The Thrill of the Haunt (5 page)

“And you have to tell them that the ghosts in your house are real,” Maxie offered, apparently under the mistaken impression that she was a part of this negotiation. I didn’t respond to her, either.

I spotted Harry and Beth Rosen heading up the walk toward the porch. “I’m not discussing this any further in front of my guests,” I said quietly to Kerin. “It’s yes or no, and it’s right now. So what’ll it be?”

For a moment, I thought she was going to call it all off, but she said, “It’s yes,” turned on her heel, and walked back toward the street, with the Several Mom March in step behind her.

I made a quick turn and looked at my daughter. “Where did you learn to negotiate?” I asked.

Liss shrugged.
“Pawn Stars
.
”

“Everett Sandheim?” Detective Lieutenant Anita McElone
(rhymes with
macaroni
) sat at her desk and regarded me up and down. “Who hired you to investigate a guy’s death when you don’t even know his whole name?”

“Believe me, it wasn’t my idea,” I assured her. “I’m just glad
you
knew it. Now if you can also tell me that the police department has the whole thing all sewn up, I’ll let the people who hired me know that they don’t need my services, and everybody walks away happy. So go ahead.”

McElone just sat there.

“Tell me,” I urged.

McElone did not even so much as blink.

“Please?” Maybe the magic word would help.

Nothing.

I sighed. “Okay. Since they hired me, I’m obligated to investigate, so—anything you can tell me?”

McElone sighed louder. “Many, many things,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean there’s much that I
will
tell you. Except that asking the police to do your job is sort of cheating your client. Who
is
your client?”

“You wouldn’t believe me,” I said.

She started a little, then caught herself. “This isn’t one of your ghosty things, is it?” she asked.

McElone and I have been around the block together more than once since this whole ghost-and-private-detective thing began. She is a very good detective who might or might not have a grudging respect for me but will never show it either way. But she is spooked (pun intended) beyond all reason by my house and a few things she’s seen happen there that she can’t explain. I truly believe she wouldn’t set foot in the place without a 911 call forcing her to do so.

I’d come here straight from the ten a.m. spook show, at which Paul had strummed a guitar I’d found at a local antique shop, and Maxie had flown a small rug runner I had in the hallway around the house and then folded it into the shape of a canoe, all the while complaining to me that she was “not a trained chimp.” She’d vanished right after the performance, which was a plus, because now that she has figured out how to appear in the passenger seat of my car, whenever I’m going somewhere, she pops up. This trip had been Maxie-free.

“As a matter of fact, no,” I said. “It’s about a group of hysterical women who are trying to get me to say a ghost killed Everett so they can run me out of town on a rail or something.”

McElone looked at me as if I were speaking a language other than English, and she had nothing but a very thin phrase book to help her. “And how is that
not
a ghosty thing?” she asked.

“Well, technically, it’s not one of
my
ghosts,” I explained, although hearing it aloud didn’t help much. There are a few people I’ve told that I live with ghosts because it’s easier than always pretending I don’t; McElone is one of them. “Believe me, I think this is just as ridiculous as you do, and I’d like to prove that an actual living human stabbed the poor man.”

McElone is freakishly neat—which in my opinion signals a serious psychological problem—so she had no papers to shuffle, but she did the best she could with the one sheet of paper she had on her desk. “So, why are you here, exactly?” she asked.

I glanced around the room and noticed that McElone’s cubicle looked the same as it always had, except that the pictures of her children had been replaced with pictures of bigger children. I thought about what I could ask her that might have a fighting chance of being answered.

“I’d like to get up to speed,” I said. “Can you at least confirm to me that the knife wound was the cause of Everett’s death?”

“M.E.’s report isn’t out yet,” McElone answered, sounding every bit the straitlaced police functionary. “But it seems like a good bet. And it’s not a knife wound—it’s multiple knife wounds. Blood loss will likely be listed as the actual cause of death unless there’s some surprise I’m unaware of yet. It just happened yesterday. Could be a while before it’s confirmed.”

That wasn’t much of a help, but then, what had I expected? “Can you tell me what background you have on Everett? I heard he was in the Army or something about twenty years ago. Is that right, or is it just a rumor?”

McElone looked at me for a few moments, presumably deciding whether to give me her usual speech about doing my own research (actually, Maxie does most of the online research for my investigations, since she’s good at it and has plenty of time on her hands). She probably realized that things pretty much always end up with her sharing information anyway, so she gestured futilely with her hands and punched some keys on her desktop computer.

“Everett Martin Sandheim was fifty years old at the time of his death,” she said, reading from her screen. “He was born in Atlanta, Georgia; went to Fairleigh Dickinson University in Madison, New Jersey, ROTC. Then he got out of college and immediately went into the Army. Participated in the Grenada invasion in 1983. No injuries as far as I can tell, but two commendations for bravery. Came home a lieutenant just about thirty years ago.”

“How did he end up homeless?” I asked.

McElone gave me a withering look. “All I have is official records,” she answered, her tone indicating that I should have known better than to ask the question. “It doesn’t list everything about the guy’s life. He was first cited for loitering seven years ago, a couple of times against municipal ordinances for disorderly conduct, which probably means they wanted to get him off the street on cold winter nights. Occasionally some tourist who didn’t know better would complain, but it never led to an arrest. Hasn’t been cited for two years, because nobody ever complained about the guy during that time.”

“So there’s nothing in his record to indicate why someone might be really mad at him,” I said, thinking aloud. I looked up at McElone. “Did he have any family?”

She punched a few more keys, probably just to scroll down the page. “He has a sister in Montana, and his father is currently residing in South Carolina. We’ve contacted the sister, haven’t gotten through to the father yet.”

“I thought all older people from New Jersey went to Florida,” I said.

“Get with the times. South Carolina is the new Florida. Closer to the grandkids and still no snow in the winter.”

“More hurricanes though.” We exchanged a look.

McElone looked over the page, turning the screen toward herself so I couldn’t crane my neck and look at it, then took her hands off the keyboard. “That’s about it,” she said.

“What are you guys doing about it?” I asked. Then, realizing that it sounded like I thought the police were not investigating, I added, “I don’t want to step on your toes if I start asking around.”

McElone’s eyes indicated either irritation or amusement; with her it’s hard to tell. “We’re investigating,” she said with an edge. “When we get the M.E.’s report, we’ll know more. I talked to Marv Winderbrook, who owns the gas station where Everett was found. He says he didn’t see anything.”

“They don’t have security cameras?” I said. I thought it made me sound professional.

“Not in the
bathrooms
.” McElone was indicating that my intention had not been realized. “But they do have some outside, and we’re checking to see if anyone went in or out while Everett was in there. So far it doesn’t look like anybody did.”

“And the door was locked from the inside,” I said, chiefly to myself.

“That’s right. Now. Is there anything else I can do to make sure you continue to be employed, or can I get on with
my
actual job now?”

I stood up. “You know,” I said to McElone, “there are times when I think you don’t consider me with a good deal of respect.”

Not even a flicker of amusement. “Run with that thought,” she said.

Well, if she was going to be
that
way about it . . . I picked up my tote bag and took two steps toward the squad room entrance. Then I turned back and looked at McElone again. “Is anybody looking into Everett’s estate?” I asked.

She took off her reading glasses and considered me. “The guy was homeless. What estate are you talking about?”

“That’s what I thought,” I said and continued toward the door. I had no idea what I’d meant when I said that, but somehow I felt a little better.

• • •

My mother was waiting for me on a bench outside the police station. Mom doesn’t really have anything against cops, and she will go inside if it’s necessary. But she’s leery of what she insists on calling precinct houses. Mom watches a little too much television.

We had arranged to meet because Mom was going to give Melissa and me (mostly Melissa) a cooking lesson by way of making dinner while we were there. To road test said dinner, Jeannie, Tony (and their son Oliver) and Josh were coming to the house tonight to eat. Also, Tony is a contractor and a good one, so he could offer more ideas on my soon-to-be-not-a-game room.

“There was a very nice man here just a minute ago,” she said after I’d filled her in on my consultation (which is what I’d decided I’d call it) with Detective McElone. “He thought it was possible that poor Everett was killed by a thrown knife, rather than one the killer held.”

“Multiple times? Even so, that wouldn’t explain what happened to it after Everett died. There was no knife found in the men’s room.” We started toward my pathetic old Volvo, which was parked around the corner. “What are you doing asking strange men in the street about the murder of a homeless man anyway? Do you think that’s the best way to solve a crime?”

Mom sniffed a bit at what she perceived as my rudeness. But she’d never say anything because she believes I’m perfect (which is not as great as it sounds, believe me). “He was just hovering over my head,” she said pointedly. “It would have been impolite to ignore him. You were in there awhile, and we couldn’t just stand out here and talk about the weather.”

Mom is probably the best ghost spotter in the family, although Melissa is getting better the older she gets. Guess who that leaves as the least talented in the line? I’ll give you a minute.

“Well, I don’t think your ghost buddy’s theory is very plausible,” I said. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t start random conversations in the streets of my hometown with people no one else can see. They already call me the ghost lady. Do you want to be the ghost lady’s even crazier mother?” Mom has gotten more brazen about her ghost not-so-whispering since I joined the club.

“People shouldn’t be so quick to judge,” Mom said. “Anyway, I don’t see why I had to come with you here; I thought you wanted cooking lessons. Why couldn’t I have just come to your house after you were done with the lieutenant?”

I opened the passenger door of the geriatric Volvo for Mom, and she looked at me questioningly. “We have somewhere else to go first, and I wanted you with me for it,” I said. She got in and reached over to unlock the driver’s door for me.

“Where are we going?” Mom asked as I started the car.

“To watch a man go to lunch,” I told her.

I’d followed Helen Boffice’s presumably wayward husband, Dave, from their nice-but-not-fancy home on Surf Road to his office in Red Bank this morning at eight and watched him go inside, and then I drove back to my house in time for the morning show. That was just to get the lay of the land; Helen had been clear that I only had to follow Dave at lunch. Luckily, the guests—even Cybill—all left for the day after the show. One of the advantages of not providing meals is that guests have to leave the house to eat, which frees up some time during the day for me. I give all my guests the number of a cell phone I keep specifically for them to call me on if there are any issues, but so far, no one ever had.

I filled Mom in on my non-ghost case during the twenty-minute drive to Lakewood. You might think a woman in her late sixties would be appalled at the idea of being hijacked to stake out a suspected adulterer, but Mom was quite pleased. She reached around to the backseat to get her backpack, which she uses in lieu of a purse, and which was no doubt full of food and cooking supplies. She pulled out a pair of dark sunglasses. “These will be good to hide my face,” she said.

“We’re not supposed to be seen at all. Besides, he’s never seen you in his life,” I reminded her.

“How do you know?” Go argue with that.

Fortunately, we were pulling up to the office building, a three-story mostly glass structure whose second floor was completely rented by ClearServe Industries, Dave’s employer. I’d discovered that by walking up to the building directory. Buildings largely made from glass are excellent for stakeouts because you can often see people even when they’re inside.

“What makes you think he’ll be coming out now?” Mom asked, now pulling on a baseball cap she’d also retrieved from the backpack.

“Helen gave me his daily schedule,” I told her, doing absolutely nothing to conceal any part of my face. “She said he pretty much never varies from it at all; he’s a real creature of habit.”

Of course, once I had said that, it was inevitable that we would sit there checking a picture of Dave that Helen had given me for about twenty minutes before Dave, of medium height, medium weight and medium attractiveness—in short, the most average man in history—walked out of the building.