Toffee settled herself comfortably on an ornate tombstone, and leaned languorously back to rest her head on the buttocks of a stone cupid.
"Get down from there," Marc said sternly. "You look obscene."
"In this moonlight, you're no work of art, yourself," Toffee replied lazily, making no effort to move.
Marc shrugged helplessly, and seated himself watchfully at the base of the stone. "It's past eleven," he murmured. "I wish someone would show up. If I don't get that copy back, I might as well kiss my business goodbye right now."
"Maybe Manny's got it after all," Toffee suggested. "And he's still out."
"I don't think so. And speaking of him, I'd sure like to know who the little man under the table was. He just about saved my life when he grabbed Manny's ankle." Marc glanced around peering intently into the darkness that, except for occasional patches of bright moonlight that filtered through the trees, was all around them. "It looks like we're all alone here with the spooks."
"What are spooks?" Toffee leaned forward, interested.
"They're something like you," Marc said absently. "Sometimes they are, and sometimes they aren't. Anyway, I understand they're always raising hell with somebody."
"They sound fine," Toffee said. "How do you go about stirring up a few?"