Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Heat

Still, Jarrett might be closer to what people expect from a ghost hunter. Fair-haired, lean, tan and lanky, he’s one of England’s richest men, perhaps even the richest. Well, technically his father is the billionaire in the family, but since Jarrett stands to inherit the bulk of his father’s fortune one day, that’s probably a minor point of contention.

I’d gotten the call when I was feeding an aspirin to my snowy white Persian Snuggles. Snuggles has the flu, and an aspirin was what the doctor ordered. I’d almost dropped the pill—and Snuggles—when the phone rang and Jarrett announced the Wraith Wranglers were once again being called to the rescue.

We finally arrived at what was apparently the main soundstage, and I was properly impressed with how huge it was. Everywhere I looked I saw different sets. One that looked like a basement, another that could be the living room of the Dursley place on Privet Drive, and another that looked like Dumbledore’s office. Yep, this was a Harry Potter movie all right.

“Oh, this is so cool!” Jarrett exclaimed, clapping his hands excitedly.

“So where is this ghost?” I asked the guard who’d led us here. He was a big and burly man with an impressive mustache that curled up at the edges.

“Right there, ma’am,” he said, pointing at a small gathering of people on the set of a casino.

“Thanks,” I said, taking Jarrett by the arm and dragging him along.

I saw one actor with round Harry Potter spectacles, and guessed that he was the lead, another one who faintly resembled Emma Watson, and a ginger-haired actor who could only be Rupert Grint’s replacement. A very thin, very rattled-looking man stood pacing the scene, accompanied by a stern-looking woman, her hair tied back in a tight bun. The moment we arrived, they all turned to us.

“Are you the Wraith Wranglers?” the woman asked. She held out her hand. “Marsha Shalver. I’m the producer. Thank God you could make it.”

“You even beat the cops,” the thin man said.

“This is Nathan Gaberdine, the director.” She quickly introduced the lead actors, and then led us to a mountain of a man who lay on top of a collapsed table.

“Oh, I recognize him!” Jarrett cried enthusiastically. “Hagrid, right?”

The producer eyed him reproachfully. “No, that’s Uriel Pieres. Or at least it used to be, until he died and landed in the middle of our Monte Carlo set.”

“He’s dead?” Jarrett asked.

“Very astute of you,” Marsha said wryly. “Yes, he’s dead. It’s his ghost that’s been giving us so much trouble these past couple of days.”

I bent down next to the body and immediately recoiled. He smelled terrible. “A couple of days, you said?”

The producer nodded. She had a clipboard pressed to her chest, and looked more like a script girl than a high-powered producer. She snatched up a pair of reading glasses dangling from a string around her neck and slipped them on, then read from her clipboard. “Uriel Pieres. Member of our cleaning crew. Didn’t show up for duty last week. His supervisor figured he’d decided to quit on us.”

“But instead someone stuffed him into the ceiling,” Jarrett marveled, staring up at the large hole.

“It’s not really a ceiling,” the producer said. “It’s part of the set. Whoever killed him must either have dragged his body up there to get rid of him, or maybe he was cleaning the crawl space and was killed up there. Whatever the case, his ghost has been holding up production. So if you could do… whatever it is that you do, we’d all be very grateful.”

“But won’t the police shut down production?” I asked.

She laughed a curt laugh. “Not a chance. This is a multi-million-dollar production with a tight schedule and a winter release date set in stone. Nothing can shut down this production, and most definitely not the death of some hapless cleaner. And if that sounds harsh, that’s too bad.”

And with these words, she abruptly turned on her heel and strode off, leaving us to ‘do our thing.’

“That did sound a little harsh,” I said.

“I didn’t even get to say hi to Harry Potter,” Jarrett lamented.

“Harry Potter doesn’t exist, Jarrett. He’s a figment of someone’s imagination. And that guy over there is just an actor playing a part.”

“Ouch. Someone is feeling testy.”

“I’m testy because Darian keeps sending me messages and when I call him he doesn’t pick up his phone.” I had no idea what was going on with the guy but I knew I didn’t like it one bit.

“I think I know why he’s not picking up his phone right now,” Jarrett said, giving me a nudge. I turned in the direction he was facing, and saw a tall, broad-shouldered, strikingly handsome man stride into the studio. Darian Watley. He was following the same mustachioed guard who’d led us here. They were accompanied by a short, squat guy with sandy hair and deep-set beady black eyes. Darian himself easily towered over the man.

Darian Watley was the Scotland Yard inspector who’d investigated Sir Geoffrey Buckley’s murder. He’d been a non-believer for a long time, claiming ghosts didn’t exist… until he was slimed by one. Our relationship had known its ups and downs, and apparently right now we were going through a rough patch. At least judging by the way he was looking at me.

“He doesn’t seem very happy to see us,” Jarrett said.

“Nope, he does not.”

“And who’s the midget? I didn’t know Darian had a partner?”

“He doesn’t. Unless there’s something he didn’t tell me.”

The police officers joined Marsha Shalver and the others, and she gave them the same spiel she’d given us. Darian kept darting dark looks at Jarrett and me, and so did his pint-sized partner.

“I don’t think the new guy is a big fan of the Wraith Wranglers,” Jarrett said. “Oh, goodie, they’re coming over.”

Darian and his partner joined us. “Harry,” Darian said by way of greeting. He sounded very officious, as if we were total strangers.

“Hey, Darian. I’m sorry I didn’t pick up. We were on our way over here, and I must have missed your calls. What did you want to tell me?”

The squat man with the deep-set eyes turned them on Darian. “What did I tell you, Watley? No more canoodling with the freaky ghost hunter.”

This took me aback somewhat. “Um… what did you just call me?”

“This is Inspector Reto Slack,” Darian said by way of introduction. “He’s my new partner. Slack, meet Henrietta McCabre and Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton, also known as the Wraith Wranglers.”

“I know who they are,” Slack growled, his black eyes narrowed into slits. “What I would like to know is what the hell they are doing here.”

“If you must know, we were invited,” Jarrett said.

“By whom?”

“By me.” Marsha had walked up to us. “I hired the Wraith Wranglers to get rid of the spooky pest that’s been hounding our production for days.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Inspector Slack grunted. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. I want these two idiots escorted from the premises. This is now a crime scene, and I’m not tolerating any intruders.”

“Harry and Jarrett are here on my invitation, Inspector,” Marsha said, her voice taking on a steely note. This was clearly a woman you didn’t want to mess with. “And they’re staying right here. If you don’t like it, you can take it up with Prime Minister June. I don’t have to remind me she’s a very big Harry Potter fan, and very happy that we’re shooting a new movie.”

Slack twisted his face into a nasty grimace. “You can’t do that.”

“I can and I will. And now if you’ll excuse me, I have a production to run. And you, I believe, have a murder to solve.”