Part 20 (1/2)
”Oh, wouldn't I?”
”Girls, ladies. Please! This is really very untoward!” Langley Carlisle number three protested. ”While it may be tempting at first blush to act out in anger or frustration, no good can come of it in the end. Please. Let's explore other avenues in an effort to remediate the situation before we resort to brawling like hoydens along a public thoroughfare.”
I raised an eyebrow. What an extraordinary speech, I thought, giving Langley Carlisle the Third a quizzical look. See? I can do Austin.
”What are you saying, Langley?” Tiara asked.
”Well, unless one of you agrees to withdraw from the event, perhaps a friendly wager might give both parties an incentive to comport themselves with a level of dignity and apply themselves to the physical challenge at hand.”
”Huh?” The query came from the trio of girls present.
”A wager. I'm proposing a wager.”
”A bet?” I winced. My experience with bets wasn't stellar. Well, except for one adorable racc.o.o.n tattoo, that is. Fan me.
”I'm proposing a wager on who goes the farthest on the bike ride, or, alternatively, who finishes the ride first.”
I frowned. I had enough to worry about just getting from Point A to Point B each day. The last thing I wanted was to have to compete for time against America's Reality Sweetheart.
”I'll pa.s.s,” I stated.
”Ah ha! Only a guilty party would decline such a reasonable solution. That, or a coward.” Keelie said.
Coward? I could feel the camera zoom in on me, invading my s.p.a.ce, doc.u.menting my reaction.
”Sticks and stones,” Saint Tressa told me, all pious and reasonable. Meanwhile, Sinner Tressa was making a fist and itching to give Reality Red a reality check upside the head.
Bam!
”Maybe we should start with a more modest wager. Something more...immediate.” Langley suggested. ”Something that, hopefully, will a.s.sist you two in finding common ground and, perhaps, even burying the proverbial hatchet.”
For some inexplicable reason, both Keelie's and Tiara's eyes grew big and wide before they erupted in peals of laughter.
”Oh, Langley, you are brilliant!” Keelie said, and gave the beanpole Brit, a hug. ”Isn't he brilliant, Tiara?”
”Brilliant,” she concurred. ”Just brilliant.”
I felt like the last person to be let in on the joke.
”How would you like to spend the first night of the ride somewhere other than a tent, Miss Turner?” Langley Carlisle III asked.
Okay. Give me some credit. I'm no dummy. I know there's got to be a catch.
”Is that an option?” I kept it vague. Casual.
”Could be. Interested?” Tiara said, and winked at Keelie.
”You can't be asking me to stay on your bus,” I said.
”Oh, G.o.d. No!” Keelie said, and the best buds started to giggle again.
”We aren't actually staying on the bus tonight,” Tiara said when she'd stopped giggling.
A hotel? Even better.
”We're staying in Villisca,” Keelie said. The threesome fixed expectant gazes on me.
”Villisca?” I frowned. ”They don't have a hotel there, do they?”
”No. Not exactly. But they do have certain overnight accommodations that have been...procured for us.”
”Accommodations? What sort of accommodations?” One of those ”somebody's tromp...tromp...tromping over my grave” feelings. .h.i.t me with the force of a squadron of super-duper Super Soakers.
”Supernatural lodgings,” Langley said.
”Ghostly ones,” Tiara offered.
”Things that go b.u.mp in the night accommodations,” Keelie added.
”You mean?”
It finally registered.
Villisca.
Home to the Ax Murder House.
A place only Lizzie Borden could love.
I've lost you, right? Let me just say that the town of Villisca is as infamous to Iowans as Amityville is to New York residents. The rural Iowa hamlet has the dubious distinction of being home to what is known simply as, the ”Murder House.”
That's right. The Murder House. Why, you ask? Because in 1912, eight (Yes, I said eight.) people were murdered in their beds in the modest white two-story by an ax-wielding a.s.sailant or a.s.sailants unknown. That's why.
The perp or perps were never caught and, over the years, ghostly occurrences had become as synonymous with the Murder House as the Tower of London-the house reaping a notoriety that comes with high-tech paranormal investigations and eyewitness reports of strange and frightening phenomenon.
Tours of the Murder House were available, and, for a pricey rate, overnight stays at the house promised to give the lodgers a night they wouldn't soon forget. That fact was what currently had me breaking out in a cold sweat and my innards knotted up worse than my air-dried hair after a swim in the rec center pool.
”I don't understand.” I said, although I was beginning to.
”I think you do,” Keelie said, a decidedly evil glint in her blue eyes. ”Convinced the location will be a ratings gold mine, my producers have arranged for us to spend the entire night at the Murder House. You want a truce, Ratfink? You spend the night. If you dare. Bwahaha!”
”Oh, h.e.l.l, no!” I said.
”What's the matter? Is Team Trekkie afraid of ghosts?”
Ax-wielding ones with a history of chopping people up while they slept? Duh.