Page 8 of The Legend of Lovers Hollow

“We’ll pick three of us to play the parts of Lady Clare, her evil husband Clement St. John, and her lover, what’s-his-face, whose name escapes me.”

“Hang on a minute.” Plume’s brow furrows in confusion. “Why can’t the real ghosts do it?”

“Because they haven’t been seen in over two hundred years. Not a single actual sighting, not since the night of the killings. They must have crossed into the light or something,” I explain. “Therefore, we’re going to have to do it ourselves. Now, volunteers?”

“Wait, just wait.” Plume holds his hand up. “If there’s never been any ghosts haunting, why has it become a local legend?”

I sigh in annoyance at the constant interruptions. “Because the fleshies don’t have anything better to do around here than gossip about the dead. Plus, the circumstances surrounding their deaths were salacious enough to fire everyone’s imagination. You know how it works. Now, if you’re quite done, volunteers?”

“Ooh, me, me, me-me, pick me!” Roger vibrates beside me. “I want to be Lady Clare. I’d look smashing in a gown.”

“You absolutely would,” I say loyally. “But I need you to keep an eye on Stanley for me.”

“But he’s sooo boring,” Roger whines. “He’s never offered to spank my bottom, not once! And I’ve given him ample invitation and opportunity!”

“Commiserations,” I say in sympathy, “but I need you to keep him occupied. After all, there’s no one as devious as you when you set your mind to it.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I nod. “So, you’ll do it.”

He sighs. “Anything for you, Bertie.”

“Excellent. Right. Leona, sorry, but we might want a bit of weeping and wailing, possibly some ghostly utterings, so that leaves you out. Therefore, I suggest Edwina for the role of Lady Clare.”

Leona stamps her foot in a temper, her Kewpie lips pursing. Her eyes, large and luminous and surrounded by Betty Boop-style eyelashes, are filled with displeasure.

“I, uh.” Edwina looks down at her friend, who stares at me mutinously.

I sigh. “We’ll find you the perfect role, Leona, I promise.”

Somewhat mollified, she gives a sulky shrug.

“Edwina?”

“Um, alright. I suppose I could,” she offers, her response rather tentative.

“Fantastic. I also suggest that Hilary plays the husband and Skid plays the lover. Skid, you will, of course, have to tone down the hair. You look like a bloody tropical parrot.”

“No problem.” He sends a wink to Edwina, whose blush deepens to the same colour as a post box.

Suddenly, the door swings open behind me, and the others gasp. I turn to find Stanley Fishfinkle Lowbarrow staring at us, his beloved clipboard tucked under his arm.

“Do you mind?” I sniff. “This is the biweekly meeting of the Noncorporeal Agoraphobics Society.”

The door slams in his face, and for a few glorious seconds, there’s silence. Then the door grinds open again slowly, the hinges whining in protest.

“Miz Ashton-Drake,” he says.

“Ferrywinkle–”

“Fitzgerald.”

“Loudfrotten.”

“Longbottom.”

“Yes, whatever.” I wave my hand. “Did you want something?”