The Naughty Nine: Where Danger and Passion Collide

by Nina Bruhns

  “Mr. Leland?”

  The figure jumped, startled, and the chair under him jerked. The chair crashed backward and then over. The man went down with the chair, disappearing behind the desk. Giselle heard a thump and felt a slight vibration of the pine plank flooring under her feet as the man and the chair landed.

  She’d killed the private dick before he could find her a ghost. She heard curses from behind the large desk. Thank God, he wasn’t dead. The figure came up from behind the desk, righting the chair as he stood.

  “You,” Giselle exclaimed to Mr. Scrumptious. She hadn’t just said Mr. Scrumptious out loud, had she? Memory check. No, she hadn’t. That would have been embarrassing. Oh, how she wished she’d worn something more attractive than a plain blue t-shirt over white shorts with sandals. Comfortable sandals. Not even strappy sandals. And the shorts hit her at the knee. Jeez.

  She reached up and removed the hair clip, letting her hair tumble down. There was nothing she could do about the lack of makeup. Giselle vowed she would never leave home, or hotel, without makeup on again.

  “You.” Ry Leland seemed to say it like a caress. Then. “You!” He threw the magazine in his hand onto the desktop with force. He frowned. Hadn’t there been just a hint of a smile on those bitable lips before he frowned? “You seem to be intent on killing me, lady. I don’t know how many more blows my head can take, so get out.”

  If that was his attitude, Giselle could play in that sandbox. Although, she had to admit, she’d rather be playing in bed with Mr. Scrumptious, even a grumpy Mr. Scrumptious.

  “Your head looks pretty hard from over here, Mr. Scr—Leland.” Giselle placed a hand on one jutted hip. “I didn’t do anything to you this time. I just walked into a place of business. I did knock, I assure you.”

  “Apparently you’re a general menace. How did you find me? Did you follow me? Are you stalking me?”

  Giselle felt the heat rush to her cheeks just thinking about her stalking fantasy of last evening. “Of course not,” she said with as much indignation as she could muster. “Get over yourself, fella. I’m here on business.”

  “We don’t have any business and we aren’t going to have any business. There’s the door. I don’t mind if you let it hit you in the ass on the way out.” Ry Leland sat down on his desk chair. He picked up the magazine he’d thrown on the desktop and opened it, hiding his face.

  Giselle fumed. The man was incredibly rude. Still incredibly bodacious, but rude nonetheless.

  “I am here to retain your services for a very important investigation. You’re discriminating against me because I’m black. That’s illegal.”

  “You’re not black.” Ry snorted, and flipped a page in the magazine.

  He had her there. She wasn’t black. In fact, she was about as white bread as they came with her red hair, white skin and freckles.

  “Well, uh, I bet you’d speak to me if I were a man. Yeah, that’s it. You won’t consult with me because I’m a woman. That’s discrimination too. I’ll file a complaint with the EEOC, the FBI, the BBB and any other acronym I can think of.”

  “Aghhhhh.” Taking his eyes off the magazine, Ry scowled at her. “All right, have a seat and we’ll consult.” Ry switched off the radio and silence filled the room.

  Giselle moved a pile of files and magazines from the only other chair in the room, placing them carefully on the desk. Then she sat down. There was a half-empty coffee mug on the desk.

  “Aren’t you going to offer me a cup of coffee?” Giselle asked, smiling sweetly.

  “No.”

  “I bet you’d get me a cup of coffee if I wasn’t black.”

  “You’re not black,” he bellowed.

  “Okay. Okay. I’ll take water.”

  Ry sighed heavily. “For the love of God, just tell me what you want and then get out.”

  Giselle decided to let it go. Perhaps she’d pushed Mr. Scrumptious a little too far. Besides she did want him to help find a ghost. She’d almost forgotten about that for a minute. She shouldn’t taunt the man she wanted to help her.

  “My name is Giselle Hunter.”

  “And I’m supposed to care?”

  “Why are you being such a jerk? I haven’t done anything that horrible to you, have I?”

  Ry examined the desk for the moment in concentrated silence. When he glanced up again, his face was carefully neutral. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t know for certain what you’re doing here. I should give you the benefit of the doubt. Go on. Tell me what I can do for you.”

  “Thank you.” Giselle jumped into the small opening he’d given her, using her best professional manner. “I am employed by Ghosthunter Magazine. I’m here in Savannah to perform a paranormal investigation.”

  Ry’s brows converged and his jaw clenched. She hurried on.

  “If all goes well,” Giselle crossed her fingers in her lap, “I’ll write an article for the magazine. The magazine would like to hire you to assist in the investigation.”

  His expression didn’t change.

  “The magazine is prepared to pay your normal hourly rate.” How high could that be with a pit of an office like this?

  Ry leaned back in the chair with arms crossed over his broad chest. He seemed to be considering propping his legs back onto the top but then thought better of it and leaned forward again.

  “The article will be published nationwide,” Giselle said.

  Still no reaction from Ry.

  “Of course I would include a prominent mention of your, uh, detective firm in the article,” she added.

  Nothing. No reaction from him at all.

  “It would be good publicity for your business.”

  “What makes you think that I can help you with this cockamamie investigation of yours?”

  “I was informed that you’re a psychic detective. That you have experience with the paranormal.”

  “Lady, you’ve been misinformed. I am not psychic. I never have been and I never will be. I don’t get messed up in those so-called paranormal investigations. They’re just a bunch of crap. I’m a run-of-the-mill private investigator. I mostly follow around cheating husbands or slutty wives, and I take interesting pictures for people to look at in court. If you want someone to read your aura you’re in the wrong place.”

  Giselle couldn’t move. He’d refused her. Unbelievable.

  “But, but… I’ll pay you,” she stammered.

  “I don’t need your money. Unless you want to offer me some other currency I might consider.” His gaze turned to a leer. “You can probably think of something. You’ve practically mauled me the past two times we met.”

  “I certainly did…did not.” So much heat filled her face she hoped steam wasn’t coming out her ears.

  “Really? Don’t you want to offer me that luscious body of yours?”

  “I do… I do… I do not,” she stammered. Of course she did want to. Desperately. But not as some sort of prostitution. Giselle was momentarily stymied as to whether that was more or less honorable than the alternative.

  “Okay then. We’ve consulted just like you wanted. Now get your cute little tushy out of here.” He pointed at the door.

  For a moment Giselle felt pleasure. He’d given her a compliment. Kind of. Points to Ry for the word “cute” when associated with her tushy. Bonus points to Ry for the word “little”.

  “And don’t follow me around anymore, Miss Hunter, or I’ll have my friends on the police force arrest you for harassment.”

  Crap. He’d ruined the compliment.

  “No wonder Edward said you were a mean mother,” Giselle said as she shot to her feet.

  “Who?” Ry’s green eyes stared into hers intently.

  “The old man downstairs. He said he’s known you since you were a kid and now you won’t even talk to him. You’re just a mean, mean man.”

  Ry’s face flushed and then paled. He stood so abruptly the desk chair flew back and banged, hard, into the wall. “Get out. Get the hell ou
t of here. Now.”

  Giselle turned and walked, with dignity, head held high, out the door. Okay, maybe she just sort of stumbled out. But when she told her friends the story, she would claim she left like a princess. Just call her Princess Giselle. And from now on Mr. Scrumptious would be known as Mr. Meanie.

  Her eyes teared as she made her way to the sidewalk outside Mr. Meanie’s office. Allergies. She hadn’t been upset by the mean man. Of course not.

  If Ry—correction, Mr. Meanie—wouldn’t help her, then she would just have to find another psychic. But how? So far Mary Ellen had batted zero for two. Time to bring out the pinch hitter. The local telephone book.

  Giselle found one in the bail bonds office next to the gold teeth emporium. After the bail bondsman’s office assistant handed over the book, Giselle opened it to the P. There they were, right between Psychiatrists and Psychologists, Psychics & Mediums. Maybe she should see a Psychologist instead? No, there would be time enough for that later.

  The list, while not extensive, included more than one name. So what criteria to use to choose between them? It seemed that distance from her current location was the most immediately important factor. One listing was located a few blocks away. That’s the one. Madam Divinity. The book advertised Madam as a specialist in tarot, palmistry and divination. Walk-ins welcome.

  Madam Divinity seemed perfect. But then Madam Divinity seemed like her only option at this point.

  * * *

  Madam Divinity’s address was located near the corner of Hall and Abercorn Streets in an enormous Victorian. The house, surrounded by an expansive, wraparound porch, was greatly in need of a paint job. Once a sunny yellow color with white trim, it was now faded and peeling.

  A garish red and yellow sign in the window, adorned with a heavily lined palm, assured Giselle she was in the right place. The sign bore the slogan, Madam Divinity knows all. Promising. If Madam knows all, then she could find a quality ghost. Probably not, but it had to be worth a try. Giselle had nothing to lose.

  She walked up the stairs to the porch. The treads emitted a loud, creaking sound. Another repair issue, or cheap alarm system?

  As she crossed the porch to the front door, Giselle saw a hand pull back a red drape in the nearest window. The drape quickly fell back into place.

  Before she could touch the gargoyle doorknocker, the door swung open. A woman dressed in a psychedelic orange-and-white-patterned tunic stood just inside. The woman had to be a leftover from the nineteen-sixties, or a reject from the Goodwill, or both. Madam Divinity.

  Madam wore no jewelry except a heavy silver pendant necklace with a red stone. The stone resembled a large, bloodshot eye. She appeared to be in her fifties. She had a wavy shock of silvery white hair that she wore unbound and almost to her waist.

  Tall and somewhat stocky, Madam could have passed for a Scandinavian farmer’s wife in other clothing. She had that rugged look about her. Certainly, she didn’t fit the gypsy fortuneteller mold. Neither did she have the voodoo priestess appearance one expected.

  To Giselle’s way of thinking, if it didn’t quack like a duck it wasn’t a duck. This woman didn’t quack—er, dress—like a psychic. Maybe she wasn’t a duck, uh, psychic.

  “Come in, my dear. I am Madam Divinity.” The woman grabbed the hand Giselle had extended to knock and tugged.

  Stumbling forward, into what seemed like a dark cavern, she saw a hallway painted a burgundy red and lined with dark, heavy furniture. Giselle didn’t register much more as Madam pulled her into the parlor to the right of the hallway.

  Giselle was tempted to get the quack out of there, but Madam stood in front of the exit.

  In the middle of the room, a small table took prominence with two baroque high-back chairs on either side. The table was covered by a red velvet cloth. A crystal ball sat on one side of the table alongside a deck of cards. Now this was more like what Giselle had expected. Perhaps Madam wasn’t a quack after all.

  “I see that you are in need of help. Madam Divinity knows all. What do you need?”

  “Well, if you know all, you should tell me.” Quack.

  Madam’s lips compressed into a line. Her gaze narrowed. After a few seconds, her face relaxed into a pleasant, serene half smile. “Madam has seen all. But to know if you deserve to know all, you must answer Madam’s questions.”

  Convenient. She wouldn’t tell what she knew until she was told what she’s supposed to know. Quack.

  “I need to find a ghost.”

  “You have lost a loved one you wish to contact?”

  Quack.

  “No, I need to find a Savannah ghost and contact him or her. Gender doesn’t matter.”

  Madame gazed at her blankly.

  Giselle went on. “For that matter, racial background doesn’t matter. Or religious affiliation. And sexual orientation isn’t important. I wouldn’t rule out contacting a gay ghost. I’m an equal opportunity ghost hunter. Although, I’m not sure a gay ghost would be hanging around Savannah. It doesn’t exactly seem like fashion central around here. Anyway, aren’t the Savannah ghosts, all ghosts of historic figures? You know, all from the Revolutionary War. I thought most ghosts here would be from the Civil War, but since I now understand Sherman didn’t burn Savannah and just kind of made camp here, that’s probably not true, right? I mean, if there was no battle, there probably aren’t a lot of Civil War ghosts hanging around. But then again, maybe there are. Maybe some of the local soldiers who died in the war came back home for a haunting. What do you think?”

  Madam’s mouth hung open. After a few moments her eyes blinked and focused. “I am sure that Madam can help you with your problem. The cost is fifty dollars. I accept cash or credit card,” Madam said.

  Not bad. And since Ghosthunter Magazine would pay the expenses of this trip, Giselle didn’t object to this small sacrifice for the cause. Opening her purse, she withdrew the magazine’s credit card from her wallet. Madam grabbed it from her as soon as it cleared the leather.

  Madam crossed the room to a small desk in the corner. The only item on the desk was a credit card machine. Before Giselle could say “crystal balls”, Madam had swiped the card and returned to Giselle for her signature on the charge slip.

  The business accomplished, Madam smiled and pulled Giselle to the table and chairs. Placing both hands on her shoulders, Madam pushed Giselle firmly into one chair and took her place in the other.

  “Perhaps we can begin with a tarot reading. This will tell us your past, present and future,” Madam said.

  “We don’t need to get into the past. I mean, I already know my past. And I’m not sure I’m interested in going there again. How about we just stick with the present and the future, with emphasis on finding a Savannah ghost?”

  Madam ignored this statement. She handed Giselle the tarot cards. “Think about your question as you shuffle and cut the cards.”

  After Giselle had finished, Madam all but snatched them back and commenced laying cards on the table, one by one. Madam placed six cards in a clockwise direction. The last card was placed at the center. The fool. That probably represented Giselle.

  Madam spoke with a timbre to her voice a shade deeper than it had been before the reading. “The first card is lovers followed by knight of cups. Madam sees that you will meet a tall, blond and handsome stranger.”

  At least that prediction was novel. Weren’t all the strangers normally tall, dark and handsome?

  “This stranger will become very important in your life. See this?” Madam pointed to the general vicinity of three cards. “These cards tell Madam that this stranger will fall in love with you. Love at first sight.”

  “I just met tall, blond and drool-worthy, thank you very much. We did not hit it off. He certainly didn’t fall in love at first sight. I don’t think it would be stretching the point to say that Mr. Hunky never wants to see me again.”

  “No, that is impossible. This man I see in the cards is very attracted to you.”

  “Whil
e I, of course, find my own love life fascinating, it’s not getting me any closer to finding a ghost. Can we get back to the point here?”

  Madam’s eyes narrowed into a glare. She looked down at the cards again. “I see from the chariot card that you will face a struggle. This man will want to marry you. You will need to make a decision. You may marry him and you may not. But see these cards here? There is the devil coupled with the high priestess. Madam believes that this may be your possible mother–in–law. She is a very strong figure. The high priestess does not want your happiness with this man. I see that this high priestess will hate you, revile you, wish you dead. She will—”

  “Stop.” Giselle held up a hand. “I get the picture. Can we focus on this weekend and my ghost? I need a ghost.”

  Madam broke away from her medium voice and took on a Southern drawl. “Honey. You shouldn’t marry a man if his mother doesn’t like you. A mother-in-law can make your life hell. I know from experience.”

  Quack.

  “Yes. Yes. But this isn’t helping me with what I came here for,” Giselle said.

  “All right.” Madam sighed and gathered the cards together. She stacked the deck out of the way. “Madam will see all in your palm.” Madam grabbed Giselle’s right hand and yanked it across the table. Holding it between both her own hands, she leaned over and stared into the palm.

  “I again see that your life is going to change.” Madam traced her index finger over one line on the palm. “You are in a struggle. This palm indicates a great love. A man is coming into your life. But there is an obstacle. There is danger. I see that someone will try to kill you.”

  She again broke out of her medium voice and into a Southern drawl. “I’m telling you, honey, this is a mother-in-law. You shouldn’t even think about a relationship unless his mother likes you. A disagreeable mother-in-law is a nightmare.”

  What? Again? She jerked her hand out of the medium’s grasp. “Madam this is unacceptable. I’ve paid you good money and I don’t want to hear about this mythical mother-in-law. I don’t have a mother-in-law. I’m not getting a mother-in-law. I want to hear about a ghost.”