MacGowan's Ghost (2 page)

And immediately met the ghostly stare of her long-time friend.

“Well, I see by the satisfied look on your lovely face that you have completed yet another successful de-haunting.” He gave a curt nod. “Congratulations once again, love. How go the lads, then? Are they content?”

Dead for more than a hundred years, Alexander Dauber made himself quite at home in Allie's presence.

She loved that about him. “Yes, they're content. Mischievous, but content.”

“Excellent. Now that you've finished another case for the eve, why not consider wandering down to that rather lively establishment on the corner, hmm?” Dauber said. “ 'Twould do your soul good to mingle with—”

“The living?” Allie interrupted. “Come on, Daubs, we've had this discussion at least a hundred times. I don't want to mingle.” She glared at the tall, lanky, somewhat bony Irishman clothed in a soft hat, suspenders, and black wool trousers that hung just a bit too high over ankle-high boots. He was one of the very first spirited souls she'd ever encountered. “I'm not a mingler.” She grabbed her dinner dishes, which she'd left on the table, crossed the tiny kitchen, and loaded them into the dishwasher.

“Young lady, I happen to know you have a most cheery personality that any mortal with half a wit would enjoy to the fullest, if given a chance.” Dauber grinned, the corners of his mouth pulling far into his cheeks. “I'm sure of it.”

Allie crossed her arms and leaned against the sink. She stared at Dauber until his face turned a bright tomato red. She chuckled. “I am completely content doing what I'm doing, Daubs. Honestly, you sound like my mom and sisters. I don't need to hang out at the bar in hopes of meeting someone.” She shrugged. “That's just not my style.”

He quirked a reddish brow.

Hitching up her jeans, she walked to the part of the kitchen she referred to as her office, opened the one spare drawer, and pulled out a handful of papers. She held them up and shook them at Dauber. “See? All new cases. I have so much work to keep me busy I don't have
time
for mingling.” She narrowed her eyes. “Even if I were a mingler.”

Dauber made a tsk-tsking noise under his breath. “I daresay, young lady, that is the poorest of excuses.” He peered at her. “You need a nice holiday, methinks. You're looking a bit peaked. Didn't your sister invite you for a bit of frolicking in merry old England?”

Allie frowned, but before she could respond, her laptop made a tinkling bell sound, announcing incoming mail. She raised her brow at Dauber. “See? Another inquiry.” She sat cross-legged in the straight-backed chair and clicked the mouse over her in-box. She blinked.

“What is it, love?” Dauber asked.

Allie stared at the screen. “My first international inquiry.” She continued to read. “Gabe MacGowan apparently has a few naughty spirits disturbing his pub and inn.”

Before she could read further, the phone rang, and Allie picked up the cordless. “Morgan Investigations.”

A deep, graveled, somewhat unsure voice came over the line. “Er, Allison Morgan?”

“Yes. Can I help you?” Allie glanced at Dauber and shrugged.

“Right. I'm Gabe MacGowan. I, uh, sent a post to your e-mail.”

Allie smiled.
Nice accent
. “That's right. Scotland. I just received it, actually. So what sort of disturbances have you been experiencing, Mr. MacGowan?”

The line went silent for a moment, then, “Eh, well, I've had these, um . . .” He cleared his throat and muttered something unintelligible, then, “Oy, damn. I'm sorry for wastin' your time.”

“Wait, you're not—”

After a muttered something in a strange language, the line went dead.

“Another disbeliever, miss?” Dauber asked.

Allie set the cordless on the counter beside her laptop. “He'll call back.”

Dauber gave a winsome smile. “They always do.”

Exactly eight minutes passed before the phone chirped.

With a quick peek at the caller ID, Allie smiled and answered the cordless. “Hello again, Scotland.”

“I can't sell my bloody pub and inn because the lot of spooks living here run off every potential buyer who shows interest. They're drivin' me bloody crazy.” A pause. “Can you help me?” Another pause, followed by another unknown word. “I'll pay your airfare, your room and board, and your fee once I sell.”

Allie glanced at the stack of pending inquiries for her services. Twelve cases in all. Twelve irate and fed-up humans trying to exorcise spirits from their homes or businesses. Not all of the claims were legit, but Allie's services included a thorough investigation. Not that she ever performed the first exorcism. While the mortals were the ones doing the hiring of her services, she actually used her skills of communicating with the dead to help the ghosts. She simply interpreted, helped the unsettled soul or souls with whatever issues they might have, find out just what made them haunt.

But pass up the chance to go to Scotland? Even with twelve cases pending, who in their right mind would do that?

“Ms. Morgan?”

Snapping out of her thoughts, Allie glanced at Dauber, who lifted a brow, and then she cleared her throat. “Yes, Mr. MacGowan. I'm sure I can help you. But first, I need you to send me the link to your pub and inn. You have a Web site, don't you?”

“Aye.”

“Great. Just e-mail me the link, and I'll be in touch.”

Mr. MacGowan sat silent on the line for a moment, then, “Your Web site describes you as a paranormal investigator. Does that mean you oust unwanted spirits, Ms. Morgan?”

Allie thought a moment. “I communicate with unsettled souls, Mr. MacGowan. It's been my experience that they haunt for a reason, and usually it's a reason even they aren't fully aware of, and I try to find out why. Haunting is all the control they have left in a mortal's world. I work with them to resolve whatever unsettled matters they may have. More times than not, their souls become mended and they move on.”

Again, momentary silence. “I'll be waiting to hear from you, then.”

They disconnected, and Allie sat for a moment and stared at her laptop screen. Wow! What an opportunity! She'd always wanted to encounter souls from the medieval era, not to mention a crumbly castle or two.

“You're going, then?”

Allie gave a nod. “I'd love to, but we'll have to see. I'm not so sure I sold my services to him. First, I'll check out his Web site, just to make sure the inn and pub is what he says—and that he's indeed the proprietor and not some sort of serial killer.” She rubbed her chin. “I get the feeling he's pretty desperate. And legit.”

Dauber mimicked Allie's movement and rubbed his pointed chin. “I daresay those unsettled souls must be stirring up quite the mishmash. I wonder why.”

Allie met the questioning gaze of her ghostly friend. What would she do without Dauber? She'd met him on her very first unofficial case in Raleigh. God, what was she? Nineteen? A sophomore in college, she'd stumbled across the willowy ghost sitting on the corner pew in the small campus chapel. A handful of other students was present. No one saw Dauber but Allie, and it was the first time she recognized the fact that she had a gift.
After her accident
. Their gazes had met, and Dauber had blinked several times in what Allie could only believe was dismay over having a mortal actually see him.

And they'd been fast friends ever since.

Allie pulled her thoughts back to the present. “I don't know, Dauber, but I bet it's going to be a lot of fun finding out just what's up in the Highlands of Scotland.”

 

 

 

“Right. Fifty quid, then, lass.”

Allie Morgan blinked. “Pardon me?” Quid? What the heck was that?

The cabdriver, a tall, lanky guy, around thirty, with a pair of soft brown eyes, grinned. “Your fare. Fifty sterling pounds.” He winked. “Quid.”

With a smile, Allie nodded. “Gotcha.” Digging in her backpack, she pulled out the bills and paid the man. “Thanks for a spectacularly wonderful drive.”

The driver's grin widened. “Aye, and thank you for the spectacularly wonderful tip.” He stuffed the bills in the console and inclined his head. “Stayin' at Odin's, then, are you?” he asked.

Allie gave a nod. “I sure am.”

The cabbie studied her for a few seconds, then shook his head and grinned even wider.

“What?” Allie asked, gathering her bags. “What's so funny?”

The driver chuckled. “Oy, lass, I'm sorry.” He lifted a brow. “Do you know much about Sealladh na Mara, then?”

Allie met his stare. “Nothing at all, actually. Why?”

The cabbie smiled and rubbed his hand over his jaw. “It has a reputation, you see. 'Tis cursed.”

“Cursed? What do you mean?”

A mischievous grin tipped the corners of his mouth. “ 'Tis a place for the ghosties, lass. They're drawn to it.”

Allie smiled. “Is that so?”

The cabbie inclined his head to Odin's Thumb. “Have you met the owner yet?”

“Gabe MacGowan?” Allie shook her head. “Not in person. Why?”

He studied her a bit more. “Damn me, but he'll no' be expecting the likes of you.”

Allie opened the door. “He's not expecting me at all. I'm a week early. That's why I just paid you a hundred American bucks to drive me here from Inverness.”

The driver laughed. “Right. Let's get your bags, then.”

Allie shook her head, pulled her knit cap over her ears, and stepped out of the cab. A fierce gust of coastal October wind hit her square in the face and she shivered. So Sealladh na Mara was cursed.
Perfect
. Slinging her pack over her shoulder, Allie grabbed her overnight bag, the camera bag, and shut the door. At the back of the cab, the driver pulled out her one suitcase.

“I'll take this in for you,” he said.

“No, that's okay. It's not heavy.” Allie grasped the handle. “Thanks, though.”

With a shake of his head, the cabbie slid back into the front seat. He glanced at Allie and cocked a brow. “You understand that it's full of spooks, aye?”

Allie gave him a big smile. “I sure do.”

“If you need a ride back to Inverness, you just give me a shout.” With a laugh, the cabbie waved and drove off.

After a deep breath of crisp, briny air, Allie quickly took in her seaside surroundings. A slender green sign with the name SEALLADH NA MARA stood just at the top of the lane. Gaelic, she supposed, and she'd have to remember to ask Gabe MacGowan what it meant. White, traditional croft-style buildings, and others of weathered stone, lined the single-lane Main Street that rambled down to the wharf. Each establishment had a weather-beaten sign outside noting its business: a baker, a fishmonger, a small grocer, a post office, a few B and Bs. Halfway down the walkway stood one of Britain's landmarks: a red telephone booth. With the notion to explore later, and to call her mom and sisters to let them know she made it safely now, Allie turned and stared up at the sign hanging high above the single red-painted door of the three-storied, whitewashed inn and pub. ODIN'S THUMB was written in Old English script at the top of the sign, with a colorful picture of an imposing Viking longboat, the sail a deep red with black stripes, the long wooden mast a big ole
thumb
. The words INN AND PUB, EST. 1741 were at the bottom. She smiled.
Perfect
.

After balancing all of her gear onto both shoulders, Allie opened the door to the pub and was all but blown into the dim interior of Odin's Thumb. She set her suitcase off to the side and plopped her bags down beside it—

“I'm not staying here another moment!” a woman's voice shrieked.

Allie jumped, then stood there, against the wall, and took in the scene. Had she been any other woman, she'd probably have run screaming, too.

It was, after all, quite an interesting scene to behold. She almost had to pinch her lips together to keep from laughing. Instead, Allie simply watched.

Amidst the muted lamplight of the pub, flickering candles floated overhead in midair. A lady's old-fashioned parasol opened and closed rapidly, also in midair. Beer mugs and wineglasses zipped—yep, in midair—from one side of the room to the other, coming precariously close to the head of the shrieking woman. A suspicious-looking mist slipped around the bar stools, over the head of the woman whose face had turned dough-pasty, and at the same time the chairs began lifting and slamming back down on the floor.

“Arrrgh!” screamed the woman, who batted at the mist swirling about her and ran for the door.

“Wait, Mrs. Duigan, dunno go,” a deep, graveled, and heavily accented voice said, the tall figure hurrying after her. “I can explain.”

Mrs. Duigan paused briefly.

Then the dozens of fish appeared in midair, their tails flapping back and forth.

She let out one final scream and pushed her way out of the door.

The tall man—pretty darn good-looking, too, Allie thought—followed the frightened woman.

Allie peered out the door and watched Mrs. Duigan slam her car door and peel out. The man stared after her. With his back to Allie, he tilted his head, as if looking up to the sky, shoved his hands into the pockets of his dark brown corduroy pants, then looked down, staring at the sidewalk.

“Oy, we're in for it this time, aye?” said a male voice behind her.

“ 'Twill be worth it, no doubt,” said another.