Chapter One
“Of all ghosts, the ghosts of our old loves are the worst.” ~ The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes by
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Toni Bianchi stood at the corner of State and Main squinting against the late morning sun. She parked her hands on her full hips and shook her head as she looked at the run-down building on the opposite corner— her run-down building on the opposite corner.
“What a fucking dump,” she muttered.
She scanned the grimy two-storey façade. The brick was crumbling, half of the upstairs windows had been boarded over and the wood trim was nearly devoid of paint. A sandstone plaque above the door read ‘A.D. 1888’. Well, if nothing else, this real estate venture was newer than her last—if only by a few decades.
She’d been optimistic when they’d rolled into town in the moving van. The historic downtown district was a four-block stretch of quaint shops in lovely, well-kept adjoining buildings. While Toni had taken in the brick-paved streets and the overflowing flower baskets that hung from the ornate street lights, Mike had sung the praises of the ‘gem’ he’d found for her. Not only was it a corner building, it was the last one on the block and one side faced the river. He’d left out the part about it being a loose brick shy of condemnation.
Toni turned and scowled at the man standing next to her. Mike Briggs seemed oblivious to the death rays Toni shot from her pupils. He just stared lovingly at the red-brick behemoth across the street as if it were the most glorious thing he’d ever laid eyes on.
“Didn’t I tell ya?” he said, grinning dumbly and shaking his head in giddy disbelief. “Isn’t it awesome ?”
No. Toni could say with complete and utter conviction that it was not awesome. She’d not even toured the inside of her new piece of real estate and yet she could—without hesitation—appraise its depressingly dismal level of awesomeness.
She had to hand it to Mike Briggs, he was one hell of a salesman. He had convinced her—really without much effort—that dumping her bed-and-breakfast inn and purchasing a failed ice-cream parlour in a sleepy Wisconsin river town really was in her best interest.
Mike finally tore his gaze from the building and turned to face Toni. He laid his hand on her forearm and his expression went from awestruck to downright goofy.
“And the best part,” he said, “it’s totally haunted!”
Toni’s eyes widened. “That’s the best part?” she asked, not holding back on the sarcasm.
Mike Briggs playfully punched her on the shoulder. “Aw, c’mon, Toni. You’ve been in the hospitality business long enough to know that paranormal tourism is the hottest ticket out there.”
Toni lifted her hands from her hips and crossed them under her ample breasts. “And how did that turn out for me last time, Briggs?”
He shrugged. “That was different. The Buckman Inn had one ghost, one boring old Civil War soldier ghost… Yawn.” Mike dramatically pantomimed stifling a yawn.
Boring ? That wasn’t how Toni remembered it. The ghost of handsome soldier John Buckman had been part of her first ever ménage à trois. Thomas Becker—television ghost-hunter extraordinaire—had been the third side of that paranormal erotic triangle. But, less than a week after their night of earth-shaking, otherworldly passion, Thomas had quickly disappeared and had been incommunicado ever since. Toni tried not to take it personally. She knew that Thomas had been crushed discover that the cache of ‘gold’ coins they’d found were, in fact, marginally valuable nineteenth-century pennies. And they’d both been disappointed to learn that the body-rocking passion they had experienced with the ghost of John Buckman couldn’t be duplicated without the paranormal element.
She regarded Mike through narrowed eyes.
“C’mon, Toni! Let’s go poke around inside! You own the place now! Let’s go! It’ll be so cool!”
Toni couldn’t
“Of all ghosts, the ghosts of our old loves are the worst.” ~ The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes by
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Toni Bianchi stood at the corner of State and Main squinting against the late morning sun. She parked her hands on her full hips and shook her head as she looked at the run-down building on the opposite corner— her run-down building on the opposite corner.
“What a fucking dump,” she muttered.
She scanned the grimy two-storey façade. The brick was crumbling, half of the upstairs windows had been boarded over and the wood trim was nearly devoid of paint. A sandstone plaque above the door read ‘A.D. 1888’. Well, if nothing else, this real estate venture was newer than her last—if only by a few decades.
She’d been optimistic when they’d rolled into town in the moving van. The historic downtown district was a four-block stretch of quaint shops in lovely, well-kept adjoining buildings. While Toni had taken in the brick-paved streets and the overflowing flower baskets that hung from the ornate street lights, Mike had sung the praises of the ‘gem’ he’d found for her. Not only was it a corner building, it was the last one on the block and one side faced the river. He’d left out the part about it being a loose brick shy of condemnation.
Toni turned and scowled at the man standing next to her. Mike Briggs seemed oblivious to the death rays Toni shot from her pupils. He just stared lovingly at the red-brick behemoth across the street as if it were the most glorious thing he’d ever laid eyes on.
“Didn’t I tell ya?” he said, grinning dumbly and shaking his head in giddy disbelief. “Isn’t it awesome ?”
No. Toni could say with complete and utter conviction that it was not awesome. She’d not even toured the inside of her new piece of real estate and yet she could—without hesitation—appraise its depressingly dismal level of awesomeness.
She had to hand it to Mike Briggs, he was one hell of a salesman. He had convinced her—really without much effort—that dumping her bed-and-breakfast inn and purchasing a failed ice-cream parlour in a sleepy Wisconsin river town really was in her best interest.
Mike finally tore his gaze from the building and turned to face Toni. He laid his hand on her forearm and his expression went from awestruck to downright goofy.
“And the best part,” he said, “it’s totally haunted!”
Toni’s eyes widened. “That’s the best part?” she asked, not holding back on the sarcasm.
Mike Briggs playfully punched her on the shoulder. “Aw, c’mon, Toni. You’ve been in the hospitality business long enough to know that paranormal tourism is the hottest ticket out there.”
Toni lifted her hands from her hips and crossed them under her ample breasts. “And how did that turn out for me last time, Briggs?”
He shrugged. “That was different. The Buckman Inn had one ghost, one boring old Civil War soldier ghost… Yawn.” Mike dramatically pantomimed stifling a yawn.
Boring ? That wasn’t how Toni remembered it. The ghost of handsome soldier John Buckman had been part of her first ever ménage à trois. Thomas Becker—television ghost-hunter extraordinaire—had been the third side of that paranormal erotic triangle. But, less than a week after their night of earth-shaking, otherworldly passion, Thomas had quickly disappeared and had been incommunicado ever since. Toni tried not to take it personally. She knew that Thomas had been crushed discover that the cache of ‘gold’ coins they’d found were, in fact, marginally valuable nineteenth-century pennies. And they’d both been disappointed to learn that the body-rocking passion they had experienced with the ghost of John Buckman couldn’t be duplicated without the paranormal element.
She regarded Mike through narrowed eyes.
“C’mon, Toni! Let’s go poke around inside! You own the place now! Let’s go! It’ll be so cool!”
Toni couldn’t
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