Page 11 of The Wedding Party

“I can live with that. Now pull over. Get out. And let me drive.”

She’s laughing as we switch seats and I end up behind the wheel. In control.

Maybe I am a control freak.

Finally, near dusk, we arrive at the Stanley Hotel, a big white mansion of a place, nestled beside the towering mountaintops.

“By the way,” Lana says, “I’m assigned to a haunted room. Hopefully, you won’t be saving me from any nasty ghosts. This one is supposed to be a cowboy that stands at the end of the bed and stares at you.”

I tilt my head to study her, looking for the insanity beneath the surface. “You paid to sleep in a room with a Peeping Tom? Really? Please tell me the appeal of this.”

“It’s not my idea. It’s the bride’s. She insisted all her girls—I guess I’m one of her girls now—have the full haunted experience. You can’t say no to the bride.”

“Oh yes I can.” And to prove that point, once we’re at the check-in desk, I quickly go to work snagging a room that isn’t a fabled haunted one. “I need a room that has never seen a ghost. Ever. And I mean never.”

The hotel staff of three behind the counter all laugh. I’m not laughing. They haven’t seen real monsters. I have. Seeing a dead guy walking is not fun for me. In fact, the idea of a perfect weekend is me not seeing anyone dead at all.

“Lana!”

At the sound of Lana’s name, she and I both turn to find a pretty brunette racing toward us, and considering her T-shirt says BRIDE, my exceptional investigative skills tell me that she’s the bride. Or rather, bride-to-be, technically. Lana is embraced by “the bride,” who then casts me a smile. “You must be Andrea Castle.”

“Andi,” I amend. “Call me Andi.”

“The FBI agent,” she adds. “I’ve never met a real FBI agent.” She offers me her hand. “I’m Carrie Reynolds, which of course you figured out by now. But it seems I’m kind of starstruck and excited.”

I shake her hand and clarify what I must have misheard. “By me?”

“Of course by you. You’re a real-life FBI agent.” She holds up her hands. “Talk about girl power and all that stuff.”

I wave that off. “Believe me, law enforcement is a bunch of tedious work. I’m about as exciting as a Golden Girls rerun and a peanut butter sandwich, minus the jelly.”

She laughs. “That’s funny, but us true crime buffs see things a little differently. My God, watching those shows makes you appreciate our law enforcement. And my God, there are so many dumb people killing other people and thinking they can get away with it. I’m sure you hope for the smart ones to at least feel challenged.”

“If only they were all dumb,” I say, and with a shift back to her, I add, “Congratulations on your upcoming wedding.”

“Thank you,” she says. “It’s exciting. It’s not until the new year, but we thought the Halloween party would be fun for the bridal party.”

“It’s a unique twist for sure,” I agree.

“What’s really fun is you being here.” Carrie turns to the clerks. “Give her 217”—she glances at me—“the room Stephen King stayed in when he wrote The Shining.” She turns back to the clerks. “She’s an FBI agent. Maybe she can figure out the secrets of that room.”

“Oh no,” I say, and now I’m holding up my hands. “I’ll take a regular room. Save the scary stuff for your real guests.”

“Nonsense,” she replies. “You are a real guest. I insist. This will be loads of wonderful.”

Lana gives me a look and says, “What the bride wants, the bride gets.”

“That’s me.” Carrie grins. “Give me my thirty seconds of fame and authority. It’s the last you’ll see of it.” Someone calls her name, and she waves before she says, “Gotta run. Drinks at eight in the bar, both of you. Don’t be late.”

She hurries away, and I grimace at Lana but say nothing. I turn to face the hotel counter, and a clerk slides a key in front of me. “Enjoy room 217. It’s one of our most in-demand rooms.”

Of course it is, I think.

Of course it is.

Chapter Nine

CARRIE