Austensibly Ordinary (20 page)

 

 

Unavoidably my thoughts fluttered back over the past twenty-four hours with Ethan as I bolted for the vending machine and an Orange Crush. It was difficult to know for sure, seeing as the other messages from Jane had been directed to me, but I assumed, given my request, that this one was meant for Courtney, with me facilitating.

Courtney and Ethan. I had suggested it myself a week ago when she was looking for a tagalong companion to her Roaring Twenties event, but this was bigger than that. And things were a little different now. A week ago Ethan had just been a cool but geeky guy who rocked in the friend department. Now he was bona fide boyfriend material. And he was sleeping with me. Scratch that—we'd had sex once (well, twice) and pawed each other in the computer lab. He was not my boyfriend, which is not to say he wouldn't be perfect as someone else's.

As the orange soda fizzed loudly in its bottle, I made the mature decision: I'd step back and away and let Ethan and Courtney decide if they could be more than friends with really good benefits.

I washed down the lump in my throat with a swallow of Crush and then glanced at my Jane Austen action figure, standing primly beside my pencil cup. Craving a little harmless violence, I aimed her leg for a sharp kick and watched my now-empty soda bottle sail into the trash can. Short of pulling it back out of the trash and repeating the little fit of pique, there was little left to do but go and see a girl about a ghost.

I transformed from school teacher to ninja in Courtney's office, and decided to introduce Ethan into the conversation as a counterpoint to Sportcoat, aka the Ghost-hunting Guru.

“Cate, he really is adorable. We talked for hours that night in the Driskill Café, and he's been back twice since to give me some pointers. We even spent fifteen minutes closeted together in the elevator, trying to get a reading on P. J. Lawless,” she told me importantly.

“And did you?” I asked, wondering if the Guru extraction would be more difficult than I'd assumed.

“Um. Not exactly,” she admitted, clearly flustered. She'd shrugged off a royal blue jacket in favor of the pseudo-ninja garb underneath, and the pale contrast of her skin against the black set off the sudden rosy blush on her cheeks.

“Wrong time again?” I asked, tongue-in-cheek.

“No. In fact, he may have been there, and we just . . . didn't see him.”

“How is it possible,” I said, knowing full well precisely how it was possible, “that the two of you could be in an elevator with an infamous ghost—around here anyway—and not notice him?”

“Well for one thing, Micah's equipment was going haywire,” Courtney snapped, lifting Casper the Friendly Ghost Finder onto the table and turning knobs and flipping switches in a semiprofessional manner. Either she'd learned something from Sportcoat or she was faking it really well.

“And for another . . .” I prompted, rather enjoying myself, even though I was going to have to bust this up. It was one thing for Courtney to have a ridiculous hobby that she indulged in in the safety of a respectable hotel, hooking being the exception to that rule. It was another to engage in said pastime with someone who took it a little too seriously, or worse, someone who thought nothing of playing a role to take advantage of a pretty ingénue.

“Let's just say we weren't fixing the equipment, Cate,” she admitted, fighting a smile.

I moved closer and dropped into the chair across from her desk, perched on the edge. “Do you really think you should get involved with a ghost hunter?”

She leveled me with a steady gaze. “You're involved with one,” she said, her eyebrow lifting in challenge.

“Only as a favor,” I reminded her. “And you're just messing around,” I countered.
Please let that be all you're doing.

“So's he. He's just better at it.” Her mouth curved into a crescent, framed on one side by a sweet little dimple.

“So he's not a ‘professional ghost hunter'?” I hoped she couldn't hear the quotes in my voice.

Her smile morphed into a disbelieving smirk. “No! He's a freelance writer, published regularly in magazines like
Wired
and
Popular Science
.” Seeing my raised eyebrows—one quite possibly higher than the other, likely coming across as dubious uncertainty—she added, “I looked him up online. He has a web page, and his picture is featured with one of his articles in
Wired
.” Now her eyebrow was up, and I had no choice but to lower mine in momentary defeat.

“Okay, fine,” I said, starting over, splaying my hands on the smooth mahogany of her desk. “So you like him, and he's a solid possibility. I still think you should maybe see if you and Ethan could hit it off as more than friends.”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat. Technically “friends with benefits” was “more than friends,” and I'd say Ethan and I had knocked it out of the park. But that was irrelevant—we weren't romantically involved and didn't intend to be. He was fair game, and so was I.

Courtney's brows knit in a mixture of confusion and exasperation.

“What is the deal with Ethan?” she asked patiently. “Why the recent push to get the two of us together?”

“You're already friends, and neither of you is in a relationship. I just think there might be the potential for something more.” It pained me, just a little, to admit that.

“You're better friends with him,” she pointed out, now a little bit sassy. “And you're not in a relationship. I say you've got dibs. And I think Ethan would agree and thank me for saying so.” She let this settle in for a minute before tacking on the death blow to my matchmaking scheme. “Besides, I think I sort of am in a relationship.” She grinned and shifted her focus back to Casper.

Well, I'd tried, so the matter was settled—it didn't seem kosher somehow to broach the subject with Ethan right after we'd taken our friendship to the naked level. I started rummaging for candy corn and ignored the fact that the evening felt marginally celebratory from that point on.

I trailed Courtney for thirty minutes before it happened, my only concessions to the hunt a pair of goggles and a clipboard. I'd volunteered to jot down any findings as an alternative to using a tape recorder, but so far had nothing on the page but a selection of bird and butterfly sketches. I was leaning over the balustrade on the stairs leading up to the second level, waiting for instructions, when a man came through the doors of the Brazos entrance. Tall and broad-shouldered, he carried himself with an almost cocky attitude. He glanced up on his way to the elevators and saw me watching him. It was the man from the other day. I let my mouth curve into a casual, passing-stranger, “I feel like I should remember you, but I don't” smile, but he didn't return it. In fact, he turned sharply away, stepping into the elevator and out of sight. Weird.

I had too many things on my mind to let a cranky stranger's bad manners bother me. By the time the really weird stuff started happening, the incident was already completely forgotten.

We were in the mezzanine ladies' restroom, Courtney attempting to extract an eyelash from her right eye and me washing my hands with the fancy soaps, when it happened.

A little shimmer appeared in my peripheral vision, and I glanced up curiously, searching the gilt-framed mirror for the source. But there was nothing, so I finished washing and picked up one of the upper-crust cloth-style paper towels arranged in a neat stack on the counter. As I rubbed my hands dry, the shimmer teased my subconscious a second time. Curious, I switched my focus back to the mirror. There was still nothing reflected there, but shifting my gaze slightly, I noticed that something was in the room with us, and, skeptic or not, I couldn't ignore the evidence that it looked a
lot
like a ghost. Or at least how I thought one might possibly look.

I started, as if someone had snuck up on me, as I supposed, someone had. Or some
thing
that had once been someone. Creeepy. My heart rate, having launched into a panicked reaction, didn't bother to settle, and I stood, blinking with a vengeance, half-hoping that with just one more twitch of the eyelids, she might disappear. And half-hoping she wouldn't.

This vision, with her wide, intelligent eyes, mischievous mouth, and willowy, ladylike stature, was clearly not the ball-bouncing child of hotel legend. So who was she?

I glanced back at Courtney, who was leaning over the sink, rubbing and rinsing.

“Court,” I said, keeping my eyes on our ghost and trying to take deep, calming breaths, “You're probably gonna to want to see this.”

“I can't see anything right now, Cate. Between the eyelash and the mascara running into my eyes, visibility is very low right now. Not to mention the fact that I can't stop winking! Shit!”

“I think it might be a ghost,” I murmured in singsong, keeping things light and friendly and backing up ever so slightly toward Courtney.

“What?! Are you serious?” She pivoted in my direction, dribbling water all over the pristine marble countertops and floor, squinting in a deranged sort of way. “Try to take a picture!” she screeched, frantically cupping her hands under the faucet and aiming palmfuls of water at her eyes, sending most of it cascading down into the V-neck of her black T-shirt. “Use your phone, and hurry! But don't spook her . . . stall for time!”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said, fumbling as I pulled my phone out of my pocket. I snapped two shots with shaky hands and didn't bother checking them. In all likelihood, I'd blurred them or she had, simply by virtue of being a ghost. I spared a glance for Casper, currently sitting on the floor at the feet of our translucent mystery guest and decided it wasn't worth the trouble. Clipboards were both user-friendly and nonthreatening. Turning back to the person-shaped shimmer, I smiled winningly and started jotting notes.

Ladies' Mezzanine Bathroom, Driskill Hotel, Cate Kendall, ghost hunting with Courtney Reynolds
. Who is currently occupied by a freakin' eyelash. Okay, what to write . . .
Visitor is female, mostly transparent, with no discernible reflection. She also appears to be hovering.

With that officially recorded, I looked up, conscious that I should probably try to make contact.

“Hi, I'm Cate. Who are you?” I clenched my teeth, bracing myself for an answer.

It could have been my imagination, but it seemed like her mouth, already edged up slightly at the corners, edged up a bit more. It was tough to tell, seeing as I was also looking right
through
her, at the flowered wallpaper hanging behind her. Seems I needn't have worried. Beyond the subtle shift in her facial expression, she didn't answer. Maybe she was shy.

“Um, do you come in peace?”

With this question, I was sure of it: She definitely smiled, and it was a saucy smile. I think there might have even been a nod of agreement.

I smiled an awkward half smile, spared a quick glance for Courtney, prayed for a quick search and rescue, and then glanced down again, jotting
“Friendly”
on the clipboard. I wondered suddenly how she had died, and a shiver crept up my arms. What if it was violent—gory, even? What if she was angry . . . or crazy mad? I was now officially freaked out.

“Shit!”

That one word, emanating from the sink behind me, echoing my sentiments exactly, worked like two paddles to the chest and broke me out of my funk. This wasn't exactly the House of Usher. I was in the ritzy bathroom of a historic landmark hotel in downtown Austin, with Hollywood lighting and fancy soaps . . . conducting an interview with a ghost.
Get it together, Cate. It's not like it's a vampire.

I jotted the questions as they occurred to me, desperately hoping she wasn't toying with me, biding her time, poised to launch into a terrifying medley of ghostly behaviors.

“Is your intention to be avenged?”
I asked, holding my breath.
No.

“Just put your eye under the faucet, Courtney, and blink the damn thing out!” I said in an urgent aside.

“On whom?”
Not a yes-or-no question.
“On us?”
That seemed doubtful.
Kind of looks like she raised her eyebrows—can't be sure.
Her stance seemed to indicate that she was waiting for something . . . possibly for me to get to the good questions. Or get the hell out of the bathroom.

I was beginning to wonder if there was any point to this . . . and the irony did not escape me. A ghost had found
us
and we—well,
I
—had no clue what to do with it. Where was Sportcoat when we needed him??

I heard the water switch off, and as I glanced back at her, Courtney was pulling a paper towel off the stack and dabbing the water from her raccoon eyes. Thank God!

Tossing away the trash, she slowly inched forward to retrieve Casper and lifted the strap over her head, busily tweaking and fiddling. She gave me the universal sign for “you're on a roll—keep it up,” and I almost seethed with frustration. But I dutifully turned back to my insubstantial and uncooperative new friend.