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She gave off a faint sizzle, like club soda. She was wearing a man's shirt, but I could see at a glance that she wasn't a man. I was beginning to sizzle myself.
she was writing her memoirs, and she wanted me to be her ghost. There was one hitch. I do my best work in the mornings, and she liked to stay in bed till noon. But I felt sure we could work it out. Believe me, that was one bedroom I was ready to haunt.
Then the gunfire started.
She'd had too many men in her life, and they all had one idean in common - get rid of the ghost. . .
