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Was that ghost using a paintball gun?
The doors burst open as the three trespassers stumbled out. The wraith stood there a moment longer, then drifted toward the exit. It set the bolts on the top of the door, then locked a large dead bolt.
Shane was still plastered to the corner when the figure turned around. It pulled out a smart phone and hit a few buttons. The strobe light stopped, and blinding emergency floodlights turned on, washing the lobby in dirty brown light. A second later, the piano music ceased. The figure in black wasn’t quite so menacing now. It stood barely five-three, draped head to toe in filmy, artfully ragged cloth. Not an inch of skin showed, not even the small, delicate hands. An indigo-hued black light hung from a chain around its neck, which explained how the skeletal figure could be seen in the dark.
This was no ghost.
Relief and amusement swamped him. He stepped out from the corner and cleared his throat. “Miriam Bateman, I presume?”
He thought catching her off guard would shock her into revealing herself. He was wrong.
With lightning reflexes, the figure raised the paintball gun and pulled the trigger.
* * *
MIRA HAD NO tolerance for trespassers. Why anyone thought they could simply waltz into her theater to hang out, drink beer and piss against the walls like a bunch of animals...
The little bastards were lucky she didn’t own a real gun.
The paintball gun huffed a fierce volley of Day-Glo green pellets at the remaining intruder. Not only would he be cleaning the stuff out of his clothes for days, but he’d probably have some nice bruises, too. The sheriff wouldn’t have a hard time finding him or his friends.
As the first volley hit him square in the chest, he twisted away, hands shielding his head, exposing his ribs and thigh to the assault instead. He reeled back as she stepped forward. The closer she got, the worse the impact would hurt.
She let go of the trigger briefly. “Get out,” she gritted, though it didn’t have the menace the voice-changing app on her phone gave her. “You’re trespassing. The sheriff is on his way. Get out or I’ll put one through your eye.”
“I followed those boys in here. I thought they were causing trouble—”
“I’ll cause you trouble. Get out!” She pulled the trigger again. Three paintballs hit him square in the crotch. His face contorted, his mouth opened in a silent scream and, eyes crossed, he collapsed.
Mira lowered the gun. He wasn’t getting up. And she was pretty sure he wasn’t faking his agony. Crap. That wasn’t good. She put the gun aside and dialed the sheriff, filling him in on her situation.
“I’m driving as fast as I can, Mira,” Ralph McKinnon told her gruffly, “but I’m still about ten minutes out. I called Arty. He’ll probably get there before me.”
“There was a fourth one, Ralph. Older guy. I shot him in the nuts with my paintball gun. He’s down.” She kept her gun pointed at him and leaned in far enough to ascertain if the man was still breathing. He had his hands cupped around his crotch and his eyes squeezed shut.
Only a little remorse broke through her self-righteous fury. He was wearing a fairly nice gray suit and a pink tie, all of it now splattered with neon green paint. Clearly he hadn’t been with those punks. Not that it excused him from breaking into the Crown.
The sheriff sighed. “I should never have given you those shooting lessons.”
“Hey, you were the one who was all about standing your ground.”
“Does he need an ambulance?”
“Hey, you,” she said to the stranger. “Do you need an ambulance?”
The man gurgled something that sounded like a no.
“Nah,” Mira told Ralph. “But get over here quick. If he tries to get up, I might have to unload on him again.”
“Please don’t.” The man rolled over and looked up at her with wide eyes. “I just wanted to drive those kids off.”
“I’ll see you soon, Sheriff.” Mira slipped her phone back into her pocket, muzzle still trained on the man. He was dark skinned with jet-black hair and large, dark eyes. No rings on his fingers, so he wasn’t married—no wife to come after her in case she’d accidentally neutered him.
She hefted the paintball gun menacingly. “So you’re, what, a good Samaritan?”
“I’m Shane Patel from Sagmar Corp.,” he said hoarsely, easing himself up. Worried he might try to disarm her, she brandished the paintball gun. He raised his hands. “Are you Miriam Bateman?”
Mira realized she still wore the head-to-toe wraith costume. He wouldn’t have recognized her anyhow—she didn’t have much in the way of a social media profile and preferred to stay anonymous online. All the same, she kept the cowl and veil on.
“Why are you here, Mr. Patel?” She recognized his name, of course. All those letters from the property developer had gotten on every last one of her nerves.
“I wanted to speak with you personally.” He sat up, his knees pinched together protectively. Contrition inched onto his face. “I wanted—”
“I already told you, the Crown’s not for sale. Sheriff McKinnon will be here shortly to escort you off my property.”
He straightened, ready to argue. “My associates—” She gestured with the muzzle of her weapon, and he got the hint, cutting off his sales pitch sharply. “It was rude of me to call on you so late,” he amended hastily. “I’m sorry for barging in on you like this. Seriously, I meant no harm. I was only driving by when I saw those kids.”
Doubt stirred inside her. He hadn’t tried to hurt her or damage the Crown as far as she could tell. Nor did he seem to be trying to burn down the place to expedite the sale of the property—she’d heard stories of developers doing just that. His nice suit was ruined, and he’d probably be covered in bruises tomorrow. She’d be lucky if he didn’t press charges against her.
She lowered the gun. “Sorry about your suit,” she said reluctantly. “You can send me a bill for the dry cleaning.”
“Not to worry. It was in need of a little color anyhow.” He got to his feet. “I’ll wait for the sheriff. I can give him a description of those guys who broke in.”
“That’s not necessary.” She didn’t want him there any longer than he had to be. “You can go.”
He looked around, lingering, as if waiting for an invitation to sit and have a coffee.
“You’re here rather late,” he remarked.
She stiffened. “I’m often here late.”
“The back door was open.” The almost-fatherly condescension in his tone irritated her. “Do you normally leave it unlocked?”
“It’s a tricky lock. Been like that forever.”
He frowned. “Maybe you should board the door up.”
Mira glared. She didn’t like to be told how to run her life. She held up the gun. “I think I have security covered.”
“Mira?” Arty’s gruff voice echoed from the back lobby. “Where are you?”
“I’m here. Everything’s fine.”
A moment later, Arty Bolton strode in, his sweater inside out, his graying hair flying in all directions. She could see him putting it all together in his mind as he took in the scene, and he sagged in relief. “Christsakes, Mira, that costume could scare the black off a zebra. What the hell is going on?” His gaze narrowed on the man from Sagmar. “Who’s this?”
“Shane Patel.” He wore his smile as readily as his ruined tailored suit. “We’ve had a misunderstanding. I was trying to rescue Ms. Bateman from some teens who broke into the building—”
Rescue? What a lying piece of—
“Mira, what have I said about barring and locking all the doors?” Arty glowered at her.
She glared right back, then realized he couldn’t see her face. She pulled away the cowl and unhooked the veil. “You know how that back door is.”
“And if it weren’t for this brave young man—”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Shane said modestly. Mira felt a flicker of appreciation for the correction, but Shane Patel wasn’t anywhere near the vicinity of her good graces yet. “She had me dead to rights. As you can see.” He gestured at his green-spattered suit.
The lines in the older man’s face deepened. He gave a put-upon sigh. “Mira...”
“Why are you mad at me?” she asked, irritated. “He was trespassing.”
“I was trying to do my neighborly duty, honestly.” He sounded sincere, but all Mira could hear was the slime beneath his words. And yet, he was winning Arty over. The older man’s expression eased with sympathy and gratitude.
Mira summoned her outrage. “Arty, this is the guy I was telling you about. The one who wants to buy the theater.”
“Oh.” He regarded him a moment, then held out a hand. “Arty Bolton. I own the Everville Grocery down the way.”
“I know.” He grinned. “I guess you don’t remember me, Mr. Bolton. My family and I used to come to Everville every summer when I was a kid. I came by the grocery store frequently to get bubble gum cards.”
“Wait a sec.” Arty squinted. Mira looked between the two, flabbergasted this intruder could have any possible connection to the man who’d been watching out for her since her grandfather had died four years ago. The grocer pointed. “I do remember you, I think. You were tiny, and you had huge ears. You were friends with the Latimers. Your parents used to stay at one of the big cottages by Silver Lake, right? I’m trying to remember... Ran... Ranjeet?”
“That’s my dad.” Shane’s face broke out into a brilliant grin.
“Well, hot dog. How is your family?” They got to talking about a past Mira knew nothing about. She was feeling steadily more and more uncomfortable. She hated being out of the loop, hated that strangers had been in her home, hated how she was simultaneously being ignored and made the center of attention. She rubbed her arms and huffed. Her personal space felt violated.
Sheriff McKinnon arrived a few minutes later. One hand rested on his service piece as he assessed Shane and listened to what he had to say. Mira then told her side of the story—she’d been working when the silent perimeter alarm she’d installed alerted her to the intruders. From there, she’d called him, put on her costume and taken up her post, initiating her “haunting protocol” program to play itself out.
The sheriff rubbed his eyes. “I don’t see why you can’t have a normal security system like everyone else,” he said. “Or a guard dog.”
“Those kids came in here looking for trouble.” She raised her chin. “I just gave them what they wanted.”
“Always one for theatrics, just like your grandfather,” Arty said with a touch of exasperation. “They could’ve been more than kids, Mira. It’s not safe for a girl on her own. You need to move out of here.”
She glared at Arty in warning. Not everyone who knew her knew that she lived in the theater. It wasn’t something she openly shared, especially not with the law or strangers like Mr. Patel.
The sheriff glanced around disinterestedly. “Is anything missing? Any property damage?”
“There’s a broken beer bottle in one corner—they were drinking. They were trying to pick a lock on that storage closet, too. Nothing in there of value, though.” She pointed to one corner. Ralph checked it out and declared it hadn’t been damaged.
The sheriff made a note on his pad. “Mr. Patel... I presume you won’t be pressing charges?” The question was a half warning.
“Not at all, Sheriff.” Again, that too-big smile. It gave Mira goose bumps.
“Mira?”
She shook her head reluctantly. No sense in causing more trouble or giving Shane Patel reason to sue her.
“All right. If either of you remember anything else about what you saw, call me. I’ll do a drive around the neighborhood—see if I spot those troublemakers. If I catch them, I might need you both to come down to the office and identify them for me.”
“I’m staying at the Sunshine B and B,” Shane said. “I’m here on business.”
“For how long?”
He slid Mira a lopsided grin. She met his stare head-on, her face fixed with stony dislike. “As long as it takes.”
CHAPTER TWO (#u7ff18010-6830-55fb-bf08-b2b3c24cc561)
IT WAS CLOSE to nine by the time Shane left the Crown. That he’d gotten off with only a stink eye from the sheriff was a point in his column. He’d have to be more careful when approaching Miriam Bateman.
And, boy, was he ever going to have to watch himself around her. He’d expected an older woman, someone as hard and obdurate as her refusals had been. He hadn’t thought she’d be so young and pretty. Even in that billowing pseudo-Dementor’s robe, those big blue eyes had glowed against her round, pale face, framed by that mass of dark brown hair. Girls like that spelled trouble for him, and not just because she’d shot him in the balls.
He winced, still feeling the burning ache. It’d been tough to smile in front of the sheriff.
He parked outside the Sunshine B and B. The house was a fairly ordinary-looking two-story Colonial off Main Street with a screened-in porch, a well-manicured garden and a short driveway. Exactly the kind of place a couple might get away to for a weekend while touring Upstate New York.
In the main foyer, an older woman with dyed blond hair and blue eyeliner greeted him cheerfully. “Nancy Gibbons,” she introduced herself. “You must be Shane. You’re the only one booked for the week...” Her face fell as she took in his state. “Oh my—what happened to you?”
“Had a run-in with some neighborhood kids and a paintball gun,” he explained, which was as close to the truth as he wanted to go. He was sure some version of that story would make its way around the small town eventually.
Nancy scowled. “Their parents must be mortified. I’ve been saying we need to give these kids more to do around here than cause trouble, but the town doesn’t have the money for those kinds of programs.” She sighed. “Back in my day, we had jobs to keep us busy. Now it’s hard enough to even keep the young folks in town.”
Shane nodded. This was the story in small towns everywhere. As factories and mines shut down or pulled out and the economy shrank, people lost their jobs and had to move on to find new opportunities. As a result, the towns collapsed.
“Your room is at the end of the hall, top of the stairs,” Nancy said, handing him a key. “Get out of that suit and I’ll send it to the dry cleaners in the morning. I’ll bring you supper.”
“And an ice pack, if you please.”
Nancy frowned. “Are you hurt?”
“Just my pride,” he said with a grimace.
After a stinging-hot shower, he applied the ice pack where he needed it most and sat down to his laptop, connecting it to the in-room Wi-Fi. In minutes, his inbox flashed nineteen new messages.
Typical. The partners at Sagmar had been hesitant about sending him as the rep because of what they perceived as a “soft heart” toward the town that had hosted him during so many childhood summers. “We need you to go for the jugular,” the senior project manager, Laura Kessler, had told him. “Companies will be swarming this place looking to buy up real estate for development as soon as they realize what a gold mine it is.”
Sure enough, there was an email from Laura, reminding him that the longer he took to convince Miriam Bateman to sell, the higher the price for the Crown would go. Rumors of a new high-speed commuter rail line hadn’t yet leaked to the general public, though, so the town’s property values hadn’t changed. And as long as Miriam Bateman remained in the dark, she couldn’t necessarily demand a higher price.
It wasn’t exactly all aboveboard as deals like this went, but the rail project wasn’t set in stone, which was the only reason Shane didn’t feel completely deceitful. It was a shady enough deal as it was, since the president of Sagmar received the tip off-the-record. Laura had told Shane they wouldn’t be prosecuted if the information was leaked, but he wasn’t reassured.
The rest of his emails were mostly minutiae from work. There was one from his parents in Brooklyn reminding him of his sister’s birthday next week. They knew he was working hard on this deal, but they didn’t know why: he had his heart set on buying one of the condo units so his parents would have a place to retire. They always talked about coming back to Everville for an extended stay, and Shane wanted them to have that. Besides, a new condo would be the perfect income generator and secondary leisure home.
He was certain he could convince Miriam to sell before Priti’s party. He just needed more information about the theater owner. It was why he’d come to Everville—he wanted to face Ms. Bateman and get a sense of who she was. Emails and letters didn’t cut it. He was a people person. Once he figured out what motivated Miriam and what kinds of dreams she had, he’d know how to get her to sell.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, he walked downtown, marveling at how much Everville had changed. Unlike many of the locations he’d scouted in Upstate New York, this town had managed to evolve, avoiding stagnation against all odds. Where there had once been feed stores and midsize department stores, there were now trendy cafés, galleries and boutiques. There were still lots of empty storefronts, though. He remembered how busy and vibrant Everville had been when he was a child, but the town hadn’t suffered nearly as badly as other places Sagmar Corp. had considered for the condo.
It was nice to see some things hadn’t changed: the local Chinese eatery, the Good Fortune Diner, was still thriving after all these years. It was the only place in the States he’d ever found sweet-and-sour chicken balls—he’d learned it was mainly a pseudo-Chinese staple on Canadian and British menus. He’d go in for a plate later.
