An Uninvited Ghost (11 page)

Jim and Warren were in the library, for once not drinking beer. They were, in fact, having coffee and looking subdued. For them.

“Rough night,” Warren said when I poked my head in. “You must feel awful.”

“I do,” I admitted. “But there wasn’t anything I could have done about it.”

“Well, you could have stopped that kid from bopping her from behind,” Jim said. “You were the closest one, I guess.”

“
What
kid?” I, well, demanded. “What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t see it?” Jim asked. “That bikini bombshell from the TV show, Tiffney. The one with the . . .” He gestured with his hands in front of his chest.

“Arthritis?” I suggested.

“Exactly. She slithered up behind the poor lady while you were calling ghosts around, and did . . .
something
when she was there that made the lady turn around. Next thing I knew, the lady was on the floor, and then Linda Jane was trying to revive her.”

I sat down, a little overwhelmed. “Wait a second. You’re telling me that Tiffney did something to Arlice before she collapsed?”

Jim looked at Warren. “I’m speaking English, right?”

Warren nodded.

“Yup,” Jim said. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“So did you tell the police about that?”

They looked at each other.

“They didn’t actually
ask
,” Warren mumbled.

“But you just mentioned it to me,” I pointed out.

“You own the place. You need to know. We don’t have to talk to the cops, do we?”

There was no answer to that other than to point out that McElone could use that information as well, but the two men seemed so uncomfortable with the idea of the police that I didn’t press the issue. I had every intention of ratting them out to the cops the first chance I got, however, and foresaw a future for them that included yet more questioning from the local detective.

Now, I
really
had to find Paul and Maxie. Well, Paul.

I got up and excused myself and headed upstairs. The ghosts were most often to be found on the second floor this time of day, unless Maxie was in what she now referred to exclusively as her room, aka the attic, which I was still planning on converting into a usable space. She could deal with her adolescent temper tantrums once there was wallboard and a solid floor up there. Then, I was sure, she’d give in to the impulse to design the decorations for the suite, and I’d be gracious enough to allow her to consult on the matter. I could be generous when necessary. Unless, of course, she decided to thwart me at every turn and paint things bizarre colors or “lose” crucial tools.

Oh, it had happened before.

Truth be told, Maxie’s decorating ideas could be outré, but they were usually better than mine.

Before the guests had taken up residence, I could scream for Paul at the top of my lungs, and he would appear, looking sheepish, as if he should have known I wanted him before I called for him. Now, however, I had to be more circumspect in my search, because I needed to have a private conversation with Paul, not one that every guest in the house could hear. I walked up to the second floor, checked to make sure no one was in the hallway and said in a conversational tone, “Paul.”

No answer. I walked down the hall, passing two guest rooms that both had their doors closed (the Joneses, and Jim and Warren’s). When I got to the corner, I said Paul’s name again, and again was not rewarded with a response.

That was a little odd. So I made a right turn and continued on past Melissa’s bedroom and my own (the room for Bernice and the one ostensibly for the
Down the Shore
personalities were on the first floor, as far from each other as possible). Twice more, I said “Paul” as if in conversation, like I was mentioning a friend’s name to someone else. Once, I even pretended to laugh, in case anyone had overheard and thought I was talking to someone else.

I got to the emergency fire exit at the end of the hallway (municipal regulations, you know) and turned back. I frowned. It wasn’t that anything could actually
happen
to the ghosts, but it was unusual that I couldn’t find them when necessary. I looked down the empty hallway again.

“Paul.”

“Yes?” he asked from behind me. I screamed so loudly that a few moments later I actually saw the Joneses’ door open, but no one looked out. Then the door closed, just as abruptly.

I turned to Paul. “Don’t
do
that!” I hissed at him.

“Do what?”

“Show up unexpectedly like that.” It was a losing argument, and I knew it, but it had to be played out.

“You called me. Wouldn’t you expect me to answer?” See what I mean?

“Whatever. Listen, have you heard anything from Arlice Crosby yet?”

He gave me an odd look. “Not even a postcard. Why?”

“I’m not sure that what happened last night was a heart attack. And I thought if she had shown up—you know, like you—maybe you could contact her on the Ghosternet.”

Paul’s face had gotten serious when I’d mentioned my suspicions, and now he nodded. “I’ll give it a try later. But I’m pretty sure it took some time for Maxie and me to become like we are. A few days, at least, by my judgment.”

“Okay. Listen. I have a detective question for you.”

Paul brightened visibly; he loved to be consulted on investigative business. “How can I help?” he asked as earnestly as possible.

I quickly explained the stories I’d gotten from Melissa and Jim about Arlice’s sudden death. Paul listened well; he put his fingers together in a pyramid and watched my face as I spoke. He nodded a few times but never betrayed any surprise, even when I mentioned the dueling observations and how neither of them explained Arlice’s death, but that both pointed to something other than a naturally induced heart attack.

When I was finished with my epic tale, I waited for Paul to digest the information. He didn’t say anything, so I finally asked, “What do you think I should do?”

“That’s simple enough,” Paul answered. “You tell Detective McElone what you just told me. Then she investigates. Your responsibility in this affair is completed; you have no client to serve.”

“But it happened in my house, under my roof, to a guest I invited,” I argued. Later, I’d have time to note that it was usually Paul trying to talk
me
into investigating something, and not the other way around. But at the moment, I was simply puzzled and irritated that Paul wasn’t picking up on my sense of outrage.

He started to answer, “There’s no reason for you . . .”

Suddenly the door we were standing in front of opened, and Dolores Santiago walked out. She’d let her hair down, and it fell almost to her waist, gray and thick. And she was wearing what I could only describe as a gown, but not one for a formal affair. She looked, for all intents and purposes, like she’d been summoned to the graveyard by her lover, Count Dracula.

“Are you talking to one of the spirits?” she intoned.

What the hell. “Yes, Dolores. I am. But he’s gone now,” I lied. “May I help you with something?”

“You were talking about Arlice Crosby’s death last night, weren’t you?” she asked, as if I hadn’t spoken.

“Yes. It’s such an awful thing.”

Dolores nodded. “Yes. A terrible loss. And so unnecessary.”

“I agree. It was . . . what?”

“Unnecessary. She didn’t have to be here last night at all, and then the whole thing probably could have been avoided, I would say.”

“What whole thing? Are you saying Mrs. Crosby wouldn’t have had a heart attack if she hadn’t come here last night?” The faraway look in Dolores’s eyes was having an effect on me—it was making me regret having eaten breakfast.

“Arlice didn’t have a heart attack,” Dolores said. “She was murdered by a spirit wearing a red bandana.”

Dolores’s reasoning, of course, bordered on the incomprehensible. But from the babble, I managed to glean the following: Dolores had been monitoring a “level of spectral activity” in the room with the gizmo she’d had in her hand, and it showed the presence of two spirits (because that’s how many I’d told the crowd were there). I’m guessing she picked up this particular box of flashing lights at the dollar store, because it didn’t seem to serve any function other than to fuel Dolores’s fantasies.

Okay, so there really
were
ghosts in the room, but call me a cynic, I was still convinced that thing would have found ghosts in any room on the planet.

But there was a key difference in Dolores’s rant, and it was disquieting: Unlike Tony, or Melissa, or Jim, she did not mention anyone bumping or annoying Arlice to make her spin around just before she’d died. But Dolores alone, in a room crowded with people, had looked above the considerable commotion and noticed Scott’s red bandana floating in midair, and she assumed that the spirit had “decided to take Arlice home.” Of course, it was equally possible that the guests and the TV crew, having grown accustomed to seeing objects fly around here, just hadn’t considered the hovering bandana all that unusual.

Paul leaned back, not exactly against the wall, but with a good vantage point. He liked to get a good look at “witnesses giving testimony,” as he described it. He believed in the power of the vibe—you could read a transcript of the person’s words and not really have the same experience as listening and watching when she spoke.

He did not look pleased.

“Ask her if she saw a weapon,” he suggested, and I passed the question along without mentioning it was from someone else hovering in the room.

“Oh, the spirits don’t use weapons,” Dolores answered with a tone that indicated I might as well have dropped out of school in the third grade. “I’m sure one icy finger placed on her shoulder the right way would do the trick.”

Paul rolled his eyes and made a face. “Icy finger,” he said. I know for a fact that Paul’s touch is more like a warm breeze. But we’re just good friends.

“So you didn’t see a weapon,” I said, in an effort to be completely clear.

“Didn’t you hear what I just said?” she asked.

“Just wanted to make sure. You say you saw a red bandana floating in the air?” I said. “Couldn’t it have just been blown there?”

“In that room? The air was as thick as cheese,” Dolores said.
As thick as cheese?
“Besides, things blown by the wind don’t just hover still in the air.”

“So you didn’t see it move before Arlice died. Like it was stabbing . . .
tapping
an icy finger on her shoulder?”

“No, I can’t say I saw it, but it stands to reason. I mean, a spirit that close to the woman at the moment she passed? That can’t be a coincidence.”

“Well, thank you for the information, Dolores. I assume you told this to Detective McElone last night?” I walked toward the staircase, hoping Paul would follow so we could discuss this further, but when I looked up, he truly had vanished. The coward.

“I tried to, but the detective didn’t seem at all interested in the ways of the spirit world.” Dolores pouted.

I was glad to hear it. But I would need to talk to the detective very soon, if only so she couldn’t later accuse me of withholding information in . . . a homicide?

I called McElone’s office, but she wasn’t in, so I left a message that I assumed would not be returned anytime soon. McElone seemed, for reasons I couldn’t entirely explain, to consider me a nuisance. Me. Imagine.

After the morning performance (today’s featured the downstairs lights going on and off, and spooky noises courtesy of an accordion I’d found in the basement), most of the guests headed toward town, and the Bikini Brigade headed for the beach. It was only sixty-two degrees, but those who seek fame and fortune must suffer a few goose bumps along the way, I guess.

Before I’d gotten a chance to start straightening up, though, my cell phone rang, and the caller ID showed Phyllis Coates’s number at the
Chronicle
.

I should have seen that coming.

“Arlice Crosby died in your house last night, and you didn’t even call me?” she hollered when I picked up. “Didn’t I teach you
anything
about reporting?”

“As a matter of fact, no, you didn’t. You taught me about throwing the paper onto the porch and not into the bushes.”

“Well, I meant to.” Phyllis’s voice was already returning to its normal decibel level. “Still. You didn’t think to call me? After all my help yesterday?”

“You put out a weekly. There’s still plenty of time to talk about it. But I don’t want my name in the paper. I’m on deep background.” This was not the kind of publicity I wanted for the guesthouse. Keeping the whole ghost angle under wraps was tough enough around this town—there had already been plenty of talk about the “haunted guesthouse,” and now I was going to be known for holding a séance where a prominent citizen of the town dropped dead? This was not turning out to be the kind of opening week I’d hoped for.

“Fine,” Phyllis said. “We’ll meet in an underground parking garage wearing trench coats. Alison, you’re the owner of a business where someone died. What did you expect—that nobody would notice?”

“I guess I didn’t think it through. What do you want to know?”

“Tell me what you saw, first of all,” she said.

“Not much,” I admitted. “I was running the show, you know, playing up the haunted house angle because people like that, apparently.” Phyllis has never acknowledged the idea of ghosts in my house; at least, she’s never said whether she believes the stories she’s heard or not. I find that extremely reassuring, since Phyllis is not about to judge me as crazy anytime soon. I think it’s her journalism training—Phyllis doesn’t care about the rumors until she can prove the facts.

“So why does that mean you didn’t see anything?” she asked.

“Well, I was busy looking at one of the other guests, who was asking a question just when Arlice collapsed. So in the moments before she fell, I wasn’t looking at her.”