An Uninvited Ghost (22 page)

“Oh, seriously. Alison . . .”

“Don’t call me Alison!”
I yelled. “You doing all that only makes me think you had some role in the murder yourself.”

“Me?” The man was the living impersonation of all those lawyer/shark jokes. His teeth were even showing as he spoke. “What motivation would I have . . .”

“More than me,” I broke in. “And besides—I know that when you got back to your office after McElone let you go, you sent an e-mail. You told someone the interrogation had gone exactly as you wanted it to, and that McElone suspected me now. Well, she does, and I’m going to see to it that you go back and retract your statement to her. You’re going to tell her you were lying. You’re going to tell her I had nothing to do with Arlice Crosby before the day she died. And if you’re smart, you’re going to tell her everything you know about what happened.”

Donovan’s lower lip turned downward. At first, I thought it was an expression of contrition, but it turned out to be one of contempt. “Don’t give me advice,” he scoffed. “You haven’t a clue what’s behind this whole business. I had nothing to do with Arlice’s death, and I have nothing to worry about.”

“Oh, don’t you? How about lying to a police officer in the execution of her duty? Isn’t that called obstruction of justice, or is lying to a cop a separate charge all by itself?” I stood up and pointed at Donovan. “You are
not
setting me up on this one, Donovan. Believe me, you don’t want to mess with me.”

He sat back in his swivel chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “You amuse me, Ali—sorry.
Ms. Kerby
. You’re the owner of a little bed and breakfast on the beach, and I’m supposed to be afraid of you? I’ve been a mover and shaker in this town since before you were born. I know where all the bodies are buried. The police wouldn’t come after me even if they were going to take your word over mine, which will never happen. You have nothing to use against me. You have no leverage. If I decide you’re going to be implicated in Arlice Crosby’s death, then believe me, you will be implicated. And there isn’t the first thing that you can do about it.”

Donovan’s words actually chilled me a little—it wasn’t so much what he was saying as the confidence with which he said it, the certainty he had that I was a tiny little thing he could break with two fingers. But then I remembered I was there to be angry, not scared, and I conjured up a picture of The Swine and Barbie I’d rather not share just at the moment, if you don’t mind. Suffice it to say it did the trick, and I was perfectly livid again.

But I decided to play it icy instead of volcanic. “There’s nothing I can do?” I said, accompanied by what I hoped was a bone-chilling smile. “Apparently, you don’t stay as well plugged-in to what goes on in this town as you think.”

He looked like the villain in an Alfred Hitchcock movie, so suave and composed he wouldn’t break a sweat on an August afternoon in hell. “Really? And what is it I’ve been missing?” Honestly, James Mason himself couldn’t have pulled it off more convincingly.

“You haven’t heard the gossip that’s been going all around town about my guesthouse?” I asked, playing it mock-innocent. I was starting to think a second career in the theater might not be out of the question, after all.

“Your . . . oh, all that ghost nonsense? Is that what I’m supposed to be scared of?” Donovan chuckled deep in his throat and sat there grinning at me from behind his desk.

“No.
That’s
what you’re supposed to be scared of,” I said, pointing at an area just to his left and a few feet over his head.

Donovan looked up to where I was pointing. And there he saw something he probably had not expected to see.

A red bandana hung suspended in the air, all by itself. Paul’s message had gotten through, all right.

“What the hell is that?” Donovan scoffed. “A flying napkin?” He stood up and reached out to grab the bandana. He seemed just a little put off when the bandana moved away from him. Donovan started to look over the bandana, waving his arm in the air.

“There are no wires,” I said. “Nothing’s holding it up except the head of the person who’s wearing it. A person who happens not to be alive anymore. A person who will do anything I ask of him. Now, do you want to go back to McElone and tell her you were lying, or do I leave you here with my deceased friend?”

“This is ridiculous,” Donovan attempted. “I’m not going to be intimidated by some cheap parlor trick.”

“What would convince you?” I asked. “Does he have to pick up your stapler?” The stapler lifted off the desk and hovered over toward me for a while. Donovan stared at it, mesmerized. “Would it be better if he made the curtains billow?” Naturally, they did. “Or would you prefer that he remove that picture on the wall of you with Henry Kissinger?”

“Wait!” Donovan yelled, before his precious memento had a chance to fly across the room. “I don’t believe there’s a ghost in this room. I don’t believe in ghosts. And you pulling off some kind of trick that you’ve obviously worked out in advance is certainly not going to convince me.”

“Fine,” I told him. “Suggest something yourself.” I sat in the chair in front of his desk again. “Something over which I clearly have no control. Feel free to indulge yourself. What’ll convince you? What would you like to see my friend do?”

“Fine. Let’s see your ‘friend’ lift you up in that chair and make you fly around the room,” Donovan said. His voice sounded confident, but he was sweating. This was bothering him more than he wanted to let on. “Let’s see that, and I’ll be convinced there’s a ghost here.”

“Be serious,” I told him. “Even when he was alive, he wouldn’t have been strong enough to—”

And then the chair and I started to rise off the floor and hover around the room. An involuntary impulse caused me to grab the armrests on the leather chair with knuckle-whitening force, and I believe something resembling a shriek escaped my lips. But I was, unquestionably, being lifted around the room.

Which was kind of cool, until I remembered there was a blind man carrying me in a chair through a room with which he was only casually familiar. I stopped breathing for a while.

Donovan, however, looked absolutely shocked. His mouth dropped open, his eyes widened and his hands unlaced from behind his head and fell limply to his sides.

“Okay, put me down,” I told Scott. The chair floated harmlessly to the floor and landed without so much as a bump. Mentally, I marveled at his strength. The old man must have worked out
a lot
.

I gave Donovan the most savage look I have given anyone in my life. Yes, even more than The Swine. “Now,” I said in a tone that frightened even me, “do you want that hanging around you twenty-four–seven for the rest of your life? Because, frankly, my friend here has nothing but time.”

Donovan swallowed hard. Then he remembered who he was, stood, straightened his shirt and placed his palms on his very impressive desk.

“All right,” he said. “Tell me what you want.”

I nodded my head just the tiniest bit, to show I’d considered this, and expected nothing less. When I got home, I’d submit the proper paperwork to nominate myself for an Academy Award.

“I want you to show me Arlice Crosby’s will,” I said.

“That’s privileged information,” the lawyer attempted.

“Fine. I’ll feel honored the whole time you’re showing me.”

“Why would you want to see that? Believe me, you’re not mentioned. Arlice didn’t even recommend you before she died.”

That stung, although I should have guessed. “I want to see it because you told McElone that I was asking about it. That means there’s something there that can make me look bad in the eyes of the police. And as we’ve established, I don’t like looking bad in the eyes of the police. So let’s see the will.”

“I don’t have it here,” Donovan said.

But Scott McFarlane’s bandana, behind him, told another story. It was shaking back and forth broadly. “He’s lying,” Scott said.

“Yes, you do,” I said to Donovan.

Donovan looked behind him. Scott immediately stopped shaking his head. Donovan turned back to me. He opened a locked drawer in his desk with a key he took out of his shorts pocket.

“Oh, very well,” he said.

“So, what did the will say?” Paul was never great at waiting his turn, and now, amid the ubiquitous television crew and tattooed cast members (well, the three remaining ones at least), I was trying just to get through my own front room without being decapitated by a boom mike or ambushed by an executive producer with more investigative assignments to impose on me.

Well, one out of two wasn’t bad. I wasn’t decapitated.

“Alison!” Trent appeared out of a sea of technicians assembled to record “spontaneity.” “We’ve had a break in Tiff’s disappearance!”

“Good,” I said, motoring as best I could for the kitchen, which had become our “safe room.” “Then you can go find her, and you don’t need any help.” A good offense is a strong . . . um, something. I don’t really like football much.

Trent followed me through the throng. I had greeted Linda Jane on the front porch, and it had suddenly hit me that two new guests were arriving Tuesday, and I had no idea where they’d stay. That appeared to be a problem. It was the very next thing on my agenda—after I talked to Paul.

And that would happen once I managed to ditch Trent.

“You don’t understand,” he said. People always say that when you disagree with them. It’s not that you think they’re wrong; it’s that you don’t understand. I guess people feel better thinking you’re stupid rather than thinking you might have a point. “We could get Tiff back by tonight. But I need a professional to handle this just the right way.”

I felt like telling him he should find such a professional in that case, but I decided that was probably a bad message to be sending, so I said, “I’m just too busy now, Trent.”

He gently took me by the upper arms and maneuvered me away from the crowd, into a corner near the kitchen door. “Alison,” he said. “Lieutenant McElone just called. Tiffney’s credit card was used to pay for a hotel room in Sea Bright. That means she’s spending the night there. All we have to do—”

“All you have to do is wait for the police to follow up, which I guarantee they’re doing right now,” I argued. “And wait a minute—I saw McElone a couple of hours ago, and she said Tiffney’s card hadn’t been used since she vanished.”

“I guess she just used it. Come on, Alison. I can’t wait for the cops. In my business, time isn’t just money—it’s a
lot
of money.” Trent smiled his lady-killer smile, which I have to admit was of very high quality. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Can’t you just call down there?” I asked.

“And let her know we’re coming? If she’s on the run, I don’t want to chase her farther away. The fans heard she disappeared on the Web, and now they’re threatening to boycott the show if she doesn’t return.” Trent’s gaze bored into my eyes. “We’ll go together,” he offered.

I wasn’t sure whether that made the prospect more or less attractive. “I can’t decide now,” I told him. “You’re going to have to give me an hour at least; I have things to do that can’t wait.”

Trent let go of my arms and put up his hands, smiling. “Absolutely. Take your time. I’ll be here.” And he walked back into the mob engulfing my front room. I took the opportunity to finally head to the kitchen.

Paul was waiting for me and tapping his foot, although that had less impact than it might have, since he was tapping it on thin air. “You’re not taking our case seriously enough,” he scolded.

“It’s nice to see you, too. What did you want me to do, set Trent on fire?”

He scowled. “It’s an idea,” he said.

I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down. “Do you want to hear about Arlice Crosby’s will, or not?” I asked.

“Of course I do!” Paul was easy to irritate; there was a certain amusement to it that was hard to resist. “Did Scott’s act work?”

“Like a charm,” I grinned. “But I couldn’t believe how strong he was—he lifted me and a chair up into the air and floated us around the room. I didn’t think he’d be able to handle it.”

“It’s possible he brought help,” Paul said, “but the fact is, people like us can probably do more now than we could when we had actual physical bodies. Something about not having muscles to restrict us, I guess. So—Donovan showed you the will?”

“After that demonstration, he couldn’t wait,” I said. “I got to read all the way through it, and while I couldn’t understand all the legalese, I did get enough of it to know what we’re looking for. And maybe who. Is Maxie around?”

Paul looked puzzled. “Maxie? Maxie didn’t kill Arlice Crosby.”

“I know that. But she’s supposed to have been doing online research. Where is she?”

Paul put on a determined expression. “I’ll find out.” And he vanished straight up through the ceiling.

For a few moments, it was calm. And that was it for the day. In one fell swoop, Paul appeared through the kitchen wall, leading what appeared to be Maxie by the arm. She got stuck on the other side of the wall, yelling, “Stop it! I’m carrying something!” Paul let go of her arm, and in a few seconds, the kitchen door opened wide by itself.

But in addition to Maxie and my decrepit MacBook, Jeannie was standing behind the door. She walked into the kitchen carrying a brown paper bag and smiling. “Breakfast! Bagels!” she shouted. Then she turned and looked at the kitchen door, which was not closing itself. “I guess it’s windier in here than it feels.” She put the bag on the kitchen table and sat down.

“I’m having a conference right now, Jean,” I told her.

Jeannie looked around the seemingly empty room. “Uh-huh.”

“Look, you don’t want to hear this, but Paul and Maxie are here, and I have to discuss something with them. Feel free to sit in, but . . .”

Jeannie is a pro at not admitting something when she doesn’t want to admit it. “If you don’t want me around, Alison, you don’t have to make up stories.”