Ghouls Just Want to Have Fun (8 page)

"Well, look who we have here! If it isn't Calamity Jayne. What brings you to the senior center? Looking for a date? Gotta tell you, I don't think anyone's that desperate."

I wrinkled my nose as if I smelled something bad. Okay, so I did smell something bad--the competition.

I let Drew Van Vleet help me to my feet. I dusted off my black cloak, straightened my hat and pulled my nose out of my cleavage.

"Maybe I'm looking for a story," I told the blond-headed, fair-skinned, college graduate know-it-all who bore a strong resemblance to the youth who appeared on the Dutch Boy paint commercials and paint cans.

"Here?"

I shrugged. "A human interest piece, maybe."

Van Vleet gestured about the room. "I don't see many humans of interest here," he said, and for the first time I noticed what he held in one hand. A honey-barbecue chicken wing.
My
honey-barbecue wing.

My eyes on the wing, I asked, "So what are you doing here, then?" Besides pilfering from the Colonel's bounty, that is.

"I'm here to take a few pictures of the old folks recapturing their lost, lamented youth," Drew Van Vleet said. "It's good for business. Plaster pictures of the dinosaurs in the newspaper, and it increases the advertising stream from their doting families."

I frowned, wondering how a guy this young could become so cynical and jaded. So manipulative. Then I remembered how I'd just exploited Joe Townsend's affection for my gramma. I was worse than pond scum--I was Drew Van Vleet's evil twin.

"You give up on your fledgling journalistic career yet?" my unfriendly rival continued. "I can't believe Rodgers has kept a no-talent hack like you on." He brought the wing to his mouth, then paused. "You're not doing him, are you?"

I corrected my earlier assessment. Okay, so I was no Pollyanna, but compared to this guy I was a freakin' Snow White. With cooler clothes, though. And a huskier singing voice.

"Nice, Drew. Does your boss Daddy know you talk like that?" I asked.

He laughed. "Piece of advice here. Stick to cone dipping and burger flipping, blondie, and leave the reporting to the trained professionals," he said. "You know--someone with postsecondary education whose high school diploma doesn't come with the disclaimer, 'This graduate's performance does not necessarily represent an accurate assessment of GHS academic standards.' "

He brought the chicken wing to his lips and ripped into the meat much like I felt like doing to his pale white neck. I looked around, hoping my gramma was nearby. Her vampire teeth would come in handy right about now. Seeing that she was occupied with Romeo Rivas and the Tin Man, I decided to utilize the only other weapon I had available--and the only one I possessed that was never unloaded. Yep, you guessed it: my motormouth.

"Yeah, I can see how you'd need specialized training to cover the Rural Water Department's monthly meeting and the Quilting Circle's quiltathon to raise funds for the Butterfly Garden. Compelling stuff," I said. "Still, I imagine the heat is on over at
New Holland News,
seeing as how this past year the
Gazette
has broken the two biggest news stories that the county has seen since Tom Arnold and Roseanne Barr tried to open that loose meat sandwich joint," I said. "But, hey, look at the bright side. You've still got the Senior Citizen Monster Bash here to cover. And guess what? Elvis is alive and well and stuffing spoonfuls of lite sour cream dip in his face as we speak. So there's your big scoop! You're a professional--get on it, man! Nail that sucker! Make Edward R. Murrow proud."

Van Vleet tossed his mangled chicken wing on the table, his hand shaking from rage. Or laughter, maybe. Sometimes it's hard for me to tell one reaction from the other. I get both so frequently.

"Funny stuff," Drew Van Vleet said. "You might have a career in journalism, after all. Too bad
Mad
magazine is defunct. You could always try an Internet blog."

Danger. Danger. Sensors were picking up anger in the area.

"Maybe I will. It's bound to be more exciting than what folks read in the
New Holland News
as of late," I replied.

Drew picked up a soda from the table. I didn't bother to warn him it was diet. Let him find out the hard way like I had. He opened the can and took a long drink, then looked down at it in his hand. Ha.

"I feel I should warn you, the story I'm working on now will make your little fair feature and stiff story look like items from the Grandville High School rag. This story has major worldwide appeal," Drew promised, taking another swig of his pop and then making a face.

"What a coincidence," I said, unable to seal my lips before they got me in trouble. "I'm working up a pretty high-profile feature, too."

"Is that so?"

I nodded. "So I guess we see who puts their story to bed first," I told him.

"That's paper to bed, Einstein," Drew said, then walked off, shaking his head.

I remembered his gnarled chicken wing and hurried to the kitchen, only to discover the Colonel's bucket was bare and all that was left of the wings was some honey-barbecue sauce on the bottom of the box. I ran a finger through the sauce and stuck it in my mouth. It was soothing as a pacifier.

Drew Van Vleet thought he was so superior. Just because he had a college degree and his daddy owned the paper didn't give him the right to ridicule my credentials or my standing as a newspaperwoman. I had a pretty impressive portfolio going. Okay, so more of it than I'd have liked was due to dumb luck, but I'd thought I'd gotten past having to meet a burden of proof every time I stepped out as Tressa Turner, ace cub reporter. I thought of the slogan on the coffee mug my sister-in-law had given me for my birthday last year:
Whatever women do, they must do twice as well as a man to be thought half as good. Luckily, this is not difficult
.

I stared at the bottom of the chicken wing box as a call to arms gurgled up from my cavernous stomach. A cry for retribution. A challenge to accept.

I brought my hands together, wringing them in true Wicked Witch of the West form.

"I'll get you, my pretty," I cackled. "And your stupid newspaper, too! Aaaaahhaaaahhhaaa!"

CHAPTER SIX

Joe dropped Gram and me off before ten. The drive home was eerily quiet--especially given the fact that three-fourths of the car's occupants were usually vying for airtime. Joe was cranky and out of sorts. Gram was distracted--more so than usual. I was secretly plotting my revenge on a certain chicken-stealing cretin and trying to incorporate the flavor of the season in my payback. Smashed pumpkins on his driveway? Too traditional. A burning bag of poop on his front step? Done to death. An outhouse chained to his trailer hitch? Drew Van Vleet wasn't worth that much effort.

Townsend was in the best mood of us all, smiling and jovial. I wanted to slap him upside the head. No doubt he'd taken Romeo Rivas's dance with my gramma and the silence in the front seat as proof positive that I'd had "the talk" with Hellion Hannah and effectively applied the hand brake to the couple's runaway romance. Poor daft fellow. He needed a Dr. Phil reality check.

Inside, I sat at my tiny kitchen table and doodled drawings of scary, bare, leafless trees, with a huge moon in the background and pumpkins with various jack-o'-lantern faces. My golden Labs, Butch and Sundance, must have sensed my preoccupation, because they paced the kitchen floor like my mother's clients during tax season. Or me before I summon enough courage to open my credit card statements.

I thought again about Drew Van Vleet's insults. His put-downs. His superior attitude. The total dismissal of my accomplishments as if they were all results of happenstance or luck. Okay, so I'd already acknowledged that I hadn't actually gone looking for either of my big news stories, that they'd come looking for me, but still, what I made of those opportunities ought to count for something, right? Something more than "Calamity Jayne is at it again."

What would it take for me to live down twenty-two-years of
I Love Lucy
antics? I tapped my pencil on my pad.

I thought about that. In some ways, did I even want to? I had to ask myself. I loved Lucy. I got Lucy. She was an original. No one could duplicate her style. And look where it got her. A good living. A nice-looking Cuban crooner husband. A chance to meet my personal hero, John Wayne, and a plethora of other stars. Plus the opportunity to squish grapes with her bare feet and stuff her blouse with chocolate. Not many actresses can put that on a resume.

Okay, so maybe my methods were a bit unorthodox. Perhaps I didn't have the highest academic performance. Maybe I didn't graduate in the top fifty percent of my class. Maybe I wasn't the sharpest knife in the set, but I had something Drew Van Vleet didn't. I had Lucy Ricardo. And that, my friend, was more than enough.

I grabbed my car keys, a flashlight and a black denim jacket from the coat tree. Oprah had done a show about phobias several weeks back and, by the time the show was over, a girl who was petrified of spiders was letting a tarantula crawl up her arm. The key, the phobia expert said, was to confront your fear head-on. Don't give it power over you, but take back your power over it. The man who was cured of his fear of public restrooms made a believer out of me.

I was going to take that lesson to heart. I was going to drive out to Haunted Holloway Hall that very minute. Drive right up that driveway, get out of the car and walk back to that creepy cemetery. I was going to face my fears and take back my power. And get on with life.

I shoved the dogs out the door with me and herded them into the backseat of the Plymouth. I jumped behind the wheel and twisted around to look at my pets.

"I'm going to confront my fear tonight, fellas," I told the two dogs, who listened obediently. "Look it straight in the eye and not flinch. There's only one thing I need from you two," I said. "Butch. Sundance. Please, one of you guys, bark me out of it!"

My pooches just looked at me.

"Oh, great," I said. "You two get the opportunity to raise a ruckus and what do you do? Become civilized."

I started the car, and it belched a couple times before firing. I really needed a new car.

"Woof! Woof!" came from the backseat.

"Oh, so now you two have something to say," I said. "Nice."

I threw the car into reverse and backed out. I wondered if the fellow on Oprah who was terrified of rest-rooms felt as nervous as I did now, when he walked through that restroom door at O'Hare airport. He was lucky, though. At least he had a convenient place to tinkle in case the jitters got too much for him. Me? I'd have to find a place to squat if I got the urge. My luck, I'd end up with poison oak on my butt.

I stepped on the brake and stopped the car, suddenly wondering if losing my 'fraidy cat status was worth all this.

"Woof! Woof!"

I rolled my eyes. Another country heard from. "I'm going. I'm going!" I said, and put my foot back on the accelerator. "Backseat drivers," I scolded.

My speed decreased significantly the closer I got to the house on the hill. I already had to pee, and the bossy mongrels in the backseat were getting restless, too.

"It's your fault, you know," I told them. "All you had to do was bark me out of it. But oh no. You two sat there like those pets whose owners have them stuffed, posed and preserved after they die. Like, totally silent. By the way, don't expect the taxidermy treatment. Much as I love you two, it's rather costly. Besides, it's really gross!"

I pulled alongside the road just down from Holloway Hall and killed my lights. I checked my watch. Eleven fifty-five. Five minutes before the witching hour. Perfect timing, Tressa. It had taken me longer to get to the other side of town than it did for me to drive to Des Moines. And back. I supposed confronting one's fear was not a matter to be rushed. It took time. Thought. Oh, and courage.

"Okay, so here's the plan, fellas," I addressed Butch and Sundance again. "We get out, stroll to yonder cemetery. We stand there for a minute to prove I'm not chicken--a minute ought to be sufficient time to prove I'm brave, right? Then we're back in the car and heading home and it's Miller time!"

Butch and Sundance barked their agreement. Or maybe their reluctance. Who can really know for sure except Dr. Dolittle?

"So what do you think, fellas? I'm excited about this plan. Are you excited? I'm excited." Uh, in case you hadn't noticed, I tend to babble when I get nervous.

I got out of the car and left my door ajar, and opened the back for the pooches to pile out. The beasties sat and looked at me.

"Come on, boys! Let's go, fellas!" I urged. Butch and Sundance began to whine in stereo. "What is it with you, two?" I asked. "Don'tcha wanna get out and run?"

More whining. I grabbed hold of Butch's collar, since he was closest to me. "Come on, Butch. Let's go!" I said, and tried to pull him toward me. He was having none of it. I finally gave up.

"What the heck is wrong with you two? We're a team here. Like the Vikings. Okay, bad example. How about the Three Musketeers? Do I hear Moe, Larry and Curly?"

The dynamic duo stuck to the backseat tighter than my uncle Frank sticks to his checkbook.

"Come on, guys. Help me out here." I was not above a little whining myself. Unfortunately, it fell on ears unable to appreciate the carefully placed inflections.

I tapped my nails on the car door. "Roy Rogers's wonder dog, Bullet, wouldn't cower in the car," I pointed out. "Rin Tin Tin would be out of there and ready to rock and roll in a heartbeat," I said. "Heck, I bet the Taco Bell Chihuahua would even be game." I waited. I couldn't even shame the suddenly timid twosome into action.

"I'll remember this the next time I fry up a pound of bacon," I told the craven canines. "And at your next bath time." I shut the door and grabbed my flashlight, trying to ignore the shaking of my hand.

This was nothing, I told myself as I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, moving at an old lady's pace up the driveway to the house. No big deal. Take a casual meander up the drive of a house reported to be haunted, meander back to the family graveyard, count to ten, then hightail it back to my car and drive home and pull the tab on a cold one to celebrate my triumph over trepidation. Don't you just love the thesaurus? Like, when will I ever have the opportunity to use the word "trepidation" again?

I crept--Wait, that sounds way too cowardly. Let's make that "moved stealthily." It's more heroic, don't you think? I moved stealthily up the driveway, dousing the light when I saw a dark cargo-type van backed up to the side of the house. Holy bat guano! Did my eyes deceive me, or was the author in residence?

I moved to the right of the driveway and hid--took cover--uh... secreted myself behind some thick lilac bushes now somewhat devoid of greenery, yet with branches still thick enough to hide... er, conceal me.

I could pick up the low, hushed tones people seem to use when it's dark out, no matter whether their nearest neighbor is next door or like twenty city blocks away. Like we were. With no one around to hear them for miles and miles. Like we were.

I was suddenly getting a not-good feeling about my little symbolic self-improvement campaign. Like, it would tank like Michael Dukakis's presidential campaign. (See? I do remember some stuff from school. Especially when public figures make asses out of themselves.)

I watched as two figures emerged from the front door of the house. Lights from the porch revealed a man and a woman. My eyes were immediately drawn to the woman. I couldn't help a nervous intake of breath. Could this be the famous but unsociable Elizabeth Courtney Howard? I took in the dark shoulder-length hair and approximate age of forty or thereabouts, and decided this could not be the world-renowned author. Too young. Too not-gray.

I checked out her companion. I'd never been good at judging age, but I guessed he was probably in his early to midthirties. Cropped dark hair. Muscular build.

The man walked around the side of the house, stopped at cellar doors that lay flat against the ground, and grabbed hold of a handle, lifting and opening first one door and then the other. He said something to the woman, but I was too far away to make it out.

He met her at the back of the van, and they opened its doors. More conversation. They appeared to be in the process of unloading something. The van bounced a bit as the two struggled with whatever it was they were trying to remove. A grunt followed by a colorful curse, both courtesy of the man, pierced the eerie silence of the night.

And the next thing I knew, the two were on the move and heading in the direction of the cellar doors, the man walking backward, the woman at the other end.

I finally thought to look and see what was so important that it had to be unloaded in the dead of night. I stared at the long wooden box between the two figures, and felt the sudden urge to tinkle in my pants.

Uh-uh. No way. Couldn't be. That was
not
a coffin being carried down the stairs and into the cellar.

It was a crate. A storage box. A trunk. Illegal drugs. A box of automatic weapons. The missing weapons of mass destruction. Anything. Anything but what it appeared to be.

A thick, heavy scent of roses reached my nostrils, and I looked around. I stood there shivering, silent as the grave--uh, silent as my uncle Frank at tithing time. Or my dad most of the time. A sorrowful moan mingled with the tragic bouquet of the floral fragrance in the night air. I tensed again, catching movement beyond the house, just outside the circle of bushes that surrounded the Holloway family cemetery. What the hell was that? I put a hand to my eyes to remove the glare from the porch light and squinted into the darkness. I squinted harder when I saw a splash of white, stark and pallid against the dark backdrop.

"Scooby freakin' Doo!" I whispered. "Holy Halloween!" I watched, unbelieving, as a wispy sheet of almost-transparent white appeared to float across the backyard, soft whimpers of heartache providing macabre accompaniment. "Loralie?" I whispered.

I was, like, totally on the verge of embarrassing myself at this point. Good thing I was alone. Well, sorta. Kinda.

A sudden movement from behind caught me off guard. Hot breath singed the back of my neck.

"Loralie?" I squeaked.

"No. But I'm by far your biggest nightmare," a deep voice declared. "Partner."

I winced.

"I have a very good explanation for this," I said, keeping one eye on the lookout for the filmy white object I'd observed earlier--which now appeared to have vanished--and one on the hand that had a tight grip on my arm.

"I look forward to that," Shelby Lynne replied, and I could have sworn I heard the sound of cracking knuckles.

As I walked back to my car, stopping to look over my shoulder not more than--what? Ten or twelve times? I thought that getting Shelby to put the blame on Oprah was going to be much easier than convincing her there was a coffin in the cellar and a ghost in the graveyard.

Gee. Those sound like really rockin' book titles, don't they? Too bad I was too cowardly to write the books.

Thirty minutes later Shelby Lynne Sawyer looked no less menacing than before, arms crossed, one size-eleven foot tapping in a dum-dee-dum-dum rhythm that didn't bode well for the good ol' girl who'd done her wrong. In a nonsexual context, of course. Considering her extreme length, I should've known Shelby Lynne would go to extreme lengths to protect her interests in the story.

After she'd caught me in the act of cheating, so to speak, she'd followed me back to my humble abode, sticking to my bumper so close I could've seen the whites of her eyes in my rearview mirror--if I had a rearview mirror, that is. Mine fell off some time ago. I figure if I really need to see what's behind me, I can just stick my head out the driver's-side window and take a look-see.

Shelby stood at the sink in my cute but compact kitchen, taking up a considerable chunk of square footage. The expression on her face was not unlike the ones directed at me by various police personnel upon the recounting of my stiff-in-the-trunk story earlier that summer. It's a cross between the look Dick Cheney wears much of the time and the one John Kerry wears when Senate business forces him off the ski slopes.

"So you saw two people unload a coffin and carry it into the cellar at Haunted Holloway Hall. Was this before or after you saw the ghostly white apparition? And after you took your Xanax, I presume. Or maybe you saw what you saw because you're off your meds."