Chance of a Ghost

by E. J. Copperman

  He shrugged. “No idea. Did Maxie come back with you? I want her to run a search on the phrase ‘stop go up,’ and see what she gets.”

  “Yeah, Maxie came back,” I said sourly. “Things were a lot easier when she couldn’t get around so far, you know.”

  “Maybe for you.” Maxie was right behind me, of course. “I’m thrilled to be out from these same four walls.”

  Paul ignored her remark, since she probably didn’t realize how hurtful it was to him. “Can you run that search? I’m at a loss. I don’t know what ‘go up’ might refer to. We looked all through the upper floors, the attic and the roof, and found nothing unusual.”

  Maxie seemed to fight the urge to say something mean, then shrugged one shoulder and disappeared into the ceiling. She’d be at work on the laptop in Melissa’s room in no time. “Don’t get too comfy,” I called after her. “Melissa has to go to sleep soon.” There was no answer from above. There so rarely is.

  Melissa, having heard that part about going to sleep, made a show of thinking in order to delay the inevitable. “Maybe this is a theatrical ghost,” she suggested. “When we did the school play last year, Mr. Lester said that ‘go up’ was something actors said happened when they forgot their lines.”

  That made an odd kind of sense, but it still didn’t decode the message. “It’s possible, sweetie,” I told Melissa. “Do you understand what it means, then?”

  She thought it over and shook her head. “But it doesn’t make sense any other way, either.”

  She had me there. “I’m not going to worry about it any more tonight,” I said. “I have a lot to do tomorrow and you, young lady, should have been in bed a half hour ago. Move it.”

  Melissa looked at me. “But I had to show you the words on the ceiling,” she protested.

  “I get it. You did. Say good night to your grandmother and get up there.”

  Mom had already packed up her backpack and gave Melissa a very enthusiastic hug. I kissed Melissa on the head, knowing I’d be upstairs before she was in bed, and gently nudged her toward the stairs. Children, who medical science insists need more sleep than adults, avoid going to bed with every fiber in their bodies. Adults would fall onto a mattress at three in the afternoon and sleep until Thursday. Nature is funny.

  Once Liss was up the stairs, Mom gave me a meaningful glance. “Other messages?” she asked.

  “Nothing to worry about,” I lied. “Thanks for watching Liss. Drive home safely.”

  She clucked her tongue. “Of course I’ll drive home safely. But that ‘nothing to worry about’ isn’t fooling anyone.” She left.

  I looked up at Paul, who was at eye level with the words over the library door. “What do you think?” I asked.

  “It’s a little worrisome,” he acknowledged. “What bothers me is that this doesn’t look like it was written by the same person as the other two.”

  I let that sink in for a moment. Were there two ghosts sending me strange and unsettling messages instead of just showing up to speak their piece? “What do you mean?”

  “The handwriting’s different. The style is different. This is less neat but still carefully written to be legible.”

  “I can barely read it from here, anyway,” I said.

  That comment had the opposite effect of the one I was trying to induce. Where I’d been attempting to close down this line of inquiry, instead Paul swooped down, wrapped his arms around my waist, and lifted me up into the air to get closer to the ceiling, so I could get a better look. I managed to overcome the urge to yell, “Whoa!” when I realized what he was doing.

  “You’ve come a long way,” I told him instead. I remembered a time when Paul had trouble picking a quarter up off a radiator in the den.

  He didn’t respond. Even though the ghosts’ strength seems…stronger than that of a living person, it was probably still an effort to lift a whole human, and he had to concentrate. “Look at the message,” he said, making his best effort not to sound like he was straining. I gave some thought to cutting back on carbs and hitting the treadmill. As soon as I bought a treadmill.

  Given a complete lack of options, I looked at the message close up. The words were still the same: “STOP GO UP.” But I realized almost immediately what had been making me uneasy about getting this near the ceiling to read this. “Put me down,” I said to Paul.

  He returned me to the floor, which was a relief for both of us, I think. I made a point of not looking back up again. And he must have noticed that.

  “I should have asked first before picking you up,” Paul said. “Did I startle you?”

  I shook my head. “It’s not that. It’s just that I had a strange feeling about this message, one that I didn’t have with the other two. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to see it that close.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so abrupt.”

  “No. It’s good that you were. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have seen what I saw up there.”

  “Cobwebs?” Paul joked, trying to lighten the mood. It didn’t work.

  I looked him straight in the eye, which must have meant that he was about ankle-deep in floor, because he’s a few inches taller than me. “I recognized the handwriting on this one, Paul. You were right. The style was different.”

  Given a clue, Paul is as happy as a beagle given a chew toy. “You recognized it? Whose handwriting is it, Alison?”

  “My father’s,” I said.

  Twenty-four

  Monday

  Nan and Morgan Henderson were up early the next morning, so my usual six o’clock alarm was just barely in time for me to get myself presentable and start a pot of coffee before they came into the den. Morgan was still bordering on bubbly over the investigation, which he called “the Laurentz case,” and Nan seemed very happy to have her husband in such a vital mood. I invited them into the kitchen, and they sat at the center island and drank coffee. I still had most of the breakfast feast I would have cooked had there been a blizzard last Tuesday, so I offered to cook them bacon and scrambled eggs. Yes, I can cook when I absolutely have to.

  I did not mention the scrawl on the crown molding in the hallway. Explaining that it had been written by a ghost, and that it was, in my opinion, Dad’s handwriting, would have simply been too bizarre and it wouldn’t have advanced Morgan’s ability to analyze the situation any better.

  “What’s on your agenda for today?” I asked. “More crime scenes?”

  Morgan shook his head. “I think for our last full day here, we should concentrate on the Laurentz case,” he said. “Check in with Chief Daniels of the Monroe PD. Maybe he can tell me something he wouldn’t tell you. Daniels and I were in the academy together,” Morgan said smiling.

  “I hate to take up your vacation doing my work,” I protested, but secretly, I was thrilled to have Morgan helping out.

  Nan waved a hand at me. “Don’t give it a thought,” she said. “He hasn’t been this happy since he retired.”

  “All right, then,” I agreed. I wasn’t about to try and dissuade them. “What do you think I should be doing?” I saw Paul slide in from the hallway through the stove. He was wearing a serious expression, though that wasn’t the least bit unusual for Paul.

  “You’re going to the show with all Laurentz’s buddies tonight?” Morgan asked. I nodded. “Okay. Would you get us tickets, too? And during the day, if you have the time, you need to try to trace the person who left you those two messages, the one on your mirror and the one on your dresser.”

  “I think I might have a lead on that,” I told Morgan, although “lead” might have been overstating it by a factor of about 185. “What time will you be back? I’m thinking for your last evening here, maybe I’ll actually make you dinner. It’s the least I can do.” Considering how poorly I cook, the very least.

  “If the play begins at seven thirty, I think we should be back here at five the latest,” Nan said. “Morgan can make his inquiries well before then. And then maybe I can get some shopping done.” Mo
rgan didn’t react, not even by repeating “shopping done.” He really was a changed man.

  “Great. Let’s plan on dinner at six,” I said, thinking I’d ask Josh to come earlier so he could have dinner with us, too.

  That would fit in nicely with the plan I was making for the day.

  I heard Melissa starting to stir upstairs, getting ready for another inconvenient day of school. Then I suddenly remembered I’d been in the process of frying bacon and scrambling eggs. I looked at the stove.

  “You guys like English muffins?” I asked.

  The New Old Thespians performance of Peter Pan (who puts on Peter Pan for an audience of people over fifty-five?) this coming evening was already starting to be a hot ticket, if only because I was bringing just about everyone I knew. Besides Mom and Melissa, Jeannie was coming along as part of her new role as “operative” in the PI agency, Tony had insisted on coming as “protection,” Oliver was coming in his continuing role as a baby, Morgan and Nan Henderson would attend to see if the retired cop could catch any clues I couldn’t (which was a decent bet) and, oh, yeah, I was bringing Josh Kaplan as a date.

  It was a good thing Jeannie and Tony had a minivan.

  In preparation, I’d alerted Mom by text that I’d be dropping by her house this morning, and she had sent back an incomprehensible jumble of consonants that indicated after some deciphering that she’d try to contact Lawrence before I got there. I had some questions for my client, who until now had been anything but completely forthcoming with me.

  Melissa was slightly more grumbly this morning than usual, but it was a Monday in January, the Christmas break rush had completely worn off, and the sky was the kind of steel gray we get here from roughly the end of November until sometime around the first of May.

  This message has been brought to you by the New Jersey Tourism Board. You’re welcome.

  We didn’t talk a lot in the car, but of course once dropped off, Melissa rushed into a gaggle of her friends and there was much celebration. Parents are the people you don’t have to notice. I tried to keep that in mind on the way to my mother’s house, but I was really thinking about Josh Kaplan.

  Lawrence had not yet materialized—literally—when I arrived, so Mom went about making coffee, and what do you know, she had some blueberry muffins available. Freshly baked. I’m hoping the cooking gene skipped a generation and will eventually manifest in Melissa. I sat down with a warm muffin and hot coffee and told Mom that I’d recognized the handwriting in the message over the door in the hallway.

  “Your father?” Mom asked, seeming truly surprised. “Why didn’t I notice that?”

  “Because the downstairs has ten-foot ceilings and the message is maybe three inches in height,” I pointed out. “It’s not important that you didn’t recognize it; what’s important is that I did, and it was Dad’s handwriting. I’d know it anywhere.”

  Mom’s face got serious. “Tell me about the other two messages you say you’ve found in the house.” There was no way around it, so I did. Mom listened carefully and expressed the requisite concern for my and Melissa’s well-being, and for my privacy while showering, a sentiment with which I heartily concurred. When I’d finished, she sat for a few moments digesting the information.

  “What does it mean, he didn’t die the way we think?” she asked. “Your father had cancer for over a year. Of course that’s the way he died. The death certificate lists cancer as the cause.” She was dry-eyed, but I could hear a catch in her voice. Even though unlike me, she could see and talk to Dad, I guessed it wasn’t the same as having him there alive.

  “I have no idea what it could mean,” I said. “I think whoever left the message was just trying to scare us.”

  “They’re succeeding,” Mom said drily.

  Our conversation was cut short by a rumbling in the living room, which Mom said meant that my client had arrived. We went in to receive him and sure enough, there “stood” Lawrence Laurentz, in a theatrical cape and a black fedora. The only prop he was missing was an elegant walking stick. Maybe because he wasn’t really walking.

  “So, the private investigator returns,” he said, his voice dripping haughty contempt. I saw Mom’s lips tighten; nobody got to talk to her daughter like that. “I trust this time there is progress to be reported.”

  “There is,” I informed him, “but I don’t think you’ve earned the right to information.”

  Lawrence’s face flattened out as if he’d been hit with a pie. Which would have been a nice touch, if I could have managed it. It’s tough when the person you’re trying to hit isn’t actually there. “Young lady,” he said, “do you have any idea—”

  I didn’t let him finish. “Here’s the deal, Mel,” I said. Lawrence went to raise a finger in warning, but I plowed through. Which reminded me to call Murray back about his bill and clarify. “You get absolutely nothing from me until you start to tell the truth, and I mean all of the truth when I ask you a question. So far, you’ve told me everything you wanted me to hear and nothing else. Well, I don’t care about your ego and I don’t care about your dignity. I care about finding out who killed you—if anybody did—and getting in touch with my father. The only way I’m going to be able to do that is if you start owning up. So I’m giving you this ultimatum, and then I’m going to ask you a question, which you will answer completely: I hear one more half-truth or I think you’re not being totally honest, and you can find yourself some other PI who can see ghosts. Are we clear?”

  Mom looked torn: On the one hand, the ghost had dared be rude to her daughter. On the other, her daughter had been blunt and disrespectful to a guest in her house. It was a tough choice, but she looked at me and managed a tiny smile.

  Lawrence, however, was not in a cheery mood. “How dare you?” he demanded. “The idea that I have been anything less than candid with you—”

  I cut him off again. “Are. We. Clear?” I repeated.

  “Must I remind you that I hold the key to your father’s whereabouts?” the old specter asked, playing his hole card.

  But this time I was ready. “What you hold, Mr. Brookman, is a very poor hand indeed,” I told him. “I think I can find my father without you. In fact, I believe my father came and found me just yesterday. So I’m going to say this one last time: You tell me everything you know, or I walk and you spend the rest of eternity with the image of a toaster flying into your bathtub. Now. What’s it going to be?”

  The puffed-up old actor seemed to deflate like a Macy’s balloon on Thanksgiving afternoon. He got smaller. He got thinner. He actually looked like he got older, which was not the least bit possible. His eyes took on a sad quality that replaced the arrogance they usually displayed. It was not an improvement.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I have been holding back. I don’t like people to know the real me; that’s why I loved the theater. I could pretend to be someone—anyone—else. But you’re doing a favor for me and I have not been helping. For that, I apologize.”

  But I was sticking with the tough-chick approach. “That’s all well and good,” I said. “But it doesn’t tell me anything I don’t already know. Spill.” I sat down on Mom’s overstuffed easy chair and crossed my arms.

  “Everything I’ve told you is true.” Lawrence did his best to compose himself after that emotional scene, which I believed since he wasn’t that good an actor. “With one exception.”

  “You really don’t have a clue where my father is, do you?” I challenged him.

  “No.”

  Behind me, Mom gasped, but I’d had my doubts about Lawrence’s story from the beginning. He’d never been able to provide any details at all.

  “I have tried to contact him,” he went on, “but I have been unsuccessful. He doesn’t appear to be staying anywhere I’d know to look.”

  “How did you know to use him as incentive?” I asked him.

  “Your mother mentioned she hadn’t seen your father in a few weeks and that it was odd,” Lawrence answered. “I assume
d that would be sufficient to motivate you.”

  “Why did you need to motivate Alison?” Mom jumped in. “Why didn’t you just ask?”

  Lawrence stared at the floor, which was about eighteen inches below his feet. “It never occurred to me that she would help,” he said.

  “Where did you get that business card?” I asked him. “The one from my father’s business?”

  Lawrence pointed at the side table next to the sofa, which had a drawer where Mom kept some odds and ends in addition to coasters she might need while entertaining. “There,” he said. “One day when you weren’t in the room, Loretta, I found it. And I kept it in my pocket to use if you demanded proof. And you did, so I left for a few seconds to make it appear I was traveling to see Jack, and then I came back and handed you the card I had already gotten ready. Please forgive me.”

  Silence. I looked behind me. Mom was standing at the entrance to her kitchen, backed against the pass-through. Her face was pale and her eyes were wide. For a moment, I was worried about her health.

  “You looked through my things?” she gasped.

  The old ghost hung his head. “I am sorry. I needed something that could solidify my story. You don’t understand. Not knowing what happened to me, or why, it’s made me do things I would never have considered when I was alive. I can’t go on not knowing why I am this way. But I was very, very wrong, Loretta. I am so sorry.”

  I breathed out, knowing Mom would understand. Lawrence was a guest; she’d give him a good deal of leeway.

  “Get out of my house,” Mom said.

  I reacted so fast I think I was facing her even before I could stand. As I spun, I saw Lawrence’s eyes widen and his mouth drop open. But before I could absorb that sight, I was staring at my mother, who was pointing at the ghost floating in her living room over the coffee table.