Free Bartholomew 02 - How to Marry a Ghost by Hope McIntyre

get going,” said Angela, picking up the urn.
    “Wait,” I said as she moved toward the door.There was something I had to ask her. “Will you talk to me for the book?”
    She shook her head firmly. Then she paused at the door and turned to me. “Actually, I might. It depends.”
    On what, I wondered.
    “Where can I reach you?” I said.
    “I don’t know if I’m going to be around here much longer and if I am, I don’t know where I’ll be. If I decide to speak to you, I’ll find you.”
    After she left I sold four tomatoes on the vine, a couple of lemon cream doughnuts and a tub of crème fraîche to people who were in and out before I could even notice what they were like. I put the cash in the Maxwell House tin and when Franny came back, I handed it to her proudly with a list of the items I’d sold.
    I drove home wishing I’d had a chance to talk further with her about Angela Marriott before Eliza claimed her attention. Back at the cabin I made up my bed, made sure my tape recorder was in my bag, and checked Rufus’s directions to Shotgun Marriott’s house.The press were still camped out on Cranberry Hole Road and when they saw me turn into the lane leading to Shotgun’s house, they started to stir. But the cop who let me through when I gave him my name waved them away.The lane ended in a circular cul-de-sac and between two of the driveways facing me, Rufus had told me to look for a hidden dirt track.
    “You get on that,” he’d said, “and you’ll find it’ll take you deep into the woods—the woods where Bettina’s body was found—
    and you keep going and finally you come to the house. I had to drop someone off once but I never got as far as the house. Apparently he doesn’t like strangers getting too close so my passenger walked the last bit.”

    How to Marry a Ghost
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    As I drove down the dirt track, I began to feel queasy with nerves. Okay, so part of it was due to the fact that since I’d arrived in America two people indirectly connected to me had wound up murdered, but the main reason was that I was about to come face to face with Shotgun Marriott and I wasn’t prepared.
    I was hopelessly ill-informed about the rock music world and probably the last person who should be attempting to chronicle the life of one of its former giants. He’d probably cite umpteen points of reference and I’d have no clue as to what he was talking about. But most of all I was apprehensive about spending time with a hell-raiser. I have the worst stamina of anyone I know and if he expected me to stay up carousing with him every night, knocking back Southern Comfort and supping off illegal sub-stances instead of a nourishing bowl of pasta and a salad, then I’d be in big trouble.
    As I drove up Shotgun’s endless dirt track, I caught a glimpse of more yellow tape in the woods and realized I was passing the spot where they’d found Bettina’s body. I swallowed hard and looked the other way. I didn’t want to do this. I wanted to get as far away from a murder scene as I could.
    And then Bettina Pleshette reached out from beyond the grave—or, more likely, a slab at the morgue. I had a momentary vision of her body lying there with horrible cavities exposed by knives and rib spreaders, and her blood trickling away down run-nels or whatever they have as a drain, and of course I nearly drove into a tree. But the weird thing was that she actually came to my rescue. I found myself thinking What would Bettina do? And the thought that she might have already shown Shotgun that she could go the distance with him, chemically fueled or otherwise, stirred me into action. I propelled the Phillionaire’s Jeep—surely Shotgun would be impressed by my wheels?—a little faster down

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    Hope McIntyre
    the track until we came into a clearing and once again I nearly veered off into the woods in surprise.
    The dirt track had become an avenue lined with magnificent oak trees and there before me, standing majestically