understand people. To understand the different experiences we all have and to respect everyone for those differences. With that in mind, I’m grateful for all my thoughts, because they allow me to put myself in the shoes of others with compassion and love. And I am happy for them mostly because they make me special. And they’re what make you special too.”
“Me?” I point to my front.
“You,” she says. “Your aura shines, sweetheart. Don’t ever let anyone blow the light out on your brightness just because they don’t shine themselves.”
Her words float in the air between us. I breathe them in.
In and then out.
Trying to get them to stick inside me somewhere.
My aura light.
It makes me wonder why Mom never said anything about it. Maybe she’s not as woo-woo as she thinks she is. I mean, how can she be? She got everything wrong and she can’t even see it. Maybe she’s the dull light Tally is talking about.
“You really think I’m a bright light?” I ask Tally.
“I don’t think it,” she tells me. “I see it. I feel it. And I know it.”
It’s at that very moment that tears find the back of my throat and lodge in a big mess. Except this time is different. This time it’s not the kind of tears that make you feel like you’re dying to breathe. Not even close. This time they are tears that make my shoulders straighter and my back grow longer as I stand tall in front of her. Like her words made it inside me and I can actually feel the light Tally is talking about.
Me.
Karma Moon Vallenari.
I wrap my arms around Tally, squeezing her way too tight, but she doesn’t even complain either, she just hugs me back.
“Thank you” is all I can think to say in her arms, even though I wish more than anything that I knew how to tell her just how much her words made me feel on the inside.
She holds my hand as we walk down the red front steps and watch as T. S. Phoenix loads all the bags into the back of their black SUV with a sign on the passenger-side door that reads,
LIGHTS OUT!
After everyone says their goodbyes, me, Dad and Mags wave as they pull away and T. S. Phoenix toots the horn three times. It’s when they roll down East Wonderview and turn onto Steamer Parkway and the SUV is finally out of sight that I notice it.
“Whoa! Look!” I hold my hand out to show Mags my ring.
“Whoa!” she agrees, grabbing my finger and examining it. “When did that happen? That’s the greenest green I’ve ever seen!”
“What does green stand for?” I ask her.
She pulls out her phone and starts typing.
“Green,” she says. “Calm and together.”
“I found my tuner!” I exclaim.
“I don’t even know what that means,” she says.
“You’d have to be a Velma to get it and you’re waaaaay too Daphne.” I throw an arm around her shoulders and we head back inside.
* * *
That night, our very last night at the Stanley Hotel, Mags and me decide to binge-watch Scooby-Doo episodes on her laptop in front of the fireplace in the lobby. Chef Raphaël popped us real popcorn in a pot instead of the microwave kind and right this minute we’re sunk down deep into the leather couch with our feet on the coffee table and the laptop between us.
“It’s the manager,” Mags tells me with her mouth full of popcorn.
“No way,” I tell her. “It’s the caretaker. It’s almost always the caretaker.”
“Almost isn’t always,” she says. “In the last one, it was the shop owner. And in the one before that, it was the maintenance man.”
“I will bet you a million dollars it’s the caretaker,” I say.
“You don’t have a million dollars,” Mags reminds me.
“It’s not really a million dollars, it’s figurative.”
“It’s what?” she asks.
“Don’t you remember any of the vocabulary words?”
“Not on spring break I don’t.” She shoves in another mouthful. “My brain is on vacation. Ha!” she exclaims then. “See? It’s the manager! I win! I’ll take that money in small bills, please.” She holds out her hand.
I give it a smack.
“What’s the next one?” I ask her.
She squints at the screen and says, “ ‘Jeepers, It’s the Creeper.’ ”
I snort and shake my head. “Classic,” I say.
“I’m going to go out on a limb and say the manager did it,” she tells me.
“It’s the museum owner,” someone calls out from behind us.
We turn around to see Jack the busboy.
He’s taken over for Mr. Lozano as interim manager, and instead of a T-shirt or no shirt, he’s wearing a blue button-down and a bright yellow tie.
“Oh, hey,” Mags breathes at him. “If you’re done for the evening, you can join us for a Scooby-Doo binge marathon. I mean, if you want to you can.”
“So,” I say. “I guess you knew about the whole Ruby Red deal, huh?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Jewel let Gran and me know about it because they needed some trusted employees to help. No one is more trustworthy than Gran,” he tells us, slipping on his jacket.
“So, you want to stay and watch, then?” Mags asks.
“Nah,” he says. “I’m meeting my girlfriend at Fun City for miniature golf.”
Mags’s mouth falls open, but no words come out of it.
“Later,” he calls to us with a wave.
We watch him over the top of the couch as he pushes open the front double doors and whistles down the red steps.
“Now that I get a real good look at him,” Mags says, sinking deeper into the leather after Jack heads out, “he’s not even cute. Plus he probably uses straws too. He just looks like the type who wouldn’t care two hoots about saving the turtles.”
“I thought you wanted to kiss him in the cooler,” I tease her.
“I’d rather kiss Fred,” she mumbles. “Did you see his lips? Could they be more chapped? Fireworks kiss dud supreme.”
“Uh-huh,” I say with a grin.
“I’m going to get another soda.” Mags passes the laptop to me and jumps up from the couch. “So push Pause and don’t start it until I get back.”
I watch her head across the lobby.
“The museum owner,” she grumbles. “Like he really knows.”
“Get me another Snapple too,” I call after her. “A Fruit Punch one.”
She doesn’t answer me because she’s already singing a Taylor Swift song about never getting back together.
“Fruit Punch,” I holler again.
I type in baby monkeys playing on YouTube while I wait for her, but I don’t even get through the first video because in about twenty seconds, she is full-on sprinting back across the lobby.
“Karma!” she exclaims.
“I told you Fruit Punch, didn’t I?” I say, holding up two fingers. “Twice I said it.”
“I—I—I,” she stammers.
“Is it all gone? You drank the last one, didn’t you? You know they’re my favorite. It’s payback for me hogging the Made-with-Love Cookies, isn’t it?”
“No,” she says, pointing back toward the dining hall. “It’s just…I—I think…I mean, there was…um—”
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask her. “Spit it out already.”
“Mr. Plum,” she says. “He’s arrested, right?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“And the doors are locked up, right?”
“Yeah,” I say again.
“And the Ouija board is in the dumpster, right?”
“Will you spit it out already?” I demand.
“If I s
aid I saw something or heard something, it’d be real, right?” she asks.
I push the laptop aside and scramble up off the couch. “What are you saying?” I ask her.
“I’m saying I s-saw her,” she tells me. “And I heard her too.”
“Who?” I say.
“The woman.”
“But Mr. Plum said he made everything up,” I tell her.
“Not the dag gum hooligans,” she says. “And not the dress, either.”
“So you heard the dag gum hooligans?” I ask. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“No,” she says. “This was a woman. The woman.”
“The woman?”
“Maybe you were right all along,” she says. “Maybe there was a paranormal disturbance and phony baloney all at the same time.”
I gasp, grabbing her by her arms and giving her a shake. “Was it Mrs. Honeycutt?” I demand. “It was, wasn’t it?”
“No,” she says.
“Please say it wasn’t Bloody Mary,” I say. “Was it Bloody Mary?”
“No,” she says again. “It was her, her.”
“Her who?”
“Cecelia.”
I suck air. “How do you know?” I ask.
“She said it. She actually told me her name and I heard it.”
“You heard her say her name?”
She nods. “But that’s not all I heard either.”
“What else did she say?”
She swallows and whispers, “Tunnel.”
“Whoa!” I exclaim. “That’s huge.”
“It’s gigantic,” she agrees. “Better call Charlie Brown for this one, because there’s no way you’re dragging me in the tunnel for a paranormal investigation for a third time.”
I’m already dialing.
“Voice mail,” I tell her.
“Leave a message,” she tells me.
Nyx’s voice mail: Only three people have this number. If you’re not one of them, hang up now.
“Nyx!” I exclaim into the speaker. “Operation: Ghost Selfie is on! This time we get an image on film. Call me back.”
Knock…pause…knock, knock, knock…pause…knock…pause…knock, knock.
Karma Moon—Ghost Hunter Page 21
