Spooky Trills (Alice Whitehouse Book 2)

by Nic Saint

“You’re slim enough.”

  “I’m twice as big as you!”

  “That’s because I’m exceptionally slim.”

  “More like freakishly thin,” she grumbled.

  “I’m sure Rick won’t mind a… fuller bride.”

  She snorted. “Nicely put.”

  “So… about this stalker, hacker, burglar—whatever he is. Sheena Easton?”

  Fee shrugged. “Probably a big James Bond fan.” She started singing For Your Eyes Only and was eyeing my lemon meringue with ravenous eyes.

  Finally, I gave in. “Oh, you can have mine,” I said, and shoved my plate across the table in her direction.

  “Thanks, hon,” she said, licking her lips. “As the future godmother of this baby, it’s your sacred duty to feed the expectant mother.”

  My jaw dropped. “Future godmother?”

  “Of course. Don’t you remember? Joint weddings, joint pregnancies and joint godmotherships.”

  “Well, looks like there won’t be any godmothership for you,” I said.

  “I’m sure there will,” said Fee, wiggling her eyebrows comically. “And now if you’ll excuse me, hon, I have got to get to work or Mom will kill me.”

  “She’ll never kill the woman who’s carrying her future grandchild.”

  “Wanna bet?” she asked, gesturing at an annoyed-looking Bianca, who was waving Fee’s apron like a battle flag. I waved at her, but she ignored me, probably feeling I was keeping her daughter from doing her duty.

  I finished my cocoa while Fee strapped on her apron, and left the bakery. And I’d only been waiting about five minutes when a pink Cadillac came driving up and I got in. “Hey, Uncle Charlie,” I said. “Looking great.”

  “Thank you, honey,” said my uncle with a smirk. He was dressed in his best Elvis outfit: a black conquistador jumpsuit, embroidered with an intricate gold flame pattern, complete with red cape, black wig, matching sideburns, and some really snazzy shades.

  “I’m probably underdressed,” I said, staring down at my Lilo & Stitch T-shirt.

  “That’s fine,” said Uncle Charlie. “Not everyone will be dressed up. We can’t all be Elvis or Priscilla.” He glanced over. “You just go as yourself. Alice Whitehouse. Celebrated sleuthhound.”

  I didn’t know if I liked the sound of that. No one had ever called me a dog before.

  Twenty minutes later, we arrived at the Inn, which is the only one of its kind in Happy Bays. It used to be a family-run business but had recently been taken over by an investor, who’d been gradually renovating the place. It still didn’t look like much from the outside: just a blocky two-story structure with a parking lot in front. But inside all the rooms had gone through a thorough makeover, updating everything from plumbing to electrical wiring and of course furnishings. The new owner had also upgraded the restaurant, which now offered some of the finest dining in town, thanks to a new chef.

  Many of the cars in the parking lot were Oldsmobiles, like Uncle Charlie’s, and I saw more than a few pink Cadillacs. So much for originality.

  “Looks like yours isn’t the only pink Cadillac, Uncle Charlie.”

  “No, but mine is by far the finest,” he said as he slipped his car in between two other pink Cadillacs that looked exactly the same as his.

  As we got out, music greeted us. It sounded a lot like Heartbreak Hotel, though I couldn’t be sure, as whoever was tackling the iconic song wasn’t doing it justice.

  “Ah,” said Uncle Charlie, strutting his stuff in his conquistador jumpsuit. “Music to my ears.”

  We entered the lobby and suddenly we were surrounded by Elvises. I saw fat Elvises and thin Elvises. Tall Elvises and short ones. Black Elvises and pink ones. There was even an old Elvis in a wheelchair sucking from a breathing apparatus.

  “Home,” breathed Uncle Charlie with a toothy smile that showcased two gold-capped incisors. “Finally home.” He caught me staring at his golden teeth and asked, “What? The King had a crown. The King’s crown!”

  “A crown, maybe, but not a golden one, much less two.”

  “Who cares? It’s showbusiness, honey!” And with these words, he stalked off in the direction of a short, squat Elvis with a flowing blond beard and a horrendous wig. The two greeted each other like long-lost friends and disappeared into the bar.

  I shook my head as I walked through the lobby and into the backyard, where a garden party was in full swing. A stage had been erected where two Elvises, one old, one young, were crooning a touching duet of Stuck on You, sticking to each other like glue.

  I looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of Priscilla, and was rewarded for my efforts with glimpses at dozens of Priscillas. Gah. This was like finding a needle in a haystack. Or a Priscilla in a Priscillastack.

  “Hey there, honey pie,” suddenly a voice boomed in my ear. I whirled around, fully expecting to lay my eyes on yet another Elvis, but was pleasantly surprised when I found myself gazing into Rock’s blue peepers instead.

  “Rock!” I cried. “Am I glad to see you.”

  He grinned. “Now there’s the kind of welcome that warms a fella’s heart.”

  “You can drop the Southern drawl already,” I said.

  “Why? Ain’t I doin’ it justice, honey bunch?”

  “No, you’re not,” I said with a laugh. “So what are you doing here?”

  “I’m thinking about changing careers. Doing Elvis impersonations from now on.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “All right. Give me your best shot.”

  He shot out his imaginary cuffs, took a stance, contorted his features into his best Elvis face, and sang, “Maybe I didn’t treat you quite as good as I should have…”

  “You’re right about that,” I said.

  “But you were always on my mind. You were always on my mind.”

  “Saying it twice doesn’t make it true.”

  He gave me a boyish grin. “And? What do you think? Do I have a shot at greatness?”

  “Nope. Not even at mediocrity.”

  “Ouch. That’s harsh.”

  “Just giving you the cold, hard truth.”

  “So what are you doing here?” he asked, adopting his normal voice again.

  “Looking for Priscilla.”

  “Priscilla? Oh, right. The illustrious Priscilla. And? Any luck?”

  “Look around, Rock. Between all the ETAs and PTAs, how am I ever going to find her?”

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “Elvis Tribute Artists and Priscilla Tribute Artists, though that last one might not be a thing.”

  His face suddenly grew serious. “About that freak who broke into your house last night, I want you to know—”

  “Ricky might have discovered a clue to his identity.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. He calls himself Venganza Mierda and uses an avatar with the face of Sheena Easton.”

  “For Your Eyes Only,” he sang softly.

  “God. Does everybody know who Sheena Easton is except me?”

  He smirked. “She was big in the eighties. You might be too young to remember.”

  “I’m not that young. Anyway, does any of that ring a bell?”

  “Nope, but I want to put in surveillance at your house. Cameras, alarm system, the works. And we’re going to have two unis patrol the street at regular intervals.”

  “Unis?”

  “Uniformed officers. Your dad set it all up. This video really spooked him.”

  “What about the others?”

  He nodded. “We’ll patrol all of the watch members’ domiciles. We’ll catch this guy, Alice. You can count on it.”

  “Thanks,” I said softly. His concern for my safety touched a chord. “People are going to make fun of me.”

  “Why? Because you like Frozen? I think it’s cute.”

  “No, because the watch can’t even protect their own. Now we need the police to watch the watch’s back.”

  “I don’t care what people think, Alice, and neither should you. We’r
e obviously dealing with some nutcase and it’s imperative he doesn’t get anywhere near you again.”

  “Nutcase. Is that Venganza Mierda’s official psych profile?”

  “Yes, it is,” he said, taking my face in his hands. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Alice. Your dad may be spooked, but so am I.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered, feeling the strength emanating from his fingers.

  Reluctantly, he let go. “By the way, how did Rick find out about this guy?”

  “Oh, he has his contacts,” I said airily. “He’s a reporter, so…”

  “I’ll need to speak to him. Find out what else he knows.”

  “You do that,” I said vaguely. I didn’t want to tell Rock that the information had come to Rick via my ex-fiancé. Though why I found it awkward to tell him that I didn’t know. It just didn’t seem like a good idea to mention Reece to Rock for some reason.

  “Oh, before I forget, ballistics came back on the bullets,” said Rock.

  “And?”

  “Smith & Wesson M&P Shield.”

  “Nice gun,” I said appreciatively.

  “Popular gun. Pretty much everyone seems to own one.”

  And I had probably sold it to them, I thought. And as we stood quietly drinking in the scene, I suddenly spotted Priscilla!

  “Hey!” I shouted. This time I was going to get her! “Hey, Priscilla!”

  The moment the woman caught sight of me, she fell into her old habit of running away from me as fast as her high-heeled feet could carry her. But two could play that game, so I set off in hot pursuit. And I would have caught her, too, if not suddenly she disappeared inside the inn. I burst in, right on her heels, only to find myself in a conference room that was bursting at the seams with PTAs. Gah! Wherever I looked, Priscilla lookalikes were staring back at me, as if I’d suddenly arrived on the set of a David Lynch movie.

  Rock, who was right behind me, said, “That’s an awful lot of PTAs.”

  “No shit!” I exclaimed, beyond frustrated.

  “Come on, Alice,” he said, taking my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Out of here?!” I cried. “But I just got here!”

  “And now you’re going.” He eyed me curiously. “Didn’t your dad tell you? Dinner at the house. So if we don’t want to miss your mom’s incredible roasted chicken, we need to get going.”

  Ugh. Why did I suddenly feel as if we were an old couple already? Worse. I didn’t even mind. Or utter a single word of protest. Dinner at the house with Rock sounded just fine by me. I’d seen all the Elvises and Priscillas I could stomach for one day.

  Chapter 20

  “I don’t know why they’re not laying!” my dad said as he threw up his arms. “I’ve tried everything. I give them quality feed, a clean space, plenty of room to rummage around. I even check them for parasites every day—those can suck a chicken’s blood and make her weak. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not a single egg!”

  We were seated on the deck, enjoying dinner, just the four of us: Mom, Dad, Rock and me. It had become something of a tradition that we sat down for dinner at least once a week. And ever since Rock had moved in, he’d been keen to join us. My mom thought it was me. I thought it was her cooking. And Dad thought it was his great company and his fount of stories.

  “So did you call in an expert?” asked Rock. “Like, a vet or something?”

  “Sure. Pete North was in here only yesterday. Nothing wrong with them. Fine, healthy chickens. But no eggs.” He sighed and threw down his napkin. “I don’t know what to do. I mean, why do I keep chickens if they’re not going to lay? They don’t make great pets. Not like a dog. Or a cat,” he added in deference to me.

  “Just give them a little time,” said Mom. “I’m sure they’ll come around. You only got them, what, eight weeks ago? They’re still acclimatizing.”

  “Acclimatizing? What’s to acclimatize? They’re in chicken heaven!”

  Dinner was over, so I pushed my plate away. “That was great, Mom.”

  “Why, thank you, honey. Don’t you think it’s too much roast chicken? We have eaten roast chicken the last three times you came over.”

  “I like roast chicken,” I said. “I can eat it every day.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem,” said Dad musingly. He was gazing out across the lawn at the chicken coop, which he’d put in at the bottom of the garden.

  “What’s the problem, dear?” asked Mom.

  “Maybe the chickens can sense that we’re eating… chicken,” Dad muttered, hesitantly touching his fingers to his lip. He was deep in thought now, like Archimedes before he jumped from his bathtub and started running naked through the streets shouting ‘Eureka!’ I just hoped my dad wouldn’t follow his example. It was bad enough all of Happy Bays had seen my Frozen PJs, they didn’t need to see my dad flashing his flabby flesh.

  “That’s just ridiculous, honey,” said Mom. “How can the chickens know we’re eating chicken?”

  “They can smell it,” he said softly, more to himself than to us. “That’s it. I mean, imagine if you were kept by a couple of great, big giants, who cooked human meat every day and ate it. Would you lay eggs under such circumstances?”

  “I wouldn’t lay eggs,” said Mom primly. “I’m not a chicken.”

  He closed his eyes. “No, but you see what I mean, right? They are probably upset.” He opened his eyes and gestured at Mom. “From now on, no more chicken.”

  “What?”

  “Or maybe we’ll skip meat altogether. Go vegan.”

  “Curtis Whitehouse, have you lost your mind?”

  “No, but don’t you see? We have to earn their trust. Right now they think we’re just a couple of chicken killers. Mass murderers. Serial killers. It’s like…” He cast around for an example. “It’s like Clarice Starling living with Hannibal Lecter. She’s never going to lay any eggs until he stops eating human brains, right? See what I mean?”

  “I’m sure I don’t,” said Mom, pursing her lips. “All I see is that those chickens have a very bad influence on you. Maybe we should get rid of them.”

  “What?!”

  “Put them in the pot.” She frowned. “Though maybe you should give them some more feed. They’re awfully scrawny. Not much meat on those carcasses.”

  “We’re not eating my chickens!” Dad cried, getting up. “They’re… family!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Curtis. They’re not family. They’re chickens!”

  “They’re family to me,” he said indignantly. “I love those chickens.”

  “You can’t love a chicken! How can you love a chicken? You eat chicken!”

  He raised his chin defiantly. “You’re not touching my chickens, woman.”

  “I won’t touch them. I’ll ask Pete to come and chop their heads off.”

  “Over my dead body!”

  “That can be arranged.”

  Dad tapped the table violently. “See? This is exactly the kind of attitude that’s responsible for my chickens refusing to lay eggs. Why bother, is what they’re saying. Why bother laying eggs for a bunch of chicken murderers who don’t appreciate us?”

  “Oh, you stubborn, stubborn man,” said Mom, throwing up her hands.

  I exchanged a glance with Rock, who rolled his eyes. I grinned back at him. This was probably the weirdest conversation he’d ever heard. “Let’s take a look at those famous chickens,” he said, and I accepted his invitation gladly.

  We walked over to the chicken coop where Dad’s latest buddies were clucking excitedly when they saw us coming, their beady eyes peeled, their necks making jerky movements as they rooted around for a juicy fat worm or a nice kernel of grain. We both leaned on the fence. “They don’t look so scrawny,” said Rock.

  “No, they look fine to me. Though I’m no chicken expert.”

  “Maybe your dad is right. Maybe they are upset that we eat their kin.”

  “Oh, don’t you start, too,” I said. “Maybe you and Dad should start a Chicken
Appreciation Club. So you can celebrate your love for chickens.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Rock said. “I’ll give it some thought. It could be a bonding experience.”

  I eyed him suspiciously. “Why do you need to bond with my dad?”

  He grinned. “I have my reasons.”

  “And those reasons wouldn’t happen to have something to do with me?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, honey. Maybe I just want your dad to promote me.”

  “Promote you? To what? This is Happy Bays. There’s nowhere to go.”

  “Moneywise, there’s always room for improvement.”

  “Oh, you want money,” I said, nodding. “And here I thought your motives were purely selfless.”

  “Yeah, my motives for starting a Chicken Appreciation Club with your dad are purely selfless,” he said with a sardonic smile. “Just me, your dad, and the chickens, hanging out.”

  “Ha ha. You’re so funny.”

  “I know. I’m a regular hoot.” We stared at the clucking chickens for a moment, then Rock said, “Don’t chickens need a rooster? You know, like, to knock them up?”

  “Oh, my God,” I said, shaking my head. “You men are all the same, aren’t you? You think us women can’t do a thing without you. For your information, hens don’t need a rooster to lay eggs. They don’t! Not unless you want to breed chicks.”

  “I don’t want to breed chicks,” he said defensively. “Well, not chicken chicks, anyway. Human chicks? Definitely.”

  “You want to breed human chicks. That sounds so wrong.”

  “Yeah, that did come out a little weird,” he admitted.

  We were silent once again, then I asked, “So you want kids, huh?”

  “Sure. Who doesn’t?”

  “Me too,” I said quietly. “Fee and I were going to get pregnant together.”

  He looked up, his face softening. “I know. Rick told me.”

  “Rick told you? I didn’t know you and Rick were… you know.”

  “We’re not bosom buddies if that’s what you mean, but we talk about… stuff.”

  “What stuff?” I asked, suddenly suspicious. I hoped Rick hadn’t allowed himself to shoot his mouth off about our ghost hunting endeavors of the past.

  “Well, about relationships and… having kids and all that. Hey, guys talk, you know.”