by Nic Saint
As it was, he was off the market, which of course didn’t prevent him from drinking her in with his eyes. To his surprise, she made a beeline for him, her tan and curvaceous body even more stunning from up close. And as she approached, she snatched up a beach bag and picked out a towel.
He shielded his eyes from the sun to get a better look and saw that she was a natural blonde, her smile as dazzling as her dash from the surf.
He reciprocated with a smile of his own. In fact, the crooked smile that he now shot at her was the smile that had made him a household name among every woman in the US of A, and his movies box-office hits every single time.
“Aren’t you Chuck MacLachlan?” the young woman asked.
His smile widened. “Yep, that’s me.”
She gave a squeal of joy as she toweled off. “Hey, I love your movies!”
“Thanks. That’s great to hear,” he said smoothly.
“I’ve seen them all. Crunch Time, right? Hot Potato?”
He grinned. She was gorgeous, with honey-toned skin and eyes the color of amber, an oval face and a pointy chin that gave her something piquant.
“You’re a fan, I can tell.”
“More than a fan—I love your work,” she gushed.
He smiled again. He was used to the adulation—women walking up to him when he was having dinner and asking for a selfie. In fact, he was fully expecting this woman to whip out a smartphone from her bag when she whipped out a gun instead and pointed the barrel at his heart.
“Do you mind?” she asked, her smile disappearing.
He swallowed with difficulty. “Do I mind what?”
“Do you mind doing me a favor?”
He was still half expecting her to ask for a selfie or an autograph, though he vaguely realized the chances of that were pretty slim and growing slimmer.
“What favor?”
She narrowed her eyes, and her lips quirked up into a grin. “Drop dead.”
And then she pulled the trigger.
Chapter 10
Brian furiously paced the floor of his Fifth Avenue condo. He’d moved here after being appointed president of the Wardop Group, the place having previously belonged to Peverell himself. Just one of the perks that came with the job, along with the private jet, the house in Aspen, the mansions in Palm Beach and Beverly Hills, and the apartments in London, Paris and Tokyo. At first, he hadn’t wanted to move here from his Brooklyn walk-up, which was much closer to Mom. But then Peverell had convinced him that the president of Wardop couldn’t stay at some dingy flat and needed to live in style.
The one thing that he disliked about it was that Pev had a habit of dropping in on him from time to time, usually when he was least expecting him to. Gradually he’d gotten used to the old ghost, however, he still found the man’s intensity and brusqueness still hard to bear.
Over the course of their unusual cooperation, they’d managed to lay down some ground rules, one of which was that they never met in the presence of others—Peverell’s continuing leadership was a secret only known to Brian and Peverell’s loyal secretary—now Brian’s secretary, Rachel Fowley. The woman was probably Methuselah’s age and had the wrinkles and the wry sense of humor to prove it.
One of the other ground rules was that Peverell respected Brian’s privacy, and stayed out of his personal life as much as possible—only meeting him at the office. Unfortunately, Pev had a habit of breaking his rules whenever he saw fit. Now that Brian needed him, he was nowhere to be found, though.
“Pev—I mean Mr. Wardop—I need to talk to you,” he repeated, knowing that sooner or later his message would carry across the veil and summon his dead employer.
Suddenly Peverell’s scratchy voice rang through the room. “What is it this time, Brian?” the old fossil asked. “Trouble with the board again? Mergers and acquisitions not going according to plan?”
“Nothing of the kind,” he said gratefully. “I’m facing some issues of a more personal nature—issues that require your particular skill set.”
His employer raised an eyebrow. “My skill set? My boy, whatever did you get yourself into now?”
“It’s not as bad as you think,” he said, annoyed. It wasn’t as if he was constantly getting himself into trouble, as the other seemed to imply.
Peverell gracefully took a seat on the couch, and stretched his emaciated limbs, as always clad in the black tux he’d been buried in. His face, which reminded anyone who gazed upon it of a mummy’s, opened into a yawn. “Tell me all,” he said, resigning himself to a long and boring story.
Brian took a seat on the adjoining couch. “The thing is—I don’t know if I ever told you this, but I have a brother.”
“Of course I know. Brice. Your twin. When I had you investigated I learned all there is to know about that young rascal. What about him?”
Rascal was the right word. Brice had a habit of getting into all kinds of trouble, not by accident, but by design. He liked to stir up trouble for others, simply because he could, and most specifically for his big brother—Brian was five minutes older than Brice.
“I have the distinct impression he’s trying to destroy my reputation.”
“Oh, and we can’t have that now, can we?” Peverell asked lazily. He seemed unfazed by the news.
“It’s not just that. He’s been undermining my attempts to organize the Wraith Wranglers.”
Peverell rolled his eyes, an odd sight as they were lodged so deeply in their sockets it was hard to spot them, except for the occasional flicker. “Oh, dear.” He clucked his tongue. “Why don’t you simply give up on that silly project of yours, Brian? Getting involved with ghosts will only get you into more trouble than you can handle, which is bad for the group.”
“I know,” Brian said, but added stubbornly, “Look, this is what I want. And you promised me you were fine with it. It’s the reason I accepted your proposal in the first place.”
“I know I did, but I didn’t know what I know now. That the members of the board will go to any length to kick you out and take control of the group.” Peverell sat up. When it came to the fate of his precious company he was always more animated. “Didn’t I tell you to be careful with that ghost crap?”
“Strange way to talk about your own species,” Brian pointed out.
“Well, they might be my species now, but my priority is still the Wardop Group, and so is yours. If your brother is stirring up trouble, it means he’s found your weakness, and will exploit it. How much does he know?”
“Enough to have smeared my reputation by preceding my team to Castle Windermere and making quite a nuisance of himself over there.”
Like Brian, Brice had the capacity to talk to the dead, only he liked to make their lives as miserable as possible. Not because he hated them, but because he found it funny to pick on them. Like kids torturing animals.
“So he knows about your wraith wranglers, huh? How is that even possible? I thought you told me you were playing it very close to your vest?”
“I am. Only you and Miss Fowley know about them. And the Wranglers themselves, of course.” He neglected to mention that a few more people in Happy Bays might have gotten hip to the project. When he’d started recruiting people for the team, he might have mentioned it to a few of them.
“And you’re sure those four idiots won’t go blabbing about their work?”
“In the first place, they’re not idiots, and secondly…” he nodded. “Yes, I can vouch for them.” Though of course he couldn’t. Fee and Alice, yes, they wouldn’t talk. But Rick and Reece? They weren’t exactly the brightest bulbs. “Can’t you find out who’s been talking? Can’t you read Brice’s mind?”
Peverell eyed him thoughtfully. “I could, but I don’t know if I should.”
“But you’ve done it, right? Isn’t that the reason the group has been so successful? Because you can now read the minds of our competitors?”
Peverell grinned. “You got me,” he said with his croaky voice. He rubbed a bony finger along his ch
in. “I’ll see what I can do, but you have to promise me you’ll deal with him. If word ever gets out about our special deal…”
“I’m sure he doesn’t know about that. There’s no way that he could.”
Or was there?
Peverell sensed his hesitation. “This brother of yours could become a real problem, Brian. He needs handling.”
“I know,” he said ruefully. “But what can I do? It’s not like I can kill him.”
Then he caught the look on Peverell’s face. And he was shaking his head before the old man spoke the words. “You could,” the old ghost said slyly. “It would solve the problem.”
He was still shaking his head. No way. “You can’t do that.”
“You’re right about that. I most certainly can’t. But you could.”
“He’s my brother. I can’t possibly do that.”
Peverell shrugged. “Let’s see how this plays out. But your priority is the group, Brian. The group before anything else.” He gave him a penetrating look that bored straight into his soul. “Even before family, you understand?”
Brian felt a distinct chill race up and down his spine. Even though he appreciated Peverell and all he’d done for him, the old guy still had the capacity to spook him from time to time. And now was exactly such a time.
Chapter 11
Alice stared at the pony. She’d been on her way out with Fee and Rick when her friends spotted the peculiar package Reece had received.
“It’s just a gift from a friend,” she said when Fee asked her what in heaven’s name that thing was doing in their hallway.
She didn’t mention her suspicions that this old friend was actually an old girlfriend, and had shipped Reece this pony as a way to remind him of her.
“What’s his name?” Fee asked.
“Tony. He was the pony Reece trained on for his first starring role.”
“Hunk,” Rick muttered.
Even though Rick had never been a great fan of the actor, he and Reece had bonded over the course of their most recent adventure, and Rick had recently binge-watched all of his movies on Netflix.
“So what are we going to do with it?” Fee asked.
Alice shrugged. For all she cared they would ship it right back to where it came from. But that was not her call, of course. It wasn’t her pony to return.
“I think he looks pretty creepy,” Fee said, rubbing her arms.
Alice agreed. It was bad enough for some people to post the stuffed head of some poor animal on their wall as a trophy, but to stuff an entire pony? Who did that? And it wasn’t as if he looked very nice, either. Whoever had stuffed him had botched the job. There was a hump on his back where no hump should have been, and his snout was crooked as if he’d taken a hit on the nose. And then there were his eyes, which were almost lifelike. As if he wasn’t quite dead. Glass, probably.
She stepped in for a closer look and tapped the pony’s nose. She jerked back her hand when the animal suddenly came to life!
“Hey, what’s the big idea?” the pony asked, his lips moving.
“Yikes!” Alice cried, jumping back.
“What the heck?” Fee chimed in, and even Rick seemed startled, even though he was the resident Dr. Dolittle of their small band of four.
From the confines of the dead pony a ghost pony now stepped, tearing itself loose from his formally fleshy form and hovering in the hallway like an ectoplasmic emanation. He shook himself, as if surprised to find himself in this position, then looked back at his stuffed self, going face to face, and staring dumbly into his own eyes.
“What’s going on?” he cried. “Why is there two of me all of a sudden?”
“Well, you died,” Alice replied, quite insensitively.
“I did what?!” the pony exclaimed.
“It happens,” she pointed out.
“But then why am I still standing?” he asked. “And why am I so... stiff?”
He nudged his stuffed self, which didn’t budge, of course.
“Because they had you stuffed,” Alice pointed out.
“Stuffed? They had me stuffed?”
“That’s right.”
“Christ! This is a nightmare!”
“Yeah, it’s no picnic,” Rick commented. He’d approached the pony and was studying him more closely. “Hey, you’ve got a hole in your head,” he said, pointing to a bald spot on Tony’s head.
The pony’s eyes rolled up to see the alleged hole. Then he got the bright idea to look at his stuffed self and found the hole. He started violently. “You’re right. There is a hole in my head. But that means—”
“It means you were put down,” said Alice, once more striking the insensitive note.
Tony looked dismayed. “Oh, man. Put down? But why? Why would Ines do that to me? I was her favorite pony! Been with her for years!”
“You were probably sick,” Rick pointed out.
“Yeah, you were probably in so much pain Ines wanted to end your suffering,” Fee suggested.
“Or maybe she simply got tired of you,” Alice said.
“Alice!” Fee hissed.
Tony frowned, or at least Alice thought he did. It was hard to be sure with all his fur. “I don’t remember being sick,” he said. “And I sure as heck don’t remember being shot.”
“Yeah, it’s a big mystery,” said Alice.
The pony stared at them for a moment; then he bared his teeth in a smile. “You know what I’ll do? I’ll just go home. And ask Ines what happened.”
Alice and Fee shared a look of concern. “You can’t go home, Tony,” Rick said. “You’re dead now, you see. You don’t have a home to go to anymore.”
The pony whinnied. “What do you mean I can’t go home?”
Rick sighed. “Tony, you’re dead.”
“Dead? That’s a good one. You almost fooled me, funny guy. If I’m dead, why am I talking to you guys? Huh? Can you tell me that?”
“Like I said, you’re a ghost now, Tony. You’re dead, and you’re a ghost.”
“What?! But ghosts don’t even exist!”
Alice, tiring of the circular nature of this conversation, abruptly held out her arm, and stuck a hand right through the pony’s skull, demonstrating once and for all that he was a ghost now, and not a live pony. And as her fingers came out the other end of his head, and she wriggled them, Tony stared cross-eyed at her Hello Kitty wristwatch, and said, “Golly me. I am a ghost.”
At which point he promptly fainted and dropped to the hallway floor.
Chapter 12
Reece awoke with a start and jerked up. He regretted this instantly, as his blood pressure dropped precipitously, and he felt dizzy. And then there was that startlingly pungent odor that assaulted his nostrils. He coughed and retched. Some horrible taste in his mouth as well. Then it hit him. He’d been shot! He quickly checked his abdomen for signs of the bullet wound, but only found a faint bruise. No hole in his perfectly sculpted six-pack, and no blood soaking his shirt. Startled, he searched around for a clue to what had happened to him. He was in a small prison cell, with a stone floor, stone walls and a small barred window high up where he couldn’t reach it. It looked like an old cellar, a couple of carton boxes full of old newspapers and bottles in a corner. A wooden door that had seen better days was meant to keep him in. He gingerly rose to his feet, and walked up to the door, then rattled it.
Locked, of course. He put his shoulder against it and gave it a shove.
Nope. Didn’t budge.
Someone had knocked him out and locked him up. But who? And why?
All he could remember was the knock-out blonde on the beach. The one who’d done an Ursula Andress on him, emerging from the surf as if she was in some James Bond movie. Only this woman hadn’t been carrying a knife but a gun and had shot him. He distinctly remembered that. He realized she must have used a tranquilizer dart. But how had they managed to haul him back here to this cave? She couldn’t have done it by herself. He was a good six feet tall and weighed in at tw
o hundred pounds of pure hard muscle.
He hollered, “Hey! Let me out of here!”
No response, of course.
He sank back onto the cot. So he’d been kidnapped. He should have seen it coming. He was a huge and bankable star, after all. They could probably fetch millions for him. He just hoped they’d be quick about negotiating his release. He didn’t enjoy being cooped up, creature of comfort that he was.
And then there was Alice to think of. She was probably worried sick. Perhaps for her sake he should have hired a bodyguard, like his agent had told him. If something ever happened to her, he’d never forgive himself.
And he was staring out in front of him with unseeing eyes when there was a rattle at the door, and it swung open, hitting the wall hard. The same blond woman who’d captured him stood framed in the doorway.
She’d changed her outfit and was now dressed in jeans shorts and a sexy top, looking like a million bucks. Instead of admiring her form, however, he glowered at her. “What do you want?” he asked in a grating voice.
She looked like a fresh-faced teenager, not a vicious kidnapper.
“Isn’t it obvious what I want?” she asked, entering the room. “I want you, Chuck MacLachlan.” She was holding that small peashooter out in front of her, and he eyed it narrowly. It looked like an ordinary gun, but he knew better. It either spewed gas bullets or darts, designed to knock him out in seconds flat.
“Just get in touch with my agent, will you? He’ll wire you the money.”
She laughed at this, throwing her head on her neck like a crazy person.
“What’s so funny?” he growled.
“You’re funny, Chuck,” she said, leaning against the wall. “For thinking that you could simply buy your way out of here.”
“If it’s not money you want, what is it?” he asked. Most kidnappers were happy to talk turkey, but this one seemed different. There was something not quite right about her. As if she was a few cards short of a full deck.
“Like I said, I want you. And now I’ve got you.”