The Good, The Bad and The Ghostly ((Paranromal Western Romance))

by Keta Diablo

  It was early in the evening and the shady cool of the saloon felt wonderful. Once Cole’s eyes adjusted to the dim room, he saw the polished bar and the whiskey bottles lining the wall. It was two levels, a bar and a handful of round tables on the first floor and the balcony above was lined with doors. "This is a nice place."

  And it was. If you liked brothels masquerading as saloons. Cole didn’t. While places like The Blade were all too common in the West, they made Cole, who’d been raised by strict Catholic parents on a tree-lined street in North St. Louis, uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t have urges. He was a healthy man who’d love to have a woman to share his bed. But only one.

  Even though he no longer attended Mass, he still thought of himself as Catholic. Even if his parents didn’t. When he’d applied to become an agent with the Tremayne Agency, his father had flown into a rage. He’d assumed his only son would go into the butchering business alongside him but Cole couldn’t stomach the idea of the knives and the blood.

  Cole had been drawn to two things for as long as he could remember. Adventure and success. While other boys were busy playing with toy soldiers and clay marbles, he was dreaming up business ideas, ways to travel the world on someone else’s money.

  When he saw the ad for the Tremayne Agency, he knew it was the ticket.

  The pay was much better than he could get working for the St. Louis Department of Police, which also promised its fair share of blood and knives. He passed the entrance exam with flying colors and he’d only had to lie about one thing: he didn’t believe in ghosts or clairvoyance or anything else supernatural.

  Good Catholics didn’t dabble in spirits or any of the other dark things the Agency specialized in. His father told him plain. Cole wasn’t welcome back into his childhood home until he had a respectable job.

  He hadn’t been home in four years but his bank account was flush and he loved the job. At least he had until he’d gotten stuck in Reno.

  "Want a drink?" Katherine asked, bringing him back to the present. She walked behind the bar and grabbed a bottle and two glasses. She poured amber liquid into both and pushed one toward him.

  "I don’t drink on the job, ma’am. It’s one of the Agency rules."

  "We’re not exactly swayed by the rules here," she said with a grin. "And your bosses are all the way in St. Louis."

  Cole pushed the glass back toward her and declined. "The nature of our business means that the bosses know more than you’d think."

  A sly smile curved her lips. "I wouldn’t tattle on you for having a shot of whiskey."

  He’d been a detective long enough to know that was a lie. "What time will customers start arriving?"

  Reno’s saloon crowd was a late one but he’d expected to see at least a handful of patrons. The Blade was the largest watering hole in town and somebody had to be thirsty.

  She took a slow sip of her whiskey before she responded. Even though the stuff was so strong he could smell it all the way across the bar, she didn’t even wince. "All my girls refuse to work until this is solved. The bartender feels the same way. They walked out on me last night."

  The closing of The Blade was a big deal. "They’re not coming back until it’s fixed?"

  She nodded. "Which means I need you to get rid of it immediately. Tonight if possible."

  Cole tilted his head to one side. "I work quickly but I can’t promise those results."

  "I’m willing to pay."

  "How much?"

  Her smile was cat-like. "I didn’t become a successful business owner by putting an offer on the table first. How much will it cost?"

  "Depends on how long it takes me to get rid of the ghost. The usual rate is ten dollars a day plus expenses."

  "If you can do it in less than two weeks, I’ll give you a bonus. Five hundred dollars."

  That was a lot of money, nearly a year’s salary. Even though by all accounts Mrs. Busbee had a thriving business, it was excessive and he wondered why she was willing to offer it to him. "I can’t take bonuses, ma’am. It’s against policy."

  She leaned across the bar so that her breasts nearly spilled out of her dress. "I’m not going to tell. Are you?"

  He took a step back from the bar and tried to meet her eyes. "I’ll get rid of your ghost for the regular price."

  Katherine stood up and shrugged. "By the book it is."

  Chapter Two

  The train pulled into the Southern Pacific Depot in Reno at five past nine. Half a dozen people, including Mr. Wemberly, got off the train. It was already dark but gaslights lined the sidewalk leading from the depot into the business district.

  "Will someone come into town to pick you up tomorrow?" the older man asked. He walked beside her, matching his pace with hers.

  Since reading the ad, she’d been so lost in her thoughts that she’d nearly forgotten that she’d invented a sister. "Yes, sir. I didn’t know what time I’d get here so I told her I’d stay in a hotel tonight."

  He tutted. "A woman alone? I’m not sure that’s a good idea."

  "I’ll be fine," she said.

  "You could stay with me and Fanny. She wouldn’t mind a bit."

  "Oh, no, I couldn’t impose, Mr. Wemberly. Margaret’s husband will be here bright and early. I’m sure of it and why I’m so tired, I’m sure I’ll fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow." She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. Even though she’d traveled all the way from Kentucky, her father had always been with her. He was a large man and his stature alone was intimidating.

  "My Fanny makes a mean breakfast with bacon and sausage."

  Annabelle couldn’t help but smile. She hadn’t tasted either in ages. "I do love bacon."

  "No imposition. It’s settled then. Come along with me."

  He took her carpet bag in his left hand and she followed him past the Riverside Hotel, past the church and a large saloon named The Blade. Despite the warm summer evening, she shivered. She’d seen dozens of similar places during her time in the West but this one felt different.

  Though she tried to walk more quickly she couldn’t seem to make her feet move forward. She felt faint, dizzy, as if the world was spinning around her, going faster and faster until everything was a blur.

  "Miss? Are you alright?" Mr. Wemberly asked. He paused beside and placed his hand under her elbow.

  She blinked hard, willed the vertigo to stop. When she opened her eyes, it was to find Mr. Wemberly’s nose only inches from her own. There was concern in his eyes. "I’m fine. It’s been a trying day."

  "We’ll get you into bed right away. You stay here. I’ll send my man to fetch you in the buggy." The kindness in his eyes, something she hadn’t seen in her own father since long before they’d left Kentucky, struck a chord deep inside her and she realized how much she missed the man Papa had been.

  "Thank you very much but that’s not necessary. Really. I can walk."

  "Are you absolutely sure?"

  "Positive."

  Mr. Wemberly set a slow pace and she trudged along behind him. With each step, the tiredness weighed heavier on her and she was barely able to keep her eyes open. Even after a day of washing or hoeing the garden, she’d never been so exhausted.

  "Here we are," he announced as the approached a large two-story home. "Home at last." He gestured for her to lead the way up the steps and onto the large wrap-around porch. The home was painted, quite a luxury in Nevada, and the warm glow of an oil lantern shone out the front window.

  She paused at the front door and waited for Mr. Wemberly to open it.

  "Mother," he called, wiping the dust from his boots on a small mat. "I’m home and I’ve brought a delightful guest."

  "Well, don’t stand at the door and holler, come on into the kitchen." He turned and winked at Annabelle. His mischievous grin took twenty years off his age. "She might have warm biscuits."

  She followed him into the house. It smelled like fresh baked bread and beeswax. Ev
ery surface glimmered in the light of several lanterns. In the front room, there was a huge fireplace with bookshelves on each side. The place made Annabelle feel warm on the inside in a way she hadn’t since her mother had died.

  The kitchen was in the back of the house. A large table dominated the center and there was a shiny cook stove in one corner.

  "Who’s your guest, Gus?" Mrs. Wemberly was a small, round woman with an honest face. With chubby cheeks, pink from the heat coming off the stove, she wore a plain cotton dress covered by an apron. Her smile was genuine and Annabelle liked her instantly.

  "Why dear me, you look done in. Gus, take her things up to the second bedroom. I’ve got to get her off her feet and get some food into this child." She placed her palms on Annabelle’s shoulders and squeezed. "You’re in need of a good meal."

  Annabelle hadn’t been fussed over like this in so long and it felt as warm as a new coat. "I’m fine, ma’am, just a little tired."

  "You’re pale as a ghost. Matter of fact, you look like you’ve seen one."

  If she only knew, thought Annabelle.

  "Have a seat." Annabelle knew better than to argue with this woman who had the power of a locomotive. Mrs. Wemberly busied herself at the stove. In mere seconds, she tossed a basket of warm biscuits on the table along with a jar of jam and a slab of butter. "Cup of tea?"

  "That sounds lovely."

  When Mrs. Wemberly had served the tea, she sat across the table from Annabelle sipping on a cup of her own. "Now, dear, feeling a little better?"

  "Yes, ma’am, thank you so much for your hospitality. I planned to stay at a hotel but your husband—"

  "Insisted?" She smiled. "Just as she should have done."

  When the ladies finished their tea, Mrs. Wemberly showed Annabelle her room. On the second floor, it had a window that looked out on Chestnut Street. At this hour, there was very little foot or horse traffic. A cool breeze blew into the room and Annabelle felt her shoulders begin to relax.

  "There’s fresh water in the basin and soap beside it. You’ll call me if you need anything?"

  Annabelle turned to face Mrs. Wemberly. "Yes, ma’am. Thank you again."

  The older woman smiled. "You look like you need a friend, child. I can be that, too." She wrapped Annabelle in a hug. "Night, honey. Rest well."

  After she heard Mrs. Wemberly’s footsteps disappear down the stairs, she slipped out of her dress and hung it on a hook. She washed her face, luxuriating in the smell of the lavender-scented soap. Exhausted, she fell into bed, stretched out and fell asleep remembering Kentucky: the cool grass beneath her feet, the way the mountains looked bluish-purple against the evening sky, the sound of cool water bubbling and rushing over the rocks in the creek that ran in front of the house. She remembered her mother: the smell of her Lily of the Valley soap, the way her laughter sounded like wind chimes, the way she always knew how to make her daughter feel better.

  Annabelle should have known better than to think she’d get a good night’s rest.

  Tonight it was a woman.

  In the dream, the fog was thick, the same gray, cottony kind she remembered from summer mornings back in Appalachia.

  But the woman walking toward her was a stranger.

  Clothed in dark green gown that rustled like autumn leaves, she was young, close to Annabelle’s age. Her hair was auburn and it hung in one thick braid over her shoulder. In one hand, she held a silver mirror; in the other, a small velvet box. She came closer and closer until Annabelle smelled the dry, earthy scent of the silk dress.

  "I thought he meant it." Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper. "I thought he loved me." The woman looked down at the box in her hand. "Can you find him for me? Ask him if he ever cared at all?"

  "Who?"

  The woman held up the mirror, the silver glinting in the ghostly half-light of the dream. "Look in the mirror. You’ll know him."

  The woman began to fade, the emerald silk fading into the grey of the fog. "Please help me," she called, her voice sounding farther and farther away.

  Annabelle sat upright in the bed and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. It was still pitch dark outside and her chemise was soaked in sweat.

  The window was slightly open and she took huge gulps of the dry night air moving into the room.

  Moonlight glinted off the mirror above the dresser and Annabelle’s heart raced. The last thing she wanted to do was look into it and see someone else’s face staring back at her. She kicked off the cotton coverlet and walked to the window. The streets were empty except for a stray cat slinking toward town.

  Annabelle had to do something.

  She had to find a way to make the dreams stop or she had to find a way to help the ghosts.

  * * *

  It was the scariest thing he’d ever heard.

  High-pitched and desperate, it made every hair on his body stand at attention. Primal, otherworldly, he completely understood why the ladies of the line had walked out of The Blade.

  Not only was it loud, it was terrifying.

  The sound continued for a full minute before it paused and began again. He looked across the bar at Katherine. She held her whiskey glass so tightly that her knuckles were white. Her eyes were wide with fear and now, after hearing this ungodly noise, he understood why.

  He tried very hard to figure out where the noise was coming from but it was impossible to track down. One moment it sounded like it was coming from the northern corner of the second floor and the next it was near the piano. It was everywhere and nowhere all at once.

  There was no logical explanation, no way the sound could be a loose piece of tin or a banging shutter.

  Ghosts aren’t real, he reminded himself. There’s always an explanation.

  For the first time, he was having a hard time believing it.

  When the keening finally stopped, it felt like hours had passed instead of only thirty-five minutes.

  "Sure you don’t want a belt?" Katherine asked, pushing the bottle toward him.

  He could almost taste the amber fire on his tongue but he fought the urge to take a long sip. "I need to look around. Will you be alright?"

  She nodded. "If it’s all the same to you, I’ll wait right here." She poured another measure of whiskey in her glass.

  "I’ll be right back."

  He pulled a small notepad from the pocket of his jacket and a pencil from behind his ear. After walking the perimeter of the first floor and finding nothing out of the ordinary, he walked to the stairs. "Can I go into the rooms?"

  "Yes. If you can make this stop, I’ll let you go in the rooms when the girls are working. On the house."

  His face flushed. "That won’t be necessary." He took the stairs slowly, checking for anything unusual. Nothing.

  He went into each room. Each of them was decorated differently, some were plain and some were fussy, but none of them gave him any clue as to what might be making the horrible noise.

  He went back downstairs, having made not a single note. "Nothing strange up there," he told Katherine. "Everything seems to be in perfect order."

  "She doesn’t bother anything."

  "How do you know it’s a she?"

  Katherine leaned across the bar giving him an ample view of her bosom. He fought the urge to stare and forced himself to meet her eye instead. "It feels like a woman."

  Strangely, he agreed with her. "I’ll get to the bottom of this as quickly as possible."

  "The stakes are high." She stood up to her full height and looked him directly in the eye. "The President of Midas Mining Company is coming for a visit two weeks from tomorrow. I told Nat that he was coming. They’re both good friends of mine and we all have our hands in the same pockets." She raised one eyebrow and looked at him directly just to make sure he understood the implication. "The Virginia Truckee has a new locomotive, The Empire. He’ll be one of the first passengers. When the train stops here, there will be a band, a dance and a pie contest. He’s the guest of honor."
/>
  Cole had seen the flyers posted around Reno advertising The Empire Extravaganza and while he hadn’t seen any mention of Astonbury on the flyers, he hadn’t been looking for it. The two of them didn’t exactly run in the same sets.

  He’d never met the President of Midas, but his reputation was legendary. Not only was he one of the richest men in the country, he was rumored to be a close personal friend of Nat Tremayne. Now he understood that the big boss, Mrs. Busbee and Astonbury were in some kind of triangle. Failure was not an option. "Preston Astonbury?" he asked to confirm.

  "One and the same. He’s spending a week with us."

  Astonbury loved money and women. His enormous appetites were known throughout the west. "What if The Blade is still closed?"

  "It can’t be." Her eyes went wide and her hand trembled when she picked up her glass. "If it’s closed, I’ll be out of a job. The Blade is his favorite place between Frisco and the Mississippi River."

  "But I thought you owned the place?"

  "I have silent partners," she admitted. "Powerful ones."

  He knew better than to ask a direct question about their identities. His heart beat a little faster. "So this needs to be solved before he gets here or we’ll both be out of a job."

  "Precisely."

  Cole took a deep breath and tried to clear his head. "I’ll work day and night."

  "Keep me informed of your progress." She handed him a key to the lock on the front door. "I’m staying at the Goldrush Hotel on Sierra. I’ll be there if you need me. I’m trusting you."

  "Yes, ma’am." He tipped his hat to her and walked out of the Blade and onto 3rd Street. With The Blade closed for business, there was very little traffic this late. He took his time walking back to the office. His thoughts were jumbled and he couldn’t seem to focus on any particular one for more than a few seconds.

  It was that sound.

  The high-pitched screech reverberated in his brain losing neither its pitch nor its intensity.

  There was only one thing that compared: the sound of a cougar screaming.

  When he’d been a little boy, just before the war, his parents had taken him to visit his mother’s people. They lived in the Ozark Mountains, south of St. Louis and the trip, for a four-year old, was incredibly long. While he didn’t remember much about the trip, two things were etched in his memory, the way one shutter on the house was falling off and tilted to one side and the sound he’d heard one night after supper.