Purrfect Crime

Excerpt from Ghost of Girlband Past (Ghosts of London 5)

Prologue

London Borrow of Hackney, August 26, 1997

Five women stood staring down into the freshly dug hole. They gazed dispassionately upon the body of the man they’d just killed and unceremoniously dumped into the hole. Rain was lashing the earth with a dull thrumming sound, stirring up a musty scent that filled their nostrils, rivulets of muddy water flowing into the pit. They were soaking wet and streaked with mud, but they didn’t care.

“Is the monster dead?” asked Janell. Her red hair was plastered to her skull and she was shivering violently. “Is it really dead?”

“It is,” said Carrie, the sporty one amongst the five friends. “We’ve slain it.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Janell.

“What can’t you believe?” asked Amaryllis. “That it’s dead or that we killed it?”

“Both.”

“Better believe it,” grunted Courtney. Rain was streaming down her face, which now resembled a raccoon’s, her mascara creating black streaks across her cheeks.

“And now it’s time to make sure it stays dead,” said Perpetua, and flicked an amulet on top of the body.

Five pairs of eyes followed the silver amulet as it described a perfect arc through the air, then landed on the monster’s chest, where it would make sure it would never rear its ugly head again.

Five shovels dug into the pile of dirt next to the hole and dumped the wet earth onto the body. The fifth and final shovelful was thrown down by Amaryllis, the youngest of the bunch, and the one who’d suffered the most at the hands of the man. She hesitated before tossing the soggy soil onto their victim. They should have closed his eyes. It was way too creepy staring into those dead eyes. They were fixed on her, an accusing expression gleaming in those dead orbs. As if ready to rear up, and attack them again. Finally, with a brave whimper, she flipped the shovel blade and the muddy sod dropped down, plunking down onto the man’s face.

“Well done, Amaryllis,” said Courtney. “Now let’s pray this is the end.”

“This is the end,” they all murmured softly, before digging their shovels in again.

They worked in silence, as more and more of the black earth covered the dead man, soon completely obscuring him from view. When the hole was filled up, they flattened the earth with their shovels, then rolled the plaque back into place. And as they walked away, their deed done, lightning slashed the night sky, and lit up the plaque. It read: Cardinal Yardley Roman Catholic School Time Capsule – Not To Be Opened Before 2067.

London Borrow of Hackney, Present Day

There was a full moon out, which made the work that much easier. Of course, it also meant they could easily be seen from the road by anyone walking their dog.

“Come on, Doug,” said Ricky. “No one in their right mind walks their dog at this time of night. They’d be completely mental!”

“They might,” Ricky said, anxiously glancing up and down the street.

The two friends had come down to the front lawn of the Cardinal Yardley School, their alma mater, to do something they’d been wanting to do since they were little kids. Now, since reaching the ripe old age of twelve, no longer boys but men, they’d decided finally to screw up their courage to the sticking point and raise the capsule.

“Do you think it’s heavy?” asked Doug Adams, the fair-haired one of the two. He shoved his shovel into the ground and took out a first chunk of turf and dumped it to the side.

“I don’t think so,” said his best friend, dark-haired Rick Curtis. “Most of these capsules are quite small.” He was staring pensively and a little trepidatiously at the ancient stone walls of the school’s main building. It looked medieval, with its fortified battlements, thick masonry and heavy oak entrance door. It reminded him more of a dungeon than an actual school. He shivered. “This place gives me the creeps,” he confessed.

“Which is exactly why we need to dig up this capsule,” said Doug, his tongue sticking out while he stuck his spade into the ground again.

They’d had some trouble removing the heavy bronze plaque and dumping it to the side, and the deeper they dug, the more Rick was having second thoughts about this endeavor. “What if they put some kind of protection in place?” he asked. “You know, like in those Indiana Jones movies?”

“Are you kidding? This isn’t some ancient treasure, Ricky. Just a bunch of old crap.”

“If it’s just a bunch of old crap, why are we digging it up?” he asked heatedly.

“There might be some fun stuff in there,” said Doug, always the more adventurous of the twosome.

“Like what?”

“Like Mrs. Rampart’s knickers.”

Rick grinned. He would like that. He hated Mrs. Rampart’s guts. Ever since she’d punished him for accidentally aiming a soccer ball straight through the library window, she’d had it in for him. “We could fly her knickers from the school flagpole!”

“Or we could boil them down and make Mrs. Rampart Knickers Juice! We could bottle it and sell it and make a fortune!”

“Or we could stick it on the head of Cardinal Yardley himself!”

They both looked up at the statue of the old cardinal, which stood sentinel in front of the school, his eyes staring manly up at the sky, his long beard brandishing in the wind, his funny-looking hat slightly askance, as if he’d dipped into the sacramental wine again. Both boys’ eyes gleamed. Yeah, this was a right great scheme: dig up Mrs. Rampart’s knickers and stick them on the head of that old fruitcake Cardinal Yardley.

With renewed fervor, they dug their spades in. It was hard going, and the capsule proved to have been buried a lot deeper than they’d anticipated when they’d concocted this wild scheme, but finally Rick’s spade hit something solid. His eyes went wide with excitement. “I think I’ve got it, Doug!”

“Go on, then. Don’t stop now,” Doug urged. And as they cleared away the dirt, Rick saw something glimmering in the moonlight. It looked like… an amulet.

“Hey, look at that!” said Doug. “We found treasure after all!”

Rick reached down and picked up the amulet. He removed the caked earth and twisted the precious find in his fingers.

“I think it’s silver,” said Doug, his voice reduced to an awestruck squeak. “Regular silver!”

“There must be more,” said Rick, and started removing the dirt with his hands.

He felt it before he saw it. There was something mushy under his hands. Something soft and squishy. And when he finally reared back, a scream stifled in his throat, Doug asked, “What is it? What’s wrong, Ricky?”

He gestured at the face of the man he’d just uncovered. “It’s—it’s—it’s a body, Doug! There’s a dead body down there!”

And then they were both screaming.

When they’d finally recovered their sangfroid, Doug said, “We have to bury it again. No one can know we were here.”

Rick quickly agreed. He could just imagine what his parents would say if they found out that instead of having a sleepover at Doug’s place, he was digging up dead bodies in the middle of the night.

They quickly shoved the dirt they’d removed back into place, then placed the clumps of turf on top of them and rolled the plaque to cover up the damage they’d done. When they were finished, no one could see that the site had been disturbed. And as Rick threw one final glance at their handiwork, a glint caught his eye. And then he saw it: Doug was throwing the silver amulet in the air and deftly catching it again.

“Did you take the amulet?!” he cried, aghast.

“Of course I did. It’s ours. We found it fair and square.”

He had to agree that his friend had a point. “Well, I found it, actually.”

“We both found it.”

And as they walked away, dragging their shovels behind them, they agreed that they would share ownership of this new and exciting treasure. Doug would get to keep it one week, Rick the other. That was only fair.

“Who do you think that body belongs to?” asked Rick.

“Old Yardley, of course,” said Doug. “Who else?”

Ricky shivered. “I hope he won’t put a curse on us.”

“No, he won’t. We buried him again, didn’t we? Trust me, Ricky. It’s fine.”

“Do you think we should have called the police?”

“Are you nuts? For digging up the cardinal? We’d be expelled!”

As usual, Doug was right. And as Rick palmed the amulet, his nails removing some of the dirt, he asked, “How much do you think this amulet is worth?”

“Millions,” said Doug knowingly. “Maybe even billions.”

His face lit up. “You think?”

“Of course. We’re rich, Ricky.”

“How rich?”

Dough thought about this for a moment. “At least as rich as David Beckham.”

“Wow,” said Rick, his eyes wide as saucers. “We’re super rich, Doug!”

“Yah,” said Doug with a wide grin. “Super duper rich!”

And as they walked home, he quickly forgot all about Cardinal Yardley’s body. They were rich like Beckham!

Chapter One

We walked the hallowed halls of the Natural History Museum, our feet sounding hollow on the stone steps as the sound reverberated in the vaulted space. As I looked around, I thought the museum resembled a cathedral more than an actual museum, and was more than a little spooky. Great place for a ghost to make a nuisance of himself.

Jarrett seemed even less comfortable traversing the hallways of this ancient place than I was. Then again, Jarrett hates both mummies and dinosaurs, so that might have had something to do with that slightly worried look on his face.

My name is Henrietta McCabre and I’m a ghost hunter—though we like to call ourselves wraith wranglers, as it sounds a little—or a lot—cooler. My associate Jarrett and myself have been doing this work for a little while now, and are usually called in when some poltergeist or other ghostly guest kicks up trouble. It was the first time we’d actually been called in to clear a museum of its ghosts, though.

“I don’t like this, Harry,” said Jarrett, his eyes flitting up at the gigantic skeleton of the dinosaur at the heart of the museum hall. “I don’t like this at all.”

“Relax, Jarrett. It’s just a bunch of old bones.”

“It’s a dinosaur. Have you seen what they can do? I’ve seen Jurassic Park. And Jurassic World—you just have got to love that Chris Pratt. He’s got the finest bum I’ve seen in the movies recently.”

“Focus, Jarrett,” I said. “We’re here to do a job, not talk about Chris Pratt’s bum.”

Jarrett craned his neck to take in the enormity of the dinosaur. “That thing’s huge! Where is Chris Pratt when you need him?!”

“It’s a dead dinosaur,” I reminded him. “It’s not going to do anything. So we don’t need Chris Pratt.”

“You don’t know that,” he said. “It might come alive again. And one can always do with a bit of Chris Pratt. That man is fine.”

“Will you just focus?” I asked through gritted teeth.

“Oh, all right,” he grumbled, patting his hair to make sure it was still in place. Jarrett is fair-haired, slender and one of the richest men in the country. Or at least his father is. Jarrett simply sponges off the old man. As for me, I’m not rich nor come from money. I pushed at my blond bob, smoothed my pink T-shirt around my lithe form, adjusted my jeans, and walked up to the man we were here to meet.

“Hello, Mr. Goodfellow,” I said. “Henrietta McCabre, but everyone calls me Harry. And this is my associate Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton.”

“The Third,” Jarrett added petulantly.

“So what can we do for you?”

Julian Goodfellow was younger than I’d imagined and rocking a sexy bookish look, with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses on a well-shaped nose, his handsome face creased into an engaging smile. When he gripped my hand and shook it, there was power in those fingers.

“So nice to finally meet you, Harry. Your reputation precedes you. And you, Jarrett.”

“H-hi,” said Jarrett, slightly taken aback. “You’ve got a-a firm grip, Mr. Goodfellow. Do-do you work out?”

I rolled my eyes. When Jarrett starts stuttering, it’s usually because he’s spotted prey. It’s part of his Hugh Grant impersonation, which he figures will add to his charm.

“I do work out, yes,” said the museum director after a pause. “It’s important to stay in shape.”

“Oh, absolutely,” said Jarrett. “I work out myself, of course. Not a day goes by that I don’t spend in the gym. And the sauna, of course. Nothing like a nice sauna after a hard, hard workout.” He gave the other man an appraising look, but the director ignored him.

“So. Shall we?” he asked, directing an expectant look at me.

“Yes, let’s,” I said, after giving Jarrett a nudge.

“What?” he hissed when we both fell into step behind Julian.

“This is not the time to hit on the guy!” I hissed back.

“I’m not hitting on him! I’m just… being nice.”

“Nice! You practically invited him to share a sauna!”

“I did not. I was just exchanging pleasant banter.”

“Well, save it for later. We’re here to do a job, not to pick up a date. Besides, what about Deshawn?”

“What about him?”

“I thought you guys were happy together?”

He gave a noncommittal shrug. “He’s cheating on me.”

“What?!”

“If you haven’t heard, Deshawn’s joined The Great British Bake Off.”

“He’s cheating on you with Paul Hollywood?!”

“Well, I don’t think so, actually. But he is having a ball.”

I frowned. Having a ball at a baking show didn’t exactly constitute cheating. And then it hit me. “I know what this is. You’re jealous!”

“I am not!” he said.

“You’re jealous because Deshawn is suddenly getting all the attention and you’re not.”

“You’re bonkers,” he muttered, looking away, which was as much an admission as if he’d come right out and said it. “It’s just not much fun to see my better half having so much fun without me, that’s all.”

I smiled. Deshawn Little had been Jarrett’s ‘man’ for years, until they both confessed to harboring feelings for each other deeper than merely being master and servant allowed. They’d been inseparable ever since. Until now.

“As long as Deshawn doesn’t take his baking skills into Paul Hollywood’s personal kitchen, you’re fine,” I said.

He grumbled something, but we’d arrived in the Ancient Egypt room, and there was no more time for idle chitchat about Deshawn’s baking adventures.

“Here we are,” said Julian with a wave of his arm.

The room was relatively dark, with several mummies on display, along with sarcophaguses, gilded masks, and wrapped and unwrapped remains of people who’d long been dead. It was all very impressive, and a little disconcerting at the same time.

“Are these… real mummies?” asked Jarrett, gulping slightly.

“Yes, they are all very real,” Julian confirmed.

Jarrett produced a soft whimper, and I patted his back. “They’re all quite dead, Jarrett,” I said. “Just like Dippy the Dinosaur.”

Julian stopped in front of a mummy that had been put upright. It was stiff as a board, and thoroughly wrapped up, except for its head, which was a mere skull.

“This is the one,” Julian said. “We call him Snoopy, as he resembles a beagle.”

I looked closer, and saw that the museum director was right. The mummy did resemble a beagle, with its pronounced set of choppers and its equally pronounced grin.

“He looks like he’s smiling,” I said.

Julian now displayed a smile himself. “He does, doesn’t he? In life, he was a minor pharaoh. In death, he’s the pride of our modest little collection.” His smile faded. “Or at least he was, until he started behaving badly.”

“What does he do, exactly?”

“Well, he seems to get a kick out of scaring the living daylights out of everyone who comes near, though his favorite thing seems to be scaring kids into a decline.”

“Perhaps he was bullied and this is his chance to get back at his bullies?” Jarrett suggested.

“Whatever’s going on, it’s a damn nuisance. We’ve had to close down the entire exhibit, one of our most popular ones, I might add, and visitors have been staying away. This joke is costing us heaps of money.”

“I would think a museum could exploit this as a genuine selling point,” I said. “Mummies come alive? An actual Egyptian mummy haunting the Ancient Egypt wing?”

“You would think that, wouldn’t you? But you would be wrong. People love ghosts in theory, not when they’re actually confronted with them.”

“What—what does he do, exactly?” asked Jarrett. He’d moved back a few steps from Snoopy, eyeing the mummy anxiously.

“What doesn’t he do? He makes faces at people, chases them around the room, and—worst of all—he spews some kind of pea-green slime at them. It’s disgusting. In fact he got me just this morning. I had to put on a fresh suit before you arrived.”

I assured the museum director that all was fine, and that we had the situation well in hand. He excused himself, and then hurried away, being careful to close the door behind him when he left. And then it was just me and Jarrett. And Snoopy.

Chapter Two

“So how do we do this?” asked Jarrett, licking his lips nervously.

“Why don’t we just call him and see what happens?” I suggested.

“Right,” said Jarrett, hopping from one foot to the other. “You know, Harry? I would feel a lot more comfortable if Buckley was here.”

“We can do this,” I assured him. Though if I was honest, I’d have preferred our third associate to be here with us, too. Sir Geoffrey Buckley had been my employer until his untimely demise, and was now our ghostly consultant, the person with his feet firmly in the world of the wraiths. Lately he’d made himself more and more scarce, however, and I was starting to think he was tired of spending time in both worlds.

I took up position in front of the mummy, which was leering at me. It was one of those juicy mummies, with quite a bit of flesh on its bones. “Um, Snoopy?” I asked, then figured this might not be the best way to address the irate ghost of a pharaoh. I glanced at the name card that identified him as Rhamenas, the sixteenth pharaoh of the Eighteenth Dynasty of Egypt, who’d reigned from 1292 to 1292 BC.

“Very short reign,” Jarrett whispered.

“Only a couple of months,” I whispered back.

“Probably murdered. Which would explain the foul attitude.”

“Mr. Rhamenas, sir?” I asked. “Are you there?”

No response. The dead pharaoh’s eyes remained as dead as before.

“Maybe he barfed up so much this morning he needs a break?” Jarrett suggested.

“Or maybe he knows we’re here to get rid of him.”

“About that, Harry,” Jarrett said. “Don’t you think it’s time we start suiting up for these assignments? I mean, look at the Ghostbusters. They’ve got all this cool gear. Proton blasters and whatnot, and what have we got? Nothing! I mean, it’s just ridiculous.”

“Ghostbusters don’t exist, Jarrett,” I reminded him. “It’s just a movie. Proton blasters or whatever don’t exist in the real world. They’re props.”

“It could exist. Just say the word and I’m sure I could find us some stuff.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Let’s just keep doing what we’re doing, which is simply pointing out to these lost souls that they need to move on.”

“One of these days that’s not going to work anymore. We’re going to come up against a spirit who doesn’t want to move on. A spirit so evil diplomacy isn’t going to do diddly—”

Just then, the mummy moved! Or at least his lips moved. Slowly, those leathery, blackened lips opened, and before I could duck, a stream of green gunk shot out from the mummy, and hit me straight in the face!

“Duck!” said Jarrett. Royally late, of course.

I ducked, and Jarrett, instead of following his own advice, just stood there, and was now in the line of fire, taking a big hit of slime. “Yuck!” he yelled, when he’d finally sank down to his knees. “It’s in my mouth! Harry, it’s in my mouth!”

“It’s in my eyes,” I said. “Just keep calm, Jarrett. It’s just ectoplasm. We know the drill.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it!”

I got up, this time making sure I kept a safe distance from the mummy, and planted my hand on my hip. “Mr. Rhamenas, what is your problem? Huh?”

“You assume he speaks English,” said Jarrett, spitting out green goo.

“I’m bored,” suddenly a voice sounded. “Bored to tears. Wouldn’t you be bored to tears if you just had to stand there, stiff as a board, for years and years and years?”

I looked up, and saw that the mummy’s lips had moved. “You speak English?”

“Of course I do. I’ve been in this country for so long I speak the natives’ lingo perfectly.”

“So you’re bored, huh?” asked Jarrett. “Then why don’t you just, you know, move on or something?”

“I can’t,” said the mummy sadly. “Trust me, I’ve tried, but I just seem to be stuck here for some reason.” He shrugged. “So I have a little fun at the expense of those damn tourists who stare at me all day long.”

“Why do you pick on the kids so much?” I asked.

“Oh, God, don’t get me started on the kids,” he said. “They are the absolute worst. They like to stick needles in me when they think the guard isn’t watching, or even light matches to my wrappings, or cut them with a knife hoping to find amulets hidden inside. It’s maddening, I tell you.”

Jarrett nodded. He wasn’t too keen on kids himself, and could see where Rhamenas was coming from. “So maybe you’ve been separated from a loved one?” he suggested. “A girl you were keen on marrying—or a guy?”

“Nope. Too busy with affairs of the state to think about dating. Hell, I’m only twenty-one, buddy.”

“Oh, you’re a handsome young devil, aren’t you?”

“Yep. I was a big hit with the ladies,” Rhamenas confirmed with a horrible grin.

“Why did you die so young?” I asked. “It says here you only reigned a year?”

“A year?” he scoffed. “I wish! I reigned for all of five months and two weeks!”

“What happened?”

“No idea. I was going to invade the Levant again—that’s what we did in the olden days when we got bored—when I suddenly got sick and died.”

“Poison?” Jarrett suggested.

“Could be,” the Pharaoh admitted.

“Look, whatever it was,” I said, “you have got to stop harassing the visitors.”

“Oh? And why would I do that? Like I said, it’s the only entertainment I have.”

“Hey! Why don’t you listen to the lady and buzz off!” suddenly another voice piped up. It seemed to come from across the room. Another mummy was moving in its open sarcophagus, and he did not seem happy.

“You buzz off, Uncle Albinium!” Rhamenas cried.

“If I have to listen to your whining one more day I’m gonna expire!”

“For your information, you’re dead already.”

“Oh, and I don’t know that? Who do you think made me this way?”

“You’re blaming me?”

“We’re all blaming you, young Rhamenas,” another voice spoke. It belonged to the mummy of a female.

“Mom, I was talking to Uncle Albinium.”

“Don’t speak to your mother like that, Rhamenas,” growled a male voice. “Show some respect.”

“Oh, shut up, Dad. I wasn’t talking to you, either.”

Jarrett and I shared a look of concern. Looked like all the mummies in this place were suddenly coming alive. This did not look good!

“Why are you all still here?” I asked. “You’ve been gone for thousands of years.”

“And whose fault is that?” asked Uncle Albinium. “That good-for-nothing Rhamenas killed me!”

“And me,” said the Pharaoh’s mother.

“Add me to the roster,” grumbled his father.

“Wait, you killed your entire family?” I asked.

“Of course I did! How do you think I managed to become Pharaoh at such a young age? If I’d have waited, I’d never been Pharaoh. Don’t think I didn’t know you were all scheming behind my back. You were going to have another baby, weren’t you?”

“None of your beeswax,” said the Pharaoh’s mother sharply.

“We weren’t scheming,” said Uncle Albinium. “We were simply concerned about your mental health, that’s all.”

“Oh, you were worried about my mental health? Maybe you should worry about yours, you old fruitcake.”

“I’m not the nutcase in this family. You are!”

“No, you are! You’re all nuts!”

“Sticks and stones, Rhamenas! Sticks and stones!”

“I think we better get out of here,” I whispered.

“I think you’re right,” Jarrett whispered back.

So we snuck out of the Ancient Egypt room, leaving Rhamenas and his family to fight amongst themselves. When we encountered Julian, I told him he needed to separate the family members. Only then would he ever have a hope of removing these annoying disturbances from his museum.

“I didn’t even know they were related,” he said, surprised.

“Rhamenas killed his own parents and his uncle, because he felt they were trying to keep him from becoming pharaoh,” I explained. “And by putting them all in the same room, you simply reignited these centuries-old resentments.”

“They never were in the same room before,” said the director. “We just thought it would be interesting to have them all in one collection. They were spread out across the globe before.”

“Trust me,” said Jarrett. “Spread them out again. It’ll fix all your problems.”

And as we walked away, we could still hear Rhamenas fighting with his family. “This doesn’t bode well for the Wraith Wranglers, Harry,” said Jarrett, a worried frown on his handsome face.

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve never failed a client before.”

“We didn’t fail Julian. He just has to split up the quarreling family and he’ll be fine,” I argued.

“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “I have a very bad feeling about this.” He checked his watch. “Oh, shoot. I’m going to be late.”

“Late for what?”

“Deshawn is on the Graham Norton Show. They’re taping it right now. Wanna come?”

And so, even though I didn’t know it at the time, began the next great adventure of the Wraith Wranglers.

Jarrett’s words would soon prove true.

Chapter Three

Sitting in the audience at the Graham Norton Show was quite the experience. We got some of the best seats in the house, right in the front row, where we had a good view of all the action. Deshawn was seated next to talk show host Graham Norton, whose eyes were sparkling with mirth as he interviewed the former butler. Next to Deshawn sat Marisol Glee, the famous singer with the golden pipes. The notoriously volatile diva did not look happy that all the attention was now going to some baking Jeeves.

“So you were an actual butler, were you? Amazing,” said Graham.

“Yes, and now my former employer is my boyfriend,” said Deshawn, a soft-spoken, stocky man.

“I can’t believe this,” said Norton, rubbing his graying beard as he gazed into the camera. “This is like Pretty Woman, people, only much, much better! Hollywood, you have got to turn this man’s story into a movie!”

“Starring Matt Damon,” said Deshawn with a slight smile.

“Oh, why not? And who’s going to play your boyfriend?”

Deshawn glanced into the audience at Jarrett, and said, “Ryan Gosling, of course.”

“Of course,” said Graham. “Matt Damon and Ryan Gosling. I would see that movie! Wouldn’t you see that movie?!”

The audience burst into loud applause.

“Yes, you would, wouldn’t you?” said Graham, also applauding.

And Deshawn? He just sat there, that same small smile on his face.

“I had a butler who baked once,” said Marisol now, with customary affectation. “You wouldn’t believe the things he did for me. It boggled the mind.” She smiled at the camera and adjusted her ultra-tight miniskirt.

“You don’t say,” said Graham, making an effort not to roll his eyes. “Now, Deshawn. Tell me more about The Great British Bake Off. I’m dying to know what you think about Paul Hollywood. Simply scrumptious, isn’t he?”

“He has a very impressive presence,” Deshawn agreed. “Though not as impressive as my boyfriend Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton, of course.”

“Oh, you are an infatuated little birdie, aren’t you?!” Graham exclaimed.

“I had a bird once,” said Marisol with a stiffish smile.

“I’ll bet you did,” said Graham. “What is your favorite pastry, Deshawn?”

“Well, I love a good Bundt cake,” Deshawn admitted.

“You can never have too much Bundt cake,” Graham agreed.

“I ate a Bundt cake once,” Marisol began.

“Of course you did,” Graham said acerbically. “Do you see yourself winning the competition, Deshawn?”

“I’m certainly going to give it my all, Graham.”

Jarrett let out a soft sigh. “Deshawn is handling himself so well, isn’t he? And look how photogenic he is. The cameras simply adore him.”

“I thought you didn’t like all this newfound attention he’s getting?”

“I don’t—but I have to admit he’s crushing it, darling. Simply crushing it.”

And he was. At least until the next guests appeared. Which is when Jarrett lost it.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Graham Norton. “The moment you’ve all been waiting for has finally arrived. Please welcome onto the stage, the one and only… Piquant Pack!”

“Omigod!” cried Jarrett, his hands flying to his face. “Omigod!”

One by one, the members of the legendary nineties girl band walked onstage, announced with thunderous voice by Graham. “Piquant Red, Piquant Blue, Piquant Blond, Piquant Pink and Piquant Black, ladies and gentlemen. Reunited for the first time in twenty years, exclusively on the Graham Norton Show!”

“Omigod, omigod, omigod,” Jarrett was whispering, in total shock.

“Don’t tell me. You were a fan?” I asked.

“Who wasn’t?!”

“Well, since I was only three when they split, I guess I wasn’t.”

“I love them,” he breathed, eyes goggling. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for-ever!”

I watched as the five women walked on stage. I vaguely remembered the band, having heard their songs on the radio over the years, though I wasn’t really familiar with their work. They’d done their hair the same way they used to: Janell Nodding was rocking a flaming red mane, Carrie Dobbins a cool blue, Amaryllis Gutenberg a lustrous blond, Courtney Coppola piquant pink and Perpetua Roman a striking black. Together they were the Piquant Pack, and judging from the roar of the audience, they were as popular now as they were then.

They all took a seat on Graham’s trademark red couches, right next to Marisol Glee, who didn’t look impressed, and Deshawn, whose eyes had a glazed look, and I thought I could see his lips forming ‘Omigod!’

“Don’t tell me. Deshawn is a fan, too?”

“Only the biggest fan in the universe! No. Wait. That’s me!”

“So is it official?” asked Graham. “Is the band getting back together?”

“I don’t know,” said Janell pensively. “Let me have a think.”

“Oh, you tease,” Graham laughed.

Amaryllis leaned in and touched Graham’s knee. “Would you like us to get back together, Graham, darling?”

“Would I?” gushed Graham, mugging for the camera. “Would I?!”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Courtney with a grin.

“Will you tell him, Perpetua?” asked Carrie.

Perpetua nodded stiffly. Outfitted in a form-fitting black dress, she looked more like a model than a singer. Then again, she was the one who’d married the famous soccer player. After a pregnant pause, she said, “It’s a yes, Graham. The Piquant Pack is getting back together.”

“Ooh-wee!” cried a visibly touched Graham. “At last!”

“We’re launching our new single tonight,” Carrie added, “and tomorrow we’re going on tour again!”

Next to me, Jarrett looked like he was about to expire. “Take it easy,” I told him. “It’s just a band.”

“Just a band?!” he cried. “This is the Piquant Pack! The most iconic girl band in the history of the world!”

And then, as if to prove his words, the five women spontaneously launched into an acapella version of their greatest hit Hungry. Their voices sounded great together, and judging from the whimpering sounds from Jarrett, it was a big hit with the audience. For the chorus, they moved to the small stage, and when the music set in, they launched into a full-blown version of the song. It was quite moving, and I actually enjoyed it.

“Hey, they’re pretty good,” I said.

“Of course they’re good,” said Jarrett. “They’re the Piquant Pack.”

Suddenly, the lights went out, and the sound from the speakers dropped away. The now tinny-sounding voices of the five singers continued for a while but then fizzled out.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“All part of the show,” Jarrett assured me. “Just making a big splash.”

But judging from the angry cries from Graham and his crew, this wasn’t part of the plan at all. Then, out of the blue, suddenly flashes of light crackled overhead, as if the roof had opened up and lightning slashed the sky. And then, like a supernatural deity, a booming voice sounded. “To all you silly little sycophants, be forewarned! The Piquant Pack are not what they seem!”

“What’s this?” asked Jarrett.

“All part of the show?”

“I don’t think so,” he said.

And then I saw it. A translucent figure descended from the ceiling. He was large and looked like he was covered in fluorescent paint. And judging from the open-mouthed expression of horror on Graham Norton’s face, this was not part of the plan.

“You think you can come here and announce your comeback without me?!” the voice thundered. “Well, you’ve got another thing coming! I will have my vengeance! Before this is over, you’ll all get what you deserve!”

At this, twin balls of lightning flashed from the ghost’s hands and hit the stage. The five women cried out in anguish and dove out of the line of fire. The bolts hit the stage, one taking out the famous red seat, the other one of the cameras, the cameraman only just in time managing to dive for cover. The acrid smell of burned plastic filled the air, as did a light fog that descended upon the small studio.

And then… the phenomenon ended as abruptly as it had begun. The lights switched back on, and the ghost was gone.

“Who was that?” I asked.

Jarrett nodded knowingly. “Aldo Brookfield. The Piquant Pack’s manager. Only…”

“Only what?”

He turned to me. “Aldo disappeared in 1997, right before the girls split up.”

I gave him a grim-faced look. “Looks like he didn’t disappear. Looks like he died.”

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