Did my Episcopal priest just blush? Too cute!
"She's a nice lady and I enjoy spending time with her," he says with a slight smirk. I can see he's not going to satiate my need for gossip.
"Is that what you old people are calling it these days? Spending time?" I giggle and twist away from his playful swat.
His mood darkens and he frowns black brows at me. "I know you didn't stay after church to ask me about my love life. I know you, Kendall Moorehead. Something's bothering you. Do you need more holy water for your investigations?"
"No, sir," I say, switching gears. "I do need advice, though."
"That's what I'm here for," he says with a smile.
We move up to the choir loft and sit together on the hard benches where I pour my heart out to him, telling him everything, from the dream/vision of Emily, then the one of my death, and finally to what happened last night, when Jason and I both avoided accidents at the exact same time.
"What's going on, Father? I'm literally afraid of my own shadow now."
"Kendall, with your finding you psychic abilities and subsequent ghost hunting, you've really opened yourself up to the angels, the universe ... to anyone that wants to reach out and contact you. You're a magnet to those who have messages to get through. I do believe God gave you these abilities so you can help others, not for you to fear what might happen to you." He reaches over and takes my hand. "You're a strong girl, Kendall. Loreen and I have both seen it. You've embraced your talents and you've cultivated more along the way. Look at all of the lost souls you and your group have helped so far. You can't let fear of the unknown get you down."
My hand shakes underneath his and I try to calm my nerves. That close call with the deer last night really freaked me out. It seems that I need to spend all my energies and efforts on being safe. I'm obsessed with it.
Father Mass obviously picks up on this. "Kendall, you need to let go and let God."
I snicker. "That's not from the Bible, that's from Alcoholics Anonymous, isn't it?"
He cocks his head to the side. "It's the message that counts. Come on, where's the spunky gal I know who doesn't let anything get her down?"
I bite my lip, then say, "She's had hell and four dollars scared out of her."
My priest stands and points his finger at me. "Then I think you need to stop obsessing and find other interests in your life besides ghost hunting. While being psychic will always be a part of who you are, it's doesn't have to be everything, Kendall. Join a club at school. Find a new hobby. Something to take your mind off death. Anything done to extreme is detrimental to one's state of mind. Try it tomorrow, Kendall. Trust me. It'll help."
How can I not trust him? He's a priest.
"Okay, I'll try."
"I don't know how I let you talk me into this," I mutter to Taylor Monday after school. I mentioned to her last night the thing that Father Mass said about finding other interests, and damn if Taylor didn't drag me into her after-school world.
Yearbook.
I don't exactly know what I can offer the RHS annual. I've got zero talent in photography, my writing is only good enough for English papers and other school assignments, and I wouldn't know a good page layout if it bit me on the nose. I certainly don't have the social connections here at school to help out with the gossip fodder, so I can't see this being very productive for me.
"You must be Kendall," a cute brunette with dark brown glasses says to me. She's holding a clipboard with an authoritative grip, and I know she must be some big muckety-muck on the yearbook staff.
Extending my right hand, I shake her outstretched one in a very professional manner. "Kendall Moorehead at your service."
"Great to have you here, Kendall. Taylor's told me all about you. I'm Shelby-Nichole Holt, yearbook editor." She flips her dark brown hair over her shoulder and smiles at me. "Fresh blood is always welcome around here, and I think I've got just the committee for you."
A cocktail of trepidation and excitement shakes me as I await Shelby-Nichole's verdict for my assignment.
"Over here, Kendall." Shelby-Nichole points to a table occupied by a guy with a neon green skateboard across the front of his black T-shirt; his blond hair just touches the top of his eyebrows. "This is Colton Powell," she says. "He's our number-one ad salesman. He'll show you the ropes."
I cringe inwardly. "Ads?"
"Yeah, the annual is paid for by sponsors, parents, and local businesses that purchase advertising space in the back." Shelby-Nichole picks up a copy of last year's RHS Rambler yearbook. She flips to the end where there are tens of pages of print ads from various sources.
Crap! I've never been good at selling anything. When I was back in Chicago, our church choir sold poinsettias around Christmastime to raise money for a trip. I sold exactly two: one to my mother and one to my Grandma Ethel. Not quite salesman-of-the-year material.
I think of what Father Mass told me, though, that I need to try my hand at something new. So I let out the breath I've been holding and look at Shelby-Nichole. "Whatever you think is best," I say with a forced smile.
"Great! Colton, this is Kendall. Show her the ropes!"
He stands and I see he's a bit shorter than I am. His jeans are baggy, and he has worn sneakers with scuff marks all over them. He must notice that I'm checking him out, so he says, "I'm a skateboarder," to explain his casual appearance.
"Oh, that's cool," I say.
Shelby-Nichole puts Colton in a headlocking hug. "Colton here sold almost eighty percent of our ads last year. Of course, it helped that I got my dad to have the city buy a two-page spread."
Colton rolls his eyes and shrugs off Shelby-Nichole's compliment. "No big."
"Who's your dad?" I ask the editor.
She adjusts her glasses on the bridge of her nose and seems melancholy for a moment. "Oh, well, like, my dad died not too long ago. Mayer Holt. He was the mayor of Radisson."
My wide-open mouth registers my surprise. "You're Donn's daughter?"
"Stepdaughter ... although she's, like, the only mom I've ever known. Donn married my dad when I was five. My mom died of cancer right after I was born," Shelby-Nichole explains.
For a second, I glance around Shelby-Nichole to see if the spirits of her mother and father are still with her. Her aura is clear, though, and I don't sense any guides with her, which means her folks are at peace. If only everyone could find such bliss. Then again, I wouldn't be a ghost huntress. Speaking of...
"My team and I are supposed to do an investigation at your house," I say. "Things got weird last weekend with—" I glance across the room at Taylor, who is scrolling through some digital pictures on the computer with a couple of fellow staffers looking on. "Well, Taylor's mom is in the hospital and we had to rearrange our schedule."
Shelby-Nichole nods and lowers her voice. "How's Taylor doing? That can't be easy for her."
I lift my arms and shrug. "As good as can be expected. She's been crashing with me, so I'm trying to help her through it. We're still waiting for her dad to get in from Alaska. He's had some, shall we say, aerodynamic challenges." Jason found out a big snowstorm hit the area where his dad is, so no telling when we'll see him.
"Poor thing. It's hard when your home's all busted up," Shelby-Nichole says with an almost adult tsk-tsk in her voice. "Seems that's more the norm than the exception these days."
Colton clears his throat and picks up a fishing magazine. "Y'all let me know when you want to get to work." He smirks at us and then buries himself in a story about tuna fishing near oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico.
Shelby-Nichole just waves him off and keeps talking. "Donn told me y'all are gonna do an investigation at the house and I can't wait."
"Why's that?"
She searches around to make sure no one else is listening, like she's got this big secret to tell. "I have been hearing weird footsteps coming from the attic since we all moved in, eight years ago. There's nothing up there but a bunch of boxes, some old furniture, and our Christmas
and other holiday decorations. You tell me who's up there moving around."
I'd like to tell her all about the woman I saw in the top-story window, but until Celia, Taylor, Becca, and I can get in there with our equipment, I'm not making any suppositions about anything. The last thing you want to do is tell someone his or her house is haunted without any proof or evidence.
Shelby-Nichole's mouth drops open. "Ooo ... just had a fabulous idea! We'll do a special one-page feature on your ghost huntresses in the Rambler this year."
"I don't know about—"
"Don't be modest," she interrupts. "It'll be easy to do. Maybe I can tag along on your investigation at my house."
A gnawing in my tummy tells me this isn't the smartest thing to agree to. Shelby-Nichole is a little pushy—in a nice way, though—trying to get the feature in her annual. "Why not? Sounds like fun."
"I don't know about fun," she says. "But it'll be interesting. Never a dull moment in that mansion."
"Seriously? Why do you say that?"
"The place gives me the heebie-jeebies," Shelby-Nichole says firmly. "I just crank my music as loud as I can and concentrate on other things. Between my yearbook responsibilities and my volunteer time at the Radisson Retirement Home, I've got a lot to keep me busy."
"That's really great of you, Shelby-Nichole."
Colton lets out a long sigh. "Yo, these ads aren't gonna sell themselves."
Shelby-Nichole laughs and grabs her clipboard from the table. "True, true. Great to have you on staff, Kendall."
"I'll try not to let you down," I say, half joking.
"Sit, Moorehead," Colton says to me. Then he slides over a list of stores in the Radisson area; each business is either highlighted or checked off. "The ones in yellow have committed to ad space already. The ones with the checks need a follow-up." He waggles a tanned finger in my face. "A lot of people are going to tell you no automatically. Don't ever take their no as a final answer. Let them know we're kids and we volunteer our time and that it's the right thing for them to do for the community."
I laugh heartily. "In other words, guilt them into taking out an ad?"
He nods. "You got it, babe. Whatever works. I didn't bring in eighty percent of the revenue last year by taking no for an answer."
A glimpse into Colton Powell's blue eyes, framed behind black-rimmed glasses, gives me a view of his future. Smart kid in math with good grades and an analytical mind. I definitely see dollah signs in his future. Something in the retail industry ... those guys that calculate trends. I have no idea what the exact terminology is, but he plugs raw sales data into spreadsheets to generate all kinds of graphics, charts, and other corporate crap that makes the fat men in the glass offices squeal with delight. Wow ... how did I come up with that?
"You're going places, Colton," I say, like we've known each other forever.
"Well, thanks, Kendall Moorehead. Now, you get one of those lists and get out there and hit the streets of Radisson. You're going places too."
"Oh, come on, Loreen. It's only a hundred fifty dollars for a quarter page," I say, nearly begging. "Don't you want to support the children of this community?"
Loreen lifts the corner of her mouth and then tries not to snort-laugh. "I think I already support at least one, or four, if you think about your whole group."
"She's right," Father Mass says. He's stretched out on the velvet couch in Divining Woman, wearing jeans and a U2 sweatshirt and sipping a cup of something from Central Perk.
"Why don't you buy an ad on behalf of the church?" Loreen shoots back.
Father Mass shakes his head. "That's up to the bishop of the district."
"Stupid church rules," I mutter. "Sorry, Father."
"No skin off my nose. I don't make the rules."
"Quiet, Mass," Loreen says. "All right, Kendall, sign me up. But only because it's you."
Feeling the need to Snoopy dance in place, I reach for the order book Colton sent with me. My first sale! Excellent! My pulse is racing like I just hit the Mega Millions jackpot.
Loreen digs through her black hole of a purse and pulls out her checkbook. She turns to her boyfriend. "So this was your idea?"
"What? Your buying an ad?"
"No. Kendall working on the yearbook staff."
He shrugs and sips. "I merely suggested she find other interests. I believe it was Taylor Tillson who talked her into yearbook specifically."
"Helllllllo! I'm right here. Quit talking about me like I'm not sitting in front of you." I wink at Loreen and stretch my hand out to accept the check made out to Radisson High School. Maybe I'll give Colton Powell a run for the top ad salesperson.
"Are we investigating Mayor Shy's house this weekend?" Loreen asks.
"Looks that way," I say. "Did you get that Ovulator thing Celia was talking about?"
Loreen tosses her head back as she cracks up. "Not an Ovulator. An Ovilus. And yes, it should be here tomorrow. We'll try it out at the mayor's house to see what we can get."
"You and your toys," Father Mass says, tongue-in-cheek.
Loreen runs her hand over his short-cropped hair in a display of affection.
Whatever. I so don't want to sit here and watch them flirt.
"I heard that," Loreen says to me. Ooops. Forgot she's psychic too and picks up on nearly all of my thoughts.
"I think you two are adorable."
"That's better," Loreen says. She reaches over and hugs me and then jumps back as if she's been electrocuted.
I scream as a rush of static energy passes between us, making me itch from the palms of my hands to the soles of my feet. "What the hell was that all about?"
Loreen throws her hands over her mouth to cover her deep gasp. Her eyes dilate; her pupils are humongous. Father Mass is on his feet and in between the two of us before I can take another breath.
"Loreen, honey?" he prompts.
She tosses her strawberry blond curls around her head like she's shaking off annoying bugs. "Make it stop," she says in a whisper.
Mass grabs her arms and tries to pull her to him.
I press for information. "What are you seeing, Loreen?" And why am I not experiencing it too?
Collecting her breath, Loreen reaches out for me. "It was shown to me. Unclear. Confusing." Her breathing is ragged, but she keeps going. "There's a vengeful woman there."
"Where?" Mass and I both ask at the same time.
"At Mayor Shy's." Loreen sucks in air again. "Vengeful. Hateful. Dangerous. We have to proceed with caution."
She's right, Kendall...
"Emily?" I call out.
Loreen looks around, wincing from the pain she's feeling through this connection.
A vengeful spirit, indeed. Watch yourself.
I cram my hands into my hair and rub hard at my scalp. "Neither of you can tell me more than that? Come on!"
Loreen collapses into Father Mass's arms and then they sit together on the couch. Emily is nowhere to be seen, although I can feel her presence hovering around me. Why she continues to talk in riddles and innuendoes I don't understand! All I know is that everything in my life seems to center around what may happen at the mayor's house. No matter what awaits me, I've got to face it head on ... whatever it is.
Chapter Nine
JASON PULLS HIS JEEP into the long, winding driveway of Mayor Shy's mansion on Saturday night and then shoves the gearshift into park. His eyes connect with mine in the moonlight.
"I don't want you doing this investigation," he says with authority.
"I have to figure out what's going on, Jason. It's like everything is a tiny puzzle piece and I've got to fit it all together."
"Why you?" he asks with a bit of desperation.
Placing my hand on his slightly stubbled cheek, I say, "Because it's what I'm supposed to do."
He tugs me toward him and hugs me with gusto. "I can't have anything happen to you, Kendall."
Awww ..."I'll be okay, especially with the whole team here. And you're here, as well
as Loreen and Father Mass."
There's a knock on the driver's-side window, and Jason and I jump apart.
"Gotcha!" Becca sings out and waves on her way up the walk.
Jason grits his teeth. "I swear to God..."
"Don't," I say and then kiss him quickly. "It's not good to swear to God, especially before an investigation." I reach for my jean jacket and get my rose quartz pendulum from the pocket. "I'm ready if you are."
"I'm never ready for these investigations," Jason mutters.
"Come on, He-Man!"
"Get it over with, Kendall."
He's talking about protection. Never, ever, ever go into an investigation without protection of some sort, whether it be a lucky charm, a blessed cross, holy water, or a favorite stone. For me, I prefer to place holy water on my pulse points and recite Saint Michael's prayer. Jason closes his eyes too as I go through my ritual.
"Saint Michael the archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and the snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, O prince of the heavenly host, by the divine power of God, cast into hell Satan and all the evil spirits who roam throughout the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen."
"Amen," Jason says. "So why do you say that?"
I quirk my mouth to the side. "Because it invokes the archangel Michael to protect us."
"Kendall, I'm Baptist, not Episcopal."
Smacking him on the shoulder, I roll my eyes. "It all works the same. Come on." Then we head into the house.
"Hey, y'all, everyone's in the living room." It's Shelby-Nichole, welcoming us in as if this is some sort of slumber party instead of a paranormal investigation of the house she lives in. Then again, she said she pretty much ignores everything she sees and hears.
We follow her down a long hallway of freshly shined hardwood floors. Portraits of famous Radissonians hang on the walls on either side of us. They seem to be judging me, like I've done something wrong. I suppress the urge to flip them off.
"There y'all are," Celia says. She's decked out in dark jeans, a sweatshirt, and her ghost-hunting vest with the kazillion pockets so she can carry everything with her at once and have it at a moment's notice. "We've got the base camp set up in the kitchen. Becca's got digital recorders all over the place, and Loreen's got the Ovilus with her for us to try."
The Reason Page 7