Chance of a Ghost (58 page)

Nan and Morgan were cordial. Morgan was probably catching every other sentence, since ambient noise is a problem even with hearing aids, and stood there with a fake smile plastered on his face while Nan exchanged the requisite pleasantries. Tony assessed Josh coolly. He tends to act like a father figure when I least require one, but he smiled and shook Josh’s hand, apparently deeming his grip acceptable. I’m not sure, but I think Josh probably expected someone to check his teeth by now. So far, things were going fine. Being me, I expected to hear an entire Payless store drop shoes any second.

We grow sunny dispositions in New Jersey.

Mom had timed the dinner perfectly, and we sat down to pot roast, sautéed onions, asparagus, salad (I had contributed by putting baby carrots on top, the one thing Mom trusted me to do), rice pilaf and sourdough bread. Still, she apologized for, as she put it, “the rushed dinner.”

“It’s delicious, Mrs. Kerby,” Josh volunteered. “I can’t imagine anything being better prepared.” His parents were right; he was wasting his talents in the paint store. He should have been involved somehow in diplomacy.

Mom blushed.

“What version of
Peter Pan
is the one they’re doing?”
Melissa wanted to know, perhaps trying to give Josh a break from the constant scrutiny. She’s a sensitive girl.

“It’s one Jerry Rasmussen wrote himself,” I told her, omitting the eye-rolling that Lawrence had performed when passing the information on to me. “Apparently he writes music and lyrics, too.” Okay, so it was hard not to eye-roll.

“Uh-oh,” Jeannie intoned. She was letting Tony feed Oliver, because Jeannie eats first. That’s the deal. You don’t get between Jeannie and her dinner. I’ve been there when some have tried; it wasn’t pretty. That’s all I’m saying.

“Keep an open mind,” Mom said, sounding close to sincere. “You never know.”

I would have joined in, but as good as Mom’s cooking is, my stomach was still a little nervous while I watched Josh take in the scene.

“I can’t imagine what this one sees in you,” Maxie helpfully told me from her perch just to Josh’s right. “He cleans up nice.”

“Are you a big
Peter Pan
fan, Melissa?” Josh asked. Rule number one of dating a single mom: Show interest in the child. Well played.

“Not really,” Liss told him. “I’m more of a Star Trek fan. Or Harry Potter.”

Josh nodded. “Both good.”

Morgan, who had complimented Mom’s dinner (as had everyone else), found his way back into the conversation, clearly having missed much of what was being said. “Here’s what we should be looking for tonight,” he said out of the blue. “Any signs of tension between the group members would be interesting. But we also want to see if any of them tries to get some residents aside and talk privately.”

I immediately looked to Josh. You never know how a guy will react to talk of cases and suspects. Some might be, let’s say, a little put off by the idea of a woman they’re dating being involved with violence and crime. They might
feel the need to be the “protector” or to feel threatened that the woman is more macho than they might be.

He was intent and hanging on every word, like it was the best movie he’d ever seen.

“That would mean they were probably trying to sell some drugs, right?” Melissa asked. Criticize my parenting. I dare you. She’s intelligent and interested. Hasn’t had a nightmare in three years. Go ahead.

Morgan nodded. He didn’t seem at all fazed that the question had come from a ten-year-old. To him, everybody thought like a cop, or should. “But I don’t want you anywhere near that, Melissa. You tell me or Nan or your mom if that happens, and we’ll deal with it, okay?” Liss nodded earnestly; she was going to follow Morgan’s orders because he commanded respect, and because she really was a smart kid who knew enough to be wary of anything shady.

“Also,” Morgan continued, “I want you, Alison, to talk to Rasmussen and Tyra Carter, just so I can see their faces when you do.”

“I’m not sure I want to ask Tyra anything even a little bit touchy,” I said, having cleaned my plate and noting that others had done the same. I nodded to Melissa, and we began to clear the table. We’d decided on no dessert right now, with the possibility of something after the play if it wasn’t too late.

Josh asked no questions. He hadn’t heard some of these names before, but he was taking it all in. I assumed he’d ask me later what he needed to know.

“You don’t have to ask her anything about Laurentz,” Morgan told me. “I just want to see her manner when you approach.” Paul, wanting as always to learn from a more experienced professional, pursed his lips—this was something he hadn’t thought of before.

“Anything I should do, Morgan?” Jeannie asked. She was getting a little bit too into this detective sideline, I was starting to think.

“Watch your baby,” Morgan answered. Shockingly, Jeannie looked a little disappointed. “If a situation arises, I’ll be sure to let you know what to do. That goes for everybody else here.” Josh looked a touch surprised, but he didn’t say anything and helped, over objections from Mom and myself, to clear the table and load the dishwasher. “You should all be watching for anything unusual, and let Alison or me know about it,” Morgan concluded.

“Should we get going?” Mom asked.

Many coats, sweaters and other garments were donned, and the party headed for my Volvo and Tony and Jeannie’s minivan. Paul stopped me as we were starting out, and called me over toward him.

“One last thing you need to watch,” he said quietly. “Try to keep Melissa with Jeannie and Tony, and away from the others. Make the seating seem as if it’s a coincidence these people are all together.”

That sounded ominous. “Why?” I asked.

Paul looked just as ominous as he sounded. “Because none of the Thespians have ever seen you with anyone except your mother or Jeannie before. If someone there is a killer, and they think you’re getting too close, they’ll look to see who means something to you. Those are your weak spots, and they can be exploited.”

I quickly tried to think of a way to dissuade Melissa from going, but there was no way she’d be talked out of it. I’d make sure she stayed close to Mom and away from me. “Gee, Paul, thanks a heap for that one,” I told the ghost.

“Enjoy the show,” he said.

Twenty-seven

It had gotten dark sometime around five that afternoon
, and the sky was now that combination of gray and pink that makes you think snow is on the way, though there was none in the forecast. The front gate at Brookside Assisted Living Facility was less of a wrought-iron cliché and more like the tollbooth at a rather sedate theme park. I gave my name to the young man in a polo shirt sitting in the little structure, he pushed a button and the gate in front of us rose up to let me drive through. The same thing had happened a moment before with Jeannie’s minivan, and she was waiting for me to go through to push on ahead, having gotten directions from the polo shirt guy.

“Why do they call this place Brookside?” Melissa wanted to know as I drove the Volvo through the gate. “I don’t see a brook.”

“Well, my development is called Whispering Lakes,” Mom pointed out. “There are no lakes there, either.”

“It’s just a name, Liss,” I said. “It sounds nice, that’s
all.” I had lost the argument in which Liss was to ride in Jeannie’s van in case anyone was watching when we got out. She wanted to stay with me, Mom and Josh, mostly because she wanted a less crowded venue to vet Josh. My daughter doesn’t miss a trick.

For his part, Josh had kept up the conversation, but it was clear he saw I was on edge and was waiting until we were alone to ask what was wrong. I had to put on a better show to convince him that it had nothing to do with him, which it didn’t.

“Maybe there’s a brook in the back,” Mom suggested. We drove on.

Melissa thought it strange that I kept standing in front of her as we got out of the van, and then seemed to abandon her into the custody of Jeannie and Tony (Frances and Jerry knew Mom) once we walked into the clubhouse, a large, more or less octagonal building at the front of the facility. A sign directly out of someone’s home printer was taped to the door—“
Peter Pan
by the New Old Thespians”—and listed the date and time.

Inside, I strode rapidly ahead, to put distance between me and Liss and Mom. Josh kept pace with me but took the opportunity to ask, “Should I not have come? Am I going to be in the way?”

“No!” I said a little too loud. “I was afraid you were thinking that. No. It just…occurred to me that if the killer is here tonight…”

“You don’t want to be seen too close to Melissa. Very smart. Do you think Lawrence really was murdered?” Josh had increased his pace when I’d explained, and now I was having just a little trouble keeping up with him through the corridor to the auditorium.

“The only thing I know for sure on this one is that I don’t know anything for sure on this one,” I said. Josh grinned. I was starting to really like that grin.

“This sounds like fun,” he said.

Frances Walters was the first familiar face I saw when we got to the auditorium, which appeared to have doubled as the dining room. A stage of sorts, really, as Jerry had said, risers put up at one end of the room, stood in front of a good number of folding chairs, most of which were empty at the moment. The residents appeared to have left the front three rows almost empty, perhaps so they could leave more quickly if the show turned out to be a stinker. I gestured—surreptitiously, I hoped—to Jeannie for her to find seats for Melissa and herself, then walked to Frances. Mom walked over, having seen that Frances’s face showed recognition. Josh walked to one side of the room and leaned against a post, looking casual.

“I’d heard you were bringing some people,” Frances told me. She assessed the crowd, which consisted mostly of Brookside residents, many in wheelchairs and not a few with oxygen tanks. “I didn’t realize your mother would be one of them.”

Mom smiled and nodded at Frances. “It’s nice to see you again,” she said. “I never knew you were a star.”

Frances laughed. “Oh, don’t be silly. I’m just an aging chorine.” But she looked just a tad annoyed when neither of us contradicted her on the point. “I’m glad you came with so many people,” she went on finally. “My son was going to fly in for this, but he had an emergency.”

“Which son?” Mom asked. “The accountant or the pharmacist?”

“The accountant, can you believe it?” Frances answered. “Who knew there could be an accounting emergency?”

“It’s too bad he couldn’t make it,” I said. “But I’m sure he’s seen you perform before, no?”

“Oh yes,” Frances responded. “He’s seen us many times. Both of my boys have been here for shows.”

“It’s an interesting idea for a show,” Mom noted. “
Peter Pan
for senior citizens?”

“Oh, you’ll love it,” she said. “Jerry’s written a great
show. He took the original story of
Peter Pan
and adapted it for a more mature audience.” She must have seen the look on my face as I fought the urge to glance at Melissa and laughed. “Oh, not
that
kind of mature! You’ll see; it’s more appropriate for the audiences we usually get. How is your investigation of Larry’s death going?”

I told her that I’d made some progress—let her pass
that
around the company—but wasn’t specific. “A lot of it has to do with the setup of his apartment,” I lied, thinking of the only thing that would make it sound technical. “Were you ever there?”

“Never. Not even sure where it was.” Frances shook her head. “But I’m certainly familiar with the units in our development.” she said. “Except I guess now there’s no toaster in the kitchen.” She shivered at the thought.

“The poor man,” Mom said.

I had to give Frances something to spread around to the crew, particularly Jerry. “I think I’ll be able to make a definite statement about what happened very soon,” I responded, although I thought the exact opposite of that. I had pegged Frances as the source of information (aka gossip) for the New Old Thespians; I figured a few bits of misinformation placed just so might spur a little reaction. She appeared to take the bait, eyes widening just a touch.

“That’s really exciting,” she said. “Care to give me a sneak peak?”

“Play nice, Frances. You’ll get the skinny when I can give it. Just keep it quiet. I promise you’ll be the first, okay?”

She seemed pleased with that, then “remembered” something she had to do (which was probably to pass my “secrets” along to the rest of the troupe), excused herself and went backstage.

“Please don’t stand near me or Melissa,” I said to Mom once she was gone. “I don’t know who’s dangerous here.”

“You’re not letting me help,” Mom protested.

“Getting one of us—especially Liss—in the sights of a
killer isn’t going to help,” I countered. Mom pouted but went to a seat at the far end of Tony. Melissa looked a little puzzled that her grandmother wasn’t sitting next to her but did not protest, since Mom wasn’t making a fuss over Oliver, either.

Josh walked over, not too casually, and pretended to introduce himself in case anyone was watching. He shook my hand.