A Girl, a Guy, and a Ghost Page 3

  “Oh yeah,” Mary Ellen said. “What a nut ball.”

  “Remember how he sued that New Orleans author, claiming she’d based one of her sexy vampire characters on him and plagiarized his life? He was obsessed.”

  The vampire story always served to distract Mary Ellen.

  “At least the vampire didn’t tell me I’m plump. He didn’t even want to suck my blood. He just wanted to talk about his lawsuit,” Giselle finished with a mock pout.

  Mary Ellen giggled prettily. Heads turned from nearby tables. People liked to look at Mary Ellen. She was a classic American beauty. Long, lithe, blonde and blue-eyed. Sometimes Giselle just hated to love her.

  “You know,” Giselle continued. “The Vampire Lester had an attractive quality. That Goth sort of waifish look is hot right now. Maybe I should think about going out with him again.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Why not? He might be available. He just emailed me the other day to lament the judge denied his lawyer’s motion to schedule the trial in his lawsuit after sunset.”

  A hardy laugh burst from Mary Ellen before she covered her mouth with a napkin.

  “What? This is serious,” Giselle said with mock sincerity. “It’s very difficult to litigate a case when you’re combustible.”

  Giselle’s cell phone rang. She looked at the caller ID on the face. “Damn, it’s my boss.” She flipped the phone open.

  No greeting from Willie. He just plowed right into the meat of things. “Have you finished the article yet?”

  “No, I’ve been in Savannah for less than twenty-four hours.” Giselle held the phone out in front of her and gave it her best glare.

  “I heard that.”

  “What?”

  “That look,” Willie replied.

  Giselle stuck her tongue out at the phone.

  “I heard that too.”

  “Can you hear this?” Giselle asked, gesturing at the phone.

  “Yeah. It’s a peace sign with only one finger.”

  Damn, his telepathy was really working today.

  “Now, boss, would I do that to you?” Her tone was saccharine.

  “Of course you would. I don’t know why I haven’t fired you before now.”

  “Are you saying I’m fired? That’s so unfair. You said I had until Monday evening to finish the article. It’s only Saturday morning.”

  “You’re not fired…yet.” His booming voice hurt her ear. She held the phone at a distance as he continued. “But you’re out of a hotel room. That B&B you checked into is too expensive.”

  Double damn, he was good today. “I can’t believe you can psychically feel the cost of my hotel room.”

  “I can’t. I checked the firm credit card statement online and saw the first night’s charge.” Willie paused before adding, “I heard that.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  Giselle could just feel Willie’s answering smirk. Maybe she was psychic after all.

  “Anyway,” he said. “I told the B&B to check you out. I’ve made a reservation for you at the Great Eastern or something like that.” Willie recited the address.

  “Get your stuff out of the B&B by noon.” Long seconds of silence passed before he spoke again. “Your welcome.” Willie paused again. “I heard that.”

  Giselle didn’t speak. She did, however, gesture.

  “No denial?” Willie asked.

  “No.”

  Willie chuckled. He had a reputation for enjoying his status as an ass. “I really like you, Hunter, but if you don’t produce this time you’re out.” He hung up without waiting for a reply.

  Mary Ellen watched her with an arch to her brows.

  “You don’t want to know.” Giselle closed the phone and crammed it down into her pocket.

  “Oh. I almost forgot,” Mary Ellen said. “I got you a lead.” At Giselle’s fish-eye, she continued. “A real lead this time. There’s a private detective in town. He grew up here so he’s knowledgeable about Savannah. They say he’s a psychic. Paranormal happenings apparently follow him around.”

  Mary Ellen reached into the small clutch purse she’d placed on the café table. Extracting a slip of paper, she opened it. “His name is Rylan Leland. I wrote down his address and telephone number.” She handed the paper to Giselle. “His office is over on Broughton Street.”

  “Hmm. That could be good. Okay. You’re forgiven for Vector.” Giselle took the paper from her and Mary Ellen smiled. “But only if this isn’t another blind date.”

  Mary Ellen held up two fingers in a pledge. “I promise no more fix ups.”

  Giselle bid Mary Ellen farewell and left the café. She stopped in a gift shop on Bull Street and bought a guidebook and map of the city. Broughton Street was a few blocks away. Maybe she could start her research for the travel portion of her article on the way to the private investigator’s office.

  The sidewalks along Bull Street crammed with tourists. They wore ridiculous hats and held expensive cameras. Giselle made her way around a couple stopped to take pictures of a horse-drawn carriage. She crossed the street and entered a small park-like area. A rectangular sign at the entrance read, Wright Square. Giselle sat down on a park bench and took it all in.

  An old man with a sign seemed to be yelling at the humungous white marble federal courthouse on one side of the square, and a girl, with a hot pink minidress and lime green sneakers, played Lola on a squeeze box on the other side. Two old women handed out religious tracts near the tall monument at the center of the square. Surreal. And yet Giselle felt more at home in Savannah after less than one day than she had in over twenty years in New York City. She could just stay here and get a job. Something easy like gift shop clerk. She could forget about this ghost hunting. But somehow she couldn’t admit failure. She couldn’t quit until she was a success.

  The bells of the nearby church chimed 11:00 a.m. Giselle slammed the book shut and walked a short block to Broughton Street. Main street U.S.A. nineteen-fifties style, when juxtaposed to the nineteenth-century architectural styles that dominated the rest of the Historic District.

  The PI’s office was located at the seedier end of the street, over a shop that advertised the installation of gold teeth. Standing out front, Giselle checked the address. Yes. Now how to get upstairs?

  “Hi there, miss. Are you needin’ some gold teeth?” An old black gentleman with a timeworn face had emerged from the shop.

  “No. But thanks.”

  “A person can always use a gold tooth.”

  “No. All my teeth are present and accounted for. No need for a gold tooth here.”

  “We do dogs too. You got a dog that needs a gold tooth?”

  “Definitely not. I don’t have a dog.”

  “That’s too bad. I got me a passel of puppies in need of a home. Looks like you’re a needin’ to get you a puppy.”

  “And then get it a gold tooth?”

  The old gentleman smiled. A mouth full of gold teeth gleamed. “’Zactly so.”

  “No. No puppy and no teeth. But can you help me find the office of Rylan Leland? The address I have seems to be the upper floor of this building.” Giselle showed the man the paper Mary Ellen had given her.

  “Oh no.”

  “This isn’t the right address?”

  “This here’s the address, but you don be wantin’ to have no dealins with that mean mother… ’Scuse the language, miss. You don’ want nothin’ to do with him.”

  What had Mary Ellen gotten her into? “I’m afraid I have to see him.”

  “That Ry’s just mean. He won even talk to me and I’s been know’n him since he was a lil’ boy. Is that nice? I jus’ don’ know what ta do about ’im. Lil’ Ry. He jus’ won’ talk to Ol’ Edward no mo. Ain’t dat somethin’?” The old man sighed and stroked his chin. “If you gotta see him, miss, you jus’ go through dat door at the side of the buildin’ and then up them stairs.”

  “Thank you.” Giselle started off around the side of the building in
the direction the old man had pointed.

  “Don’ say I did’na warn ya. Y’all come back.”

  “I promise I won’t get my gold teeth from anyone but you,” she called in his direction. Giselle opened the door and saw a long stairway before her. She had to hold her large purse in front of her body in order to navigate the stairs without scraping the walls on either side.

  At the top of the stairs, Giselle found a short hall with one door. The closed door bore a small, paper sign that read, Ry Leland. Private Investigator. Giselle heard music coming through the door. Metallica?

  Giselle knocked. Nothing. Giselle knocked again. Still no answer. She opened the door and went in. The office was small and dusty. Like something out of a film noir. Behind the desk, near the dingy room’s only window, sat a figure with leather-booted feet propped on its top. The booted feet were connected to jeans-clad legs, and the legs were attached to a man. A man with a face hidden behind an open car magazine.

  “Mr. Leland?”

  The figure jumped, startled, and the chair under him jerked. The chair crashed backward and then over. The man went down with the chair, disappearing behind the desk. Giselle heard a thump and felt a slight vibration of the pine plank flooring under her feet as the man and the chair landed.

  She’d killed the private dick before he could find her a ghost. She heard curses from behind the large desk. Thank God, he wasn’t dead. The figure came up from behind the desk, righting the chair as he stood.

  “You,” Giselle exclaimed to Mr. Scrumptious. She hadn’t just said Mr. Scrumptious out loud, had she? Memory check. No, she hadn’t. That would have been embarrassing. Oh, how she wished she’d worn something more attractive than a plain blue t-shirt over white shorts with sandals. Comfortable sandals. Not even strappy sandals. And the shorts hit her at the knee. Jeez.

  She reached up and removed the hair clip, letting her hair tumble down. There was nothing she could do about the lack of makeup. Giselle vowed she would never leave home, or hotel, without makeup on again.

  “You.” Ry Leland seemed to say it like a caress. Then. “You!” He threw the magazine in his hand onto the desktop with force. He frowned. Hadn’t there been just a hint of a smile on those bitable lips before he frowned? “You seem to be intent on killing me, lady. I don’t know how many more blows my head can take, so get out.”

  If that was his attitude, Giselle could play in that sandbox. Although, she had to admit she’d rather be playing in bed with Mr. Scrumptious even a grumpy Mr. Scrumptious.

  “Your head looks pretty hard from over here, Mr. Scr—Leland.” Giselle placed a hand on one jutted hip. “I didn’t do anything to you this time. I just walked into a place of business. I did knock, I assure you.”

  “Apparently you’re a general menace. How did you find me? Did you follow me? Are you stalking me?”

  Giselle felt the heat rush to her cheeks just thinking about her stalking fantasy of last evening. “Of course not,” she said with as much indignation as she could muster. “Get over yourself, fella. I’m here on business.”

  “We don’t have any business and we aren’t going to have any business. There’s the door. I don’t mind if you let it hit you in the ass on the way out.” Ry Leland sat down in his desk chair. He picked up the magazine he’d thrown on the desktop and opened it, hiding his face.

  Giselle fumed. The man was incredibly rude. Still incredibly bodacious but rude nonetheless.

  “I am here to retain your services for a very important investigation. You’re discriminating against me because I’m black. That’s illegal.”

  “You’re not black.” Ry snorted, and flipped a page in the magazine.

  He had her there. She wasn’t black. In fact, she was about as white bread as they come with her red hair, white skin and freckles.

  “Well, uh, I bet you’d speak to me if I were a man. Yeah, that’s it. You won’t consult with me because I’m a woman. That’s discrimination too. I’ll file a complaint with the EEOC, the FBI, the BBB and any other acronym I can think of.”

  “Aghhhhh.” Taking his eyes off the magazine, Ry scowled at her. “All right, have a seat and we’ll consult.” Ry switched off the radio and silence filled the room.

  Giselle moved a pile of files and magazines from the only other chair in the room, placing them carefully on the desk. Then she sat down. There was a half-empty coffee mug on the desk.

  “Aren’t you going to offer me a cup of coffee?” Giselle asked, smiling sweetly.

  “No.”

  “I bet you’d get me a cup of coffee if I wasn’t black.”

  “You’re not black,” he bellowed.

  “Okay. Okay. I’ll take water.”

  Ry sighed heavily. “For the love of God, just tell me what you want and then get out.”

  Giselle decided to let it go. Perhaps she’d pushed Mr. Scrumptious a little too far. Besides she did want him to help find a ghost. She’d almost forgotten about that for a minute. She shouldn’t taunt the man she wanted to help her.

  “My name is Giselle Hunter.”

  “And I’m supposed to care?”

  “Why are you being such a jerk? I haven’t done anything that horrible to you, have I?”

  Ry examined the desk for the moment in concentrated silence. When he glanced up again, his face was carefully neutral. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t know for certain what you’re doing here. I should give you the benefit of the doubt. Go on. Tell me what I can do for you.”

  “Thank you.” Giselle jumped into the small opening he’d given her, using her best professional manner. “I am employed by Ghosthunter Magazine. I’m here in Savannah to perform a paranormal investigation.”

  Ry’s brows converged and his jaw clenched. She hurried on.

  “If all goes well,” Giselle crossed her fingers in her lap, “I’ll write an article for the magazine. The magazine would like to hire you to assist in the investigation.”

  His expression didn’t change.

  “The magazine is prepared to pay your normal hourly rate.” How high could that be with a pit of an office like this?

  Ry leaned back in the chair with arms crossed over his broad chest. He seemed to consider propping his legs back onto the top but then thought better of it and leaned forward again.

  “The article will be published nationwide,” Giselle said.

  Still no reaction from Ry.

  “Of course I would include a prominent mention of your, uh, detective firm in the article,” she added.

  Nothing. No reaction from him at all.

  “It would be good publicity for your business.”

  “What makes you think that I can help you with this cockamamie investigation of yours?”

  “I was informed that you’re a psychic detective. That you have experience with the paranormal.”

  “Lady, you’ve been misinformed. I am not psychic. I never have been and I never will be. I don’t get messed up in those so-called paranormal investigations. They’re just a bunch of crap. I’m a run-of-the-mill private investigator. I mostly follow around cheating husbands or slutty wives, and I take interesting pictures for people to look at in court. If you want someone to read your aura you’re in the wrong place.”

  Giselle couldn’t move. He’d refused her. Unbelievable.

  “But, but… I’ll pay you,” she stammered.

  “I don’t need your money. Unless you want to offer me some other currency I might consider.” His gaze turned to a leer. “You can probably think of something. You’ve practically mauled me the past two times we met.”

  “I certainly did…did not.” So much heat filled her face she hoped steam wasn’t coming out her ears.

  “Really? Don’t you want to offer me that luscious body of yours?”

  “I do… I do… I do not,” she stammered. Of course she did want to. Desperately. But not as some sort of prostitution. Giselle was momentarily stymied as to whether that was more or less honorable than the alternati
ve.

  “Okay then. We’ve consulted just like you wanted. Now get your cute little tushy out of here.” He pointed at the door.

  For a moment Giselle felt pleasure. He’d given her a compliment. Kind of. Points to Ry for the word “cute” when associated with her tushy. Bonus points to Ry for the word “little”.

  “And don’t follow me around anymore, Miss Hunter, or I’ll have my friends on the police force arrest you for harassment.”

  Crap. He’d ruined the compliment.

  “No wonder Edward said you were a mean mother,” Giselle said as she shot to her feet.

  “Who?” Ry’s green eyes stared into hers intently.

  “The old man downstairs. He said he’s known you since you were a kid and now you won’t even talk to him. You’re just a mean, mean man.”

  Ry’s face flushed and then paled. He stood so abruptly the desk chair flew back and banged, hard, into the wall. “Get out. Get the hell out of here. Now.”

  Giselle turned and walked, with dignity, head held high, out the door. Okay, maybe she just sort of stumbled out. But when she told her friends the story, she would claim she left like a princess. Just call her Princess Giselle. And from now on Mr. Scrumptious would be known as Mr. Meanie.

  Her eyes teared as she made her way to the sidewalk outside Mr. Meanie’s office. Allergies. She hadn’t been upset by the mean man. Of course not.

  If Ry—correction, Mr. Meanie—wouldn’t help her, then she would just have to find another psychic. But how? So far Mary Ellen had batted zero for two. Time to bring out the pinch hitter. The local telephone book.

  Giselle found one in the bail bonds office next to the gold teeth emporium. After the bail bondsman’s office assistant handed over the book, Giselle opened it to the Ps. There they were, right between Psychiatrists and Psychologists, Psychics & Mediums. Maybe she should see a Psychologist instead? No, there would be time enough for that later.

  The list, while not extensive, included more than one name. So what criteria to use to choose between them? It seemed that distance from her current location was the most immediately important factor. One listing was located a few blocks away. That’s the one. Madam Divinity. The book advertised Madam as a specialist in tarot, palmistry and divination. Walk-ins welcome.