Free Late Edition by Fern Michaels

to justify this trip. Am I right or what? You’re more into this ghostly stuff than you care to admit,” Sophie said to Toots.
    Heaving a sigh of relief, Toots tried to maintain control, act as though nothing were out of the ordinary, which was totally not true. “You’re always right, Soph. This newfound interest in the dead has me more intrigued than anything I’ve been involved with in a long time, even The Informer. You, of all people, should know that. I wanted to see Bernice, and, yes, I do have a few business matters, though they could have been handled through the mail, but I decided I’d rather do them in person. So if that makes Sophie a mind reader, then so be it.”
    Bernice returned, carrying a bright red tray with a matching pitcher and tall glasses decorated with red and white polka dots. “I’ve made Long Island ice tea this time around. I’ll warn you, I didn’t skimp with the hard stuff.”
    Toots removed a glass from the tray, set it on the table beside her, then took another, handing it to Sophie. Mavis passed, and Ida practically swallowed the entire glass in one gulp. Bernice helped herself, leaving the tray on a large wicker table next to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens.
    A minute or two passed before anyone spoke. Toots took control as the alcohol warmed her insides and relaxed the tightness in the back of her neck. Fortified with false courage, Toots said, “Okay, tell me about the bakery.”
    â€œWell, you know the stories about the Dock Street Theatre,” Bernice said. “It’s three doors down from them. Not the best place for a bakery, but who am I to say what’s best for anyone? Hell, I have trouble deciding which brand of coffee to buy from week to week.”
    Sophie slurped her drink like a horse at a trough. “What’s the Dock Street Theatre? Never heard of the place.”
    â€œYou tell her,” Bernice said.
    Toots took a sip of her drink and placed the glass on the table beside her. “It’s local folklore. In the early eighteen hundreds, the Calder family built a hotel in Charleston. They called it Planter’s Hotel. After that went broke, it was turned into a theater. It’s been said by more than one person that a couple of ghosts wander around the old place. Supposedly one of them was a famous actor named Junius Brutus Booth, or you might recognize his son’s name, John Wilkes Booth, the assassin who killed President Lincoln. The other ghost is some nameless prostitute the locals refer to as Nettie. It’s said she worked at the place when it was still a hotel and was standing on the porch one day, when she was struck by lightning and killed instantly. I certainly don’t believe any of this malarkey, but it is what it is.
    â€œBernice, you said the man at the bakery was the size of a house? It doesn’t take much to deduce he suffered a heart attack from his lifestyle. I seriously doubt the location of the bakery had anything to do with his sudden death. He could’ve been waiting for a heart transplant, for all we know. Maybe this was his one last visit to a bakery before turning over a new leaf. As a matter of fact, I think we should visit this place first thing in the morning. I, for one, would love to have a praline. They do have pralines there, don’t they?” Toots asked Bernice.
    â€œWe’re in Charleston, for crying out loud! Car dealerships have pralines. So I would guess a bakery would have them, too,” Bernice mumbled.
    â€œI mean real pralines. Not those artificial, prepackaged ones that are made in New Jersey,” Toots said.
    â€œYou can find out for yourself first thing in the morning. Pete made sure to fill up your Lincoln and the Land Rover, so you’re good to go. I’ll stay here, thank you very much.”
    â€œWhy don’t we have a séance here? I have all of my things, and it’s not like any of