Ghouls Just Haunt to Have Fun (2 page)

“I never like any of your crazy ideas, Gil, because they all cost money and don’t return on the investment. We’re still paying for your thirty-second stint on late-night TV,” I pointed out.

Gilley got up from his desk and hurried into my office. With a flick of his hand he dismissed my pessimism. “That’s the beauty of this idea, M.J. It won’t cost us a penny. In fact, it will actually pay us
handsomely
!”

I sat down with another sigh and picked up the mail Gil had laid on my desk, sorting through the envelopes. “How much does handsomely go for these days?” I asked casually.

“Five hundred dollars a day!” Gil said, and clapped his hands happily.

I arched an eyebrow at him. “That’s less than we get paid for a bust.”

Gilley took a seat in one of the chairs opposite me. “Yes, but it’s free advertising! We’d actually get
paid
to tell the world about our business! And the exposure will be national. I tell you, this could be big!”

I set the mail down and eyed him critically. “I always know I’m in for a rude awakening when you play this stuff up.”

“Not this time,” he insisted, his knees bouncing with excitement.

“Fine,” I groaned. “What’s this latest brainstorm?”

“I just got off the phone with a Hollywood producer—”

“Hollywood?” I interrupted. “Isn’t that commute a little far?” We live just outside Boston.

“Well, of course we’d be flown in,” he said impatiently. “Anyway, as I was saying, this Hollywood producer is putting together this really cool new show for Bravo. You know how we love to watch our Bravo!”

“Uh-huh,” I said, sitting back in my chair and crossing my arms. So far I wasn’t too impressed, even though Gilley and I were avid fans of the cable channel.

“It’s an assembly of talent, the best mediums the world has to offer,” Gil continued. “This producer has scoured the U.S. to find the greatest psychics in the biz, in fact.”

“Who’s attending?” I was pretty up on who the best intuitive mediums in the country were. I was good friends with Rebecca Rosen from Colorado, and Theresa Rogers from California, not to mention that I’d actually met both John Edward and James Van Praagh in person, and if any one of them were in, then I might consider the idea.

“Bernard Higgins,” Gil said.

I searched my memory banks. “Never heard of him.”

“How about Heath Whitefeather or Angelica Demarche?”

I rolled the names around in my head and came up empty. “Have
you
heard of these people?”

“Sure!” he said, in that high, whiny way that told me he was a big, fat fibber.

I rubbed my temples and glanced at the clock on my desk. Nine a.m. and I already had a headache. It was a new record. “The answer is no,” I said flatly.

“But you haven’t even heard the whole pitch!” Gilley wailed.

“I don’t need to,” I warned, leveling a look at him. “It’s goofy, whatever it is.”

“It is not!”

“Fine.” I sighed. “Then tell me what this great assembly of
talent
is all about.”

“It’s about helping people,” Gilley said earnestly. “And isn’t that really what we’re all about?”

“Who are we helping?” asked a deep baritone from the lobby.

Gil and I both looked up to see six feet of tall, dark, and yummy. “Hey, Steven,” I said. Dr. Steven Sable was my significant other and our financial backer. In other words, he was ridiculously wealthy and had enough dough to blow on some rather eccentric “entertainment.” That’s right—Gilley and I were the “entertainment.”

“I’m trying to talk to M.J. about the TV show.”

“With the things that are possessed?” he asked. Obviously he was more in the loop than I was, which could mean only that Gil had told him in order to help warm me up to the idea.

“Possessed?” I asked, shifting my attention back to Gil. “You know I don’t believe in exorcisms.”

“No, no, no!” Gilley said quickly. “It’s not like that at all. Listen, this producer has an idea about a show where he gathers some mediums and has them tune in on objects that the owners feel are possessed with either good or bad spirits. Think of it as a haunted
Antiques Roadshow
.”

“Again,” I said to Gil, “the answer is no.”

“M.J.!” Gilley wailed. “You can’t say no!”

I stood up from my chair and laid my hands flat on my desk. “I thought I just did.”

“But I am all packed,” said Steven.

“What do you mean, you’re packed?” I asked.

“Gilley gave me the itinerary yesterday. He said we would need to be at the airport by noon today.”

“Whoa,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief. “Gilley, you already told this producer guy
yes
?”

“It’s all arranged,” Gilley said quickly. “And I’ve cashed the first check. They sent us a three-hundred-dollar bonus for signing the contract.”

“Wait a minute!” I yelled. “I haven’t signed any contract!” And then a flicker of memory burbled up in my mind. Two weeks ago I’d been on the phone and Gilley had swept in, placing some documents in front of me with little “sign here” tabs. Gil and I were in the middle of refinancing our condos for a lower rate—we lived in the same building, one floor apart—so I’d just assumed the papers had to do with the mortgage application.

To confirm that my memory was accurate I saw Gilley picking at his sweater, avoiding my eyes, and I knew I’d been had. “You’re fired,” I said, doing my best Donald Trump hand-like-a-cobra impression.

“You can’t fire me,” he said calmly. “We’re partners.”

“I won’t do it!” I snapped. “Get us out of this, Gilley, or so help me, I’ll . . .” I was so angry I couldn’t think of what I’d do, but I knew it was something big.

“M.J.,” Steven said, coming into the room to take a chair next to Gilley, “I think you should do it.”

“Easy for you to say,” I groused. “You’re not the one doing some goofy show on television that’s going to make you look like a loony tune!”

“I don’t think it will be so bad,” Steven said, his voice calm and soothing. “And I can tell you from my own personal experience that when I watch you work I am memorized.”

I should also mention that Steven was born in Argentina and raised in Germany. He’s new to both the States and English. “
Mesmerized
,” Gilley whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

“Yes, that too,” Steven said. “The point here is that the show is a good opportunity for your business, and to prove to people that you are a gifted medium able to communicate with the dead.”

“Think of it,” Gilley added. “I mean, how many people have some object in their home that they think might have bad energy associated with it? M.J., this could be a whole new business for us! It’s not just about busting someone’s home anymore; now we’re talking busting that old hairbrush or picture frame or whatever.”

I sank back down in my seat. I was outmanned, outmaneuvered, and outsmarted. “What happens if I don’t show up?”

“They’ll sue you,” Gil said. “Breach of contract and all.”

I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. “How long is this going to take?”

“Including tonight, it’ll take three days. We land this evening, and they start shooting tomorrow at eight a.m. sharp.”

“So we’re back here by Monday?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“And there’s no new business on the calendar?” It had been a slow couple of weeks.

“Nothing. Not even a nibble.”

“And you’ve already made arrangements for Doc?” Doc was my African Gray parrot. I’d had him since I was twelve.

“Mama Dell and the Captain are going to look after him.” Mama Dell and her husband, known only as “the Captain,” owned the coffee shop across the street and were good friends of ours.

I looked from Steven to Gilley and back again, hoping one of them would come to his senses and back me for a change. Finally I rolled my eyes and sighed. “
Fine
. But I swear to God, Gil, if this in any way makes me look like an ass, you’re going to pay for it.”

“Don’t I always?” Gilley muttered, but quickly flashed me a big, toothy smile and clapped his hands. “It’ll be fun!”

I gave him a dark look, and he wisely hurried out of my office, muttering something about heading to my condo to pack a bag for me.

“He’s right, you know,” Steven said after we heard the front door close.

“About this being fun? Don’t count on it.”

“No, about it being good for the business.”

“Or it will be really bad for business,” I countered, still irritated at having been hoodwinked.

“What is your worry over this?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“I’m worried that this program is exploitive, that the intent isn’t to educate as much as it is to disprove, and that the producer will use every opportunity to showcase any miss I get and call me out on national television as a fraud.”

“But you’re not a fraud,” Steven said gently. “You are the real McCain.”

One corner of my mouth lifted. “McCoy,” I corrected. “And I know that, but you should see what goes on in the editing room, Steven. I mean, they can take so much out of context that they could make Einstein look stupid.”

“Maybe you are taking this too seriously,” Steven reasoned. “It seems to me the show is about entertainment, not about making some sort of ideological point.”

My eyes widened in surprise. “May I say that your English is really improving?”

“Thank you,” he said modestly. “I’ve been practicing.” He got up then and came around my desk, lifting me up out of my chair and pulling me into his wonderfully developed chest. “I have a feeling you will look very good on camera,” he said, and kissed me lightly on the lips. “You have a face for the television.”

I smiled a little wider. “So if this thing turns ugly, you promise to get me out of there?”

“Mmmm,” Steven said, and kissed me again. “Yes, I will rescue you,” he added, caressing my back.

We did some heavy petting and smooching until we heard an “Ahem” from someone in the lobby. Neither of us had heard anyone come in. I stepped quickly away from Steven and spotted Mama Dell, looking very uncomfortable in the doorway. “Hey, there.” I coughed, straightening my clothes and patting my hair, which I knew was likely tousled.

“I’m so sorry,” Mama Dell said, color rising to her cheeks. “I didn’t know you were . . . uh . . . busy.”

“Mama,” Steven cooed, waving her into my office, where he pulled out a chair for her. “It is always a pleasure to see you.”

Mama smiled, blushed some more, and took a seat, looking at me expectantly.

“Is there something you need, Mama?” I asked.

“Gilley said to be here by nine thirty to pick up Doc,” she explained.

Just then the door opened and Gilley reappeared, struggling through the entrance with a large covered birdcage. From inside the cage we could all hear a scratchy, high nasal voice singing the lyrics to “In the Navy.”

“Ah, the Village People,” I said. “Gilley loves to play their greatest hits for Doc.”

Mama Dell looked over her shoulder. “Does he sing all the time?”

As if on cue, Gilley pulled up the cover on Doc’s birdcage and Doc stopped singing abruptly. He regarded all of us for a minute and then said, “Doc’s cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs!”

Gilley smiled tightly and dropped the cover. “I’ve got some of that cereal packed for you, Mama. He likes Cocoa Puffs with fruit.”

Mama Dell got up and stepped toward Gilley. “You’re sure he’ll be all right with me?”

“Of course,” Gilley said, reassuring her. “He’s met you before, and he seems to love you, so I’m sure he’ll be fine. Plus, he’s pretty good about entertaining himself. Just set his cage up in front of a window and let him out for a little while at dusk, and he’ll be just ducky for the few days we’ll be gone.”

“Well, all right then,” said Mama, adding, “I’ve got a lovely spot in my house next to the window where he can look out while the Captain and I tend to the coffee shop. Speaking of which,” she said, glancing at her watch, “I’ll need to hurry back. My husband can handle the morning crowd by himself for only so long before he gets cranky.”

Gilley helped Mama Dell out to her car with Doc’s cage and loaded it in for her. He was back a few moments later and said with a knowing grin, “By the way, M.J., your lipstick’s smeared.”

We headed to the airport after tidying up the office and packing our luggage for the trip. Steven left his Aston Martin—aka the Batmobile—in our parking lot, and we all piled into the company van.

We found a spot in short-term parking and made our way to the e-ticket kiosk for JetBlue. Once we had our boarding passes we got through security and found our gate without much hassle. “Not many travelers this late in the morning,” I said as we took our seats.

“Most people travel early on Fridays,” Gilley noted. “Here,” he said, sitting next to me and handing me a file. “In there is all the correspondence between Gopher and me.”

“Who?”

“The producer of the show,” Gilley explained.

I groaned loudly. “A guy calls you up and pitches you a show about haunted possessions, tells you his name is Gopher, and you take him
seriously
?”

“No,” Gilley said, pulling out a book from his backpack. “I took his money seriously. He wants to fly all three of us out to the West Coast, put us up at the Duke Hotel for three days, pay all our travel expenses, food, lodging, et cetera,
and
pay you five hundred a day for your troubles? Where do I sign?”

Something dawned on me then. “Wait a minute. What are you and Steven going to do while I’m shooting the show?”

Gilley opened his book, pulled it up to his nose, and pretended to read. He muttered something into the pages that I didn’t quite catch.

“What was that?” I asked, pulling the book down.

“The hotel is smack in the middle of downtown, and you do know how I loves me some San Francisco.”