Feta Attraction Read Free Page B

daughter. But Cal was grown now, off on her own.
    I took one last look around. He never, ever went anywhere, including the toilet, without his cell phone, yet there it was, lying on the night table. I picked it up and stuck it in my pocket, intending to look at his call records later on. He’d be ripped when he came back and found it missing. I smiled at the thought.
    A commotion caused me to pull back a curtain and look outside. Three big black vans with “NYPI” emblazoned on the side were parked in front of the restaurant.
Ghost Squad
had arrived.
    I descended the stairs and nearly tripped over a thick orange extension cord. During my short absence, Sophie had greeted the team from the New York Paranormal Institute, then left with Dolly, who would drive Sophie to her cousin’s to spend the night. I’d seen the show on cable a few times and knew that for the two main investigators, the paranormal was their sideline—during the day they were electricians or contractors or something.
Hmm,
I thought.
Maybe I can get them to fix that broken light switch in the bathroom
.
    â€œI’m Jerry, from NYPI.” A studly guy with a shiny bald head pumped my hand.
    â€œGeorgie. I’m one of the owners here.” Well, my name wasn’t on the deed, never would be now, but it was way too complicated a situation to explain on camera.
    â€œWhere can we sit down and do the interview?”
    I led him and Gary, the other investigator, out to a table in front of the fireplace in the main dining room, while the crew set up the video and audio equipment around us. I cleared off the napkin dispenser, salt and pepper shakers, and the small Neofitou vase filled with red carnations, moving everything to table six. I made a mental note to order more vases. The little black-and-gold beauties tended to disappear into coat pockets and oversized handbags as free souvenirs.
    Gary switched on a microphone. “Your husband called us saying he’s been hearing noises at night—knocking, shuffling, voices, that sort of thing?”
    â€œYes, he has mentioned that to me and to other people here at the restaurant.”
    â€œHow about you? Have you ever heard or seen anything strange?”
    â€œThis is an old house. Who knows what’s in the walls? I’m not sure I want to know, to tell the truth. I’ve heard noises at night, but nothing that scared me.”
    This was so not my thing.
    â€œI see Napoleon’s portrait here over the fireplace.” Jerry nodded toward the huge oil painting that presided over the room, and the camera operator panned upward. “We understand that this house was built for him.”
    â€œThat’s the legend. A group of French exiles built it hoping to rescue him from Elba, hide him here, and plan out his return to power in France.”
    â€œHas there ever been any activity associated with the portrait? We sometimes find that to be the case.”
    â€œAgain, I don’t have personal knowledge of any ‘activity.’ My husband would be the one to ask, but he . . . was called away unexpectedly.”
    â€œNapoleon never lived here.”
    I guessed this had to be dumbed down for television. “That’s right.”
    â€œDo you know if anyone ever died in this house?”
    Not yet,
I thought darkly. “Not to my knowledge, no, but as I said, it’s a two-hundred-year-old house and it’s certainly possible.”
    â€œWe’re going to set up our equipment and see if we can help you out here.”
    I wasn’t aware we needed help. But they seemed like decent guys and free advertising was nothing to be sneezed at. It was all over town that we were being investigated. We were booked solid with reservations through the next three weekends.
    â€œHere’s my cell number in case you need to reach me.” I handed him a business card.
    On a whim, I returned to Spiro’s room and grabbed the manila