Must Love Ghosts (Banshee Creek Book 1)

by Gonzalez, Ani

  "Yep," Cassie said. "Apparently all his Latin music buddies from Berklee record in Nashville. Who'd have thunk it, right? Anyway, he loves this guy. And, most importantly, he's heard that the Nashville guy loves you."

  "Oh."

  Abby didn't know how she felt about that. She didn't picture herself as a country music singer, but a gig was a gig, right? And Zach's music industry connections were rock solid. If he said that the Nashville guy was good, she could take that all the way to the Banshee Creek Savings and Loan.

  "So," Cassie continued. "What does Mike have to say about that?"

  "What? Oh, the band? He thinks I'd be great."

  But would she? She knew she was a talented folksinger, with a distinctive, edgy sound. She could play bars and coffeehouses and festivals. But Nashville? Nashville was ginormous arena stages and glitzy videos and cowboy hats. Could she do it? She had no clue.

  But, she had to admit, Mike's unwavering faith made her feel like maybe, just maybe, she could do it.

  And, like Mike, her Banshee Creek friends had no doubts. Cassie's smile was brighter than her Radioactive Pixie Dust eye shadow. She grabbed Abby's shoulders and enveloped her in a tight hug.

  "I'm super happy for you, Abby," she said. "A new gig and a new guy."

  She took a step back and beamed at her.

  "And an incredibly hot guy at that." She wiggled her eyebrows lasciviously. "It doesn't get better than that. You have to tell me all the details, about Mike and about Nashville. Just remember to not sign any contracts until after Thanksgiving."

  Abby frowned. "Why?"

  Cassie rolled her eyes. "Mercury is in retrograde. You remember what that means, right? No contracts and no big purchases. There will be lots of misunderstanding and people will behave erratically."

  Abby laughed. "I'll remember."

  A loud shout came from outside and Cassie sighed dramatically.

  "That's Caine. I guess it's time for me to go and play second fiddle to the feathered diva with the taste for frozen rodents."

  Cassie headed for the door. "Put your stage face on, country girl," she called out from the doorway. "It's showtime."

  Abby bent over the makeup case, and stared at the colorful offerings—Neon Peachsicle lipstick, Vamp Me Around blush, and Zom-Bee Sting lip gloss—but her mind was somewhere else and the names and colors were a blur.

  Cassie was right.

  A new gig and a new guy, it didn't get better than that.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  RUSTY WAS a champ.

  Mike watched, awed, as the crippled owl glided smoothly onto Caine's gloved hand. The feat would have been impressive even without the nine feet of clothesline tied to the bird's talon.

  Or the white tablecloth attached to the clothesline.

  Or the headlamps aimed straight at its wings.

  Rusty handled it all with aplomb. Seriously, this bird was pro material. He wasn't into Caine's hocus pocus at all, but he could watch this bird glide all night long.

  "That was a great shot," Caine said. "I think we can wrap it up."

  The crew gave an audible sigh of relief. It was late, it was dark, and they had shot Rusty's glide at least a million times. Caine, who it turned out had a PhD in a branch of physics that Mike didn't recognize and was a post-doc at Virginia Tech, had very strict views on experimental methodology. The crew had tried Rusty's glide in several controlled environments. They'd done it at dusk, they'd done it with lamps, they'd done it in the dark, they'd done it with night-vision cameras.

  They'd tried flags, towels, tarps and even a Superman cape.

  They'd positioned the headlamps at five different angles.

  They were all exhausted.

  Except Rusty, of course. The owl was ready for another go. But Caine returned him to his cage and handed him a frozen mouse, smiling. The owl gobbled it in one bite and stared at the biker expectantly, ready to try again.

  "Good job, buddy," Caine said, covering the cage. "Time for a rest."

  Was that a glimmer of disappointment in the owl's eyes? Nah, it couldn't be.

  "So, what do you think?" the biker asked him. "Do we have a Mothman? Or, I guess, a MothOwl?"

  Mike looked at the cage, considering. "He did a great job," he said. "And he can be creepy, especially with the cloth and the headlamps that make his white feathers glow. The red eyes also add to the effect."

  Caine nodded. "The birds sometimes get tangled up into things and car lights can disorient them. Put the two things together..."

  "And you get a ghostly apparition."

  "No way," Caine corrected, looking appalled. "The Mothman isn't a ghost. Whatever gave you that idea?"

  "Um, I don't know..." Mike couldn't finish the thought. He'd pretty much assumed that Banshee Creek's resident ghost-hunting group, chased, well, ghosts. Apparently, he'd been mistaken.

  "The Mothman is one of two things," Caine explained, using his most professorial demeanor. "A cryptid or a natural creature whose existence is, as yet, unknown to science."

  Mike nodded. That didn't sound too crazy. Maybe he was underestimating the PRoVE guys.

  "But," Caine continued. "Most of our guys think it's an alien."

  Mike sighed. Caine ignored him, crossed his arms, and turned toward the group.

  "We, however, have a new hypotheses," he concluded, his voice firm. "The legendary Mothman may actually be..." he paused dramatically. "An owl."

  The crew broke into applause. Owl or alien, The PRoVE folks seemed to greet either one with equal enthusiasm, which was surprising. Mike would have expected them to hold tight to their paranormal theories, but these guys seemed open to reason.

  "Well..." Mike's voice trailed off.

  He wanted to agree. He wanted to conclude that the barn owl was the answer. It was, after all, a supremely rational explanation.

  "Well, what?" asked Caine.

  "He's kind of small, isn't he?" Mike admitted. "I mean, he could maybe be a juvenile specimen."

  "A MothKid?" Caine laughed. "That's not what the witnesses described."

  "No, they saw something that was seven-feet tall with an eight-foot wingspan. Even accounting for some exaggeration, Rusty just doesn't cut it." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Maybe a bigger owl?"

  "Rusty is as big as barn owls get. We could try a great horned owl, which is a little bigger."

  Mike shook his head. "We need something a lot bigger."

  Caine scratched his head. "You know," he confessed. "I've always wanted to nab a turkey vulture. Those suckers are huge."

  A turkey vulture? He wasn't serious was he? "Buzzards are diurnal." Not to mention foul. "They don't fly at night."

  Caine rubbed his neck and stared at the cage. "True," he admitted reluctantly. "But it wouldn't hurt to run some flight tests."

  Mike tried not to laugh at the wistful note in the biker's voice. He was about to propose an alternative species, when he heard someone call out his name.

  "Guys," Abby shouted. She was standing next to the campfire with a spatula in her hand. "Dinner's ready."

  He left Caine and hurried to rejoin the group. If he stayed with Caine any longer, he'd get drafted into another crazy escapade, a Great Mothman Vulture Hunt or something. Hot dogs and s'mores sounded a lot more appealing.

  But that wasn't the only thing that was appealing. Abby, with her purple t-shirt and messy hair and holding a bag of clementines, looked gorgeous. He had fond memories of last night's leather-clad enchantress, but, he had to admit, he liked messy Abby better.

  He bent down to pick up a hot dog and stole a kiss in the process. Her hair smelled like lavender and her lips tasted like juicy citrus fruit.

  She was perfect.

  A chorus of hoots and hollers came from the general direction of the campfire. He recognized Cassie's voice. She was the one shouting "get a tent."

  Abby blushed. Then she looked behind him and frowned.

  "Why isn't Caine coming?" she asked.

  Mike poured ke
tchup on his hot dog. "He's trying to figure out how to get his hands on a vulture."

  Abby's eyes widened in dismay. "No way. That's where I draw the line. Those things smell."

  Mike chuckled. "There you go. That's going to be your PRoVE's new episode, Smells from the Beyond, starring Caine's pet buzzard."

  Abby dug her elbow into his side. "Don't make fun," she hissed.

  "Oh, you think it's a joke? I'm willing to take a bet on it. Would you care for a friendly wager?"

  "Like what?" she scoffed. "Five dollars?"

  He arched a brow. "Oh, I wasn't thinking about money."

  That earned him another elbow in the ribs. Well, that was a declaration of war, wasn't it? He put his hot dog down and prepared to return fire.

  "Stop it, guys," Cassie shouted. "Don't make me get the fire extinguisher."

  The group laughed. One of Caine's lieutenants started a "get it, get it" chant.

  Cassie shushed them. "How about a song, Abby?" she asked.

  Everyone cheered.

  "A country song," one of the bikers added.

  Abby looked at little hesitant.

  "C'mon," Mike said, nudging her arm. "I'd love to hear you sing."

  She bit her lip.

  "I don't know," she said, still indecisive. "I usually do ghost ballads and folk songs. I've done some older country songs, but I don't know about mainstream country music. That's a different thing."

  Yeah, and a big time Nashville producer wanted to sign her up because she didn't know how to sing country. He didn't say it out loud, though.

  "Maybe some Johnny Cash?" he prodded. "That video of 'Streets of Laredo' that you made for me sounded really good."

  She fiddled with her napkin, took a deep breath, and handed him her plate.

  "Actually," she said. "I think I can do a little better than that." She laughed nervously. "At least, I hope so."

  The bikers clapped and cheered and Abby straightened, as if steeling her nerves.

  "No, I know so," she murmured under her breath. "I'll go get my mandolin."

  She walked off, looking like a somewhat disheveled French aristocrat on her way to the guillotine.

  "Are you kidding me?" he called out, trying to make her smile. "You didn't pack a first-aid kit, but you brought your mandolin?"

  Abby laughed. Mission accomplished.

  "Hey, be prepared, right?" she said looking more like the self-assured performer he knew.

  He watched her walk back to their tent. The night was cool and clear and the moon was so bright she didn't need a flashlight. The PRoVE crew had packed away the cameras and equipment and all that was left was a couple of tents and a roaring campfire.

  A lovely, peaceful night.

  At least until Rusty's shrill scream pierced the stillness. Their soon-to-be-a-YouTube-Star owl was having a grand old time and he wanted to share it with his brethren. The eerie sound lingered, reminding him of why this town was known as Banshee Creek.

  Well, the hot dogs were tasty, the PRoVE folks had coolers full of beer and cider, and Abby was returning with her mandolin. Weird noises notwithstanding, it was shaping up to be a good night.

  But Abby didn't seem to think so. She was bent over her instrument, tuning and re-tuning the strings. She looked nervous. But what did she have to be nervous about? She was an experienced professional and her friends were supporting them.

  Rusty hooted again and Abby glanced at the cage and chuckled.

  "Gee, I haven't even started and I already have hecklers," she said.

  "Everyone's a critic," Caine said and the comment made her laugh.

  "Well, I'm just going to have to live with that." She cleared her throat. "Tonight, I'm going to do something a little different. As some of you may have heard, I'm working with a new band."

  The comment elicited rousing cheers from the PRoVE guys. Mike clapped along with them.

  "And," Abby continued. "It's a country band."

  More cheers, which coalesced into an impromptu performance of "Friends in Low Places."

  Abby rolled her eyes.

  "The thing is," she said. "I'm not sure I can do country."

  A loud chorus of denials rang out.

  "Anyone can do country," Cassie said. "Just put on a cowboy hat and say 'yee haw' a lot."

  Mike disagreed with her, but he didn't have a chance to say it.

  "It's not quite that simple," Abby said quickly. "There's a lot of performance to it, a lot of attitude. And I don't do that very well."

  Another resounding round of denials.

  Abby shook her head. "I know my strengths, guys," she said. "And my weaknesses. But I think I've come up with a compromise." She positioned the mandolin on her knee. "I took one of my folk staples, a very traditional, and very popular, ballad. You've heard this song many times."

  Loud clapping.

  "But never like this," she concluded. "You're going to have to imagine the guitar and the creepy banjo music."

  Caine laughed. "Don't worry, we can provide the creepy banjo music, or a reasonable facsimile at least."

  The group started humming the Deliverance music theme and Abby waited patiently until they were done. When the banjo crescendo faded away she took a deep breath and plucked a chord.

  "So, here it is guys, my country version of 'The Two Sisters.' I call it 'The Girls of Gold.'"

  Mike frowned. What the hell was "The Two Sisters"? But the PRoVE guys were nodding approvingly, as if they knew exactly what Abby was talking about so he stayed quiet and settled down to listen.

  The opening bars were definitely country, though, kind of a soft bluegrass, sweet and low.

  He sipped his beer as the song went on. Two sisters were in love with the same man. They both go to the river to do the washing, but only one sister comes back. A traveling picker finds golden strands floating on the river and uses them to string his mandolin. The sister and her beau go to the country fair where they bob for apples and dance.

  Mike listened, spellbound, as Abby continued with her tale. At his side, Cassie was muttering to herself something about Child ballads and syncretism, but Mike didn't care. He was back in a crowded German nightclub, spellbound by a sweet-voiced siren in a white dress.

  Well, it was actually a purple PRoVE shirt with a large yellow eye staring right at him, but the impact was the same.

  But Abby's song went on, and he was now in an old-fashioned country fair, where an old picker stared in disbelief as his instrument started playing and singing by itself. Mike was now one of the mesmerized village folk, who stared at the stage, then turned, eyes wide in horror toward the golden-haired girl in the back, as the possessed instrument finished its song.

  "And woe to the sister who murdered me," Abby sang, segueing into a long, slow coda.

  The audience was silent and the last notes of the song faded into the stillness of the night. Mike shifted self-consciously in his seat, still thinking about the song. But Cassie stood up and applauded and Mike hurried to join her. The rest of the group followed suit and Abby soon had a standing ovation. Even Rusty rattled his cage in support.

  "That works, Abby," Caine said, clapping heartily. "That totally works."

  Abby nodded, blushing with pleasure.

  "But," he added, looking straight at Mike. "You probably want to know how a real country music fan feels about it."

  The whole group turned to look at Mike. But he only cared about one person and she was staring at him, eyes wide and uncertain, as she fiddled nervously with the strings of her mandolin, a clear sign of nervousness.

  "Um." He tried to think of what to say. The song was wonderful. It wasn't traditional country or even pop county, but it was catchy and haunting in a weird way that was one hundred percent Abby Reed.

  "I liked it." Boy, that sounded lame. But it was the truth, and he generally liked to stick with the truth.

  Caine leaned forward, clearly unsatisfied with his response.

  "It's not a top forty hit," Mike said.
Caine glared at him, making him pause. Cassie looked like she was going to brain him with her cider bottle.

  Okay, maybe that was a bit too much truth telling.

  But Abby just nodded. She had no illusions. She knew this wasn't a radio hit.

  "But it's catchy. It's got a good rhythm," he continued.

  Caine relaxed and Cassie's look turned slightly less murderous. But Mike was only being truthful. The song, especially the part about the country fair, was practically a dance tune.

  "I could definitely see this opening for someone like Alison Krauss," he concluded.

  Abby smiled in relief. Cassie sat back on her log, having apparently decided to spare Mike's life, and Caine relaxed.

  "Well, I think the label is hoping for The Band Perry," Abby said, grinning. "But Alison Krauss sounds good to us."

  "So the rest of the band is on board?" Mike asked somewhat surprised. This was definitely not a traditional country song.

  But Abby nodded. "They used to do honky-tonk ballads," she said. "But that market is beyond saturated. They're hoping the ghost songs will set them apart."

  Caine's eyes lit up.

  "Songs plural?" he asked. "You have more?"

  "Yep." She picked up her mandolin. "This one is a real campfire song, believe it or not. The original version is called 'Lord Randall,' but I'm calling this version 'Speckled and Spotted.'"

  Mike settled back to listen. He liked the tune so far, but really hoped the song wouldn't be about another haunted object. The song about the possessed mandolin had struck a bit too close. It reminded him that he had a battered leather box in his duffel bag that belonged to Cole.

  And he hadn't delivered it yet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  "SO," ABBY purred adopting her huskiest, sexiest voice. "Pink unicorns with hearts or purple space unicorns? Make your choice."

  They were inside the tent, preparing to go to sleep. Well, okay, in her case, preparing not to go to sleep. She was still wound up from the impromptu concert.