Chapter Four

"I am not letting that woman dye my hair blue. I'm sorry, Gran, but it's not happening."

"What's wrong with blue hair?" Merle challenged, her eyes snapping and flashing with a heat that belied her eighty-three years.

"Nothing—when you're eighty!"

"I'll have you know, I'm only seventy-nine years old."

"Oh, Lord save us all."

"Don't you be bringing the Lord into this, Ginger."

"Merle, I don't think blue would be the right look for Ginger," Donna, Merle's longtime stylist, gently intervened.

"Thank you, Donna." Ginger exhaled, relieved.

"Maybe a nice light red…," Donna mused, her green cat eyes narrowing.

"No color," Ginger stressed for what she thought must have been the thousandth time, reaching up to cover her dark red hair with her hands as though she were protecting it from the platinum-blonde stylist and the overzealous Merle Deveraux.

"Don't you touch that girl's beautiful hair," a tired-looking brunette hairdresser ordered. Her long, slim cigarette was clamped precariously between white teeth as she teased and fluffed her client's hair into disarrayed perfection. "Just give her to me. I'm about finished here."

"Thank you, God," Ginger muttered, scooting as far away from Donna and Gran as possible.

A small eternity later, the brunette clapped hands heavy with chunky rings and bracelets. "Let's get to work."

Ginger eyed the jewelry with no small amount of trepidation, picturing those gold and silver ornaments decorated with hair—and her own scalp sporting some very un-sexy bald patches.

"Ah … I'm thinking something fun, but not too short. And no color."

"No color," the stylist agreed. "I wouldn't color this mane if you paid me a hundred dollars to do it. You don't see this every day," she marveled, plucking at a section of Ginger's dark garnet-toned hair. "It's soft, too. You must condition regularly."

"Three times a week," she confirmed as a blue plastic cape, heavy with the salon trademark odor of disinfectant, was secured at her nape.

"What do you use?"

"Whatever's cheap, at whichever store I happen to be at the time."

"Works just as well, but you didn't hear that from me. The only time you really need anything special is if you've got an unusual circumstance—heat or chemical damage, that or breakage. The trick is to leave your conditioner on for a few minutes when you can spare the time. You do that and don't color or hairspray your hair to death and you should be fine."

"I try to take good care of it. My mother had hair like this, too." It was all she'd left her. Ginger shoved the familiar thought away before it could ruin her good mood.

"Well, it sure is pretty. So. Something fun, but not too short. What's your limit on short?"

"About here." Ginger indicated a space just below her bust line.

"You need to look at the books?"

"No, I trust you. Surprise me."

"You want bangs?"

"Maybe, but not straight across ones. Do something angled or layered—but not too short."

"You got it."

* * *

"Woo-hoo, what is this?" Chris exclaimed two hours later. "Who are you and what have you done with my sister?"

Ginger tossed her purse onto the table and struck a pose. "You like it? It's not too," she couldn't think of the word, "too bold or anything?"

"It's not too anything," Chris was quick to reassure. "It suits you."

"It feels good. Comfortable, cute, and classy. I believe those are the words that Darlene used, anyway."

"Who's Darlene?"

"The lady who did my hair. She's good, don't you think?"

"Amazing. So who did Gran's hair? Donna?"

"Yes. Retirement-home blue. The usual," Ginger laughed.

"Tell me about it. I half expected you to come back here sporting a full head of peacock blue."

"Gran tried," she remarked dryly. "Donna graciously convinced her that blue would not be a good look for me."

"God bless Donna."

"Amen to that." Ginger's relief was heartfelt as she studied her long, layered look, with longish side-swept bangs. She considered her large green eyes and thick black lashes, decided she looked damn good, and crossed the room to fling herself onto the sofa.

"I had fun, but I'm tired now—delayed jet lag."

"You drove the last bit here and that was yesterday," her brother pointed out.

"Delayed Gran-lag, then."

"Better you than me."

Ginger chuckled at the long-lived saying they had always bantered back and forth when the other had been stuck dealing with Gran.

"I had a lot of fun with her today."

"She's missed you."

"I should have come back sooner."

"Your probation pretty much nixed that."

"Yeah, but this past year…" She frowned.

"You were finishing your degrees. There's no need for a guilt trip, Ginger."

"Maybe, but school's been out for six months. I graduated in January. It's June."

"You were busy. You don't have to apologize."

"Maybe I was busy for the past six months. But it was different—I kept busy. I could have come back at any time, but I just … didn't."

"Why?"

There was no judgment or reproach in her brother's expression. Ginger took a deep breath and forged ahead, struggling to find the words to make him understand. As it was, she couldn't help but feel that in her heart, where it counted, she had turned her back on her home, on her family here, him and Gran and her aunts and a small army of cousins, but Gran and Chris most of all.

"I have a life there, in Billings. And things were so out of control here when I left."

"Out of control?"

"Okay, I was out of control."

"Not the way I remember it. Were you, say, more spirited than most? Sure, maybe. But I don't think that's so abnormal for a teenage girl. You always got good grades. You were a good kid, Gin."

"There's more to life than good grades."

"Then let me put it another way. You always applied yourself, no matter what you were doing."

"I suppose. What happened with Adam and all, though—"

"Is in the past. You survived your first bad breakup."

"I never did find out why he really stopped coming around," she mused.

"Ask him."

"No, I don't care," she said automatically. "You know, I saw him yesterday, at Gran's. He was there, having coffee with her when I showed up. He's as big a jackass as ever." She sighed.

Chris shrugged. "I don't know. I think he's done pretty well for himself."

"So it's true, then. He's been to see you, too?"

"He stops by now and then." Chris chose his words carefully.

"Does he say anything about me?" Although, after her argument with Adam the day before, she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know what he said about her behind her back.

"Gin, I really don't think—"

"Does he?"

"Weren't you about to say something important a minute ago?"

"I'm sorry for being an ass and I love you and Gran very much. So what did he say about me?" She leaned forward.

"I forgive you for being an ass, and he doesn't really say anything about you."

"Does he ask about me?"

"Sometimes he asks about you, yes."

"Hah!" Ginger slapped one hand against the coffee table, triumphant. "What did you tell him?"

"That you were in college and doing just fine."

"That's it?"

"You wanted me to tell him something specific?" Chris asked, looking bewildered.

"No, I just wanted to know what was said."

"You know I wouldn't gossip behind your back."

"I know that, Chris." She dismissed the thought with a wave.

"Good. I should hope so. Have you had dinner yet?"

"No, Gran wanted to get home in time to watch Jeopardy."

"Order in, or go out?"

"Hmm, tough choice. I'm tired, but my hair looks fabulous."

"So I should pick a restaurant that makes a mean cup of coffee?"

"I'll get my purse."

* * *

Ginger leaned across the table, loving the atmosphere and the flavor of the out-of-the-way, inexpensive family-style restaurant Chris had chosen for dinner. The place had ambiance, and she had to hand it him—they made a damn good cup of coffee.

"So, what did he say about me?"

"Has it ever occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, this is a conversation you should be having with Adam?"

"I don't prefer to have any conversation with Adam, thank you very much."

"Sure you don't."

"I don't," she insisted.

"It's okay if you do."

"Hmmm."

"I'm just throwing it out there."

"Every time I'm around him, we find something to fight about."

"It's up to you."

She bristled. "It's up to me if we fight like a cat and a dog? Leave it to a man to take another man's side."

"It's up to you if you want to see him." Chris raised a brow. "Were you always this defensive?"

With a sigh, she sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. "Oh, maybe you're right."

"I'm always right. I'll take that." He collected the check from the teenage waitress who had just materialized at their table.

"Chris, are you sure? You paid last night," she argued, reaching for the check.

"I'm sure." He slapped her hand away from the cracked leather case that contained their bill.

"Oh yeah, I forgot. You're the big time TV ghost-buster now. You're loaded."

"Loaded is probably taking it a bit too far, but I do okay."

"So tell me," she held up her mug for a refill before continuing, "what's new in the world of professional ghost busting?"

"It's called paranormal investigation," he dryly reminded her. "And right now, mostly a lot of boring technical stuff with the network."

"So I won't be dragged along on any ghost hunts while I'm here?" She couldn't resist the teasing dig.

"I didn't say that."

"Oh man."

"Just kidding." He frowned. "Hey, I know this stuff makes you uncomfortable. I don't blame you. It's not for everyone. I get that."

"Maybe uncomfortable is too strong a word. I just don't…"

She paused, unwilling to use words like silly or unbelievable, realizing how insensitive it would be to Chris.

After all, ghost-hunting—paranormal investigation—was his chosen career. More than that, Ginger was almost certain that for Chris it went even deeper; it was his passion. And while she may not have understood why, she had come to respect it, or she wanted to at least. She plastered a smile on her face and vowed to work harder at being supportive.

"You don't believe in paranormal activity." He nodded, the ever-understanding, diplomatic Chris that she'd always known and loved.

"I'm sorry."

"You're in the majority, although most people are at least curious about it."

"I'm curious about what you do," she offered, shamed that she'd never watched his segment on television.

He shook his head. "It's pretty crazy lately. I get letters and calls from all over now. I try to take on as many cases as I can handle, but inevitably I have to turn a lot of them down. It's happening more and more frequently, in fact, even with two full-time staff members and three part-timers. I guess you could say that's a step in the right direction, because it means I'm working more each year. Still, I hate to turn down a case. I would take them all on if I could," he sighed, "but obviously I can't."

"How do you decide what to take on and what to reject? And what do the staff do?"

"They mostly assist with equipment management, interviews, and footage reviewing. I always handle all correspondence with the client and the network. I don't have my own show or anything like that."

"Yet." Ginger grinned.

"Yet. Maybe." He shook his head. "But I decide what cases I'm going to take, based partly on what interests me the most. What I think is legitimate. And of course, need."

"Aren't they all legit? I mean, how do you determine what is and what isn't?"

"No, they aren't, actually, and it's difficult to tell from a letter or one photograph and a couple of phone calls, but usually I can get a good idea. I've only had a few people try and fake a haunting. Typically, there's a logical explanation for a lot of the things people think are paranormal activity. There are a lot of different theories on that. So, sometimes if we can go in quick and prove that there's another explanation for what a family or an individual is experiencing, we'll do it just to give them some peace of mind.

"Some cases get referred to other reputable investigators. It's rare that I won't respond in some way to an inquiry. It's my job, and the people who come to me are usually scared and at their wit's end, desperate for some sort of answer. I try to help when and where I can."

"So, do you always have an answer?"

"I don't follow."

"What I mean is, say you do an investigation. Do you always have an explanation for the … activity?"

"Usually, yes, we can give people a good idea of what they are dealing with. Occasionally we run across something that is, for lack of a better word, unexplainable. But even then, I can almost always give people at least some idea of what they are dealing with and help them decide how to go forward. That's a big part of what I do. I guide people to other resources and shed light on their options. Some people choose to do nothing, some do the equivalent of running screaming into the night, some turn to the church." He shrugged. "Every case is different."

"So you don't, um, treat the problem?"

"Problem is a subjective term, Gin. I guess it depends on who you ask. Lots of people are very proud of their ghosts." His mouth curled with the barest hint of an amused smile. "But no, I don't chant or say Hail Mary's, and I never carry holy water in my suitcase. My team and I are strictly investigative journalists when we go on a case. We tape the interviews and send it all off to the network for editing at the end of a case. If people agree, of course—you wouldn't believe the amount of paperwork and consent forms required before we can even film an interview. That's not counting the lawyers and contracts involved if a case is chosen for on-air viewing. The whole thing gives me a headache, just thinking about it."

"Well, don't think about it, then. Come on, let's pay the check and get out of here. I think I've picked your brain enough for one night."

The drive home was spent in a companionable silence that Ginger hadn't realized quite how much she'd missed. That was the benefit of knowing someone your entire life, she decided, cranking down her window and inhaling the cloying scents of magnolias and dogwood trees. There was a time for conversation and laughter and even the occasional feud. Then there were quiet, moonlit nights where no one felt the need to fill the silence, because it wasn't empty to begin with. This was family. This was home.

"Hey, Chris?"

"Hmm?"

"One more question?"

"Shoot."

"Have you ever had anything follow you home?" She felt her face heat in the darkness, just asking such a question.

"No." He laughed heartily. "That only happens in the movies."

"Oh good," she sighed. "Hey, Chris."

"Yeah?"

"I'm proud of you."

"Thanks, Red."

* * *

Ginger expected to see Adam the next day. Why? She couldn't say, only that she had that same feeling she always experienced when she knew he was thinking about her. That was the problem with knowing someone your entire life: They became predictable.

No, she decided, Adam would never be predictable. His moods, maybe, but not his most personal thoughts and feelings. Knowing what someone would do without having the first clue as to why was utterly disconcerting. So, it came as a surprise to her when she didn't see him that day, or the day after that.

Determined to put him out of her mind once and for all, she bounded down the stairs and went off in search of Chris. She wandered through the lower level of the grand old house, soaking in the sight and feel and warm aroma of her childhood home. A sharp pang that could have been longing hit when she thought of going back to Montana. It was a beautiful place, the air was crisp and cool and clean, and she had managed to carve out a niche there. But it wasn't home, not really.

As much as she loved her aunt and uncle and the extended bunch of family that had taken her in, at a rough time in her life, no less… Chris and Gran had practically raised her. There was a lot to be said for that. She felt the old familiar pull of duty and obligation and sighed, aware of being at a crossroads and thoroughly unsure as to what her next move should be.

That, she decided, was a problem for another day. Today, this day, was for soaking up all the sun had to offer. Maybe Chris would head to the beach with her, if he wasn't too busy.

She found him right where she thought he was likely to be—in his study. She'd always hated this room, with its dark paneling, pressed-copper ceiling, and overall masculine feel.

"I'm going to the beach today," she announced, crossing to the window to thrust the heavy brocade curtains apart.

"Have fun."

"You want to go with me? Maybe a little shopping after? Or how about a movie? Is that little Indie theater downtown still open?"

"I think so, but you'll have to go it solo today, Gin. I've got a lot of work to do yet."

"Are you sure?"

"Sorry." He looked up from a picture he had been intently studying and offered up the apology.

"No, it's okay, I just thought you might be ready for a break. I know my way around." She shrugged, peering around him at the photo. "What is that?"

"I'm not sure yet. Maybe nothing." He set the five-by-seven photo aside and reached for the stack of mail at the edge of the heavy mahogany desk. "You go on ahead. Have fun. I'll be around later if you want to grab dinner and drinks."

"Drinks on a Friday night with my big brother? Sure, why not. I'll be back around seven, God willing with a killer tan and a new dress."

"Uh-huh…"

"See you." She waved on her way out and was halfway to the front door when she heard the frantic call.

"Chris…?"

"Ginger, wait!" He met her in the hallway between the study and the main entrance, a sheaf of papers clutched in one hand, his face flushed with what she thought was excitement. "Read this."

"Okay." She accepted the papers from his outstretched hand. "What is it?"

"Today's mail."

He said nothing more. Ginger walked into the kitchen off the hall and slipped onto a stool at the bar overlooking the bay window before turning her full attention to the letter she held before her.

Mr. Malhaven,

My name is Elizabeth Scott. I don't normally reach out like this, but I don't know what else to do, and I saw you on TV when you did that spot on Ninety Minutes, and you seemed so trustworthy. Where do I begin? My husband Peter and I bought our first house in 2009, and if I ever write a book, I think I'll call it 'The Home Inspector from Hell' or maybe 'Run' says it all. In retrospect, the deal was ill fated from the start. I have finally answered the age old question. What do you get when you throw a hundred-year-old house together with two toddlers, a pregnant woman, and a man who can outdo Tim Taylor from Home Improvement? A disaster.

My husband and I tried so hard. We nursed our dream through leaky pipes, lead, and asbestos. We spent a fortune on babysitters and Min-Wax. I will never forget the time when, late one evening, we collapsed into our front porch chairs and congratulated ourselves on a job well done. Boy was that a short lived victory. If I remember correctly, it was about three weeks later that the house slipped five inches off its foundation. Let me put this another way in case you're not familiar with foundation lingo: When used in the same sentence, 'slipped' and 'five inches' is another way of saying 'screwed'.

Picture a stack of dominoes—when it goes, it takes everything with it. Apparently, once the foundation starts to go, the wiring, framing, and pipes are usually not too far behind. The lowest bid to avert even more disaster came in just under fifty grand. In essence, we were left with a very classy-looking piece of crap.

The first oddity? The foundation had checked out as stable, confirmed not only by our inspector but by three separate contractors upon our purchase of the home. Even stranger were the events that led to our abandoning the property and trying to sell it for less than ten thousand dollars. Looking back, I think it all started with the nightmare. But here I am getting ahead of myself.

I can't claim that I was ever truly comfortable in our house, but things began to escalate once we started renovations. At first it was strange noises—the proverbial 'bumps in the night' you could say. But then … other things began to happen. Strange sounds became voices; I would leave a room, knowing that I had turned off the lights, or switched an appliance off, only to find it on a few minutes later. And then of course, there was the episode with one of our dogs.

We abandoned the property several months ago, and since then things have started to happen in our new home. Please help us, I don't know where else to turn at this point.

—Elizabeth

"Wow." Ginger placed the letter aside and stared at her brother with wide-eyed speculation. "That was certainly interesting."

"I have to call her." He scooped the papers from the countertop. "Have fun at the beach. I'll fill you in later, over dinner, on what I find out," he tossed over his shoulder.

A second later she heard the door to the study close and strongly suspected that another case had just begun. The hunt was on.