No Ghouls Allowed (13 page)

I still had the car keys in my purse, so I wasn’t worried he’d take off in search
of the Sandman, but I wondered what he was doing. I would’ve gone after him to find
out, but I was so tired and chilled, and, yeah, maybe even a little afraid of the
dark tonight. So, I focused on polishing off the last of my dinner before getting
up to take my dish to the sink.

Heath returned just as I was setting it in the dishwasher.

“There’s nothing on the car,” he said. “No dents or scratches, and all four tires
seem to be in good shape. But you did kick up a lot of dirt and dust. The SUV could
use a bath.”

“I’m telling you it hit the car, Heath,” I said, more snappishly than I’d meant.

He seemed to understand that I’d been through a lot that day and he merely nodded
and headed back to his seat at the table. “Then we can’t just hide our heads in the
sand, can we, Em?”

I sighed and joined him at the table. I was so weary of my life all of a sudden. That
earlier moment when I’d wondered what I could’ve been had my mother still been alive
came back to me, and I thought with no small amount of certainty that I would never
have become a professional ghostbuster. I might’ve still become a medium, but that
sometimes rash, slightly self-destructive streak that so often drove me to take on
dangerous situations would’ve been tamed by her loving presence. And knowing that
made me incredibly sad all over again, because that would’ve meant that I likely never
would’ve met Heath. And Gilley and I might never have become best friends because
he was the only kid in the class who’d taken pity on the sad, lonely girl on the playground
whose mother was dying of cancer. And to bring me out of the state of muteness my
mother’s death had invoked, my paternal grandmother might never have gifted me with
one of the greatest loves of my life, my parrot, Doc.

I realized then that thinking about what my life might have been was an impossible
thing to consider, because in thinking about what my life would have been with Mama
still in it, I would have to completely disregard the knowledge of what my life was
now, with all its troubles and dangers but also all its miraculous gifts.

“I suppose,” I said to Heath after taking up his hand, “what we need to do is to get
a good night’s sleep tonight, and tomorrow, we figure out how to kick some Sandman
ass.”

I headed off to bed before Gilley and Mrs. G. had returned, and the night’s rest did
me a world of good. I was a little nervous about falling asleep, because I’ve been
known to have out-of-body experiences when I slumber, but nothing unusual happened
to me during the night. At least not that I remember.

I thought I was the first one up when I shuffled out to the kitchen, careful not to
disturb Heath, who had been hogging the covers all night. The smell of coffee alerted
me that I wasn’t the earliest of birdies up at five a.m.

“Good morning, sweet pea,” Mrs. G. said, greeting me warmly.

I gave her a hug and mumbled my good mornings before sitting down and reaching for
a cup and the coffee carafe in the center of the table.

“What’s gotten you up so bright and early?” I asked her. The scent of another delicious
baked good wafted up from the oven.

Mrs. G. lifted something out of her lap and I saw that it was a fishing vest. This
one was all black. “Gilley kept insisting that the vests I got y’all were too bright
for TV—he said they’d be too distracting for the audience to follow the action—so
he and I went out to get you something in a better color, but we had such a time finding
one of these in anything other than camel or army green, and you know how Gilley feels
about camel and army green.”

Sadly, I knew how Gilley felt about just about everything, including camel, which
he dubbed the snooze color, and the much more volatile army green, which was a don’t-ask-if-you-don’t-want-a-lecture-from-Gil-about-everything-wrong-with-the-military’s-policy-on-gays
kind of color.

“Anyhoo, we got a few of the lightest camel ones I could find, and last night I dyed
them. They turned out nice, don’t you think?”

She held the vest up for me to look at and I marveled not only at what a great job
she’d done dyeing them, but also at how truly wonderful Mrs. G. was. She wasn’t hurt
or put off in the slightest that the original vests she’d picked out for us weren’t
the best choice. “They look great,” I said.

She beamed at me. “Well, they’ll look even better once I’m done with them.” Turning
the vest around, she showed me the back and I had to work very hard at controlling
my expression. “Oh! Wow! Would you look at that—sequins!”

Mrs. G. had spelled out
Ghoul Getters
in sparkling rhinestones on the back of the vest and it glimmered like something
right out of Liberace’s closet. “I couldn’t let y’all go chasing after those ghosts
without promoting the show,” she gushed. “And you know how Gilley loves a little bling.”

I couldn’t help it. I had to smile. Gilley wasn’t the only one who loved it. I’d seen
Mrs. G. bedazzle her fair share of items in her own wardrobe.

“I’m going to put your names on the front,” she said, setting down the vest to sort
through a little box on the side of the table. Pulling up a small rhinestone, she
said, “These are a good size for that, don’t you think?”

I felt my eyes widen and I blinked to cover my surprise. “You know, Mrs. G., maybe
we shouldn’t have our names on our vests.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“Well . . . um . . . you know . . . what if the spooks read our names and then try
to follow us home?” I was reminded of the Sandman from the night before, and although
I was fibbing slightly to Mrs. G. about spooks being able to read name tags, the thought
did occur to me that I definitely didn’t want to take the chance and give the Sandman
the opportunity to know my given name. Names can be powerful things to those grounded
spirits hungry for attention. Or revenge.

“Oh, my,” she said, setting down the rhinestone. “Oh, Mary Jane, I never considered
that! Well, maybe just sprucing up the back will be enough.”

I smiled tightly. “Good plan. Say, did you guys get some more magnets?”

Mrs. G. reached down next to her and strained to lift a double bag filled with dozens
and dozens of magnets. “Gilley insisted on cleaning out three stores of all their
magnets.”

My smile became genuine. “Awesome. That should totally hold us over.”

“Oh, and we picked up two dozen spikes and a few other items that Gilley said you’ll
need for your ghostbusting at Porter Manor.”

I squinted. “Gilley told you we’d be going back there?” And then I remembered that
Heath hadn’t followed me to bed. Maybe he’d told them.

“He did. And he also told me there was no sense in talking you out of it, because
you could never let something so wicked roam your future stepmother’s home. He said
you’d figure out a way to shut that nasty spook down or your last name wasn’t Holliday.”

I blushed slightly. I came from a long line of rebels and was distantly related to
Doc Holliday of O.K. Corral fame. Gilley also knew me better than just about anybody,
and apparently he’d known what I’d do about the Sandman even before I did.

“He said the only thing we could do for you and Heath was to arm you to the teeth!
So I stayed up half the night working on these vests, and look!” Mrs. G. took her
butter knife and held it above the box of rhinestones. Several of them rose up and
stuck to the knife. “I rubbed this whole load on the magnets to magnetize them too!”

I was quite touched by her thoughtfulness and reached out to squeeze her arm. She
patted my hand in return and at that moment there was a
bing
from the stove. “That’ll be the muffins,” she said, getting up. I watched her pull
out a tray of mouthwatering blueberry muffins and my stomach gurgled.

She smiled brightly at me and turned over the pan before gingerly placing all but
two muffins on steel racks to cool. The extra two she placed on plates and brought
them back to the table with some homemade sweet butter and jam.

Neither one of us spoke while we carefully peeled off the wrappers on our muffins
and slathered them with butter. I took a bite and moaned. “Oh . . . my . . . God . . .
,” I said, closing my eyes to savor the flavor. There was just nothing like good old-fashioned
country home cooking.

“Good?” she asked as I swallowed and chased the bite with coffee.

“Heaven,” I said.

We chatted for a bit about all the delicious meals I’d missed from her kitchen—I’d
practically been raised in Mrs. G.’s kitchen—and then she got around to asking me
about the spook haunting Porter Manor. “I asked Gilley if this thing was really dangerous,”
she said to me. “But he wouldn’t give me a straight answer, so I want you to look
me in the eye, Mary Jane, and tell me what the heck you’re dealing with over there.”

I dropped my gaze. I couldn’t lie to Mrs. G. She’d call me on the carpet the minute
she thought I was fibbing, which was typically five seconds into the fib. “I don’t
really know at this point the full scope of what we’re dealing with,” I confessed.

“Did it really kill Mike Scoffland?”

I lifted my chin. “At this moment all we know is that he was murdered by one of his
own crew,” I told her. Perhaps not the whole truth, but not quite a lie either.

She bit her lip. “I knew Mike. He was always wantin’ to work for me on the rentals,
but he charged too much, and truth be told, I think what he was really after was a
little piece of this Georgia peach.” She pointed to herself and rolled her eyes. “Who
has time for that nonsense?” She chuckled then and I did too. Mrs. G. had sworn off
men from the time she’d kicked Gilley’s dad to the curb. She always claimed men were
too much work for her, and she had better things to do with her life. “Was there really
another body found behind the wall?” she asked next.

Gilley had apparently given her the
Reader’s Digest
version of events. “Yes. We found more human remains behind a hidden door in a room
no one’s been in for decades.”

“Do they have any idea who the other remains belonged to?”

“Well, I can’t be positive, but if I had to guess, I think, given that the skeleton
was wearing a young man’s clothing and was the size of a twelve – to fourteen-year-old,
that it might have been Everett Sellers.”

Mrs. G.’s hand flew to her mouth. “No! Really?”

“Really. The room where he was found appears to have been locked up for the past forty-five
to fifty years. The timing and the clothing on the skeleton fit at least.”

“Oh, that poor boy’s parents!” she said, shaking her head sadly. “I couldn’t imagine
if Gilley suddenly disappeared without a trace. I’d go out of my mind.”

I nodded, then looked off out the window; the tea set on the table near the remains
kept flashing in my mind and the most unsettling feeling wrapped itself around my
shoulders.

“Mary Jane?” Mrs. G. said. “You look so troubled, sweet pea. What is it?”

“Did you ever meet my mother when she was a child?” I asked, unsure if I’d ever asked
her that question before.

She cocked her head and squinted at me curiously. “Madelyn? Well, yes and no. Her
mother, your grandmother, used to come to my mother’s shop on occasion. Oh, your grandmother
had such wonderful fashion sense, and, if you’ll recall, my mother owned a small boutique
on Conway Avenue.

“During the summer she’d practically force me to come help her at the shop, and I
do remember one particular summer morning when Mrs. Bridgeport—your grandmother—came
in to try on a dress she’d ordered and she brought along your mother.” Mrs. G. paused
to sigh wistfully. “Oh, Mary Jane, your mother was so lovely—even as a child she was
just breathtaking. Everyone said she could have been Elizabeth Taylor’s twin from
National Velvet
, and I can attest to that.” Mrs. G. smiled and her gaze was far away. “Little DeeDee,”
she said. “She was quite shy, from what I remember. I smiled at her and tried to chat
her up, but got barely more than the smallest smile in return.”

I had to swallow hard to get my next question out. “How old was she on that day that
she came into the shop?”

Mrs. G. shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Seven or eight, I suppose. For a time there were
whispers that your mother was a troubled child. She heard voices, people said, and
more than just the imaginary friends that most children make up. In fact, on that
very day I even overheard your grandmother telling my mother that DeeDee heard voices
all the time, and would sometimes have these long conversations with an empty chair,
or a park bench. She was quite worried about her, or so she told Mama. She said that
DeeDee hadn’t been sleeping well, and she thought maybe that had something to do with
it. I remember your mother looking so sad and tired that day. It’s why I tried to
cheer her up.”

I bit my lip. The little girl I’d found suspended in midair in my out-of-body experience
had been around seven or eight. “Do you remember the year?” I asked.

Mrs. G. made a funny face. “Oh, Lord, child, I can barely remember what day today
is!”

I grinned but tried to look earnest. It was important to isolate when the Sandman
had first shown up, because I was convinced that the reason my mother had looked so
tired that day in the boutique had nothing to do with any conversation she might’ve
had with some grounded spirit on a park bench—and as for that, I’d suspected for a
long time that my mother had shared my psychic abilities but had kept hers hidden
in her adult life.

Mrs. G. read my expression well, because she smiled back at me before putting a tapping
finger to her lips. “Well, now, let’s see . . . ,” she said. “It was sometime around
the Fourth of July—of that I’m certain because my mother had been complaining that
morning about all the litter left behind on the sidewalk by the people who’d watched
the parade the day before—and I believe I was wearing a new pair of jeans with rainbows
embroidered on the hem, and they made quite the statement that year at school, which
would have been my junior . . . No, wait, my senior year. Yes, it was the summer between
my junior and senior years of high school, so that would have been nineteen seventy-one!”

There was one more tricky question I needed to ask, but it wasn’t something I wanted
to. It took me a minute to work up the courage even. “Mrs. G.?”

“Yes?”

“What year did Everett Sellers disappear?”

Mrs. G.’s face pulled down in a frown. “Why, it was the end of that same summer, Mary
Jane. I remember that morning the call came into the sheriff’s office where I’d just
gotten that new job which got me out of working at Mama’s boutique. I started work
for the sheriff the Monday after my eighteenth birthday, and the call came into the
department on my second or third day on the job, so that would’ve made it August twenty-sixth
or twenty-seventh, nineteen seventy-one.”

I felt my stomach muscles clench. “Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been really helpful.”

She reached out to squeeze my hand. “Well, I don’t know how, but I’m glad I was. Would
you like another muffin?”

“No,” I said, pushing back my chair and getting to my feet. “Thank you, though. They’re
so good, and I’m tempted, but I think what I really need is a good run. Would you
mind if I left you for an hour or so?”

Mrs. G. beamed up at me. “Of course not. But you just ate, shouldn’t you wait a bit?”

I grinned at her. She was always looking out for me. “Nah, I’ll be fine, Mrs. G. I
always eat something before a long run. If you run enough, your body gets used to
fueling and going.”

“All right, if you’re sure,” she said. “Gilley told me that you and Heath were training
for a marathon, and I’m so proud of you for taking such good care of yourself, Mary
Jane. Now if you could just rub some of those good habits off on my son, I’d be most
obliged!”

“Oh, I’ve been trying to do that for years. But you know Gilley. Stubborn as a mule
and hardheaded as a rock.”

She cocked an eyebrow and winked. “He got those qualities from his father.”

•   •   •

A short time later I was running hard along a beautiful trail beside a lake about
four miles from Mrs. G.’s. I figured coming out here and looping around the lake would
give me a solid ten miles to work out the nagging clues that were the secret to figuring
out what the hell I’d gotten myself into.