He straightened and yanked on my ponytail. “Just so we agree on boundaries.”
“We do, but I need a favor from you,” I said as he started toward his Jeep parked next to my Chevy.
“What favor?”
“Talk to Maggie about this whole Victorian wedding theme, and get her to scale back a little.”
“Excuse me? She has her heart set on doing it up big.”
I draped my arms on the hood of my truck. “Have you been to many weddings, Neil?”
“I’m staring at forty years old. Of course I’ve attended a lot of weddings.”
“Then think ugly bridesmaid dress and add a bustle.”
He cocked his head in thought. “That bad?”
“Could be.”
He shuddered. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Neil’s protectiveness of Maggie didn’t bother me. When the French Bride killer had kidnapped Maggie in order to entrap me, I was ready to snatch his head off. Or die trying. Which is saying a lot considering I’m pretty much a pacifist and a chicken to boot. I knew firsthand that being in danger is no fun, and neither is taking a bullet.
Which is how my first two ghost tour costumes had been ruined. Oh, I’d managed to save the skirt of the Minorcan costume, but the blouse was shot. In the back, to be precise. My Regency gown was a total loss, but I’d teamed up with Shirley Thomas, a superseamstress who made costumes for Flagler College productions.
With Shirley’s help, we’d made a new Minorcan blouse to go with the salvaged skirt, two Regency gowns—one in emerald, the other in sapphire—and a female pirate outfit just for fun. I also hired Shirley to work on a Victorian bridal gown to surprise Maggie. I loathed bustles, but had to admit Shirley’s design would be stunning on Maggie. I must’ve dreamed about clothes because when I awoke at four o’clock Monday afternoon, I recalled that three of my costumes were at the cleaners. The Minorcan outfit I’d worn last night hung in my closet, but had been awfully hot to wear in August, especially before nightfall. And, though the wind from the storm moving up the coast was strong, the air was still muggy, and the skirt would blow between my legs and trip me. The pirate outfit would be a much better choice for tonight. I tossed off my Starbloods, then showered and dressed in shorts and a bra-top camisole. My wild hair I pulled into its standard ponytail. With plenty of time to run to the cleaners and dress for my tour at eight, I decided to knock out some housework first. I set the microwave timer for an hour, and with the Beach Boys blasting on the CD player, I dusted, ran the vacuum, and put the laundry away.
Yes, there was a fortune buried with me in King Normand’s smelly old coffin, but I was no spendthrift. I’d bought my custominterior SSR used, and Wal-Mart was my mecca. Which reminded me. Though Saber and I were sure Cici, the former blood bunny, didn’t know squat about Jo-Jo, we needed to talk with her. I scribbled a note on the magnetic pad shaped like a hula girl, the one that I kept on the fridge so Saber and I could leave each other messages. It was a way to bridge the gap between our different schedules. When the timer dinged, I headed out to pick up my costumes. The health food store was nearby, so I stopped to pick up the case of Starbloods I’d ordered, too. I thought about buying a he-man brand to have on hand for Jo-Jo but figured he had his own stock by now. Call me unadventurous, but caramel macchiato was all I’d drink.
Except for sweet tea, heavy on the ice, of course.
I arrived back home to find a message from Saber on voice mail. He’d completed his official reports on the search of Hot Blooded and then called a Realtor to start his St. Augustine house hunt. Yippee. He went on to assure me he’d be at the cottage in time to hear Jo-Jo’s act.
Saber had better show, since he’d set up the session. If I had to sit through another round of bad jokes, I just might spontaneously learn to fly. To someplace exotic. Like Texas.
When I first started guiding ghost tours in March, they weren’t what you’d call normal. Not with my Covenant stalker in one group, a murder victim in another, and Ike and company in the third.
My tours had improved over the last few months, but the occasional nutcase still showed up. I spotted tonight’s oddball among the fifteen normal tourists as soon as I walked through the old city gates and made my way to the waterwheel at the Mill Top Tavern, where my tours started. What was my first clue the guy was a nut?
Besides being dressed in camouflage cutoffs paired with a matching sleeveless vest and a dingy green T-shirt, the Ichabod Crane look-alike wore five huge crosses around his neck.
My second clue? He was laden with at least eight cameras and other gizmos, the straps crisscrossed Rambo-style over his thin chest.
The third clue came when the guy stuck a gadget in my face and smacked me in the nose.
“Argh,” I sputtered and stumbled back.
Since I wore my pirate costume, the crowd laughed.