Love Song(24)

I’m about to carry the plates inside when a flood of light suddenly illuminates the deck.

Wyatt and I both swivel our heads in alarm. I can’t see it, but there’s a boat down below, its lights slicing through the dark water. And since everything carries on this lake, we can hear them perfectly.

“Darlie?” someone says in a loud hiss. Sounds like a man.

We exchange a look.

“Are you Darlie?” I murmur.

He chokes out a laugh. “No, I’m not Darlie.”

“Darlie.” Another voice now. A higher pitch but also male. “Show yourself.”

What the hell is happening?

My eyes widen when Wyatt heads for the stairs. I swiftly reach for his arm and tug him backward.

“Stop that,” I whisper. “Don’t go toward the crazy people in the lake. What if they have a gun?”

“Why would they have a gun?”

“Maybe they’re trying to kill Darlie.”

He ponders that for a moment, then shrugs. “I think we’ll be fine.”

Ignoring my hushed protests, he bounds down the stairs, and because I can’t let him die alone, I hurry after him.

“Darlie! We heard you the other night. You were crying out. You want someone to see you. We see you.”

The boat is almost directly at our dock now.

“Hey, bro?” Wyatt calls out.

“Who’s there?” one of the voices shouts back.

“The owner of this house” is Wyatt’s wry response.

I sidle up to him, squinting at the boat. A midsize motorboat, carrying two men in their early to mid-twenties. The moon is bright tonight, offering a good view of them. One is muscular and broad-shouldered with bushy brown hair and a thick beard. The other is wiry and blond, wearing a tank top from Mollie May’s latest world tour. So obviously I like him on the spot.

They cut the engine, their boat drifting closer to the dock. “This is your place?” the big one says. “Excellent! You would’ve heard Darlie last night then.”

“Who’s Darlie?” I ask curiously.

“She’s a victim of the lake.”

Okay.

I regret asking.

The smaller guy pokes the big one in the ribs. “Stop. You’re being creepy, Spence.” To us, he offers a reassuring smile. “Hold on, let me explain. I swear he’s not crazy. We’re paranormal podcasters.”

Oh, so they’re both crazy.

Wyatt nods at the men. “All right.”

All right? That’s all he’s got to say about…whatever this is?

“I promise you we’re totally normal dudes.” The small one quickly introduces himself. “I’m Spencer.”

“And I’m Spencer,” says the bigger one.

Wyatt and I share another look.

“Both of you?” I finally say.

“Yup,” confirms the bigger Spencer. “Spelled the same and everything.”

“College roommates too,” the smaller Spencer adds. “It’s like the universe knew.”

“Our middle names are different, though,” Big Spencer says. “Which is a shame. Imagine if we were both Spencer James Hands? How cosmic would that be?”

“I’m sorry, did you say Hands?” Wyatt shifts his gaze between them. I suspect his head is spinning in perfect sync with mine.

“Hanz. With a Z.” Little Spencer hooks a thumb at his partner. “Blame this beautiful asshole. I took his last name.”

That’s sweet. “How long have you been married?” I ask.

“Oh, we’re not married yet. I preemptively took it.”

Wow.

“So, um, about this lake victim?” I prompt. “Do you mean like a ghost?”

“Yes. One of many,” Big Spencer reveals. “This lake is teeming with ghosts.”

Now I’m intrigued. “Is it really?”

“Oh yeah. Tahoe is steeped in the supernatural. Have you never heard of the Tahoe Biltmore?”

“The hotel?” I say blankly.

“Try the most haunted hotel in the area,” Little Spencer retorts. He seems like the more dramatic one, speaking with extravagant hand gestures. “The paranormal activity there is off the charts. Doors opening, slamming. Unintelligible whispers. Creepy knocks. Guests are constantly spotting Mary hanging out in the stairwells.”

“Mary?” I echo, while Wyatt gives me a look that says please don’t indulge this.

“The showgirl who haunts the hotel. She wears a miniskirt and go-go boots,” Little Spencer says.

“And has no face,” Big Spencer pipes up.

“But we’re not here to rehash the same old nonsense that every other paranormal expert investigates,” Little Spencer informs me. “Like the Biltmore or the mansion on Fannette Island.” He adopts a jeering tone. “Ooooh, I smell cinnamon toast. Soooo cool.”

“What?” I’ve never been more confused in my life.

“The Fannette Island ghost was something of a breakfast connoisseur,” Big Spencer explains. “Her favorite breakfast was cinnamon toast, and all the park rangers claim they can smell cinnamon when they’re out there.”

I nod solemnly. “Got it. But you’re not here to chase dead showgirls or cinnamon ghosts.”