Ghost of a Chance (Banshee Creek Book 2)

by Gonzalez, Ani

  "I don't know who that is, and I don't care. You're spending too much time with the Historical Correctness Junta. It's not good for you."

  Her eyes narrowed. "And you're too enthralled by the Paranormal Research Institute."

  Caine straightened to his full six-and-a-half feet height. "That's not our name anymore. We are now the Paranormal Research of Virginia Enterprises."

  Patricia looked puzzled. "That makes no sense," she said.

  "Spell it out." Elizabeth waited while her friend mouthed the words.

  "PRoVE?" Her friend grimaced.

  "Isn't it great?" Caine spread out his arms grandly. "It's search-engine friendly. We're now Google's number one English-language paranormal site."

  "You say that like it's a good thing," Elizabeth snarked.

  "Face it, Hunt, no one comes here for the Early American History seminar. They come for the ghosts." His gaze grew sympathetic. "I know that doesn't do much for the real estate values."

  Her spine straightened. "And that's on my list of things that must change."

  Caine shook his head. "You're a good egg. You were making it as an actress in L.A. and you gave that up to come take care of your mom. Now you're taking care of her business. The whole town is proud of you."

  "Wow, multi-syllabic words. I'm impressed." She knew her tone was sharper than it should have been. He meant well, but she didn't want his pity.

  "But this Joan of Arc act has to go." Caine looked at her sternly. "I know your brother's death put you off the otherworldly stuff, but you tend to take things too far, and this time you've gone all the way over the edge and hic sunct dragones. " His face softened. "Anyway, shouldn't you be chasing down he who makes your heart sing?" He looked around the room. "I hear he's around here somewhere."

  "Oh, don't you start." She felt her face flush. The Saint Joan dig had hit its mark, but thanks to Caine, everyone would think she was blushing at the prospect of a Gabe Franco sighting. Small towns had long memories, and her love-struck teenage self was, unfortunately, one of those.

  "You may have a chance with him now," Caine continued. "Your stint in the City of Angels did you good. You don't look like Wednesday Addams anymore."

  Elizabeth shook her head in exasperation. Caine was incorrigible. She liked her new highlights and heels, but still, she had rocked the goth drama geek look in high school. Wednesday Addams, indeed.

  Caine laughed again and turned to give a caramel apple to a little girl in pigtails and pink glasses. The girl's shirt sported a Mythbusters logo. Talk about corrupting today's youth.

  Elizabeth assessed Caine's contributions to the refreshments table. Patricia's red velvet cupcakes were no longer the only baked goods on offer. The table was now laden with candy-corn cannoli, ghost-shaped meringues and candy-studded rice cereal treats. One of Caine's employees was unpacking bottles bearing Haunted Orchard Cidery labels. Elizabeth wasn't surprised. Haunted Orchard had developed an aggressive marketing campaign based on their spectrally challenged hometown. They'd probably donated the cider.

  "Looks like the paranormies are pulling out all the stops," Patricia chimed in, picking up a cannoli and examining it. Her face hardened. "These are from Manhattan," she said, glaring at the innocent pastry cylinder. "Well, we can play dirty too."

  Caine's laugh boomed out. "Don't bother, girls. Accept defeat gracefully."

  Patricia put the cannoli down and stepped away from the table, dragging Elizabeth with her. "C'mon, time to counterattack. I have donuts and more lemonade in the car."

  She pushed Elizabeth to the library entrance, making her stumble, and led her to the parking lot. As they headed out the door, Elizabeth tried to pep herself up.

  Cookies and banners didn't matter. She had logic on her side. Banshee Creek didn't need the ghosts to be successful; the town had many other attractions.

  Take this street, for instance. The cobblestone streets glowed as the remaining sunlight streamed through amber leaves. The inevitable fall drizzle hadn't dampened any spirits and the crisp fall air smelled like wet leaves, burnt sugar and apples. The town's vintage houses looked lovely in their period-appropriate moldings and historically correct paint colors.

  All except one.

  Elizabeth frowned at a crowd of tourists snapping pictures of the mansard-roofed building that housed the Paranormal Research Institute—no, wait, PRoVE. The organization's home was as weird as its new name. With lurid purple siding and acid green trim, the house looked like it belonged in a Scooby-Doo cartoon.

  She noted with chagrin that the edifice sported a banner that read "Banshee Creek: 137 documented hauntings." Great, just great.

  The expensive new digs testified to PRoVE's very substantial resources. The organization owned high-tech cameras and expensive computers and had plenty of money to pay for fines and, in a few occasions, bail. But Elizabeth still had no idea why a Bahamian corporation would invest in a fly-by-night enterprise like PRoVE. Who'd convinced them to waste so much money on a group of conspiracy buffs and "certified" ghost hunters? Whoever it was, Elizabeth wanted to find him and tell him where to stuff his state-of-the art, Russian-made EMF meters.

  "Here we go." Patricia opened the door of her van, which was filled to capacity with jars and boxes. "More ammo." She lifted a large glass jar of lemonade and gave it to Elizabeth. "Take this. I'll bring the donuts. No one can resist my apple cider donuts. But be careful, that jar is a vintage find and it leaks." She locked the car and walked briskly toward the library, carrying a pair of large boxes.

  Elizabeth followed at a more sedate pace, carefully balancing the heavy lemonade jar.

  Her presentation had to go well. No, not just well, spectacularly well.

  She raised her chin and practiced her best auditioning-actress smile. The smile had made her a mainstay in the mutant monster movie industry when she'd lived in L.A., and it could certainly dazzle Banshee Creek. Her back straightened as she steeled herself.

  The show was about to start.

  CHAPTER TWO

  GABE FRANCO looked over the library's balcony, then leaned back on the chair and waited for the Historical Preservation Committee to take the floor.

  The Banshee Creek Library was just as he remembered it—dark wood, old books, and threadbare oriental rugs. This had been his favorite spot in the building, between the Stephen Hawking books and the Isaac Asimov compendiums, and he'd sat in this tattered wingback chair many times. The chair felt smaller than he recalled and the seat sagged under his adult weight, but the secluded spot was every bit as comfortable as he remembered. He felt an overwhelming urge to pull out a book and start reading. The Foundation Series Omnibus looked particularly tempting.

  But nostalgia wasn't the reason why he'd sneaked up to the second floor, and Mr. Asimov would have to wait.

  From this chair he had a clear view of the podium and screen, and yet the attendees couldn't see him, hidden as he was by the antique balustrade. Even if they saw a shadow in the balcony, they'd assume it was Good Sergeant Atwell, the Civil War soldier who haunted the second floor of the library, smoking his pipe and moving all the Shelby Foote books to the front tables.

  Unfortunately, sneaking into the library was the only thing that had gone according to plan.

  Caine had been entrusted to make the case on behalf of the Paranormal Research Institute. No, wait, what was the new name? His marketing team had come up with a list and he couldn't quite remember which one had won. VeriGhost? TruGhoulz? No, PRoVE. That was it. Anyway, Caine's presentation had been a total fiasco. He'd mixed up the slides, cursed a couple of times, and skipped right over the economic benefits section.

  Caine had managed to put up a spirited defense of the Banshee Creek Ghost Tours, but a question about the proposed Horror Movie Festival had baffled him. He'd readily admitted that costumed tourists were expected and had enthusiastically described a few of his favorite, risqué costumes. The head librarian had interrupted his colorful description of the gang's reenactment of The Legend
of Sleepy Hollow and confiscated the fake blood and dismembered limbs. When the ruckus had died down, the Town Council president had kindly asked Caine to leave the podium.

  It had been a complete disaster.

  At least Caine had gotten the last slide right. It was currently posted on the screen and it detailed the attendance result from last year's event: The Cole Hunt Memorial Halloween Costume Party. Gabe still didn't know exactly how Cole's paranormie friends had managed to convince him to fund a party in his best friend's memory. His recollection of the night after Cole's funeral was fuzzy. All he could remember of the wake were sad songs, Caine's drunken rants, and copious amounts of Woodford's Reserve. But the next morning, he'd woken up to find his email inbox jammed with a proposed party budget, a rental agreement, and a letter from the Guinness World Records Association agreeing to tabulate the attendees.

  The crazy, over-the-top feast had been an enormous success, and the final slide of the presentation laid out the results. The World's Largest Halloween Party had attracted thousands of attendees, massive social media coverage, and huge profits for the local retailers. That was what their proposal to the Town Council was based on, and it was a great pitch.

  The irony wasn't lost on him. For years he'd been the rational foil to Cole's madcap ideas, the math and numbers guy who doubted everything and came up with reasonable rebuttals for each of Cole's pseudoscientific theories, the one who quoted Carl Sagan and James Randi.

  The sensible one.

  The skeptic.

  And, yet, here he was, using all of his considerable resources to make his dead friend's dream come true. He was going to turn Banshee Creek into the country's foremost paranormal destination.

  Well, at least he stood to make a lot of money out of it. The Haunted Orchard idea was inspired, even if he did say so himself. The income projections were quite impressive. And that was just the start. His research team had compiled a long list of future projects, all of them with significant income potential, for his hometown. Banshee Creek was a potential gold mine.

  But only if he could get the stupid Ghost Tours approved. He had a long list of projects lined up, but the Ghost Tours were the thin edge of the wedge. If he didn't get the tours approved, his plan was toast.

  If only Caine hadn't messed it up. Gabe should have done the presentation himself. True, the town may have resented being bossed around by someone who used to deliver pizza, but that was better than being grossed out by a lunatic biker.

  But all was not lost. The Historical Preservation Committee, composed of a handful of desiccated old mummies, was up next. Caine had done badly, but the Committee would do even worse. Their slides certainly didn't inspire confidence. They were bland and colorless and featured cartoon frogs in colonial-era clothes as decoration.

  Pathetic.

  PRoVE should be able to win this vote in spite of Caine's dismal performance. Gabe wouldn't contemplate a different result. He had invested a lot of money in the Haunted Orchard Cidery, and its marketing plan depended on his hometown's Wes Craven-meets-Scarlet O'Hara mystique. He needed this plan approved and pronto.

  He leaned forward to listen to the Committee's presentation. Mr. O'Reilly, the history teacher, approached the podium, and Gabe instantly relaxed. Mr. O'Reilly could be counted on for an hour-long digression into the basket weaving styles associated with colonial Williamsburg. The Town Council, bored to death, would become ghosts themselves.

  He examined the audience while his old history teacher fiddled with the projector. Many of the attendees were skimming the PRoVE handouts. A couple of kids were eating ghost-shaped cookies, and a group of teenagers giggled as they passed around the "Suck it Salem" bumper stickers.

  He allowed himself a satisfied smile. This vote was as good as won.

  He pulled out his smart phone and started to compose an email. His partners would expect an update on the project before midnight. He was finishing the second paragraph when a burst of applause made him look up.

  Mr. O'Reilly was no longer standing behind the podium. In his place stood a blonde-haired woman with a blinding smile and a steely, resonant voice. The lights were dimmed to focus attention on the screen so all he could see was blondish hair and long, lean legs.

  But pretty was beside the point. What made her incandescent—hell, irresistible—was her energy, her intensity. The audience watched her, enthralled.

  She ran through her slides smoothly, and his fists clenched in frustration as she pointed out the loss of revenue experienced by the real estate and retail businesses. PRoVE's presentation had data that indicated that entertainment and dining businesses would benefit, but idiot Caine had mixed up the numbers and made it seem as if local revenue would plummet.

  This woman wasn't confused, not even a little bit.

  She acknowledged the town's peculiar character and stated that the Historical Preservation Committee didn't intend to besmirch the town's spectral heritage. However, she noted with exaggerated sadness, the current vogue for the paranormal was overwhelming the town. That reputation brought in tourist dollars, but it frightened off potential residents. Her charts showed how Banshee Creek's population kept dwindling and contrasted that decrease with the burgeoning populations of the neighboring towns.

  As Ms. Deadly Aphrodite steadily built up her case, Gabe tried to figure out who she was. He knew everyone in town, but he couldn't place this girl. The slide handout listed Banshee Creek Realty as the author, but this golden amazon wasn't anyone he could associate with the local real estate office.

  Who the hell was she?

  He'd heard that Mary Hunt was sick; she must have brought in an assistant to help out with the office. But where had she found this creature?

  Too bad Mrs. Hunt hadn't asked Elizabeth to help with the presentation. He remembered the youngest Hunt sibling as a shy, dark-haired, accident-prone teenager who always dressed in black. He'd heard Elizabeth was an actress in L.A., but he couldn't picture her in front of a camera. As a kid, she was always following him around but was completely mute whenever he tried to talk to her.

  Another wave of applause broke out, and Gabe pushed the chair back roughly and got up, wincing as the back of the chair hit the edge of a table. Luckily, the enthusiastic clapping dampened the noise.

  But that was the only lucky break he'd had this evening. He'd done enough of these beauty contest presentations to know that this one was heading south, fast. Damn, but he hated losing.

  He wished he could go back to Manhattan tonight and regroup, but that was impossible. He had to stay a couple of days and attend the reopening of the family pizzeria. He also had to buy a house in town.

  The thought didn't improve his mood. A house in Virginia was a waste of money, but his Virginia tax break required an in-state residence, and his mom embraced the idea wholeheartedly. Nope, he had to stay.

  He walked toward the library's back entrance and evaluated his options. None of them were particularly attractive. All of them involved significant amounts of time spent with his relatives, and that wasn't a prospect he relished, as his folks would spend the time nagging him for working too hard and neglecting his family. But he was going to have to do it. He'd already lost his best friend. He didn't want to lose his family too.

  He ran down his to-do list. First, he had to buy a house and send the deed to his accountant. Second, he had to attend the pizzeria opening and tell his baby brother he'd done a great job with the family business. And, finally, he had to figure out how to outmaneuver the Historical Preservation Committee's blonde-haired, long-legged secret weapon.

  Piece of cake.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ELIZABETH DUMPED the leftover handouts into the recycling bin. PRoVE's handouts and bumper stickers had proven quite popular, but her plain slides had found no takers. Or maybe the townspeople didn't like frogs? Oh well, she didn't care. After all, she'd won the vote. The ghost tours were deader than a Norwegian Blue parrot.

  Caine and the paranormies had slunk o
ff, forked tails firmly tucked between their legs. Her victory was complete. Nothing could possibly spoil this moment.

  "Too bad Gabe didn't show up."

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes. The Assistant Librarian, Holly, was the polar opposite to extroverted Patricia, but apparently they had an interest in common. They were both obsessed with Gabe Franco. But then again, so was she. With the presentation out of the way, her limbic cortex now had time to ponder life's important questions, such as, was Gabe Franco really back in town?

  "Liam saw him this morning," Holly continued, straightening her tortoiseshell glasses. "Gabe was helping his brother at the pizzeria. They're going to reopen this weekend." She shook her head, making her glossy black curls bounce. "Can you picture a billionaire defrosting mozzarella?"

  "I can, if his last name is Franco," Elizabeth said as she cleaned the refreshments table. "Anyway, he's not a billionaire."

  She placed the half-full lemonade jar on the floor. The crowd had demolished the baked goods, as well as the Haunted Orchard cider. But Patricia's ginger-apple lemonade had been widely rejected. Clearly, Banshee Creek was not ready for gourmet lemonade.

  "You're such a party-pooper, Elizabeth." Holly's eyes grew dreamy as she handed Elizabeth a can of cleaning wipes. "Remember when the drama club asked Mr. Franco if they could use the pizzeria parking lot to paint scenery? Everyone wanted to ogle Gabe and his brothers."

  "I remember." Elizabeth scrubbed the table with disproportionate enthusiasm. How could she forget? She'd spent weeks plotting how to move the painting chores to the Franco driveway, all in a misguided attempt to catch Gabe's eye. It hadn't worked, of course. Gabe hadn't paid any attention to her black-clad, drama-geek self that day and had steadily ignored her through various visits, picnics, and campouts.

  Sigh.

  She straightened and admired her handiwork. The table practically sparkled, and all she had left to do was to pack the leftovers.