Chapter Seven

Saul Pasternak was a tanned, rangy man with a shock of snowy hair, a beak of a nose, and the gentlest smile I'd ever seen. He looked just like Sam Waterston in Grace & Frankie , and since I'd always loved that actor, he set me at ease immediately.

Patrice DeHaven, on the other hand? Pale as a…well, ghost, with a wrist-thick salt-and-pepper braid hanging between her prominent shoulder blades? I'm not sure she could smile. Not that she seemed angry or menacing or disapproving. Focused, that was the professor. Intense. But while she didn't precisely relax me like Saul did, I never got the feeling she was trying to snow me, either. She didn't have an ounce of New Age woo-woo about her. Actually, she reminded me a little of Egon Spengler, Harold Ramis's character from Ghostbusters. Serious about the work, you know?

Even if the work was something I still had major doubts about.

I sat on the front stairs, Gil on my lap, while Saul and Patrice surveyed the library. They'd photographed the whole place thoroughly first, then started picking through the book carnage, speaking to one another in low voices. Saul jotted things on a tablet as Patrice picked up each book and set it back on a shelf based on some criteria she didn't share with me. She was also gathering the scattered pages of Borderline , the destroyed Fields book, slotting them into page number order and stacking them neatly on the desk.

Taryn emerged from the kitchen and handed me a steaming cup. I sniffed at the steam. "What's this?"

"Chamomile tea." She settled next to me with her own cup and Gil immediately slunk onto to her lap, the traitor. "I figured you could do with something calming."

"What I could do with is a stiff drink. Or maybe ten." But I took a sip of the tea. The warmth was comforting, anyway, combating the chill that had descended on me once I realized these people actually believed a ghost had vandalized my house.

"There's a pub in town. I'll take you down there in a bit and stand you at least a couple of rounds." She nudged my shoulder. "Although we should probably wait until at least lunchtime for that."

I glanced at her sidelong. "Do you really believe this could be ghost-related?"

She gazed down into her cup, her fingers cradling its bowl and laced through its handle. "You have to understand, Maz. I grew up here. My dads both grew up here. We were raised on the tales of Thaddeus Richdale and his quest to reach beyond the veil."

"Richdale? Like the town?"

She nodded. "His father, Josiah, was a blacksmith who parlayed his smithy into a fortune supplying 49ers with shovels and pans during the gold rush, which convinced his son that only fools chased anything as chancy as gold."

"Wait. Gold was chancy, but ghosts were a safe bet?"

"Ghosts were Thaddeus's thing. Josiah's thing was money. Money and paranoia. He moved his family up here after the gold rush ended, convinced that everyone in Sacramento was trying to rob him."

"And people in Oregon weren't?"

Taryn smirked. "They'd have had to find him—and his money—first. When he parked his family here, there weren't any people around for miles. The isolation probably sent all of them a little loony. After Josiah passed suddenly, Thaddeus became convinced that he'd hidden half his fortune somewhere. He became obsessed with finding a way to reach beyond the grave and shake the truth out of him."

"I take it he didn't succeed?"

"Not for lack of trying. He built Richdale Manor as a mirror of the Winchester Mystery House because he'd heard Sarah Winchester had succeeded in contacting spirits. He started Richdale University—although it was only Richdale College then—and endowed it with the proviso that half the income would go to the parapsychology and paranormal studies departments, and should either of those departments be shut down, his money would immediately be withdrawn from the school and held in trust for the person who finally discovered Josiah's hidden treasure."

"I take it nobody's managed that either."

"Frankly? I don't think there ever was a hidden treasure."

"Ah," I said, tapping the side of my nose. "Daddy issues."

She snorted a laugh. "Something like that."

"So why is the college in Richdale, but Richdale Manor is here in Ghost?" It was, in fact, across the street from my house—what I'd taken for a park.

She shrugged. "Josiah wanted an estate. A big one."

"So nobody could get close enough to steal his money?"

"Yep. But he needed a population center to supply his family's needs, so Richdale grew beyond his property line. Our town built up around the manor later, as Thaddeus sold off parcels of land in his never-ending attempt to keep up with Sarah Winchester."

"Did he name the town Ghost?"

She smiled crookedly. "No. That was something the first townspeople started."

"Because the place was haunted?"

"No. Actually, because Thaddeus Richdale turned into a virtual ghost himself, getting more and more desperate to crack the secret of the beyond before he passed through the veil himself."

"So—" I gestured to Saul and Patrice, who'd cleared enough of the mess that the library rug's jewel tones peeked out between the books and papers that still remained. "—care to explain their attitude?"

"Thaddeus never succeeded, but he left the Manor in trust to the town, provided they continue to search for proof of the hereafter."

"And the treasure, presumably."

"Pfft." She waved a hand. "Nobody takes that seriously anymore. The Manor's a museum now—Dad is the director—but finding proof has turned into something of a town hobby. We're proud of it, of our relationship to the University and its paranormal studies program. We're proud of being the town that never stops looking. But we've never found evidence." She nodded toward the library. "Until now."

"I'm still not convinced," I grumbled.

She cocked an eyebrow. "You'd rather believe you slept through living people slinging books around the house and tromping up and down stairs while you snored through the whole thing?"

I shivered. "Don't. I hate that idea, but I'm not sure having a ghost perp is any better. Maybe worse." I sighed. "I shouldn't complain, because"—I spread my hands, my tea sloshing a little in the cup—"I've got a freaking house ." I slanted a glance at her. "I don't suppose Uncle Oren left me any actual cash for its upkeep? Or my upkeep, for that matter?"

She grimaced. "That's one of the things that's still in contention, although it dates back to Avi's estate rather than Oren's specifically. Avi was a writer."

I nodded. "Ricky told me."

"There's a lawsuit outstanding involving one of his books, and until it's settled, his royalties are frozen."

"Any idea how soon that could happen?"

She waggled her hand until Gil batted at it to get her to return to her most important duty—petting him. "Hard to tell. It's complicated."

"In that case, I need to find some work."

"What do you do?"

I squinted at her. "Don't laugh."

"You know the best way to get somebody to laugh? Tell them not to."

"Fine." I huffed out a breath. "I'm a ghostwriter."

She wanted to laugh. I could tell by the way her eyes crinkled when she pressed her lips together. But she managed to control herself. "Any particular genre?"

I shrugged. "Nothing too technical. I'm not your guy if you're writing a treatise on nuclear physics. But fiction, memoir, self-help, anything that relies on narrative clarity and basic research rather than in-depth scientific knowledge. I can match anyone's voice. Or give them one if they can't locate their own with a microscope."

"Hmmm." She set her cup on the stairs and pulled her phone out of her blazer pocket, despite Gil being draped across her legs like a hairy ginger throw rug. She swiped an app and thumbed something faster than I could touch-type on my laptop. "There."

"There what?"

"I posted your profile on Ghostline."

"Ghostline?"

"Town chat room. If anyone has a job, or knows someone who has a job, or knows someone who knows someone who has a job, they'll get in touch." She bumped her shoulder with mine. "We might be a small town, but we can network like nobody's business, and the internet is everywhere."

"Thanks, but I might not be able to wait for the word to spread. If I don't get something soon, I'll—"

Her phone beeped. She smirked at me and held it up. "Three responses already. That soon enough for you?"

I had to laugh. "Thanks. It's still not a done deal, though. I'll need to talk to them about the projects, see if I'm right for them. I've got one possibility in the pipeline, but I really don't want to accept it."

"Why not?"

"Because it's a terrible book. This guy is convinced that his memoir will be a best seller, but he's one of the most boring people I've ever met. Not even I can make his life sound interesting. And when the book tanks—and it will—I'll get the blame and my professional rep will take another hit."

"Then don't take it."

I pointed at her phone. "Despite your efforts, things take time and I must keep Gil in the style to which he's become accustomed. Oh, and I might need to eat too."

She screwed up her face. "Hmmm." Then she looked at the two people in the library. "Hey, Dad?"

Saul looked up. "Yes, dear?"

"Weren't you planning to write up Thaddeus's story for the museum?"

"Yes, but I haven't found the time."

She made jazz hands at me. "May I present Maz Amani, ghostwriter, who just happens to have room in his busy schedule?"

Saul smiled, making him look even more like Sam Waterston. "Really? Do you handle research as well?"

"Uh…" My gaze bounced between the two of them. "Well. Yes. I can give you my rates and a writing sample—"

He waved my words away. "I'm not concerned about that. Just collecting all Thaddeus's papers and getting them in order would be worth whatever you want to charge. And if we move forward with the book? Even better."

"Dad," Taryn said, her tone both fond and exasperated. "That's not the way to negotiate the best deal."

He winked at her. "I leave all the negotiations to you, my dear." He turned away when Patrice said something to him.

Taryn grinned. "That's settled. You've got a gig. What are your rates?" I told her and she shook her head. "Honestly, you and my dad are a pair." She shifted Gil off her lap, earning her a mew of displeasure. "Don't worry. I'll draw up a contract that's fair to you both." She stood up. "In fact, I'll head into the office right now to get it taken care of." She opened the front door. "But meet me later at the pub and I'll stand you that drink."

"Taryn," somebody said from outside, "I don't know how you can do me like that."