Ghost of a Chance (Banshee Creek Book 2) Read Free Page A

tourists snapping pictures of the mansard-roofed building that housed the Paranormal Research Institute—no, wait, PRoVE. The organization's home was as weird as its new name. With lurid purple siding and acid green trim, the house looked like it belonged in a Scooby-Doo cartoon.  
    She noted with chagrin that the edifice sported a banner that read "Banshee Creek: 137 documented hauntings." Great, just great.
    The expensive new digs testified to PRoVE's very substantial resources. The organization owned high-tech cameras and expensive computers and had plenty of money to pay for fines and, in a few occasions, bail. But Elizabeth still had no idea why a Bahamian corporation would invest in a fly-by-night enterprise like PRoVE. Who'd convinced them to waste so much money on a group of conspiracy buffs and "certified" ghost hunters? Whoever it was, Elizabeth wanted to find him and tell him where to stuff his state-of-the art, Russian-made EMF meters.  
    "Here we go." Patricia opened the door of her van, which was filled to capacity with jars and boxes. "More ammo." She lifted a large glass jar of lemonade and gave it to Elizabeth. "Take this. I'll bring the donuts. No one can resist my apple cider donuts. But be careful, that jar is a vintage find and it leaks." She locked the car and walked briskly toward the library, carrying a pair of large boxes.  
    Elizabeth followed at a more sedate pace, carefully balancing the heavy lemonade jar.
    Her presentation had to go well. No, not just well, spectacularly well.  
    She raised her chin and practiced her best auditioning-actress smile. The smile had made her a mainstay in the mutant monster movie industry when she'd lived in L.A., and it could certainly dazzle Banshee Creek. Her back straightened as she steeled herself.  
    The show was about to start.

C HAPTER T WO

    G ABE F RANCO looked over the library's balcony, then leaned back on the chair and waited for the Historical Preservation Committee to take the floor.  
    The Banshee Creek Library was just as he remembered it—dark wood, old books, and threadbare oriental rugs. This had been his favorite spot in the building, between the Stephen Hawking books and the Isaac Asimov compendiums, and he'd sat in this tattered wingback chair many times. The chair felt smaller than he recalled and the seat sagged under his adult weight, but the secluded spot was every bit as comfortable as he remembered. He felt an overwhelming urge to pull out a book and start reading. The Foundation Series Omnibus looked particularly tempting.
    But nostalgia wasn't the reason why he'd sneaked up to the second floor, and Mr. Asimov would have to wait.  
    From this chair he had a clear view of the podium and screen, and yet the attendees couldn't see him, hidden as he was by the antique balustrade. Even if they saw a shadow in the balcony, they'd assume it was Good Sergeant Atwell, the Civil War soldier who haunted the second floor of the library, smoking his pipe and moving all the Shelby Foote books to the front tables.  
    Unfortunately, sneaking into the library was the only thing that had gone according to plan.
    Caine had been entrusted to make the case on behalf of the Paranormal Research Institute. No, wait, what was the new name? His marketing team had come up with a list and he couldn't quite remember which one had won. VeriGhost? TruGhoulz? No, PRoVE. That was it. Anyway, Caine's presentation had been a total fiasco. He'd mixed up the slides, cursed a couple of times, and skipped right over the economic benefits section.  
    Caine had managed to put up a spirited defense of the Banshee Creek Ghost Tours, but a question about the proposed Horror Movie Festival had baffled him. He'd readily admitted that costumed tourists were expected and had enthusiastically described a few of his favorite, risqué costumes. The head librarian had interrupted his colorful description of the gang's reenactment of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and confiscated