Night of the Living Deed (15 page)

“What are you going to do about window treatments in the front room?” she asked as a drop of sweat fell on my nose. I’d turned the furnace off for this repair, but the work was still hot. “You don’t want to go too dark in there—let the windows do their job.”

“Thank you, Ms. Stewart,” I said. “Or may I call you Martha? I’m not there yet. Let me get the walls in shape first. And since when are you the authority on interior design?”

She pouted. Seriously. Her lower lip actually rolled down over itself, and she frowned. “It’s what I was going to do,” she said.

I rubbed the drop off my nose and got back to work. “You weren’t going to turn this place into a business?” I asked. “I didn’t figure you’d live here all alone. I read your . . . an article about you.”

“My obituary,” Maxie said without inflection. “What did it say? Can you get a copy online? I want to see it.” So much for my attempt at being discreet to protect her feelings.

“I’ll try to find it. It said you were a graphic artist and that you are survived by your mother in Ocean Township and a brother in Enid, Oklahoma.”

“Yeah,” was all Maxie said.

Time to switch gears again. “So, why did you need all this house?”

“I was going to flip it,” she explained.

“Flip it? You bought it to fix it up and sell it again?” I just wanted to show her that I knew what
flip
meant.

“Yeah. I figured even in this economy I could make some money with a beachfront property.” Maxie stared out the window at the wraparound porch on the house across the street. “I guess this house was valuable enough for someone to kill me for it.”

“If you just wanted the money, why not sell to Adam Morris?”

Maxie stared at me as if I were suggesting she set the Louvre on fire. “He was going to knock it down,” she said.

After investing so much of my time building up a healthy dislike for Maxie, this was hardly the way I wanted the conversation to go—the last thing I needed was to sympathize with her. The worst thing I could do was
care
.

Ignoring Maxie, I grabbed a paper towel, spit on one corner and rubbed the grime off the glass tube that indicated the furnace’s water level. What I had wasn’t really a furnace as much as a boiler, and the heating system was run by hot water.

“That’s gross,” Maxie said.

“You sound like Melissa.”

Maxie’s face changed in a half second, and she brightened. “That’s one terrific girl you’ve got there,” she said.

Oh sure, say nice things about my kid now! Hating Maxie was getting even harder.

“I like to think so,” I said, trying to sound objective. “She seems to like you, too. You know, she won’t play board games with just anybody.” Melissa had said she and Maxie played the Game of Life the night before, which seemed ironic.

“She’s ruthless,” Maxie said. “That kid will hold you to every rule.”

“I know. She told me about your cheating.”

“I didn’t
cheat
!” Maxie insisted. “I just . . . didn’t do what I was supposed to. It’s different.”

“Uh-huh. That’s called cheating.”

“You would say that. You’re on her side, no matter what.”

“That’s right,” I said. “I’m her mother. I’m sure your mom would . . .”

“
My
mother never approved of anything I did in my life,” Maxie cut me off. “From beginning to end, she thought I was a screw-up.”

“So I guess you don’t want me to get in touch with her.”

“No,” Maxie intoned.

I pulled the old thermostat out and held up the new one for positioning. Luckily, I’d gotten the right replacement part, and it would fit. In a few hours, I’d know if the change made any difference. “Just, if you wanted me to tell her you’re—”

“No!” Maxie shouted. “Which part of
no
are you having trouble with?” Maxie walked through the wall into the side room, which I was planning on making a library. “Geez, you’re a pain!”

Now,
that
was the Maxie I’d come to know. And dislike.

“Mom?” Melissa looked out the window of the station wagon. It’s nice to drive around the Jersey Shore in the fall. The traffic from the summer visitors is gone, the trees change color and the ocean, although grayer, still has a calming rhythm. “Why don’t you like Maxie?”

Living with a nine-year-old can be like living with a combination of an investigative reporter and a district attorney. There’s always a question, and you’re usually under suspicion. And when I got home, I knew that there’d also be a ghost asking me more questions about everything I’d done today. I was feeling a little picked on, to be honest. “What makes you think I don’t like Maxie?” I asked, dodging.

Melissa rolled her eyes. I elicit that response from her on a regular basis. “I can see, and I can hear. That’s what.”

“Okay, let me ask
you
a question: Why do you
like
Maxie?”

Melissa answered after thinking a moment, but her cadence was that of a fourth grader reciting a memorized response for a class. “I like Maxie because she’s fun and doesn’t worry about anything,” she said. “And she has good taste in decorating.”

“Did Maxie tell you to say that?” It was the “decorating” part that really gave her away.

“A little, but I still believe it. Except I’m not sure about the whole ‘good taste’ thing,” my daughter told me honestly.

“Why do you care whether or not I like Maxie?”

“Why does every question I ask you become a different question you ask me?” Melissa said.

“Because I’m the mom.” When you don’t have an answer that makes sense, you can always use that one. You’re welcome.

The Acura in front of me was enjoying the fall scenery just a little too much, and was therefore driving at a speed of fifteen miles an hour in a twenty-five-mile-per-hour zone. This is what we in New Jersey call a crime against nature. I honked. The car didn’t speed up.

“I don’t want you to get too attached to Paul and Maxie,” I told Melissa, “because sooner or later, we’ll figure out a way to get them out of the house.”

“
What?
” Melissa demanded. “You want to get rid of them?”

“I’ll admit, I haven’t read any ghost stories for a couple of decades, but yeah. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? Take care of their ‘unfinished business’ so they can leave, right?” That Acura was following my route, but before I could follow it myself. Every turn I wanted to make, he made first. And all on single-lane roads. I couldn’t pass the Acura, no matter how slowly it crawled along.

“No!” Melissa wailed. “You can’t just put them out on the street!”

“These aren’t stray dogs we’re talking about, Liss. They need to move on to . . . the next stage of existence.” I made that part up on the spot. “It’s not up to us.”

“You’re just doing this because you think I like Maxie better than you. I don’t, you know.”

I turned my head to stare at her. “I think . . .”

And that was when I hit the Acura.

It wasn’t a really hard collision; we weren’t going nearly fast enough for that. But the sound was still loud and blunt enough to cause an adrenaline rush and some heart pounding. “Are you all right?” I asked Melissa.

Eye-rolling. “Of
course
I’m all right,” she said. “You were going, like, five.”

I avoided her judgmental gaze and looked at the car in front of me. It didn’t look like the damage was very severe. I pulled our station wagon over to the shoulder so traffic could flow by, and the Acura did the same. Then a man got out of the car to assess the damage.

It was Mr. Barnes, Melissa’s history teacher. And he was just as attractive as I remembered. I, of course, looked like I had been sanding baseboards all morning. Because I had.

“Get the insurance card out of the glove compartment,” I told Melissa. I opened the car door while trying to smooth my hair down, but sea air doesn’t really help all that much, even in October.

Melissa handed me my insurance card, and I walked over to the Acura to assess the damage.

“Mr. Barnes! I am
so
sorry,” I said. “It was totally my fault.”

“That kind of attitude isn’t going to be at all helpful in court,” he said. “You’re supposed to be belligerent. Didn’t you know that?” He smiled.

Wow. The blue eyes and the dimples really created an effect.

It took me a few seconds to catch my breath. “I’m sorry. It’s my first accident. I’ll get better.”

“Your first? I’ll be gentle.” He smiled again. I was going to have to sit down soon. “But I’m afraid it was my fault. I was trying to find your house, and you know, you’re a little off the beaten path, so I was driving very slowly. It’s no wonder you hit me.”

“You were trying to find my house?”

He nodded. “Remember? I asked about seeing it? As a . . . study, sort of? I’ve sent you a few notes through Melissa, but . . .”

“Something tells me she might have . . . forgotten to tell me,” I said, glancing back at the station wagon, where Melissa was pretending to ignore us.

“I thought it might be something like that,” Mr. Barnes agreed.

I handed him my insurance card. “Here. Just write down the information. I’m sure they’ll pay for the repair.”

He took a moment to assess the damage again. “What repair?” He handed me the card back. “There’s not enough damage to bother. A little rubbing compound and it’ll look just like new. Probably better—it’ll be the first time I’ve washed the bumper in years.”

“Are you sure?” If I could just see
his
insurance card, I could finally find out his first name. “I don’t want you to have to drive around with a dent just because it’s my first accident.”

“I’m certain,” he said. “But if I could get that tour of the house . . .”

Oh man, not now! Not while my face—I mean, the
house
—looked like this. “I’d love to show you the house, honestly, I would. But Melissa and I are meeting her grandmother for dinner, and we just don’t have the time. Can we maybe set up a time?” I’d apologize to my mother later for using her as a fictional excuse. If I told her about this at all.

“Not a problem,” he answered. “But I’m going to hold you to that tour. And listen, Melissa is a terrific student. She’s really smart, and she really cares. Those don’t often go together.”

I never know what to say when someone compliments Melissa. I mean,
I
think she’s wonderful, but I’m her mom. Thinking she’s great is sort of reflexive. “Thank you,” I said. “It’s nice when someone notices.”

“It’s part of my job,” he said. “But yes, I noticed. You and her father must be very proud.” What do you know—he was looking at my hand and noting the absence of a ring!

“Her father lives in Los Angeles,” I said. “We’re divorced.”

“Well, then,” he said. He took a deep breath. “Maybe we can settle this situation over dinner.”

Hey, if he was asking me out when I looked like this, he’d be bowled over if I showed up to dinner disguised as a human female. “I’d like that,” I managed to croak out.

“Great. How’s Friday night?”

We exchanged phone numbers and agreed on a place and time, and I was about to head back to the station wagon when I couldn’t avoid the issue anymore. “There’s just one thing,” I said.

Barnes, walking toward his car, turned back. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know your first name. Melissa always calls you Mr. Barnes, and I feel that would be awkward on a date, don’t you think?”

He smiled again, and the same dimples appeared. Dangerous. “Ned.”

“Nice to meet you, Ned.” I walked back to the Volvo (which, in accordance with its reputation, had suffered not a scratch) and got in on the driver’s side.

Melissa, arms folded, was waiting for me. “That took long enough,” she said.

“It’s grown-up stuff. You wouldn’t understand.”

She twisted her bottom lip. “You were flirting with him, weren’t you?”

Busted. “I had to,” I said. “Our insurance card expired last month.”

Eye-rolling.