Chapter One
I picked up my phone and saw I had three missed messages from Darian. I was hurrying after Jarrett as we walked past the guard station and into the studio. Pinewood Studios is famous for the James Bond movies, just like Leavesden Studios is famous for the Harry Potter movies. Why they were filming the ninth Potter movie here, I didn’t know, nor did I care.
We’d been called here to do a job. Ever since Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton and I—Jarrett is my best friend and associate—launched the Wraith Wranglers, our brand of ghost hunting had been in high demand, but this was by far our highest-profile job ever. We’d never been called in to drive away a ghost on the set of a major motion picture before.
“Do you think Harry Potter will be there?” Jarrett asked excitedly as we were led through a maze of corridors and sets to the main soundstage.
“I’m sure they’ll all be there,” I said. I was more concerned with Darian and why he’d left those messages right now. I hadn’t seen the Scotland Yard inspector in a couple of days, nor had I heard from him, and I was starting to wonder what was going on. Ever since we started dating, not a day had gone by when we hadn’t spoken on the phone or met either at his place or mine. I was starting to think he’d met someone new.
“I can’t wait to meet Hermione Granger,” Jarrett said. “She’s the bomb.”
Oh, in case you were wondering, my name is Henrietta ‘Harry’ McCabre. I’m a twenty-three-year-old former antique store clerk who’d inadvertently landed a job as a ghost hunter when my former employer Sir Geoffrey Buckley was murdered. His ghost had come back to help me solve his murder, and from there Jarrett and I had gone on to solve more ghost mysteries than anyone could shake a stick at. With my fair complexion, blond bob and golden eyes, I don’t exactly look like a ghost hunter. Then again, what does a ghost hunter look like? I’d never met one before I became one.
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?”