* * * * *
Not wanting to dwell on her career as it spiraled down the proverbial tube, Giselle decided to have an ice cream sundae. A double ice cream sundae. Comfort food, and Giselle needed a lot of comfort. Sitting in the local ice cream shop, lapping at the creamy, fudgy substance on her spoon, she reviewed the entries on the to-do pages of her planner. Giselle’s eyes skimmed the list and she sighed. She tore the entire page out and crumpled it into a small ball in her fist. She was hopelessly off plan.
Maybe she should just give up and go back to New York. What was the worst that could happen? She’d lose her job. So what? Then she’d lose her apartment. That wouldn’t be a tragedy. Her parents would probably let her move back home. Omigod. Move back with her parents? No way.
The cell phone in her pocket sang. A nearby patron sent a dagger-filled glare her way. Giselle grabbed the phone with an apologetic glance at the woman. She groaned when she saw the caller ID. Oh no. Her boss. She’d talked to him less than two hours ago. She’d seen him less than four hours ago.
Giselle flipped the phone open. “Hi, boss. Long time, no speak.”
“Never mind the clever patter.” Good old Willie. Always a charmer. “Talk to me, Hunter. Am I going to get my article?”
“Everything is going according to plan.” Checking quickly, Giselle noted that her tongue had not cleaved to the top of her mouth as she would have expected.
“You’re not just blowing smoke up my—”
“Absolutely not.” She cut in with sincerity.
Willie made a quick “You better not be” retort.
“No, boss.” I don’t want to be near enough to that orifice to blow smoke in its direction. Of course, Giselle left this last bit unspoken. She didn’t want to be fired before Monday.
“I heard that,” Willie said with a barking tone.
Dammit. He was good. Sometimes she found Willie’s telepathy incredible. Sometimes not. His psychic ability seemed to come and go like a five-hundred-watt radio station. Bluff, Giselle, bluff.
“What?” she asked.
“You know what.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Did her voice have the right tone of innocence?
“Just checking,” Willie said.
Phew. Relief. Willie’s E.S.P. signal had apparently faded. Willie clicked off without a goodbye.
Crap. She needed a new plan and quick. Casting her eyes around the room, she noticed a pamphlet on the next table. Abandoned by some patron who’d already departed, she snatched it up. The pamphlet advertised a tour of haunted pubs in Savannah that started in less than half an hour. Perfect. A trifecta of perfect. Savannah history, Savannah ghosts and Savannah liquor. Ideal. Good thinking, Giselle.
* * * * *
Bad thinking, Giselle. The disastrous tour was guided by Miss Sandy. A woman who had to be at least forty-eight years old but pretended to be a blonde bombshell of twenty.
Miss Sandy flirted with every male in sight and reach. She even batted her eyes at the newlywed Army recruit whose wife looked like she planned to clock Miss Sandy the next time the guide groped her husband’s arm. Gulping drinks down with increasing velocity as the evening progressed, the stories Miss Sandy told grew more and more ridiculous. This tour clearly wasn’t going to give Giselle any valid leads on a ghost.
The tour group consisted of nine people. There was Giselle, the newlyweds, an elderly couple, and a family that included a mom, a dad and their teenage sons. The group huddled together in the third pub of the night. An inn that had been the frequent residence of seafaring men in the eighteen hundreds, many who failed to survive their struggles with the sea.
On this night, the tour group struggled to survive the shipwreck called Miss Sandy.
The guide swigged down her Pink Squirrel in one gulp. “Another drink, barkeep,” Miss Sandy slurred in a heavy Southern drawl. She boosted the front of her eighteenth-century serving wench bustier to fluff up her ample bosom.
“Anywho. The girl. Can’t think of— What was her name? Amanda? Maybe Amanda. She jumped out the window upstairs. Just ’cause her lover left her.” Miss Sandy wiggled over to the elderly male tourist. “Men are such little rascals, aren’t they?”
His wife glared at the spot where Miss Sandy’s bosom rubbed against her husband’s arm. Then she glowered at Miss Sandy. The tour guide took no notice. She didn’t notice any of the women.
Miss Sandy cooed to the man. “I could tell you such stories about what those players got up to when I was with the Chicago Bears Cheerleaders. Oooh, they were somethin’ else.”
“Was that before or after you ran the Boston Marathon, Miss Sandy?” Giselle asked mockingly.
Miss Sandy went on in happy oblivion to Giselle’s tone. “Oh, that was after. That was just five years ago.”
“What were you? Their den mother?” Giselle asked it under her breath, but the elderly man’s wife heard and snickered. Miss Sandy ignored Giselle.
“Anywho, the ghost of this inn likes to steal fancy lingerie out of the luggage of the ladies who stay here.”
Yeah, sure. How preposterous was that story. It was probably just the bellmen taking panties to get their jollies.
“Just like I said before, those men are just little rascals even in the afterlife,” Miss Sandy trilled.
“I thought you said the ghost was a woman.” Giselle rubbed her forehead where an ache had begun to form.
“Oh yeah,” the guide said absently.
“Miss Sandy?” One of the teenage boys raised his hand. “Why do they call the city Savannah?”
The tour guide paused, her eyebrows furrowed. She looked up and to the left as if searching her memory for a moment.
“I’ll be getting to that later,” Miss Sandy said with a sniff. “Well, it looks like I’m not getting any more drinky poos here. On to the next pub.”
Miss Sandy turned on her heel and almost toppled over. The newly groom caught her arm and righted her. “Thanks ever so much, sweetie pie.” She fairly purred in his ear and then ambled on. The newly bride elbowed her husband in the side and stalked after the guide.
At the next stop, the basement of a Revolutionary War era home that had been converted to a restaurant, Miss Sandy led the group past the piano near the entrance. The group continued around the comfortable seating area next to the fireplace and stopped at the bar in the corner.
Miss Sandy slammed her hand on the counter and demanded a Pink Squirrel. Giselle ordered a glass of merlot. In order to cope with the rest of this tour, she had to have a drink.
“Why is this house pink?” It was the elderly gentleman. He got a glare from his wife for his trouble.
The tour guide’s eyes narrowed and she swayed a bit. “The guy who built it was a communist,” Miss Sandy finally answered.
Giselle could feel her teeth clench. “There were no communists in the seventeen hundreds.”
The bartender placed a half-full wineglass on a cocktail napkin in front of Giselle. She smiled at him gratefully, picked it up and took a soothing sip.
“Well, he must have been gay then,” Miss Sandy said with a stern look in Giselle’s direction. Then back to the sing-song voice. “Anywho, the ghost that haunts this place likes to order a beer and drink it here at the bar. The customers think he’s a rein– rein– rein—”
“Re-enactor?” the newly groom supplied.
Miss Sandy grinned drunkenly. “That’s it. They think he’s a…what you said, ’cause he’s dressed like he’s from the Revolution. But once he has that drink, he just wanders hiself over to the Colonial Cemetery. Then he stands on his grave and just poof.” Miss Sandy puckered at the word “poof” and tried to blow. But her lips were apparently too numb from alcohol and wouldn’t form the requisite moue. “Anywho, he’s gone.”
Absurd. Giselle doubted that a ghost would be mistaken for a re-enactor. A ghost lacked the substance to be mistaken for a person. Just more bunk from Miss Sandy.
“Excuse me. I’d like to get by,” a
husky male voice said into Giselle’s ear.
She moved in a reflex motion to her left. “Oh sorry,” she said, turning slightly to make the apology. Omigod. Mr. Scrumptious. “Oh. Hi.” She smiled at him broadly. Maybe she hadn’t lost him after all.
“Uh,” he grunted, moving past her and the group to take a seat at the bar a couple of steps away. Giselle followed him with her gaze and saw him order a beer. He didn’t so much as glance her way.
“Who is that?” Miss Sandy squawked over Giselle’s shoulder.
“I don’t know,” Giselle said, wishing she did.
“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 all 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.
Chapter Two
The next day, Giselle returned to the café. The scene of the criminally awful blind date.
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 stranger 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.”
A Girl, a Guy, and a Ghost Page 2
