Ghouls Just Haunt to Have Fun (6 page)

“Do you know him?” Steven asked.

“No, but we’re about to be introduced.” No sooner had I finished that sentence than the reporter excused himself from the woman he’d been interviewing and hurried over to intercept us.

“Excuse me!” he called, waving at us across the lobby. I had a moment when I thought about running, but really, where was I going to go? So I paused and waited for the reporter to trot over to us. “Hi, there,” he said with a winning smile that I didn’t trust for a nanosecond. “I’m Trent Fielding with the
San Francisco Chronicle
,” he added, extending his hand for me to shake.

I shook it and gave a cool, “Hello.”

“I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about the tragedy that happened here today,” he said, motioning with his head to the front door, where we could all see the CSI techs still gathering evidence, although I was thankful that Sophie’s body had been taken away.

I listened politely but declined the opportunity to give him any details. “I’m sorry, Mr. Fielding, but no. My associates and I were just about to meet our friends, and I’m afraid I have nothing to contribute to your story.”

I turned to go, but Fielding took a step forward and blocked me. “Really?” he persisted, again flashing that winning smile. “See, that’s funny, because I’ve got a photo here that begs to differ.” With that he showed me the viewfinder on his camera and hit a button. A digital image of me standing next to MacDonald appeared, with Sophie’s covered body in the foreground.

I resisted the urge to shove my way past the reporter and settled for making my voice sound as firm as possible. “As I said, I have
nothing
to contribute. Have a good afternoon.” And then I did push forward, brushing him with my shoulder just a little to get my point across.

From behind me I overheard the reporter ask, “What’s her name?”

Gilley’s enthusiastic voice replied, “That is M. J. Holliday, spelled with two Ls. She’s a gifted medium. She’s going to be on television, you know.”

I whirled around. “
Gilley!
” I hissed. But Gil was busy looking over Trent’s shoulder to make sure he spelled my name correctly.

“What is this problem you’re having?” asked Steven on the other side of me, and I realized he didn’t understand that I was about to be sucked into the Twilight Zone.

“A
medium?
” Fielding was saying. “You mean the ‘I see dead people’ kind of medium?”

Gilley nodded his head vigorously. “That’s right. She sees them, she hears them, and she busts them.”

“
Gilley Gillespie!
” I hissed again, but Gil was on a roll, and his new best friend, Trent, couldn’t write fast enough.

“When you say ‘bust,’ I’m assuming you’re referring to ghostbusting?” Fielding clarified.

“I am, indeedy!” said Gil, working himself up into a good story. “And let me tell you a bit about our most recent buh—Eeeeeow!”

I had Gilley by the ear and I wasn’t letting go until he stopped talking. “Come. With. Me,” I ordered, separating each word so there could be no doubt about how pissed off I was.

“Hey!” Gilley howled. “That hurts!”

“Then promise to walk over there without saying another word and I’ll let you go,” I demanded. I had little sympathy for my partner at the moment.

“Okay, okay!” he whined.

Gil hurried away from Fielding as Steven and I followed close behind over to a set of wing chairs and a small coffee table. Only when we were out of the reporter’s earshot did I let go. “What the
hell
is wrong with you?” I snapped.

Gil rubbed his ear and gave me a dirty look. “Usually I have your time of the month circled on my calendar, but I must have miscalculated.”

“Why do you
insist
on making a mockery of me?” I asked, ignoring his cheap shot. “Don’t you realize that the last thing I want is for the press to get hold of who I am and what I do?”

Gilley crossed his arms over his chest and pouted. His look told me he didn’t give a rat’s ass about what I wanted. “It’s good for business,” he insisted.

“
How
is being shaded as a nut job by some local reporter going to be good for business
exactly
?” I said loudly. A few people nearby turned to look at us, and I lowered my voice back down to a shrewish whisper. “Seriously, Gil! Have you no scruples? Will you just pimp me out to anyone with a pen and a story to tell?”

“Maybe it will not be so negative for you?” Steven suggested helpfully.

“Don’t be naive,” I growled, but felt bad when I saw him raise his eyebrows before tossing his hands up in surrender and giving Gilley and me some room.

“What would you have me do, M.J.?” Gilley snapped as Steven walked away. “Would you have me continue to run around Boston with
flyers
? Or maybe I should rehire that Casper guy? Because in case you haven’t been paying attention, girlfriend, our business is drying up faster than a woman in menopause, and I for one would like to continue to pay the light bill!”

“Again,” I said angrily, “how does making me look like an idiot benefit us? I mean, it’s not like we live out here and can just gas up the van and zip on over to bust any of the local-yokel ghosts!”

“Oh, stuff gets thrown up from these newspapers onto the AP all the time!” Gil argued. “And this kind of story, well, it’s juicy enough to go
national
! Think of it, M.J.!” Gil gushed, before dropping his voice down a few octaves and saying in his most serious broadcaster voice while his hand moved in short jerks, “‘Ghost hunter helps police solve local murder. Film at eleven.’ You can’t
pay
for advertising like that!”

“If you think there’s any chance of that reporter doing a legitimate article on us, you are as naive as you are light in the loafers! There’s no way he’d be objective! And it would compromise any amount of assistance I could offer the police. Think about that detective who took a chance by letting me help Sophie cross over. Think about the little bit of good I did by feeling out the energy in her hotel room and offering the police a direction on where to start looking, and how you just shot all of that straight to hell. If the press connects the dots that I’m helping the investigation in
any
way, the SFPD is likely to toss out all of my impressions. That could seriously damage the case they’re trying to make to solve her murder! How could you be so incredibly stupid, Gilley, as to jeopardize all of that for the sake of a small bit of
useless
publicity?”

I was so angry I could feel my face starting to flush. Gilley’s expression told me that he finally realized why I was so uptight, and he dropped his eyes. “Well,” he said, uncrossing his arms to tuck his hands into his back pockets, “when you put it like
that . . .”

I didn’t say anything more. Instead I turned away from him in disgust and headed over to the group that we had initially been walking toward. The first guy I came to was wearing a funky-looking hat and a cashmere scarf with dark sunglasses, even though it was rather dim in the lobby. “Hello,” I said, extending my hand and working hard to compose myself. “I’m M. J. Holliday.”

“Ah, Miss Holliday,” he said. “I’m Peter Gophner, but most folks call me Gopher. I have to say, I’m mighty impressed with your résumé.”

“Thanks,” I said, noticing that Gilley and Steven had just come up to stand next to me. I decided to play nice and introduce them. “These are my associates, Dr. Steven Sable and Gilley Gillespie. I believe you and Gilley know each other through e-mail quite well by now.”

“Gilley!” Gopher said, and I was actually surprised when he reached out to hug my partner. “It’s great to finally meet you, man!”

I felt myself smile when I saw Gilley’s delighted face. I knew he thought that Gopher was hot, and to get such a warm hug from a hot guy . . . well, I could pretty much figure Gil was already mentally picking out the china pattern.

“You too, Gopher!” my partner said, squeezing the producer in a tight embrace. I figured Gopher had about five seconds before Gil began some inappropriate groping.

Steven cleared his throat, and Gopher pulled himself out of Gilley’s arms. “Dr. Sable,” he said, extending his hand to Steven.

“A pleasure,” Steven said, and my smile broadened. Steven has the most delicious accent. Coupled with his deep baritone voice, it’s a wicked combination that always makes me feel a little googly inside.

Turning back to me, Gopher said, “M.J., I’d like to introduce you to our other mediums.”

“Super,” I said, working really hard to muster up some enthusiasm. However, when I saw a gentleman with a receding hairline and a horrible comb-over wearing—I kid you not—a cape, it was really,
really
hard to keep a straight face.

“This is Bernard Higgins,” Gopher was saying, and Bernard looked me up and down from toe to chest—where his eyes just stopped—and gave me a little bow.

I bent my knees and cocked my head, attempting to make eye contact. “Mr. Higgins,” I said, offering my hand.

Bernard took it, but instead of shaking it he turned it over and gave my palm a wet, slobbery kiss. “Enchanted,” he said.

Grossed out
, I thought.

“And over here we have Madam Angelica Demarche,” Gopher added, moving over to a woman I’d guess was anywhere from thirty-five to sixty-five. Looking at her face, it was impossible to tell. We’re talking Botox, face-lifts, and collagen up the yin-yang.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, offering her my hand, which she regarded with all the enthusiasm with which she’d probably regard a rat.

“Hello,” she said, looking down her nose at me and refusing to shake my hand.

I pumped it up and down anyway, as if I were shaking an invisible hand, to show her just how rude I thought she was being. Yes, I’m a smart aleck, but only in the face of blatant impropriety.

Gopher didn’t seem to notice; instead he moved me over to a young, good-looking guy with shoulder-length black hair, olive skin, high cheekbones, lots of turquoise jewelry, and a small white feather dangling from one earlobe. “And this is Heath Whitefeather,” he said.

Heath reached out his hand first and we shook, exchanging big, toothy smiles. “Hi!” he said, and I immediately liked him.

“Hi, yourself,” I said.

“Now that we’re all here,” Gopher announced, addressing the entire group, “let’s head next door for dinner.”

We all tagged along behind Gopher toward the Salazar Bistro, adjacent to the Duke, and my stomach growled as I caught a whiff of something delicious wafting out from inside the restaurant. “Man, am I hungry,” I said as we approached.

“All food is included, so feel free to chow down,” Gilley said to my right, and I noticed he was keeping a bit of distance from me. I gave him a smile that said we were on better terms, and he melted. “I’m really sorry!” he whispered, moving in to give my shoulder a bump with his own.

“I know,” I said gently. “Just next time, sweetheart, can you please think first and talk second?”

“You know that’s always been a challenge for me.” He grinned.

“Yes, but the challenging part isn’t just for you; it’s for the rest of us who suffer for it.”

“Okay, okay,” he said. “I get it. Now let’s drop it and enjoy dinner.”

“Deal,” I agreed.

The hostess led our troop to a table at the back of the restaurant large enough for everyone to sit down without feeling cramped. Gilley chose a seat right next to Gopher, (
quelle surprise
), and I went for the seat next to Gil. My chair was pulled out for me, and I turned my head to see Steven doing his usual chivalry thing. “Thanks, sweetie,” I said, and he gave my cheek a buss before taking the seat next to me.

Across from me I noticed that Bernard had taken his seat just to the left of Madam Hateful, and on the other side of him sat Heath.

I tried to ignore Bernard’s renewed attempts to ogle my chest (I’m “blessed” in that area, and I find that around lecherous old guys my boobs have the magical ability to lower a few IQ points) and opened my menu with enthusiasm, while using it as a prop to block Bernard.

“What looks good to you?” Steven murmured after a moment of looking at the menu.

“Everything,” I said with a grin. “But I think I’m going to go for the sautéed monkfish.”

“Good choice,” he agreed. “I was trying to decide between that and the braised short ribs.”

“Ooh,” I said, darting my eyes down the menu. “That sounds really good too. Why don’t you get that and I’ll get the monkfish and we’ll share?”

“Perfect,” Steven said, closing his menu.

I set mine down too, and that was when I became aware of the buzz around the table. “Yes, I agree,” Bernard was saying to Madam Hateful. “I too picked up a suicide.”

“Her lover left her,” said Angelica, and the way she spoke you couldn’t help but think she found herself incredibly important. “There was another woman, of course, and this caused the poor wretch to leap to her death.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Gilley staring at me the way a hungry dog stares when it really, really wants to take a bite out of your steak. I turned my head and lowered my eyebrows in that
don’t you dare say a word!
way, and he dropped his eyes to the table and sighed.

Gopher said, “Angelica and Bernard, do you think you might be able to contact this poor woman?”

“Oh, but I already have,” replied Madam Hateful with a wave of her hand. “She came to me in my room, you know, clearly distraught. She told me the whole sordid story and begged me to help her. But, as you know, there is little one can do for a suicide victim.”

By now I was playing with the corners of the napkin in my lap. It was taking a lot not to comment on the load of baloney coming out of Madam Hateful’s mouth, but I knew I needed to resist. Sophie deserved a little respect, and my ego didn’t need to be pumped up by dragging out what had really happened to her for these folks to feast on.