Read Online Last Dance by Linda Joy Singleton - Free Book Online

smile despite a strong urge to run from a growing sense of danger.
    “You are definitely nuts,” Thorn said with a shrug. “But it could be a kick, and we have time to kill. So let’s go.”
    Finding the museum was easy. Finding a parking space was nearly impossible. But when Thorn went after something, nothing stopped her. After weaving through side streets, she zipped into a spot as another car pulled out.
    A large redwood plaque arched over the doorway: “Chloe Museum.” Entering the brick building was like walking into a tomb. The chilly air smelled of ages past. Shivering, I tightened my coat around my shoulders.
    We stepped into the parlor lit by cone-shaped lamps on wooden end tables. There was a scent of lemon and fifties music played softly in the background. The décor was totally retro; an overstuffed olive-green couch and matching loveseat circled an oval glass-topped coffee table and thick shag carpet that muffled our footsteps.
    “This reminds me of my grandmother’s house,” Thorn said, poking a puffy green couch pillow. “I bet there’s a kitchen with ugly checkered linoleum, too.”
    “Looks like we go down that hall.” I pointed to a wooden sign directing us to the museum.
    Following the posted arrows, we stepped through French doors into a large open room with bright overhead lights. The dampness was gone, but goose bumps rose on my arms.
    “Welcome!” boomed a cheerful voice. The elderly bald man who stepped out from behind a clothing display was as round as a beach ball. The yellow T-shirt stretched across his chest had to be a size triple X. And his grin seemed even wider.
    “Uh, hi,” I said uneasily. “We’re looking for Kasper.”
    “Congratulations—you found me!” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “What can I do for you pretty ladies? How about a genuine Chloe souvenir? All red-tagged items are on sale today, ten percent off. Take your pick from T-shirts, key chains, shoe laces, dolls, hats, socks, and toothbrushes.”
    “Toothbrushes?” Thorn arched her brows. “People actually brush their teeth with Chloe toothbrushes?”
    “Why of course! In glamorous shades of pink, blue, and red. But it’s the refrigerator magnets that sell best. Would you like to see our selection?”
    “We’d rather hear more about Chloe,” I replied, slowly turning a rack of post cards. I picked one up with a picture of Chloe at a dance. She wore a full, mid-length skirt that swirled in a breeze on an outdoor pavilion.
    Just like my dream, I thought uneasily.
    “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Kasper said. “I’m a scholar of the unexplained and have written numerous books on paranormal topics. I know everything about our famous ghost.”
    Thorn tilted her head at him. “Have you actually seen her?”
    “Sure. As clear as I see the two of you.”
    I raised my brows, tempted to point out that few people saw ghosts that clearly. I knew he was exaggerating, but saw no reason to spoil his fun.
    “After I retired,” Kasper went on, “I found Chloe so fascinating, she became my hobby.”
    “I’ve never heard of anyone having a ghost for a hobby,” Thorn said.
    “Well, now you have.” He slapped the counter and laughed as if he’d told a hilarious joke. “This very building you’re standing in is seeped in Chloe history. This was her home for all of her seventeen years and I’ve recreated the rooms in exact detail from old photographs.”
    That led to an invitation for a personal tour (waiving the usual two dollar fee), and we went from room to room, seeing everything “Chloe.” Flowered skirts, tight-knit sweaters and a closet full of shoes, including pink ballet slippers and the black-and-white saddle shoes from my dream. School yearbooks and old board games—Scrabble, Life, and Uncle Wiggley—were stacked in a corner. Clunky metal skates with a shiny key were sprawled on a fluffy white rug. And an entire wall of portraits charted Chloe’s growth from infant to