her cruise?” Millie asked.
I nodded. “She showed us her pictures of Greece last week.”
I didn’t know how Millie and Maybelle had met, but Maybelle is sixty-something, wields a dry, sharp wit, and dabbles in astrology. She and Millie must make a pair.
So did Millie and—what was her swain’s name? I’d seen him once a few weeks ago but not met him.
When he cleared his throat, Millie took the hint and introduced the gentlemen.
“Cesca, this is Dan Kelley.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Cesca.” Dan’s full head of white hair and a tan I pegged as golf course golden made his eyes a startling shade of green.
“And these gentlemen”—Millie gestured toward two more athletic types—“are Hal Lipkin and Joel Granger.”
We murmured greetings while Millie continued, “The guys couldn’t get tickets to the Jaguar game, so we’re treating them to the ghost tour tonight.”
“Then I’ll do my best to be extra entertaining,” I vowed.
Dan took Millie’s hand, Hal smiled at Grace, and Joel lightly touched Kay’s back. Ah, mature romance!
Though at my age, I should talk about mature. Even Saber isn’t quite the young stud I’d assumed he was when I met him.
As I turned away to take ticket stubs, I noticed another elderly couple staring in a size-me-up way. Wearing colorful, tourist-casual slacks, shirts, and walking shoes, they looked older than Millie, perhaps in their eighties. I worried for a moment about them traversing the uneven pavement along our route, but the man nimbly dodged a teenaged boy who nearly backed into him. Okay, the man seemed surprisingly spry. Still, I’d keep an eye out. Subtle bursts of vampire speed had helped me keep more than one tourist from taking a tumble.
I paused to speak with Carol and Nancy when I took their tickets, two special ladies who’d become known around town simply as “the sisters.” They’d only been in St. Augustine a few years, but were enthusiastic community volunteers and hard-core Pittsburgh Steelers fans. Good thing they weren’t wearing Steelers gear or Millie and the Jag Queen ladies might’ve done some trash talking.
Grinning at that image, I went to the tour substation, a wooden structure with a cabinet behind padlocked doors. I keyed the lock open, stashed the tickets stubs in a manila envelope, and grabbed my battery-operated lantern. The lantern doesn’t provide much light, but it’s a beacon of sorts for people to follow and part of the ghostly ambiance. The cabinet relocked, I waved my tour group closer.
“Good evening, and welcome to Old Coast Ghost Walk. I’m Cesca Marinelli, your guide. St. Augustine is regarded as one of the most haunted cities in America, and tonight we’ll visit the ghosts as I tell you what we know of their history.
“Feel free to take photos and ask questions when you like, but please watch out for uneven ground as we tour.”
We started by greeting Elizabeth, the redheaded teen ghost at the City Gates, then crossed the street to the Huguenot Cemetery. The group gobbled up the stories of Judge John B. Stickney and Erastus Nye, and of the Bridal Ghost when we reached the Tolomato Cemetery. We spotted orbs in both locations, too. I suspected the orbs in the Huguenot Cemetery were caused by the reflections of headlight beams, but who was I to spoil the fun?
After leading my tourist troupe through most of the square mile of the historic district, almost an hour and a half had passed, but no one seemed tired.
“Our last stop,” I said as I paused before a house on a downtown side street, “is Fay’s House. Now Fay might be our crankiest ghost, but she’s also one of my favorites.”
I relayed what I knew of Fay’s life and death, and saw a hand shoot up.
“You have a question?” I asked the young man.
“Isn’t this where the French Bride killer shoot-out and capture went down?”
“Yeah,” another man said. “And you caught the guy, right? You’re the vampire Nancy Drew.”
I blushed
I nodded. “She showed us her pictures of Greece last week.”
I didn’t know how Millie and Maybelle had met, but Maybelle is sixty-something, wields a dry, sharp wit, and dabbles in astrology. She and Millie must make a pair.
So did Millie and—what was her swain’s name? I’d seen him once a few weeks ago but not met him.
When he cleared his throat, Millie took the hint and introduced the gentlemen.
“Cesca, this is Dan Kelley.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Cesca.” Dan’s full head of white hair and a tan I pegged as golf course golden made his eyes a startling shade of green.
“And these gentlemen”—Millie gestured toward two more athletic types—“are Hal Lipkin and Joel Granger.”
We murmured greetings while Millie continued, “The guys couldn’t get tickets to the Jaguar game, so we’re treating them to the ghost tour tonight.”
“Then I’ll do my best to be extra entertaining,” I vowed.
Dan took Millie’s hand, Hal smiled at Grace, and Joel lightly touched Kay’s back. Ah, mature romance!
Though at my age, I should talk about mature. Even Saber isn’t quite the young stud I’d assumed he was when I met him.
As I turned away to take ticket stubs, I noticed another elderly couple staring in a size-me-up way. Wearing colorful, tourist-casual slacks, shirts, and walking shoes, they looked older than Millie, perhaps in their eighties. I worried for a moment about them traversing the uneven pavement along our route, but the man nimbly dodged a teenaged boy who nearly backed into him. Okay, the man seemed surprisingly spry. Still, I’d keep an eye out. Subtle bursts of vampire speed had helped me keep more than one tourist from taking a tumble.
I paused to speak with Carol and Nancy when I took their tickets, two special ladies who’d become known around town simply as “the sisters.” They’d only been in St. Augustine a few years, but were enthusiastic community volunteers and hard-core Pittsburgh Steelers fans. Good thing they weren’t wearing Steelers gear or Millie and the Jag Queen ladies might’ve done some trash talking.
Grinning at that image, I went to the tour substation, a wooden structure with a cabinet behind padlocked doors. I keyed the lock open, stashed the tickets stubs in a manila envelope, and grabbed my battery-operated lantern. The lantern doesn’t provide much light, but it’s a beacon of sorts for people to follow and part of the ghostly ambiance. The cabinet relocked, I waved my tour group closer.
“Good evening, and welcome to Old Coast Ghost Walk. I’m Cesca Marinelli, your guide. St. Augustine is regarded as one of the most haunted cities in America, and tonight we’ll visit the ghosts as I tell you what we know of their history.
“Feel free to take photos and ask questions when you like, but please watch out for uneven ground as we tour.”
We started by greeting Elizabeth, the redheaded teen ghost at the City Gates, then crossed the street to the Huguenot Cemetery. The group gobbled up the stories of Judge John B. Stickney and Erastus Nye, and of the Bridal Ghost when we reached the Tolomato Cemetery. We spotted orbs in both locations, too. I suspected the orbs in the Huguenot Cemetery were caused by the reflections of headlight beams, but who was I to spoil the fun?
After leading my tourist troupe through most of the square mile of the historic district, almost an hour and a half had passed, but no one seemed tired.
“Our last stop,” I said as I paused before a house on a downtown side street, “is Fay’s House. Now Fay might be our crankiest ghost, but she’s also one of my favorites.”
I relayed what I knew of Fay’s life and death, and saw a hand shoot up.
“You have a question?” I asked the young man.
“Isn’t this where the French Bride killer shoot-out and capture went down?”
“Yeah,” another man said. “And you caught the guy, right? You’re the vampire Nancy Drew.”
I blushed
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