When the elevator doors slid open, Courtney strode in, uninhibited by a dark-haired dude in a navy sport coat and worn jeans giving her the eye. I stepped in more gingerly, smiling apologetically. Mostly I was just sorry for myself. The etched glass mirrors inlaid in mahogany paneling were having a field day with the pair of us, bouncing our goggled reflections into infinity. I turned to face the elevator doors, noticed the button was pressed for the third floor, and then tipped my head up. I met the eyes of our hostage and looked away.
“In the southernmost elevator, riding up from the mezzanine,” Courtney said, speaking quietly into her recorder. I cringed ever so slightly, then glanced at Casper, relieved he was still keeping quiet, and shifted my gaze to the ceiling, letting my eyes dart about aimlessly. I had no idea what Courtney was doing. And I didn’t even want to know about Sportcoat.
“Sorry to intrude, but are you ladies ghost-hunting?” Sportcoat just couldn’t resist.
I let my eyes shutter closed and braced myself for Courtney’s answer.
“First time,” she admitted. “And no luck yet. We were hoping to catch a glimpse of P. J. Lawless here in the elevator.”
My eyes fluttered open, I couldn’t help it, and through the mirror I watched him check his watch.
“It’s 8:52. A little late for the trains to run. I’ve read that Mr. Lawless appears on schedule with the old train timetable and that he doesn’t like a crowded elevator.” He grinned and revealed a dimple in his chin.
Holy heck! Who is this guy??
As I watched, he lifted his arm to reveal a book he was holding. I couldn’t make out the title in the mirror.
“I haven’t read that one yet,” Courtney said softly, her gaze focused and intent.
“It’s fascinating.”
“Have you ever actually seen a ghost?” she probed.
“I think so. I’ve definitely measured readings that could corroborate that claim.”
He gestured toward me, well, Casper, but continued to chat with Courtney. “Have you picked up any anomalies?”
“Not yet,” she said. “The only cold spot we found was near the air-conditioning vent.”
The two of them shared an amused chuckle, and my eyebrows tipped down as I squinted into the mirror at the pair behind me. These two ghost-hunting goobers were flirting with each other in a haunted elevator. What was next, the ladies’ bathroom, local ghosty hotspot? Aha. Perhaps the colonel was looking for love. . . .
“Any EVP?” Sportcoat said, gesturing toward the voice recorder that she was holding propped on her shoulder, no doubt recording this whole mind-boggling exchange.
“What’s EVP?” I couldn’t tell if she was faking ignorance or not. I wouldn’t have put it past her.
Putting out his hand, he said, “I’m Micah, by the way.”
“Courtney,” she answered. “And that’s Cate.” The third wheel on the ghost-hunting-mobile, evidently.
He glanced once more up at the ceiling. “I don’t think the ghosts are wandering tonight. Would you like to have a cup of coffee in the hotel café? I’d be happy to share my amateurish expertise.” His gaze and invitation included both of us, but it was clear that I was expendable, and I couldn’t have been more thrilled.
Not so thrilled about Courtney getting involved with a ghost hunter, particularly one who actually admitted to seeing ghosts, but what was I supposed to do?
It was only later that I recognized this as my own personal “bat signal.”
For now, I took it as the perfect opportunity to disappear.
Chapter 7
Naturally, I had to turn in my goggles on my way out of the Driskill, and not wishing to be caught off guard (ghosts were the least of my concern), I used the little mirror Courtney had mounted on the wall behind her filing cabinets to finger fluff and comb my hair and to reapply some lipstick to my otherwise pasty face.
I walked nervously through the sumptuous lobby, heading for the Sixth Street exit, and the second I felt the cool night air brush over me, my relief was palpable. I barely noticed the man beside me holding open the adjacent door for a woman whose head was turned away. By the time it registered with my slightly addled brain that he looked vaguely familiar, I was standing on the sidewalk looking in at him as he glanced back over his shoulder at me. Evidently it went both ways.
I’d figure it out sooner or later. But right now I was blissfully oblivious, relishing the feel of early November on my skin, and wanting nothing more than to drop into bed with a good book. . . and maybe a little fantasy about Jake Tielman. Because I’d decided to pretend I’d never spotted him flirting in a hotel bar—Cat certainly hadn’t. And if he ever did decide to call her, they’d pick up precisely where they’d left off.
After a thoroughly itchy Wednesday, I decided that if Jake Tielman didn’t call me by Friday morning, I’d call him. There was no reason for me to wait for him to make the first move—I was a modern woman. . . who dressed like a vintage vixen thanks to the little hoard of dresses I’d borrowed from the shop. I was desperate to wear the rest of them, but I needed an occasion. . . an affair. And a backyard dinner party wasn’t precisely what I had in mind.
By the time Mr. Carr had progressed from the front door to the back that night, I was already mentally lambasting Ethan for disappearing for an entire week. He would have been very useful. As it happened, though, we didn’t need him. After a shy start, Rodney and Mom hit it off swimmingly, discovering a mutual love of Burn Notice, baking, and bird-watching over the course of a rather spirited discussion.
“The yogurt, I don’t get.” Rodney was referring to Michael Westen’s snack of choice on the show. “The man never eats anything else. You don’t build a body like that with yogurt.”
“Maybe he’s just maintaining at this point.” My gaze swiveled over to Mom. “At least he has a healthy body weight, unlike Fiona!”
“She could stand a little meat on her bones, but seeing as she’s only eating from the same yogurt-stocked fridge, she must be maintaining too.” I hid a smile, wondering how Mom would respond.
She pursed her lips, but the edges quirked up in a grudging smile.
“Well then I suppose they all need to celebrate the next spate of vigilante justice with a trip to Golden Corral.”
“Maybe we should collaborate on an episode script and send it in,” Rodney suggested, I assume, facetiously.
“Maybe we should.” Mom’s eyes turned bright with excitement as she eagerly blurted her idea. “Maybe Michael and Fiona get into a tricky little pickle and his mother gets them out,” she said casually, deliberately not looking in my direction. “A little more romance couldn’t hurt either. And fewer girls prancing around in bikinis.”
Rodney chuckled. “The project has been tabled due to creative differences.”
Eventually, the red wine lulled a bit of the awkwardness into cozy camaraderie, and I left them chatting amiably over slices of Italian crème cake as I stepped inside to make coffee. Through the window they were adorable, Mom’s eyelashes sweeping down onto cheeks rounded in amusement, and Rodney’s animated expressions keeping them both entertained. This had gone entirely better than I’d expected. Jane Austen would be downright proud of me; these two were my Mr. and Mrs. Weston, a perfect match to set as an example.
I was confident I could claim more matchmaking savvy than Emma Woodhouse, seeing as I’d only pair two individuals who had a chance of success. This being the twenty-first century and not the nineteenth, I could concede I had a few advantages, my magical matchmaking journal being only one of them.
I carried the coffee cups out to the patio on a tray, my expression marginally smug. The pair of them had been chuckling companionably and now let their amusement fade out on a sigh. We each took long, contemplative sips and listened to the night sounds lurking in the dark.
Rodney was the first to break the silence.
“When Cate showed up in my classroom with an invitation to dinner, I recognized it for what it was: a setup. But
I figured it couldn’t hurt. Worst case, I’d get a plate of homemade lasagna and Cate would owe me a favor.” That earned him a hearty laugh all around, and I winged my eyebrow up teasingly. “Turns out the lasagna wasn’t even the best part.” I glanced over at my mom, whose eyes were shining under the soft, warm glow of the lanterns. “The cake was incredible!” I cut my eyes back to Rodney. WTF? “I would love to get your recipe, Allison.” He shifted his concentration back to his plate and forked up another bite.
Obviously there were a few kinks to work out, but it was a start. At least Mom wasn’t shooing him out of the yard.
“I’m high-tech now,” she told him coyly. “I can print you up a copy and you can take it home with you.”
“Or we could go green together and you could e-mail it,” he teased.
The start of a beautiful friendship, I thought wryly.
Between the high-spirited exuberance and the daredevil flirting, Yahtzee was a bit of an ordeal. By the end, it felt as if the dice were careening around in my head. But I smiled warmly as Mom and I walked Rodney out to his car. He’d readily accepted an offer of leftovers and was toting a stack of Tupperware containers.
“Thank you ladies for the invitation,” he said, “I enjoyed it. Next time I’ll cook. . . and bake,” he offered. The words hung in the night air, shimmering with possibility. I was the first to grab onto them.
“What about next week?” I blurted into the silence, quickly wondering if my suggestion had come off as a pushy imposition. “You could come back here. . . we could barbecue. . . .” Ethan would be back to shoulder a bit of the chaperoning. “I’m sure Mom would share her kitchen.” I nudged her playfully with my elbow, and at long last, she took the bait.
“Absolutely. Maybe you could teach me a few tricks,” she said, a little twinkle in her eye—heck, maybe they were stars.
“Well, I’d certainly enjoy trying. But don’t bet on it. I have a feeling you already know your way around.” My smile chipped away a little as I tried to follow the trend of the conversation. Were we still talking about baking strategies? I couldn’t tell for certain, but right now it didn’t matter. The wheels were officially in motion. When Gemma flew home for Thanksgiving, it was entirely possible that we’d be having Beer-butt Turkey à la Rodney.
Gemma, who had recently broken up with her boyfriend. She might be looking for a little holiday romance. As Rodney drove off in his shiny beige Chevy truck, I began to plan another bit of matchmaking. It was addicting!
While I still couldn’t pinpoint the particulars about the found journal, it didn’t stop me from pouring out secrets, strategies, problems, and solutions all in one info dump. I had questions; I needed answers, and with Ethan out of town—where the hell was he?—the journal was having to pull its weight as a sidekick.
Okay, so I took your advice—well, I assume I took your advice; the absence of actual instructions made things pretty ambiguous. If your MO is crafty, cagey matchmaking, then I’m officially on board. My virgin attempt sparked a little something between Mom and Mr. Carr, leading me to believe that I may just be good at this. In fact, I’m currently brainstorming possible pair-ups for Syd, Court, and even Gemma, but the men aren’t exactly lining up! Between the teachers at school, my girlfriends, and their girlfriends, there’s pretty much a dearth of good guys, other than Ethan, who’s a regular fixture but a bit of a dating anomaly. Still, I could ask him for help . . . maybe he can produce a couple of friends willing to be guinea pigs, but I’ll likely have to endure a lecture.
He’s really rather devious, luring my secrets out of me over Sunday-afternoon Scrabble games, while presenting his poker face——poker personality —to the world. What the hell is he hiding?? I could smoke him out. . . . Huh. That’s an interesting proposition (me to me). My tour as a superspy was cut waaay too short, and I still have the wardrobe. But I’ll need to be prepared for the fact that I may discover something I don’t want to know. Am I ready for that? I think I am. I still have a couple of days before Ethan gets back to perform a preliminary search—after that, I’ll have to be very crafty. I might even have to demand to be taken back to his apartment.
That leaves Jake Tielman as the elephant in the journal. Why hasn’t he called me? I dressed up, I played the game—apparently I wasn’t quite as desirable as I imagined. He was at the Driskill, very likely flirting, but maybe that’s his MO: a no-holds-barred, anything-goes flirt-a-rama, just once, no repeat customers. God, I hope not. I really, rather desperately, hope not. This must be the superhero effect: Once you’ve tasted the thrill of adventure, it’s all you can think about.
It was a little while before I had the spare moments to gaze into the journal in search of pilfered words of wisdom. And by then, my life had shifted all over again.
I decided to use my free period to skulk around Ethan’s classroom for any possible clues. I’d just lowered myself into his desk chair when “Kung Fu Fighting” chimed out of the phone I’d laid on his blotter. I’d picked that ringtone specifically for Ethan’s calls, and having it go off at the precise moment I’d started my snooping seemed more than a coincidence—it seemed diabolically ironic. My heart ricocheted around my chest like a panicked animal, and I had to remind myself that this was a natural time for him to call—he’d know I was free to talk. I reached for the phone.
“The prodigal friend. What can I do for you? Order a meat-lover’s pizza in preparation for your return?” It came out a little bitchy, which seemed rather two-faced given that I was both peeved that he was gone and using the opportunity to sweep his classroom for clues.
“That would be truly appreciated.” Ethan’s voice was like a tickle in my ear. It made me feel even guiltier, sitting in the darkness, my free hand casually mussing the neat organization of his desk. “But I have a bigger favor to ask.”
I held perfectly still. “Do tell,” I said, casually, doing my damnedest to squelch the nerves that were running rampant over my body, sending out goose bumps and cold sweats. Clearly I wasn’t cut out for espionage.
“I’m the best man at a wedding on Saturday, and I need an escort—a date,” he quickly amended in a louder voice.
I opened my mouth to answer, not entirely sure what I planned to say, and was saved the effort.
“And that’s not all,” he warned. “I’d also consider it a big favor if you’d let me drag you to the rehearsal dinner too. I’d owe you,” he clarified.
My lips curled into that cat-with-the-cream grin, and I knew what to say. Because having Ethan in my debt was not something to take lightly, and in fact it was an opportunity impossible to pass up. And seeing as I hadn’t any other plans, it was a no-brainer.
“I’m in,” I told him, suddenly feeling inexplicably gutsy. This would be the perfect opportunity to foist Cat on Ethan in a little trial by fire. He could either be my sidekick or my nemesis—it was his choice. But I planned on coming out the winner.
“You’re a lifesaver, Cate. I’ll pick you up Friday at seven.”
“I’ll be ready,” I assured him. He had no idea.
“So what are you doing on your free period?”
He also had no idea how very loaded that question was.
I tried for offhanded. “Just a few little tasks that I’ve been putting off.” I switched the two pens I’d just stashed in the pencil cup back to their specified place, figuring I’d prefer not to get caught over messing with Ethan’s head.
“Okay, well. Good luck with that, and I’ll see you Friday.” And just like that, the tickle was gone.
The search turned up absolutely nothing. Not only were his desk drawers locked and his desk calendar blank for every month through the rest of the year (I checked), his desktop could have belonged to anyone. Well, anyone with a compulsion for neatness and secret keeping. I nudged the mouse, hoping for a quick look at his computer, and a little box appeared on the screen. Above it swirled a series of characters from a language I didn’t recognize.
I rolled my eyes. Either Ethan w
as learning another language, or he was making one up. I turned toward the keyboard, intending to type in “geek” and leave it for Ethan to find, but when I pressed the keys, more swirly, unidentifiable characters showed up. The man had programmed his computer to translate the English alphabet into some mystery language. I held down the Delete key until all the characters disappeared from the input box. Then I carefully typed “Got secrets?” I had no idea if it would still be there when Ethan got back. Or if it would translate correctly. Or if he’d dust the keyboard for my fingerprints in addition to his general dusting. It didn’t matter. I could think of a believable excuse for being in his classroom, sitting in his chair, and typing at his keyboard. I’d work on it.
The second interesting call of the day came in around the time a museum curator—or whatever it was I imagined I might do at the Museum of Art when I let the little white lie slip—might have lunch. It came during fourth-period English at Travis Oaks High School, during a discussion of Emma. On my burner phone! Which I had pulled from amid the lollipop jumble on my way out the door that morning. I ignored it while my pulse jumped in my throat and my voice caught on a question to the class.
“If we could chat with Jane Austen over tea at Starbucks, what do you think she’d say about Emma Woodhouse? Do you think Jane herself subscribed to the idea of matchmaking?”
These questions had more than a literary component; I was still trying to get a feel for the Jane Austen influence on the journal. Outside opinions couldn’t hurt.
Piper Vane raised her hand and then answered. “I don’t know what she’d say to Emma—maybe ‘listen to your future husband and mind your own business’—but I definitely think Jane had the itch. Could be she was just like Emma, but with enough sense to manipulate fictional characters instead of real people.”
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