Exclusive

by Fern Michaels

  Abby scanned her new e-mails, hoping for a response from the publicist, but so far, nothing, nada, zilch. “Damn, come on, answer your e-mail,” she thought as she typed short, succinct answers to her three stringers covering Revlon’s Woman of the Year luncheon, which amounted to nothing more than older out-of-work actors vying for a chance to rub shoulders with producers and directors. Still, one never knew. She’d instructed Elizabeth to hide in the ladies’ room on the off chance she’d hear something newsworthy, tabloid newsworthy. She hated to sink so low, but it was commonplace in the business nowadays, almost so much so that it was next to impossible to overhear the tiniest bit of gossip. Today’s stars were savvy where the press were concerned, yet they knew how to play right into their hands when they needed a headline. Trouble was, The Informer’s “hands” always seemed to be last in line.

  When she finished answering her e-mails, Abby turned off the computer, covered her keyboard with a protective plastic cover, and grabbed her purse and Chester’s leash. “Come on, boy, it’s time to go home. Maybe we’ll both get lucky tonight.”

  Chester leaped off his chair and followed her to the door and down the long hallway to the back exit. Once inside her MINI Cooper, Abby strapped Chester’s seat belt in place before adjusting her own. She had promised Chester a steak that night. She’d make a pit stop at Ralph’s. She needed food, real food. She’d been existing on takeout for weeks. Between running The Informer out of her garage, then settling into her new office, not to mention trying to stay on top of her remodeling projects at home, Abby hadn’t bothered with grocery shopping, let alone cooking. As her mother would say, that’s what restaurants are for. While she agreed wholeheartedly, she was sick of fast food.

  She weaved the little car in and out of traffic, stopping every so often for one of LA’s world-famous traffic jams. Forty-five minutes later, she hit Brentwood, where she lived just minutes from a Ralph’s grocery store.

  “You’ll have to stay in the car, Chester, but I promised you a big steak, and that’s exactly what you’re gonna get.”

  Before she got out of her car, she lowered the windows just enough to allow fresh air to flow through the car, but not enough that Chester could jump out after her.

  Abby entered the store, grateful for the wash of icy air. She was about to reach for a shopping basket when her hand collided with another hand, another large male hand. “Wait a minute buddy…”

  “Well, if it isn’t my favorite reporter. Abby Simpson. What are you doing in a grocery store? Please tell me you’re not making dinner tonight.”

  Her first instinct was to run out of the store, her second was to sock him right in the kisser, but her third, the one she acted on, was to remain calm. She was an adult. She could handle this.

  “I suppose I should ask you the same. I hope you’re not making dinner for one of your Hollywood starlets. I might have to report that some of them actually eat real food.” Abby yanked the shopping basket out of Chris Clay’s hand.

  He jumped back. “Testy today, aren’t we? News must be slow. I remember that about you. You’re always pissy when you don’t have something to write for that sleazy paper.”

  Abby had turned her back on him. She was going to purchase her groceries, go home, and cook dinner for herself and a steak for Chester. But no, Chris just had to remind her what he thought of her chosen profession. Something he knew would tick her off.

  Abby turned around to face him. She gripped the shopping basket so hard her knuckles were white. “What do you want? Are you following me?” Damn, why did she say that? Of course he wasn’t following her. Why would he follow her? He knew where she lived. Damn, damn, and double damn.

  He laughed, shaking his head. “No, Abs, I’m not following you. It just so happens this is where I buy my mint-chocolate-chip ice cream. I can’t cook, or don’t you remember?”

  She felt like jerk of the month just standing there staring at him. But he was so hot to look at. Faded jeans with a few holes in all the right places, a tight black T-shirt that only emphasized his broad chest and narrow waist. She focused on his feet. When she saw the bright orange Crocs on his feet, it was all she could do to keep from laughing. She couldn’t help but smile. What a jerk.

  “It was good seeing you, Chris. Have a nice day.” Abby turned and walked away, giving herself a mental high-five. Let him stare at my ass, she thought. Maybe he’d see what he was missing. Shit, now where did that come from? She wasn’t one to play on her looks. She’d been told by more than one person that she should’ve been in movies. Her token reply was always, “Too bad I can’t act.” That usually shut them up. Abby knew looks were important in the movie industry, but they didn’t count for anything in her line of work.

  Not wanting to leave Chester alone in the car any longer than she had already, she raced up and down the aisles, grabbing a few items before turning back to the meat counter for Chester’s steak. Of course her luck was tough that day because as soon as she emptied her basket for the cashier to ring up her items, who stepped in line behind her but Chris Clay? She’d been in such a hurry to get out of the store she really hadn’t paid that much attention to what she’d tossed in her basket. She observed Chris as he watched the cashier drag her items across the scanner. One New York strip steak. A pack of hot dogs. Buns. Mustard. Sour cream and onion potato chips. Cherry Pop-Tarts. What the hell was she thinking? Abby thought it obvious her subconscious had chosen those particular items with Chris in the store. She only prayed he didn’t make the connection.

  “You should’ve told me you were craving hot dogs, Abs. We could go back to Pink’s.”

  She wanted to kick him, but refrained. “Thanks, but they’re for Chester. He likes hot dogs with mustard and relish. I have relish at home,” she added. TMI, she thought. Too much information. More than he needs to know.

  The cashier totaled up her purchases. Abby scanned her debit card through the machine. She sneaked a side glance at Chris, praying he wouldn’t discover her PIN number. He was watching. Shit. Before the cashier could ask again, Abby quickly punched her PIN number in the machine—24747—C-H-R-I-S. She was sure she moved her hands over the keypad fast enough. Unless he stood right beside her or directly behind her, she was fairly certain he couldn’t decipher her password. And if he did, tough shit.

  “Of course you do,” Chris said as he dropped two gallons of mint-chocolate-chip ice cream on the checkout counter.

  Abby felt her face flame, and it pissed her off. Why she should feel so…antsy she didn’t know. This was Chris. Her stepbrother. Sort of. And he’d kissed her fingertips. One at a time after they’d had hot dogs at Pink’s. She hated the feelings brought on by that memory. She did not want to get involved with Chris Clay. No way. He was a heartbreaker, a player, and her mother’s current attorney. She didn’t even want to think about all the stars he dated. They were like revolving doors. In and out, constantly. Everything about him screamed no.

  When the cashier finally finished bagging her groceries, Abby grabbed the two plastic bags and hurried over to the automatic doors. She couldn’t get out of the damn store fast enough. She juggled the two bags in one hand while she used the other to dig inside her purse for her car keys. When she located the jangling bunch of keys, she hit the unlock button. Chester was dragging his tongue up and down the passenger window. Lovely, she thought as she slid into the driver’s seat. “You are going to help clean those windows when we get home.”

  “Woof!”

  “And you’re getting a bath, too,” Abby added. The weather was perfect for grilling that night. While the steaks cooked, she would hose down her car and Chester. After dinner, she would check her e-mail one last time before calling it a day.

  If she hadn’t heard from the Pitt/Jolie publicist, she would…wait. What other choice did she have?

  Chapter 12

  “A séance? Are you out of your mind?” Ida exclaimed. “Next thing I know, you’ll be asking us to set up a hotline like that Miss Cleo from th
e Psychic Friends Network!”

  “Oh, get a frigging grip, Ida,” Sophie said. “We’re trying to have fun. If you don’t want to join us, then you can sit out here all night and pout. None of us gives a good rat’s ass. Right, girls?”

  Mavis clapped her hands to get their attention. “Sophie, let’s not argue. I think it would be fun. I have to say I’ve never tried this before, but it sounds exciting. I’m all about trying new things now. You’ll enjoy yourself, Ida. Look at this as another new experience. Please join us.”

  Toots took one last puff of her cigarette before crushing it out in the seashell. “Make up your mind, Ida, this isn’t all about you and what you think. If you’re scared, just say so,” Toots challenged. If they only knew. She was shaking in her shoes. Her act of bravado was just that. An act. No way would she let Ida know she was the least bit frightened.

  Sophie sat on the edge of the deck, finishing her cigarette. “If you’re in, you’re in. I have to get things ready. Toots, you want to help me?”

  “Of course. I, for one, can’t wait. Who knows? Maybe we’ll contact one of my deceased husbands. Ida, you might get in touch with Thomas. He might reveal where that tainted meat came from.”

  “Okay, I’m in. If you are all trying to pull something on me, tell me now. I don’t like surprises,” Ida said.

  “She’s just pure chickenshit,” Sophie teased.

  “Count me in. And Sophie, why don’t you just…fuck off?”

  Toots, Sophie, and Mavis burst out laughing.

  “Now that’s the spirit, Ida!” Sophie cheered. “See? You’ll be cussing and smoking real soon, and before you know it, you’ll be stopping all that prissy-ass behavior. Ida, you and Mavis gather up as many candles as you can find. I’m sure that pop tart has some stashed somewhere in this seaside whorehouse. Toots, come upstairs with me.” She looked at her watch. Mimicking a ghostly voice, Sophie said, “We’ll meet in the dining room in one hour. Don’t be late.”

  Together they raced upstairs. Once they were inside Toots’s new bedroom, Sophie sat down on the bed.

  “What can I do to help?” Toots asked, then added, “I will not go in that room, so don’t even ask.”

  “You don’t have to. All we need are those candles and a tablecloth. I was going to use one of the silky sheets from the ghost room. Maybe our resident spook will be more amenable if they see something they recognize. I’m going to set up the camcorder and the electronic voice recorder, too. Just in case we actually hit pay dirt.”

  “Don’t you think this…ghost or spirit—I still can’t believe we’re having this conversation—don’t you think they’ll know where they’re at?” Toots asked. “Because I sure as hell know what I saw, and it was not something normal. Whatever you do, don’t say anything about last night. If—and this is a big if—something appears, don’t say I told you so. Pretend you’re surprised.”

  “Trust me, Tootsie, I won’t be acting if something manifests itself. I will be just as scared as the rest of you.”

  Suddenly unsure, Toots asked, “Are you sure about this? Shouldn’t we have the house blessed or something before we do this?”

  “I have some holy water left over from Walter’s funeral. We’ll sprinkle some around and say a prayer. Now let me get my things. You go on and help the girls. Make sure that god-awful dining room doesn’t have any flowers or fruits lying around. Spirits, or so I’ve heard, don’t like sweet or fruity scents. If there are any metal or glass objects, take them out of the room, too. Minerals supposedly interfere with the spirits’ ability to show themselves. Don’t ask. That Madam Butterfly lady told me that once.”

  “I’ll make sure to check. See you downstairs.” Toots hurried out of the room.

  Sophie made her way across the hall to her bedroom, hoping that whatever Toots had seen would show itself while she was in the room. She rummaged through her luggage until she found the small bottle of holy water that had been blessed at Walter’s funeral. She took her camcorder and a small tape recorder just in case the spirits decided to make themselves known through sounds. Sophie was excited, but she was scared, too. She trusted Toots, knew she wasn’t off her rocker, wasn’t seeing things. If Toots said she saw a ghost, a spirit, puffy clouds with faces inside, Sophie believed her 100 percent.

  She pulled the purple silk top sheet off the bed, rolled it into a ball, then tucked it beneath her arm. She glanced around the nightmarish room once more. When she saw there were no floating clouds, cool gusts of air, or faces struggling to speak, she went downstairs.

  Sophie closed the door to her room, then opened it. If there were something inside the room, she wanted to do everything in her power to help it make its exit. Who knew? It could just as easily walk through the door, but she left it open anyway. She wasn’t taking any chances.

  Racing downstairs, she found Toots, Ida, and Mavis in the dining room, lighting candles. “Not too many, just enough to add a touch of light to the room. We don’t want a bonfire.”

  Sophie shook the sheet out and draped it over the round wooden table, thinking it odd that the pop tart who’d rented the place actually had a decent piece of furniture that wasn’t pink, purple, or white Formica. The table was solid wood. Sophie wasn’t sure what kind, but she remembered reading somewhere that when wood was charged with an unnatural entity, it acted as a conductor. Therefore, it wasn’t necessary to hold hands or touch one another.

  “Mavis, put one of the candles over here,” Sophie said, pointing to the center of the table.

  “Oh yes, of course. You need to see.”

  Once Sophie had all her props in place, she scanned the setting. It looked like something from a B movie. The round wooden table with a candle glowing in the center, the sheet’s edges billowing from the movement around the table, and three women who already looked as though they’d seen a ghost. All that was lacking was the proverbial crystal ball. She looked down at her cream-colored blouse, thinking maybe she should have dressed for the part as well. After all, this was Hollywood. Sophie could have wrapped herself up in one of the purple sheets on her bed.

  In her most serious voice, Sophie said, “If you ladies are ready, I say we get down to business.”

  Toots, Ida, and Mavis each stood behind a chair, their faces already pale with anticipation.

  “First, I want to say a prayer. Bow your heads,” Sophie instructed.

  They did as she asked.

  “Oh great one, bless this dump and those who inhabit it, living or dead.” It was all Sophie could do to keep from laughing even though she was trying her hardest to act serious. The utter stupidity of what she was doing suddenly hit her, but it was too late to back out now.

  “I’m not saying ‘amen’ to that one,” Toots whispered.

  Sophie ignored her and began walking around the room. She sprinkled the holy water, saying, “We come in peace. Please don’t be frightened.” She remembered an old sci-fi movie where they’d said words similar to hers. After she’d circled the room three times, Sophie took her seat.

  “Let’s sit down and join hands.”

  Again the women followed her directions.

  Mavis was on her left, Toots to her right and—thank God—Ida was seated between Toots and Mavis. Sophie really didn’t want to hold her hand.

  Sophie chuckled to herself, thinking that under other circumstances it would have been almost too bad that Ida was cured of her obsessive-compulsive disorder. She would’ve loved nothing more than to have arranged for Ida to sit next to her and to have Ida reach for her hand, only to find it dirty and smelly. Sophie could’ve found a dead fish or something and rubbed it across her palm. Ida would have had a heart attack.

  Next, Sophie pushed the candle away from the center of the table and put a drinking glass in its place.

  “I want everyone to relax, think of something pleasant. Ida, think of a man. Take a deep breath,” Sophie said, getting into her role. “Now imagine someone from the past, someone you would like to connect with. Deep
breaths in. Now out.” Sophie’s hypnotic words were having an effect on the three. They looked as though they were in a trance. Wasn’t she the one supposed to be in a trancelike state? She cleared her head. Didn’t matter, they were into this now, and she wasn’t going to do anything that would ruin it. They would all have a good laugh about it later.

  “If there is someone in the room with us, make yourself known.” Sophie paused, waiting for something to crash. When nothing did, she continued. “We’re not here to cause harm. We are friendly.” God, had she actually said that? Yep, Sophie Manchester, you certainly did. “Is there someone out there who would like to communicate a message to someone? We want to help you.”

  The room was silent except for the sound of their breathing. “Girls, think of someone who has passed, a friend or family member you would like to give a message to.” Sophie saw the three around the table, their eyes squeezed tight in concentration.

  Several minutes passed before Sophie spoke again. She remembered reading in one of her psychic books that if an hour passed, and there were no signs of paranormal activity, then it was time to stop.

  Suddenly, the room became icy, bone-chilling cold. Sophie’s eyes grew to the size of saucers. Mavis looked like she was ready to faint. Toots didn’t appear to be frightened, but Ida seemed to be in a state of shock. Sophie was in control. She could do this. Take a deep breath. In and out, she told herself.

  “We’re not here to cause any harm, please know that.” In a whisper, Sophie said to the girls, “Place your fingertips on the glass, very lightly.” They did. “Good, now, whoever is here, we want to talk to you. There is a drinking glass in the center of this table. If you see the glass, try to move it.” Sophie waited. “Use your fingertips to move the glass.” Again she waited several seconds. Nothing happened.

  “If you’re a male, could you try to move the glass to my right? If you’re a female, move the glass to my left. We want to help you.” Sophie paused, focusing her attention on the glass. Without warning, the glass slowly moved to the right, then stopped.