Ghost of a Chance (Banshee Creek Book 2)

by Gonzalez, Ani

  "It's bad enough I had to go to prep school there," Salvador continued. "At least I got to go to Middleburg. You know what? You should buy the house there. It's pretty nice."

  Gabe laughed at that. "Elizabeth doesn't agree with you."

  A cautious silence greeted his joke. Gabe winced. Why had he mentioned her? She was out of his life.

  "Who's Elizabeth?" Salvador asked with studied disinterest.

  "Cole's sister. She's my real estate agent. Or was my real estate agent," he corrected quickly.

  Silence. "Ah, yes, the alien princess."

  Salvador remembered that? The thought made Gabe feel uneasy. Why would his business partner recall such an inconsequential piece of trivia?

  "So she's selling houses now?" Salvador continued. "That's probably for the best."

  Gabe felt a bit defensive at that. Elizabeth wasn't that bad of an actress. And her movies had been undeniably successful. An image flashed onto his brain. Elizabeth, wearing patches of chainmail and ordering alien troops into position.

  Yep, the appeal was, to put it mildly, obvious.

  "Cole's sister, you say?" Salvador asked, a suspicious edge to his voice. "Your mom isn't trying to set you up again, is she?"

  "Of course not. Her matchmaking efforts have all been spectacular failures. She's given up."

  "Are you sure? Remember when she called you in hysterics because your dad had a heart attack? It turned out to be heartburn, and you ended up taking the cardiologist to dinner."

  "It was just dinner."

  And a disastrous dinner at that. The cardiologist had turned out to be one of Zach's exes, and Gabe had spent the night hearing about his brother's misdeeds, which were, as he well knew, quite numerous. Ah well, at least he'd acquired some primo blackmail material, should he ever need it.

  "And when you went back for that library wing opening and the Mayor's assistant cornered you in the stacks?"

  "That was a close shave."

  The Mayor's assistant had been very aggressive. Unfortunately, Holly Hagen's toddler had found them in flagrante delicto and had spent the rest of the afternoon dancing around the library tables chanting, "No pants, no pants."

  "I'll say. Your mom is quite the close-quarters tactician."

  "I don't think she's up to anything. Anyway, it's Cole's sister, and that would be weird."

  "Yes, it would. Very weird," Salvador replied. "Remember that. I need you back at work, not hooked up to a small-time D-movie actress."

  Now that was unfair. Cannibal Clones was at least a C+, and an extremely profitable C+ at that. There was nothing small-time about that particular movie franchise. But still, it was time to make one thing clear.

  "I'm not interested in Elizabeth," he said with as much firmness as he could muster.

  "Right." Salvador's voice dripped skepticism. "If I recall correctly, and I usually do, you asked her brother for a copy of her film contract and sent it to our law firm for review. I don't think the most prestigious law firm in the country was too happy about reviewing an arrangement that included a rodent-ingestion clause."

  "That was just a favor..."

  "I also couldn't help but notice that we seem to have acquired a German royalty trust with a hefty portion of its assets invested in cheap sci-fi movies. Princess Whatshername must be getting some nice royalty checks out of that." A hint of sarcasm tinged Salvador's voice.

  Gabe stifled a groan. He'd set up the trust years ago, when Cole had asked him to look into the movie promoters and make sure his sister hadn't fallen in with a porn company. Arcanum Films turned out to be a bunch of guys from the USC film program with a promising marketing plan and rock-solid numbers. He'd put in a solid chunk of money and buried it in a special investment vehicle with extremely favorable tax incentives. How had Salvador found it? His partner was allergic to spreadsheets.

  "Hold on," Salvador continued. "I think I have the prospectus in my tablet. Yes, here it is. Did you know that there are sixteen Cannibal Clones movies in existence? I bet you didn't. But you only cared about the first five. Although I must admit, we're making a tidy profit on this sucker. That's why I do business with you, Gabe. Even your lovesick idiocies make money."

  "I'm not..." he couldn't even get the word out, "lovesick."

  He hadn't invested in Arcanum because of Elizabeth. He'd done it because direct-to-digital was the wave of the future. Surely Salvador understood that.

  "I support you in that position," Salvador replied. "So you're not coming up with excuses to hang around your picturesque hometown and pant after extraterrestrial royalty. And your conniving family didn't come up with this house hunt to get you to accept it. And your scurvy siblings won't come up with a bunch of hare-brained schemes to get you to admit that you care for this girl. Good to hear all that. That means you're coming back tomorrow, right?"

  "Not for a while. I still have to find a house."

  Salvador gave a long, dramatic sigh. "Just buy something already. Pick something on the Internet. Or tell the alien princess, the one you're not interested in, to choose a house at random. I need you back here. The paranormal whatchamacallit strategy is heating up, and our investors are getting antsy. I can't do everything, Gabe. With you and Izzy both gone, I'm drowning here."

  Gabe sighed. Salvador was on a roll. He was particularly eloquent when discussing his favorite topic, himself. "I can't leave now."

  "Do I have to remind you how much money we have riding on this?"

  "I thought you couldn't do math."

  Silence.

  "I have faith in you, Salvador. You have an excellent track record of taking good care of yourself."

  "I can assure you your faith is woefully misplaced." Salvador sighed. "Is this part of that reconnect-with-family thing you were talking about when we spent Christmas closing that deal in Germany? I thought you were just drunk. Well, as long as you're doing the kumbaya with the folks, you might as well get some work done. I'm putting together an inauguration party for the cidery."

  A party? God, no. What was it with Salvador and parties?

  "Do we really need to do that?" Gabe asked.

  "Yes, we do. It's a great networking opportunity. I know you're allergic to networking, but remember, these people still own an interest in your cidery. Wear the brown boots the stylist bought you and the tweed jacket."

  "No way. I refuse. Parties, polo matches, and fashion galas are all part of your job. I'm buying the house tomorrow morning. I'll be back in Manhattan by the evening."

  "Too late. I already sent out the emails. Don't worry, I'll have the caterers make those date and bacon kabobs you like." His friend paused. "Good luck with the house hunt. And stay away from the cannibal alien princess. Tell your mother what I tell mine—no actresses, just models. Ciao, mano."

  The call over, Gabe leaned back onto the car seat and forced his muscles to relax. Salvador had a point, he had to go to the stupid inauguration party.

  But his business partner was wrong about Elizabeth. He wasn't lovesick. He was just taking care of a friend. Salvador wouldn't understand. He had made a career out of self-centeredness. And Gabe's family wasn't plotting romantic Armageddon. They were too busy dealing with Zach's accident and the pizzeria remodel. Salvador was usually brilliant at figuring out people's motivations, but this time he was way off the mark.

  A small, battered van pulled up behind the Ferrari; someone was making a delivery. The van door opened, and Caine climbed out. The owner of the biker bar nodded at Gabe and turned to the back of the van.

  Gabe headed toward the side entrance, the one that went straight to the kitchen. The paint colors had changed, and he no longer drove a beat-up maroon Datsun with a garish Franco Pizza sign, but much as he would like to deny it, this place looked, smelled, and felt like home.

  The door was locked. He pulled out his keys. Most of them were actually keypads, with security code buttons and infrared sensors, but the key ring held one battered metal key. He tried it and smiled when it turned
easily in the lock.

  Caine approached, carrying a large tray with icebox pies, and Gabe held the door open for him. Caine's sister was famous for miles for her pies, and her chocolate and cherry cordial concoction made Gabe contemplate investing in frozen foods. Zach must have convinced her to make some for the pizzeria. Truly an inspired idea.

  "Hey, Boss," Caine said. "I'm glad to see you. I thought I'd have to leave these by the door. Your brother is not one for morning deliveries."

  "You don't say."

  Caine's statement wasn't reassuring. Zach should be here to receive the delivery. This was not an auspicious start, but Gabe was determined not to criticize his brother.

  They walked past the old metal ovens (apparently Dad hadn't let Zach upgrade to brick) and past the immaculately clean counters, which were no longer faded green laminate, but shiny stainless steel. The whole kitchen now gleamed with stainless countertops, appliances, and utensils. Zach was no idiot. He put his money where it counted, the kitchen.

  Caine headed for the freezer, and Gabe looked around, searching for the first aid kit. The cut on his shoulder wasn't deep, but it was starting to hurt.

  "These are already sliced, so Zach can serve them frozen." Caine opened the freezer door, wincing as the cold air hit him in the face. "That's the secret to a good icebox pie." He put the pies in the freezer, then turned. He looked Gabe straight in the eye. "Sorry about last night, man." He shook his head, looking uncharacteristically repentant. "I thought we were going to win, but that Hunt girl really knocked it out of the park."

  Gabe shrugged. "We live to fight again. The Historical Preservation Committee will see the light in time."

  "You're kidding, right?" Caine shook his head. "Those folks are batshit crazy. This is the voice of experience talking. Superior wisdom. My uncle is in the Committee and, I'm telling you, that cat has had a passing acquaintance with reality for decades. At least he has an excuse. Vietnam messed with his head, and now all he can talk about is historically accurate moldings and the evils of architectural shingles. But they're all like that. It's like there's something in the water."

  Gabe laughed. "They're just protecting their businesses."

  "That's what they said. Well, you know what? There's more to life than business." Caine wiped his hands on a kitchen towel.

  "We just have to lay low and let them get used to PRoVE. We'll reapply for the permits in the spring."

  "Great." Caine hung the towel on a hook and turned to Gabe. "I'm not looking forward to that, let me tell you. At least I'm all done here." The biker's eyes focused on the bruise on his friend's chin. "You should come by the gym more often. Your technique needs work. And tell your father that he owes me a chess game. He beat me last time, but I looked up that Capablanca guy and I've learned some sweet new moves." Caine nodded goodbye and headed out the door.

  Gabe opened the small closet that held the first-aid supplies. The white metal box was no longer there. The shelves were now full of marketing paraphernalia. Apparently, Zach was heavily invested in bumper stickers. A box on the floor held light blue T-shirts with the new logo, and Gabe took one. What was worse, a bloody dress shirt or a tee that read Pepe's Pizza—A Pie That's Out of This World? Sadly, the pizzeria shirt was bound to cause less gossip.

  He stepped into the hallway, saw a door, and paused. Should he check out the basement? The dark, dreary room that he hated with the heat of a thousand burning pizza ovens? He'd detested the lower level even before Cole had taken his brand-new infrared thermometer and declared it the home of the mother of all cold spots.

  He strode past the door, walked into the front dining room, and stopped, staring in disbelief. His father's old chess table, where he'd given countless lessons, was gone. The large refrigerators that served take-out sodas had been removed. He looked around, frozen in shock.

  A cluster of small green tables with red and white chairs now littered the room. Italian flags lined the walls, and modern light fixtures hung from the ceiling. The menu was scribbled on a chalkboard wall. Gabe tried but couldn't remember whether the old pizzeria had a menu. It certainly didn't have one that included Portuguese chorizo pizza and peach sangría.

  But it wasn't the paint or the menu that made his eyes widen in horror. No, the Italian flag motif didn't make him clench his jaw. The trendy industrial lighting didn't make his hands curl into fists. Not at all. What made him curse the name of Zach Franco was the mural on the wall.

  A naked girl, partly hidden behind a shower curtain, stared at him, her mouth open in shock. He gritted his teeth. Zach commissioned a Janet Leigh mural? The Historical Preservation headcases were up in arms about a couple of ghosts. How would they react to this serial killer tribute? Strange, the shower curtain decorations looked awfully familiar. He squinted. Yep, Pepe's Pizza logos.

  He looked at the other wall and sighed. A mustachioed Vincent Price with a Pepe's Pizza baseball cap smirked in the general direction of the restrooms. A third wall featured birds, lots of birds. A pair of crows held a Pepe's Pizza banner.

  Well, at least Zach's branding was kicking ass.

  But then there were the posters. Zach had bought someone's giallo movie ad collection, and the walls were peppered with posters of busty Italian women fleeing various supernatural terrors—werewolves, vampires and, in one case, lurid purple tentacles.

  Oh, yeah. The Historical Preservation Committee was going to love those. And the opening night specials, which included Renfield Rigatoni, Voorhees Vegetable Pizza, Jessica Lange Linguini, and Karloff Crostini, would also go over really well.

  Not a chance.

  But Zach had been smart. They couldn't do anything about the interior décor, that was beyond the Committee's jurisdiction. But they could take out their frustrations on a far more vulnerable target.

  PRoVE.

  Gabe sighed. He knew a good idea when he saw it, and this was a really good idea. Zach had taken a run-down take-out restaurant, indistinguishable from any other small-town pizza joint, and created a one-of-a-kind eatery. One that appealed to the new techie inhabitants and the jaded Loudoun county customers who visited every weekend.

  Unfortunately, it was also an idea that would make the Historical Preservation Committee flip its lid.

  Gabe stared at the wall, torn between dismay and admiration. Of course, there were a couple of things that could be improved. The menu had too many items, and Gabe would love to take a chainsaw to the ingredients list. Streamlined items that used similar ingredients would go a long way toward increasing efficiency and profit margins. He didn't see a stage, and his brother's music connections made live music a no-brainer for this type of establishment. It wouldn't hurt to actually have legal rights to any of these images either.

  He wanted to make suggestions as to improvements to the restaurant. Indeed, he was already visualizing their implementation. But he had to restrain himself. Zach wouldn't take his ideas as constructive criticism. He would take them as meddling. And Gabe had to admit that the place had come a long way. Not bad for a snot-nosed little kid.

  He shook the thought out of his head. What was he thinking? This was a disaster.

  He headed toward what used to be the old take-out counter, which now appeared to be a bar. And that wasn't the only thing that had changed. Framed photographs hung next to the liquor license. They were pictures of servicemen, their dates of service neatly written on the mats. All the servicemen had been lost in the line of duty. His dad's best friend was there; Zach had been named after him. The son of the original owner, who'd sold the pizzeria to Gabe's dad, was also there.

  There was a new picture now.

  Cole's picture.

  Gabe avoided the image and rummaged through the cabinets until he found the small, rusty metal box that held the first-aid kit. It didn't inspire much confidence, but the alternatives were Banshee Creek Urgent Care or his mother, and neither was an attractive option. He took his shirt off and started rummaging around the kit. He found several tubes of burn m
edicine, a couple of bandages and, finally, a small tube of antiseptic.

  He shook his head. Zach had updated the pizzeria; it was time to do the same with the first-aid kit.

  He opened the hydrogen peroxide, and took out a bandage. Did hydrogen peroxide expire? Surely not.

  "You know, I didn't think I needed a 'no shirt, no service' sign," said a familiar voice behind him.

  He turned to look at Zach, who was wearing a motorcycle jacket. Gabe's heart sank. He knew the jacket wasn't a style statement. "You're not supposed to be riding," he scolded.

  He knew he shouldn't nag his brother. The road to reconciliation wasn't paved with criticism. But, damn it, he wasn't supposed to be on a motorcycle, not with his injured back and arm. How had Mom not burned that bike? She must be getting soft.

  Zach grimaced as he opened the bar fridge. He took out a soda and opened it. "Chill out, I was just giving a girl a ride."

  Well, that explained it. Zach found women irresistible, and the feeling was usually mutual. "The doctor said I could still exercise," his brother continued.

  "Did he approve motorcycle riding?"

  The response was a careless shrug. "What other kind of exercise is there?"

  Walking, for one, or swimming, which would be better for someone with a spinal injury. But Gabe didn't bother explaining that. He didn't want to increase his brother's discomfort.

  Time to change the subject.

  "You've done great things with the place," he said carefully. "How did Dad take all this change?"

  That made Zach smile. "It wasn't easy. He's still upset that I took down all the blue-and-white Argentinean stuff and added the Italian tricolor. And don't even get me started on the asiago cheese debacle."

  "Asiago, interesting." Fresh asiago cheese stank and was a freaking pain to store. Mixed mozzarella cheese from a restaurant distributor would do wonders for the pizzeria's bottom line. He kept his mouth shut, though. "What does the Historical Preservation Committee think about all this?"