by Nic Saint
Oh, in case you were wondering, my name is Henrietta ‘Harry’ McCabre. I’m a twenty-three-year-old former antique store clerk who’d inadvertently landed a job as a ghost hunter when my former employer Sir Geoffrey Buckley was murdered. His ghost had come back to help me solve his murder, and from there Jarrett and I had gone on to solve more ghost mysteries than anyone could shake a stick at. With my fair complexion, blond bob and golden eyes, I don’t exactly look like a ghost hunter. Then again, what does a ghost hunter look like? I’d never met one before I became one.
Still, Jarrett might be closer to what people expect from a ghost hunter. Fair-haired, lean, tan and lanky, he’s one of England’s richest men, perhaps even the richest. Well, technically his father is the billionaire in the family, but since Jarrett stands to inherit the bulk of his father’s fortune one day, that’s probably a minor point of contention.
I’d gotten the call when I was feeding an aspirin to my snowy white Persian Snuggles. Snuggles has the flu, and an aspirin was what the doctor ordered. I’d almost dropped the pill—and Snuggles—when the phone rang and Jarrett announced the Wraith Wranglers were once again being called to the rescue.
We finally arrived at what was apparently the main soundstage, and I was properly impressed with how huge it was. Everywhere I looked I saw different sets. One that looked like a basement, another that could be the living room of the Dursley place on Privet Drive, and another that looked like Dumbledore’s office. Yep, this was a Harry Potter movie all right.
“Oh, this is so cool!” Jarrett exclaimed, clapping his hands excitedly.
“So where is this ghost?” I asked the guard who’d led us here. He was a big and burly man with an impressive mustache that curled up at the edges.
“Right there, ma’am,” he said, pointing at a small gathering of people on the set of a casino.
“Thanks,” I said, taking Jarrett by the arm and dragging him along.
I saw one actor with round Harry Potter spectacles, and guessed that he was the lead, another one who faintly resembled Emma Watson, and a ginger-haired actor who could only be Rupert Grint’s replacement. A very thin, very rattled-looking man stood pacing the scene, accompanied by a stern-looking woman, her hair tied back in a tight bun. The moment we arrived, they all turned to us.
“Are you the Wraith Wranglers?” the woman asked. She held out her hand. “Marsha Shalver. I’m the producer. Thank God you could make it.”
“You even beat the cops,” the thin man said.
“This is Nathan Gaberdine, the director.” She quickly introduced the lead actors, and then led us to a mountain of a man who lay on top of a collapsed table.
“Oh, I recognize him!” Jarrett cried enthusiastically. “Hagrid, right?”
The producer eyed him reproachfully. “No, that’s Uriel Pieres. Or at least it used to be, until he died and landed in the middle of our Monte Carlo set.”
“He’s dead?” Jarrett asked.
“Very astute of you,” Marsha said wryly. “Yes, he’s dead. It’s his ghost that’s been giving us so much trouble these past couple of days.”
I bent down next to the body and immediately recoiled. He smelled terrible. “A couple of days, you said?”
The producer nodded. She had a clipboard pressed to her chest, and looked more like a script girl than a high-powered producer. She snatched up a pair of reading glasses dangling from a string around her neck and slipped them on, then read from her clipboard. “Uriel Pieres. Member of our cleaning crew. Didn’t show up for duty last week. His supervisor figured he’d decided to quit on us.”
“But instead someone stuffed him into the ceiling,” Jarrett marveled, staring up at the large hole.
“It’s not really a ceiling,” the producer said. “It’s part of the set. Whoever killed him must either have dragged his body up there to get rid of him, or maybe he was cleaning the crawl space and was killed up there. Whatever the case, his ghost has been holding up production. So if you could do… whatever it is that you do, we’d all be very grateful.”
“But won’t the police shut down production?” I asked.
She laughed a curt laugh. “Not a chance. This is a multi-million-dollar production with a tight schedule and a winter release date set in stone. Nothing can shut down this production, and most definitely not the death of some hapless cleaner. And if that sounds harsh, that’s too bad.”
And with these words, she abruptly turned on her heel and strode off, leaving us to ‘do our thing.’
“That did sound a little harsh,” I said.
“I didn’t even get to say hi to Harry Potter,” Jarrett lamented.
“Harry Potter doesn’t exist, Jarrett. He’s a figment of someone’s imagination. And that guy over there is just an actor playing a part.”
“Ouch. Someone is feeling testy.”
“I’m testy because Darian keeps sending me messages and when I call him he doesn’t pick up his phone.” I had no idea what was going on with the guy but I knew I didn’t like it one bit.
“I think I know why he’s not picking up his phone right now,” Jarrett said, giving me a nudge. I turned in the direction he was facing, and saw a tall, broad-shouldered, strikingly handsome man stride into the studio. Darian Watley. He was following the same mustachioed guard who’d led us here. They were accompanied by a short, squat guy with sandy hair and deep-set beady black eyes. Darian himself easily towered over the man.
Darian Watley was the Scotland Yard inspector who’d investigated Sir Geoffrey Buckley’s murder. He’d been a non-believer for a long time, claiming ghosts didn’t exist… until he was slimed by one. Our relationship had known its ups and downs, and apparently right now we were going through a rough patch. At least judging by the way he was looking at me.
“He doesn’t seem very happy to see us,” Jarrett said.
“Nope, he does not.”
“And who’s the midget? I didn’t know Darian had a partner?”
“He doesn’t. Unless there’s something he didn’t tell me.”
The police officers joined Marsha Shalver and the others, and she gave them the same spiel she’d given us. Darian kept darting dark looks at Jarrett and me, and so did his pint-sized partner.
“I don’t think the new guy is a big fan of the Wraith Wranglers,” Jarrett said. “Oh, goodie, they’re coming over.”
Darian and his partner joined us. “Harry,” Darian said by way of greeting. He sounded very officious, as if we were total strangers.
“Hey, Darian. I’m sorry I didn’t pick up. We were on our way over here, and I must have missed your calls. What did you want to tell me?”
The squat man with the deep-set eyes turned them on Darian. “What did I tell you, Watley? No more canoodling with the freaky ghost hunter.”
This took me aback somewhat. “Um… what did you just call me?”
“This is Inspector Reto Slack,” Darian said by way of introduction. “He’s my new partner. Slack, meet Henrietta McCabre and Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton, also known as the Wraith Wranglers.”
“I know who they are,” Slack growled, his black eyes narrowed into slits. “What I would like to know is what the hell they are doing here.”
“If you must know, we were invited,” Jarrett said.
“By whom?”
“By me.” Marsha had walked up to us. “I hired the Wraith Wranglers to get rid of the spooky pest that’s been hounding our production for days.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Inspector Slack grunted. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. I want these two idiots escorted from the premises. This is now a crime scene, and I’m not tolerating any intruders.”
“Harry and Jarrett are here on my invitation, Inspector,” Marsha said, her voice taking on a steely note. This was clearly a woman you didn’t want to mess with. “And they’re staying right here. If you don’t like it, you can take it up with Prime Minister June. I don’t have to remind me she’s a very big Harry Potter fan, and very happy
that we’re shooting a new movie.”
Slack twisted his face into a nasty grimace. “You can’t do that.”
“I can and I will. And now if you’ll excuse me, I have a production to run. And you, I believe, have a murder to solve.”
At this, she turned on her heel and stalked off in the direction of her director and main talent. The show must go on.
Slack gave me a warning glare. “I don’t want you interfering with my investigation, is that understood?” Then he turned on Darian. “And I don’t want you communicating with these Wraith Wranglers in any way, shape or form. Your job depends on it, Watley. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” Darian said between gritted teeth.
I gave him a questioning look but he totally ignored me and followed his partner as they distanced themselves and stalked over to the dead body on display. More police officers had arrived and they were marking off the crime scene with yellow crime scene tape.
“That was fun,” Jarrett said. “I don’t think I like your boyfriend’s new friend.”
“I don’t like him either,” I said, casting a concerned look at Darian. I didn’t get it. Why all of a sudden did he pretend we hardly knew each other? And why was his new partner acting like his boss? Whatever the case, something wasn’t right, and I was determined to find out what.
Chapter Two
“He can’t do this,” I said. “He can’t just ignore me like this.”
“Well, actually he can,” Jarrett said. “He just did.”
I cast a nasty glance back at the police inspector, who stood gazing down at the body of the man that had dropped from the ceiling. The coroner had arrived and was carefully examining the body.
I willed Darian to turn and look at me, but he steadfastly pretended not to notice. It was driving me crazy. “I don’t get it,” I said, turning away.
“It’s this new craze,” Jarrett opined. “It’s called ghosting. One day you’re happily rattling headboards, like lovers do, and the next they pretend like they don’t know you. No messages, no phone calls, no emails. They simply cut off all communication. Ghosting. It’s the latest trend.”
“Well, it’s not like he’s cut off all communication. He did try to call.”
“Probably to tell you not to call him again. Ever.”
“Darian would never do that. He’s a good guy.”
“Honey, even good guys have their breaking point. Maybe it’s something you said?” He ignored my death-ray look. “Or did? There must have been warning signs. There always are.”
“Trust me, there was nothing. The last time I saw him was…” I thought back. Had it really been a week ago? Time flies by so fast when you’re hunting ghosts. “Well, everything was fine. We went out to dinner and he talked about his mum and dad getting back together and maybe even getting married again.”
“That’s it. That’s what decided him,” Jarrett said. “A lot of men get scared off when their girlfriends bring up the M word. Marriage,” he added in case I hadn’t caught on.
“I didn’t bring up the M word. He did. And he wasn’t talking about our M. he was talking about Em and Broderick’s upcoming M.”
“Em’s M. That’s funny.” When I gave him my best glare, he quickly added, “Doesn’t matter. When he got home that night he must have started thinking—thinking is very bad for men. They practically never do it, so when finally they do get to thinking, it’s usually with disastrous results.”
“You’re a man.”
“I’m not a man. I’m gay. There’s a difference. So he must have started thinking, is this really the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with? Is this really the face I want to see across the breakfast table for the next fifty years? Yes? No? Maybe?” He shrugged. “It’s obvious what he decided.”
“Ugh,” I said in response, then gave Jarrett a punch on the shoulder.
“Hey! What was that for?!”
“For being an ass.”
“I’m not an ass. I’m your friend. I’m just laying it all out for you.” He rubbed his shoulder. “I bruise easily. You know that. So don’t do it again.”
“I won’t do it again if you stop being an ass.”
“I’m not! I’m being your friend. And in return you give me a bruise.”
“Ask Deshawn to put some cream on that.”
Jarrett’s face lit up. “You know? I think I will.”
Deshawn Little was Jarrett’s fiancé. He’d been Jarrett’s manservant, until they discovered they harbored feelings for each other deeper than mere employment allowed. Jarrett had gone down on one knee, and now they were ready to tie the knot. Or not. They were still trying to decide which way they were leaning. The problem was the move from the master-and-servant stage to the equal-under-the-sun stage. It was hard for Deshawn to let go of his subservient manner, and for Jarrett to lose a superb valet.
“Have you found a replacement for Deshawn yet?”
“Not yet. And not for lack of trying, either. We’ve been interviewing plenty of candidates, but so far no luck. It’s very hard to replace the best valet in the world.”
“I’m sure you’ll find someone.”
“I’m not. And neither is Deshawn. I swear, that man’s standards are even higher than my own.”
“Of course. He knows what the job entails. He knows how hard it is to replace himself.”
“Well, I hope he lowers his standards, or else we’re never going to agree on a person.”
I looked around, thinking we should probably get started on rooting out this pesky ghost. “Buckley?” I asked, looking up. “Are you there?”
Sir Geoffrey Buckley, ever since he’d passed away, had been an integral part of our team. He was the one who usually made contact with the ghosts, seeing as he was one himself, and knew where to find them. Of course, first we had to find Buckley, as he had a habit of floating around the racetrack.
“Buckley!” Jarrett demanded. “Where are you?!”
“Oh, hold on to your butts,” a tired voice sounded near the casino bar. A frizzy-haired head popped up, looking slightly disheveled. It belonged to a dapper gentleman dressed in an immaculate suit. The former antique dealer seemed reluctant to join us tonight.
“What happened to you?” Jarrett asked. “Have you been on a bender?”
Buckley gave Jarrett the evil eye. “How can I go on a bender? I’m dead.”
“Still. Maybe you found a way.”
“No, I didn’t find a way. Though I wouldn’t mind a snifter. This being dead thing might seem all fine and dandy to you young whippersnappers, but it gets a little tedious after a while.”
“We need your help, Buckley,” I said. “A man has been killed.”
“So what else is new? Men are killed every day. And women, for that matter. And children, dogs, cats, and perfectly nice chunks of rain forest.”
Yep, Buckley was in a great mood. “His ghost has been haunting the studio for the past couple of days, and they need him gone.”
“It’s the new Harry Potter movie, Buckley,” Jarrett said encouragingly. “They’re finally making another one, isn’t that great?”
Buckley shrugged. “Who cares?”
“Well, I do. I’ve always wondered what Harry was up to these past few years,” said Jarrett. “And so have millions of other Harry Potter fans.”
Buckley pressed a hand to his head and groaned. He almost sounded like Moaning Myrtle. “If you must know, I did go on a bender, but not an alcoholically induced one. Me and a bunch of other ghosts tried to make our horses go faster, and let me tell you, once you try to take over a horse you start to realize why they’ve been running races, carrying riders and pulling plows all these years. They’re not the most intelligent creatures.”
“You… possessed a horse?” I asked, incredulous.
He nodded. “I just figured if a ghost can possess another human, why not a horse? I thought if I could imbibe him with my fighting spirit, I might induce him to win the race. Only problem was that t
he horse liked me a little too much, and wouldn’t let me go! And instead of winning his race he just started prancing around, jumping into the stands like an idiot. Craig Barley had better luck. His horse won, with Frank ‘The Stump’ Neverlass’s lass a close second.”
I shook my head and decided I didn’t want to know about Buckley’s adventures at the Hippodrome. “Do you think you can contact our ghost? We really need to get a move on. We’re under contract here, Buckley.”
“Yeah, and the police want us out of here, so any excuse will be good to give us the boot,” Jarrett added.
Buckley glanced at Darian. “Darian wants you gone? But why?”
“Beats me,” I said. “He has a new partner, who told us to take a hike.”
Buckley shook his head, and then floated up from behind the bar. I didn’t know how he did it, but before long, the ghost of a very large man emerged from the ceiling, where apparently he’d been hiding. He looked exactly like the dead man, which was logical, cause he was the dead man.
“Hey there, buddy,” Jarrett said encouragingly. “Mind if we have a chat?”
“He killed me,” the man said gloomily. “And Harry Potter couldn’t save me.”
“Harry Potter can’t save anyone,” I said. “Because Harry Potter doesn’t exist.”
“Don’t keep saying that,” Jarrett hissed. “We’re in the temple of Harry Potter here. That’s sacrilege. Soon the Dark Lord himself will show up and curse you.”
“The Dark Lord!” the dead man cried. “He’s the one that did this to me! He has returned!”
I sighed. This was going to be a tough nut to crack. “Uriel Pieres? That’s your name, right? Could you tell us what happened? Exactly?”
Uriel floated down from the ceiling and joined us. He seemed to realize he didn’t have anything to worry about with us. None of us looked like a creepy dark wizard. “I was cleaning up the casino—they said they were going to shoot a big scene here and needed the place spic and span.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“Um…” He frowned. “What day is today?”
“Wednesday.”
His face cleared. “Hey, what do you know? It was a week ago.”