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Nakayla, Cory, and Shirley sold out all the tickets; Hewitt Donaldson and Jerry Wofford landed as many sponsors as the event could handle; Angela Douglas and Collin McPhillips delivered on their promise of media promotion; Molly Staton and Lenore Carpenter booked buses and coordinated volunteers; and Tom Peterson worked city hall to get the necessary permits.
    I hit up my friend, Nathan Armitage, for communications equipment and some off-duty guards from his company. Nathan owned Armitage Security Services and provided radios of law-enforcement caliber for all transportation vehicles and guides. Nathan agreed to man our base at Pack Square while Hewitt and Tom Peterson drove backup vans that circulated along the route.
    Peterson joined the conversation. “I didn’t see Molly before I went mobile.”
    â€œDoes she have a cell phone?” Hewitt Donaldson’s question boomed from the receiver with surprising clarity.
    â€œShe should,” Peterson said. “Her friend Lenore must have the number. But Lenore’s in costume. I doubt if she’ll have her phone with her.”
    Lenore Carpenter was stationed at the Grove Park Inn, one of Asheville’s most famous and distinctive resorts with a history of guests including Harry Houdini, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and presidents from Woodrow Wilson to Barack Obama. One unknown guest had long overstayed. Known only as The Pink Lady, she roams the inn as a misty, spectral shape, the ghost of a young woman who plunged to her death in the Palm Court Atrium in the nineteen twenties. Her identity remains a mystery, but her eerie presence has been sighted for over ninety years. Whenever she does check out, she’s going to have a hell of a hotel bill.
    â€œI’m parked in the Grove Park lot. I’ll see if I can find Lenore in the hotel,” Peterson said.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “Meanwhile, if the first bus shows up before I hear from you, I’ll tell my tale and summon whomever or whatever I can from beneath the bridge.”
    â€œMaybe you’ll get the real Helen, Sam,” Peterson said. “That would create terrific publicity for the cause.”
    â€œNathan, who’s on the first bus?” I asked.
    â€œNakayla’s the host. Angela and Collin are riding along to get some photographs of Helen’s first appearance for Angela’s article. If Molly hasn’t arrived, they can stick around until she gets there. I’m not sure how successful you’re going to be with this first group anyway.”
    â€œWhy’s that?”
    Nathan’s voice tightened as he tried to stifle a laugh. “They don’t speak English.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHewitt sold a block of tickets to UNC-Asheville and so you’ve got a university mini-coach heading your way with twenty Japanese students on a cultural exchange program. But, they have an interpreter and I’m sure he can translate ‘Helen, come forth!’ with the same dramatic zeal you proclaim it.” Nathan clicked off his transmit button but not before his laugh was broadcast to everyone on the team.
    I shouted up to the bridge, “Molly! Molly, come forth!” No answer. Molly could have parked her car farther up the mountain where I wouldn’t have seen her, but the plan was for her to check in with me at the base of the bridge.
    I directed my flashlight beam over my head. Mist descended from under the arch high above me. I felt the dampness penetrate my overalls and I feared the rain predicted for after midnight might be moving in early. The deteriorating weather might add to the spooky atmosphere, but a downpour would be a disaster for the walking tour through Asheville and the food and beverage vendors along the route.
    There was no sense waiting out in the open when I could be warm and dry in the car. I walked thirty yards down the slope to the turnout spot where Nakayla and her group would meet me. I started the Honda