2022-03-28 - Shanamarie Almost Got Married

It's crime time! Staring Scooby and the gang! Or just the gang, really. Part of the gang, anyway. Ava sent out a few texts to see who might show up for a little breaking and entering to start the afternoon. At the moment, she's sitting on a bench, looking cozy in a sweater and pair of slack, with a sensible heeled pair of boots. No sharp stilettoes for crime, apparently, this isn't a movie. She's looking over something on her phone, pinching the screen in and out to make the shot different sizes and she looks whatever it is over. It's probably photos from yesterday.

Ravn Abildgaard turns up not long after; black jeans, windbreaker, gloves, boots -- either his breaking and entering outfit is the same as his outfit for most other things or he doesn't think Ava meant it literally. He walks with easy strides towards the park bench and plops himself down on the other end of it. He's smoking a cigarette as he walks; a habit that he only endorses in outdoors, and which he's very well aware is a Bad Idea(tm), for an asthmatic. He's prone to saying, something needs to kill him.

"So, how many suspicious silhouettes that might be someone in a top hat if you squint?" It's a greeting of a sorts, and no doubt it pertains to the photos taken at Addington House. Maybe the ones from the basement in particular.

Una's answer was a prompt and enthusiastic 'yes' that she may have since felt some hesitation over-- but maybe that's just nervousness and apprehension, and nothing so serious that she's not inclined to show. Yesterday's black clothes have been repurposed, or perhaps it's just she's gone for similar hues; at least it makes her less eye-catching than some of her generally-preferred bright colours.

The redhead chains her bicycle up on a convenient railing, then stuffs her hands into the pockets of her jacket and takes an ambling approach towards Ava and Ravn, both easily picked out amidst the afternoon park-users: the joggers, the yummy mummies with their prams, the dog walkers. She's slower to arrive, though not by much, visible in her approach soon after Ravn sits.

Ava chuckles. "There's been quite a few interesting shadows in my pictures so far. I mostly took pictures of documents, but the ones I took of the whole place and how it was organized? The shadows are everywhere. I do wish I could have gotten one of them to really talk to me, though. I am thankful to whoever helped me with that photo of Michael. That was very nice of them." Ava flickers through the photos to move to the picture she took of the photo.

Spotting Ava, she lifts the hand not hold the phone in order to wave and gesture her over. "Hey, we're just looking at photos from yesterday before we go do that mail run." Subtle.

Ravn crosses one leg over the other and raises a hand in a lazy wave to Una as she draws up. He takes a breath and then lets smoke curl out in a small white cloud rising from his mouth in the chilly spring sunshine. "Maybe it's better that they didn't. Rosencrantz isn't wrong about not wanting them to get involved. There's something I wanted to add to that, but I did not want to say that at Addington House."

He glances at his hand, cigarette and all. "It sounds crazy, but it's really kind of the essence of the feud between those two families. Long story short and messy -- something happened in the 19th century, and it affected both families. When a Baxter dies, the thin spot heals a bit. When an Addington dies, it opens. The Addingtons drew their power and built their fortune on power gained from the other side and believe me, I'm afraid to even speculate about what kind of Devil's bargain that was. There's a lot of bad things gone down on that account -- trying to 'balance' the size of the rift, the very hard way. So you definitely don't want their ghosts to get ideas about using people the same way they themselves were used. Does that make sense?"

"If Addingtons die, does that opening of the thin spot mean more power for us?" wonders Una, approaching behind the bench so that she can lean in over Ava and get a look at the picture up on her phone. She braces herself against the bench, two hands holding herself there.

Maybe she realises, a moment later, what she's just said, and what it could imply, and hastily adds: "That's idle academic curiosity, mind. Just trying to understand how it works, not... not for a moment suggesting anything else, I swear, holy shit no."

Ava gestures for Una to plop herself between her and Ravn. There's a little laughter at her comment, however. "I don't think either of us imagined you going on an Addington murder spree in order to obtain more power, don't worry." She squints at Ravn. "Well, I wasn't. You never know with this one." Granted, maybe they shouldn't be talking about Addington murder sprees in the Park. Considering.

"You're basically saying, don't make deals with Addington ghosts who might try to use me like they used themselves. Which is very good advice. I don't want to be used to screw up the natural balance like that. What I was offering them was more like, helping take care of certain things they wanted done certain ways that weren't taken care of since their death. Not, joining a weird Addington cult mentality."

"That's pretty much what I'm saying, yes. To remember that they had an agenda while they were alive, and if someone doesn't give a whiff about doing awful things while alive, they probably don't care in death, either. Ask Conner about the haunted carousel sometime -- he knows more about than I do. But even I can tell you that at some point between a few years back and the 19th century, the Addingtons had a habit of killing Baxters and then running their souls through the spiritual equivalent of a woodchipper, to prevent them from passing on and closing the rift. So, no -- definitely not something to be taken lightly." Ravn shakes his head. "And no surprise, either, that most people don't want to talk about it. I don't even really want to talk about it, and I'm definitely not related to either."

He smiles a little, as if making an attempt to lighten the mood. "But, yes. We may be ready to break a window or a pick a lock for the sake of curious minds -- and that's as far as I will go, too."

Una accepts the invitation, drawing herself back up from the back of the bench so that she can cross around, and sit between the two. She's silent as she does so, her attention caught by the distant carousel: she stares at it, digesting what has been said.

"It's pretty fucked up," she agrees, finally. "And that means I'm not surprised people don't want to talk about it. I'm glad to hear we're agreed: broken windows, no broken souls. It's nice to know that our willingness to break socially accepted rules only go so far."

It would definitely come across more light and cheerful if her tone were less intense.

Ava glances towards the carousel. "He told me a little bit. That the horses sometimes help children. That they're stuck in their, the souls. That he talks to them and helps get the poles out of their back every now and then because that's all they really want." She looks sad for a moment. "It made me wish I could help. But that's not my gift. I'm just glad that even with how sad it is, there's something out there that helps children."

There's a sigh, and a frown at the mention of a soul woodchipper. "That's horrendous. But yeah, like Una said, broken windows, not broken souls. Those are two very different things. I'm trying to protect people, not gain power for myself."

"Yeah, The animals come alive, sometimes. Something happened here once -- connected to the feud too, I'll bet you my right arm. I haven't managed to find out what yet. Because people don't want to talk about it." Ravn glances towards the carousel as well.

He shakes his head, dismissing memories of being shouted down by an animated carousel horse, about asking a mob hitman for help hiding the stolen plastic eyes of carousel animals lest the manticore come alive and eat people. This town, that's what it does -- fills you with enough stories that if you try to tell them, you sound like a one way ticket to the nearest padded cell.

"Right. So, our objective is getting into the post office. I don't think that'll be hard -- it doubles as a tourist's office, so getting into the public bit is just walking in through the front door. Getting access to anything out back is the trick -- so maybe we should agree on what we're looking for?"

Now? Now Una is really staring at the carousel, and not in a way that suggests 'ooh, I want to get closer and take a look at that', oh no. "Carousels are supposed to be good places," she grouses. "Not full of trapped souls."

But, well. This is Gray Harbor. What more can you expect, really?

"Okay, yes. The post office. It's kind of hard to know, isn't it? Without knowing what's in there."

"It is a good place. It's a safe place for the children. Especially the ones who have nowhere else to turn to." Ava pats Una's hand softly. "I know what you meant, but sometimes, you have to try to look at it positively or you'll lose your mind. That's what my dad says."

"Yeah, we have no idea what's left of whatever was there in the first place. It could be an empty room for all we know. It could be a room that looks like the Addington's basement. It could be like some strange council chamber filled with magical tomes never before having seen the light of day, bum bum bum," she offers dramatically. "Until we're in there, I have no idea. I kind of just want to see what there /is/ and what's needed. What's left? You know. Do we need to start from scratch or is there a great set of ledgers in there that I can take and go over and be like, hey! Now we know what we're doing."

"I'll bet you a round of coffee at the Patisserie that we'll find a perfectly normal meeting area with a kitchen and some shelves of old ledgers and binders, maybe some dilapidated computer with a database that hasn't been updated since 2004." Ravn chuckles and puts his cigarette out. "And it'll all look perfectly normal, and give us no answer as to what the Historical Society actually did. That's how it works, after all -- things get revised back to looking perfectly normal and plausible. The Historical Society was just a handful of local women getting together for lunch and gossip every now and then. If they ever were anything else, we'll likely never know until we manage to get in touch with one of them."

He stands and stretches his legs. "Still think we should go take a look. And then maybe work out who to bribe at City Hall, to take it over. Here's ambitious young Dr Brennon, pillar of the community, wanting to invest in Gray Harbor. You said it yourself, you come from money. Own that a bit, they'll be delighted to hand it over -- anything to increase the town's attraction levels for tourists."

Una nods, but doesn't comment further on the carousel. Nor, by her expression, is she entirely convinced.

"Probably," she grouses, turning her attention away from the carousel, and back to something more normal: oh look, a nice, standard tree. With a nice, standard dog peeing up against it. Perfect. "Nothing's ever as straight forward as 'break into this place, find answer placed conveniently in the middle of a table, along with a nice note and a coupon for dinner'. But-- yeah. We need to look. And then, yes, City Hall."

Beat. "Remind me, this time, if obfuscation is required, I leave it to you two: simple, effective cover stories, and if all else fails, bribe money."

Ava frowns. "I know that you're probably right, Ravn, but can't you leave me a little bit of hope? Come on, man. It's hard to have a Historical Society without the Historical. But yeah, I'm sure we can do some sweet talking and maybe some bribing down at City Hall. I know a lot of the folks down there, anyway, thanks to their occasional bureaucratic needs and my special skillset.

"Una, the way you were playing Vicky like a fiddle yesterday, I think you have more skills than you give yourself credit for, honestly.

"Hope? In this town, hope is something we make, not something we're given." Ravn smirks slightly; it's not called the HOPE Centre for nothing (Harbor Outreach for Partnership Employment, whatever, HOPE). Gloved hands go in pockets and he nods towards Una -- and then Ava, at her response. "Suggest we keep it simple. Ava's a known face in town even if she's been gone for a couple of years. I'm known in at least some circles, thanks to HOPE. Should be able to pull off that we're looking into the Society and local tourism, because we hope to create jobs."

He smirks. "After all, half this town's shopkeepers and half of city hall runs away from me if they see me first, lest I start asking them if they feel up for helping poor Joe or Mac get something on his C. V. besides jail time and rehab."

"Vicky-- she's not so hard, if you speak her language a bit," insists Una, though she's clearly pleased by the compliment.

"Right. That makes perfect sense," she continues, standing up and wiping down her ass (the bench is not really that damp, but it's the principle of the thing: it could be, and therefore, that needs to be removed post-haste). "We have perfectly legitimate reasons to be interested, and it's not as if the Historical Society is some super secret society, illuminati-style. In fact, if it is as innocuous as all that, there's really absolutely no reason to keep us out at all."

"I was gone a year and a half, and my dad is still in town, at least. I can always ask him to pull some strings if I need to in order to make it happen." Ava gives a little bit of a shrug. "People love him. Not as much as they loved my mom, but still." She rises, sweeping a hand down her slacks before nodding to the pair. "Nice and simple, then? Hopefully that'll be enough to get us in."

"The simple lie is always the best. It requires less coordination and less remembering what you lied about." Ravn's murmur is casual enough, and definitely does not invite any further speculations as to what he might go around about lying about any old day. "I probably lost my own potential to boss people around at City Hall when it became clear that I am in fact not dating Hyacinth Addington," he grouses. "For a while, at least, I certainly got sent to the front of the queue at the DMV, you know?"

He starts walking, nice and casual, towards the old Post Office building in all its one-level, somewhat tired looking Victorian glory. It's not difficult to imagine what it must have looked like back in its day, when Gray Harbor was transitioning from a lumber town of settlers and frontiersmen finding work at the new saw mill. As always, thinking back in time makes him dizzy in that isn't this fantastic? way that made the Dane pursue historical studies in the first place. Just a decade after the Civil War. Half this town must have looked like the ramshackle wooden facades of an old Western still; and the other half, brick and glass, trying to look like Boston or Philadelphia or New York.

Sometimes he remembers how young this country is, and that makes him dizzy, too.

"Simple," repeats Una, in a way that suggests she's taking mental notes on this. 'Dear self, next time you try and make something up, go for something simple and easy, check'. "Ah, of course. In this life, and in particular, in this town, it's all about the name. Having it, or dating it. Go figure."

She falls silent as she follows Ravn towards the Post Office building. It's not a place she's paid much attention to, before now, though this time she's studying it in a way that suggests she's eager to track down every detail. "I wonder what it was like," she murmurs, finally. "Back when the town was new." It's an unconscious mirroring of Ravn's thoughts, verbalised somewhat hesitantly. "Back when my asshole ancestor was wandering around. And the Addingtons, and the Baxters, and_everything_."

"I think it was safer for your health to not lie about dating Hyacinth, though, right? Imagine if she'd found out you were using her name like that to get special treatment around town? Would that really be worth it? Not from the rumors I've heard about her." Ava smirks a little at that. "Not even for shorter lines at the DMV."

"Una. Darling. Dearest. Sweet one. You realize that right now you are manifesting into the universe something that's probably going to haunt us later, right? If we end up in the past in a Dream one of these days, I'm blaming you. I'm just saying that right now. I mean, I love you. But I'm blaming you." The old Post Office building is nothing new to her, but she's still seeing it in a new light at this moment.

"I'd have preferred to actually date her," Ravn says, tone neutral. "And if she'd stayed in town, I like to think that I would have. But whether her business dragged her away, or there's some kind of strange going on, I don't know, and I never may. She's been out of sight since sometime since last fall, so I doubt anyone would think we're an item given that I'm here."

The Post Office is just over there at the edge of the park. It has that sleepy air to it that will seem so familiar from towns like Gray Harbor anywhere: Spring has only just arrived and the tourist season does not officially begin for another month. There's probably someone in there assigned to cleaning up things and filing things and chasing out the proverbial (and in case of Gray Harbor, possibly quite literal) bats for the summer. But the windows aren't yet full of fresh posters and flyers, advertising wondrous things to come. Those are still at the print shop.

And standing in front of the Post Office is a rather plain blonde pale white woman in her mid thirties, her hair cut into a layered bob that's high in the back. Her nose is rather prominent, and her eyes are a muddy shade of hazel. She wears a bright red shade of lipstick and is wearing at least one pair of false eyelashes that are... slightly better than dollar store. She wears a smart blazer that looks like it's seen a lot of use, a matching skirt, and low sensible heels with dark hose. She's holding a briefcase in one hand, and when she smiles at the group, it's clear that her teeth cost a pretty penny.

"Well howdy there. I understand you're here to do a tour of the Historical Society, is that right?" her voice has a distinct nasal tone and twang from the South, and makes her sound more welcoming and warm than she actually probably is.

Una's little shrug implies that she's not wholly against being dragged into a post-Civil War era Dream, though of course she's very likely to learn to regret that-- then then again, maybe not. You never can tell when it comes to Dreams. Nor does she comment on Ravn's one-time-never-actual relationship with Hyacinth Addington; not her business.

Instead, she seems more likely to comment on their destination, and has even gone so far as to open her mouth to do so, except-- except. She squints. She hesitates. She looks like she very much wants to say something, but didn't she just comment on leaving the talking to the experts? Saying the wrong thing here would clearly be a terrible thing.

"Here's hoping to her safe return, then," Ava offers with a hopeful smile for Ravn. "After I've taken over the Historical Society, though, if I can be a little greedy here. Maybe, like, the next day after it's official or whatever." It's supposed to be playful, clear from the sparkle in her eyes. Of course, then they're walking up on the blonde with the familiar Shine. Where has she seen that before?

The woman is vaguely familiar but Ava can't quite place it. "Yes ma'am, that'd be us." What the hell? She shoots a glances towards Una and Ravn.

"If Hyacinth comes back to town sometime, or comes out of her ivory tower and starts taking calls, whatever the case is -- I'd be very surprised if she isn't just glad to see someone care. She's the one who cued me in on the whole feud thing -- she tried to get Baxters and Addingtons talking, and let me assure you, that was one lunch date that had fireworks." Ravn chuckles at the memory.

Then he pauses. And his lip twitches as he looks the blond at the door up and down. "Why, yes, ma'am. We are definitely here for the tour."

"Well, idn't that wonderful? My name is Shanamarie Johnson, and I'm a realtor in the area and I'm just tickled pink to make sure we get you everything you need during this here tour." She tilts her head ever so slightly as Ravn seems to clue into what's going on, and suddenly the blonde's expression is very familiar.

She winks at Una and Ava. That is a vibrant shade of blue eyeshadow paired with a perfectly winged eyeliner. Perdita can't help herself, her wings are always sharp.

"Well, now, let's see if we can get this all ironed out for you. Since you're so interested in purchasing historical properties and fixing them up, Dr. Brennon, I don't see there being a problem with any old thang."

If that accent gets any more aggressively Southern, it's going to tackle someone and pour sweet tea down their throats. But damn, if it isn't believable.

It takes Una a moment. Well, no: it takes her several moments, and a glance at Ravn (and one at Ava, too, but the former is more illuminating than the latter), and even then there's probably a good chance she's not entirely placed Perdita as Perdita... but she has put some numbers together and reached a conclusion that is close enough: okay, someone else is on board with helping us, and whoever she is, she's familiar. Very familiar.

But really: winged liner aside, Perdita and Shanamarie don't exactly have a lot in common.

"Great!" she says. "We're so excited to see what's what."

There's a little headtilt, and Ava still can't quite place Perdita, but man was that expression super familiar. As Una glances towards her, Ava just gives the tiniest headshake to indicate that she has no idea. But don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Or in this case a gift realtor.

"I'm so grateful that you were able to take time out of your schedule today to help us with this. Making sure that Gray Harbor's beauty is maintained, without losing any of it's history is very important to me as a member of this town." Oh yes, her voice is loud enough to echo so that the workers inside can hear.

A few colourful brochures from last year's season sit around the windows still; the pirate one -- wait, that's a fishing safari, Dead Fish Tell No Tales -- draws the eye in particular, with pictures of the Bay in clear, sunny weather. And that's definitely a cod with an eyepatch and a cutlass.

The glass doors pull open easy enough; the place is open, in theory, all year around. Inside is a large, open area leading up to a half-wall behind which once sat tellers doing their jobs; now, presumably, the fine Victorian decor is preserved for posterity, but all you can get is a brochure and a tip about what hotel to sleep at -- the Grand Olympic if you want five star, the Seaview Suites for two star, and Mrs Potts on Spruce rents out airbnb on request.

The chandelier overhead is formidable. It does not at all match the pop music that drifts out from a door behind the half-wall; someone's left a radio on.

There's a self satisfied smile at Ravn from Ms. Shanamarie Johnson, Realtor©. "Oh, I'm always happy to help such a wonderful group in the community, here! This is such a pretty little town with such a unique history, you know, just the other day I was showing a house over on Bayside, not too far from the Addington House, and I was tellin' this couple how the area is really up and coming, you know, I think we've got the next Austin on our hands here!"

Shanamarie laughs, and the sound is somehow both forced and contagious at the same time. It must hurt to be so bubbly all the time. Shana lets Ravn open the door before she holds it open for the other ladies, ushering them all in after him. Notably, she doesn't touch the door, holding it open with her elbow, despite the fine white lace gloves she's wearing.

"I," pronounced more like 'ah', "will never get used to how beautifully this place has been kept over the years, I mean, just look at these floors, they did an amazing job restoring and maintaining them." she gushes, then leads the way toward the half way, already pulling out a business card for the poor sod who's got to deal with her.

"Hi there! Shanamarie Johnson with Gallery Manor Realty! My secretary Marcie told me ya'll would be expecting us for a tour of the building!" another one of those brilliant smiles. Perdita's got the role down, she doesn't even move like Perdita, there's a distinct lack of grace to her movements. Shanamarie bustles.

The interior of the place is perhaps not what Una expected, because she frowns, gaze hunting through the racks of brochures (and lingering only for a moment on the fishing safari), and then following Perdita-- sorry, Shanamarie Johnson -- towards the, indeed, 'poor sod'.

The redhead draws her shoulders back, and attempts to look-- what? Formal? The black at least helps with that, even if she's not particularly dressed for work. Perhaps a better way to describe it is that she attempts to look as if she belongs. Why yes, of course she's here to take a tour of the building; of course she has reason to be accompanying a realtor; of course.

"The floors are amazing," she agrees.

Going past a building all the time, and going into it are two very different things. You don't really have much of a reason to visit a really touristy spot when you live here your whole life, so it's been a really long time since Ava's set foot in the building. Since high school, perhaps, for a field trip. Her eyes drift curiously. It's changed since then.

Her heels click against the floor, chin up, shoulders back and stride flawless. She has that doctor's stride down as she approaches the desk near Perdita's side. She clearly looks like the one intending to be doing business, if there's business to be done. A brief smile touches her lips, head bobbing as she offers greetings to the folks at the counter.

There's a glance to the floor. "Oh yes. The fact that they were able to keep so much original detail is remarkable.

Po-po-po-pokerface blares the radio from somewhere out back, keeping up to speed with the present in the way that Gray Harbor tends to, i.e. about twenty years behind the rest of the world. Maybe it's having a laugh at Perdita's expense.

A door behind the registers opens up proper and a face appears; a man in his late fifties, early sixties, frumpy looking in a tweed suit that was no doubt very fashionable in 1974. He's wearing heavy rimmed glasses and apart from being a little cross-eyed, seems exactly like the kind of person who would apply for a job here because it's nice and quiet and no one comes in half the year round.

"Yes? Can I help you?" He does a visible double take at the -- all the -- Southern glory that's leading its posse towards himself. "Er, the place has been put up for sale? No one ever tells me anything. The nice ladies didn't say anything. Well, you'll like it, it's a very nice house!"

"Oh, my goodness, I can't believe they didn't tell you. I guess it's pretty hush-hush at the moment, you know how bureaucracy works." There's a sympathetic expression from Shanamarie. "Right now we're just here to tour the property and see if it's got what's needed, and then, well, you know how it is. Our people call their people, who call them, and information always gets lost in the exchange and suddenly it's three weeks later and nothing's been done still... But, uh... we do need to tour the property before any decisions can be made, isn't that right, Mister..." she holds out her card to him, smiling.

Una's got a bag slung over her shoulder and now? Now she hastily digs into it, pulling out a notebook and a pen. Both get opened, and the latter is used on the former: like a good little assistant, Una takes notes-- yes, the floors. Yes, the original details.

True, no one should actually look at her notes, because they're largely indecipherable and probably full of random swears, because, well, what's the fun in taking notes if you can't take ridiculous notes?

Still.

"Oh yes, it seems like a very nice place. It's charm can't be beat. That's why it has to be preserved as much as possible. It's part of why I'm pushing to make sure that someone local, like myself, gets the foot in the door first. You know how some folks from outside of town might come in, buy it and then just try to tear it down to build something new." Ava shudders at the thought. "Just terrible if you ask me. Our heritage is important. You seem like a man you understands. A man with taste." She nods sagely at him. Clearly he's smart. Just look at him!

"O'Shaughnessy," the frumpy little clerk replies to 'Shanamarie'. He blinks owlishly several times and then -- freezes up. It's almost painful to watch. One moment this prime specimen of Caucasian male pattern baldness is thrilled that someone is visiting and taking an interest in his historical building; the next he's realising that three out of four are wimmins and locking up in complete horror.

Maybe Ravn recognises something in that deer-in-headlights look (and if so, it's really not very flattering to him that he does, either). The Dane edges forward a bit and suggests, "Perhaps we might take a look around, Mr O'Shaughnessy? Anything of particular interest to the historically inclined? We were told the Historical Society meets here?"

"Mglp," says Mr O'Shaughnessy. Maybe it means yes. Maybe it means no. Maybe it means help I'm surrounded by attractive women and I need to get off this planet right now.

"Oh my goodness, O'Shaughnessy? Of the Boston O'Shaughnessies? My cousin's husband's mother is an O'Shaughnessy! Do you know Becky-Jean from Boston?" Shanamarie flashes another of those thousand watt smiles, then shakes her head and laughs, "Well I'm sure you do, Mr. O'Shaughnessy. I tell you what, you go ahead and get back to whatever hard work you were doin' and I'll make sure these three keep themselves out of trouble. You're a busy man, after all, I wouldn't want you to get in any trouble because of us!" she laughs again. This woman must make a killing in home sales. Or she would, if she were real.

"Now if you have any trouble with anything, you call that number and you let Marcie know Shanamarie said you get the VIP treatment, now. Thank you so much for all your help!" and then she's breezing away, turning to look up and examine the original brick work, and even pausing to admire the trim along the wall with a little gasp of delight. "Ooo, every time I see this place I get chills." she tells Ava, Una and Ravn with another of those big sharky smiles.

It's fair to say that Una has at least a small amount of sympathy for O'Shaughnessy: awkward people of the world unite. On the other hand, even she's not so kind that she can dismiss the likelihood that gender plays as much a role in this as anything-- and that's less cool. She fixes the man with an appraising stare, and then abruptly turns on her heel so that she can follow 'Shanamarie'.

O'Shaughnessy? He's been dismissed.

"We'll have to find a nice little shed somewhere for the visitors centre," she supposes, just loud enough for the sound to carry. "Somewhere much more obvious, so we can make sure to have so many more visitors. By next summer..."

Poor O'Shaughnessy, he never had a chance. But it's better for them that way, isn't it? No complaints here. "Well, I hope that's shivers of excitement and not shivers from a draft! We'd have to make sure all the insulation is up to date, of course," Ava states with a true air of someone truly interested in purchasing the building for it's intended purposes.

"Oh yes, a shed. Oh, that's a fabulous idea, Una." She positively beams.

Here Perdita is giving frumpy little O'Shaughnessy the full 100 Watt smile and for a moment it almost works. May be the 'VIP treatment' that goes over wrong. Might just be that his brain has stopped Englishing and all he's reading is boobs. Whatever it is, the man stares at the 'realtor' with an expression like a puppy dog that's just been promised a lifetime supply of bones and mailman shins. St Shanamarie of the Brilliant Smile.

He makes to leave, but doesn't. Instead, he trails after Perdita with an expression that makes it painfully clear that in O'Shaughnessy's mind he's being Available and Ready to Help and Making Himself Useful. To everyone else, it's called being that guy who stares at your chest in a creepy fashion while forgetting his words. On the up side, it means easy access to the tellers area and beyond. Watch him float after 'Shanamarie', ready to act on her simplest request. Or marry her, whatever comes first.

Gone are the days where tellers sat behind the half-wall, weighing letters and selling stamps, and even earlier, sending telegraphs. Now, there are crates of brochures from last season tucked under the desks, and the occasional post-it; remember to water the ficus (it's dead, Sally, someone forgot), paperwork of the sort you'd expect to find at a tourist office, menus from local restaurants and bars to be passed out on request.

Give it a week or three and the place will come alive with helpful seasonal workers fresh out of hibernation.

A backdoor leads towards what has no doubt once been a storage area for parcels and other paraphernalia. Since then it's been given a make-over and turned into a serviceable and actually quite pleasant meeting room. A few relics sit about -- a VCR machine, and an old overhead projector. A couple of shelves contain previous years' incarnations of brochures and hotel listings.

It's not hard to see why the Historical Society would not have the majority of its archives here. There's simply not enough space.

"Oh, now I bet I can help with that, let's see... there was this house that was built in the 80s that's already gone to you-know-what that just... well the city's gonna have to tear it down because of the," the next words are stage-whispered, "vermin infestation." she shivers, a little theatrically, "but it wouldn't be hard to get it down and then put up a nice little shed from somewhere like the one my last clients put out back for the mother-in-law suite! Got it all nice and renovated inside with its own AC unit and even a little toilet!" Shanamarie smiles again.

She knows O'Shaughnessy is following, but she's paying him no mind while also casually including him in her patter. "You could make it real nice, and not have to worry about all... this." she gestures to the building with a smile. "Much easier to clean a smaller visitor center, you know. A lot less work."

"Well, what a charming little storage area, but it's so little! This can't be all the paperwork ya'll have now, can it? I know I have to keep a ton of stuff in physical copies, and it just takes up so much space..."

"Sheds can be so nice these days," puts in Una, helpfully, flashing a bright smile of her own towards poor O'Shaughnessy (though she's already given her companions a more uncomfortable grimace, immediately once it becomes clear that they are not, in fact, to be left alone to do their business). "And so much less concern over whether someone is going to scratch the floor-- it is hardwood, isn't it? Lovely, but..."

"Oh," she adds, as she walks into the meeting room, striding straight all the way to the back and then turning upon her heel to glance back at the others. "It seems so much bigger... from the outside. Is there more?"

Of all the things that Ava might have been expecting, this was not it. This is probably worse than what she was expecting. There's a hint of disappointment etched across her features as her fingertips run across one of the desks in the room. "It is quite small. Though I imagine we should certainly do some redecorating to make the space seem a little bit larger. Or open things up a little somehow."

There isn't much she can say with their guest tagging along. She'll let Una and their wonderful realtor handle the sweet talk as she drifts around the room, looking at everything.

Nothing seems to deter Mr O'Shaughnessy from pursuing True Love around the room; the frumpy little man all but floats after Perdita, oddly reminiscent of a cartoon depicting somebody just shot by the arrows of Eros. He looks so adorably happy -- like a man who has spent his entire life in the dark and now sees the sun for the very first time.

Or maybe it's just that he is literally floating. Whelp.

If Ravn notices, he says nothing -- though that odd look the Dane shoots at the Irishman absorbed in Perdita's charms might suggest he's caught on to something. Maybe he doesn't want to discuss that in the man's presence, either.

Time to beat around the bush, then. "I don't suppose there is some kind of storage facility? There's no second floor but surely, the paperwork goes somewhere?"

It takes a few seconds for O'Shaughnessy to tear his attention off the 'realtor' long enough to actually reply, in an almost annoyed tone, "Well, we always just sent it all to City Hall or Addington House, depending."

Oh. Oh... Oh! Shanamarie manages to keep her startlement off her pretty-plain face as she notices O'Shaughnessy literally floating. She knows she isn't doing it, or he'd be floating back to his office and away from the group.

"Well, you know how it is, honey, they tell you it's sixteen acres but it's actually only five when it's cold out." Did... did Shanamarie just make a dick joke about land sizes.

"Oh! Mr. O'Shaughnessy! Why don't you show me your offices real quick. We can let them discuss decoratin' and all that fancy stuff. I'd love to see where the magic happens around here." the word magic is emphasized as she ever so casually glances down the man's legs to his floating freaking feet.

This is... fine.

The building is metaphorically building, but no, this is absolutely fine.

It's as Una turns to look at O'Shaughnessy that she, too, catches on to what's what. It shows in her expression just for a moment: the faintest widening of her eyes and tightening of her mouth, followed by a return to absolute blandness. She doesn't even blush at Shanamarie's comment, though surely she got it.

Another half turn upon her feet. "I'm sure we could knock out some of the walls, Dr Brennon. They can't all be heritage listed. It's just such a shame. I really thought this might do the job. A little bigger..."

Fingers tracing, eyes squinting. There's really nothing here at all that will help them and it's truly a let down. Ava sighs softly, pulled away from whatever thoughts are currently drifting through her head when Una is speaking out to her directly. "I imagine you're right. If we open the space up a little, figure out what might be allowed to be expanded, it could be much nicer." She offers a weak smile at the thought. It's a good idea. But she shares the thought on what a shame it is.

Of course, it's at that point she seems to notice the floating man. At least that seems to bring a flicker of amusement across her features. "Straight out of a cartoon right there. It's kind of cute."

O'Shaughnessy finally manages to find his words. "Yes," he breathes in a deep voice that he no doubt thinks is very seductive. "Why don't we go out back, my angel? We can talk about our future together."

There's something ominous in that; Ravn shoots Perdita a glance of concern. He trusts the grifter to handle herself just fine with some random shut-in getting handsy, but all rules are off when the random shut-in happens to be a ghost.

"Maybe we should stay together," he suggests with the casual air of I'm totally just Dr Brennon's assistant, no need to get jealous of me. "I think maybe we should go talk to somebody at City Hall as well. Imagine purchasing this place only to find out we also purchased the duty of dragging forty tons of old paperwork to the city dump."

"... You know, that's not a bad idea, we really should head down to city hall," pronounced 'hawl', "because I've got some paperwork I need to drop off to finish up the sale on my place. I'm headin' back to Texas in a few months, you know how it goes. You can take the girl outta the Lone Star State, but you can't take the Lone Star State outta the girl!" another of those laughs, sounding just a leeeetle more forced as Shanamarie smiles and starts making toward the door.

"You call Marcie now, and remember, you get the VIP treatment." she tells O'Shaughnessy, because the last thing she needs is a goddamn ghost, or whatever the hell he is, throwing a tantrum and not letting her leave before her prosthetic adhesive starts melting off.

Una scribbles something else into her notebook. It probably says something like 'no paperwork, fucking ghosts, <u>CITY HALL!!!</u>'

"Mm-hmm," she says, obnoxiously loud. "I don't want their old rubbish. No one wants their old rubbish. We want the building." Her gaze slides over poor dead O'Shaughnessy as it passes. She may just have dismissed him as rubbish, too; it's hard to tell.

"I've seen enough."

Ava, though? She gets a brief, quick nod, and a lingering glance. It's fine. This is fine. Not a dead end; just a redirection.

"I third this sentiment. Let us get this paperwork out of the way to make sure nobody get snap the building out from under me. The last thing we need is someone who will come in and tear the place down, right?" Ava gives a faint half smile towards Una. Yes. Fine. It's fine. It's just not great.

Meanwhile, she's moving to settle herself between their 'realtor' and the ghost, bodily, reaching out a hand to offer to shake his so that Shanamarie can get a little more distance towards the door while he's distracted. "Thank you so much for all of your help. You've been so wonderful. Once the place is purchased fully, I'm going to be relying on you to make sure we stay true to the nature of the building, yeah?" Distract distract.

The expression on O'Shaughnessy's face can best be described as heartbroken. It is dawning on him that his angel of music, laughter, sunshine and puppies is in fact about to turn around and leave. Something dark flits across his pudgy features and for a moment it feels like the lights are dimming. The building holds its breath and a few brochures left behind on the counters flit about as if moved by unseen winds.

Then he breathes out and slumps. "I guess. It was too good to be true."

And with the expression of a pitiful, hanging dog he -- fades.

Ravn on his end breathes out. "I suggest we -- don't dally."

There's something like sympathy from Shanamarie, well, Perdita, as the man fades once more, and she looks like she does want to dally... but knows she shouldn't. Unfinished business is always so difficult... but then she's heading for the exit, at pace, because one can be sympathetic while running the fuck away, too.

"Well... good luck with everything, Mr. O'Shaughnessy! We'll be in touch!" her accent is slipping, just a bit as she hurries, all but exploding out the door to the fresh air and the warmth of the day. And then she takes a deep breath, smooths down her bob and tugs her blazer back into the proper position and lets out another of those laughs, turning to look at her companions.

"Well. This city is just full of surprises, idn't it?"

Una-- soft-hearted Una-- looks genuinely appalled when O'Shaughnessy fades so, and even as she's on her quick walk out the door, she's also still looking over her shoulder regretfully. Poor old ghost. Life sucks. (Death, too.)

Outside, however, she positively rounds on Perdita. "Holy shit-- Dita?" Look. She's impressed. And that's a distraction, even from their failed mission, and the sadness of sad ghosts.

"Oh." It's a sad sound from Ava as she watches how the ghost vanishes. "Poor guy." What? Oh right, they shouldn't dally. That's probably really smart. Ava gives a firm nod at that and begins to shuffle her way out of the room and after the rest of the group. There's a small pause to turn around and take a quick couple of shots of the layout with her phone before she finally does leave.

Dita? Wait, what, really? There's a little squinting as the doctor studies her face for a few moments longer before her eyes widen. "Holy crap! Perdita! That was amazing. I never would have guessed that was you. And here I was getting excited thinking the building might actually be for sale. That might actually have worked out for my benefit," she laughs.

"Everything is for sale if you offer enough," Ravn suggests, once safely outside. "I don't think that's what we're after, though? Makes more sense to keep it on as is -- and take over the institution. Next stop City Hall and finding out who we have to throw a sales pitch at?"

"Ah don't know who this Perdita girl is, but why don't we head on down to the city hall and get that paperwork filed and then get a few things sorted." Shanamarie winks at Una and Ava, the accent back in FULL force, now. Aggressively Southern, aggressively friendly.

She's nothing if not good at what she does. She glances back at the Historical Society's building with just a hint of sadness, and then she's leading the charge once more, with her kitten heels and her briefcase and her BoobsForQueens breastplate.

That? That just makes Una laugh.

It may take her a few moments to regain her composure, but she will. And then: "Yes. City Hall. Let's do this."

"I don't know, Ravn, might be good to own the building, too. Then I could make the renovations that I needed to. Can you say secret lair? Because I'm thinking we need more storage options. Away from the Addington Estate. Don't you?" It's a valid point. To her, anyway. "We can debate later. For now, City Hall! Lead the way, Heartbreaker," she says with a laugh for Perdita.