Talk of the Town by Lisa Wingate Page A

voice boomed down the stairs. He didn’t sound like he’d seen a ghost. “That you, Donetta?”
    “No, it’s Imagene.” I moved up the stairs as quick as I could. Maybe Buddy Ray hadn’t gotten into the guest rooms yet.
    “Call for backup, Imagene. I got perpetrators up here.” Buddy Ray was breathless with excitement. “Tell Patti to radio Forrest.”
    So much for hoping he hadn’t disturbed the guests yet. “Buddy Ray,” I hollered as I crossed the landing and hurried up the last few stairs. “You leave them people alo—” When I rounded the corner, there was Buddy Ray, with his hand on his gun. He had that sweet girl who wasn’t particular and Carter, the darling boy with beach shoes and pretty blue eyes, handcuffed and spread-eagle against the wall. That poor boy wasn’t wearing his Hawaiian shirt anymore. In fact, he wasn’t wearing anything but some silky boxer shorts. Apparently, Buddy Ray had caught him in the middle of changing clothes.
    “Buddy Ray, you turn those people loose!” I said, and all three of them looked in my direction. Staggering backward a step, Buddy Ray swung the pistol around. “Don’t you point that gun at me, young man. You put that thing down and unlock them handcuffs. For heaven’s sake, Buddy Ray, you might ask a few questions before you go dragging some fella into the hall in his boxers.”
    “Exercise shorts,” Carter corrected, and grinned like he was getting a kick out of the whole thing. I had to give him credit for steady nerves, being as there was a certified idiot behind him with a loaded gun. The girl, whose name I couldn’t remember right then, looked terrified and no small bit embarrassed, standing there in her nice suit with her hands braceleted behind her back. She was a good three or four inches shorter without the high heels. Kind of a petite little thing with curly reddish-brown hair and the prettiest brown eyes. Cute as a bug, but red as a beet.
    “These folks are paying guests,” I said, but Buddy Ray didn’t look like he was ready to give up his prisoners just on my say-so. “Donetta’s gonna have your hide, Buddy Ray.”
    “Donetta d-don’t rent r-rooms anymore,” Buddy Ray stammered, feeling the need, I’m sure, to defend his powers of crime scene investigation.
    “Well, she does now, as of this afternoon.” I pointed toward the Beulah room. Buddy Ray’s eyes got wide and he froze up for a minute. “Unlock them cuffs,” I said, to get him back on track.
    “Oh . . . okay, Mrs. Doll, but-but-but . . .” He gaped toward the Beulah room like he was afraid Beulah herself was gonna step out and turn him into a pillar of salt. I reckon he was thinking he’d rather haul two innocent folks off to jail than risk the wrath of Beulah. “Does she . . . does she know about this?” His eyes cut toward Beulah’s name on the door again.
    “Donetta said it was okay.”
    Buddy put a hand to his mouth and whispered out the side, like he was worried all the little statues in the Beulah room might hear, “But does she know?”
    “Donetta said it was all right, Buddy Ray. Turn these folks loose.”
    Buddy Ray shrugged and shook his head. “Okay, but I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it. . . . If Beulah asks, I mean.”
    “True enough,” I agreed, to ease Buddy Ray’s nerves. He’d had a run-in or two with Beulah before. Every time she came to town, she was sure thieves had snuck into and heisted some of the priceless collectibles in her suite. About the time poor Buddy Ray came around to investigate, she always found her lost treasures hidden under the chair cushions or behind the curtains or tucked under the bed covers. She usually blamed it on the ghost, but the truth was that before she left, Beulah always hid her favorite things, then forgot about it by the time she came back. The ghost got credit for a lot of activity that was really just Beulah being Beulah. Even if there was such thing as ghosts, I doubt if they’d have the guts to