Chapter 13
“Come find me tomorrow,” I said to Reed as we both reread the note.
He yanked out the thumbtack, holding the piece of paper in place. “At least it’s not a knife.”
What did that mean? “Do you think he knows we’re reporters?”
“No.” He folded the note in half and shook his head. “Besides, I’m only a bodyguard and fake husband.”
I stood beside him impatiently as Reed punched in the code to let us into the rental. It was the street address. “It’s not a super secure code.”
The lock beeped, and I pushed the door open before Reed reached it, rushing inside before him. The small round table at the front of the home was exactly how we’d left it—covered in papers and the articles from Lisa’s private stash.
“They didn’t touch my notes,” I said as I barreled into the primary bedroom. The T-shirt I’d put on this morning and then discarded in a heap on the bed was still there along with my dirty towel from my shower. I stuck my head out the door. “Our stuff is still here.”
“Exciting,” Reed said, not sounding the least bit excited about the fact we weren’t robbed.
I stopped by the couch and watched while he rummaged through the articles, messing up my pile method. “This is serious.”
“I agree.”
Honestly, the lack of reaction scratched at a part of my brain that annoyed me. Did he learn the calm and cool behavior from the military? Was this a government thing? We needed to be freaking out. Where was the freak-out? I couldn’t do it alone.
He finally turned to the side and spotted me beside the couch with my hand on my hip. The left side of his mouth tipped up into a slight grin. “Listen, whatever it is, I’ll be right here to have your back.”
Well, when he worded it like that… My heart made a little tippy toppy flop. Why’d he have to be so hot and know the right things to say? Also, be a good kisser. It wasn’t fair.
“Do you still have that gun?” I tilted a little to the side to see where he had it stashed without luck.
His smirky smile grew. “Always.”
* * *
Hours later, a group of ghost hunters huddled together in a semicircle as our paranormal investigation leaders explained what the various pieces of equipment did to help us find ghosts.
We’d already sat through one of these the evening before, so my attention wandered the lobby of Savannah’s old theater.
A woman—dressed in all black with a kickass tattoo of a skull surrounded by roses on her arm—walked around our group and quickly locked the two large glass doors to the theater.
Why in the hell were they always locking us in?
“Savannah Theater’s first show opened in December 1818 with a comedy The Soldier’s Daughter.
When we do our walk-through tour, you’ll see the exposed brick wall at the back of the theater.
That wall is the only original part remaining today and why we have the claim to fame of being the oldest continually operating theater in America. ”
The group passed out equipment while our guide talked, and I took another flashing box. That seemed like the least scary of the options. No way did I want to actually communicate with a ghost like the people using the rotating sticks.
“The theater received its current Art déco design during a rebuild after a fire in the early 1900s. It’s been restored to that glory as you see it today and still runs continuous performances. If you’ll all follow me upstairs, we’ll start the ghost portion of tonight’s investigation.”
A chill ran through the crowd as the guide moved us up a set of stairs draped in red carpet to the left of the lobby. We walked about halfway up and filed into a small cutout area to our right.
Reed and I took a spot along the side wall and stayed standing while others found spaces on the couch and chairs.
“This theater is the most haunted place in America,” our guide said as they pulled out a wooden box. They twisted something on the bottom, a latch popped, and the bottom of the box dropped out. Their hand caught the item inside and immediately a ding sounded.
My eyes widened, and I glanced at Reed, who watched the man in charge with skepticism.
“You’ve all been given investigative tools to use tonight, but this is the one the ghosts love the most. Isn’t that right?” he asked, and the bell gave another wild ding without anyone touching it. The guide laughed. “All the ghosts love the bell.”
It seemed like it.
“Are you ready to have some fun with our guests tonight?” the guide asked, but it was clear he wasn’t talking to us.
The bell went off three times right in a row.
“What does three dings mean?” a person on our tour with us asked. I guess we were all assuming one ding meant yes and two for no. Or at least I had been.
The guide shook his head. “That the ghost really likes the bell.”
Another three dings of the bell from an invisible hand sent shivers up my arms. That was…
freaky. I didn’t like freaky things. I spared another glance at Reed.
He had his eyes narrowed as he watched the bell sitting on a small table.
The bottom was open, letting us see right through, so it’s not like they were hiding another bell under it.
Even Reed seemed impressed… or worried by the developments.
Was the theater really haunted?
They didn’t have a bell at the haunted bar.
“Do you plan to behave tonight?” the guide asked.
Two dings rang out, and we nervously chuckled as a group. Wonderful, we had feisty ghosts.
A ding without a question.
Then two more dings.
The guide scowled at the bell. “Okay, we get it.”
A series of six or seven dings came one right after another.
The bell echoed down the narrow hallway.
The guide—I’d already forgotten his name—grabbed the bell from the counter and placed it back in the wooden box.
A cascade of chimes rang nonstop until it was safely tucked away.
I guess that explained the need for a wooden box.
“That’s enough for now. We’ll get the bell out again later,” he said, latching the box. “Now let’s do a theater walk-through, and I’ll show you the rest of the areas you’ll be able to investigate tonight.”
About thirty minutes later, the group finished the tour and most of us ended up in the stage area of the theater.
Reed and I took seats on the balcony beside a stage door where they’d recorded the ghost activity of a small child rushing through the seats.
I figured if we were going to be here all night, we at least needed to seem like actual ghost hunters.
“You okay?” Reed asked after we’d settled in and sat quietly without any ghost activity.
I did a quick mental check. Physically, I was fine. Realizing that ghosts might be real and we were hanging out with them… wasn’t doing my mental health the greatest. “This place is freaky. Way more ghost-ish than the bar.”
On the stage at the other end of the theater, a dog ball lit up red and blue as it rolled over the wooden planks on its own.
The ghosts didn’t only like the bell. Apparently, they also loved messing with the ball.
The lights flickered off and then a second later, the ball inched forward, and the lights turned on again.
Somewhere in the hidden part of the building where actors hung out during performances, the bell gave a heavy ding, which radiated through the space.
“It’s more intense for sure,” he said, his gaze on the moving ball as it shot across the stage like someone kicked it. Except no one was standing anywhere near it.
We sat quietly for a moment. “Do you think ghosts can kill?”
I’d said it as a joke before, but after the events of the evening I had a few more questions that needed to be answered before I sent Delaney my write-up.
“Eh. I don’t believe in the theory that a bar ghost killed Lisa physically, but I suppose they could scare someone to death.” Reed leaned back in his chair, giving his comments more thought.
He had a point. What if the ghosts didn’t touch her but caused her death in another way?
“What if Lisa saw a ghost in the bar mirror? She freaked out—because who wouldn’t—and then fell into the hand dryer.” It sounded plausible to me.
Reed shook his head. “I still don’t think there’s enough force for the trip and die scenario, but I’ve got connections with the firm in Maine. I’ll ask around and see what the guys come up with. You never know.”
“Thanks,” I said, my heart softening even more. Hot, good kisser, and supportive. Seriously, how was he not taken yet? There had to be something wrong with him. “You’re not married. Right?”
He laughed. “No. What would make you ask that?”
To my right, the large white metal door creeped open as Reed asked. We both swiveled our heads in that direction as the metal groaned. I jumped out of my seat to run past him.
Reed stood and grabbed me by wrapping his arm around my middle and swinging me into his chest. “I’ll keep you safe.”
We stared up at one another, our faces inching closer together. We were going to kiss… again. I closed my eyes to brace for impact and hope I’d be able to sear the memory into my brain.
The door on the lower portion of the stage clamored open, and a group of ghost hunters came in laughing. We sprang apart, and I laughed nervously as the metal door closed with no one touching it.
“Let’s go back to the lobby,” I said and pulled him in that direction.
* * *
“Okay, no more ghost stuff,” I said as we exited our Uber at the end of the night. The empty streets were eerie, even though it was way after midnight. “Everything in this town closes early.”
Yellow light cut out the shadows on the street as we walked toward our section of the home.
“It’s still early in the tourist season,” Reed said. “I bet things stay open later during spring break in a few weeks.”
Maybe.
We walked past the left side of the historical home, and my steps slowed as I spotted something white on the small stone pathway of their garden. I grabbed onto Reed’s arm as he unlatched our gate. I leaned forward, staring at the area in question. Was it a shoe?
“Reed, look,” I said and pointed at the spot. “Do you think Bud passed out before he made it into his apartment?”
“Bud, is that you?” Reed called out to him as he popped the gate latch on his side of the garden and walked into the space. He stopped beside the white shoe I’d spotted from the sidewalk and kneeled down beside it. “Elenore, call 911.”