Ghouls Just Want to Have Fun (3 page)

Shelby Lynne gripped my hand with such intensity that pain shot up my forearm to my elbow. "She's taking up residence at Holloway Hall on Dead End Lane," Shelby announced, her hand continuing to grasp mine with bone-breaking force.

"Haunted Holloway Hall?" I shouted, a noticeable quiver in my voice. "Holy shit!"

Principal Vernon, who'd been hovering in the corner keeping a watchful eye on yours truly, walked over to us and gave me a curt nod. "I believe this concludes your interview session, Tressa," he said. "I'm sure you know the way out."

I nodded, familiar with the drill--and the exit. The guy had personally shown me the door a time or two during our four years together.

Shelby Lynne tucked a crumpled-up piece of paper in my hand as I headed for the doors. "My cell phone number," she said. "Call me for more details." She gave my hand a final painful squeeze.

I waved at her and exited the high school under the watchful eye of Principal Vernon. I sat in my car and stared at the multicolored leaves still clinging to their last precious moments on the tree before a gusty north wind would catch them and rip them from the branches and they would become mulch, and I railed at the perverse injustices inflicted on those frustrated wannabes of the world who just want to get ahead.

Finally. Finally I got the chance at a serious journalistic coup that didn't involve guns, knives, dead bodies or clowns gone cuckoo, and what happened? My story was hiding behind the walls of a house only Norman Bates could love.

CHAPTER TWO

"Are you sure of your source?" Stan Rodgers, my sometime employer, and publisher and editor in chief of the
Grandville Gazette,
sucked on a star mint and peered at me across his cluttered desk, over the top of glasses that looked like someone had run out of materials before they finished making them. You know the ones--those half-glasses that have lenses the size of postage stamps.

I nibbled my lip. I really didn't want to admit to this seasoned professional that my source was a bushy, pushy queen candidate with goaltending capabilities.

"Sure I'm sure," I bluffed. "Who could make up a story like this?"

Stan bit down on the mint. "Those words have a familiar ring to them," he said. In fact, I'd recited those very words to Stan back in June when I'd been trying to barter a story about a stiff for a third chance at a reporting job. "On the off chance there is a story here, just make sure your source doesn't decide to share the wealth with our competitors. We don't want Van Vleet over at
New Holland News
or his jackass son, Drew, getting a whiff of this. That guy is still chafing over our coup with the Palmer murder and your little state-fair exclusive. He's looking for something big to stick it to me with. And this story--if it's the real thing, that is--could be the ideal weapon. New Holland's version of the Louisville Slugger. I don't want them knockin' anything out of the park," Stan said.

Stan loves sports analogies. Stan and Paul Van Vleet, his counterpart at the
New Holland News, are
what you might call not-so-friendly competitors. Their one-upmanship is a natural extension of a longtime rivalry that has existed between the two cities since the Dutch first settled here and turned their heritage into a rather prosperous tourist attraction.

Dutch influence is everywhere in New Holland, from the yummy S-shaped almond pastries called Dutch Letters that keep you coming back for more to the yearly tulip festival to the Dutch architecture that is part of the New Holland landscape. You can't erect a building in New Holland without the town fathers rubber-stamping your blueprints. In Grandville, we go more for function over form. You know--if you build it, we can tax it.

I made a big production of putting my fingers to my lips and making like I was turning a key in a lock. "Mum's the word," I assured Stan.

He frowned. "Just make sure 'grand mum' isn't the word," he replied. It was my turn to frown.

"Huh?"

Stan leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. "Your grandmother. Hellion Hannah. Better known as Ye Olde Town Crier," he stated.

I winced. I love my gramma, but the only secrets she's been able to keep are her age--from everyone but the Social Security Administration and Medicare--and how many contraband gummy bears she consumes each week.

"Like I'm gonna tell my grandma about this," I told him.

"She'll wheedle it out of you. And let's face it, Turner, it don't take much. Shove a Krispy Kreme in front of you, and you'll sing like a bird."

I sniffed. "I'm a professional journalist," I reminded him, suddenly recalling how I'd uttered those very words only hours earlier--and how they'd been received, and ridiculed by my supersized source. "I know how to work a story." I hoped my nose wasn't growing as I said this.

"And you're sure there's a story?" Stan asked. "And if so, why haven't I heard anything about it? Hell, my wife is a real estate agent, and she hasn't mentioned anything about anyone occupying the Holloway house. As a matter of fact, there's been considerable speculation that Jerry Rivas over at J.R. Development is set to buy the place. Though why he'd want that old mausoleum, I'll never know." He laughed. "We used to call it Collinwood when we were kids. Different strokes for different folks, I guess."

"Collinwood?"

Stan threw his glasses on his desk.
"Dark Shadows,"
he said. "Before your time. Soap opera from the late sixties and early seventies that ran at three o'clock each afternoon," he explained. "We used to race home from school so we could watch the last fifteen minutes of it."

I raised my eyebrows. "You ran home from school to watch a soap opera? Stan Rodgers, the tough-as-nails news guy? The man who strikes fear into the hearts of reporters who can't spell and paperboys who deliver to the wrong addresses?
You
hoofed it home to watch a soap?" I grabbed a pencil out of a jar on his desk, and picked up a notepad. I licked the tip of the pencil. "Let me write that one down," I said. "Note to self. Give Stan a subscription to
Soap Opera Digest
for Christmas."

"Hell, this was no ordinary soap," Stan said. "This one had vampires and werewolves. And one very hot witch," he added with a wink.

I blinked. "Get real. They had
Buffy
soap operas back in, like, the Stone Age?" I asked. "How cool is that?"

"Barnabas," Stan said.

"Excuse me?"

"Barnabas, not Buffy. Well, Barnabus was the vampire. Angelique was the witch and, if I remember correctly, Quentin was the werewolf. No Buffys, but Angelique had a pretty good set on her." He sat back in his chair with a goofy faraway look and sighed.

I stared at Stan. I wasn't sure if he was on the level or not. With Stan, unless you see the veins bulging on a grossly enlarged neck or his ears turning red, it's kind of hard to be certain just what he's thinking. Besides, all this talk about how Holloway Hall reminded him of some dark shadowy place where ghostly inhabitants dwelled was making me just a wee bit uncomfortable. And since it appeared that I was going to have to visit Munster Hall in the very near future, I was trying my best to shrug off the house's rather colorful reputation. Stan's trip down memory lane with a buxom witch and a vampire who happened to have a name more appropriate for a purple dinosaur than for a blood sucker wasn't helping.

I cleared my throat. "Does Mrs. Rodgers know about your, uh, history with this supernaturally endowed sorceress--Angela?" I said, snapping my boss back to the present and out of his prepubescent reminiscences by tossing my notepad on the desk in front of him. I'd drawn a set of collagen-enhanced lips with long fangs protruding, complete with little droplets of blood.

He sat up and glanced at my artwork, put his elbows on the desk and gave me a dark look. "Angelique," he corrected. "So, you think the story is legit?" he asked again.

"I'm fixin' to find out," I said, and stood.

"Just remember what I said," Stan reminded me, and he made a lip-locking motion of his own.

I nodded. "I know. Loose lips sink ships," I said.

"I prefer 'Flapping gums promote job loss,'" Stan replied, sticking his glasses back on his face and turning back to his computer monitor.

I rolled my eyes. Jeesh. Everyone was a comedian these days.

I tried the cell phone number Shelby Lynne had given me, but got her voice mail. I left a message for her to call me ASAP and left my cell phone number. I looked at my watch. Four fifteen. I hadn't eaten in--what--well past two hours. I was a growing girl. I needed sustenance. Something to tide me over 'til supper.

Okay, I should tell you here that I like my food--and most of the time it likes me. Likes me well enough to cling to my hips and thighs like a one-year-old clings to her mother when introduced to a stranger. Or at vaccination time.

I do exercise. Well, at least I think about exercise. And when I can no longer zip up my Levi's without cutting off circulation to everything south of my belly button, I'll actually do it.

I left the
Gazette
and strolled down the street to Hazel's Hometown Cafe, where you can get a warm slice of apple pie with a generous dip of cinnamon ice cream and a bottomless cup of coffee to wash it down, and all for three and a half bucks. If you aren't offended by the smell of manure, that is.

To be fair to Hazel, I suppose I should explain. You see, lots of farmers frequent Hazel's. Many of them have finished combining by now, and they generally get together this time of year to compare their respective yields. That's bushels per acre for you city folk. There's lots of talk about nitrogen fertilizer, soybean rust and corn rootworm. Yum, yum!

I headed straight for the circa-1950s counter and dropped onto a stool. I picked up a menu, even though I could tick off the breakfast and lunch items from memory, including daily specials and respective prices.

"Well--afternoon, Tressa." Donita Smith greeted me with a cup in one hand and the coffeepot in the other. She placed the cup on the counter and poured it full. I sniffed appreciatively. Nary a cup of stale coffee is poured at Hazel's. But don't look too closely at your cutlery.

Hazel of Hazel's Hometown Cafe has long since retired. She passes her time socializing at the senior citizen center during the week and pulling slots at the capital city's racetrack/casino on weekends. Her daughter, Donita, and her offspring run the family food business.

"How fares our local celebrity?" Donita asked, returning the pot to its place under the Bunn coffee-maker. "Any Calamity capers to share?"

I blew the steam from my coffee and took a careful sip. "Sorry, Donita. You're gonna have to wait and read all about it in the
Gazette,
" I replied, thinking the chronic "Calamity" references were about as funny as
Full House
reruns. Talk about torture. You strap me in a chair and force me to watch hour after hour of Bob Saget being, well, Bob Saget, and I'll tell you everything you want to know. And some things you don't.

"So, you
are
working on something. Something big?"

I pondered the question. I supposed you could call a six-foot-two-inch queen candidate big news.

"I'm doing a feature on the homecoming queen and king candidates," I finally answered. "You know. Real in-depth stuff. Very cutting-edge."

Donita rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I can see it now. The odd couple crowned king and queen. May I present Paula Bunyan and Danny DeVito. Or should I say Sasquatch and Tom Thumb?" Donita shook her head and giggled.

I set down my coffee cup with a loud thump, spilling the contents onto the counter.

"Say what?"

"Oh, I've heard all about it. My niece, Tawny Sue, is up for queen. You know Tawny Sue. She helps out here sometimes. She's my sister Dora Lea's daughter."

I nodded. Tawny Sue was the superjock candidate who had offers on the table from three colleges, in three different sports. All she had to do was decide if she wanted to play volleyball, basketball or softball. Ah, if only all life choices were so clear-cut. "Sure, I know Tawny. Nice girl. Sounds like she's got a great future ahead of her."

"Can you imagine the school going along with such a mean trick?" Donita asked. "What on earth can they be thinking? To subject those poor things to public ridicule. They ought to be ashamed."

I was about to tell Donita that I didn't know about Tom Thumb, but the female half of the "poor things" was more than capable of kicking the competition's butt--literally--but I didn't want to take the chance that I'd say more than I should. I decided I needed something in my mouth to occupy my tongue and teeth. Something sweet. And fruity. And packing more calories than Victoria's Secret models consume in a week.

"Give me a slice of apple pie, warmed up and a la mode," I said.

"A scoop of cinnamon, right?"

I nodded. "A big scoop," I added as Donita went to irradiate the pie. I'd need some serious energy reserves if I planned to drop in for a visit at the creepiest house in the county. Plus, a necklace of garlic and a cross might not be amiss.

"And a Bible," I muttered.

"A Bible? I'd ask what you're planning, but I don't think I want to know."

The stool beside me swiveled, and I turned to see Ranger Rick Townsend settle his tattooed tush upon it. Tattoo? Well, you see, the good ranger and I made this over-the-top bet concerning the outcome of a certain double murder case. Townsend lost and, as a result, sports an adorable but classy raccoon tattoo on his cute bum. How do I know the raccoon tattoo is adorable? Well, I did have to verify that Townsend hadn't welshed on the bet, didn't I? The cute bum? Well, when you view a work of art, you do tend to notice a spectacular canvas. Everybody knows that.

Townsend was in uniform, his long legs cloaked in dark green fabric with black stripes down the sides. Now that fall was upon us, the hunky but vexing officer had switched to his winter uniform, including long sleeves and a tie.

"Why aren't you wearing my birthday present?" I asked, casting a pouting look at Townsend's totally lame tie tack with the DNR logo on it. "I put a lot of effort in locating that raccoon tie tack, you know. It was almost a perfect match for your tattoo. I'm hurt, Townsend. Really hurt."

Rick grinned. "Not state-issued, I'm afraid. But I was touched you remembered my birthday. As I recall, that's the first gift you've given me. If you don't count the horse shit you wrapped in a Godiva chocolates box and left on my doorstep several years ago."

"How do you know that was me?" I asked. "I'm certain there wasn't a card attached. 'To Rick. Enjoy this poop on your special day.' Besides, there must be tons of people out there who like you enough to give you crap on your birthday."

Townsend laughed. "But only one has given me enough crap to fertilize the high school football field until my twentieth-year reunion."

I shrugged. "I still say, prove it," I said.

"Well, afternoon there, Rick." Donita greeted Townsend with a grin and placed a large slice of pie with a generous scoop of ice cream on the top on the counter in front of me. The ice cream was beginning to melt and seep down the sides of the newly nuked pie. Just how I like it. I picked up my fork and shoved an unladylike amount into my mouth.

"What'll you have?" Donita asked Ranger Rick.

"Just give me a glass of milk and a fork," Townsend instructed. "I think Turner here has more than enough to share."

I gave the demented ranger a dark look. "You touch my pie, you die," I told him.

Rick raised an eyebrow. "On second thought, Donita, I guess you'd better bring me my own slice--about half the size of that one." He nodded at my plate. "I've learned not to get between Tressa here and her sweets--especially during certain times of the month. I still bear scars from the time we battled over the last chocolate cupcake at the Coffee Clatch opening."