"Darling, what a clever outfit."

The speaker, who guarded the door to the party area, wore an expansive, red-velvet medieval gown. Her gigantic cone hat wobbled and threatened to topple over as she ran a dubious glance over Trace's costume, a hooded brown cloak with a mask that left nothing visible of her face but the eyes, outlined in glowing orange.

The woman mustered a smile that probably wasn't any more forced than the several hundred others she'd already conjured. She studied Trace's invitation with almost insulting care before she touched Trace's arm and invited her to join the festivities.

"Do come in and enjoy yourself."

Trace nodded, although enjoyment wasn't high on her agenda for the evening, and moved to the side of the room where she could scan the other guests. Her ghostly companion perched on a table beside her and crossed his legs.

'Darling, what a clever outfit,' the ghost mimicked. "Clever? I'll bet she hasn't seen Star Wars even once. Wouldn't know a Jawa if it bit her on the leg."

"I wonder what she made of him, then." Trace nodded toward a tall, well-built man in a Boba Fett suit and helmet. He was talking with an overweight Robin Hood.

"The knight in rusty armor's got a funny nose?" the ghost suggested, while checking out the room himself. In a ballroom crowded with a couple of hundred people that took a while. "Oh, oh, look over there," the ghost said. "That Little Red Riding Hood will have every big bad wolf in the place running for cover. Whoa, and check it out: Mr. Mayor and wife as Dorothy and the Tin Man. Watch out for flying monkey business."

"Enough," Trace said. The combined aromas of food, drinks and too many different, expensive fragrances rolled over her and made her dizzy. "Just point me toward this guy you want me to find and let's get this over with."

"Give me a break," the ghost pleaded. "I haven't been out in company for a while. Can't I enjoy myself a little?"

"You can enjoy yourself all you want--after we've delivered your message. You were the one said we wouldn't have much time, that he'd leave before the midnight unmasking. It's after ten now. So point this guy, Jeff, out to me."

"Can't do. And, hey, I'm not the one who made us late, the one that kept vacillating about coming."

"What do you mean, 'can't do?' You said we'd come here and find him, deliver the message and leave. I thought I made it clear how I feel about affairs like this."

"Something about shoveling out the barn with a tablespoon, as I recall," the ghost muttered. "Party pooper."

"Only when I get blackmailed into attending. Why can't you find him?"

The ghost slid out of the way of a woman preparing to set her drink down on the table. "A bit more observation, darling. Halloween party--costumes, masks..."

"Oddly, I had noticed. I just thought you might recognize him, even in costume. So how do we find him?"

"Start talking," the ghost suggested. "Half the people here would know him. And his voice is distinctive, even if his face is hidden."

"What am I supposed to say? Hello, have you seen Jeff Stanton lately? You know, the guy they tried for murder last year? The one they didn't have enough evidence to convict? Oh, and, by the way, if you run into Jack the Ripper, I'd love to have a word with him, too."

The ghost shook his head. "Small talk, love. Surely you've heard of it?"

"Heard of. Have no talent for."

He sighed. "Start with 'Hi, how are you?'"

"Got that part. It's the next line, after he says, 'fine,' and we both agree that the weather's great but the lawn needs rain, that I have trouble with."

"Look." The ghost pointed to a man standing near the bar. "Right there. Someone you can tackle. He's looking for company. Get over there and work him."

The ghost gave her a gentle push toward the slightly overweight Robin Hood, now standing by himself. Trace wondered what that move looked like to anyone else watching. Then her mind shut down, as it always did when confronted with the need to make conversation with a stranger.

"Er... Hello," she ventured.

The man, early middle-aged but still attractive, turned a charming grin on her. "Hello, yourself. How are you this evening?"

"Er... fine. And you?"

"Great. Enjoying the party. Are you?"

"I guess," Trace said. "Are you here by yourself?"

The man looked momentarily nonplused, then shrugged and admitted, "No. My wife's around here somewhere. Maid Marian, of course."

"Oh. Well, I'm not either. But I'm looking for someone. Jeff Stanton. You know him?"

The man looked even more surprised. "Certainly. Doesn't everyone? After that unfortunate incident last year?" His eyes narrowed. "You're not a reporter, are you?"

Trace flinched. "Good heavens, no."

"Good. The media made such a circus of the trial. And the papers had him convicted before they'd even seated the jury."

"You think he's guilty?"

The man shrugged. "Self-defense. The way I figure it, Bellwood--the partner--was conning him, so he tried to confront him, threatened to expose the con. Bellwood tried to stop him. Stanton shot him in self-defense. It's the kind of thing Bellwood would have done. Always out to make a fast buck." He nodded several times to affirm his theory. "Papers got hold of it, though, and twisted it all around." He looked up suddenly. "Oh, there's my wife. Better go. Good luck finding Stanton."

"Thanks."

Trace turned and realized the ghost was right behind her.

"That... We'll see who's conning who," the ghost muttered.

"He wasn't much help locating the guy," Trace said.

"You weren't exactly smooth in your approach there either, sweetie," the ghost answered. "'Are you here by yourself?'" He rolled his eyes. "Ever heard of subtlety?"

"Same answer as small talk. Heard of, can't do."

"Practice, practice," the ghost suggested.

"Just makes me tired."

"All right, we'll go for a female this time. There's your next target." He pointed to a weedy-looking, gray-haired matron in an elaborate floor-length dress that could have qualified her as any number of fantasy characters.

Trace drew a deep breath as she walked over. The woman struggled to balance an hors d'oeurves-laden plate on top of a glass, presumably so she could wipe off a spot of food on her chin.

"Can I help you with that?" Trace was already reaching for the plate before the woman nodded assent.

"Thank you so much."

Trace held her plate and took the glass as well, leaving the woman free to mop up.

"Always so awkward juggling these things. I'm Arlene Mayfair, by the way."

Trace introduced herself, then discovered that she needn't worry about making conversation. Arlene handled the job, asking about Trace's family, friends, job, home, hobbies and history in rapid-fire order. Almost twenty minutes of conversation passed before Trace was able to steer it in the direction she wanted to go. "I'm looking for a friend of a friend here tonight," she said. "I have a message for him. Do you know Jeff Stanton? Have you seen him?"

Arlene Mayfair's face steeled. "Know him? Of course, I do. Poor boy. After that unfortunate affair last year, I suppose everyone in town knows him. They railroaded him, you know. Personally I think the police were so eager to get the crime solved they planted all the evidence on the most convenient suspect, just so they could say they'd solved it."

"You think so? Have you seen him tonight?"

"I talked to him just half an hour ago. Such a strange costume he-- Thomas!"

An older man joined them. From the tone of the greetings, Trace could tell they hadn't seen each other for some time. She hesitated to intrude on their joyful reunion and retreated.

"Better," the ghost said when they were out of earshot. "But you could have pushed a little harder for an identification of Jeff."

"Maybe later. Are you sure you don't see him?" Trace asked.

The ghost shrugged. "Probably looked straight at him several times, but didn't recognize him. How much time have we got?"

"Twenty minutes. More or less."

"Shoot. Better tackle someone else. Right there. Him."

Trace sighed. The thirty-something in the blatantly sexy native American costume, which left most of his gym-honed chest on display, was the type most likely to tie her tongue in knots. "I can't."

"You can."

"I don't have a clue what to say."

The ghost sighed this time. "I'll try to help."

"Just keep it discreet," Trace begged. She approached the half-naked savage and said, "Hi."

"Hello." His tone dripped cool curiosity and interest. "Having a good time tonight?"

She shrugged. "Not yet. Maybe when I find the person I'm looking for."

"Oh? Got someone special in mind or are you taking applications?"

"Er..."

The ghost whispered in her ear. "Had someone in mind, but I'm open to all possibilities. We might be talking multiple slots available here."

She repeated, "Had someone in mind, but I'm open to all possibilities. We might be talking multiple slots available here."

His curiosity devolved into a near-leer. "So. What are your requirements?"

"Um..."

"Test," the ghost prompted.

"You've got to pass the test. Answer a couple of questions."

"Should be do-able. Run them by me."

"For starters, do you know Jeff Stanton?"

Surprised chased both curiosity and interest off his face. "Stanton? What do you want with him? He's slime."

"No he's not!" the ghost protested.

She ignored the ghost's outrage. "He is?"

"Are you new to the area, or did you just get out of the convent? He killed his partner a couple of years ago. In cold blood."

"I thought the jury acquitted him."

"Technicalities. All technicalities. He was guilty."

"How do you know?"

"Listened to the news. Read the papers. Did the math," the psuedo-Indian said.

"Failed the test," the ghost whispered.

Trace decided that line wasn't meant to be repeated. "Have you seen him here tonight?"

"Sure. A friend of mine talked to him just a little while ago."

"Can you point him out to me?"

"Is this part of the test? What do I get for passing?"

"Advance to another level, maybe." She tried to make it sound flirtatious and inviting.

"In that case... You see the guy over there in the Star Wars costume?"

Trace followed the line made by his finger. "I see a Luke Skywalker, an Obi Wan Kenobi and a very unconvincing Darth Vader."

"To the right of Darth Vader. The bounty hunter, I can't remember his name."

"Boba Fett. That's him?"

"That's him."

"I'll be darned," she muttered, almost under her breath. "Thanks."

She glanced at her watch. Five minutes to midnight. She turned and headed toward the figure in the odd helmet, presuming the ghost would follow.

"Jeff Stanton?" she asked when she was almost beside him.

The helmet limited his peripheral vision. His head swung around toward her. "Yes." The voice was muffled but still had the distinctive tone the ghost had mentioned--a brittle, gritty undercast. "Why?"

"I have a message for you. From a friend."

He hesitated for the length of several heartbeats. "Who?"

"David Bellwood."

He stiffened and bent his head toward her. She couldn't see anything of his face, not even the eyes, but there was no mistaking the menace in his stance. "If this is a joke, I hope you were an innocent dupe and not party to it," he said. "I don't have much patience left."

"Not a joke. I'm not kidding. Not crazy, either, though you may wonder when you hear what I've got to say. For a while I wasn't sure about my own sanity. It's his ghost--"

The music stopped suddenly and a bell clanged. "Midnight, everyone," a platinum-blond matriarch proclaimed from the microphone on the band dais.

Laughs and cheers erupted as people removed masks. Trace threw back the hood of her robe and removed the black mask over her face. She finger-combed her brown hair back into place.

After a few minutes' hesitation, Stanton took off the helmet, revealing a youngish, careworn face topped by short-clipped blond hair. "I wasn't planning to be here for this," he said. "No one wants to see my face."

"Actually, I don't mind it," Trace said. "It's not bad."

"Oh, dear, there goes that tact thing again," the ghost whispered from behind her.

"Shut up," Trace told him, then had to hastily apologize to Stanton. "Not you. Your friend's ghost. He's being a pain in the neck."

"That sounds like David, all right. But, if he's here, why won't he show himself to me?"

"Can't," the ghost answered. "Not a case of 'showing oneself.' A person sees and hears me or he doesn't. You can," he said to Trace. "Most can't. Pass it on to him. Remind him he still owes me a fiver for the bet on the Super Bowl two years ago."

Trace relayed his words to Stanton. When she got to the part about the bet his eyes narrowed. "How did you know about that? No one else..."

"He told me."

Stanton shook his head, but he was wrestling with it. "What was the message?" he asked after a few minutes of silent debate.

"Actually he wanted to ask a question first."

The man's eyebrows rose but he shrugged and said, "Go ahead."

"About a week before David's death, someone came to you and told you that he was shaky on some of David's investments. Who was it?"

Suspicion flashed across Stanton's face again. "What is it you want, lady? Who put you up to this?"

"Remind him that he thought Elway couldn't pull it off," the ghost said.

Trace reminded him. Stanton sighed and said, "Okay. Let me think a minute."

The ghost shook his head. "Tell him to think quick. People will be leaving soon."

She didn't have to, though. Stanton came up with the answer.

"Marshall. Sam Marshall. I wasn't sure what had gotten into him, so I ignored it."

"So, it was Marshall," the ghost muttered. "Tell him about the file," he urged Trace.

"He said to tell you to look in the file marked 'rejects.' You'll find a good reason for Marshall to want to kill him."

Stanton's brown eyes almost burned a hole through her, but he wasn't really seeing her. "Do you know what it is?"

"Proof," the ghost said. "Marshall was gambling with money that wasn't his."

"I hope you're right about that," Stanton said after Trace relayed the information. "It would explain a few things."

"Look, he's leaving." The ghost pointed to a group of people heading for the door.

"So?" Trace asked. "Who's leaving?"

"Marshall. Tell Jeff to try to have a word with him."

"Why?" Stanton asked her.

"I don't know, that's just what he said," Trace answered.

"What do I say?" Stanton asked.

"Ask Marshall whether he's straightened out the O'Connor estate," the ghost suggested.

Stanton looked a bit dazed once she'd relayed the request, but he didn't argue it. With Trace and the ghost right behind him, he pushed his way through the crowd heading for the door, until he was close enough to call out, "Sam? Sam Marshall?" and have the man stop and turn to face him.

Trace recognized the first man she'd talked to that evening, the attractive middle-aged Robin Hood who was there with his wife. She didn't see any wifely-looking types nearby.

"You knew," she said to the ghost. "You pushed me toward him, when you knew he was probably the man who'd killed you."

"So? He wasn't likely to do anything to a young woman he'd never met before in front of two hundred-plus witnesses."

"Still, you might have warned me."

The ghost managed a crooked grin. "You fumbled that whole thing badly enough, love. Think what you'd have done if you'd known about him."

"Not a good excuse," she told him.

"All in the cause of justice," the ghost responded.

Meanwhile, Jeff Stanton had apparently passed the ghost's words on to Marshall. Trace turned back toward them in time to see Marshall go deathly pale. "What do you know about the O'Connor estate?" he asked Stanton.

"All I need to."

Marshall's next word was barely a whisper, and he struggled to get it out. "How?"

"Found some things in my late partner's files."

"But he said--" Marshall stopped abruptly and his eyes widened in surprise. He clutched at his chest. "He couldn't have. I made sure--" The man collapsed suddenly, folding up like an abandoned puppet.

A number of people noticed as he fell and several knelt to help while others stood around and gawked. Stanton backed away, taking Trace's arm to pull her gently along with him.

"What happened?" she asked. "Did he--?"

"Looked like a heart attack to me," Stanton answered. "Did he know that would happen?"

"Can't predict the future," the ghost answered. "Can't say I'm mourning for him, either."

Stanton's brown eyes showed more mixed emotions. "I don't know how I feel about it yet. I think I'm in shock, too." He looked at Trace. "I don't even know your name."

"Trace Handley. Theresa Handley to be precise, but I like Trace better."

"Trace," he acknowledged. "Why did you do this? What do you get out of it?"

"I just bought your late partner's townhouse from his estate. I don't like sharing it with him. He said if I'd come here and deliver this message, he'd be able to move on and leave me in peace."

Stanton's eyebrows rose and a smile broke across his face as he studied her face. The look in his eyes suggested he liked what he saw. "Let's get out of here," he said. "You mind coming with me to look for this file? I want to find out exactly what's in it. And I'd like to know a bit more about your... relationship with my late partner."

Trace thought about it, turned it over in her mind a couple of times, considered the dangers as well as the attractions, and said, "All right."

Behind her the ghost said, "good-bye." She turned toward him in time to see his form thin out and fade. Just before he disappeared completely, he said, "Don't put too much money into redecorating the condo. I don't think you'll be there all that...."