Fern Michaels' Godmothers Bundle: The Scoop, Exclusive, Late Edition, Deadline & Breaking News

by Michaels, Fern

  “So did you recognize their faces, could you make out what they were trying to tell you?”

  Toots rolled her eyes. She couldn’t quite believe she was having this conversation. “You know, I didn’t think about total recall as I lay there scared half out of my mind. I guess I should’ve taken notes, maybe a picture or two. Seriously, Sophie, I was frightened. I know it sounds crazy. I know you’re into this type of thing, but it’s not something you want to experience, trust me on that. Why don’t we change rooms? You can sleep with the spirits and fill me in on all the gory details.”

  Sophie lit a cigarette, handed it to Toots, then lit another for herself. “Yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll take notes, too. Something else. When a house is disturbed”—Sophie made finger quotes when she said the word disturbed—“it’s possible, hell it’s more than possible, it’s highly probable that you’ve riled a few spirits who were content to live in this dump as is. You can thank that pop tart’s overzealous publicist for the tip she gave you telling you this house was about to go on the market. I wonder if there is some kind of haunting clause, something along the lines of buyer’s remorse.”

  Toots glanced over her shoulder to make sure Ida and Mavis weren’t up and about. “I’m sure there isn’t, and whatever you do, don’t tell the girls. Or Abby. They’ll insist I’ve lost my marbles. I want to keep this between the two of us. At least for now.”

  Sophie inhaled deeply. “I won’t say anything. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for causing Ida to get whacked out again. And Mavis, well, she’s so full of herself now since she’s lost all that weight, I’m not even sure I like her anymore.”

  Right after burying her eighth husband, Leland, who’d been a pompous, self-righteous ass, Toots had strictly adhered to her usual ten days of mourning, then tossed out her widow’s garb for good. Wanting to add some excitement to her golden years, she’d immediately sent e-mails to Abby’s godmothers, Sophie, Ida, and Mavis, her dearest friends of more than fifty years, inviting them to Charleston, where she’d lived for the past twenty years. They had all instantly accepted her invitation.

  Ida lived in New York City, where she’d spent most of her adult life in three or four serial marriages. Toots had lost count. After her last husband, Thomas, had died from E. coli, she became obsessed with germs, rarely venturing into the world outside her penthouse apartment. Ida and her traveling circus of germ-fighting paraphernalia made the trip South. When Toots realized just how dire the situation was, she cajoled and threatened until Ida agreed that it was time to do something about her obsessive-compulsive disorder. It hadn’t hurt that Toots had threatened Ida with following her to New York City and forcing her to ride in the dirtiest taxicab she could find. She’d also made a few other germ-related threats before Ida succumbed to the lure of being able to lead a normal life, or as normal a life as anyone associated with Teresa Amelia Loudenberry could lead.

  Mavis, a retired English teacher living on the coast of Maine with her dog Coco and barely surviving on a small pension, had been thrilled when Toots invited her for a visit. Toots had been shocked when she saw her friend emerge from the plane. Mavis had gained more than a hundred pounds since their last visit at Abby’s college graduation. Fearful for her friend’s health, Toots knew immediately that she had her work cut out for her.

  And then there was Sophie. Toots had been closer to Sophie than any of the others, but she’d never tell them that. Sophie was tough, strong, and street-smart. Or so she wanted the world to believe. But Toots knew better. She’d seen Sophie at her lowest point in life. Living with her husband, Walter, whom she’d married when he was an up-and-coming Manhattan banker, Sophie had endured years of abuse at his hands while he spent life with bottles of booze as his only friends. He’d finally died while Sophie was in California. Toots helped arrange a quick funeral, or event, as she now called funerals, and Sophie was happier than she’d ever been.

  Making no bones about how she felt about it, Toots assured Sophie that she fully agreed with her that Walter’s dying alone was well deserved. Toots prayed that he was roasting in the fires of hell for all that he’d put Sophie through.

  Sophie had, in fact, been looking forward to Walter’s dying for a long time. Since her Catholic upbringing made it impossible to walk out on Walter, however badly he treated her, she had spent more than thirty years working as a pediatric nurse to support a man who did nothing but drink and smack her around whenever he chose. Poor Sophie.

  Well, actually, rich Sophie. Knowing she couldn’t plan on spending her golden years with a loving and caring husband, she was not at all unhappy when the nonfunctional, alcoholic partner she had married years before was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver. Luckily, she’d had the foresight to continue to pay the monthly premiums on a five-million-dollar life insurance policy. Now that Walter had finally departed for wherever he would land, Sophie was a rich woman, finally able to enjoy life without fear of getting the snot beaten out of her. And her passion just happened to be anything paranormal.

  “For shame, Sophie. Mavis has worked her tail off, quite literally I might add, and you should support and encourage her.”

  Sophie stubbed out one cigarette and immediately fired up another. She took a deep drag before she said, “I am proud of her, Toots. You of all people should know that. I’m just tired of watching her admiring what’s left of her ass when she walks past a window, a mirror, anything that shows a reflection.”

  Toots laughed. “Lately I’ve noticed her doing that, too, but you have to realize how hard she’s worked to lose all that weight. Six months ago, I feared she was nothing more than a heart attack waiting to happen. Now I suddenly find myself wanting to ask her for fashion advice.”

  Sophie grinned. “Yeah, that stylist you hired for her didn’t hurt either. Mavis is a quick one; it’s no wonder she’s advising the rest of us on what not to wear.”

  Toots eyed Sophie up and down. “You might want to take her advice.”

  Sophie wore a pair of fading purple baggy sweatpants with what once had been a bright pink UCLA sweatshirt. “What’s wrong with my outfit? It’s the thing to wear out here. I found these in the back of the closet in my room.”

  “And I’m sure they belonged to that pop star who lived here, too. So what does that tell you?”

  Sophie looked down at her baggy, fading sweats. “Pink and purple aren’t my colors?”

  Toots couldn’t help but laugh. “Seriously, I don’t care what you wear, but I would change into something else before I went out in public.”

  Sophie chuckled. “Probably a good idea. Now let’s get back to the problem at hand. You think you’re seeing ghosts or spirits in your room. I want to spend a few nights alone in the room before I make my decision on what ceremony I want to perform.”

  Chapter 2

  If Toots rolled her eyes any more, she felt sure they would get stuck in a cross-eyed position or worse, one eye viewing east and the other west. She forced herself to stare straight ahead at the horrific pink wall. The remodeling couldn’t begin soon enough. If she had to look at these walls much longer, she would go bonkers.

  “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said,” Sophie said, loudly enough to break through Toots’s preoccupation with things ocular.

  “Yes, I have. I’m just mesmerized by these walls. They need to go, and the sooner the better. Remind me to toss everything I own that’s pink, or even close. Purple, too.”

  Sophie grabbed the pot of coffee and refilled both of their cups. Toots dumped at least a quarter of a cup of sugar in hers before taking a sip.

  “That’s disgusting, Toots.”

  Before she could roll her eyes upward, Toots stopped as a mental image of her wearing inch-thick glasses flashed before her. She glared at Sophie. “I like sugar, so what? It could be worse. I could smoke cigars.” Toots reached for her pack of Marlboros. She planned to quit someday. Maybe. At her age, she wasn’t sure it mattered. Even with her sugar addiction and chain-smokin
g, she’d suffered no ill effects. So far, she’d been lucky. No diabetes, no lung cancer, no emphysema. Maybe she should write a book about the virtues of living a life filled with bad habits and rich husbands.

  Sophie offered up her usual smirk. “Someday we’re gonna be old, or at least feel old. Then we’ll both wish we’d lived healthier lives.”

  Toots examined her friend closely. To be so morose wasn’t like her. “What is it with you this morning?”

  Sophie pushed her chair away from Toots. “You don’t have to get in my face. For Pete’s sake, there is nothing wrong with me! You’re the one who’s seeing ghosts floating around in your bedroom. And I will never understand in a million years why you bought this dump. It’s beyond ugly. Hell, it was ugly when it was new. I pity the poor jerk who has to make this place livable.”

  “I would be ‘that poor jerk,’ I’ll have you know. You don’t have to live here, smart-ass. Last time I heard, you had a few million tucked away. Go buy your own damned house.” Toots smiled wickedly when she saw that Sophie was about to bust a gut at her outburst.

  “You’re a real bitch, Toots, you know it?”

  “You’d best remember it, too,” Toots added affectionately. “And for your information, this dump cost me three-point-eight million dollars, and that was a bargain-basement price.”

  “Then I say someone got screwed.”

  Toots eyed the pink-and-purple kitchen, the white Formica kitchen furniture, and knew she and whatever contractor she hired were facing an uphill battle. If she’d been really smart, she would have consulted with the HGTV crew. It was going to take time and more money than she’d originally planned, but when she looked out at the view, she decided that it would be worth every penny.

  Today the beach was empty of the usual crowds, the view of the Pacific endless, the sky a clear robin’s-egg blue, and the smog a distant memory. This view and being close to Abby was worth every single penny of the $3.8 million and a lot more, which it was obviously going to take to make the house inhabitable by ordinary humans, not pop tarts.

  “So what’s your suggestion?”

  “Sell it and buy a condo?” Sophie replied in the blink of an eye.

  “You know I won’t do that. I don’t mind the remodeling, it’s the other that I’m . . . not so comfortable with.”

  Sophie took a deep breath, crushed out her cigarette, and lit another. “Yeah, okay. We’ll start by switching rooms. Tell Ida and Mavis the mattress hurts your back if they ask, though I doubt they’ll even question it. They’re too involved in their own lives right now to notice either of us.”

  Toots considered this. “I agree. Ida and our good Dr. Sameer can’t seem to get enough of each other’s company. When she’s not on the phone with him, she has an appointment at his office. Something is going on between the two of them, I’m sure. He sent another prayer rug yesterday, too. And Mavis is either jogging with Coco or designing her next outfit. It’s hard to believe how much the two of them have grown in the past six months.”

  “Mavis has shrunk, remember? Okay, okay, I know what you mean. It’s Ida who worries me, though. She and that doctor spend too much time together, if you ask me. I know they’re more than just friends. Ida keeps telling me that, but I don’t believe it for one minute.” Lowering her voice and looking around, Sophie continued, “She simply cannot be without a man.”

  Since the fire at The Informer, Toots had been so involved in its cleanup and rebuilding, getting the paper ready for production without revealing to Abby that it was she who’d purchased the failing rag—not to mention the time she’d spent searching for the perfect home—that she’d hardly given much thought to Mavis’s and Ida’s activities. “I think we all need to have a sit-down to catch up with one another before something happens.”

  “What do you suppose will happen, Toots? Think one of us might get laid? I’d bet my last dollar Ida and the good doctor are doing the dirty.” Sophie laughed when she saw the look of disgust on Toots’s face.

  “Your mind is always in the gutter, Sophie. I swear, you haven’t changed since seventh grade. I can’t recall a single conversation in which sex didn’t pop up at some point.”

  “Pop up? Is that a Freudian slip, Toots? Or sheer coincidence?” Sophie teased.

  Toots huffed. “See? You find a sex connection in everything I say. Seriously, what are we going to do about my . . . visitors? I want them, it, whatever, out of here. Or I’m going to commit myself to the nearest nuthouse. Tell me what one does, Sophie. How do you go about ridding your home of a ghostly presence?”

  Toots poured the rest of the brown sludge in her cup, then added a large splash of milk and more sugar. “Want more? I’ll make another pot real quick.”

  Sophie shook her head. “Let’s go sit out on the deck, in case the girls come downstairs and creep up on us. I just don’t trust Ida, although I don’t quite know why.” She fretted. “She’s always been such a damn sneak. I wouldn’t put it past her to try and sell your ghost story to The Enquirer or The Globe.”

  Grabbing her cup, Toots laughed and followed Sophie onto the deck. Even though it was summer in Southern California, the early-morning air held a chill. Sophie motioned her over to a pair of weathered deck chairs. Toots saw an old iron table with a glass top jammed in the corner of the deck, dragged it over by the two chairs, and placed it between them. Sophie snatched the shell they’d been using as an ashtray and set it on the small table before removing her cigarettes and lighter from the pocket of her sweats. As was becoming the norm, she lit up for the both of them.

  “Okay, you want to know about ghosts,” Sophie said matter-of-factly, as though they were discussing what they would have for breakfast. “I’ve been interested in the paranormal for as far back as I can remember.”

  Toots cast her an odd look.

  “It wasn’t something I talked about. Back in our day we would’ve been tarred and feathered for even thinking about this stuff, let alone believing it. I used to visit a lady in Queens, she called herself Madam Butterfly, if you can believe that. Everything was butterflies with her. Jewelry, clothes, even her damned wallpaper was butterflies all over. She read tarot cards for me once a week after I married Walter. She warned me about him, too. Said he was bad for me, but I was young and in lust and wouldn’t listen to her.” Sophie paused. “I wonder how my life would’ve turned out had I taken her advice? Oh well, too late for that.”

  Toots interrupted. “Get to the point, Soph.”

  “I’m explaining how I became interested in this stuff. I started reading astrology charts and doing my own little tarot readings on the side. Oh, nothing for the public, just for myself and a couple of girls at the hospital. Never made much of a big deal out of it. It was all in fun anyway. Sure helped me get through some rough times with that son of a bitch I married. I just want you to know that this isn’t a new hobby, in case you’re wondering.”

  Toots couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “I think we’ve discussed your interest enough. Just tell me what I need to do, Soph. You can’t imagine just how weird I feel in that room. When I put my robe on this morning, I kept looking around to see if anyone was watching me.”

  “Once I’m settled in the room, I’ll know more. For starters, I’ll have to make sure there really is a presence there.”

  With a trace of impatience Toots asked, “And how will you do that?”

  “It’s just something I’ll know. I’ll set up my voice recorder and video for backup, but if there’s truly a ghost hanging around this dump, I’ll know. Once I determine if it’s—shit, this sounds dumb even to me—once I determine if it’s a friendly ghost, then I can do a number of things. For starters, there’s the shoes remedy, and it’s pretty safe.”

  “Shoes? You’re going to rid this place of its ghosts or whatever the hell it is with a pair of shoes? Puh-leeze, Sophie. Even I’m not that gullible.”

  Sophie stubbed out her cigarette. “I know it sounds like a crock, but just hear me out.”


  Toots gazed out at the beach, where the white foamy waves were gently reaching the shoreline. In and out, constant, always predictable. She liked knowing what was happening around her, liked knowing, or at least being able to make a pretty good guess, what each day would bring. After last night’s scare, Toots was sure of one thing—she really did not like the unknown or the unpredictable. No, she liked and needed good, hard facts. But something told her that there would be very few of those available in what she was about to hear.

  Resigning herself to listening to Sophie’s shoe theory, she motioned with her hand. “Go on, tell me about the shoe stuff.”

  Sophie lit another cigarette; Toots was sure she’d smoked at least half a pack already. Then she, too, reached for one and lit up alongside her.

  With the surf as background noise, the occasional seagull cawing with bursts of laughter from an unseen group on the stretch of beach below them, Sophie sat on the edge of her deck chair and explained herself. “I’m not sure of its origins, but somewhere I recall reading about the shoe theory. It’s said when you go to bed at night, the person seeing or feeling the presence of a ghost—and in this case that would be you—is supposed to place the shoes you’ll be wearing the next day at the foot of your bed. You then point one shoe in one direction and its mate in the opposite direction. This is said to confuse the ghosts. After a few nights of discombobulation, the ghosts leave.”

  Toots glared at her in disbelief. “That’s it? Please tell me you’re joking.”

  Sophie instantly appeared deflated at Toots’s reaction, collapsing in on herself like a balloon that had lost its air. “What do you mean, joking? You asked me to tell you about the shoe theory, and that’s what I did. It’s not rocket science, Toots. It’s not something you major in physics at Harvard, Yale, or Caltech to learn. Don’t look so damned disappointed.”

  “Guess I was expecting something more . . . I don’t know, concrete. I haven’t dealt with this type of . . . bullshit before.”