Free Late Edition by Fern Michaels Page B

. . in one location. The beach house. If, and this is a big if, what if we could have séances wherever there’s been a sighting? Why can’t we do that? I’m not talking about traveling around the world, just within, say, each of our home states. As much as it ticks me off to admit it, we’re all going to go to our respective homes. Eventually, we have to. Why not kill two birds with the proverbial stone? Maine, New York, South Carolina. I’d bet my last Marlboro we could find something worthy to print. And speaking of Marlboro, I’m going outside to smoke.” At that pronouncement, Sophie swirled out of the room like a cloud of dust.
    â€œI’m going to join her,” Toots announced and followed Sophie outside, where she sat on the steps leading to the back door into the kitchen.
    Two seconds later, Ida plopped down beside them. “Don’t blow smoke in my face,” she said.
    The two lit up and smoked three cigarettes apiece before going back inside.

Chapter 9
    Los Angeles
    Â 
    A bby sliced the New York strip in half. Poor Chester deserved a special treat after sitting patiently in the car for three hours without a peep.
    â€œHere you go, boy. Medium rare, just the way you like it.” She scooped the steak into his dog bowl and freshened his water. She stood at the kitchen sink, staring out the window. She wasn’t hungry but forced herself to take a few bites, anyway. What was that saying? Something about sleeping and eating when you can because you never know when you’ll have to be on a stakeout? Abby chuckled at her play on words.
    She’d finally finished all the remodeling on her little ranch house. Abby had done most of the work herself on the weekends and nights when she wasn’t out chasing a story. She was quite pleased with her life at the moment but knew it could change on a dime. To date she still hadn’t met the new owners of The Informer, and, truly, at this stage of the game, it didn’t seem to matter. She was acting editor in chief, and so far her decisions hadn’t caused the paper to go bankrupt. Her boss seemed pleased with her work. Sales had almost doubled since she’d started her column, “Ghostly Encounters.” Maybe it was the public’s newfound fascination with ghosts, or it could be that most of her encounters just happened to be with dead movie stars. Whatever, she wasn’t about to question it.
    Life was good.
    Which always, always brought forth an image of Chris Clay, her best friend. Sort of. He just didn’t know it yet. She didn’t plan on telling him so anytime soon, either. She’d known Chris since she was a little girl, as her mother, her flamboyant, outrageous mother, had married Chris’s father, Garlan Clay. He’d died while Chris was still in law school. Her mother had continued to share her life with Chris, always including him in their small family events. It’d taken Abby by complete surprise when she realized she cared about Chris more than as a mere stepsibling. They really hadn’t grown up together. Chris was away at boarding school, and when Abby started high school, Chris went away to college. They’d been more acquaintances than anything. Until her mother had a wild idea and decided she wanted to live a bicoastal life. She’d issued several invitations that always included Chris. While on a stakeout of sorts, Abby and Chris had wound up at Pink’s, a ratty diner in LA famous for its hot dogs. He’d kissed her fingertips that night, one by one, and Abby had fallen completely, totally in love. She just hadn’t told Chris yet. There wasn’t any rush. At twenty-nine, she still had a few years before her biological alarm clock sounded. For now, she was content to enjoy the occasional dinner, a drive to the beach, or one of Sophie’s séances at the beach house, which Chris attended, albeit reluctantly.
    Abby considered driving out to