Grizelda Gives Up the Ghost

Roger Bolden was an accomplished man. He’d transitioned from a successful attorney to a thriving sommelier, and though he was a spiritual man, he didn’t believe in ghosts. That is until a wolfish apparition attacked the Iowa Historical Bike Tours, hell-bent on revenge. When Roger vanishes, Wendy and Franklin Becker suspect the former lawyer has taken supernatural law into his own hands.

***

A spooky, deserted gas station on Highway 34. Franklin Becker couldn’t imagine a better start to the “haunted” part of the Iowa Historical Bike Tour. Of course, he had to pedal thirty-five miles a day for five days along rugged, windy trails. Not his typical activity—he was both middle-aged and sedentary—but meeting ghosts up close was worth a few sore muscles and a chapped ass.

“Will we see actual spirits?” he asked the tour company owner.

Paul Tambour chuckled. “As I mentioned yesterday when you signed up, local history includes some unexplained phenomena, including apparitions.”

“And disembodied voices?” Franklin shifted excitedly from one foot to the other. “We’re staying in a haunted house tonight, right?”

“Legend has it two ghosts reside in tonight’s lodgings.”

“Hear that, Wendy? We’re sleeping in an extra-haunted house.” Franklin beamed at his wife. The paranormal wasn’t really her thing—computer code and anything with an electrical cord were—but how could she resist seeing a soul from the great beyond?

“While you hobnob with the goblins,” Wendy said, “the pets and I will spend the night safe and warm in the motorhome. I’ll park Grizelda next to the spooky mansion should you decide to escape the ghouls.” Wendy reached into the front pocket of her faded jeans. “Speaking of our motorhome—do I drive behind the bicycles all day?”

Paul motioned to a woman resting against a white van. Her gaze didn’t stray from her smartphone. “You’ll follow my wife, Yvette. She’ll drive the van with the bicyclists’ gear and food.”

Franklin had noticed Yvette earlier—her waist-length dark hair, skin-tight jeans, and glittery midriff T-shirt were hard to miss. Despite heavy makeup and conspicuously false eyelashes, she looked much younger than her husband, whose sandy hair had grayed at the temples.

“You must carry a lot of first aid supplies in that,” Wendy said, pointing to the tour company’s van. “It’s big enough to be an ambulance. How many accidents do you have on these bike rides?”

To his credit, Paul seemed unfazed by Wendy’s less-than-subtle inquisition. “A biker might slide on loose dirt and take a spill occasionally. We’ve had only two real injuries in two years. A broken collarbone and a fractured elbow. Both riders came back on tour the next year.”

“None of the ghosts are your former clients, are they?” Franklin doubted they were but thought it wise to ask. Just to appease Wendy, of course.

Paul laughed. “No, the ghosts on this tour have been dead for centuries. One of those purported to haunt today’s house is a wolf. That’s about all I know. I studied Midwest American folklore for my doctoral dissertation several years ago, but the details of this myth are held pretty close by the Meskwaki Indians.”

Before Franklin could ask why a middle-aged adult with an advanced degree was pedaling a bicycle for a living, Paul’s wife yelled from their van.

“Aren’t you done yet?” Yvette waved her cell phone at Paul. “The rest of the bikers are gonna be here any minute. And I’m tired of standing around.”

Franklin saw the frown that flitted across Paul’s face. Yvette seemed too sullen to run a business based on customer service. That said, she was the finest female he’d seen recently, except for the fawn-colored labradoodle at the campground last evening. And Wendy, of course. To him, she was the finest of all, although her version of beauty was more mature and had an edginess to it.

“We’ll start the tour as soon as the others arrive,” Paul said, his hands tightening around his clipboard. “Besides, the sorority girls know the drill. They’ve been on our tours before.”

“Oh, they’re not comin’.” Yvette turned her gaze back to her smartphone screen.

“What do you mean they’re not coming?”

“One of them texted earlier. They all got diarrhea after the pledges had their ice cream binge.”

“None of the five girls are coming?”

Yvette shrugged. “Well, yeah.”

“Is there a problem?” Franklin asked.

Paul fingered the pages on the clipboard. “We’ve already had a cancellation. We occasionally do the tour with nine instead of the full set of ten bikers, but now we’re down to four. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t see how we can afford to do the tour—”

“You’d better do it,” said a voice at Franklin’s elbow. “Exactly as promised, or I’m gonna sue you for all your worth. Which I’m guessing ain’t very much anymore.”

The voice belonged to a wiry little man in his late twenties or early thirties, with shaggy blond hair and a wispy goatee. His close-set blue eyes narrowed as he smirked. What captured Franklin’s attention, however, was the man’s T-shirt. Orange and yellow, the shirt was blinding in the morning sun. The lettering on the front read “Trans Am Bike Race.”

“You race bicycles?” Franklin asked.

The man snorted. “Don’t you recognize me?”

“No.”

When the neon-colored man looked away without responding, Franklin turned a questioning gaze to Paul.

“This is Chandler DiFranco,” the tour guide said, his tone brusque. “He’s been in bike races.”

Another snort, louder this time. “I win bike races, you mean. No one can beat me.” Chandler puffed his chest and jutted out his chin, which was about level with Franklin’s armpit. “And I’m a huge social media influencer. Tour DiFranco. You must’ve seen my YouTube videos.”

Franklin shook his head.

“Don’t worry,” came a voice at his other elbow. “You’re not missing anything.”

Franklin turned and came nose-to-nose with a gentleman dressed in top-of-the-line bicycling attire. Frameless wraparound sunglasses accented his professionally coiffed gray hair. Franklin felt underdressed in his off-the-rack jersey and biking shorts.

Chandler strutted up to the new arrival. “I think you’re in the wrong place, old man. This ain’t the geriatric ward. We’re gonna be making tracks on this tour. We ain’t stopping every mile for you to change your diaper.”

The older man smiled, but Franklin could see his facial muscles twitching as he spoke. “Did you hear about the lunatic who won the Tour de France in one day? He took the psycho path.”

“Enough!” Paul wedged himself between Chandler and the other man. “As I said, I don’t think we can operate with only four—”

Chandler poked a finger into Paul’s chest. “I won an all-expenses-paid free tour with your crappy company, and you’re gonna come through, or I’ll ruin you. Once I start posting about the tour being canceled, you’re finished. And I’ll keep posting ’til I die.”

“Until you die?” the older man said. “A tempting offer. But Paul won’t cancel a tour.”

“He’d better not.” Chandler squinted at the older man. “Do I know you? You look familiar. Whatever. I have tons of fans.” With a dismissive wave, he walked away.

The stylish gentleman offered his hand to Franklin. “I’m Roger Bolton.”

“Franklin Becker.” The gentleman’s handshake was firm, and his smile affable despite his expensive accouterments. “I liked your ‘psycho path’ joke,” Franklin said.

Roger’s grin broadened. “There are more where that came from. Plenty more.”

Paul rested a hand on Roger’s shoulder. “We’ve hit a snag,” he said. “Only four bicyclists remain on the tour, and the fourth person hasn’t shown up yet.” He looked around. “Where’s my wife?”

“In the van,” Wendy replied. Franklin jumped at the sound of her voice. His wife wasn’t what one might call stealthy, but on occasion, she’d appear seemingly out of thin air.

Roger turned to face Paul and lowered his voice. “This tour must go as planned, even with only four customers. If the issue is a financial one, I can—”

Paul’s smartphone chimed. “Just got a text,” Paul said. “Our last companion is running late and will meet us at the second trailhead.” He glanced at Roger, who nodded slightly. “I guess four riders are enough for the tour.” Paul stared cooly at Chandler, who returned the look with a sneer. “So, Mr. DiFranco, the tour is a ‘Go.’”

“We’ll meet up at the house, right?” Wendy said.

Paul nodded. “Around three thirty, well ahead of the predicted rain.”

Franklin followed Wendy as she headed toward their motorhome. “You don’t mind driving Grizelda this week while I do the bike tour, do you?”

“While you pedal on unkempt trails and break your legs, arms, ribs, and skull. No, of course, I don’t mind.”

“It’ll be fun, I think.” Franklin patted the motorhome’s windshield as Wendy started the ignition. Grizelda was a good vehicle overall, considering her age and propensity to shed screws, bolts, and unidentifiable parts like dandruff along the road. He didn’t tell her often enough how much he appreciated her engine running and tires turning day after day, mile after mile. Once he completed this bike tour, he’d be more attentive to her needs. And Wendy’s, too, if he could figure out what those were.

***

Grinning ear to ear, Franklin straddled the rented bicycle and gripped its handlebars. He stood with Paul, Roger, and Chandler on a county road a few dozen yards off Highway 34.

“What’s the difference between a well-dressed man on a bike and a poorly dressed one on a unicycle?” Roger asked.

The others shrugged.

“Attire.”

Franklin chuckled. He liked Roger. The gentleman had a finely honed sense of humor—one that appealed to Franklin’s taste, anyway. Roger not only dressed meticulously, he owned five-star biking equipment, from the shoes on his feet to the technology strapped to his bike frame. Franklin, too, felt adequately, albeit more modestly, prepared. Yesterday’s shopping spree in Des Moines netted him a silver helmet, blue jersey, and padded shorts certain to ensure a comfortable seat. Although thirty-five miles seemed like a long daily bike ride, he was up to the task. Besides, the exercise would do him good.

“Here comes our fourth rider now,” Paul said as a woman pedaled toward them from the east. Franklin gauged her height when she dismounted—six foot one, easily—and admired her toned arms and legs. He would be that fit, too, if he worked out. He didn’t.

“We’ll save the introductions for our first rest stop since we’re getting a late start,” Paul shouted over the growing wind. “Everybody clear on the instructions?”

Franklin glanced around. Roger and the tall woman nodded, but Chandler stood motionless, mouth slightly agape, staring at their newest rider. It was the first time the wiry little man in the brightly colored shirt had missed an opportunity to complain.

“We’ll go about twenty-five miles on the bike trail and then take a shortcut to shave off a few miles,” Paul said. “The storm’s coming in faster than predicted, so I want to get to the house before the rain hits.” He mounted his bicycle and waved everyone to fall in line. With an expansive smile, Franklin pulled behind Roger and pedaled.

After the third green insect—Paul called them common meadow katydids—hit Franklin’s teeth, he gave up his grin. It wasn’t a difficult decision. There weren’t many things to smile about. Although the first mile of pedaling hadn’t been too bad, he was panting, and his pretty powder-blue jersey was soaked front and back. Once the others tired and the pace slowed, he felt confident he could easily ride with the pack.

“Everybody warmed up?” Paul shouted over his shoulder.

Affirmative cries filled the air. Except for the air around Franklin. His reply was a panicky, “Huh?”

“Okay! Let’s start cycling.” Paul zipped down the trail’s center, followed closely by Chandler in his orange-and-yellow Trans Am Bike Race shirt.

“Wait,” Franklin yelled. “Why are you going faster? I thought we were going fast enough!” His heart sank as the first two cyclists disappeared into a cloud of dust. How was he going to catch up?

“Don’t worry about them,” Roger said as he pedaled ahead of Franklin. “Paul is just showing off for Chandler. He’ll find a reason to stop and let us catch up.”

“You’ve ridden with Paul before?” Franklin could hardly get the words out between gasps. He was glad this man, Roger, was a talkative sort.

“Yeah, a couple of times. His dad and I met in law school and worked at the same law firm for a while. He became a county attorney. I went into corporate law and made real dough. I invested some money when Paul started his tour business and negotiated free bike trips in lieu of interest on the loan. Worked out great for both of us. Breaks my heart that his dad didn’t live to see Paul’s success.”

“His father’s dead?”

“Died unexpectedly a couple of years ago, shortly before Paul and Yvette married. His death hit Paul pretty hard. They’d argued about Yvette. His father thought Yvette was holding Paul back, convincing him to leave his university position.”

“Paul was a professor?”

“He has a Ph.D. in American history and planned to apply for tenure before meeting Yvette. The irony was Paul met her through his father. His dad prosecuted a case in which she was the victim. Paul never forgave himself for stomping out and not returning his dad’s calls until it was too late.”

“It’s a general form of survivor guilt.” The voice came from behind Franklin, from the tall woman riding lanterne rouge—the end of the pack.

“I should introduce myself. I’m Dr. Deidre Duffy. DeeDee, for short. I’m a psychiatrist.” She smiled as she pedaled effortlessly, the muscles in her long legs rippling with each cycle. “I specialize in hallucinations and multiple personalities.”

Self-consciousness engulfed Franklin. Not for any particular reason. He didn’t have hallucinations—that he knew of, anyway—and other than an attempt at community theater, he was always himself. But DeeDee scared the crap out of him. Like she could x-ray his thoughts, including a few lingering from his teenage years.

“Paul has a crippling need to prove himself,” DeeDee said. “To prove he made the right decision careerwise and in his marriage. I researched his company before booking this tour. He has a niche market, mainly monied clientele attracted to deep dives into the region’s history. It’s a risky marketing strategy, but it could pay off.” DeeDee pulled close behind Franklin and Roger. “I’m not so sure about the success of his marriage, though.”

Roger slowed to ride next to DeeDee, leaving Franklin in the lead. It was not the best place for him to be, with the other bikers completely out of sight.

“Paul’s a smart guy,” Roger said. “He told me the company’s doing well. Really well.”

DeeDee smiled. “I’m sure that’s what he said. But Paul’s taking a beating on social media—from one influencer in particular. You’ll never guess who.”

“I’m not into social media,” Franklin and Roger said in unison, although Franklin’s winded reply was barely audible. He and Wendy often said things together, not all that unexpected after twenty years of marriage. But he’d met Roger just today, and already they seemed a great match. He was glad to have a friend, albeit a complete stranger, on the tour.

“The influencer is called Tour DiFranco. As in Chandler DiFranco. The biker up ahead in the Trans Am Bike Race shirt.” DeeDee pointed up the trail. “You were right. They’re waiting for us.” She sped forward.

Roger coasted, and Franklin followed, his racing heart slowing. Within seconds, he had enough air to speak. “You’re a corporate attorney?”

“I spent decades in corporate law, then retired to consult, mainly pro bono. I worked with Paul’s father on his last case. Now, I own a winery with my brother in Oregon.”

“That’s a big change.” Franklin pulled alongside his new buddy. “I sold my Puss and Pooch Pamper Parlors last spring for a hefty profit. The Parlors were spas for boarding pets, but I housed a lot of homeless animals there, too. I’m thinking of getting into the wine business.”

Roger nodded. “Let’s talk later, privately. I have an idea that might interest you, given your previous animal experience. Why did you sell your business, if you don’t mind my asking.”

Franklin lightly applied his brakes. He was starting to get the hang of this whole bicycling thing, after all. “The Parlors were fun at first. Making friends with the dogs and cats. But as the business boomed, all I did was hire, fire, and fill out forms.”

“And paperwork didn’t appeal to you?”

Franklin shook his head. “I didn’t expect the business to sell so quickly. We’re on this cross-country trip so I can plan a new career. What about you? Why did you stop working as an attorney?”

“Frustration, I guess. Criminals went free, and the wronged parties were scapegoated. I’m sure that’s what killed Paul’s father. The stress of seeing the justice system perverted. One case in particular.”

“What case was that?”

Roger slowed as they approached Paul, Chandler, and DeeDee. “Some other time.”

“Hey, glad you caught up,” Paul said, “but we can’t rest here. Only twenty more miles if we take a shortcut to the shortcut.”

Roger leaned into Franklin. “Do you know how the barber won the bike race?”

Franklin shook his head.

“He took a short cut.”

Chuckling, Franklin pedaled behind Roger as the others sped ahead. “I didn’t know a shortcut to a shortcut was a thing.”

Roger glanced back, his brows pinched together under his sleek helmet. “I don’t know any shortcuts except that one we just passed. This terrain can be rough when we get near the old creek bed.”

“Where’s the creek bed?”

“Up ahead, where Paul’s taking us.”