Ghouls Just Want to Have Fun (7 page)

I stared into the ranger's gorgeous brown eyes, amazed at the trust he'd placed in me. Calamity Jayne. The girl most likely to create havoc out of serenity. Waves in a farm pond. Who struck terror into the hearts of car wash robots everywhere. I put the eyeliner up to his eye.

"Tressa?" Rick said with a soft, soothing voice.

"Yeah?"

"You put that ridiculous makeup on me and I'll leave all my reptiles to you in my will!" he said.

I thought about it for a moment. Seeing Townsend in smoky gray eye makeup was the stuff dreams were made of; however, there were other things to consider. Like the nature of this particular ranger and the creative nature of the pranks he'd pulled on me our whole lives. Ultimately I decided to heed the warning.

"There!" I said, stepping back and motioning at the petulant pirate. "All done!"

My gramma squinted at Townsend. "I normally use a heavier hand, dear," she said. "You can hardly tell he's wearing any."

I handed Gram her eyeliner back. "I'm going for that understated look, Gram," I said. "We don't want Townsend here looking like a crackhead, do we?"

Gram considered for a moment and then turned away with a grunt. "Guess not," she said. "But just so you know, Johnny Depp wasn't so full of himself that he was above wearing mascara," she pointed out.

"The millions of bucks he earned didn't have a thing to do with it, I suppose," Townsend said.

Oooh! The man had apparently been taking a few sarcasm lessons of his own on the side.

"You're next, Tressa."

I blinked. "What?"

"You're next, Tressa."

My throat felt like somebody had their hands on my neck and were squeezing. Three small, insignificant words. Just three little words. Yet when placed in this context and uttered by my rather unpredictable gramma, those teensy words struck fear into the heart and mind of this suddenly contrite cowgirl.

"Huh?"

"Your turn. And I have the perfect costume for you."

More words of doom and gloom.

"That really isn't necessary, Gram," I said, backing away.

"Oh, arrr--but it is, matey," the POed pirate piped up, grabbing my hand and pulling me away from the car I'd been hoping to take refuge in. "Time for yer makeover, darlin', or walk the plank, ye will."

I gave Rick a squint. "Like, who are you trying to be? You sound like a cross between that Aussie croc hunter and Austin Powers."

"Here, dear."

Gram approached, holding out a long black garment and a tall witch's hat. I breathed a sigh of relief. Witches were cool. Tabitha was cool. Samantha Stephens was really cool. And odds were I'd be the sexiest witch at the senior center.

"Your Paw-Paw Will wore this the last Halloween he was on this earth," she said, handing me the costume. "I never could bring myself to wear it, but he'd want you to have it," she said with a sniffle.

I looked at the pointy witch's hat and back at my gramma. "Paw-Paw Will was a witch for Halloween?" I said.

"Well, he couldn't be Dorothy now, could he?" she replied.

I blinked. "Guess not," I said.

"Naturally, I went as Dorothy. Complete with ruby slippers and picnic basket. We caused quite a stir that year."

I nodded, wondering if there wasn't more to Paw-Paw Will than had met the eye.

I took the hat, stuck it on my head and wiggled into the black costume.

"No, no! You need your wig first!" Gram said, thrusting an long, gray, ungodly wig in my direction. "Glinda, the good witch, had the blond hair. Not you!"

"Yer the naughty witch, wench!" my annoying pirate friend ad-libbed. "So don yonder hairpiece, or I'll tickle ye with me one good hand!" He raised his hook and scratched his cheek, and I felt a smile tug at the corners of my mouth.

"You didn't have to wear a wig," I said. "Why should I?"

"Just do as yer told, witch, or yer fish food!"

I rolled my eyes. Rick was really getting into his pirate role.

"Hurry up, Tressa. We haven't got all night!" Gram said as I reluctantly took the wig and plopped it onto my head, trying to right it when long gray strands completely covered my face. I imagined I looked a whole lot like that movie character who crawled up out of the TV set and sucked people's faces off. A world away from Townsend's suave, sexy pirate--but I was thinking I'd still gotten off more easily than I expected.

"There. Happy?" I asked.

"Not yet. You need your nose."

"Come again?"

"Your nose, dear. You have to have a warty witch's nose. Have you ever seen a bad witch who didn't have a big pointed nose with an ugly wart on it?"

"And your point?"

"Not my point! The nose's point. The nose is the point. You can't be a decent witch without a pointy, warty nose."

"Is that, like, written down somewhere? Witch rules or something?" I asked. " 'Cause I'm thinkin' I'm more of a
Bewitched
-type witch as opposed to a cackling, scare-your-pants-off, smoke-and-sulphur witch. Don't you agree?" I turned in Van Helsing's direction for some support. "Help me out here, Joe."

He hesitated. "I do have an extra costume I threw in, just in case Rick here balked at the pirate one. You're welcome to wear it."

"Thank you, Joe!" I gushed, thinking that it was a safe bet Joe's other costume embodied someone dashing and courageous. "So what is it?" I asked. "Superman? RoboCop? Spider-man? Or your personal favorite, The Green Hornet?

Joe held up what looked like a plaid skirt. "William Wallace from
Brrravehearrrrt,
" he said, sounding like a rrrreally rrrrotten Sean Connery.

I thought about the kilt and the no-underwear thing, then grabbed the warty green nose from my grandma and stuck it on, securing it in place with the elastic band.

"For the record, I coulda bade a bitchin' Sapantha," I said, the witch nose pinching off my nostrils and making me sound like I had a snot wad the size of a Ping-Pong ball plugging up my nostrils. I shoved the witch's pointy hat back on my head and tossed a long length of gray hair over one shoulder in one of those Cher moves. "Just bitchin'," I said.

"There's always William, lassie," Joe said, holding up the plaid.

I shook my head. Great choice. An old hag or a dude who lost his entrails, along with his head. Decisions, decisions.

"I'll stick with old witchie-poo here," I said. "I find I'm suddenly in the mood to cast a few spells. So, where's my magic wand anyway?" I asked. What self-respecting witch would be without her wand?

My grandma pulled out a hot-pink wand, complete with bright-colored sequins and shiny beads. I made a face.

"What is that? You mug Richard Simmons or something?"

Gram sniffed. "I misplaced the witch's wand. This was the only one I could find. It belonged to my tooth fairy costume. Damn. Why didn't I think to bring that? You'd have made a bitchin' tooth fairy, too, Tressa, but I was in a hurry and the Wicked Witch was the first costume I came to in the closet."

The warty green schnozz was looking better all the time. And believe me, from where I stood, it was a wonder I could see anything else. The wart was the size of the gum balls we stock in the giant machine at the front of Bargain City. "I guess I'll pass on the wand," I said. "I need to keep my hands free."

"What for?" Townsend asked. "To strangle Morticia there?" He motioned at my gramma.

I sighed. "Not an option, Hook," I replied. "She's already dead. Remember?" I frowned. "Or is that undead?" I scratched my head beneath the wig, which was already beginning to make my scalp itch. "Uh, you wouldn't be interested in trading costumes, would you, Townsend?" I asked. "After all, my Paw-Paw Will didn't think it was beneath him to dress up as the Wicked Witch of the West. So, what do you say?"

Townsend gave me a decidedly roguish grin. "Arrrh, matey, but methinks me makes a bitchin' Jack Sparrow, so I'll be turnin' down your gen'rous offer."

Crap.

"Townsend," I said.

"Yeah?"

"Your parrot is molting," I said and stomped away, wishing for those damned ruby slippers so that I could click my heels together three times and wake up in a more amusing locale.

Like Sheboygan.

CHAPTER FIVE

I'd sashayed around the yellow brick dance floor of the senior citizens' center with the Tin Man, the Scarecrow, the Jolly Green Giant and two Elvises. One Elvis wannabe, obviously patterned after Elvis's beefier days, kept gasping and flinching when the collection of chains around his neck caught on the not-inconsiderable chest hair covering a torso that could have benefited greatly from a bottle of Nair. And a support bra.

Due to my exertions on the dance floor--plus the fact that the hairy Elvis had generally grossed me out--I hadn't had time to eat more than a handful of candy corn as I'd hoofed it by the refreshment table. I bid adieu to my latest dance partner, Michael Jackson, thinking he needed a few more lessons. "Michael" had spent the better part of the dance walking on my toes rather than on the moon.

I thanked him for the experience and hurried to the refreshment table. Nabbing a cold can of pop from the cooler, I placed it against my fevered forehead. "Aaaah!" I was sweating worse than the guy wearing the furry-lined parka who'd come dressed as Nanook of the North. I eyeballed the goody table, trying to decide what I wanted first. I frowned as my gaze took in carrot sticks, broccoli, cauliflower and low-fat dip. Bran muffins and fake butter! Whole-wheat crackers with the butt-ugliest cheese ball I'd ever seen, and cookies made from what looked suspiciously like shredded wheat.

"Hello. What the heck kind of Halloween spread is this?" I asked to no one in particular.

"The kind meant for folks with hypertension, diabetes and congestive heart failure," Townsend said from behind me.

"I thought you were Sinbad the Sailor, not Dr. Jekyll," I said, yanking my witch nose down to hang like a freaky green necklace. I pulled the tab on my soda can and took a long swig. "Ugh!" I looked at the can. "Sugar- and caffeine-free! No wonder it tastes like cough medicine." I set the can down.

"Have you had an opportunity to speak with your grandmother, Tressa?" Rick asked, grabbing a carrot and dipping it in the low-cal ranch dressing. I gave him a look.

"What's the rush?" I asked. "It's not as if she can get pregnant." I chuckled.

Townsend didn't appear to see the humor in my jest.

"It's just that the longer we wait, the harder it will be for them both to take a step back. Slow things up a bit. Gain some perspective."

Townsend had been in his pirate garb too long. He was already going off the deep end. The last time my gramma had taken a step back was when she walked into an elephant's behind at the Shrine Circus.

"I think you're overreacting just a bit, Townsend. What harm can the two of them getting cozy really do?"

Townsend gave me an are-you-for-real look.

"Are you forgetting the Keystone Kop comedy of errors at the lake last June? Or the fair fiasco? Hell, just last week my granddad asked me if I knew of any divorce attorneys who needed investigators to get the goods on cheating spouses, and wanted to know if I knew where he could get hold of a stun gun real cheap."

I winced. This was probably not the time to tell Townsend I'd caught my gramma on
www.security
4seniors.com. "At least they've ratcheted down the firepower from real guns to nonfatal electrical charges," I said. "That's a good sign, isn't it?" I asked.

"Talk to your grandmother, Tressa," Townsend warned. "Or I will."

I was hurt by Townsend's heated opposition to the idea that his granddad and my grandmother might actually hook up. And more than a little indignant. Where did he get off dictating who his grandfather spent his time with? Who was he, Match.com?

"Don't worry, Townsend," I said, spotting what looked like honest-to-goodness turkey sandwiches--albeit on whole grain bread--down at the other end of the table. "I'll do my best to keep my dangerous, designing woman of a grandmother away from your dear old grandpappy. And I'd appreciate it if you would return the favor. In case you hadn't noticed, the bulk of this romantic pursuit has come from a Townsend-powered vessel, el capitan. Permission to fill my face, sir?" I performed a cockeyed salute and made my way to the turkey sandwiches.

They weren't so bad. Not after I slathered them with one-third-less-fat cream cheese and dipped them in the lite ranch dressing three or four times. I was working on a triple-decker creation when I caught a whiff of the unmistakable scent of Polident. Not surprising. The room reeked of it. That and Absorbine Junior.

"Havin' a good time, girlie?" Joe asked.

I shrugged. "The food could be better. How do you stand it?" I asked.

"I usually sneak into the kitchen now and then and grab something from the bucket of chicken someone bought."

My eyes widened. "There's fried chicken in the kitchen? Here? Now?"

He nodded. "A variety bucket. Popcorn chicken. Chicken strips. Original. And some wings."

I felt saliva pool near the corners of my mouth and caught it before I embarrassed myself--or soaked the little man beside me. "You are the man, Joe!" I said, grabbing hold of the old fellow and dancing around him like he was a maypole. Which, come to think of it, he could almost pass for.

Forgetting my turkey concoction in favor of artery-clogging fried poultry, I suddenly realized that I finally had Joe to myself, and I could pump the ol' guy for information about the mysterious mystery writer and the subject of my Pulitzer Prize for Journalism-winning feature. I debated my options. Fried chicken or career building? Honey-barbecue wings or network coverage? Face-feeding versus fact-finding. I considered it a moment more and finally decided on the only grown-up course of action: I'd see how much I could get out of Joe, but if I saw Elvis the enormo heading in the direction of the fried fowl, I was in that kitchen quicker than flies on fresh horse dung.

"Uh, Joe, I was talking to someone earlier today and this person told me something really interesting about you," I began, trying to figure out how to get the information I needed without giving any away.

"Oh, yeah? What was that?"

"Well, it was about a kind-of famous woman you mighta had a date with once," I said. I could tell from the sudden glitter in his eyes that I'd gotten his interest.

"Damned interloper," Joe snarled. "Brawny buttinsky."

"What?" I looked around expecting to see Ranger Rick. "Huh?"

"Romeo Rivas over there," he said, motioning at my grandma monster-mashing it up with a tall, silver-haired Zorro type. "He's movin' in on my territory."

"They're dancing, Joe."

"He's making the moves on Hannah."

I wanted to assure Joe that my gammy only had eyes for him--well, now that her cataracts had been dealt with--but remembered Townsend's edict regarding a cooling-off period between the two.

"If that's the case, Joe, she doesn't seem to be objecting," I said, feeling like pond scum when I saw uncertainty reflected in Joe's eyes.

"His wife only passed away six months ago. He didn't waste much time grieving. 'Course, he was hot to trot when she was alive, but no way was Jack gonna walk away from that marriage. She was the one that brought him the family business. Real estate agency and land developers. His son Jerry runs the show since he retired. Always thought ol' Casanova there was on the shady side. Now I can see I was right." Joe gave a disgusted grunt.

I wished I'd never opened my big mouth. I also wished I had a dime for every time I've thought that. If I did, I'd be soaking up warm rays on a white sand beach somewhere, waiting for Orlando Bloom to come apply a fresh coat of suntan oil and nibble an earlobe.

"It's just a dance, Joe," I reminded him.

"That it is, witchie-poo," he said, and pulled me out on the dance floor just as the last echoes of "he did the mash" evaporated. "That it is."

"Tough luck, Joe," I said, thankful to be spared the exertion of the lively dance. I'd just counted my lucky stars, but the music began again. "Is that a tango they're playing?" I asked with a bemused blink.

"That son of a bitch!" Joe said. "Hell yes, it's a tango. And Romeo Rivas over there requested it!"

Rrrawr! I thought. If Joe and ol' Romeo Jack were girls, we'd soon be chanting,
"Cat fight!"
My money, as always, was on the underdog.

"Come on, witch," he said. "Let's tango!"

Duh, duh, duh, duh, duh, duh.

The seductive chords of the tango, coupled with the outlandish costumes my dance partner and I had on, made me feel like I was in an episode of
Dancing with the Stars
meets
The Addams Family
.

"Walk with me, witch," Joe instructed, pulling me to him with a flourish and planting one Old Spice-soaked cheek to mine. "And step and step and step and plant."

"Uh, Joe, about that old girlfriend," I managed between the stepping, planting, sweating, huffing and puffing.

"What girlfriend? And one, two, three, slide, slide, step and plant."

"Elizabeth Courtney to you. Elizabeth Courtney Howard to like a gazillion and one faithful readers."

"And bend and bend and dip."

I heard a pop as Joe pushed me backwards, and I could only hope it came from one of my joints rather than from one of his bones. I wavered in midair, and I thought for a moment Joe would drop me on the hardwood floor.

"Elizabeth Courtney? I mighta had a date with her once," he said. "She went on to become a famous writer. And pivot and step and slide and plant and dip."

I was prepared this time and kept my footing.

"Did you keep in contact? Ever exchange Christmas cards? E-mail? Hemorrhoid remedies?"

Duh, duh, dub, dub, dub, dub.

"We used to get a Christmas card from her. Until about ten years ago, when they just stopped. Ruthie knew her better than I did. Like I said, we only had that one date. She was five years younger than we were. It was a pity date, really. She didn't have anyone to attend prom with, and Rick's grandmother asked me to take her. We had just started dating at the time. Ruthie felt sorry for her. Liz was an odd duckie, she was."

Duh, duh, duh, duh, duh, duh.

I don't know how it happened, but somehow I'd come to be leading Joe in the sultry dance. "And slide and step, and dip." I bent Joe over backwards in an elegant dip, if I do say so myself, and he gave me a surprised look.

"You're pretty strong," he observed.

"Hay-baling and manure pitching," I explained. I've got shoulders most men require steroids and a personal trainer to sculpt. I can't wear shoulder pads in anything. I look like I'm ready to suit up for the Minnesota Vikings' offensive line. Which, by the way, could probably use me, considering their recent season records. "Odd how?" I asked.

"What?"

"You said Elizabeth Courtney was odd. How so?"

I dipped Joe again and we smacked our faces together. I could feel the bristle of his cheek against mine.

"Why are you so interested in Elizabeth Courtney?" Joe asked. "She hasn't been back to these parts since high school graduation."

My slide faltered. "Uh, I'm just trying to get a handle on Howard," I said. "It's always intrigued me how such a famous best-selling author came from our little slice of hillbilly heaven."

"Don't try that hoodoo on me. There's more to it, witchy woman," Joe said, taking back the lead. "So what gives?"

I considered the pros and cons of taking Joe into my confidence. Lots of cons, obviously. After all, Joe was a major-league legend in his own mind. That delusion apparently ran in the Townsend family. But there was also one very compelling pro: He had known Elizabeth Courtney when she was a young girl. Had even taken pity on her and escorted her to the prom. She owed him. And that was one payback I wanted very badly to be part of. And to exploit, if possible. Of course, Joe didn't need to know that just yet.

"She's coming back to Grandville," I said, as Joe prepared to dip me. "There could be a story there," I went on, as if the idea of a gargantuan scoop was as commonplace as brushing and flossing. "And it might be a great opportunity to, uh, renew old acquaintances," I added, casting a telling look at my gramma, Vampyra, and Romeo Rivas, her masked Don Juan.

Joe's eyes followed the track of my gaze.

"Hmmm. Yes. I see what you mean," he said. "Couldn't hurt, could it? Renewing old acquaintances."

Duh, duh, duh, dub, dub, dub.

"You know, Joe, it's probably wise to keep this under your hat--until you find out if she's even willing to see you again, that is," I explained. "No point putting yourself up for public humiliation like that if Courtney Howard's gotten too high and mighty to remember old friends," I told him, feeling like something you scraped off your boots after mucking out the stalls. "And, remember, you did say she was odd even back then. No telling what time and celebrity has wrought." I was sooo bad.

Joe gave my grandma another intent look.

"And what do you get out of it, girlie?" he asked.

"Why, the pleasure of seeing you reunited with an old friend, of course," I told him, hoping I didn't end up a smoking pile of smelly, singed clothing like my Oz counterpart.

"Right. And a pretty juicy story, to boot," Joe said.

"Well, the moment does deserve to be recorded for posterity," I agreed, borrowing from Townsend's earlier quip.

"Posterity's posterior," Joe said. "Don't think I don't know what a journalistic coup it would be for you to get an interview with Elizabeth Courtney Howard and why you want this kept on the q.t.," he said. "Just don't forget who the founder of the feast is," Joe told me.

I gave him a narrow look.

"And don't you forget whose gramma you've got the hots for, Van Helsing," I reminded the lovestruck senior.

Dub, duh, duh, duh, duh, duh.

One more dip by Geriatric Joe. I saw his intent a half second before my butt hit the hard floor.

"Guess your weight got too much for me," he said, looking down at me.

I stared up at him, not believing the guy who'd plied me with brownies, doughnuts, coffee cake and liquor now had the gall to call me fat.

"That's okay, Joe," I said. "Not everyone can be built like Romeo Rivas."

Joe stomped off. I rubbed my butt. Okay, so I was no Samantha Stephens. Get over it. I was about to get up on my own when a hand was extended to me.