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

by Angela Pepper

  Maybe he was ignoring her today for a reason.

  Five bedrooms plus a den later, Piper apologized for the no-show. “He's usually here until sunrise, so maybe he'll turn up yet.”

  Winnie wrinkled her nose. “Where else have you seen the ghost, other than here? He was at his mom's house before, right?”

  An inexplicable coolness washed over Piper. Normally it was George who put a chill in a room, but she didn't see him there.

  Without waiting for an answer, Winnie said, “We should go for a walk by there. I've never seen his old house before, and I'm curious. Plus maybe George is hanging around there. Come on. After the day you've had, and all that ice cream, a walk will do you good.”

  Teddy let out an excited bark.

  Winnie squatted down and rubbed his chin. “You're right, I did say the W word. Does Teddy wanna go for a W-A-L-K?”

  Teddy twirled in a circle, making more noises with both ends.

  Piper grabbed his leash and all three headed to the front door.

  The walk to the Morrison residence would take about twenty minutes—or thirty if Teddy encountered any interesting smells that needed investigation.

  He did.

  The trio arrived at their destination at eight-fifteen, barely past dinner time, yet it could have been midnight for how dark and quiet the street was. The neighborhood was an older one, with larger-sized lots and lush landscaping—lush for Arizona, anyway. The street was lined with stately Mexican fencepost, spruce cones, as well as the usual oleander, daisies, petunias, and geraniums. Some yards had ground cover of purple verbena, agave, and other succulents. Left over from Halloween, a few wizened jack-o-lanterns sat on porches, well on their way to becoming compost.

  “That's unsettling,” Winnie said, pointing to the house numbers on the Morrison residence. “Triple four.” They stood in front of 1444 Nanaimo Street.

  Neither were as superstitious as their Taiwan-raised parents, but the triple appearance of the number four, the word for which sounded like death in their language, was sobering. Moments earlier, they'd been giggling, joking about Winnie kicking ghost-George in the shin as punishment for his character Ling's demise, but now both went quiet. Even Teddy sensed something. His black ears were pricked, his tail straight as a stick.

  “Fourteen-forty-four Nanaimo Street,” Piper said. “I didn't even notice all those fours the first time. I was too busy wondering what Nanaimo meant.”

  “It's that dessert square you like, with the yellow custard layer.”

  “Now you're making me hungry.”

  “Adventure first, then snacks.” Winnie took a step toward the modest, split-level home, and then immediately took a step back again as though repelled by a force field. “Fourteen-forty-four,” she muttered, shaking her head. “I guess I'm more superstitious than I thought, because I've got a bad feeling about this.”

  “But we're already here,” Piper said.

  “You do realize that means triple death?” Winnie rubbed her arms and then zipped up the lightweight cardigan she'd borrowed from Piper's closet.

  “Oh, don't worry. The curse has already run its course,” Piper said lightly. “Three of the people who've lived here since the house got built are dead now. George, as well as both of his parents. One for each four.”

  Winnie took another step back, zipping the thin cardigan all the way to her neck. “Exactly. It's a death trap.”

  Piper rolled her eyes and crossed under the wisteria-draped arbor, onto the property. “The house is fifty-some years old. And besides, I think George was the only one who died inside the house, and might I remind you we're here to see a ghost?”

  Winnie rubbed her arms. “This was a bad idea. I don't know what I was thinking. It must have been those kooks on the message board. They were all talking about their ghosts like it was the coolest thing ever, and I fell for the hype.”

  “What message board? You were talking to people about what I told you in confidence?”

  Winnie licked her lips and made dry smacking sounds. “Not exactly. Well, not any specifics. When you were talking to the cop and the Realtor in the house, I found this website, sort of an online community, of people talking about hauntings.” She winced, making a half-smiling expression of embarrassment. “I kinda-sorta chatted with this woman who was kinda-sorta dating a ghost in Colorado a few months ago.”

  “I'm sure that worked out well,” Piper said dryly. “Are they getting married soon? Having a ghost wedding?”

  Winnie kept wincing. “Her story's a bit complicated. But she did say some ghosts are guardian angels, and they're not here for themselves or their own unfinished business. They might show up when we, the living, need them.”

  “You think George is around because I need him?”

  “Well, Piper, you kinda need something. Walking your dog and going shopping is not exactly a career.”

  Piper shook her head. Winnie thought she knew everything, but she'd only been working at her job for a year. She'd been exactly the same as Piper before that.

  “You've talked about being a writer,” Winnie said. “Or was it a journalist? Is that why you took the job with Nancy Dowd? George could be here to serve as your muse.”

  Piper was tired from the long day and annoyed about the conversation, even though she knew Winnie meant well. It was just her tone of voice sometimes, the way it was so condescending.

  Piper pointed a thumb over her shoulder at the house. “Then let's go inside, round up George, and see what he can do for my career.”

  Winnie played with the zipper on the cardigan. “I thought we were just going to walk around the garden and see if he turned up. Don't tell me you're planning to break in!”

  “We came all this way. Might as well try the front door.” Piper walked up the front step and reached for the handle. She couldn't explain it to her best friend, but the door seemed to be glowing, calling to her. It was as though George was there, tugging on her arm, imploring her to step inside his childhood home. He had something to tell her, or show her, she was sure of it.

  The door opened, just as she knew it would.

  She stepped inside. Teddy followed, his toenails clicking on the terra cotta entryway tiles. The air was as dusty as ever, tickling her nose and threatening to set off a sneeze attack. But worse than the dust, there was a fetid aroma, like the sludge in the bottom of a garbage bin. Piper went from nearly sneezing to nearly gagging. Teddy made the snorting sounds he reserved for dead things found along the side of the road.

  Muttering complaints under her breath, Winnie came inside. “Stinky.” She pinched her nose.

  Piper said, “I don't remember it smelling this bad last week.”

  “They'll never sell this house now,” Winnie said. “Unless your parents are looking for another project? Your dad could get a great deal on this one, since it's a rotten-smelling crime scene house.”

  Piper rolled her eyes. “Not even if the town let him change the house number.”

  Winnie held her hand to her ear and shushed Piper.

  Both listened. There were voices inside the house.

  “Someone's in here,” Winnie whispered. “They're on another floor. That's why the front door wasn't locked.”

  “It might be the television,” Piper whispered back. “George loves to watch his CNN.” There was a flickering of light, near the staircase that led up. Piper proceeded into the dark home, toward the voices and the flickering light. She felt as certain about going upstairs as she had about trying the front door.

  Winnie grumbled and hung back, but after a few seconds alone, she decided she'd rather walk into a triple-death ambush with Piper than be left by herself.

  Chapter 12

  As they walked along the dark upstairs hallway, Piper scooped up Teddy and held the eager Boston Terrier so he couldn't get ahead of them. The two girls slowly approached the room that was flickering with the light of a television.

  Piper slowed down. If this was where George hung out when h
e wasn't at her house, maybe he wouldn't be thrilled to see her barging in on him.

  Winnie shot past her, breathing excitedly, “I can't believe I get to meet George Morrison.” There was a note of fangirl hysteria to her whispered voice.

  Piper shook her head. Winnie had been so dead-set against Piper meeting the author, even threatening to call Piper's parents in Taiwan. Now here she was, leading the charge.

  Winnie stopped abruptly. She whispered, “That's not just a TV. Someone else is here in the house.”

  Teddy also sensed something. His body, cradled in the crook of Piper's arm, was as taut as a drawn arrow, quivering for release. She didn't dare set him loose.

  Winnie was right. Over the sound of the television, two people were talking. A man and a woman.

  “Listen,” Piper whispered. “I think I know those voices.”

  The girls held still in the hallway, out of sight of the room's doorway, and listened. Teddy settled, melting into the crook of Piper's arm.

  The television station had switched to commercials, and the loud ads for fast food and teeth whiteners competed with the live voices inside the room, but Piper could hear bits of their conversation whenever the two faced the doorway.

  The male voice asked, “Did you check behind the air conditioner vent?”

  The woman snapped, “Duh, Rob. That's the first place I checked. The air conditioner vent? Come on. I've watched every episode of Dexter.”

  He replied, “Jeez, Sammy. I'm not the enemy here.”

  “Don't call me that. George called me Sammy all the time, even though he knew I hated it.”

  “Or because you hated it.”

  In the darkness of the hallway, Piper made a fist with her free hand. She'd correctly identified the two as Robert Jones, the bedraggled editor, and Simone Morrison, George's skinny sister. By the crispness of his voice, Robert had sobered up since the funeral nine hours earlier, but Simone might have indulged in one or two of her vices. She sounded wound up and ready to blow.

  The two continued to squabble. By the sound of it, they were conducting a search of every square inch of the room. Piper hadn't been upstairs on her first visit to the Morrison house, but it was clear by the name carved into the door that this was the childhood bedroom of George Morrison.

  “There aren't any notebooks here,” Simone said, exasperated. “We've looked in every nook and cranny.”

  “Nook and cranny,” Robert said with a musing tone. “Such a funny expression. People use the word nook on its own, kitchen nook or book nook, but nobody will admit to having a cranny. And what exactly is a cranny? I really ought to know these things. I am, after all, the world's most famous book editor.”

  Simone snorted. “That's like being the world's most famous speck of dust.”

  “Don't be cruel, Sammy,” he said, sounding genuinely hurt.

  “We're nobodies, as far as the public is concerned, Rob. You and I are equal in our nothingness, our unequivocal lack of worth. You've seen the coverage. The people in George's shadow don't even exist, as far as the world's concerned.”

  “Speak for yourself.” The sound of Rob's voice changed, as though he was puffing out his chest. “George always thanked me in the book notes. Not even time can erase words printed on pages. My contribution has been acknowledged.”

  Simone let out a contemptuous huff of air. “Unlike mine, right? The world will never know it was me. That I did at least half of George's writing. I'm the real star. They should be talking about me on every TV show. That should be my face on the screen.”

  She stopped talking. The television had switched back to an entertainment news show. Two pundits were discussing the adaptation of House of Hallows into film or television, and how many hours would be adequate to cover the stories told in each thick tome. The two talking heads seemed to be in a contest over who could be the bigger fan of the series, heaping the most praise on its brilliant creator.

  Simone groaned with displeasure bordering on pain. The television muted. “Idiots,” she said with finality. “There's no point.”

  The springs of an ancient-sounding piece of furniture groaned in protest as someone took a seat.

  “Now what?” asked Rob. “We already know his penthouse is clean. This was our last hope. Where else can we look? Is there a family cottage or cabin? Didn't he love to vacation in Colorado? Some place in Owl Bend?”

  “Yes, but he hasn't been there in years.”

  Rob sighed, and the springs groaned as he took a seat. “Well, Sammy, I don't know where else to look.” There was a smacking sound. “Ouch. I mean Simone.”

  “If we can't find his notes, that means there are no notes. My brother was full of crap, stringing us along, saying he was working on Hallows when he wasn't.”

  “That's not necessarily a bad thing,” Robert said. “Now we're free to turn in a synopsis of our own, pass it off as his, and nobody will be the wiser. We both know the publisher doesn't care at all. They just want the revenue. The fat stacks of cash.”

  The furniture springs groaned again. “Fat stacks of cash,” Simone repeated. “I like the sound of that. You know, Rob, you're kinda sexy when you get out from behind the computer.”

  He made a sound partway between a growl and a purr. “Sammy! What about your twelve steps? You're not supposed to get involved with people for at least a year.”

  “And you would know,” she said.

  “I would,” he replied. “I've failed the twelve steps countless times. I've installed a slide on the side of my wagon to make falling off easier. Was it booze or drugs?”

  “Neither,” she said huskily.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “It was a different kind of addiction. You're a sex addict.”

  “Is it really an addiction if you're just extremely good at something? You wouldn't say my brother was a writing addict.”

  “Uh…”

  “Mr. Jones, I'm falling off the wagon, and I want to land… right here.”

  Robert groaned. “Now? On your dead brother's bed?”

  Her voice got deeper and huskier. “Maybe his ghost is watching.”

  He let out another animal noise. The springs groaned.

  “Oh, Simone,” he said.

  “Call me Sammy.”

  Out in the hallway, Piper turned to Winnie for a reaction. Winnie's eyes were wide, and she made a gagging face, her tongue lolling out.

  “Let's go,” Piper whispered. “Show's over.”

  When they reached the stairs, Winnie whispered back, “Or maybe the show's just beginning.”

  “Ew.”

  “Double ew.”

  They reached the main floor and were heading toward the front door when Piper stopped abruptly. The air was cold here. Supernaturally cold.

  Teddy, still in her arms, suddenly wriggled with a level of panic generally reserved for the sound of approaching skateboarders. He twirled himself like a corkscrew, popping out of her grasp. He landed on the floor at her feet, big black ears on high alert.

  Winnie whispered, “Brr. They must have the air conditioner working overtime.”

  “Listen,” Piper said. “Do you hear the HVAC running?”

  Other than the muted voices coming from upstairs, the house was absolutely silent.

  “Something's coming through from the other side,” Winnie whispered. “I read about this on that ghost website.” She wrapped her arms around her chest and chattered her teeth. “Something powerful is coming through.”

  At their feet, Teddy made a sound halfway between a growl and a whimper. Both girls shushed him at once, and he dipped his head obediently. He understood perfectly and would guard them silently. Unless a skateboarder showed up. Then he would do his mouth-foaming impression of a rabid raccoon. But for now he was quietly bristling and sniffing the air.

  Winnie held her fingertips to her open mouth, looking exactly like an expressive single frame in a comic book.

  “What?” Piper kept looking around but seeing nothing. “Do you see Geo
rge? Is he here?”

  Winnie didn't answer. Piper grabbed her shoulders and gave her a shake. Finally, Winnie snapped out of her fugue and croaked out, “I don't see anything, but the air feels thick. Like ozone. Do you think he's up there, watching those two in his old bed? Do you think they, uh, summoned him?”

  Something moved at the edge of Piper's vision. It was the visual equivalent of radio static, like an indoor cloud, or a swarm of tiny insects.

  Piper turned away from Winnie and called out softly, “George? Is that you?”

  The shimmering, cloudy apparition suddenly moved like it had purpose. It shifted to an arched doorway, then down the stairs that lead to the lowest floor of the split-level home.

  Piper had to follow. She felt it. Knew it. Was this reality? She was so tired, and the world felt soft and dreamlike. She was neither sleeping nor awake.

  Without a word to her best friend, Piper followed the cloud down the dark stairs. With each passing second, the shape of the cloud became more person-like, as tall and wide as a human. Focusing on the mass hurt her eyes. If she let her eyes become unfocused, the form was paradoxically easier to see.

  The basement floor was dark, the location of walls and furniture barely discernible in the thin light from the streetlamps. Piper dreamily followed the swirling cloud until it came to a standstill near the foot of the stairs. Even through her shoes, Piper felt a chill coming from the floor, from where George's body had been found, where he'd taken his final breaths. His blood must have ruined the carpet. There was now a rectangular patch of bare concrete where carpet had been removed.

  The room was so cold now, and buzzing mist seemed to hum, like a swarm of angry hornets.