Talk of the Town by Lisa Wingate

tell me to get out. I pictured all my things, all the memories of Jack and me and our life together, gone up in smoke, and tears rushed over me.
    Oh, for heaven’s sake, Imagene, some sensible part of me said, call the psychiatric ward and see if they’ve noticed your mind run by, because you’ve sure enough lost it.
    Grabbing a towel, I wiped my eyes as I answered the phone. No doubt, Patti had slipped up and called my number again out of habit from all the years Jack was on the VFD. Patti always got embarrassed when she did that.
    I picked up the phone and answered, figuring she’d launch into a wave of apologies the minute she heard my voice.
    It was Forrest, the county sheriff, on the other end, which surprised me and got me worried all over again. Something had to be wrong for Forrest to call on Thursday, which was normally his poker night with the boys down at The Junction.
    “Imagene?” He sounded irritated, being as whatever call was out on the scanner had probably interrupted his game. “You know anything about someone staying over to the Daily Hotel? Dispatch just got a prowler report from a lady, said she was a guest there. In the Beulah room, no less. Patti figured it was kids playing a joke, but she can’t get ahold of Donetta.”
    “Donetta’s probably on the internet.” Ever since DeDe got that yard-sale computer, she’s been addicted to the internet, eBay mostly, but she also liked to print out political gossip and warnings about underarm deodorant causing breast cancer—information she felt had been hidden until now by a government conspiracy to sell more deodorant.
    “Figures,” Forrest said. “Well, I imagine it’s just a prank, or maybe kids down there lookin’ for the ghost again. Usually that ain’t a problem until Halloween or Elvis’s birthday, but you never can tell. Heaven help us if they touch anything in the Beulah room. I had Patti dispatch Buddy Ray over there with a pass key, just in case.”
    “Oh, Lord have mercy! You sent Buddy Ray to the hotel?” The words exploded from my mouth just as the mambo music was starting on TV. “I’ve got to go, Forrest. I better get down there before Buddy Ray makes a mess of things. Donetta’s got guests in those rooms.” Without waiting for an answer, I grabbed my purse and hit Record on the VCR, even though that meant Dancing With the Stars would record over today’s episode of One Life to Live . Sometimes you have to prioritize.
    All the way to town, four miles to the crossroad and two past that, I tried not to imagine what might be going on at the hotel. Lord have mercy, I kept thinking, what a mess.
    It didn’t occur to me until I pulled up behind the hotel that I was in my housecoat and slippers. By then, there wasn’t much I could do about it.
    Buddy Ray’s cruiser was parked behind the building with the driver’s side door askew and the light flashing. The hotel entrance was hanging open, as if he’d burst in there like a scene from Dragnet , which he probably had. Buddy Ray took six months toward a criminal justice degree before he flunked out of community college. He liked to put all that higher education to use.
    “Buddy Ray?” I called his name as I stepped in because I didn’t want to get shot. A part of me had been wishing to go to the pearly gates ever since Jack died, but not at the hands of Buddy Ray and his peacemaker. “Buddy Ray? It’s Imagene. You up there?”
    The stairway was quiet, the hall empty except for a little plate of cookies Donetta’d left on the bureau. I pictured her home shopping on eBay while I was down at the hotel in my bathrobe, risking life and limb. “Buddy Ray? You upstairs? It’s Imagene.” Maybe he was in the beauty shop. Maybe he’d checked there first and he hadn’t bothered the guests yet. Maybe he was scared speechless because he’d seen the ghost of the Daily Hotel, which some said was Elvis and some said was a Confederate soldier.
    “I’m up here,” Buddy Ray’s