I guess we’d find out together.

  Mr. Howard’s door was open when I walked by, and I firmly told the butterflies doing the foxtrot in my stomach that it was a good sign.

  Even though it was the lunch hour, Mr. Howard was working away at his huge mahogany desk when I knocked real timid like on his door. The scratch of his fountain pen seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet of his office.

  “Knock, knock,” I called when he didn’t look up.

  “Ms. Rowe?”

  That was my cue to talk. I cleared my throat and tried not to get the heebie-jeebies but there was just something about Mr. Howard that scared me more than a werewolf piggybacking an ogre. “Mr. Howard, um, can I talk… to you for a minute?”

  “You’ve got ten seconds.”

  He didn’t look up, but he didn’t tell me to scram either, so I took that as the most welcome I was gonna get and stepped inside. Half of me expected a trap to go off, like a silver net was gonna fall from the ceiling as soon as my heel touched the floor. Or I’d get a face full of holy water. Or maybe a spear would come careening from the closet and nail me right in the ol’ ticker.

  Nothing happened though, and I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

  “Eight seconds remain.”

  Right.

  I plastered a big dumb grin on my face, putting the dimple in my left cheek to what I hoped was good use. It mighta been more effective if Mr. Howard raised his head or looked at me, but he stayed bent to his task, ignoring me so completely that for a second, I was actually worried I’d turned back into a ghostie.

  The soft click when I placed the coffee cup on the edge of the desk beside the leather blotter didn’t make him so much as glance up. And the joe was exactly the way he liked it, though that wasn’t hard to do since he took it without cream or sugar or any of the things that made it drinkable.

  “What do you want, Ms. Rowe.” Mr. Howard spoke without ever lifting his head or his pen.

  The way he said the words, the inflection he put on them, it made them a challenge and not a question. Now even more afraid for my second life, I couldn’t keep myself from blurting out, “I need permission to look into some ghost disappearances.”

  No reaction, other than the maddening scratch of a pen nib on paper. Then, “Why?”

  I forged ahead, relying on my acting to help sell the pitch. I thought about them sleuth movies that were all the rage back in the forties and walking right over to him, sat on the edge of his desk, leaning back a bit, just to give what I was about to say a little extra drama. Mr. Howard looked up, frowned, and looked back at his paper.

  “Marty Zach just came in,” I started, imagining those movie lights beating down on me and how the zoom was about to come real close-in on my face. “And he reported something peculiar—all the houses he and his crew have gone to investigate for the past couple weeks have been missing their ghostly inhabitants, even when they performed readings a few days prior—readings that indicated there were most definitely spooks there.” I stood up then and remembered a good line from Raw Deal, 1948: “You’re probably thinking: what do you know about anything?”

  Mr. Howard looked up then. “I was thinking exactly that.”

  I sighed real exhausted like and walked over to the wall, leaning my arm against it as I paused for dramatic effect. But finding that a mite uncomfortable (try to lean your forearm against the wall and make it look natural), I turned to face him and resumed Raw Deal. “You think I probably had my bread buttered on both sides since the day I was born.”

  The frown was now more pronounced.

  “Ms. Rowe, if you have a point, I suggest you get to it.”

  Mr. Howard had absolutely no appreciation for film noir.

  I dropped my femme-fatale attempt and let my shoulders sag as I faced him. “I’d like to visit the houses in question, see if I can sense anything or find out what happened to the spirits that… used to dwell there.”

  This was the tricky part. It was almost easier that Mr. Howard still wasn’t looking at me. Almost.

  “And I’d, well, I’d like to take Cain Morgan with me.”

  The pen stopped moving.

  My pulse started hammering out a tempo you could dance to.

  Cain Morgan was… complicated. And not just because he was dead. Or, undead. But not un-dead, like me.

  He was a ghostie.

  He was also the former Chief of Police of Haven Hollow, which was why I wanted his opinion regarding this investigation.

  A while back, I’d summoned Cain’s spirit on behalf of Taliyah Morgan, his adoptive sister and the current Chief of Police, to help her catch a serial killer. It was my first job for Spook Society, and one only I could do. Most mediums wouldn’t be able to house a spirit inside themselves for the length of time needed.

  The summoning, as laid out in the contract with Taliyah, was for a year, though we’d wrapped up the case in only a few days. But we hadn’t sent Cain back to the beyond. Instead, he was now bound to his old class ring, which meant he was sitting around his old house, watching day time television. And that was a definite version of hell—I knew because I used to be stuck watching the same—reruns of Judge Judy, Days of Our Lives and Dr. Phil.

  But back to Marty’s case—bringing Cain in would solve a couple of problems for me. One, Cain was really good at his job and that meant he’d be a big help ‘cause I didn’t know nothing about solving mysteries, and two, I was hoping the case would give Cain a reason to be less of a grump.

  Cain Morgan with nothing to do was basically the fella version of Mrs. Grundy; absolutely no fun at all.

  Mr. Howard raised his head and fixed those steely peepers on me. A big part of me wanted him to go back to ignoring me, but I dragged up all my guts and met his gaze squarely.

  “And why,” he asked, his voice soft. “Should I allow you to go off on a wild ghost chase?” Before I could respond, he leaned back in his chair, the expensive leather sighing with the movement. “It’s very likely there are no ‘missing spirits’, Ms. Rowe. Mr. Zach is undoubtedly attempting to lure Spook Society’s most powerful medium away in order to bolster his own business, and nothing more.”

  While I appreciated being thought of as the most powerful medium, Mr. Howard’s dismissal of the case and Marty’s character both caused me to bristle up like a Halloween cat. I fought to keep my voice reasonable, because I was a professional, darn it, but it was more of a struggle than I liked.

  “Marty wouldn’t do something like that. He’s a stand-up fella, and if he says that spirits are going missing, then it’s sure as shooting that that’s what’s going on, Mr. Howard. Marty wouldn’t have come here unless he was sure there was a real problem.”

  Mr. Howard didn’t react to my tirade other than arching one dark brow. And that one gesture just about took the wind outta my sails. But I wasn’t gonna dry up and blow away just because the big cheese didn’t like me, no sir. Darla Fenton, now Rowe, was made of sterner stuff than that.

  And I was pretty sure Wanda would find out somehow, and she’d never let me forget it if I slunk away with my tail between my gams.

  One thing my short career on the silver screen had taught me was about the importance of body language. Especially since my time on the screen was long before there were talkies. Actors had to convey everything with our bodies—our words were in the quirk of our lips, the way we held our heads, the tiniest motion of our hands, it all could change a scene’s meaning entirely.

  So, I didn’t cross my arms over my chest defensively under that scornful gaze. I plonked my hands on my hips, feet shoulder width apart like I was stepping into a fist, and I met Mr. Howard’s eyes, no flinching.

  “Gimme a few days,” I bargained. “That’s all I need. I’ll look into the houses Marty’s visited and see what’s going on. And,” here was the clincher. “If I’m wrong, I’ll pay for the hours I wasted outta my own pocket.”

  For a second, I was afraid I’d overshot and Mr. Howard would turn me down. Or he’d just keep staring at me like I was something that crawled right out from under a rock and had better take myself right back under it if I knew what was good for me. My knees were jelly. Sweat prickled along my hairline, cold as ice.

  “Fine.” He turned back to his paperwork, lifting his pen. “You have three days, Ms. Rowe. I suggest you make them count.”

  I almost collapsed then and there, like a marionette with all its strings cut. Instead, I nodded and beat feet outta the head honcho’s office as fast as my shaking gams could carry me.

  I’d gotten my way. I had official permission to look into Marty’s case.

  Somehow, it still didn’t feel like a victory.

  ***

  When I’d first come back to life, I’d shared accommodations with a gal named Libby. Well, technically Libby was a zombie, but it woulda been pretty rude to point that out. Especially coming from an ex-ghostie. Besides, it wasn’t like Libby walked around trying to eat my brains. And it wasn’t like she smelled real bad or got grave dirt everywhere. She was more a pastel dresses and pearls sort.

  Libby had been brought back to life accidentally by one of Wanda’s spells misfiring during a witches’ duel—sounds familiar, I know—and she was okay company, even if she was the definition of a canceled stamp. The original 1950’s housewife, she was right good at judging everything you did. But as a roommate, she wasn’t half bad ‘cause she liked taking care of the place, cooked fantastic meals, and even made her own dresses.

  I’d never been much of a homemaker. I’d been more about shaking off the shackles of expectations. You’d never have caught me in a kitchen, mashing potatoes when I coulda been out listening to jazz, drinking the giggle water and dancing until the sun came up. But whether it was my stint being dead, my newfound physical maturity, or my time as Libby’s roommate, I’d found a new appreciation for the quieter joys.

  Plus, I had to admit, as I pulled the pot roast outta the oven, home cooking also made the place smell great. Way better than the dust, gun oil, and fella smell the house had when I first came to stay there. As part of the summoning and the agreement with Taliyah, I’d been living at Cain Morgan’s house. Technically, it belonged to Taliyah now, but she’d wanted Cain to have something familiar when he’d come back from the land of the beyond. It was a nice house, don’t get me wrong, but my change in roommates left a lot to be desired. Yeah, like Libby, Cain was also a canceled stamp but he couldn’t cook, couldn’t clean and definitely couldn’t sew.

  The tele in the living room shifted through all three hundred and something channels one after the other on an endless loop, and I clenched my teeth to keep from hurling my beautiful pot roast across the room.

  It had been a month since I’d agreed to summon Cain Morgan back from the hereafter and allowed him to possess my body. It wasn’t as though I was excited to play host to a ghost (ha! that rhymes), but it was the only way to get Cain access to crime scenes so he could relate his expertise to Taliyah, since she couldn’t see or hear ghosties. Technically, Cain was bound to his old class ring, something I could slip on and off, rather than making the possession a permanent one. It was less strain for both of us that way. Not to mention, the ring made it a lot less daunting for me to take a shower or get dressed in the morning. It’s the little things you don’t really think about when you consider possession…

  It had been a real caper, tracking down a serial killer who’d been stalking vulnerable women in Haven Hollow, with mirror magic and ambushes and irritating FBI gumshoes, but we’d pulled it off. The bad guy was caught, and firmly in the pen again.

  The last few weeks of our co-habitation had been pretty quiet, with Cain mostly hanging around the house and trying to figure out his new ghostie powers. I gave him what pointers I could, but I’d never been a very strong spook, which was kinda funny to think of now.

  Anyhoo, Cain had learned to interact with inanimate objects and he’d started spending his days lying around on the couch, watching the tele. The channel flipping was getting on my nerves something fierce, and I had a new surge of understanding for Poppy and how cranky she’d been when I was haunting her house.

  Poppy and me got along a lot better when both of us were alive and living in separate places. As it turned out, she wasn’t half the Mrs. Grundy I’d taken her to be. Her skill at potions also translated into making the best darn Gin Ricky I’d ever had in either of my lives.

  “How can there be three hundred channels, and nothing good on?”

  The petulant grumble had me stalking into the next room, spatula clenched in my fist like a Billy club. I could only take so much self-pity from Cain Morgan, and we’d been sunk in a mire of it for days.

  “Okay, enough,” I snapped, rounding the doorway.

  Cain was in his usual spot, sprawled just slightly above the couch. He was still dressed in the khaki police uniform he’d died in, and it fit him like a flattering glove. For all his myriad flaws, Cain Morgan was easy on the eyes at least. A real big six, as they called them in my day. Tall, broad shouldered, the solid muscle of his arms was left partially exposed by his uniform’s short sleeves. There were a few squint lines at the corners of his peepers, and frown lines on his forehead. He was stuck with those forever now—just goes to show you that you shouldn’t be a blue nose in life ‘cause those scowl lines are gonna stay with you in death.

  Chapter Three

  Cain’s hair had started to gray at the temples, but the silver threads were harder to see against the sandy color.

  Add a real strong nose, and a jaw you could have cut someone with, and it was clear to me how even with his single-minded focus on catching homicidal maniacs, he’d still managed to get married twice, even if both wives, as he put it, ‘didn’t take’.

  Honestly, he looked a bit like Marty, if you took away the layer of cuddly softness and the ‘dad bod’ as Wanda called it. Which made a lotta sense, since Cain and Marty were cousins. It was hard to remember that, though, once you’d spoken to them for thirty seconds. Whereas Marty was all smiles and kindness, Cain… well, he wasn’t.

  Regardless, my patience with Cain Morgan had officially run out. The sullen look Cain shot me didn’t help at all. He was a grown man, not a moody youngster.

  “Look, I get it. I get it more than anyone else. Being a ghostie is the pits.” I plonked my hands on my hips, staring him down. “But you need to quit moping, Mister. Because you actually have a chance to interact with the living! Most spooks never get that. Do you even know how ecstatic I woulda been for the chance to see and speak to my family again after I died?”

  Tears burned the corner of my peepers at the reminder of all them years I’d spent alone and unseen—floating in and out of walls and people’s lives. Since being alive again, my emotions were all over the place but I didn’t mind so much—it was good to feel again. As to my own family, well… they were long gone, but what I wouldn’t have given to be able to tell them how much they meant to me, or even just to say goodbye. That Cain had that chance, but was squandering it by playing droopy drawers around the house like an over-watered plant all day—well, that was anything but the cat’s pajamas.

  I jabbed my spatula at him, the white rubber tip a few inches from his nose. “Taliyah has been over with the kids three times this week already, and you haven’t interacted with her even once!”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  I laughed at that. “Busy? What—watching daytime soaps?”

  Cain looked away, his jaw tight. “She’s not really my sister.”

  He was still coming to terms with the fact that Taliyah had been adopted into his family in order to hide her existence, something he hadn’t found out until after he’d already died. See, technically, Taliyah wasn’t human. She was a Faerie, and the heir apparent to the throne of Winter. That’s right, she was an honest to goodness Faerie princess. Or at least she would be, once the spell that was keeping her faerie blood bound finally broke. That day was coming, and fast, with the approach of winter. I didn’t know a whole lot about magic, and even less about faeries, but something told me that the spell hiding Taliyah’s heritage wouldn’t last beyond the first snowfall of the year.

  None of which made her one inch less Cain’s sister.

  “Applesauce!” I smacked him with the spatula. It passed right through him, not even ruffling his outline. But I was mad, and the startled look on his dish made me feel a little better.

  “Now you listen up, buster,” I said, shaking my spatula for emphasis. “Taliyah is your sister. You two grew up together. And family is about a whole lot more than blood, you hear me?”

  “It’s impossible not to hear you, Darla,” Cain responded real frowny like. “You’ve got a voice like a foghorn.”

  I straightened up and crossed my arms, my foot tapping restlessly. “Poppy and I don’t have a single relative in common, but over the years, she’s become like my little sister. Sure she can be a right flat tire but we’re family. She’s stuck her neck out to help me and I’d sure as shootin’ do the same for her an’ that kid o’ hers. So, knock it off with your ‘she’s not really my sister’, phonus balonus. Cause I ain’t listening to it.”

  Cain wouldn’t look at me. He’d sat up a little, and crossed his arms over his wide chest, but there was a set to his frown and the way he was holding his jaw that made me think he was a little embarrassed.

  Well, he should be. ‘Not really my sister’, geez Louise.

  “Here’s what we’re gonna do, you nincompoop,” I said, waggling my spatula in case he forgot to take me seriously. “We are gonna go on an outing with your sister. And by ‘we’, I mean you are gonna borrow my body, and I will ride along to chaperone and make sure you don’t say something I’ll regret.” I paused, remembering the three-day time limit Mr. Howard had laid down for me. “Just as soon as I look into the case of the disappearing ghosties I got assigned today.”