Ghost of a Chance (Banshee Creek Book 2) (38 page)

"The tour was wonderful," the Cordy woman continued. "I'm glad you chose to make the building attractive as well as practical. It's beautiful, and it fits the town so well."

Gabe nodded, thinking furiously.
Who the hell is she?
 

"Oh, I don't know," the German interrupted. "All that glass is expensive. And who is going to see it, I wonder?"

"Everyone," Gabe said firmly. "The renovation is nominated for several architectural awards and will likely win at least a couple. It will be featured in magazines and television shows. Trust me, the renovation will pay for itself."

The German arched a skeptical brow. "That would be great, but our target market is eighteen to twenty-five year olds who drink beer. They don't read Architectural Digest."

"No." Salvador's smile was slightly predatory. "But they watch
Hauntings and Hoaxes
. The updated cidery will give us the technological edge, the heirloom cider recipes will give us hipster cred, and the town's haunted rep gives us a marketing edge."

"
Ja
," Dieter stroked his mustache. "We have the haunted stuff in Bavaria as well. My family has a castle in the Schwarzwald, The Black Forest. There's lots of stories. The ghosts of Varus' legions, evil druids, that sort of stuff. Much scarier than your little town."

Gabe hid a smile. As far as Dieter was concerned everything was better in Germany. Even the ghosts.

"My niece has to arrange tours, you know. The government makes her for heritage and tourism and whatnot. The young people come and bring flashlights and microphones and stay the night. Then they put the videos up. That's what you're talking about?"

"Exactly." Gabe waited for the inevitable skeptical reaction.

But the German nodded. "They drive my niece crazy, the ghost people. Every year there's more and more of them. It's so bad she wants to leave the castle and move in with me now. Very irritating."

"And profitable," Salvador interjected.

"Yes." The German looked around the meadow and nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I haven't lost any money with you so I'm willing to give Haunted Orchard a try. "

"We appreciate your support, Dieter." Gabe's words were heartfelt.
 
With his prickliest clients on board, he'd be able to focus on dealing with the town.

"It could be more than support," Cordy interjected. "There could be synergy here. Dieter and I were just discussing it."

"
Ja
." The German's eyes narrowed. "You know, Schwarzerbier Brewery needs something like that. A new twist. How do you Americans put it? A
rebrand
."
 

"Really?" Salvador leaned forward, like a wolf scenting his prey. "Tell us more about it."

Gabe tensed. He had a feeling he knew where this was going, and he didn't like it. His plan was to keep the cidery and use it to develop other businesses in the town. It was a good plan.

Perhaps too good.

The German tapped his chin, the way he did right before he was about to spend money. "If
Herr
Franco's numbers turn out to be accurate, which, in our experience, they usually are, Schwarzerbier would like to look into purchasing Haunted Orchard and use it to spearhead its rebrand."
 

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
-T
HREE

"H
ERE
," C
AINE
pushed a champagne flute into Elizabeth's hand. "You look like you need this."

The redheaded biker stood behind a pile of hay bales that acted as a makeshift bar. He was unrecognizable in denim overalls and a gingham shirt that didn't quite cover the tattoos on his arms. Caine, however, was a master bartender and his talent was undeniable. Elizabeth didn't recognize the cocktail, but it was delicious.

"I call it a Southern 75," he answered her unspoken question. "It has hard cider instead of champagne. Add a little bourbon and a little lemon, and voilà."

"I'm surprised you didn't give it a more creative name."

He grinned sheepishly. "It was originally called the Bourbon Chainsaw Massacre." He mimed a chainsaw cutting through the hay bale. "But that Salvador person who works with Gabe wouldn't let me use it."

"Well, that's a surprise. You'd think they'd relish the slasher flick association."
 

The cidery's original owners had resorted to unorthodox financing mechanisms to keep the place, and one of their most original ideas was to lease it to a film production company. The result was a series of cheap horror films, which did badly at the box office, but later became cult hits. The
Johnny Frank-N-Seed
film franchise now had millions of die-hard fans around the world—not as many as
Cannibal Clones
, but still quite respectable. And yet Salvador chose not to capitalize on the cidery's association with a serial killer who had a penchant for slicing his victims' throats with an apple-picking hook. She wondered why.

"They don't want to scare the money people," Caine said, reading her mind. "I don't get it. I'm collaborating on a new paper with Cassie. Remember her? She's our resident folklorist. Our thesis is that the fear of the paranormal—we're calling it
exspiraphobia
—is actually a technology-addicted society's refusal to deal with the messiness and tragedy of real life. Everyone hunkers down thinking their smart phones and fancy internet connections will protect them from loss and grief. Ha." His ice-blue eyes bored into hers. "You all can't handle your ghosts so you attack ours."

"Sounds fascinating." Her flat tone conveyed a world of sarcasm.
 

He smirked. "Don't worry, we won't mention you by name." His gaze fell on the cocktail in her hand. "And speaking of names, I should've called the drink The Bloody Hook or something like that. I just wasn't feeling creative last night when your sweetheart called. I considered turning down the job—I mean, we didn't even get twenty-four hours' notice—but he said the Middleburg catering company had done most of the work and all we'd have to do was add a local presence, so I said yes."

She raised her brows in surprise. "He hired you all last night?"

"Yep. He got me the bartending gig and bought Patricia's entire pastry case." Caine shook his head. "I don't know what he was thinking. We should've been in on this from the beginning. At least the Middleburg folks were nice about it. They got paid for doing nothing."

He turned to take an order for a single malt scotch, and Elizabeth took her drink and headed back to the party. Gabe had hired the townsfolk to make her happy, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that. He was bound and determined to show her that his plans would benefit the town, and he was willing to double-book his party to make sure she got the point.

At least the boots were amazing, she had to admit as she stood on the wet grass, listening to a well-preserved blonde talk about a horrible new Loudoun County development. She loved these boots with the passion of a thousand burning suns. But the party was a different story, one that she didn't like so much, principally because she had to stand around and discuss the evils of cement board siding with moneyed folk.

Some people were having fun though. She'd spotted Liam and Ben picking apples in the orchard. She watched smiling as Ben tripped over his bucket, apples flying everywhere. Liam ran up to him and helped him put the apples back in the bucket. They were having a good time, and Elizabeth wished she could join them.
 

But she wasn't picking apples. She was under the tent, mingling with Gabe's guests, and that wasn't fun at all. And she'd hardly spent any time with Gabe. A member of his staff had dragged him off to meet a couple of older gentlemen and they'd spent most of the party talking about marketing strategies and profit margins.
 

She had to admit that the staff had done some things right, though. There wasn't a spooky clown or bloody chainsaw to be seen. The tent sat spot on a sloping hill with a clear view of the apple trees. Rustic zinc-topped tables held baskets overflowing with crunchy baguettes and terra cotta pots with fig jam and
paté de champagne
. Patricia's signature apple cider donuts, glammed up with a bourbon glaze, held pride of place on the dessert table. Miniature
tarte tatins
and bourbon pecan pies completed the display. Cider casks planted with complicated topiaries were scattered around the grounds, and the scent of jasmine filled the air. The only remotely spooky item that graced this party was Haunted Orchard's heart-shaped owl logo, which was more cute than creepy.

Gabe stood a couple of feet away, talking to a group of men in wool jackets and tan pants. He looked confident and at ease. He had a right to be pleased. The cidery renovations were impressive. Elizabeth remembered an eighth grade class trip to the old cidery. The rickety wooden building had been quite scary, for perfectly mundane reasons having to do with crumbling rafters and oversized spiders, and the antique cider press had been cordoned off for security reasons. The field trip was mercifully cut short when Zach Franco was found in a closet with his hand up Jenny Stevenson's shirt.

But now the cidery was transformed. The metal roof gleamed in the sunlight, wood shingles wrapped around the sides, and the building was beautifully landscaped with mature apple trees. The inside was even more impressive. Stainless steel fermenting tanks rose to the ceiling where only spider webs used to be. The press and grinder had been updated and no longer resembled horror movie props. Elizabeth knew nothing about bottling, but one of the partygoers declared that the facilities were state-of-the-art. Gabe had also built a glass-enclosed cider tasting room that overlooked the apple trees so guests and tourists could enjoy the scenery as they sampled various cider varieties.

He had the right to enjoy his party. He'd earned it. And Elizabeth had no right to complain about the event, especially since there was nothing even remotely supernatural about it. And yet, here she was, staring into her glass glumly. This scene was depressingly familiar. Thanks to the many business functions her father had dragged her to throughout her teen years, she had a lot of practice standing around, waiting for the schmoozing to end.
 

Too much practice.
 

A tall, dark-haired man with a ridiculously congenial smile and a plate of miniature beef wellingtons interrupted her companion's diatribe against the engineered siding apocalypse. The blonde's eyes lit with pleasure.

"Salvador," she simpered, daintily accepting a pastry. "You are so thoughtful."

Elizabeth looked at the newcomer with interest. So this was Salvador Acosta, Gabe's business partner. She'd read about him in the infamous Forbes article. He was rich, brilliant and well connected. He was also unacquainted with the "apple picking chic" dress code. The other gentlemen were all wearing slacks and tweed or plaid jackets, but Salvador was attired in a well-cut dark suit. With his rakish smile and light green eyes, he looked like a glamorous James Bond surrounded by dowdy country squires.

"And you are beautiful, as always," he drawled at the blonde. "Will you excuse us? I should show this young lady around." He handed her the plate and put his arm around Elizabeth, steering her through the crowd. "So you're the famous Elizabeth. I'm very curious about you. We've never met, and yet, I know your shoe size. I find that amazing. But I must thank you for an enlightening morning. I've never been shopping with Gabe before and I don't intend to repeat the experience."
 

"Not much of a shopper, is he?"

Salvador shrugged. "He bought the whole store. Where's the fun in that? Shopping is art, its performance. But Gabe called in your shoe size, and the staff had everything bagged and packed up when we arrived. Sacrilege."
 

Elizabeth smiled. She couldn't help it, Salvador's charm was hard to resist. "Well, I apologize for putting you out, what with the impromptu shopping trip and the last-minute catering changes."

"Interesting," he said, with a pensive glance. "You weren't supposed to hear about those. Yes, Gabe decided to add some local products to the catering. But it's a great idea, so I don't mind the extra work. And those donuts are amazing." He looked at her intently, as if trying to figure her out.

"Not what you expected?" she asked.

"No," he said, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Even though I've heard a lot about you, and not just from Gabe. I have contacts in the movie world, and we know people in common."
 

"I can't imagine what they've told you about me. I led a blameless life in L.A."

"Well, yes, but I hear the location work you did in Toronto was a different story."

"Hey, you know what the movie people say. What happens in Toronto stays in Toronto."

He kept on talking, but Elizabeth stopped listening. She stared in undisguised shock as a tall, lanky man, well past middle age, joined the party. He was accompanied by a good-looking, slender brunette, several years his junior. He greeted an elderly couple jovially, as if they were old friends. He was dressed in a rakish brown herringbone jacket and looked as if he didn't have a care in the world.
 

The jacket was very familiar. Elizabeth remembered purchasing it with her mother several years ago.

"Dad?" she blurted, trying to hide her surprise. Wasn't he supposed to be in the Cayman Islands, typing up corporate minutes?

Her father turned to look at her, and the color drained from his face. The willowy brunette looked at Elizabeth quizzically.

"Elizabeth," he stammered, his eyes wide with alarm. "I didn't expect to see you here." He caught himself, glanced nervously around, and plastered a false smile on his face.

"It's a surprise to me too." Her smile was as fake as his.
 

She was acutely aware that Salvador was standing right next to her, assessing the situation, and she didn't want to air her family's dirty laundry in front of Gabe's partner.
 

"I guess your business trip was cut short," she said through clenched teeth.