by Nina Bruhns
“Sure you don’t,” Miss Sandy said, clutching Giselle’s arm. “It’s okay, honey. He’s one fine-looking specimen. I can understand why you don’t want to share that prime cut of meat.”
Giselle decided not to correct her.
Miss Sandy turned back to the group. “Anywho. There’s this other ghost here that likes to tickle people’s feet when they’re sleeping. As you can imagine, it gets the tourists mighty upset when a ghost is in the bedroom, tickling their feet.”
“I thought this was a restaurant. The customers aren’t sleeping in the restaurant, are they?” Giselle demanded. She had to consciously loosen her grip on the wineglass to keep it from breaking. She’d about had her fill of Miss Sandy. Plus, Mr. Scrumptious continued to ignore her. That alone made her seriously cranky.
“Maybe that ghost haunts one of the inns. Oh, yeah. Can’t remember which one, but one of ’em.”
Giselle would have said something caustic but was saved when one of the teenagers stepped forward and interjected a question. “Miss Sandy. Is there any way to keep the ghosts away? Like exorcism?”
“Oh, yeah, an exorcism will do it. But that gets kind of messy and it requires a priest. I think there’s an easier way.”
Miss Sandy picked up the glass containing the Pink Squirrel the bartender had finally brought her, downed it with one gulp, and placed the glass on top of the bar again. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“It’s simple. All you have to do is— Let’s see if they have any back here?” Miss Sandy staggered around the end of the bar and started rummaging behind it. “I’m sure they must have some here. Aha!” Miss Sandy emerged with a box of oatmeal held victoriously over her head.
“Oatmeal?” Giselle’s tone was caustic.
“Oh, yes. You just sprinkle it around. It’ll keep the ghosts away.”
“That’s just dumb,” Giselle said.
“No, it’s not. It keeps them calm. Like Prozac for ghosts.”
“Hey.” The bartender called to Miss Sandy from the other end of the wood expanse. He put a bottle of beer in front of a customer with a bang. “Leave that alone. That’s my lunch.”
“Oooh, so sorry,” Miss Sandy said sarcastically, and she pushed the box of oatmeal back into its place. She straightened and put her hands on her hips militantly. “Well, it keeps ghosts away too.”
An uncomfortable silence fell over the group. Then one of the teenagers broke the tension.
“Miss Sandy, you were going to tell us about how Savannah got its name.”
The tour guide blinked a few times. “Oh, yeah. I’ll tell ya later.”
“You don’t know, do you?” Giselle challenged.
“I do, too. Of course I do. I’m a professional. I know what I’m doing.” Miss Sandy huffily boosted her bosom.
The group stared at Miss Sandy and she stared back for a few long seconds.
“Okay,” she said. “If you have to know now, I’ll just tell it out of order.”
She stopped speaking and glared at the group. The group glared back.
Miss Sandy sighed. “Remember how I told you that Oglethorpe founded Savannah. He had this ship that was coming over here from England with a bunch of people for the colony. And, uh, one of the settlers fell overboard during the voyage. A young girl named Anna. And, ummmm, everyone on the ship yelled ‘Save Anna, save Anna.’ Anywho. Anna died and so they called the settlement Savannah. You know, save Anna, save Anna, Savannah.”
Her eyes gleamed with triumph as she finished the story.
“Why would they name the city after one settler who died?” Giselle asked when no one else spoke.
“Well, umm, she was very popular. People liked her.” At the skeptical looks coming from the group, she said, “They liked her a lot.”
“That is the most absurd story I’ve ever heard. And that’s saying something given the other stories you’ve told tonight. This is a stupid tour. I want a refund,” Giselle exclaimed.
“Hey.”
“Yeah,” said the family father. “We want refunds too.” And then all the others joined in with grumbles of “Yeah,” “Refund,” and “Stupid.”
Miss Sandy turned, marched to Giselle, and poked her in the shoulder with her index finger. “You. You’re a troublemaker.” Then she shoved Giselle with the palm of her hand.
If Giselle’s heels hadn’t been so high, she would have been all right. But the heels were high and she teetered back a few steps. Her arms flailed in an attempt to stop her fall. It didn’t work. Giselle fell back, back, back into and onto someone at the bar.
Onto Mr. Scrumptious.
Lying draped over him for the second time that night, Giselle noted that he still smelled just as delicious. Full lips, green eyes and a body just as muscular as she remembered. But instead of ogling her cleavage flirtatiously, this time he glared at her.
“Look what you’ve done,” he said.
Giselle saw that her wineglass was no longer half full. It was all empty. All empty. All over Mr. Scrumptious’ blue jeans.
He stood, thrusting Giselle up and away from him.
“I’m sorry. Someone pushed me.” Giselle tried to dab at the damp mess with the cocktail napkin she’d been gripping under the now-empty glass. Dab, dab, dab on first his right thigh then his left. Then along the zipper. Then the dabbing motion became more of a caress.
“Oops. I’m sorry…again.” She glanced up at him.
Mr. Scrumptious looked down into her face. His expression softened as his jaw unclenched. He seemed fascinated for a few moments with her lips. Would he kiss her? The other bar patrons disappeared. At least they seemed to.
His lips quirked. “Well, sugar. At least you didn’t make me…spill my beer.” He looked down sardonically at the mug he gripped. His eyes gleamed but no longer with anger.
It had been a while, but Giselle could still recognize a lustfully interested gleam in a man’s eye when she saw it.
Giselle smiled. “Yeah, that would have been bad.”
Kiss me. Devour me.
Just then a hand gripped Giselle’s shoulder and Miss Sandy pulled her around.
“You’ve ruined things. Why did you have to take my tour?” Miss Sandy snarled.
“I was just trying to find a ghost.”
”I don’t care.” Miss Sandy drew back her arm and then her fist flew toward Giselle. The guide listed drunkenly and moved in an almost slow motion. Giselle had time to duck out of the way. Miss Sandy’s body followed the line of her fist and she ended up face first, unmoving, on the floor. After a few seconds, a soft snore began to emanate from Miss Sandy. She’d passed out from the look of things. Good.
But all was not good. Giselle found that her dodge to avoid the fist had brought her slamming back into Mr. Scrumptious. His eyes gleamed again, but not in a good way. His lusciously long fingers now held an empty beer mug. The beer from the mug covered the front of Mr. Scrumptious’ shirt.
“I’m sorry.” Giselle started forward to dab at his shirt with the now-mangled cocktail napkin.
“Don’t say anything. Don’t do anything. Just go.” He pointed toward the door.
Giselle nodded, turned and trudged away. It was 11:15 p.m. The tour had been a bust. She had no leads on a ghost, and she’d lost the guy again.
A Girl, a Guy and a Ghost: Chapter Two
The next day, Giselle returned to the café. The scene of the criminally awful blind date.
“I can’t believe it was so horrible.” Mary Ellen frowned.
Mary Ellen had groveled for ten minutes and had therefore been elevated back to best friend status. Sipping her coffee, she pushed large sunglasses up the bridge of her nose to cover her eyes against the morning sun peaking over the rooftops.
“I did your astrological chart myself,” she continued. “I calculated very precisely. The chart said you would meet a man who would play a significant role in your life. Perhaps even a soul mate.”
Giselle blushed, remembering the strang
er she’d run into the night before. She didn’t want to talk about him with Mary Ellen just yet. Besides, she still hadn’t completely forgiven her for the blind date fiasco.
“Well, my soul mate certainly is not Monsieur Skunk,” Giselle replied tartly to hide her embarrassment. “He didn’t even have a haunted studio. No ghost, no article. No article, no job. Remember?”
It was Mary Ellen’s turn to blush. “How many times can I say, I’m sorry? I didn’t realize you would tell your boss about Vector and base your whole article on his ghost. I didn’t meet the skunk personally, but my Dexter assured me that this guy was perfect for you. I just can’t believe my darling Dexter could be so wrong.” Mary Ellen took a bite of muffin and then sipped her coffee.
Uh-oh. If she didn’t head this off right now, Mary Ellen would continue to expound for at least another fifteen minutes on all of the wonderful qualities of the latest and, according to her, greatest man in her life.
“I’m supposed to be locating a ghost to use in my article,” Giselle said with a theatrical roll of her eyes. “Besides, my dating life has gone from bad to worse. I’m considering giving up the practice altogether. I think Vector was the very worst date I’ve ever had.” Giselle sipped her latte. “Worse than the guy who thought he was a vampire. The Vampire Lester. That’s what he called himself.”
“Oh, yeah,” Mary Ellen said. “What a nut ball.”
“Remember how he sued that New Orleans author, claiming she’d based one of her sexy vampire characters on him and plagiarized his life? He was obsessed.”
The vampire story always served to distract Mary Ellen.
“At least the vampire didn’t tell me I’m plump. He didn’t even want to suck my blood. He just wanted to talk about his lawsuit,” Giselle finished with a mock pout.
Mary Ellen giggled prettily. Heads turned from nearby tables. People liked to look at Mary Ellen. She was a classic American beauty. Long, lithe, blonde and blue-eyed. Sometimes Giselle just hated to love her.
“You know,” Giselle continued. “The Vampire Lester had an attractive quality. That Goth sort of waifish look is hot right now. Maybe I should think about going out with him again.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Why not? He might be available. He just emailed me the other day to lament the judge denied his lawyer’s motion to schedule the trial in his lawsuit after sunset.”
A hardy laugh burst from Mary Ellen before she covered her mouth with a napkin.
“What? This is serious,” Giselle said with mock sincerity. “It’s very difficult to litigate a case when you’re combustible.”
Giselle’s cell phone rang. She looked at the caller ID on the face. “Damn, it’s my boss.” She flipped the phone open.
No greeting from Willie. He just plowed right into the meat of things. “Have you finished the article yet?”
“No, I’ve been in Savannah for less than twenty-four hours.” Giselle held the phone out in front of her and gave it her best glare.
“I heard that.”
“What?”
“That look,” Willie replied.
Giselle stuck her tongue out at the phone.
“I heard that too.”
“Can you hear this?” Giselle asked, gesturing at the phone.
“Yeah. It’s a peace sign with only one finger.”
Damn, his telepathy was really working today.
“Now, boss, would I do that to you?” Her tone was saccharine.
“Of course you would. I don’t know why I haven’t fired you before now.”
“Are you saying I’m fired? That’s so unfair. You said I had until Monday evening to finish the article. It’s only Saturday morning.”
“You’re not fired…yet.” His booming voice hurt her ear. She held the phone at a distance as he continued. “But you’re out of a hotel room. That B&B you checked into is too expensive.”
Double damn, he was good today. “I can’t believe you can psychically feel the cost of my hotel room.”
“I can’t. I checked the firm credit card statement online and saw the first night’s charge.” Willie paused before adding, “I heard that.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
Giselle could just feel Willie’s answering smirk. Maybe she was psychic after all.
“Anyway,” he said. “I told the B&B to check you out. I’ve made a reservation for you at the Great Eastern or something like that.” Willie recited the address.
“Get your stuff out of the B&B by noon.” Long seconds of silence passed before he spoke again. “You're welcome.” Willie paused again. “I heard that.”
Giselle didn’t speak. She did, however, gesture.
“No denial?” Willie asked.
“No.”
Willie chuckled. He had a reputation for enjoying his status as an ass. “I really like you, Hunter, but if you don’t produce this time you’re out.” He hung up without waiting for a reply.
Mary Ellen watched her with an arch to her brows.
“You don’t want to know.” Giselle closed the phone and crammed it down into her pocket.
“Oh. I almost forgot,” Mary Ellen said. “I got you a lead.” At Giselle’s fish-eye, she continued. “A real lead this time. There’s a private detective in town. He grew up here so he’s knowledgeable about Savannah. They say he’s a psychic. Paranormal happenings apparently follow him around.”
Mary Ellen reached into the small clutch purse she’d placed on the café table. Extracting a slip of paper, she opened it. “His name is Rylan Leland. I wrote down his address and telephone number.” She handed the paper to Giselle. “His office is over on Broughton Street.”
“Hmm. That could be good. Okay. You’re forgiven for Vector.” Giselle took the paper from her and Mary Ellen smiled. “But only if this isn’t another blind date.”
Mary Ellen held up two fingers in a pledge. “I promise no more fix ups.”
Giselle bid Mary Ellen farewell and left the café. She stopped in a gift shop on Bull Street and bought a guidebook and map of the city. Broughton Street was a few blocks away. Maybe she could start her research for the travel portion of her article on the way to the private investigator’s office.
The sidewalks along Bull Street were crammed with tourists. They wore ridiculous hats and held expensive cameras. Giselle made her way around a couple who'd stopped to take pictures of a horse-drawn carriage. She crossed the street and entered a small park-like area. A rectangular sign at the entrance read, Wright Square. Giselle sat down on a park bench and took it all in.
An old man with a sign seemed to be yelling at the humungous white marble federal courthouse on one side of the square, and a girl, with a hot pink minidress and lime green sneakers, played Lola on a squeezebox on the other side. Two old women handed out religious tracts near the tall monument at the center of the square. Surreal. And yet Giselle felt more at home in Savannah, after less than one day, than she had in over twenty years in New York City. She could just stay here and get a job. Something easy like gift shop clerk. She could forget about this ghost hunting. But, somehow, she couldn’t admit failure. She couldn’t quit until she was a success.
The bells of the nearby church chimed 11:00 a.m. Giselle slammed the book shut and walked a short block to Broughton Street. Main street U.S.A., nineteen-fifties style, when juxtaposed to the nineteenth-century architectural styles that dominated the rest of the Historic District.
The PI’s office was located at the seedier end of the street, over a shop that advertised the installation of gold teeth. Standing out front, Giselle checked the address. Yes. Now, how to get upstairs?
“Hi there, miss. Are you needin’ some gold teeth?” An old black gentleman, with a timeworn face, had emerged from the shop.
“No. But thanks.”
“A person can always use a gold tooth.”
“No. All my teeth are present and accounted for. No need for a gold tooth here.”
“We do dogs too. You got a
dog that needs a gold tooth?”
“Definitely not. I don’t have a dog.”
“That’s too bad. I got me a passel of puppies in need of a home. Looks like you’re a needin’ to get you a puppy.”
“And then get it a gold tooth?”
The old gentleman smiled. A mouth full of gold teeth gleamed. “’Zactly so.”
“No. No puppy and no teeth. But can you help me find the office of Rylan Leland? The address I have seems to be the upper floor of this building.” Giselle showed the man the paper Mary Ellen had given her.
“Oh, no.”
“This isn’t the right address?”
“This here’s the address, but you don be wantin’ to have no dealins with that mean mother… ’Scuse the language, miss. You don’ want nothin’ to do with him.”
What had Mary Ellen gotten her into? “I’m afraid I have to see him.”
“That Ry’s just mean. He won even talk to me and I’s been know’n him since he was a lil’ boy. Is that nice? I jus’ don’ know what ta do about ’im. Lil’ Ry. He jus’ won’ talk to Ol’ Edward no mo. Ain’t dat somethin’?” The old man sighed and stroked his chin. “If you gotta see him, miss, you jus’ go through dat door at the side of the buildin’ and then up them stairs.”
“Thank you.” Giselle started off around the side of the building in the direction the old man had pointed.
“Don’ say I did’na warn ya. Y’all come back.”
“I promise I won’t get my gold teeth from anyone but you,” she called in his direction. Giselle opened the door and saw a long stairway before her. She had to hold her large purse in front of her body in order to navigate the stairs without scraping the walls on either side.
At the top of the stairs, Giselle found a short hall with one door. The closed door bore a small, paper sign that read, Ry Leland. Private Investigator. Giselle heard music coming through the door. Metallica?
Giselle knocked. Nothing. Giselle knocked again. Still no answer. She opened the door and went in. The office was small and dusty. Like something out of a film noir. Behind the desk, near the dingy room’s only window, sat a figure with leather-booted feet propped on its top. The booted feet were connected to jeans-clad legs, and the legs were attached to a man. A man with a face hidden behind an open car magazine.
