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Mr. Slick Hair shot a look at the Bald Guy, who shrugged. Then he wrote something down on a notepad.“This is the lowest we can go with no publicity.” He handed it to Mrs. Third Floor. She looked at it and swallowed hard.

“She looks like she’s going to throw up,” Butterbean said, watching Mrs. Third Floor carefully. She knew that look. “I hope she aims for the tile.”

“If she does, she needs to clean it up,” Polo said sternly. They’d had problems with barf on the floor in the past.

Mrs. Third Floor looked up at Mr. Slick Hair, her face grim.“I can pay this. How soon can you eliminate the ghost?”

Mr. Slick Hair shot a smug look at the Bald Guy, so quickly that Oscar almost missed it. But he didn’t miss it. He frowned. He wished Walt was there to go for the eyes.

The Bald Guy stroked his mustache as he thought.“Like I said, you need to work fast with this kind of ghost, or it can be dangerous. We could do it maybe… tomorrow?”

“Oh yes, that’s perfect!” Mrs. Third Floor clutched her hands together. “I’ll be ready tomorrow!”

“But, Mildred,” Mrs. Food said urgently.

Mrs. Third Floor waved her off.“No, Beulah, I have to do this. Tomorrow sounds fine.”

“Great,” Mr. Slick Hair said. “We’ll take half up front, and half when the ghost is gone.”

Mrs. Third Floor looked even greener than she had.

“She’s definitely going to blow,” Marco said, moving back behind the water bottle. It never hurt to be out of range.

“I—I don’t have my checkbook with me at the moment,” Mrs. Third Floor stammered.

“We might be able to make an exception this time,” the Bald Guy said, heaving his bag over his shoulder. “You can pay us tomorrow. We trust you.” He patted her on the arm as he headed for the door.

Mrs. Third Floor smiled stiffly as they left the apartment. Then she sank down onto the chair.

Mrs. Food locked the door and then turned, her face serious.“Mildred, I don’t think…”

Mrs. Third Floor stared at the floor.“I don’t have a choice.” Her voice was flat. “No one will rent a haunted apartment, and I can’t afford to have it empty. And if there’s publicity? It’ll be empty forever.”

Mrs. Food took the notepad and looked at the number written there. Her eyes got wide.“But how can you afford that?”

“I can’t!” Mrs. Third Floor’s voice sounded strangled. “But I have to. I’ll figure something out.” She sat up and grabbed Mrs. Food’s hand. “You’ll support me, whatever I do, won’t you? You don’t think I’m being silly?”

“Of course I’ll support you,” Mrs. Food said. “You’re my best friend.”

“Thank you.” Mrs. Third Floor slumped back in her chair.

Butterbean jostled Oscar’s cage again. “Should we do something?” she asked in a low voice. “We can’t let those guys do this, right? There’s no ghost!”

Oscar peeked out through the bars.“I didn’t think so. But did you see that video? That wasn’t Jerome.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Walt said, sticking her head out of the vent opening behind the couch. Her fur was matted and sticking out all the wrong ways. “It wasn’t Jerome. But it wasn’t a ghost.” She crawled out into the room and shook off. “It was a fake. And we’ve got to stop them.”

— 14 —

“WAIT, THEY PICKED YOU UP by the SCRUFF OF YOUR NECK?” Butterbean gasped. After Mrs. Third Floor had gone home, Mrs. Food had gone to her room with a headache, and Madison headed off to read in her room. It was nice not to have the humans underfoot for a change. Plus, it gave Walt a chance to fill them in on all the gory details.

“Like I was a kitten,” Walt said, trying to keep her cool. She’d already told Butterbean the story four times, but for some reason, Butterbean kept coming back to that one detail.

“BUT THE SCRUFF?” Butterbean was shocked.

“That’s so undignified,” Oscar said, clicking his beak in disgust.

“Tell me about it,” Walt said dryly.

“Wait, though.” Butterbean was still trying to process everything. “You mean the SCRUFF OF YOUR—”

“YES, BEAN!” Walt snapped. It wasn’t an experience she liked reliving over and over. She took a deep breath. “Look, it sounds worse than it was.”

“Oh sure,” a voice came from the vent. “Looked pretty bad to me. But what do I know? I’m just the one who rescued her.” The white cat stepped out into the living room and looked around appraisingly. “So this is where you guys live, huh? More personal touches than the other place, I’llgive you that. Kind of shabby chic. Emphasis on the shabby.” She sniffed Mrs. Food’s end table and curled her lip.

“Walt,” Oscar whispered. “What’s she doing here?”

Walt held up a paw at him.“Rescued is a pretty strong word, cat,” Walt said, lashing her tail indignantly. “And didn’t someone once say it was rude to stick your head inside someone’s apartment uninvited?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” the white cat said. “Besides, what’s the big deal? I don’t see any humans around.”

“That’s not the point,” Walt said, the fur on her neck bristling.

“I think what Walt’s trying to say is WHY ARE YOU HERE?” Oscar said, hopping closer and eyeing the white cat carefully. “Surely we’re not disturbing your vocal exercises all the way down here?”