GHOST OF A CHANCE, a paranormal short story by Caridad Pineiro Page A

agreement,” the attorney replied and a chill note filtered into his voice.
    Tracy thought of all the research time she would need to prepare for the contest.  So much work with the possibility of zero reward if someone else beat her to solving the case, since a confidentiality agreement would preclude her from using any of the work for a new book.  “I’ll have to give this some thought, Mr. Angelo.  I’m not sure it would be the right kind of project for me.”
    A surprised silence came across the line before the attorney said, “I hope you reconsider, Ms. Gomez.  A million dollars is a lot of money.”
    Tracy had no doubt about that.  A million dollars would take care of fixing the inn and set her up quite nicely while she worked on her next book.  But she was cautious by nature and wasn’t about to change her spots for this case, even with the huge prize.  Before she considered it further, there was one other thing she had to know.
    “You seem to be quite determined about this contest.  May I ask why?”
    An amused chuckle was followed by, “I guess it’s hard to deny that I’d like you to participate.”
    Annoyance flared up at that he hadn’t really answered her question, so she repeated it.  “Why is that so important to you, Mr. Angelo?”
    Silence came once more, followed by a heartfelt sigh before the attorney said, “My father believes he is Skippy Ryan’s grandson.  He also thinks you’re the only one who can prove it.”
     

Chapter 2
    The black and white photograph on his law firm website didn’t do justice to Peter Angelo, she thought as he stood at the front of the room.
    He was strikingly attractive with black Irish looks that might make many a woman’s head turn.  Dark, nearly black hair which might have been wavy if it wasn’t ruthlessly styled into place framed a face that was all chiseled lines.  Piercing blue eyes were keen with intelligence and didn’t miss a beat as they traveled over the half a dozen people gathered around the dining room table in the supposedly haunted Ryan mansion.
    “Please sit,” he said, although it was more command than invitation.
    Tracy hadn’t even taken a step when someone elbowed past her, eager to take a place near the head of the table where Mr. Angelo would presumably take a spot.
    Nancy Fitch , Tracy thought, the name of the flamboyant psychic popping into her head as the redhead plopped her curvaceous ass into the chair, crossed her legs, and assumed a pose obviously intended to show off her more than ample assets.
    From beside Tracy came a solicitous, “After you.”
    She glanced at the man, recognizing yet another familiar face:  Hank Jenkins, a television personality with a show on all things Jersey Shore on one of the local cable channels.
    “Thanks.”  She sat and shot a quick glance to the opposite side of the table and the three other contestants.  She didn’t recognize any of them, but assumed Mr. Angelo would soon remedy that situation.
    As for their host, he continued to stand at the head of the table, his hands resting on the ornately carved wood of a dining room chair until everyone was seated.  Then he motioned to a young man who briskly closed the door, picked up a stack of packets, and efficiently laid out one folder in front of each of them before resuming his post by the door.
    Peter Angelo gestured to the packets with an elegant swipe of his finger.  “You have all signed confidentiality agreements prior to coming here.  Any and all documents in these portfolios and any information that you learn over this weekend is considered confidential and governed by those agreements.”
    “Can we skip all the legalese and get to the point of this,” said one of the men seated across from her.  He had a thick New York accent and a liberally-salted buzz cut.  His dark suit was shiny from age and rather ill-fitting.  Judging from the bulge beneath one armpit, he was armed and hopefully on the right side of the