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She whisks Lyla Nella away just as Carlotta pulls me in the opposite direction, past the reception counter toward a dark hallway.
“Come on, Lot,” Carlotta says as she pulls me further. “Teeny Weenie just remembered something important, and it might be the clue you need to solve the case.”
“What’s that?”
“How should I know? As soon as he started to spout off, I spotted you and Little Yippy. I thought I’d better snatch you up before the two of you were eaten by that blob they’ve got roaming the halls. As far as I can tell, there’s no way out of that thing.” She pauses to glance back at the circus at hand. “Come to think of it, I was lured into one of those things once myself.”
“I don’t like where this is going.”
“Oh, it went places, all right. Did you know the gravity in one of those is rigged to make your clothes fall off?”
I avert my eyes at the thought. “I think you’re rigged to make your clothes fall off. Now where’s that little weenie?”
“This is no time to go hunting for Foxy,” she grouses. “We’ve got a ghost to shake down.”
We step into an alcove next to my mother’s office and we’re not only met with the teeny weenie dog we’re looking for, but we’re met with an entire family of ghosts as well. The very family of ghosts that puts the haunt in these haunted halls.
“Lottie Lemon,” Greer Giles, a twenty-something looker with a river of dark hair, glowing eyes, and glowing skin, beams my way.
She’s still wearing that ruched white dress she was killed in a few years back.
And fun fact? I helped solve her homicide.
“You know I’ve got a soft spot in my heart for tiny dogs. Doxies are a personal favorite.” She leans my way and reveals the fact she’s cradling my favorite doxie in her arms. “Teeny Weenie and I are bonding something fierce.”
Weenie barks my way. “She does remind me of my sweet Bella. She used to hold me in her arms just like this and whisper all of her deep, dark plot lines to me. She loved to bounce ideas off me. In fact, she called me her favorite employee.”
Greer nods before squinting our way.
“Carlotta, what is that dusty halo you’re wearing? My goodness, are those a pair of dirty underwear? Is this some fad I’m missing out on?”
“That’s Ninetta Rizzo’s hair,” I answer for her. “She was murdered last month, and they auctioned off her braided locks at the funeral to help pay for upgrades at her favorite Bingo hall.”
“All Souls Bingo Hall.” Carlotta nods. “And I haven’t taken off this wreath of wonders ever since the day I was lucky enough to land it in my hot little hands.” She makes a face. “Speaking of which, Lot. Each time I handle the wreath of mourning, my hands break out in a blistering rash. What can we do about that, Lot?”
“Burn the wreath of mourning,” I suggest.
Carlotta balks at the thought, “And heap on myself a thousand years of bad luck?”
“Maybe,” I say. “But on the bright side, you won’t live a thousand years.”
“See that?” Carlotta huffs at the disembodied among us. “Ninetta Rizzo is already shaving years off my life. I knew the battle-ax was still out to get me.”
Greer grimaces at her. “You should really consider taking it off. It’s shooting off a dark aura, and the last time I saw something like that was”—she glances at the handsome, yet ghostly stud next to her—“let’s just say nothing good came of it.”
I swat Carlotta on the arm. “I told you it’s bad luck.”
“It is not,” Carlotta squawks. “Greer’s just a worrywart like you are. You’re both just jealous I’ve got something extra special.” She shrugs over at the man next to Greer. “Women have always hated me for having that something extra the world can’t seem to resist.”
We all have our delusions, so it shouldn’t surprise me that Carlotta seems to be doubling down on hers.
Standing next to Greer is her two-hundred-something-year-old husband, Winslow Decker. He died while somewhere in his thirties and hasn’t aged a day since. Winslow is a looker with his dirty blond hair and well-chiseled features. He’s still wearing a pair of dusty overalls from his days as a farmer. He used to own the land under our feet and used it to raise pigs.
“Lottie.” He sighs my way. “Cormack has turned this place into a madhouse. Please tell me she’s not going to drop to her knees and push out a baby at the end of the night as you did years ago.”
“Fifteen months ago to be exact,” I correct.
And it’s true.
