The Thrill of the Haunt

Praise for E. J. Copperman’s
Haunted Guesthouse Mysteries

Chance of a Ghost

“An enjoyable escape for any reader wanting to laugh and sympathize with a woman who succeeds by working with unreliable ghosts.”

—Lesa’s Book Critiques

“The writing is excellent with nonstop humor and clever and witty dialogue. . . . This is one of the best books in this delightfully charming series.”

—Dru’s Book Musings

“With an outstanding cast of characters, a well-plotted mystery and some sentimental reunions, this is a standout series.”

—The Mystery Reader

“[An] entertaining mystery full of humor with absolutely charming and likable characters and a plot that flies at full speed. Copperman writes dialogue that bites with sharp wit but never sacrifices its heart.”

—Kings River Life Magazine

Old Haunts

“Great fun with a tinge of salt air.”

—
The Mystery Reader

“An entertaining and spellbinding tale.”

—
The Mystery Gazette

“I knew
Old Haunts
was gold before I finished reading the first page. . . . Not only is Alison’s dry sense of humor and hilarious commentary on other characters enough to give the book ten stars, but even the ghosts and their former lives are written to perfection.”

—
Fresh Fiction

“An entertaining read that never disappoints . . .
Old Haunts
is like an old friend (or your snuggy blanket)—dependable, solid and just what you need it to be.”

—
Night Owl Reviews

An Uninvited Ghost

“A triumph . . . The humor is delightful . . . If you like ghost stories mixed with your mystery, try this Jersey Shore mystery.”

—
Lesa’s Book Critiques

“Funny and charming, with a mystery which has a satisfying resolution, and an engaging protagonist who is not easily daunted . . . Highly recommended.”

—Spinetingler Magazine

“Each page brings a new surprise . . . This series is one to follow. Craftily written and enjoyable.”

—The Romance Readers Connection

“There are several series out now featuring protagonists who can interact with ghosts. Some are good, but this one is the best I’ve read. . . . I look forward to Alison’s next spooky adventure.”

—
Over My Dead Body

“If you love a great mystery like I do, I highly recommend getting this book.”

—
Once Upon a Romance

“A fun and entertaining read that I could not put down. It was that good . . . [A] charming and fabulous series.”

—Cozy Chicks

Night of the Living Deed

“Witty, charming and magical
.
”

—
The Mystery Gazette

“A fast-paced, enjoyable mystery with a wisecracking but no-nonsense, sensible heroine . . . Readers can expect good fun from start to finish.”

—
The Mystery Reader

“A delightful ride . . . The plot is well developed, as are the characters, and the whole [story] is funny, charming and thoroughly enjoyable.”

—
Spinetingler Magazine

“A bright and lively romp through haunted-house repair!”

—
Sarah Graves, author of the Home Repair Is Homicide Mysteries

“Fans of Charlaine Harris and Sarah Graves will relish this original, laugh-laden paranormal mystery.”

—Julia Spencer-Fleming, Anthony and Agatha award–winning author

“A terrific read.”

—Claudia Bishop, author of the Hemlock Falls Mysteries

“It’s
Topper
meets
Beetlejuice
with a dash of
This Old House 
. . . One of the best mysteries I’ve read this year.”

—The Maine Suspect

Berkley Prime Crime titles by E. J. Copperman

NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEED

AN UNINVITED GHOST

OLD HAUNTS

CHANCE OF A GHOST

SPECIALS

A WILD GHOST CHASE

AN OPEN SPOOK

The Thrill of the Haunt

E. J. COPPERMAN

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

THE THRILL OF THE HAUNT

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2013 by Jeffrey Cohen.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

BERKLEY
®
PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

e Book ISBN: 978-1-101-62659-7

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / November 2013

Cover illustration by Dominick Finelle.

Cover photos:
Flock of Birds
© Alexusss;
Painted Background
© iStockphoto/Thinkstock.

Cover design by Judith Lagerman.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

To Copper, who gave me a name. Rest well. Good boy.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The longer this series goes on, the more grateful I am to the cast of characters—off the page—who make it go. First and foremost among these is Shannon Jamieson Vazquez, whose editing and refusal to let me get away with
anything
is absolutely essential to each book. How she can catch my every indulgence and laziness and get me to fix them without making me resent her is a work of magic. Never let it be said that an author doesn’t need an editor—it just isn’t true.

As essential to the process is my long-suffering agent Josh Getzler and all at HSG Agency, as well as Christina Hogrebe of Jane Rotrosen Agency, who started this process back in the Stone Age. My hat would be off to you, if I wore a hat.

Special thanks to Cathy Genna, who lent me her name, and all booksellers everywhere; to Anna Boffice, who lent me her last name only; and to Tom and Libby Hill, who lent me their names without knowing it. Surprise!

Thank you as ever to Dominick Finelle, who makes the incredible covers for the Haunted Guesthouse books and probably got you to pick this volume up just because of how good it looked. I’m in awe, Dominick.

Most of all, for now and always, my love and thanks to Jessica, Josh and Eve, who make every moment of every day worthwhile.

“Are you the ghost lady?”

I’ve heard the question many times, but I’m not crazy about it, frankly. Living in a large Victorian with my eleven-year-old daughter and two dead people who never took the hint—while trying to make a go of the place as a guesthouse—is difficult enough. But since Harbor Haven, New Jersey, is a small shore town, and everybody knows all about everybody else, the question does come up.

Usually, to be honest, I try to summon up an icy stare that makes the asker back down, but in this case, I did my best to force a small, knowing smile and nod. You had to be nice to Everett.

Everett, as far as I knew, was the only homeless man in Harbor Haven. He was in his mid-fifties now and never bothered anybody. It was rumored that he was a veteran of one war or another, and post-military life had clearly not been kind to him. Even on this fine spring day, he was bundled up with clothing because he couldn’t afford to jettison anything that he wouldn’t be able to replace before winter.

Everett was an oddly beloved figure around town. In a community that liked to flaunt its concern for its own, Everett gave everyone an opportunity to show how understanding we could be; we out-kinded each other when dealing with him. There was a great deal of hypocrisy, of course, as no one really ever tried to know him or tried to help in any substantial way, but that was almost beside the point.

Everett had taken up residence, more or less, outside Stud Muffin, our local pastry shop, which showed a good deal of intelligence on his part. People grabbing a quick snack or a coffee would provide him with spare change, and Jenny Webb, owner of the establishment, might occasionally sneak him a day-old product or two. Even now, with the Stud Muffin still a little shabbier than usual, since what we call “the storm” and the media calls Hurricane Sandy, it wasn’t unusual to see Everett in his Mount Vesuvius of clothing, with shoe soles worn through, eating a raspberry-filled croissant on any given morning.

I’d just been leaving the shop with my best friend, Jeannie, when Everett had stopped me with his question. Jeannie had recently returned to work at Accurate Insurance (although why accuracy is the first quality one would look for in an insurance company eludes me) after maternity leave, and her son Oliver was now spending time with a nanny named Louise, whom Jeannie had hired after an exhaustive search that made the vetting process of a Supreme Court justice seem like answering an ad on Craigslist. Jeannie is, let’s say, a hands-on kind of mom.

“I guess so,” I told him. I gave Jeannie a glance and reached into my overstuffed tote bag for my wallet, then took out a five-dollar bill to give to Everett. Jeannie did the same.

But Everett held up a hand like Diana Ross singing “Stop in the Name of Love.”

“Thanks, Ghost Lady,” he said, “but I don’t need money. I need other help.”

“What kind of help?” I asked. I held on to the money in case Everett changed his mind.

“Ghost help,” he insisted. Jeannie, to my left, stifled a snicker. She doesn’t believe in ghosts, especially not the ones in my house. Jeannie has seen objects fly by her face, holes inexplicably open in walls, watched her best friend (me), my mother, daughter and Jeannie’s own husband, Tony, all hold conversations with the local spirits (in Tony’s case, one-sided conversations), and still she refuses to acknowledge their reality. Her complete denial is a talent I sometimes wish I could cultivate in myself. It would make life so much simpler.

Jeannie is very persistent. Some would say stubborn, but not me.

“What do you mean, ghost help?” she asked Everett, clearly amused by the whole conversation.

Everett, who never used the bench outside Stud Muffin (“That’s for paying customers”), gestured toward it, beckoning us to sit down. But we were on a tight schedule. Jeannie had to get back to her job after this quick lunch break, and I had to get back to the guesthouse to greet newcomers this afternoon, so we chose to remain standing.

“I’m being haunted,” Everett said. “I’ve got ghosts after me.”

I’ve been able to see some—not all—ghosts ever since I suffered a head injury after I bought the guesthouse, so I immediately looked around to scout the area. There
were
some ghosts nearby on Ocean Avenue, but that’s not unusual. Nothing looked threatening. I could see an elderly couple hovering over a bench half a block down, a policeman from about 1950, judging from his uniform, who appeared to be patrolling his beat a foot above the pavement, and a small tabby cat that was just lying around, albeit with nothing holding him up. He stretched and looked bored.

“How do you know there are ghosts after you?” I asked Everett. “I don’t see anyone following you now.”

Jeannie gave me a look that indicated she thought I was patronizing the unfortunate mentally ill man, but I curled my lip and sneered at her—a talent I’d been practicing for exactly this purpose—and turned my attention back to Everett.

“Been getting vibes,” he said. “Been hearing people say things.” That was it?

“What do you want me to do?” I asked him. “How can I help?”

Everett looked surprised, as if I should have known. “Make them stop,” he said. Simple.

“If I could do that . . .” I started to say. It was a knee-jerk reaction. Sometimes having ghosts in the house is not as much fun as you might think.

Perhaps I should explain.

I’d bought the Victorian at 123 Seafront Avenue specifically to turn it into a guesthouse (and no, it’s
not
a bed and breakfast, although I’d started providing coffee and tea in the mornings lately and had been thinking about asking my mother for cooking lessons) less than two years earlier. While I was doing the necessary repairs and renovations, I got hit in the head with a bucket of wall compound, and when I recovered, I could see there were two ghosts on the property I’d just bought.

Paul Harrison had been a fledgling private detective in his thirties when he died. He’d been hired to protect Maxie Malone, a twenty-eight-year-old newly minted interior designer. The protection hadn’t worked out that well, though, as both Paul and Maxie were poisoned the day after he was hired, and they both died in what, almost a year later, became my house.

They were both stuck on the property—that is, they were unable to leave it—at that time, and if I wanted to keep the building into which I’d just sunk my entire life savings, my divorce settlement and the receipts from a lawsuit I’d settled (never mind), I was stuck with them.

Paul wasn’t bad company; he’s a thoughtful, considerate man who might have appealed to me in other ways if he’d been, you know, alive. But Maxie . . . well, my mother says she has “good intentions.” Perhaps. Maxie also likes to drive me insane, and ever since she’s gained the ability to move around outside my property (which Paul still can’t do; the rules seem to change from ghost to ghost), she’s almost inescapable.

Paul compensates by being able to contact other ghosts through some sort of telepathy I call the Ghosternet because I don’t have a better name for it. He goes off to some remote corner of the property and manages to send and receive messages from other dead people. I try not to think about it too much, to tell you the truth. Except when it can be useful. Other times, Paul likes to put forth on the Ghosternet that he (meaning we) can investigate for the deceased, which has historically led us (meaning me) into trouble.

All in all, I can’t say I was always crazy about having ghosts in the house. My mother and my daughter, Melissa, however, were very pleased; it turned out that they’d had the ability to see and hear ghosts all their lives but had never mentioned that little detail for fear of “upsetting” me (to be fair, it probably would have sent me into therapy). They still see more ghosts than I do, and there are days I wished they were still the only ones in the family with the “skill” to do so. That sentiment has changed somewhat since my father, who passed away a few years ago, started dropping by regularly to visit with me and his granddaughter. On those days, I’m more than glad to be able to communicate with the dead.

“I don’t know how to make your ghosts go away,” I told Everett. “But if you take this five dollars, you can go inside and Jenny will give you some soup.” I extended the money again.

Everett gave me a disdainful look. “I don’t think soup is going to keep the ghosts away,” he said. He took the money, though, and shuffled off, mumbling to himself that even the ghost lady wasn’t going to help.

I didn’t have time to explain, though, because once he moved, I noticed that Kerin Murphy had been standing behind him, no doubt listening in on our conversation. I’d heard Kerin, who had once been a queen bee in the Harbor Haven PTSO (Parent Teacher Student Organization, and no, it’s not the PTA), had returned to town after an absence of more than a year, following a separation from her husband. It was rumored she’d fled Harbor Haven for South Florida and a waitress job at an IHOP, but this was the first time I’d laid eyes on her since her resurfacing. She gave me a hollow smile and approached.

“The sharks are circling,” Jeannie muttered under her breath.

We probably should have tried to leave, but Kerin was too quick. “Why, Alison Kerby,” she said. “It’s been much too long.”

“Compared to what?” Jeannie was still close enough to me that I could hear her murmur, but Kerin was out of range.

“I know!” I pretended to be enthusiastic. If Kerin could, I could. “How have you been?”

Kerin twisted her face into an expression she must have thought looked contemplative but came across sort of constipated. “It’s been a trial,” she answered. “But I think we’re through the rough spots now.” The “rough spots” presumably included Kerin’s husband and all of Harbor Haven finding out about her affair with a real estate mogul. For this, I was fairly sure, Kerin blamed me. I’d been the one who’d discovered the truth while investigating Paul’s and Maxie’s murders, but it wasn’t
my
fault that everyone else in town had found out.
I
don’t run the local newspaper.

I just have a good friend who does.

“I’m so glad to hear it,” I lied. “You remember Jeannie, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Kerin said flatly. She didn’t need to be nice to Jeannie, because Jeannie lived in storm-torn Lavallette (although her home was intact), not Harbor Haven, and her son, Oliver, still less than a year old, would probably never attend Harbor Haven schools. Therefore, Jeannie, in Kerin’s world, didn’t exist.

“I feel exactly the same way,” Jeannie said, taking Kerin’s hand in hers.

I flashed a look at Jeannie in the sort of language only very close friends can exchange without fear of retribution, and she let go of Kerin’s hand. “Well, we should be moving on,” I said pleasantly. Sort of pleasantly. I’m pretty sure I didn’t actually gnash my teeth.

“Oh, I don’t want to hold you up,” Kerin said. “But I’m wondering. Why didn’t you help Everett with his problem?”

Huh? “I’m sorry?” I said. That’s the polite version of
huh?

“Everett,” Kerin repeated, as if it were the identity of the homeless man that was the confusing part of the question. “He wanted you to help him with a ghost problem. Why didn’t you?”

Jeannie’s face hardened, but she knows I don’t let her off her leash unless I think I can’t handle the situation myself.

“You were listening to our conversation?” I asked, just to buy a little time and try to figure out Kerin’s motives.

“Well, I didn’t mean to
eavesdrop
,” she said, affronted at the very notion. Clearly, this was my fault. “But I was right there.” She pointed to where she had stood, perhaps in an attempt to prove she’d been there.

“Must have been hard to ignore,” Jeannie said. “What with us speaking at normal volume and everything.”

I’d say the situation was threatening to turn ugly, but it hadn’t been that gorgeous when it had started. “I didn’t help Everett because I
can’t
help him,” I said. “I’m not a social worker, and I’m not a psychiatrist.”

“No,” Kerin agreed. “You’re the ghost lady.”

Jeannie made a sound like
pfwah
, which indicated that she considered Kerin’s comment something other than brilliant.

“I’m aware that’s what people around town call me,” I said, through what I hoped were not clenched teeth. “But you should know better, Kerin.”

“Oh no,” she said. “I know better than to know better.”

Kerin had witnessed actual ghostly behavior at my house and had gone around telling many people in town what she’d seen. Rumors had always circulated about my house being haunted, but everybody sort of believed them in the abstract, not the concrete. Kerin’s assertions had been dismissed as the lunatic ravings of a vengeful mind. Because that was more fun.

“You don’t really buy all that stuff, do you?” Jeannie asked.

“It doesn’t matter what people say,” I attempted. “I couldn’t help Everett, or I would have. But his problem isn’t something I can fix.”

Kerin narrowed her eyes. “Of course,” she said. “Well, I’ll see you around town, Alison.” She turned and walked away without acknowledging Jeannie again.

Jeannie shook her head as she watched Kerin turn the corner and disappear. “People in this town are awfully protective of that homeless guy,” she said.