My Ghostly Valentine: A Haunting Paranormal Romantic Comedy (Banshee Creek Book 4)

by Ani Gonzalez

  Patricia groaned and her friend glanced at her with sympathy.

  "I know," Elizabeth commiserated. "But it is something that they will look at."

  "But if I'm the only applicant..." Patricia's voice trailed off meaningfully.

  Her friend's eyes narrowed, reminding Patricia that Elizabeth was also a canny businesswoman as well as an actress. She'd single-handedly kept her mom's real estate office afloat and her reality TV show House Haunters had turned Banshee Creek's haunted houses into coveted starter homes.

  Elizabeth was not to be trifled with. She glanced at the clock and frowned.

  "You may be the only commercial applicant," she acknowledged. "But we have a few residential applicants as well. The committee does not want to chop up the Rosemoor into apartments--"

  Patricia gasped in horror. Apartments? The committee couldn't allow that, the Rosemoor was a local landmark.

  "But they will if they don't think your idea is viable," Elizabeth finished.

  Patricia fiddled with the envelope, trying to think. Could the town support two paranormal bakeries? Probably not. She'd expected to run both bakeries with the help of some staff, but if she got the Rosemoor approval she might be forced to close down Banshee Creek Bakery.

  Could she do that? That bakery had been in her family for generations. True, it wasn't big and it certainly wasn't glamorous, but it was theirs. The Rosemoor was her dream, but closing down the bakery would still hurt.

  Elizabeth extended a hand. "Give me."

  "What?" Patricia asked, feigning ignorance.

  "The paranormal elements. You're too smart and too organized not to have it on you. Hand it over."

  Patricia grimaced and took some papers out of the envelope. Elizabeth snatched them out of her hand and read them carefully.

  "Séances and Theosophism," she murmured. "Victorian spiritualism and health crazes...not bad. It's all based on the building's history which is definitely a plus. The committee will love that. The medium stuff should go over well, but you may want to add fortune telling." She smiled and attached the papers to the application.

  Patricia sighed with relief. She didn't want to do another ghost-themed bakery, but a Ouija board and a couple of planchettes wouldn't interfere with her Victorian vision.

  "Excellent," Elizabeth said, glancing at the clock.

  Only a couple of minutes to go.

  "Looks like you're the only one," she said making Patricia squirm with guilt.

  Luckily Elizabeth didn't notice.

  Was Zach still tied up in the PRoVE specimen room? The thought made Patricia wince. She'd expected Fire & Rescue to show up by now. As soon as this was over, she'd call them back, she promised herself. All she needed was a few more minutes.

  "I'm really happy for you," Elizabeth continued. "Although I was a bit surprised when I saw your name in the list of possible bidders."

  "Surprised?" Patricia asked, confused. She was an entrepreneur and this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Why would Elizabeth be surprised?

  "Well, it is haunted, you know," Elizabeth said, choosing her words with care.

  Patricia stared at her friend, eyes wide with disbelief. "Who are you and what have you done with my friend? Of course it's haunted. Everything in this town is haunted. You have a television show based on that fact."

  Elizabeth smiled sheepishly. "I know, but the Rosemoor spirit isn't like your bakery brownie or even the pizzeria's poltergeist. It's different."

  "I thought you were a skeptic." Well, as much as one could be a skeptic in Banshee Creek. Elizabeth, sick of having to sell haunted houses, had been a fierce ghost opponent.

  "Yes, mostly," Elizabeth admitted. "But, well, this building is...special."

  Patricia sighed. "Yes, I saw the ten page disclosure the committee attached to the application and the PRoVE report. This ghost is definitely different from my brownie. For instance, it has a lot more documentation."

  That earned her a sharp glance. "Don't laugh. PRoVE is very concerned about the Rosemoor. They don't think the building should be up for bid."

  Now that was alarming. "They can't stop it, can they?"

  Elizabeth shook her head. "No. The committee has made up its mind."

  Patricia relaxed. "Good. I've been planning this for a long time." Longer than anyone knew in fact.

  "Just be careful," Elizabeth said. "I know managing your parents' bakery wasn't your dream."

  Patricia nodded. They'd had plans back in high school. Elizabeth would go to L.A. and become an actress and Patricia would head to Manhattan and become a famous pastry chef with a glamorous eatery. Elizabeth had achieved her dream.

  But what about her?

  She was getting the Rosemoor. Her dream was finally coming true.

  "So I'm happy for you," Elizabeth said, signing Patricia's papers with a flourish. "I'm sure it will be fantastic." She sat back and smiled. "Now we can start discussing Valentine's Day. The committee wants to--"

  A siren rang out outside, making them jump. The door opened with a loud bang and a figure, wearing only a foil emergency blanket wrapped around his hips and a large red pentagram painted on his naked chest entered the office.

  Patricia stared. Zach looked angry. No, not angry, absolutely furious.

  "What the--?" Elizabeth gasped.

  He scowled at Patricia then threw a USB flash drive toward Elizabeth. As the flash drive hit the desk, the grandfather clock chimed, bringing an end to the application period.

  Patricia sat, frozen in her chair as Zach walked toward the desk.

  "I believe my application was submitted within the deadline," he said, his jaw tight.

  Elizabeth glanced at Patricia and shrugged apologetically. "Yes." She picked up the flash drive. "I guess it's a competition, then."

  Zach glared at Patricia, looking distinctly unlike someone who would swill down a glass of sangría and laugh about this incident.

  "Yes," he said, his eyes cold and hard. "It is."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ZACH STALKED into the pizzeria, still wearing his emergency blanket sarong. The Fire & Rescue guys had loaned him a pair of old sneakers and Elizabeth had found a green hooded sweatshirt in the Historical Preservation Committee's coat closet. It bore the logo of the local high school's football team, the Screaming Banshees, and he suspected it belonged to one of the committee's teenage volunteers, but he didn't care. At least it was warm.

  The lunch crew stared at him, but he walked on, head held high. No one said a word. A waiter opened his mouth to comment, but he looked at Zach's face and decided against it.

  Good call. He simply wasn't in the mood right now.

  He dearly wanted to get to his office and find a clean set of clothes, but he paused and looked around the room, making sure everything was going smoothly.

  The place looked good. The walls were decorated with custom murals depicting classic horror movie scenes -- Janet Leigh in the shower, birds on a playground, Vincent Price's smirking visage -- and old movie posters. The lone waiter was wearing a t-shirt that read, "Survival Tip Number 10: Don't Read the Latin Text Out Loud," and the customers were busy enjoying the special of the day, a surprisingly popular spicy meatball pizza. Most of the menu items had cutesy names like Poltergeist Penne Alfredo, and Edgar Allan Poe Antipasto, but no one had come up with a good nickname for the meatball pizza. They tried to turn their dilemma into a marketing opportunity by asking their customers to name their pizza, but the plan died a quick death when the winning entry turned out to be "Satan's Fiery Balls Pizza." Maybe they should try the original Argentinean name? Pizza de albóndigas pícantes didn't exactly roll off the tongue, but at least it didn't sound like a venereal disease.

  But that did not seem to dampen the customer's appreciation, for which Zach was deeply grateful. A couple of signature dishes -- the meatball pizza and the icebox tiramisú pie -- and a boatload of sangría were keeping the business in the black during winter, which was a surprise. He'd expected January to be
a total loss. The Banshee Creek tourist season was strictly Halloween-based, and they'd expected no tourists after Thanksgiving. But a couple of hard-core fans showed up for the Christmas festivities -- PRoVE's "H.P. Lovecraft's Holiday Extravaganza" light show was quite popular -- and the New Year's Party had been an unqualified success.

  The town's crazy reputation as Ghostown, U.S.A. was actually bringing in money. Who'd have thought it? Well, he and Patricia did. They were the first ones to figure out that the weird paranormie stuff had real potential. The rest of the town followed their lead, but they were the pioneers. They'd taken a gamble and it had paid off.

  And maybe his next gamble would pay off too.

  Sarah, his recently-hired restaurant manager, came out of the kitchen carrying a tray. She wore a dark scowl and a t-shirt that read "Survival Tip Number...Oh Just Die Already." Sarah was by far his most popular staff member and he had no idea why. Sure, she was smart and efficient, but she was probably the dourest, most sarcastic person he'd ever met. The customers, however, loved her.

  It must be the British accent. Virginians, he'd come to realize, were hopeless Anglophiles.

  Sarah glanced at his attire and snorted. "I like the space leprechaun look, boss. It suits you."

  He sighed and headed for the back of the restaurant. "Hold the fort. I'm going to my office." The bare-bones attic office was cold and untidy, but it did have one major amenity, a small bathroom with a shower.

  "Sure thing, boss."

  He walked upstairs, relieved that he'd managed his escape without eliciting any additional snarky commentary. He walked into the attic office and immediately tensed.

  A box was lying on the top of the desk. It bore the labels of a pricey courier service, the kind that fancy corporations used. Fancy corporations like his brother's investment firm. Not satisfied with wrecking Zach's e-mail inbox with huge documents, Gabe had printed them out, killing several trees in the process, and mailed them to him.

  Well, he still wasn't going to look at them. He'd already given Gabe his answer and it was a resounding no. He didn't need his big shot brother interfering in his business. He ignored the box and focused on a bunch of papers strewn over his desk, the remains of his struggles with the Rosemoor application. What a pain that had been. He grabbed the PRoVE report and threw it in the trash. Twenty pages of nonsense on the mansion's ghost and every single danger, real or imaginary, she could pose to a prospective owner. What a bunch of junk. He'd still had to read and initial every single page though, which made no sense. He could handle the Rosemoor. He'd grown up in a haunted pizzeria after all.

  He gave the room a fond glance. The pizzeria's scary-movie-themed remodel did not reach the attic, so the wood beams, old desk and dilapidated shelving were essentially unchanged. The room was pretty much a time warp to November 11, 1978, the year his parents bought it, down to the framed poster commemorating the 1978 World Chess Championships in the Philippines. The poster, signed by Anatoly Karpov, belonged to Zach's father and it was one of Gonzalo Franco's dearest possessions.

  Zach frowned at the poster. He didn't play chess and had no idea who Anatoly Karpov was, other than a guy with a loopy signature. He should do something about this office, take down the chess posters, bring in some new furniture, maybe even paint the walls. He looked up at the naked rafters and added new insulation to his wish list.

  The pizzeria no longer belonged to his father. It was now his.

  New paint would all have to wait, though. The Rosemoor project was more important. Banshee Creek was growing and he intended to grow with it.

  But first he needed a shower, and a clean change of clothes. He opened a box and pulled out a light blue long-sleeved t-shirt with the "Pepe's Pizza" logo and a matching pair of sweatpants. It wasn't his most stylish look, but it would have to do.

  As he headed for the bathroom, his smartphone rang, and he recognized the ringtone -- a tinny version of Kenny Chesney's "Big Star" -- instantly. He accepted the call, smiling.

  "Naked?" Abby Reed, his former bandmate, screeched into his ear. "Naked and covered in goats' blood?"

  Zach winced. The Banshee Creek grapevine was busy. Abby was now the lead singer for the Space Cowboys, a hot new country-folk band and she was in Nashville putting the finishing touches on a new record, but she'd still heard about his latest escapade.

  "It wasn't blood," he clarified. "It was henna, or something like that. Brenda wouldn't use real blood. She's vegan."

  He pulled up his sleeve and looked at the sigil on his arm. It didn't look anything like dried blood. Patricia, or, more likely, drama-queen Elizabeth Hunt, had a vivid imagination.

  "Oh," Abby drawled. "She's a vegan. That's reassuring."

  Zach laughed. Abby had been in Tennessee for only a couple of months but she'd already acquired the country twang. He scratched at the sigil, all of this dried blood talk was making him itchy.

  "And Patricia found you?" She giggled. "That must have been a shock."

  He was still angry at the baker, but he couldn't help but smile as he recalled Patricia, in her practical boots and coat, wielding a giant flashlight. Oh, yeah, she'd been shocked all right.

  "Are you okay?" Abby asked.

  "I'm fine," he replied. "You know me, I'm Mr. Teflon."

  He noticed that he was scratching the scar on his arm. Crap.

  "I know," Abby continued. "I just worry about you sometimes."

  He pulled the sleeve back down. He couldn't get rid of the scars from his ill-fated motorcycle trip, but he could stop fiddling with them.

  "Nothing to worry about," he reassured her. "Everything's great. How are you guys doing in Music City?"

  "Well enough," she replied, cheering up. "The record's done and we're moving on to the less fun stuff, you know, publicity, marketing...that kind of thing."

  Zach nodded, then realized that Abby couldn't see him.

  "Hey," he said. "You gotta do what you gotta do."

  "Yep," Abby replied. "And the marketing guys think that it would be a great idea to have an event in Banshee Creek. Something small and intimate that we can tape and put up on the internet. You know, as a teaser?"

  Zach gripped the phone tightly.

  "The new record is all about ghost stories," Abby continued. "They think it would be great publicity to have a concert in the most haunted town in the country. They asked us to suggest a venue..."

  Zach swallowed hard, dreading where this was going. Sure, he was happy that Abby had a new band. He was happy that they were on their way to great success. He couldn't be with them, the accident had taken care of that, but he was happy for them. He was...really.

  "And, I thought," Abby said. "What better venue than Pepe's Pizza?"

  Zach's blood froze. Hell, was she really asking him to...?

  "I know you've never had a live band play there."

  Yeah, he thought, and there was a reason for that. Live music at the pizzeria would be a no-brainer. It would increase his business substantially.

  But he just couldn't do it.

  "But," Abby pleaded, "it would be perfect for us. The murals and the theme are just dead on."

  He didn't respond. He was trying to wrap his head around the concept of having a band play in his establishment. Could he do it?

  "Um, Zach, you were supposed to groan at my terrible pun."

  "Sorry," he said. "I...that's amazing. Incredible."

  It would be great publicity for the pizzeria, he told himself. Great publicity for the town.

  And for the Rosemoor project.

  "That's fabulous, Abby," he repeated, voice firm. "This is going to be great for us. Thank you."

  "You'll do it?" she squealed. "Really?"

  "Absolutely," he said, almost meaning it. "Just let me know when."

  "Well, the Historical Preservation Committee asked us to do it during their big February event."

  Wait, what?

  "A big February event? Next month?" He tried to recall a big event for next month,
but couldn't come up with anything. Why would the committee come up with an event and not tell the local businesses? That made no sense.

  "I was hoping you'd tell me," Abby laughed. "I guess it's a Valentine's Day thing? You don't know anything about it?"

  "No," he replied, thinking hard. Valentine's Day was right around the corner. Who would set up an event and give them practically no prior notice? "Send me a list of what you need. I'll need some pictures for the website and posters and cards and such."

  "I'll get them to you, don't worry," she said. "Thanks, Zach."

  "No, thank you," he replied. "This is a great opportunity for the pizzeria."

  He meant it too. Music was his past, but the pizzeria was his present.

  And the Rosemoor was his future.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "A BALL?" Patricia asked, closing the pastry display case. "A Valentine's Day Ball?"

  She'd never heard of such a thing. And Valentine's Day was less than a month away. Who would arrange for a last minute Valentine's Day Ball?

  "The Historical Preservation Committee just announced it on their website," Laurie informed her. "They seem very pleased with themselves." She poured hot water in a porcelain mug that bore a cute ghost-shaped logo and read "Banshee Creek Bakery, Have a Boo-tyful Day," and made herself a cup of tea.

  "They always are," Patricia snorted, wiping her hands on her striped apron. The apron, like the store's awning, napkins and tablecloths, was decorated with pink and orange stripes, the bakery's signature colors.

  "Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. Your dad was here this morning," Laurie continued.

  "My dad? What was he doing here?" Her dad retired after her mom's death and his life now had a very set routine. He got up early, drank his coffee, and headed for Pepe's Pizza to play chess with Zach's father. After lunch -- a slice of Hawaiian Pizza and a Sprite -- he volunteered in the library for a couple of hours. Then he dropped by the bakery for another cup of coffee and a chocolate croissant. Patricia disapproved of the somewhat unhealthy routine, but her father seemed happy.

  At least until now.