Free A Dash of Murder by Teresa Trent

on a concrete pl anter in front of the building.
    “I represent the Pecan Bayou Paranormal Society, and I am here to say that we do not nor have we ever participated in devil worship.”
    “Do not believe her,” Maureen Boyle interrupted. “She speaks with the forked tongue of the devil’s handmaiden. What would Oliver Canfield say if he could speak up right now? Wh at would he tell us about her?”
    Maggie ignored her. “We’re a group of investigators who get together to examine claims of paranormal activity. We want to discover and record credible evidence of potential paranormal activity through audio and video devices. Everything we collect we want t o connect to provable science.”
    “Bunk!” Miss Boyle replied. “You are opening Satan’s doors to let out his host of evildoers.”
    I looked at the fear in Miss Boyle’s eyes. She was a woman with a whole lot of demons right there inside her head. What terrified her so much abou t Maggie trying to find ghosts?
    “Yes, well,” Miss Boyle droned on, the yellow plastic of her slicker rattling with each gesture. “At the next meeting of the town council, I will tell you how we will take action against thes e invaders of the common good.”
    Maggie put her hands on her hips in defiance. “And the town council just can’t wait to listen to all this tripe you’re sputterin’.”
    Miss Boyle turned slowly toward Maggie with pure hatred in her gaze. Her voice, which had been going into a higher register as she addressed the crowd, had now beco me low and directed at my aunt.
    “Once the council hears what I have to say, you can bet your little ghost hunting adventure is over.” She turned back to the crowd, raising her voice again. “I am passing around this petition for all of you to sign to stop the Halloween broadcast. Please do what you feel is right and sign it. I will present the petitio n to the town council tonight.”
    “What can they do?” Aunt Maggie asked me. “They do n’t make the laws around here.”
    “Even though we have permission from the police, there might be a possibility the town council could put a stop to the investigation. That old hospital is owned by the town,” I said
    Miss Boyle walked up to the few people left out in the rain and shoved the soggy paper toward them. Some of the people shook their heads and started off down the street, seeming to use their umbrellas as shields against her angry tirade. Crazy Elmer Simms smiled at her with his one craggy tooth and gleefully signed his name.
    Maggie and I escaped from the thinning crowd and the protestations of Miss Boyle and st epped into the offices of NUTV.
    Our little cable access channel was owned by Martin and Sally Gibson. It was partially financed by the town council and ran local events like Friday night high school football games, which doubled as religious services for some of the Pecan Bayou residents. NUTV also televised Miss Melody’s School of Dance recitals, a live broadcast from the chili cook-off and set up a camera in the second story of Neuman’s store to film the various parades throughout the year. The person who managed our little station was Stanley Gibson, the only son of the owners. He was in his thirties and had an affection for argyle sweater vests and bow ties. He had never married, which didn’t seem to be much of a surprise to the town, what with his love for his showtune music collection.
    Stanley turned from where he had been standing in the front office peeking at the c rowd through the wooden blinds.
    “Welcome, Maggie. I’m glad you mad e your way through the crowd.”
    Howard looked out of the other window, still watching the demonstration. Today he was wearing a western vest, bolo tie, denim shorts and cowb oy boots. Who dressed this guy?
    Stan continued. “It seems we are the talk of the town right now. I was on the phone this morning with my parents, and it seems Ms. Boyle has stated that she will make sure we lose the town