Ghouls Just Want to Have Fun (24 page)

"But what about Elizabeth?" I asked. "Wouldn't people wonder where she'd gone to? Her publisher? Someone?"

Vanessa shook her head. "It was easier than you'd think. We'd finished the final book. All proceeds were electronically transferred to a bank account. Tony and I oversaw her finances very carefully."

"What does a limo driver know about finances?" I asked.

"Tony earned a degree in business and accounting," she said. "He's a man of many talents."

Yeah. I'd seen some of that talent on display from my little perch outside her bedroom window.

"What about back home? Weren't people back in Connecticut bound to wonder about her? And what about her large estate?" I asked.

"Elizabeth had already said she wanted her home to be used as a writers' retreat when she was gone. A foundation has already been set up to manage the house and grounds."

"And so the eccentric, reclusive spinner of chillers and thrillers and supernatural stories just--what--disappears into thin air?" I asked.

"Elizabeth would rather have liked that ending, I think," was all Vanessa said.

We sat quietly for some time, but you all know I'm not a big one for prolonged silent contemplation.

"Why didn't you go with Tony?" I asked Vanessa. "Omaha's, like, only three hours away. You could have been in that big white bird out over the Pacific before anyone was the wiser."

"That's Atlantic, Einstein," Shelby Lynne said.

Since it was dark, I saved the dirty look for later.

"Why did you stay, Vanessa?" I asked.

More silence followed.

"Because people were getting hurt," Vanessa finally responded. "And I guess because I was Elizabeth's assistant and I hadn't finished the job. I hadn't put Elizabeth's gentle soul to rest."

Okay, first off, it's not cool not to be able to blow your nose when you're bawling. And it's really not cool when you have three women in the same predicament. There was so much sniffing and snorting and snot-sucking going on in that small room, the place sounded like an allergist's waiting room.

"Do you think you'll ever see Tony again?" I finally asked.

"Only in my dreams," Vanessa said. "Only in my dreams."

Sunlight crept through the tiny cracks in the door, and I roused. Every muscle in my body felt tight and achy, every joint in need of lubrication. I felt like Dorothy's Tin Man. I'd never known my bed to be this uncomfortable, even with two bed buddies with sharp noses. I opened my eyes and realized that my bed was Shelby Lynne, and we'd fallen asleep propped up in the corner.

Vanessa was asleep at the foot of the pine box. Not unlike a familiar from one of Elizabeth Courtney Howard's books, I decided.

"Good morning, sunshine." I nudged Shelby Lynne. "Rise and shine. This is your big day!"

"Buzz off, Blondie!"

Jeesch. And I thought I was crabby in the mornings.

"We've got to get moving. Get loose. Get help," I said. "And get you to school before they disqualify you from the voting!"

That helped.

"You can't think I'm going to make it to school after the night I've had! Besides, no amount of wonder cream from your grandma's bag of tricks is going to mask circles so dark they'll think I'm in costume as the Lone Ranger. And I'm not sure even ten showers will rid me of the perfume Eau de Death and Decay," she said.

I nodded. Elizabeth was beginning to get a little ripe.

"Don't be such a gloomy gus," I told her. "Think positive. Be upbeat! Get excited about your future!"

"Stuff a sock in it, Dr. Phil," Shelby Lynne said, and we struggled to stand.

"As I see it, we'll need to free Vanessa's hands first," I said. "Then, when her hands are free, she can untape us."

"Sounds reasonable," Shelby said. "So how do we unfasten the tape on her wrists when we're still bound?"

I thought about it.

"There's only one technique that might work," I told her.

"What's that?"

"Brokeback Mountain: The Story Continues,"
I said.

By this time Vanessa had awoken, and I explained our plan to free her.

"It'll work best if we all lie on the floor," I said. "Vanessa, you first. Hold your hands out behind you as far as you can. Okay, now Shelby and I'll just maneuver ourselves so our mouths are even with your hands, and we'll take turns ripping at the tape with our teeth."

"What do you think we are? Vampires?" Shelby Lynne asked. "That's duct tape. People repair radiator hoses with that stuff."

I blinked. "They do? Okay, then, what's your alternative?"

"We could break the door down," Shelby suggested.

"With what?"

"Our bodies. We run at that door and bust it down."

"Yeah, I remember how successful we were at running together last night," I told her. "I say we try the teeth method."

"Whatever," Shelby Lynne said. "But you go first."

We got into position, and I began to tear away at the tape with my teeth. Good thing I drank a lot of milk when I was a little nipper. I had strong teeth. I also decided my four-year-long torture at the hands of Dr. Lecter, my orthodontist, had been beneficial, after all.

I made decent progress before I pooped out, and Shelby Lynne and I switched places. When she'd had enough, it was my turn again. We scooted and rolled, and I hunkered down to grab the length of loosened duct tape we'd managed to unroll, when I heard a squeaky noise. Like a tiny mouse.

"Oh my god! Would you look at that?"

Three gasps erupted from three prone women like the precursor to a violent volcanic episode.

We all wiggled around on the ground trying to get a look at the basement window. With the way we were hog-tied, it was physically impossible for both Shelby Lynne and me to get a view of the window. But in our wrestling match to gain advantage, I saw Sheriff Doug Samuels wiping dirt from the window and peering in at us.

"Would you take a look at that?" I heard him say.

Shelby Lynne rolled me over so she that could take a look.

"Is that who I think it is?" Shelby asked.

"Yep. That's our esteemed county sheriff, formerly known as Deputy Doug," I said.

"I don't think so," Shelby replied.

"Huh?" I did a flip move, putting my butt and thighs into it, and ended up facing the window.

There, framed in the tiny, dirty window, was Ranger Rick looking down at me.

"Uh, remember, ladies. What happens in Haunted Holloway Hall, stays in Haunted Holloway Hall," I said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

By the time Shelby Lynne, Vanessa and I were free and circulation had returned to various parts of our anatomy, quite a collection of county officials had gathered. From the county coroner to the county attorney, to my boss Stan, to Joe Townsend and Romeo Rivas (uh, not a comfy combo), the dead-end lane leading to Haunted Holloway Hall looked like a parking lot.

Once Deputy Doug--dang, I keep doing that--Sheriff Samuels and Ranger Rick Townsend entered the basement through the exterior cellar door and managed to gain access to our tiny prison and Elizabeth's makeshift crypt, we were more than ready to be rescued. The good sheriff, I noted, snapped photos of us before he assisted in our extrication. I had a sinking feeling those pictures would come back to haunt me down the road. Big-time.

We were ushered up to the living room of the house and, in turn, each of us explained our involvement in the Agatha Christie drama that had unfolded behind the brick walls of Haunted Holloway Hall.

I opted to go last. I figured that way there would be less for me to explain. Boy, was I wrong.

"So, this was the story you roped my granddad into assisting with?" Townsend asked, coming to loom over me as I sat beside Shelby Lynne on the antique sofa, waiting for my inquisition.

I raised an eyebrow. "Roped? Are you kidding? He came with his own lead rope and halter," I said.

Townsend shook his head. "I guess I can only be thankful I didn't find him duct-taped in the cellar like a Christmas package wrapped by a redneck," he said.

I nodded. "You gotta love those hidden blessings, Townsend," I said.

"I still can't believe I didn't pick up on the differences in the books," Shelby Lynne said, not for the first time. Next to me, Shelby Lynne was plainly having difficulty understanding how she could have overlooked what was now obvious to her. "I've read every Elizabeth Courtney Howard book at least five times, and until it was pointed out to me, I didn't suspect a thing." She looked over at Vanessa. "You're good."

"Ah, but remember, Shelby, I had the missing link, the final chapter, as it were."

She gave me a confused look.

"The back blurb to
Ghostwriter,
Elizabeth Courtney Howard's final book," I clarified. "Or rather Vanessa's book. That was really when I figured out what was what." Now
that
was clear as mud.

"How did you get that cover copy, again?" Vanessa asked.

I felt Shelby Lynne tense beside me. She must've had a thought similar to the one that went through my head. Something along the lines of jailhouse orange not being a cool look. Especially for homecoming queen candidates--or their fashion and makeup advisors.

I did a hear-no-evil number and turned instead to the sheriff. I had a few questions of my own.

"How did you happen to be at Holloway Hall, of all places, this morning?" I asked the sheriff and his buddy Townsend.

"We were having breakfast," Sheriff Dougie said, and I wished he hadn't mentioned food. The last time I'd gone this long without eating was when I'd had my tonsils yanked. My belly growls had turned into full-fledged feeding-time-at-the-zoo roars. "I got a call about a ten-fifty. Possible PI."

Oh, great. More ten-code confusion.

"Translation, if you will?" I asked.

Samuels shook his head. "A report of a vehicle accident. With personal injuries possible."

I nodded. "Ten-four," I said, and Townsend rubbed his eyes.

"The report stated that a car was down the embankment off of the state highway just about a mile or so from here. So I rolled, and Townsend followed."

"How does a car in the ditch miles away bring you to the Holloway house?" I asked.

"It was a blue van," he said, and my eyes got big.

"Tony!" Vanessa jumped up from a Queen Anne chair. "My god! How is he? Is he hurt?"

"He got boogered up, but he'll live," Samuels said. "We got to looking in the vehicle and found the rental receipt for the van and other documentation that led us back up here. On the way, we spotted a very familiar white Plymouth Reliant in the ditch at the bottom of the lane."

"Ditch? My car is in a ditch?"

Samuels nodded. "'Fraid so," he said.

"Is it damaged? Totaled, even?"

"With that car it's kind of hard to tell, but it didn't appear to be," he answered. "Put a hook on it and pull it out, and it ought to be drivable."

"That's good," I said. "Because it wasn't before."

Townsend shook his head.

"What made the van and Tony run off the road?" I asked. "Was it on account of the rain?"

Samuels looked at Townsend and then back at me. I hadn't missed the exchange.

"A deer probably ran out in front of him," Samuels said.

I frowned.

"Probably? Is that what he said?" I asked.

Samuels shook his head. "He was confused. He was injured. No telling how long he'd been trapped in that vehicle. It was cold. He was probably shocky. Out of his head when he spoke to us."

"Why?" I asked. "What did he say?"

"Tressa," Townsend said. "Let it go."

The two men had me curious now. And yes, I know what curiosity did to the cat, thank you very much.

"Come on. What did Tony say?" I asked. "Why'd he run off the road?"

"Yes. Please tell us," Vanessa added.

Sheriff Samuels sighed. "Mr. Camarillo stated he had just turned onto the highway and had only gone a mile or so, when he looked up and saw a figure in white right in front of him. He said he swerved to avoid hitting her, and the vehicle got hung up on the shoulder, flipped over and rolled down the hill. He was lucky he was wearing his belt, or there's a good chance he wouldn't be alive to tell the tale."

"Hold it a minute. You said he swerved to avoid hitting 'her'?" I pointed out, feeling a sudden case of the gooseflesh coming on. "What do you mean, 'her'?"

Samuels shrugged. "Camarillo said it was a woman. A woman in white."

"Are you joking?" Shelby Lynne's hot breath hit my cheek. "A woman in white?"

Sheriff Doug shook his head. "That's his story," Samuels said, "and he's stickin' to it."

Color me creeped out.

It was past noon when we were free to go--with admonitions from the authorities to make ourselves available for interviews the following day "as events warranted." I love the way cops talk, don't you?

Shelby Lynne's brother's Jeep had been driven around to the back of the house so that it would be out of sight, and she volunteered to drive me down the lane to the Plymouth. We walked around back and for some reason found ourselves making our way to the Holloway family cemetery one last time. We stood looking at the freshly dug hole meant to be the modest final resting place for the incomparable and never-to-be-duplicated Elizabeth Courtney Howard.

"I believe Vanessa," Shelby Lynne said. "Don't you?"

I thought about it. I wasn't the greatest bullshit detector in the world, but it was hard to argue with actions. Vanessa had remained behind when she could have fled with Tony.

"Yeah. I believe her, too," I finally said.

"Do you think they'll bury Elizabeth here, after all?"

I shrugged. "Who knows? I suppose if Elizabeth wrote it down somewhere, they could. Sure as heck would give the B and B a huge tourist boom. And the events of this past week have given Haunted Holloway Hall even more notoriety." And me, too, I realized--as if good ol' Calamity Jayne needed more notoriety.

As we stood there, clouds rolled across the sun, blocking out the light, turning the cemetery dark and chilly.

"Do you smell that?" Shelby Lynne asked.

I nodded and looked around.

"Roses," I said, feeling my throat close up a bit.

Shelby shook her head.

"No. Not roses. Lavender," she said.

I found myself bracing for the sound of soft, sad weeping, but picked up something radically different. It sounded like... laughter. Girlish laughter. I looked at Shelby Lynne to see if she was picking up the same frequency. From the size of her eyes, my money was on the affirmative.

A breeze whipped up around us as we stood in the gloom of the cemetery, but this breeze was unexpectedly warm. Earthy and moist. It picked up fall leaves--oranges, browns and yellows--in a tiny cyclone of color and whipped across the open grave.

Shelby and I took a step and peered down into the new grave, the grave meant for Elizabeth. There, standing out starkly against the rich, black Iowa soil, were rose petals.

But these petals were yellow. For friendship.

It was the night of the big game--halftime and the presentation of the homecoming king and queen and their court were only a quarter away. So far the football game had been ho-hum, with Grandville down by seven. But I suppose anything that came after an overnighter with a corpse was somewhat anticlimactic.

The investigation into Elizabeth's death continued, and an autopsy would be performed the next day to determine the actual cause of death. I was certain the results would indicate that Elizabeth had died from from natural causes. Tony Camarillo was recuperating in the local hospital, and local authorities were in touch with law enforcement back East regarding possible charges of interstate transportation of a deceased person as well as fraud.

I wasn't too concerned about Vanessa. I figured she'd hook up with some slick celebrity attorney, plead out and do her time, then sell her story to the big screen for big bucks. I did wonder about one thing, though. Who would they get to play me?

With my inside scoop and Vanessa's promise not to talk to any other media types, I had a story that would hit the news services like gangbusters. Stan and I had finally agreed to talk about an adequate compensation package--contingent, Stan insisted, on my pursuing postsecondary credits in journalism. Conditions. Conditions. Always conditions.

I stood in line patiently waiting my turn to order at the busy concession stand, when the person behind me stepped on my heel. I turned around to give them a nasty look and discovered Drew Van Vleet, his camera bag slung over his shoulder.

"Looks like the home team has some ground to cover to bring off a win," he said. "Frankly, I don't think they can do it. Our boys have your boys outweighed in every position. Not enough meat on the lines."

I shrugged. "Our boys tend to be faster than the New Holland tackles, many of whom have had way too many Dutch pastries and spent too many hours clogging in wooden shoes," I said. "Talk about your bunions."

"I guess now's as good a time as any to warn you that my story about Holloway Hall will be in Tuesday's edition," Van Vleet said, and I turned around to look at him.

"Your story? And what story would that be? How you eluded arrest on breaking and entering charges?" I asked him.

He smiled and shook his head. "The B and B story. The Rivas real estate deal. And, of course, the story that will get me noticed: Elizabeth Courtney Howard coming back to her hometown to complete her final book."

I stared at him. The authorities really did have a lid on this story. Drew Van Vleet was, like, totally clueless. And me? I was totally lovin' it.

"Are you sure that's the story you want to run with?" I asked, feeling a tiny pinprick of conscience when I realized just how much notice Van Vleet and his newspaper would get if he went ahead and published a story he'd only have to publicly retract at a later date--and with considerable embarrassment, at that.

"Give it a rest, Turner. You've lost this round. And I've done the newspaper-reading public a favor and dealt you a knockout punch," Van Vleet said.

Over the public address system, spectators were reminded that results for homecoming king and queen voting were to be announced at the half, and the candidates were named one last time.

Van Vleet chuckled. "Not only did you lose the big story, but your football team is going to lose the big game," Van Vleet said, "and your big friend with feet the size of snowshoes is about to lose the homecoming queen contest. Instead of Grandville, this town ought to be known as Loserville," he added, putting the final nail in his journalistic coffin.

"You know what, Van Vleet?" I said. "I was going to try to persuade you not to run that article, but guess what? I'm not going to do it. I reckon you've earned the right to print that story, bud, so you run with it. To the victor goes the spoils!"

I imagined Stan's reaction when he saw the
New Holland
story. I'd make a note to hit him up for a real desk and chair the day that little scoop hit newsstands, I decided with a grin. Trick or treat, Mr. Rodgers!

I made my way to Gram and Joe. We had reserved prime seats right smack-dab in the middle of the hometown section, and right in front of the place where the king and queen would be crowned. Actually, to reserve seats at our stadium, you go out early on game days and put your blankets down where you plan to sit.

"Shelby Lynne really looks nice," I told Gram, looking over at Shelby standing with Tom Murphy, who also looked rather sharp in his tiny tuxedo. "How did you manage to convince her to wear her hair up?"

"She said it still reeked of the stench of rotting flesh and mildewy basements, and the farther away from her nose, the better," Gram said. I nodded. I had my hair pulled back into a ponytail so tight I looked like I'd had an extreme face-lift gone way bad.

"It looks good," I told her.

"Hey, Joe." I leaned over and greeted Gram's escort for the evening. "You're awful quiet. That's not like you."

"He's dealin' with some guilt issues," Gram said, and I looked at Joe.

"Guilt? Why is Joe feeling guilty?" I asked.

" 'Cause he said all those awful things about Elizabeth Courtney Howard snubbing him, and all the time she was dead as a doornail," Gram said. I winced.

"Well, he didn't know that at the time," I pointed out. "And I thought some not-so-nice things about her, as well. As a matter of fact, I even crawled up a tree to peek into her bedroom," I told them. Realizing suddenly what I'd just said, I cupped a hand over my too-big trap. "Forget I ever said that. Wipe it from your memories like dry-erase markers from Mom's message board," I instructed.