by Nic Saint
Colleen was pounding Leonardo’s shoulder now, in the throes of a fit. He tried to ward her off but she wouldn’t let up. Even Dom was coming to his aid now, trying to drag Colleen away from the lawyer.
“What if it wasn’t just his voice breaking, but a botched operation that destroyed Leonardo Brooch’s career?” I asked.
“Oh, my God,” said Blane. “That would explain everything.”
The lawyer had caught sight of us, staring back at him from across the small rotunda, and he became really agitated now. We both got up and just then, he made a run for it!
“Oh, no, you don’t!” Blane growled, and went after the former child star. The attorney zoomed past the fountain and would have cleared it if Blane hadn’t tackled him, and landed the both of them in the fountain, immediately going under. And as they trashed and flailed about, exchanging blows and trying to dunk each other, Charlene looked on from above, water gurgling from her lips. The scene reminded me of Colin Firth and Hugh Grant slugging it out in the second Bridget Jones movie. Only Blane and Leonardo weren’t fighting over a woman, but over an arrest and long prison sentence.
Colleen and Dom had hurried up, and so had about a dozen other onlookers. Blane might be the stronger man, but the lawyer was a lot heavier, and used his bulk to drag Blane under. I didn’t see this fight ending any time soon. I’d already called for backup, both to the Sapsucker PD and Luitpold, and I watched as my lieutenant came hurrying up.
“What’s going on?” he asked, slightly panting.
“That guy is Anny Reckitt’s killer,” I said, pointing at the attorney.
“He is,” Colleen acknowledged. “I hadn’t recognized him before—that picture you showed me was so fuzzy and grainy—but now I did. That’s Leonardo Brooch. My sister operated on him years ago. He was one of her very first clients. And something went wrong. He had a nodule on his vocal cords. It was a routine procedure. But she blew it, and the scarring ended any chance he ever had of making a career. We tried everything. Therapy, exercises, even a second procedure. He never recovered. His parents sued the clinic, and the suit was settled out of court for a sizable sum. Later I heard he changed his name.”
“He must have seen your sister and the old resentment must have bubbled up,” I said.
“This has gone on long enough,” Luitpold snarled, and stepped into the fountain, all three hundred pounds of him. He took Leonardo by the scruff of the neck, punched him in the face, and dragged him back to shore.
“Thanks,” Blane said as he stood panting, his hands on his knees. “I would have gotten him eventually, but thanks.”
Blane’s face was already swelling, and I could see a nice purple bruise spreading on his left eye. That was going to look very nasty tomorrow.
Police sirens announced the arrival of reinforcements, and more of my own security people were running up to relieve Luitpold of his charge, who was on his knees now, limply hanging from Leo’s fist.
“We caught the killer,” I told Blane, who came wading from the fountain and heaved himself up and over the stone edge.
“Yay,” he said with a feeble grin.
I walked over to Colleen, who stood crying softly, and put my arm around her. “It’s over,” I told her. “It’s all over now.”
Blane’s colleagues arrived, and slapped the cuffs on Leonardo, who’d recovered sufficiently to give Colleen a nasty glare. “Your sister destroyed me,” he snarled. “So I destroyed her! She got what she deserved!”
“That’s enough from you,” Blane grunted, and escorted the fallen child star to a squad car and pushed him into the backseat.
He returned to me, his feet squishing in his waterlogged shoes and his clothes sticking to his skin like glue. “Good job, partner.”
“Thanks. You weren’t too bad yourself.”
He gave me a nod. “I’ll call you later,” he said, before squishing off again.
“Charlene will be proud of you!” I called out after him.
He held up his hand and I could see his grin spread as he got into the squad car and drove off.
And then I collapsed onto the edge of the fountain. All around us, the circus now began in earnest, as camera crews suddenly popped up out of nowhere, and more and more cops and security personnel gathered around the fountain. A police officer led Colleen away, presumably to take her statement, and Dom Mathie received the same treatment.
“What a mess,” said Luitpold, sitting down next to me. Like Blane, he was soaking wet.
“You look like you’ve been running a marathon,” I said.
He laughed. “Yeah, I’m training for an ironman. You did great, Mia.”
“You were pretty impressive yourself, Leo.”
“That’s the advantage of carrying some bulk around. You just sit on the suspect until he stops moving. Beats having to wrestle him.”
“So it’s finally over, huh?”
“I guess it is.” He gave me a curious look. “You think Charleneland will survive?”
“I’m sure it will. And who knows, maybe we’ll even attract a few more visitors because of this.”
“Yeah, there’s always people who love a park with a horror story.”
“Or a Haunted Ride with an actual dead body.”
He shook his head. “Crazy-ass people doing crazy-ass things.”
No truer words were ever spoken.
Epilogue
One month later, I was standing in the crowd, a soda in one hand and a LED armband strapped around the wrist of my other hand, waving it in the air as I listened to the crowd emit a roar that rocked the arena.
“This is it!” I yelled to Blane, who was standing next to me, also waving his LED armband.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said with a big grin on his face. “I haven’t been to one of these shows since I was a kid!”
“Well, you’re about to experience history in the making!”
On stage, Charlene had appeared, greeting the crowd with her usual aplomb. She was wearing a pink feathered boa around her neck, and one of her usual outlandishly decorated dresses. The music changed from the introduction tune to the background track for her first song. When I heard the familiar notes I frowned. Huh? And when Charlene burst into her trusty rendition of My Heart is a Pump, even Blane was looking confused.
“I thought she was going to sing a duet with your sister?” he asked.
“That was the plan. Looks like she changed her mind.”
“Damn, that’s too bad.”
Maya would be so disappointed, I thought. Here was her big chance. The moment she’d been waiting for: a chance to sing live on stage with Charlene. And our grandmother had decided to throw her chance out the window again.
Then, suddenly, Charlene shouted, “Just kidding, you guys!”
There was the sound of a record scratching, and a new tune launched, this one a fat beat that sounded more appropriate for a Justin Timberlake concert.
“I’m so proud to welcome a new and true talent on stage,” Charlene said. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you the future of Charleneland. My very own granddaughter Maya Rugg!”
Maya came tripping onto the stage, a beaming smile on her face, sparkly glitters lighting up her costume and her dark hair. She looked ravishing.
“A few weeks ago, we almost lost my father,” Maya spoke into the microphone, her voice boosted by the sound installation. “Fortunately the fantastic doctors at Santa Anna Hospital saved his life. We would like to dedicate this next song to Clive Rugg. The man without whom Charleneland wouldn’t be what it is today. He’s here with us tonight. Dad,” she said with a sudden wobble in her voice, “this one’s for you.”
Two rows in front of me, Mom and Dad stood, Mom’s head on my dad’s shoulder, and I knew this came as much as a surprise to them as it did to me.
The music died down, and a single spotlight fell on Maya. She then broke into a moving rendition of Move Along, a song she’d written herself. After the first verse, Cha
rlene broke in, and their voices mingled beautifully. A hush had fallen over the arena, and hundreds of LED bracelets waved in the air, creating an emotional tribute to my father. I had to confess I had tears in my eyes, and when Blane’s fingers touched mine, I was reminded of my dad’s words. Date the cop, Mia.
So I turned to Blane. “Do you want to go out with me sometime, Detective Jamison?”
He gave me a warm smile. “Yes, I will, Miss Rugg.”
And then we kissed. All around us cheers rang out. They were meant for Charlene and Maya, who’d finished their song. But in my mind they were meant for us, too. For catching a killer, and to celebrate the start of a new partnership.
And maybe something more.
THE END
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Excerpt from A Tale of Two Harrys (Ghosts of London 4)
Prologue
“And… Action!”
Harry Potter sat at the casino bar and nursed his whiskey—shaken, not stirred—while trying to look casual and debonair. In his tux with the crisply ironed white shirt and black slacks he was doing a pretty good job. This Monte Carlo casino was way swanky, and the baccarat table a buzz of activity as players dressed to impress crowded around the croupier.
One of the players was Hermione, and he watched her intently as she gave him the secret signal. He narrowed his eyes as he caught sight of Le Miffre at the poker table, the most dangerous criminal ever to walk the face of the earth. The dark-haired master evildoer was casually letting his chips fall where they might, and gave no sign he knew he was being watched.
Jacques Le Miffre had recently gone into business with Frank Riddle, the evil twin of Tom Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort, and this was Harry, Hermione and Ron’s attempt to catch the evil genius, who was building himself an army of followers to rival that of his twin brother.
Just then, Ron walked over, dressed in a frilly pink tux that looked absolutely ridiculous. Harry casually brought his hand to his mouth and muttered into his wrist mic, “Did Liberace have a garage sale, Ron?”
“It was the only bloody thing the Ministry of Espionage had left. It was either this or a lime-green one that used to belong to Kermit the Frog.”
Ron joined Harry at the bar, and they both watched Le Miffre carefully. The criminal mastermind was tapping his chin, which was his tell, Harry knew. He shared a look of understanding with Hermione. Le Miffre was going to go all in now. Time to up their game and get in on the action. He casually got up and crossed the casino floor to the poker table.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked Le Miffre.
The evil genius gave him an appraising glance, then nodded. Harry sat down. Time to show Le Miffre who he was dealing with. It was do or die.
“Oh, Harry, do be careful,” Hermione’s voice trumpeted in his ear.
He locked eyes with the fair-haired beauty and nodded. “Always.”
Just then, the ghost of a fat man came bursting through the table, upending the entire game and sending chips and cards flying everywhere.
“What the…” Harry cried, and even Le Miffre seemed miffed.
The ghost howled a startled cry, apparently as surprised as they were, and howled, “He killed me! The Dark Lord killed me! Killed me dead!”
“Cut!” the director yelled. “Cut! Cut! Cut! Cut! Cut!”
Myron Catling heaved a weary sigh and got up from his seat to stretch his limbs. The young actor, chosen to follow in the footsteps of Daniel Radcliffe and play the legendary Harry Potter, was frankly getting sick and tired of this nonsense. This was the third time already that this poltergeist had interrupted his key scene, and he was losing his patience.
Devin Design, the actor who played Ron, walked over. “What’s all this nonsense?! Why can’t they get rid of this bloody nuisance?”
“It’s not a nuisance, Devin,” he said. “It’s a poltergeist.”
Devin laughed his trademark whinnying laugh, very different from the character he was playing, and a lot more annoying. “That’s impossible! Ghosts don’t exist!”
“Ghosts do exist, Devin,” Christy Gyp said prissily. Christy had been selected from thousands of actors to step into Emma Watson’s shoes as Hermione Granger, and was doing a good job of imitating the part she was supposed to play. “Can’t you see? This poor soul probably died in this studio and now he’s trapped here.” She looked properly concerned as they all watched the poltergeist dive back into the table and disappear from sight, leaving a large glob of green goo on the poker table and on everyone who was so unfortunate to stand too close.
“Well, bloody hell!” Sam Carr cried. He played Le Miffre and was now covered from head to toe in the green slimy substance. “He slimed me!”
“It’s ectoplasm,” Christy said knowingly. “It’s supposed to be great for your complexion.” She dipped a finger into the slime and rubbed it across the back of her hand. “Has both exfoliating and hydrating qualities.”
The director stalked up to them. He was a rail-thin man in his mid-fifties and was famous for having directed more than a few James Bond movies. In fact most of the people working on the new Harry Potter movie—Harry Potter and the Dark Lord’s Return—were veterans of the James Bond franchise. They’d even rehashed an old James Bond script.
“This is the third time today that horrible beast has done this!” the director fumed. He stared at the table, which was now a mess. “We’re going to have to get the set decorators in here and redo the entire set. Again!”
There were groans of exasperation from the extras who played the other casino guests and players. They’d been on their feet for hours, trying to get this scene right. Myron wasn’t too well pleased either. He was starting to lose his focus, and since this was a breakout part for him, he couldn’t exactly afford to drop the ball. He was, after all, playing the lead.
“Can’t we film this scene another time?” he asked. “Maybe move on to the next scene on the schedule for now?”
“No way,” said the director, upsetting his tousled head of gray hair. “The next scene requires even more preparation. It’s the scene where Le Miffre tortures you in the casino basement and Hermione and Ron save your life by knocking him out with the Hellfire curse.”
Yep. The script wasn’t exactly adapted from a JK Rowling book.
Just then, Myron’s eyes were drawn to the ceiling, where a crimson spot had appeared. He pointed at it. “Has that always been there?”
The others’ eyes also rose to check out the spot.
“I think it’s more of that slime,” Devin said.
“Ectoplasm,” Christy corrected him.
“Whatever. I just think this whole thing is a joke. Something cooked up by the marketing department to drum up interest for the movie.”
“Yeah, because a new Harry Potter movie needs all the interest it can get,” Christy said with an eyeroll.
In the movie, Ron and Hermione might be an item now, but their actors didn’t exactly get along. Not that Myron blamed Devin. Christy could be a pain in the butt sometimes. She was a method actress, and liked to stay in character between scenes. And Hermione might be lovely in the movies—or the books—but in real life her know-it-all act could be grating.
The table moved again, and the ghost popped back out. “He killed me!” he was yelling. “The Dark Lord killed me! He killed me dead!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Devin said. “You said that already. Your stupid little party trick is getting old, buddy.”
The ghost hovered over the poker table for a moment, taking in Devin, Myron and Christy, then said, “Save me, Harry Potter. Save me!”
But instead of sticking around to be saved, he streaked into the ceiling, spraying them all with more goo. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he slammed into the ceiling so hard it burst open and something big a
nd heavy dropped out! It landed smack dab in the middle of the table and, finally giving up the fight, the table collapsed and smashed to the floor.
“What the hell…” Myron said as he stared down at whatever had dropped out of the ceiling. And then Christy started to scream, and he saw what it was: the body of a very large, very dead man. A man who was the spitting image of the ghost.
Chapter One
I picked up my phone and saw I had three missed messages from Darian. I was hurrying after Jarrett as we walked past the guard station and into the studio. Pinewood Studios is famous for the James Bond movies, just like Leavesden Studios is famous for the Harry Potter movies. Why they were filming the ninth Potter movie here, I didn’t know, nor did I care.
We’d been called here to do a job. Ever since Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton and I—Jarrett is my best friend and associate—launched the Wraith Wranglers, our brand of ghost hunting had been in high demand, but this was by far our highest-profile job ever. We’d never been called in to drive away a ghost on the set of a major motion picture before.
“Do you think Harry Potter will be there?” Jarrett asked excitedly as we were led through a maze of corridors and sets to the main soundstage.
“I’m sure they’ll all be there,” I said. I was more concerned with Darian and why he’d left those messages right now. I hadn’t seen the Scotland Yard inspector in a couple of days, nor had I heard from him, and I was starting to wonder what was going on. Ever since we started dating, not a day had gone by when we hadn’t spoken on the phone or met either at his place or mine. I was starting to think he’d met someone new.
“I can’t wait to meet Hermione Granger,” Jarrett said. “She’s the bomb.”
Oh, in case you were wondering, my name is Henrietta ‘Harry’ McCabre. I’m a twenty-three-year-old former antique store clerk who’d inadvertently landed a job as a ghost hunter when my former employer Sir Geoffrey Buckley was murdered. His ghost had come back to help me solve his murder, and from there Jarrett and I had gone on to solve more ghost mysteries than anyone could shake a stick at. With my fair complexion, blond bob and golden eyes, I don’t exactly look like a ghost hunter. Then again, what does a ghost hunter look like? I’d never met one before I became one.