Ghouls Just Want to Have Fun (10 page)

"I'm Vanessa McCormick."

"Are you related to Ms. Courtney Howard?"

She didn't respond.

"Look," I said. "We have reliable, incontrovertible information that Elizabeth Courtney Howard is in town on a probate matter. It's big news. As you would expect, for obvious reasons, we'd like to keep this fact under wraps, as we're hoping to persuade Ms. Courtney Howard to favor our newspaper with an interview, but I'm sure you understand that if word got out, there'd be half a dozen satellite trucks parked out front by lunchtime. Think O.J. trial." Okay, so Shelby Lynne wasn't the only person capable of a little self-serving blackmail.

The dark-haired woman gave me one of those head-to-toe-and-back-again looks. The ones that make you feel as if you're standing there in holey skivvies. Or no skivvies at all. I could almost reach out and touch the fog of indecision that clouded the air between us. The woman threw an uncertain look over her shoulder at the house and then crossed her arms, rubbing her biceps with her fingertips to keep the chill off.

"I've been Ms. Courtney Howard's administrative assistant for over fifteen years," she finally said, holding out a hand to me. I took hers and pumped it. It was like grabbing hold of a cold crappie.

"Nice to meet you, Ms. McCormick," I said.

"Ms. Turner, was it?" she asked, then extended her hand to Shelby Lynne, who stared at it as if even the idea of shaking the hand of her idol's secretary was suddenly too much to grasp.

I nudged Shelby Lynne, and she covered Vanessa's hand with a large paw. "Hi," she managed.

"Ms. Sawyer," she greeted Shelby.

I held my breath, hoping she didn't recognize the name and make the connection to Shelby Lynne's mom--our unsuspecting source.

"So, is Ms. Courtney Howard available for a sit-down?" Shelby asked. "Or is it too early? We can come back. When's a good time?" Talk about your nervous chatter. Clearly I wasn't the only one with a motormouth run amok.

"I'm sorry. An interview is out of the question," the adamant administrative assistant declared. "If you know anything at all about Ms. Courtney Howard, you know she doesn't give interviews--hasn't given an interview in years. I don't anticipate that will change just because she happens to be back in her childhood hometown for a few days. I am sorry."

"But you won't know until you ask her. Isn't that right?" I figured I'd better inject myself back into the conversation. After all, I was the real reporter here. And okay, you can quit laughing now.

"I've been with Ms. Courtney Howard a long time. I think I am well qualified to speak for her. In fact, she insists on it."

"But you will ask her? As a favor to us. We'll wait, of course."

Add Vanessa McCormick to the list of people who got that brow-wrinkling put-out look after limited exposure to me. Hey, you gotta admit I was polite to a fault. I did offer to wait for a response rather than doing an "Elizabeth, Elizabeth! Wherefore art thou Elizabeth?" from beneath her window a la
Romeo and Juliet
. I filed that away in my list of possible contingencies just in case.

Ms. McCormick looked from me to Shelby Lynne and back. She bit her lip.

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to check if Ms. Courtney Howard is up and around," she said. "And, if so, I'll see if she is interested in talking to you. But I warn you not to get your hopes up. She hasn't been well this past year. She has a very tight deadline to meet, and when she's in the middle of a project, she likes to immerse herself in her story. She really can't abide distractions when she's writing and is a stickler for her writing rituals."

"But you'll check. Right?" I thought I'd better remind her of what we expected before she talked herself out of it. For the first time I wondered if Courtney Howard might be a bit of a tyrant to work for. A bit of a prima donna. Still, if that was the case, why would McCormick remain a faithful employee for so many years?

"Wait here." Vanessa spun on her heel and entered the house again.

"I take it that was one of the bearers of Count Dracula's remains," Shelby Lynne said. "Funny. She doesn't look much like a familiar."

"You didn't see her at the stroke of midnight after you'd spent the evening in the company of Van Helsing and Lily Munster," I told her, garnering a puzzled look.

"Just think. In a few minutes we could be sitting down to pick the brain of a world-renowned author." Shelby put a hand in front of my face. "See that? I'm shaking as if I'd just seen your lady in white," Shelby Lynne said. "This is not like me at all."

I smiled. It gave me a sort of sadistic satisfaction to see the unshakable Shelby Lynne quaking in her shoes. What can I say? I can be a tad bit petty at times.

"I suppose that smile means you're cool, calm and collected?" Shelby inquired with a look of skepticism.

My smile broadened, but truth be told, the armpits of my shirt were ready for the spin cycle.

"Naturally my experience has taught me to keep my composure in stressful situations," I lied.

Shelby nodded. "Ah. Was that the same composure that had you messing your panties last night?"

Oooh. Score one for Sasquatch.

"Hey, I don't need this abuse from you," I said. "I've got people taking numbers for a chance to take a cheap shot at me." Including one very experienced ranger.

Shelby chuckled. "You are so strange," she said.

We cooled our heels in the crisp morning air as the sun continued its slow ascent into a sky that promised a picture-perfect fall day. After about half an hour, I started to get antsy. I looked at my Bargain City bargain watch again.

"So what do you think? What are our chances?" Shelby asked.

I shrugged. "Maybe fifty-fifty," I said.

"Maybe it's a good sign that it's taking so long. It would take some time to get Elizabeth up and around if she's still in bed. And she would have to get dressed and spiffied up. So it's good that we're still waiting. Right?"

I found myself a wee bit touched at the wistfulness in Shelby's voice. This was really important to the young woman. And for some reason I couldn't put my finger on or comfortably define, I found myself really caring that Shelby Lynne might be disappointed. Almost as much as I cared that I might not nab this interview. See? I'm growing. Learning. Scary thought, huh?

I blew on my hands and shoved them into the pockets of my hoodie and stamped my feet. Patience is not high on the list of qualities I possess. Okay, so it doesn't make the list at all. It's one of those characteristics I hope to add as I mature. I figure by the time I reach retirement age, I'll have enough time on my hands that I can afford to be patient. Of course, that little theory didn't hold true for my gramma. Most days she can't even stand to wait for a three-minute egg.

The door rattled and got our attention right away. My hopes took a nosedive when Vanessa McCormick opened the door and stepped out, pulling the door closed before I could even peek around her.

"I'm so sorry," she said with a glance up at the terrace window on the second floor. "I tried. But Ms. Courtney Howard was adamant. She does not want to give an interview. Hometown correspondents or not." She shook her head, and I sensed her frustration. "I wish I had better news," she added. "But Ms. Courtney Howard was very clear on the matter. And, naturally, whether I agree or not, I must respect her wishes."

"Maybe today just isn't a good time," Shelby said. "We could come back anytime. Tomorrow. The next day."

I winced at the unveiled longing in Shelby's voice. Like I sound when I really, really want a pair of Doc Martens strap boots and I've cut up my last credit card and my funds are how-low-can-you-go low.

"I'm sorry," Vanessa responded, "but no day is good for an interview as far as Ms. Courtney Howard is concerned, I'm afraid. Not today, not tomorrow, not next week. I'm so sorry, but those are her wishes and I must abide by them."

One look at Shelby's face, and I was ready to storm the castle and confront the chatelaine of Haunted Holloway Hall. Who did Courtney Howard think she was, anyway? She slid her Levi's on one leg at a time like the rest of us, didn't she? She'd once been one of us. Just a small-town girl. The least she could do was come down and give us the bad news in person. Sign her book for Shelby Lynne and then send us packing. Ms. Courtney Howard had just dropped on my author rankings to behind Madonna and just ahead of James Frey.

"I'm sorry to hear that," I told Vanessa. "Sorry that your employer seems to have forgotten where she came from and who is responsible for putting her where she is: her readers."

Vanessa nodded. "I understand your frustration. I wish there was something I could do, but my hands are tied. You have to understand that Ms. Courtney Howard is under a lot of stress right now. This is Ms. Courtney Howard's last and final book. She wants it to be perfect, but she hasn't been well. I'm sure you can understand that this is the worst possible time to ask her to change a long-standing practice of shunning the media and agree to sit down with you. It's just not going to happen. I'm sorry you got your hopes up only to have them dashed, but I did warn you. Now, if you'll excuse me." Vanessa held out a hand to Shelby and shook hers, and extended a hand to me. "It was nice meeting you both. Now I must get back to work."

McCormick turned on her heel and reentered the house. She met my gaze briefly as she shut the door.

"Well, I guess that's it, then," Shelby Lynne said. "Her final answer. A big fat zip. No meeting. No interview. No signed book. No brain picking. No prize-winning journalistic collaboration. Nothing."

I turned to Shelby Lynne. "You remember the saying that goes something like, 'We have not yet begun to fight'?" I asked.

She nodded. "Yeah. So?"

"So it's time to bring out our secret weapon," I told her.

"Secret weapon? We have a secret weapon? And what would that be?"

"Who, not what," I said with a tight smile. Or maybe I was gritting my teeth. Who's to know? "And you wouldn't believe me if I told you," I added, not quite believing it myself.

I took a long, shaky breath. Did I really want this story badly enough to involve a senior whose traditional Christmas programming included
Die Hard
and
Die Hard 2,
and who was currently researching what it took to obtain a Pi's license? Who had hooked up with Hellion Hannah at the fair a month earlier and taken close-up photos of the testicles of the big boar?

I took a look at Shelby, who was busy kicking the tire of my Plymouth with one Sasquatch-sized foot and muttering to herself. I thought I picked up references to "Drew Van Vleet" and "friggin' coconut doughnuts" and "brain farts," but I can't be sure.

Okay. Let's see. How badly did I want this story?

Badly enough to bring the Green Hornet out of forced retirement, that's how bad. And something told me I was gonna live to regret it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I dropped off a bummed-out Shelby at the high school, making sure I dropped her at the side door so as to avoid any potential unpleasantness with Principal Vernon. I'd almost had to perform one of those blood oaths swearing I wouldn't make a move on Courtney Howard without her.

I dropped by the
Gazette
to provide Stan with my lack-of-progress report. He didn't appear to be surprised by the fact that I hadn't come in all excited with armfuls of notes and photos and a cocky I-told-you-so attitude to go with it. Still, having confirmation from Howard's assistant that the author was, indeed, residing at Collinwood--er, Holloway Hall--however temporarily, put a gleam in Stan's eyes I hadn't seen since he was nominated for medium-sized-market publisher of the year by the Iowa Newspaper Association. You can bet that little news item got front-page coverage, with a courtesy copy sent to a certain competing newspaper who did not receive a nomination this time around.

"Stay with it," Stan told me. "Although I probably don't have to tell you that, considering the way you hounded me to give you back this job in the first place. In other words, be as much of a pain in the ass to Howard as you can be to me until she agrees to the sit-down just to get you off her back. You're good at grating on people. Better than fingernails on a blackboard."

I started to tell him thanks until I realized I'd been royally dissed.

"You know, you really ought to be nicer to me, considering I've brought you the two biggest stories of your career in less than six months. I'm, like, a regular news magnet," I told him. "In fact, I'm thinking it's time to renegotiate my contract."

"You don't have a contract," Stan said.

"I don't?"

Stan shook his head.

"Shouldn't I, like, have one? To spell things out?"

Stan leaned forward in his chair. He removed his glasses and gave me the benefit of his bushy-low-brow stare. "To spell out what, exactly?" he asked.

I swallowed. "Terms?" I suggested. "Compensation? Benefits?"

Stan got to his feet. "Compensation? Benefits? Who the hell have you been talking to? That schleet-meister over at
New Holland News?
"

I shook my head. "It's just that I've been here six months, and I feel a raise in pay--compensation--is in order."

Stan frowned at me. "Are you sure Van Vleet or that arrogant ass of a son of his haven't tried to backdoor me here? Lure you away with false promises of," he sputtered, "terms, higher compensation, benefits!"

I stood. "Don't blow a gasket, Stan," I said. "We can revisit these negotiations at a later date."

Stan raised an eyebrow.

"Once I deliver on the Howard story, you'll be wanting to make me a full-fledged partner."

Stan's other eyebrow went up. "Oh? So you have money to invest in the newspaper?" he asked.

Money? Oh. Money.

"Well, no. But I will once I win the Pulitzer Prize," I told him.

"We'll talk then," Stan said, and sat down and stuck his glasses back on his nose--his silent signal that I was dismissed. "By the way, Joan has a couple of events you'll need to drop in at, take a few notes, snap a couple photos and get 'em back to me. Nothing urgent, but they need to be covered."

"Did I catch the noon Kiwanis this time?" I asked. They always served quite a spread, including at least four different kinds of pie.

Stan shook his head. "Smitty drew that one."

"Lions Club?"

Stan shook his head again.

"Breakfast Kiwanis? Optimists? Lion's Club?"

More no's.

"You didn't put me on the county crime beat, did you, Stan?" I asked. "Because Deputy Doug and I don't actually click, if you know what I mean."

"All you have to do is pick up the printouts from the PD and the sheriff's office, Turner. In and out," Stan said. "And that's Sheriff Doug now," he added.

I nodded. "I keep forgetting."

My recent experiences associated with the courthouse were memorable ones, but not in one of those scrapbook-keepsake kind of ways. Not by a long shot.

"And the contract negotiations?" I asked, knowing Stan expected me to forget we'd touched on this issue. With me, diversion usually works.

"I said, we'll talk," Stan said.

"You bet we will, cheapskate," I mumbled--just as soon as I got out of earshot. "You bet we will."

I opted to stop by the local police department first and pick up their activity sheets. Although they weren't huge fans, there wasn't the history of back-and-forth sniping and cheap shots that the former deputy--now sheriff--and I shared.

Deciding that it was never good to do something unpleasant on an empty stomach, and seeing that the time was getting on towards noon, I decided to stop at the Dairee Freeze to check things out, including, but not limited to, the Taco Tuesday special that came with cheesy tots and a drink. Not that I really have to pay, of course, but sometimes I feel like a bit of a mooch if I eat on days I'm not scheduled to work. So I always order the special, whatever that is, when I'm going to pay. I guess that makes me a bit of a cheapskate, too, now that I think about it. Hmm.

I parked Whitey back by the storage shed so the oil leaks would be confined to one spot, and entered the Freeze. Uncle Frank and Aunt Reggie had left Sunday for some well-deserved rest and fun in the sun in Vegas. Frankie and his girlfriend, Dixie, half woman, half beast, were covering the business in their absence.

Frankie was currently taking classes in criminology at a nearby community college. He'd had an epiphany during the state fair, when he had a chance to go deep undercover while trying to expose the treachery of a soft-serve saboteur targeting Uncle Frank's fair businesses. Frankie is now convinced he has the right stuff for a career in law enforcement, and plans to apply to the state public-safety academy when they begin seeking qualified applicants next spring.

Hunky trooper P.D. Dawkins was "mentoring" Frankie in his possible: pursuit of peace officer credentials. Patrick Dawkins and I had become acquainted in the aftermath of the fair hijinks. We were keeping things on a "strictly friends-only" basis. For the present, at least. The trooper has the extraordinary habit of accepting me for who I am that endears him to me in a big way. While Uncle Frank is secretly hoping Frankie changes his mind and decides to continue serving the public as a supplier of ice cream rather than as an arrester of bad guys, I've noticed a certain swelling of Uncle Frank's chest whenever someone mentions Frankie's lofty aspirations. Of course, that could also be heartburn from too many Taco Tuesdays. Or angina from thinking about what his grandkids might look like with Dixie Daggett providing half the genetic material.

I suppose you've gathered that Dixie and I aren't each other's favorite people. Dixie has a personality similar to Peppermint Patty from
Peanuts
. Physically, however, she more closely resembles Charlie Brown. Hey, I could've been meaner. I could have said Snoopy. Besides, Dixie has been the queen of nasty to me. As a matter of fact, a few months ago Dixie wanted to fight me. Of course, she was drunk at the time and only ended up ralphing. So, yeah, there's a history there, too.

I entered the restaurant, pleased to see that the place was doing a respectable lunch business. Ice cream cravings might be slacking off due to the nip in the air, but the Dairee Freeze serves the best chili in town.

Frankie was taking orders at the drive-up and his significant other was at the front counter. I was thinking it should be the other way around. That way Dixie couldn't scare off customers.

I started to go around behind the counter, but Quasimodo stopped me.

"You can't be back here," she said, standing in my way. She was shorter than me but stocky like a wrestler. Sumo variety.

I looked at her. "You've got to be joking. I've spent more time behind this counter than your fiance over there, and he's the heir to the family jewels."

"Jewels or not, you can't just waltz in here and take over when you're not scheduled to work. Besides, your hands aren't clean. You can't come behind the counter with dirty hands. It's state law. You know. Public health code."

I wondered what the heck Dixie was talking about. I'd never heard of this law. How the heck did they enforce it? Go around sniffing people's hands? Swab palms with Q-tips?

"Okay," I said. "Then I'll have the Taco Tuesday special."

"I'm afraid you'll have to step to the back of the line and wait your turn, ma'am," Dixie said with an evil glint to her eye. That's right. Eye. As in the one right in the middle of her forehead.

"Excuse me?"

"Please, ma'am, there are people who have been waiting longer than you. Please step to the back of the line."

"Yeah, no cuts." A pudgy little grade-schooler gave me a dirty look.

I looked down at him. "Aren't you supposed to be in school?" I asked.

"I'm homeschooled," he said, and stuck his tongue out at me.

Nice.

"I see that's working out well for you," I said, and slunk to the bathroom and washed my hands until the skin was red and raw. As I walked past Dixie, the gatekeeper, I held them up like surgeon's hands waiting for the nurse to slap on latex gloves.

"Do these pass muster, Ms. Inspection and Appeals Person?" I asked, somewhat familiar with the folks who were responsible for the yearly restaurant inspections. "Or do you want to perform a scratch-and-sniff test?"

Dixie snarled but permitted me to pass.

"By the way, did you manage to scare up a date at the senior center last night?" she asked. "Geez, Turner, if you wanted a date that bad, you should've let me know. I'm sure I could have found someone who was born after D-day and still has his own teeth," she said.

"How'd you hear about that?" I asked.

Dixie shrugged. "Drew Van Vleet was in. Said for you to check out the next issue of the
New Holland News,
and you might find something that interests you."

I frowned. I could only imagine what that jerk could cook up to splash across the pages of the
New Holland News
. I mumbled something about paybacks and headed over to my cousin.

"Hey, Tressa," Frankie greeted me from the drive-up cubbyhole. I immediately noticed the difference. Normally, Frankie responded in a nasal, monosyllabic monotone that included a lot of heavy sighs and poignant pauses. But since Frankie had acquired direction for his life--and a potential life partner of some species or another--he'd lost that hangdog look and even made eye contact on a regular basis.

"Hey yourself, Frankfurter," I replied. "How goes the restaurant business?" I asked, still holding my hands out in front of me, ready to have the latex slapped on. "No grease fires or E. coli, I hope."

Frankie gave a look around the restaurant. "Do not even joke about that here!" he scolded. "It's like yelling 'bomb' on an airplane."

Wow, was he taking his responsibilities seriously. A year ago, Frankie would have been the one yelling, "Mad cow! Come and get your mad cow!"

"You seem like you actually like the Dairee Freeze, Frankie," I said.

Frankie shrugged. "What I like is not having Dad breathing down my neck and criticizing everything I do. This is the first time he's gone out of town and left me totally in charge." He paused. "It feels good. May I take your order, please?"

"I'll take the taco special," I said, and Frankie shook his head at me and pointed to the metal headset stuck on his noodle.

I nodded. "I'll just get that myself," I said. I fixed a taco basket, filled a large cup with ice and diet cola, sidled past the chubby kid who was still waiting for his grub, and stuck my nose over my food basket and sucked in the smell with gusto. "Ahhh!" I shot the homeschooler a smirk before I grabbed an empty booth in the corner.

I had just started my second hard-shell when my cell phone began to play "Roll Out the Barrel." I'd changed the ring tone on my cell phone several nights ago after I'd polished off a quart of Bunny Tracks ice cream, hoping each call I received would remind me of how I felt afterward. You know--one of those behavior modification tools. Like taping a "fat" picture of you on the fridge. Or buying a to-die-for pair of jeans two sizes too small and hanging them on the corner of your bedroom mirror. Or taping your head to Paris Hilton's body.

"Hello?"

"Is this the intrepid investigative reporter who believes in the boogeyman?"

"This is Tressa Turner? Who's this?"

"Your 'associate.'"

"Ah. Funny. What can I do for you?" I was fairly certain I knew.

"I'm just checking up on you. So, where are you?"

"I'm having a bite to eat," I said.

"Where at?"

I shook my head. Who did Shelby think she was? My mother?

"I'm at the Dairee Freeze. Sheesh. Am I not allowed a lunch break?"

"Are you alone?"

"Yeah. Why?"

There was static in the phone. "Hello? Hello?" I held the phone out and looked to see if I'd lost the signal.

"Hello!"

Shelby Lynne slid into the seat across from me.

"What are you doing here?"

"Checking to see if you were telling the truth. Congratulations. You passed the test, partner!"

I tossed my phone down. "You could've saved a trip if you'd been more trusting," I told her.

She reached out and selected a cheese-covered tot and popped it into her mouth. "Ah, but then I wouldn't have the pleasure of sharing this meal with you. Where do we stand? Is that secret weapon of yours ready to be trotted out and put to use?"

Joe was born ready.

"I haven't made contact yet," I told her. "But that's coming up soon on my to-do list."

"We're going to take another whack at her, huh?"

I nodded. "Think battering ram," I said. "What say I pick you up around four? That should give me time to test our weaponry for preparedness."

Shelby thought for a moment. "How about I pick you up?" she said. "That car of yours scares me."

I shrugged. It worked for me. With gas at almost three bucks a gallon and with a car that sucked go-juice faster than I consumed milk with my Oreos--Double Stuf, of course--the savings were significant.