Interview with a Ghost in Arizona (Humorous Cozy Mystery) (Ghost Mysteries of the Southwest Book 2)

by Angela Pepper

  Simone said, “I guess this is goodbye.” She was talking to George, but she spoke into the microphone.

  She kept circling the casket, like she was planning something. She clicked the casket's latches. All eyes were on Simone as she lifted up the edge of the casket lid, ever so slowly. She stopped once the crack had reached five inches. She leaned over and said something the microphone didn't pick up. Abruptly, the lid slammed shut with a thunderous crack.

  People in the pews shrieked. A woman moaned, threatening to faint, but didn't.

  Simone nodded her head as though exhausted, dropped the microphone, and left the chapel.

  Pastor Dan picked up the microphone, cleared his throat, and went straight into another prayer. When he reached the end, he had to repeat the Amen to get the stunned audience to say it with him.

  One hour and ten minutes after the service had begun, Pastor Dan wrapped it up with a short and sweet story about forgiveness, and invited everyone to the adjoining family room for casual refreshments.

  Piper got to her feet and followed the crowd. She'd grown hungry over the last hour of drama, and looked forward to sampling the buffet prepared by Otis's staff. She would need to keep an eye out for him so he didn't catch her speaking English. She chuckled inwardly at the complicated mess her life had become.

  A tiny woman in purple with a matching flowered hat approached. “That was quite the service,” she said to Piper.

  “It certainly was. Thank goodness for George's sister. She really saved the day.”

  The woman, who must have been two inches shorter than petite Piper, glanced around before saying, in a conspiratorial tone, “That Simone certainly got herself cleaned up just in time.” She tapped the side of her nose. “Rehab, I hear, for the nose candy. Isn't that what you kids are calling it?”

  “Um, sure.”

  The tiny octogenarian looked pleased. “My great nephew Georgie has sent his sister a lot of money over the years, and I bet you my good Sunday hat it's all gone up her nose.”

  “Simone is a drug addict?”

  The woman giggled. “Sweetheart, only poor people are addicts. Simone just has a little problem.” She made air quotes around the words “little problem.”

  “I had no idea,” Piper said. In an equally conspiratorial tone, she added, “Honestly, until today, I didn't even realize George had a sister.”

  “She hunts elephants,” the woman said, nodding so vigorously her purple hat threatened to tip off. “Fancies herself a female Hemingway or something like that. But with more cocaine and less writing.”

  “And you're their great aunt? You must have a lot of great stories about George growing up.”

  “Yes, I do.” She waved at someone in the crowd. “I have to go see some people, but it was lovely chatting with you.”

  The woman shook Piper's hand before heading off in the adjoining family room, where the food awaited.

  Piper started to follow her, but the tiny woman was fast and disappeared in the crowd. When Piper did reach the entrance to the family room, her heart sank. Standing in the doorway was the burly security guy. He was checking invitations again, this time cross-referencing a list on a clipboard. The only entrance to the room was a single doorway, so Piper wouldn't be slipping in unnoticed this time. She hung back in the atrium, pretending to check something on her phone while she kept a hopeful watch for Robert Jones. If he hadn't gone far, perhaps she could catch him here in the atrium and then somehow convince him to spend a few minutes alone with her.

  Alas, Robert Jones seemed to be long gone. Was there anyone else worth talking to? The sister, Simone, was a juicy prospect. Was she really a recovering addict who spent George's money on drugs and exotic safaris? What would it take to get her to open up about her story?

  If Nancy Dowd were there, she'd get the scoop. Rumor had it Nancy used a variety of disguises to get near her targets. She'd gain their trust and then shock them when she revealed her true identity. Most people were so caught off guard, not to mention starstruck, that they babbled like brooks in the spring run-off.

  But Piper was no Nancy Dowd, and she had no disguise. And being neither old nor Caucasian, she stood out in the crowd.

  With each passing minute, more people seemed to be noticing Piper's presence in the atrium. The big security guy in the suit crooked his finger and beckoned her to come over his way. Once more, she regretted turning the invitation into confetti.

  Just then, a woman called out to the security guard, “She's with me, silly.” It was the woman who'd been seated in the back row with Piper. The one who looked Chinese. She grabbed Piper's hand possessively. “This is my daughter. Stop looking at her like that, you naughty boy. I can feel you undressing her with your eyes. You ought to be ashamed of yourself! She's barely fifteen.”

  The man's eyes bulged, and he turned away guiltily.

  The woman winked at Piper, clutched her hand even tighter, and dragged her toward the funeral home's family room. “Come on, daughter.”

  Chapter 8

  The woman didn't let go of Piper's arm until they'd entered the family room, where people were browsing the buffet tables and arranging themselves around folding tables draped with white linens. The security guard bought the story of them being related and hadn't pressed for ID. Up close, Piper was certain the woman was Chinese in origin, and she spoke like second or third generation. Piper was second-generation Taiwanese American, but ethnically she was more Chinese than anything, having descended from ancestors who emigrated to Taiwan during the Cultural Revolution.

  The woman said, “You can call me Pan, by the way.”

  “Pan?” It was an unusual name.

  “It's short for Pandora.”

  Piper gave the older woman a mock-surprised look. “Shouldn't I call you Mom?” She was joking. The security guard was well out of hearing range now. “Or Mother?”

  The woman shuddered theatrically. “Ugh, I feel so ancient just thinking about it. How old are you, kid?”

  “Twenty-one, but I'm sure the security beefcake believed I'm fifteen.”

  “You're lucky to have a baby face.”

  “Sure, but it's embarrassing. I still get carded at the theater for R-rated movies.” Piper glanced back at the doorway they'd just come through. “Thanks for covering for me. I had an official invitation, but I didn't plan on coming, so I threw the card in the trash like a dummy.”

  “I'm glad you changed your mind, sweetie.” Pandora gave her a look that simulated motherly concern. “Just play along and say that you're my daughter.”

  “You want me to keep up the lie?”

  The woman scrutinized her. “You're sneaky, but you're no liar. How about you just keep your mouth shut?”

  “Sure.” Piper could do that. In fact, it would be for the best that she not talk, since Otis was ever present, darting in and out of the kitchen, sneaking shy glances her way between trips. They'd already made eye contact twice.

  The funeral home's family room was three times the size of the chapel and filled with institutional folding tables set for six people each. The decor was neutral, with a sandy hue on the walls, soft gray carpet, and an abundance of silk ficus trees. They could have been at anyone's funeral, for there were no signs or displays about George, other than one discarded, dog-eared House of Hallows paperback on a window ledge. Even that might have been a coincidence, left by someone attending an event the previous day. There were millions of copies of the books in circulation, so George Morrison paperbacks popped up anywhere James Patterson or John Grisham books might appear.

  The two raven-haired women mingled with the mostly gray-haired crowd, which had dwindled down to fewer than a hundred people. Pandora handled all the introductions, never once saying Piper's fake name, referring to her only as “my adorably shy fifteen-year-old clone.”

  The people they met, who ranged from low-level publishing house employees to shirt-tail relatives of the Morrisons, were dutifully amused, adding their own jokes about young
Piper being a “mini me.”

  An older gentleman in a cravat asked Pandora with a formal flair, “And how might you two be acquainted with my former pupil?”

  “I'm Pandora Lee, the president of George Morrison's online fan club. For his biggest, most dedicated fans.”

  His hoary white eyebrows raised. “Is that on the internet? I certainly hope so. I'd be frightened to be in a room with those people.”

  Pandora's face twitched with annoyance. “Some of the nicest people I've ever met are readers.”

  “Sure, sure,” he said. “But the word fan was always a pejorative. It means fanatic, dear.”

  “What's wrong with being a fanatic?”

  “Ahh…” His voice dropped down into vocal fry as he stared at her blankly.

  Piper smiled politely, though she was jumping for joy on the inside. Nancy Dowd had sent her to the funeral with the editor Robert Jones as her top prospect, but she'd mentioned George's fan club president as a secondary option. Piper had gotten lucky, with Pandora practically falling right into her lap.

  Now Pandora was browbeating this unsuspecting retired teacher, telling him all about the fan website and how it was a safe space for people to be whoever or whatever they wanted to be.

  Piper was familiar with the website and its messageboards, but she didn't have much appetite for arguing with people on the internet over their wrongheadedness. She wondered how people could be smart enough to read and understand the doorstopper-sized books yet still get such far-fetched ideas about the characters. And the 'shippers! They were obsessed with romantic relationships, always 'shipping their favorite pairings into couples, even when they were from different timelines. Some of them started online petitions demanding their needs be heard, most of which were preposterous. George Morrison would have to bring in a time-travel element to satisfy those people.

  Now Piper listened to Pandora rant and rave, mentally taking notes for her report to Nancy Dowd.

  Pandora and her daughter, Coco, had started off as superfans, posting on Goodreads and book blogs about their love of the series. They'd toiled away promoting the author for nothing, as his unofficial self-appointed Street Team. They made sure his book signings were well attended and even badgered The New York Times into reviewing the books, even though it wasn't the sort of thing they usually covered.

  As the series took off in popularity, the unofficial Street Team became indispensable to the franchise. They were upgraded to the Official Street Team. For the past two years, the mother–daughter social media team had been on a monthly retainer to keep doing what they were best at, providing valuable street-level marketing support for the author's hit series. They even moved to the author's birthplace, where the cost of living was low and they could work at online promotion full time.

  “You wouldn't think the series needed that kind of help,” Pandora said to the man with the feathery white eyebrows.

  “Of course not,” he said, slowly backing away but unable to escape the conversation.

  Pandora said, “And you'd be right, because the books sell themselves. But we did it for George, to keep his spirits lifted. You'd be surprised how lonely writing can be.” She held one pretty, manicured hand over her heart dramatically. “My heart breaks, knowing how much he suffered to give his gift to the world.”

  The old man nodded. “Sometimes we suffer.”

  “If only he'd had an heir,” Pandora said. “Even if the child inherited only half of his gifts, it would have been a better writer than most.”

  “Such a shame,” the man agreed. He took another step back, muttered that it had been lovely to meet her, and made his escape.

  Pandora sniffed and turned her back to Piper. Was she crying?

  Piper put a hand on the woman's shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  Pandora sniffed again, wiped at her face, and turned around looking composed again. “The world lost a great man.”

  “It sounds like you knew George well.”

  In the silence that followed, Piper fought an internal battle with her conscience. Right about now would be the perfect time to pry into Pandora with a few careful questions. The woman practically had a Ph.D. in George Morrisonology. Surely she had some inside information that might be of interest to… To whom? The general public? This was where the dilemma got sticky. What right did the public have to the man's private life? Or even to what was inside Pandora Lee's heart and mind? She was a real person, someone's daughter, someone's mother. She was not a fictional character who could be flayed alive and laid bare for the world's entertainment.

  Piper's insides twisted into knots. How did Nancy Dowd do what she did?

  She broke the silence. “I'm sorry for your loss,” Piper said, and she meant it.

  “He was a wonderful man,” Pandora said, a dreamy look on her face. “You know, he used to talk to me about the future all the time.”

  Here was the opening. Piper took it reluctantly. “When you say the future, do you mean self-driving cars, or his plans for the end of the series?” She chuckled lamely at her attempt at a joke.

  Pandora smirked. “He told me a few things.”

  Piper's fan side woke up. Never mind the interview; she wanted to know for herself. Who was the rightful heir to the Scepter of Rose Petals? The one who would rule all the kingdoms, from the Earth Fairies to the Sky Singers? So many great characters were in the running, at least seven, and everyone had their favorites. So, who would it be?

  It was the question everyone talking about George was asking. In fact, folks seemed far more interested in the planned ending for his books than how George had died. As far as his demise went, the ruling theory was that he'd suffered either a heart attack or stroke and fallen down the stairs. Nobody but Piper, outside of the Copeland Police Department, presumably, seemed to know about him being struck on the back of the head. Even Piper was starting to wonder if she'd imagined everything about the ghost.

  In the bright light of day, the whole haunting business seemed like a strange, feverish nightmare. Was Dr. Vicki Walsh right about Piper cracking under the strain of being alone following a trauma? The only evidence Piper had that George was real had been a single confirmation. On Halloween, there'd been the goth boy who had seen George dressed as the Cowardly Lion. But it could have been a throwaway sarcastic comment from the teen. Or maybe she'd imagined hearing what she did as the kid walked away with his buddies. If she was having visual hallucinations, why not audible ones, too?

  Pandora must have noticed Piper's anxieties manifest on her face. “Don't worry,” Pandora said. “I won't spoil it for you.”

  Piper blinked and refocused. Despite the emotional turmoil, her curiosity was fully piqued. “You know the ending? You know who stops the four seas from swallowing the land? Who takes the Scepter of Rose Petals?”

  Pandora was still smirking. “I know who doesn't take it.”

  They'd reached the buffet table and lined up for food. Pandora kept ducking her head and scanning around them. She didn't want to say more while other people were within earshot. Piper grabbed a paper plate and loaded up on bite-sized food indiscriminately.

  They shuffled along, finishing by selecting Nanaimo bars, luscious chocolate squares filled with a yellow cream custard.

  “Love these squares,” the fan club president said. “George's childhood home was on Nanaimo Street.”

  “I knew that.”

  Pandora sniffed. “No, you didn't. It was top secret. He only told his closest friends.”

  “Right,” Piper agreed. “I must have heard it on the news and thought I knew it.”

  As they walked away from the buffet, Piper leaned in and asked, “Back to what you were saying. When you said you know who doesn't take the Scepter, does that mean you know who does?”

  “It's obvious, if you know where to look.”

  Piper groaned. Talking to this woman was as infuriating as posting on the fan forums. “You don't know anything. You're just like all the other superfans posting
their crazy theories on messageboards. You're not an insider.”

  Pandora took the bait. “Oh yeah? Then how do I know that Roxanna is the secret daughter of Harmony, who was enchanted to forget the pregnancy after the baby was stolen by the Desert Barbarians?”

  Piper's heart skipped a beat. That wasn't a theory she'd read online, but the timeline certainly tracked. What a twist! It seemed this woman did have insider knowledge after all.

  They shifted away from the crowd and took two seats at an unoccupied table.

  Piper could barely control her curiosity. With a trembling hand, she jabbed her fork into a long, green grape. She stayed quiet and raised her eyebrows at Pan, imploring her to continue.

  Pandora frowned at her food. “These strawberries are bland. Are the grapes any better?”

  Piper transferred her remaining green grapes to the older woman's plate. “Here. I'll trade you. One grape for each name. Tell me who doesn't take the Scepter.”

  Pandora sampled the green grapes and nodded with satisfaction. “We're going to need more grapes, but be patient and I'll tell you.” She flicked her dark-brown eyes down to her plate. “You'd think they'd spring for something nicer than paper plates and plastic forks. God knows his estate could afford it.”

  Piper was literally on the edge of her seat, waiting to hear about George's big plan for House of Hallows. “You were saying, about the ending?”

  Pandora blinked at her. “Sweetie, I'm just teasing you. I can't tell you that. It was told to me in confidence.”

  She pushed her chair back. “Bathroom break. You can stay and watch the plates.” She stood and patted Piper on the head. “You're being very brave, sweetheart,” she said loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Piper didn't want to sit and watch the plates, pretending to be this woman's daughter, but she did want a good interview. She stayed, and listened in on the conversation happening at the next table, between a married couple.

  The woman asked her husband, “What do you think that horrible Robert Jones meant about George making a sacrifice?”