Once Upon a Ghost Page 2

  "Right," she agreed, pressing onward with more tenacity than tact. "It also requires separating truth from fiction."

  "You're walking a fine line there," he growled. "Lowly gofers should be very careful how they speak to their bosses. Especially lowly gofers who got their job through family connections."

  "Yes, sir." She eyed him expectantly.

  He gave in with a sigh. "Are you implying this article is in any way fictitious?"

  "Yes, sir." Seeing the mottled red darkening his face, she hastened to amend, "Well, sort of."

  "Sort of?" he bellowed.

  Her eyes widened in alarm. "It's just these two teeny-weeny words here I actually object to." She thumped a finger against the newsprint. "That's all. Just these two little words. 'To debunk,' it says."

  "Debunk. To expose as a sham. See how well I did that? I didn't even need to look up the word. I knew the definition right off the top of my head."

  "Uh-huh. That's quite an impressive talent you have there." Rachel cleared her throat. "Except that there's no sham to expose. Not only that, but 'to debunk' implies that this Professor Kingston will really do it. Debunk, I mean."

  "And he won't?"

  "No."

  "Hogwash. I spoke to the man myself. He said he planned to debunk the alleged ghost at Rancho de la Bella Madonna."

  She beamed, pleased that he'd grasped her point so quickly. In her experience, it often took people much longer. "Exactly. My second job is at the Rancho and I should know."

  He groaned. "Know what?"

  "That it's ridiculous."

  "I believe I lost control of this conversation somewhere along the line." Harper pressed his thumb against the deep frown line between his brows. "It's been a rough day. I'm tired. My dinner is getting cold and so is my wife. Do you think we can try to nail this conversation down? What the hell are you talking about?"

  Rachel leaned forward. "I'm talking about Professor Kingston and his claims. This article is written like he's actually going to do it. Debunk Francisca, I mean."

  "Francisca?"

  "Our ghost. And that's another thing. She's a real ghost, not an alleged ghost. Francisca's the ghost haunting the Rancho. She's a relative."

  It took Mr. Harper a moment to digest that. He sat up straighter. "Wait a minute. Are you saying that Francisca Arista is a relative of yours?"

  "That's right. And she's real. I don't care what your Professor Kingston says. He won't debunk her." She frowned down at the newspaper. "That's why I take such exception to this article. It's filled with inaccuracies."

  "Stop talking a minute and let me think."

  Rachel fell silent, though she didn't understand what her boss needed to think about. It all seemed quite straightforward to her. The paper made a mistake. Professor Kingston couldn't debunk Francisca, and they should print a retraction.

  Finally, he spoke. "You haven't worked here long, have you, Avery?"

  "No, sir." She didn't care for the cunning gleam in his eyes. She doubted it boded well for her future.

  "And you've been after me to give you a chance to write for the paper."

  She perked up. Maybe she'd misunderstood cunning for the gleam of editorial wisdom. A natural error, considering her lack of experience in the field. "Yes, sir. I'd like that chance very much."

  "And I'm willing to give it to you. All you have to do is follow this Kingston around and write a series of articles detailing his experiments and progress. Or," he quickly added at her scowl, "lack thereof."

  She folded her arms across her chest. "No."

  He glared. "It'll make a good story. You asked for a real assignment. I'm trying to be a nice guy and give you one. Why are you arguing? It's your silver opportunity."

  She stared at him. "Silver opportunity? I thought it was supposed to be a golden—"

  "It's not that big a story. Are you telling me you don't want to write a feature article?"

  "Oh, no, Mr. Harper. I mean, yes, Mr. Harper. It's just that—"

  "You like being a lowly gofer?"

  "No. I mean, yes. I mean, I love my job."

  "You mean, you love your paycheck, tiny as it is."

  "There is that," she admitted.

  The editor studied her, sinking deeper into his chair. He picked up a pencil and bounced it off his knee. "Don't you think you can be objective about this story?"

  Rachel hastened to reassure him. "I can be objective. Of course I can. I'm right and he's wrong."

  Mr. Harper's eyebrows climbed skyward. "Since objectivity isn't a problem, why not write the story? You said your second job is at the Rancho. It puts you in the perfect position to, er—"

  "Spy?" she asked innocently.

  His brows dropped. "Observe. Reporters observe and report their observations."

  "I'd be happy to do the story," she said, trying to be agreeable. After all, the man did employ her. "There just isn't much point in writing it."

  Mr. Harper sighed again. "I don't have to take this, you know. I'm the boss. You're a nonreporter. You should be kissing my... feet and thanking me for this once in a lifetime chance. But tell me anyway. Why isn't there any point in reporting this story?"

  "Because it's a nonstory and you can't sell newspapers with nonstories."

  "A nonstory?" he repeated, nonplussed.

  "Right. Or it will be after I talk to Professor Kingston and tell him that." She wrinkled her brow. Wouldn't concrete facts be the best approach to take with a man of science? It seemed reasonable. Once she explained about Francisca, proved the reality of her ghost, he'd go away. Which meant the story her editor requested would no longer be a story.

  "Got it." Mr. Harper leaned forward. "Rachel, I applaud your injudicious stubbornness. Honest, I do. It's an admirable trait in anyone, except perhaps, an employee. But, here's how it is. You let me worry about selling the newspapers. That's how I earn my salary. You earn your salary by doing what I tell you."

  He paused and Rachel knew he expected a response. "Yes, Mr. Harper" came to mind and she gave that one a try. Fortunately, she chose correctly. Her employer smiled.

  "Excellent. Now. You go ahead and write that nonstory. And I expect you to be objective and fair and accurate. You turn in weekly updates and allow me to determine whether or not it's worth printing."

  "And if it isn't?"

  "Then you'll find yourself with a nonjob."

  She nodded briskly. "You've talked me into it. Where do I pick up my press card?"

  * * *

  Rachel took a city bus to the Primavera Hotel, a beautiful, pristine,white stucco building with a red slate roof, standing among a stand of date palms. She asked a passing bellboy to direct her to Professor Kingston's room. She'd have shown him her press card, if she had one. Since she wouldn't have one until the next day, it took the last five dollar bill to her name, along with four crumpled ones, three quarters, two dimes, and a Tic-Tac. That bought her the information that Professor Kingston occupied the Linda Vista suite, one of the private cottages located behind the hotel.

  She walked briskly along the meandering sidewalk, eventually finding a cottage with Linda Vista spelled out in colorful mosaic tile across the floor of the front porch. A wooden trellis draped with deep red bougainvillea arched over the entryway.

  Taking an extra few seconds, she shoved at her topknot, making sure it maintained a proper perch, and straightened her skirt. Notes, she suddenly remembered. Reporters were expected to take notes. And now that she'd joined that elite group....

  Pawing through her handbag, she found a pink-and-white striped pen with a huge red heart on the end and a crumpled envelope. Oh, well. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door. After a moment, it opened.

  A large and intimidating man filled the doorway. He folded his arms across his broad chest, an impressive set of muscles pulling the short-sleeved polo shirt taut along his shoulders. "Yes?" he said, the texture of his voice like gravel on velvet.

  Rachel gulped. Was this the professor's bodyguard, perhaps? In his line of work, she didn't doubt for a moment he'd have serious need for protection. Perhaps she should trot out a friendly, placating sort of smile. She forced an "I come in peace, please don't eat me" smile to her lips.

  "I'm here to see Professor Kingston," she said.

  In response, he stepped through the doorway, an answering smile tugging his lips slightly to the right. Deep creases edged his mouth and radiated from his eyes. Laugh lines, she thought, until she met his cold greenish gold eyes and saw the cynicism there.

  "Is this a bad time?" she asked, taking a hasty step away. Perhaps her smile had been a mistake. Perhaps he'd interpreted it as a "come hither and we will dither" smile instead of an honest attempt to ingratiate herself. She tripped over the porch step, frantically juggling her purse, pen and envelope. "I can come back later."

  "You don't have an appointment."

  "No, I don't," she admitted, regaining control of her possessions. She clutched them to her chest and gazed at him through her bangs. "Does that mean I can't see the professor?"

  He tilted his head to one side and a shaft of light from the setting sun broke through the canopy of bougainvillea, burnishing the mahogany brown of his wavy hair with a hint of copper. "What's it about?" he asked after a long moment.

  She studied him in admiration. He was good. He was very good. Maybe he'd be willing to give her some pointers on the fine art of stonewalling undesirables. In her profession, that could come in handy. "You're even better than Mrs. Dumphrey," she informed him. "She guards my boss's office. Nobody gets by her. Nobody."

  "Except you."

  She lowered her eyes modestly. "Well, you have to understand. I'm determined." She peeked up again. "Besides, Mrs. Dumphrey always makes coffee on the dot of four. If I'm quick
, I can slip into Mr. Harper's office before she's through getting the water."

  "Fascinating. But, you still haven't told me what this is about." He continued to block access to the cottage, and she realized if she wanted to see the professor, she'd better find a way past this first minor stumbling block. This first huge minor stumbling block.

  "Right." She shifted her armful and stuck out a hand. "Rachel Avery, reporter for Hometown News. I'd like to ask Professor Kingston a few questions if he has a moment."

  He lifted an eyebrow and she noticed his eyes grew even colder. "You're a reporter?"

  "Yes, I am." He set his jaw and the creases alongside his mouth deepened. His expression was not even a little encouraging. Perhaps he had an aversion to newspaper people. How unfortunate.

  "Prove you're a reporter," he demanded.

  "Well, sure." She lowered her hand and switched her armful once more. "See? Here's my pen and my paper so I can take notes and everything." She gazed at him hopefully.

  As though he couldn't help it, a fleeting grin relaxed his stern features. "Very professional."

  "Thanks. I try."

  "A press card might be more convincing."

  "I agree. I'll have mine tomorrow if that helps."

  "Not really." For an instant she thought he'd turn her away. To her relief, he stepped to one side. "I guess you'd better come in."

  Not the most gracious offer she'd ever received, but she'd obtained her objective, which was more important. "You look much nicer when you smile," she thought to mention, slipping carefully by him. He hadn't left her much room, nor did he seem inclined to move out of the way. Her hip brushed his, and she hesitated, fighting an almost overwhelming instinct to flee. "You should try it more often," she forced herself to add.

  "Thanks for the suggestion." His tone was dry. "I'll keep it in mind."

  She edged into the tiled entranceway and stopped dead. "Good grief."

  She'd never stepped foot in a suite before, and it surprised her to discover the layout mimicked that of an apartment. To her right she noticed a fully functional kitchen, to her left, a small den or sitting room. Stepping down from the hallway into the living room, her sandals sank into the plush aqua carpet.

  She ran a hand over cane furniture forming a U around an entertainment center and fireplace. "A fireplace? Do you suppose people actually use it?"

  "In the winter, perhaps."

  Rachel spun around, not realizing the professor's associate-cum-bodyguard followed so closely. She swallowed. Had his shoulders grown in the past thirty seconds? It sure seemed so. Bodyguards were supposed to be large. And wide. And solid. They were supposed to leave people feeling tense and uncertain. She just never realized they also left people quite so overheated and breathless. She took a quick step away from him, hoping distance would alleviate her symptoms.

  "A fireplace is a rather big expense for only two or three months' worth of use." She latched onto the subject with determination. Anything to help distract her from those shoulders. And eyes. Not to mention the sexy tilt of his mouth. "Winters here are pretty short and not very cold. At least, not cold enough to warrant this." Was she babbling? She clamped her lips shut, just in case.

  He shrugged. "If fireplaces weren't in demand, the hotel wouldn't have installed them."

  "Makes sense." Determined to put even more distance between them, she crossed to examine the entertainment center. "Good grief. A Blu-ray, a game console, plasma flat-screen, surround sound stereo."

  "All the comforts of home."

  "I wish. This hotel room has more gadgets than the local electronics store, let alone my house. Professor Kingston must be loaded if he can afford to stay here. Is ghost debunking a lucrative business?"

  Unable to resist, she punched a button on the stereo. Heavy-metal rock music blared from the speakers and she jumped back, bumping into a hard chest. She sucked in her breath. Oh, dear.

  He reached around her and pushed another button, restoring the silence. "It isn't as lucrative as swindling gullible people with claims of ghosts and hauntings and mystical powers." His deep voice came from directly behind and above.

  She faced him, forced to look a long way up in order to meet his eyes. He didn't step aside and she had the absurd impression it was intentional, that he hoped to intimidate her. Silly man. He couldn't intimidate her. Not in the least. She sidled around him. "You think the haunting at Rancho de la Bella Madonna is a swindle?"

  "Isn't it?" He gestured toward the couch. "Sit down, Ms. Avery, and tell me why you've come."

  Obediently, she crossed to the couch and perched on the edge of a pillowy cushion overrun with orange and fuchsia birds of paradise. It clashed magnificently with her red flowered skirt. "I told you. I'd like to see Professor Kingston." To her dismay, he sat beside her, taking far more than his fair share of the couch. Should she mention the fact? She glanced at him, then away. Perhaps not.

  "Why do you want to see him?"

  "To discuss his debunking Francisca Arista. Or rather," she thought to amend for accuracy's sake, "about his not debunking Francisca Arista."

  He watched her with an uncomfortable intensity. "You have a problem with the project?"

  "Yes, I do." He waited for her to say more, so she added, "He can't do it." That seemed to amuse him. But studying him with a critical eye, she decided it wasn't a very nice sort of amusement. If anything, it made his features harder, more remote.

  "He can't? Why can't he?"

  "Oh, it's not that he can't. I guess that's the wrong word to use. He can certainly try. It's just he won't be able to debunk her." She shifted to face him. "That's what I planned to tell Professor Kingston. He's wasting his time. I thought if I came in person and explained the whole situation—"

  "He'd go away."

  She nodded, pleased by his grasp of the more salient details. "Exactly."

  He propped his elbow on the back of the couch and leaned closer. Casually—at least she hoped it appeared casual—she inched away. "So, on behalf of your paper you're here to get rid of the professor. Is that it?"

  "Oh, no!" she exclaimed, alarmed. Her life wouldn't be worth a crooked penny, if Mr. Harper heard that. "I mean, I am here to get rid, er, dissuade the professor. Sort of. But not on behalf of the paper."

  "Interesting answer. Not very illuminating, but that doesn't surprise me."

  This wasn't going nearly as well as she'd hoped. Perhaps if he hadn't been quite so attractive—not to mention large—it would have gone better. She stiffened her spine. Time to focus on the job at hand and ignore all other distractions. Not that it would be easy. Not when he had the uncanny ability to provoke such disruptive reactions.

  She sighed. "May I be frank?" He gave his half smile again, and again she noted the expression with trepidation. Why did she suspect his smile meant precisely the opposite of what a smile should mean?

  "How refreshing," he said. "By all means. Be frank."

  "Okay. I will. I am here for the paper. That's true enough. My boss has assigned me to interview the professor for an article. I warned him it was a nonstory, but he chose not to listen."

  "A nonstory."

  "That's what Mr. Harper said, except his voice went sort of high and shrill when he said it," she confided. "Of course, it isn't a nonstory quite yet, you understand. But as soon as I speak to the professor, I'm sure it will be. Which is the other reason I'm here. I want to convince him to go away."

  That captured his attention. "Why would anything you have to say convince the professor to leave?"

  "Because I'm right and he's wrong. About Francisca."

  His eyebrows shot up. "I thought reporters were supposed to be objective."

  Rachel fought a twinge of guilt. "I believe my boss did mention that," she admitted reluctantly. "But that's because he doesn't understand."

  "About Francisca."

  "Right."

  "And you'd like to explain to the professor about her."

  "Right," she repeated. "You see, we're seven times removed, relation-wise. I'm her great-to-the-sixth-degree niece. Or is that grand? I never have gotten that quite straight." She furrowed her brow in concentration. "She's my great-great-four-more-greats grand-aunt. Great aunt?"

  "I get the general idea," he assured her dryly.

  "Oh, good."

  He leaned toward her, impatience marking his expression. "You still haven't explained," he said. "How does your relationship to Francisca affect the professor's decision to debunk her?"