"Cashing in is temporary. The Committee is trying to help people build something long-lasting. We need families to move in and help revitalize the town. Instead, we have kids walking around in bloody shrouds brandishing oversize cutlery in the middle of summer." Elizabeth tried not to sound like a screeching hag (not a banshee, absolutely, positively not a banshee). She failed. "How am I supposed to sell a house if I have a horde of corpses marching in front of it?"
"It wasn't a horde. It was the Virginia is for Zombie Lovers Convention. It's a free country. Zombies can visit if they want to. And the Historic Preservation Committee isn't winning itself any friends by hounding the local economy into a comatose state." He shook his head in exasperation. "You know I'm right. Think about it. Would you like it if someone tried to tell you how to sell houses? How would you feel?"
"That's different. Unlike Zach and your PRoVE loonies, I have good judgment. And don't you dare roll your eyes at me."
"I'm not rolling my eyes."
"You were thinking of rolling your eyes."
"Wasn't."
He stopped the car in front of a brick colonial with a large oak tree in the front yard. Maureen's sporty car sat on the driveway next to a black Range Rover. Elizabeth had to admit that the house was very nice. Maureen's husband must have paid a mint for those copper gutters. They were worth every penny though.
"Anyway," Gabe said, "your good judgment should tell you that Zach doesn't need any help from the Historical Preservation Committee."
She ignored his comment and focused on Maureen's roof, one of those new and expensive composites that mimicked slate. As she calculated how much of the cost could be recouped on resale, she noticed a figure climbing out of a second story window right behind the oak tree, a familiar figure. She gasped as Zach reached for a branch, missed, and landed in the bushes. He dragged himself out and ran toward the car.
The good news was that he didn't seem hurt by the fall.
The bad news was that he wasn't wearing any pants.
"Trust me," she said. "Zach needs help. A lot of help."
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE PIZZERIA was full of people and noisy as hell. The harried waiters wore T-shirts bearing various versions of "Survival Tip Number..." as they lugged sangría pitchers and took down orders. A sign over the bar read "Welcome to Pepe's. Doors slam, glasses shatter, and mozzarella flies. Don't be alarmed. Pepe is harmless. Mostly."
The sign was a little lopsided, due in no small part to Elizabeth's efforts. She'd walked in the door, looked around, and tried to use the sign to bash Zach on the head. Pepe wasn't the only one who tried to throw things around. Luckily for Zach, like everything else in the pizzeria, the sign was bolted to a sturdy piece of wood.
Gabe waited impatiently at the bottom of the stairs for his brother to put on some clothes. He watched as Caine walked in with three gorgeous girls in black motorcycle jackets, plus an elderly lady. Caine brought his mom? That was sweet and unexpected.
The biker looked around the room and practically beamed in satisfaction. The beam was clearly directed at Elizabeth, who sat at the bar, scowling. She turned her back to Caine and poured herself another glass of sangría. Gabe sighed. As soon as Zach came down, Gabe would be able to take an irate, and slightly drunk, Elizabeth home.
Or maybe not. Elizabeth settled at the bar in the not-as-modest-as-he'd-expected sweats and asked Zach's bartender, whose shirt featured "Survival Tip Number 13: Don't go to the Basement," for a drink. She seemed to be pointing toward a board that described tonight's sangría special. Upon arrival, Elizabeth had proclaimed that she hated the pizzeria with the passion of a thousand angry villagers carrying flaming torches, but now, she didn't seem to want to leave.
Good, maybe Zach's crazy scheme would sell Elizabeth on paranormal branding. After all, the rest of the town seemed content to guzzle down Vincent Price Peach Sangría and munch on Roger Corman's Fried Calamari. And he had to admit the place had come a long way. The old wood floors were still, as Elizabeth would put it, full of character, but Zach's solution had been to add corpse-shaped chalk outlines to the floor. He was pretty sure the large murals featuring agitated ominous black birds perched in a playground and a little girl watching a television screen had been painted by one of Elizabeth's old drama club buddies. Zach had probably paid her in pizza, or in other ways. The old wood chairs had received a coat of paint and new upholstery. They still looked pretty scruffed up, then again everything in the pizzeria got banged up. Whether or not they had a poltergeist was up for speculation, but the Franco pizzeria was, undisputedly, the most accident-prone business in Northern Virginia. Their elephant-sized insurance premium bore witness to that. The new decor worked. Pepe's Pizza was a place that invited you to linger.
Zach had turned the floundering family business into a success. A dingy, old pizza joint with a terminal case of Death-by-Domino's was now a hip moneymaker.
Pepe's Pizza was exactly the kind of business Gabe analyzed, deconstructed, reconstructed, and sold to be franchised, and he could think of five investors who would be interested. In less than two years, Pepe's Pizza could become a national brand and make his brother a millionaire. Zach wasn't interested in money, though. He just wanted a cool place to hang out with his friends. His brother was completely unacquainted with the profit motive, and Gabe often wondered if Zach had been adopted or maybe switched at birth. Even artsy Sebastian, who was an actor for pity's sake, had more business sense.
This was exactly the kind of transformation Gabe had hoped to achieve with the Haunted Orchard Cidery. But Gabe wanted more than a cool place to hang out. Haunted Orchard had the potential to be a gold mine. He fully intended to get it there.
Unfortunately, there was one person standing in his way, and she was at the bar guzzling down sangría like a thirsty sailor. But Gabe felt emboldened. His plans for the town were right. If only he could convince the Historical Preservation Committee and, most importantly, Elizabeth.
Zach ran down the stairs in a black shirt that read "Survival Tip Number 6: It Wasn't The Cat." His brother's hair was still wet from his run through the rain. Well, hopefully he'd learned a lesson tonight. He wasn't a horny teenager anymore. He was now a successful businessman with a local presence. Successful businessmen shouldn't be sneaking out of homes through the back windows. Or if so, they should do it with their pants on.
"Where's Elizabeth?" Zach asked as he walked toward the dining room. His eyes darted around the room, taking stock.
"At the bar trying to decide on what sangría to order next. You should cut that list down to one. Three is overkill." Gabe knew the statement was a mistake the instant he opened his mouth.
Zach's back stiffened. "Really?" he asked in a hostile tone. "Should I get rid of the Haunted Orchard hard cider sangría? It's seems to be a pretty strong seller, but the main ingredient is a bit pricey." A muscle in Zach's jaw tightened. "It's my restaurant, Gabe."
"I know. It was just a suggestion." But it was the right suggestion. Three different types of sangria were too much. Then again, he didn't want Haunted Orchard kicked off the menu.
Zach didn't sound mollified. "You may be a hotshot venture capitalist. You may have made a bundle selling restaurant chains. However, this is my place. You hear me?"
"Got it." Gabe raised his hands to signal defeat. He hated dealing with family members. Unlike clients, relatives couldn't take direction, even if it was for their own good.
"Anyway, you have enough troubles," Zach continued in a gentler tone. "You should stop thinking about my drinks and start thinking about what Mom's going to say when she finds out you're playing hide the chorizo with Elizabeth. She'll be planning a wedding in no time at all."
"Mom doesn't need to know."
"Are you stringing her along?" Zach sounded appalled. Great, his manwhore brother was shocked at the thought that Gabe may have dishonorable intentions toward Elizabeth. What the hell? As far as Gabe knew, Zach had dishonorable intentions toward all femal
e specimens of the Homo sapiens persuasion.
"I'm not stringing anyone along," he replied testily. "Nothing's going to happen." But what if something could happen? The possibility was intriguing, even tempting.
"Something had better happen. Pretty damn quick. Elizabeth isn't just some girl. She's Cole's sister."
"Yep," a familiar voice said. Gabe looked up into Elizabeth's eyes. She was holding a wineglass filled with peach-colored liquid and small pieces of fruit. "I'm Cole's sister." She frowned at Zach. "I'm also the girl who beat you in tae kwon do class two years in a row, Zach. I can take care of myself." She took a sip of her drink. "More to the point, I can take care of you. And I will if you tell your mom that Gabe and I are fooling around."
Is that what she thought they were doing? Fooling around? His chest tightened. True, he'd been thinking the same thing, particularly in the first panicked moments after their tryst. But somehow, he didn't find the idea appealing anymore.
"Look, Princess Vermicide," Zach started.
"Stuff it, Franco." Elizabeth waved the sangría glass for emphasis. "You're already in my shit-list because of your house-of-horrors remodel. Do you want to be decapitated with your restaurant sign? If my mom hears of this, she'll be reserving a venue and picking out the flowers in ten seconds flat. Ergo—" she dug her index finger into his shirt. "She. Must. Not. Know."
A weird weight settled on Gabe's chest. It was one thing to tell Zach that he and Elizabeth weren't an item. It was something else to hear her say it so emphatically.
Zach sighed. "Fine. You handle this your way." He looked over her head toward the front door and a broad smile crossed his face. "And do so now. Mom and Mary Hunt just walked in." He glanced at Elizabeth's clothes. "And the way you're dressed, they'll know you two are playing Cannibal Alien Probe."
Zach's comment was accompanied by an emphatic glance toward Elizabeth's breasts, which were spectacularly showcased by the stupid, not-nearly-bulky-enough sweatshirt. Gabe fought the urge to punch his brother. Hard.
Elizabeth turned to look at the entrance to the pizzeria, blanching. "Oh, crud. Can you distract them, Zach?"
"No can do, Ms. Black Belt," Zach replied. "You two lovebirds are on your own. Good luck to you." With that parting shot, Zach headed toward the dining room.
She grimaced and turned to Gabe. "Is there another exit?"
"On the other side of the building." There were two fire exits, but they had to cross the main dining room to get to them. He could distract the moms while Elizabeth made a quick getaway, but he didn't suggest it. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to be discovered by the moms.
"Well, that's useless." She pointed to the door behind Gabe. "What's behind this?"
Gabe looked at the sign on the door. Pepe's Room. Stay Out. This Means You. Don't Say We Didn't Warn You. "That's the basement." He felt a chill run down his spine. "You don't want to go in there."
"Well, l don't want to go explain my sex life to my mom either." She opened the basement door, grabbed his arm, and pulled.
Before he knew it, he was stumbling down the stairs, grabbing the handrail to keep from falling. The door closed with an ominous thud.
The room was dark and creepy, just like he remembered it. He turned on the light and looked around the dimly lit space. Zach's meager budget hadn't extended to this level. Heck, he hadn't even upgraded the lighting. A lone bulb hung from the ceiling, casting shadows everywhere.
He felt Elizabeth's elbow digging into his back.
"Move it," she growled. "What is it? Are you still scared of the basement?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Cole said you used to make him go down there for the pizza sauce. You were too much of a scaredy-cat to go down yourself."
"I hate to speak ill of the dead, but your brother was a compulsive liar."
"Ha! Don't be chicken. Just go." She pushed him down the steps and closed the door, casting the room in gloomy darkness.
"Fine. But make sure that the door doesn't lock." A nanosecond after the words were out of his mouth, a sinister click rang out.
"Oops." She stood perfectly still, as if that would help. "What was that? I didn't lock the door."
He sighed. "Sometimes our doors lock by themselves. We're haunted, remember?"
And locked in the cold, dark basement. He wasn't exaggerating. The basement door did this with depressing regularity and the experience was never pleasant. He wasn't nine years old anymore, but he still didn't like this room. He liked the idea of Elizabeth stuck in it even less.
"Oh, heck," she said.
"You can say that again."
"Double heck." She peered into the darkness with an unhappy frown. "You were right," she said. "We should have left Zach freezing his gonads in the rain."
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ELIZABETH TOOK a long sip of sangría. She needed alcohol, and she needed it pretty badly.
This was a disaster.
Zach Franco had created a Nightmare on Elm Street meets Domino's Pizza hybrid. The whole town seemed to love the monstrosity. She was hiding from her mom. She was locked in a basement with Gabe.
And, to top it all off, she wasn't wearing any underwear.
She shouldn't be thinking about the lack of underwear, though. She should be focusing on the "locked in the basement" aspect of the situation. She should've known better than to head for the basement. The pizzeria's basement had been Cole's first ghost-busting assignment, so she knew all about Pepe, para-telekinetic singularity Type II, a.k.a. poltergeist.
But focusing on the locked door was hard. They were standing in a very narrow staircase. Gabe was reaching around her to test the lock and his body pressed her against the wall. She could hear him cursing under his breath. She didn't know what pendejo duende imaginario meant, but it sounded pretty bad. Apparently Pepe had done a solid job of locking them in.
This could be a long, uncomfortable wait.
Laughter came from what she imagined was the direction of the bar. Pepe's was crowded and loud. No matter how much noise they made, it could be hours before anyone found them. Anyway, she didn't want to make any noise. How would she explain being locked in the basement with Gabe to her mom? Or to Mrs. Franco? Or the rest of the town?
No way. They'd have to wait the parents out.
"When is closing time?" she asked.
"On opening night? Early, maybe two in the morning. Zach needs time to debrief his employees and create a list of modifications for tomorrow night."
She was stuck on the basement stairs with Gabe until two in the morning? Oh, joy.
"I should've listened to you," she admitted.
"Of course you should have." Gabe was still trying to open the door. "Uh, listened to me about what exactly?"
"Hanging up on Zach."
"Hanging up on Zach is usually a good idea, yes. Not going to the basement is an even better idea." He tried a couple of knocks, but no one answered. "We have to get out of here. This place isn't safe."
But the basement didn't look dangerous. It looked clean and well-kept, if a bit lacking in amenities. Metal shelves held neatly organized food supplies. The cinder-block walls were wallpapered with safety posters, and a large whiteboard held pride of place in front of the stairs. The lighting left a lot to be desired, but it wasn't dark in a creepy way. It was dark in a things-have-been-in-the-same-place-forever-so-why-change-the-bulb way. In fact, she was tempted to sneak downstairs and take a peek at the ingredients of Mr. Franco's famous pizza sauce. She was almost certain the secret ingredient was roasted pepper. Unfortunately, Gabe was blocking the staircase quite effectively. His body language was clear—if she wanted to explore the basement, she'd have to walk over his dead body.
"It's not bad, for a basement. I'm surprised it's so neat. Zach doesn't strike me as the organized type."
Organized was a bit of an understatement. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she could see that the board displayed a grid with entries in a rainbow of colors. The boxe
s and cans were meticulously stacked and secured with colored bungee cords. She had a sneaking suspicion that the colored entries referred to the cords. Someone with a serious case of OCD, and a lot of bungee cords, spent a lot of time organizing this place.
"Zach?" Gabe snorted. "He can't even remember to change the light bulb. My brother is an employee endangerment lawsuit waiting to happen. No, I set up this basement." He glanced around the dark room with distaste. "I wanted to spend the least amount of time here possible. Get in, grab a box, write it on the board, and get out."
"Sounds efficient."
"By the end of high school, I could restock the basement in fourteen minutes and twenty-six seconds."
"You timed it, uh?" she said, hiding a smile.
"Of course."
"Just because you're scared of the dark?"
"Shaving thirty-four seconds off a routine task is a big saving, Elizabeth. Details like that make a huge difference." He pointed at her wineglass. "Take your drink, for example. Ninety-seven point eight percent of customers order red sangría. Zach could cut down his beverage and labor costs by at least five percent if he offered just one option, the most popular one. He doesn't, though. He has red and white sangrías, and a third, crazy-ass option that he and my mom came up with."
"I'm drinking the crazy-ass option."
"You're the two point two percent," Gabe tried the lock again. "The crazy-ass two point two percent."
"I shouldn't get my peach sangría?"
"No."
"That's harsh."
"Did you even like it?" He looked meaningfully are her mostly full glass.
"That's not the point." She took a defiant sip and almost choked on a mint leaf. "The point is that life should have a bit of over-minted peach and blueberry sangría to keep things interesting. Not everything needs to be timed and controlled and efficient. Not everything has to go through a focus group." She dug a finger into Gabe's chest. "Maybe your brother has a point."
Ghost of a Chance (Banshee Creek Book 2) Page 19