Gypsy Magic - J.R. Rain Page 0,19

ought to try cold cream, doll,” a high, nasal voice sounded from just inches behind me. “Always worked wonders on my lips.”

I nearly screamed and even more nearly launched myself from the ladder. It wobbled, thrown off balance by my sudden movement, threatening to spill me painfully, possibly lethally, to the floor. I hastily clung to the thing, trying to steady it. A pale hand shot into view, giving the ladder a light shove in the opposite direction, helping to stabilize it. It wobbled once again, then settled with a rattle.

For a few, incredibly long seconds, I was certain this was how I was going to die.

“Oh, stop your worrying, dollface. Everything’s jake,” the nasal voice huffed in the elevated pronunciation of the Mid-Atlantic accent that characterized movies until the 1950s.

I rounded on the pale, translucent shape hovering behind me. If she weren’t already dead, I’d have killed her myself.

Darla leaned against the door frame I’d been polishing, as casual as you please. It was difficult to tell in this light, but I knew she’d be wearing a deep pink, drop-waist silk dress, beaded with rhinestones. Her inky black bob was accentuated by a jeweled headband, and you could have choked a horse with the amount of pearls around her neck, wrists, and fingers.

She smirked at me, unrepentant as I tried to burn a hole between her eyes with my glower alone. “What are you doing here, Darla?” I hissed, mindful to keep my voice down. If Finn heard the ‘D-word’, he’d go ballistic.

No ghosts. I’d promised.

Darla pressed a slender, bejeweled finger to her lips and winked. She’d died with falsies on, forever the image of an aspiring Hollywood starlet. She’d have looked poised and elegant if it weren’t for the neat little bullet hole just under her feathered headband, courtesy of her jealous ex-lover, Frankie. He’d cut her life and career short just before she hit the big time. Or, at least, that’s what she said.

Not only had he cut Darla’s life short, but then he’d turned the gun on himself. And he’d been the poltergeist that made Finn’s life a living hell for the last year. Until I’d exorcised the SOB.

As to Darla, I was fairly sure it was being murdered that hadn’t allowed her to leave this earthly plane. Murder victims were prone to become specters and couldn’t easily be banished. In Darla’s case, I think it was her anger that kept her here. She was beyond pissed off about missing her big break, and so decided to stick around to complain about it... for the last ninety-five years.

But, the question was… how in the hell had she ended up here, in Haven Hollow?

“How in the hell did you end up here?”

She feigned extreme interest in her nails. “Oh, I stowed away.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and forced myself to breathe in the sharp, pine scent of the cleaner to center myself. Breathe in, I will not shout at Darla. Breathe out, I will not shout at Darla...

“What do you mean you stowed away? How?”

She puffed up her tiny and perky bosoms, or ‘bubs’ as she called them, and appeared very indignant. “Well, I ain’t no Dumb Dora…”

“I didn’t say you were. I just want to know how you ended up here, when you died in Los Angeles!”

Darla chewed one painted thumbnail thoughtfully. “Will ya let me stay if I tell you?”

I didn’t want to answer that question. Instead, I eyed her narrowly. “What object are you attached to?” That had to be it. There was no other way she could have traveled with us. And that meant there was no getting rid of her unless I got rid of the object in question.

Dammit.

Not that I minded Darla so much. Unlike the ghost of Frankie, who had a mean streak a mile wide, Darla was harmless. As ghosts went, she was the least objectionable one I’d come across. True, she was more likely to give unsolicited and outdated fashion advice than my mother, but she was ultimately innocuous. So what if she droned endlessly about the talkies she’d just missed starring in?

I started down the ladder, my skin screaming against the cold of her proximity.

“Butt me, dollface, an’ we’ll talk about it.”

“You know I don’t smoke, Darla, and even if I did, you wouldn’t be able to.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” she grumbled.

“What object did you attach yourself to?” I repeated.

“I ain’t gonna tell you if you’re just gonna go all Mrs. Grundy on me.”

Mrs. Grundy was a