An Uninvited Ghost

by E. J. Copperman

  Tony had been ignoring my conversation with Maxie, but now he turned toward me. “So I was right?” he asked. “Somebody did something to her before she died? It wasn’t just a heart attack?”

  I filled him in on everything I’d learned, including the conference with Detective McElone. “Apparently someone gave her a very large injection of insulin, enough to cause her to collapse on the spot, and that’s gotta be big.” WebMD is so helpful when looking up such things.

  “Well, it should be easy enough to find out who did it,” Maxie suggested.

  “Really! Why is it that easy?” I answered, and then explained to Tony what I was answering.

  I’d never seen a ghost look so smug before. Maxie pursed her lips while smiling, which I didn’t think was possible, and put her hands on her hips. “All you have to do is figure out who had a great big bottle of insulin they could get their hands on,” she said.

  “Oh, please,” I started to answer. The problem was, suddenly her response made a lot of sense. “Actually . . .”

  Tony looked at me. “What did she say?” he asked. So I told him. “I hate to say it, but . . .”

  “I know. She’s right.”

  “Why doesn’t anybody want me to be right?” Maxie wanted to know.

  “Go find Paul,” I said.

  “Who, me?” Tony asked.

  “No, not you. How are you going to go find Paul?” I looked up. “Maxie . . .”

  But she was already gone.

  “You think someone in the house is smart enough to inject Mrs. Crosby with a lethal dose of insulin in front of a roomful of people while not being seen, but stupid enough to leave the syringe lying around so we can find it?” Paul was “standing” in my bedroom as he usually did (about eight inches off the floor). I’d decided my room was the only area in the house where we could have some semblance of privacy.

  “It seemed like a good idea when I first heard it,” I said.

  “And who suggested it?” Paul asked, with a tone that intimated he knew the answer.

  “I did,” Maxie announced proudly, hovering over the dresser in a pose that was supposed to look like she was sitting. Problem was, she was so excited over having had this great insight that she couldn’t hold still and kept bobbing up and down into the furniture.

  “I rest my case,” Paul said, which I would have considered cruel if I hadn’t been thinking it myself.

  “Geez!” Maxie said, and she vanished in a huff.

  Melissa had spied me heading into my room with Tony and saw Paul and Maxie slide in later, so she’d known something was up. She was now sitting on the bed. “That was mean, Paul,” she said.

  Paul lowered his eyes and nodded. “Yes, I guess so. I’ll apologize to Maxie later. But it doesn’t change anything. There’s very little reason to think that searching the guests’ rooms would do anything more than infuriate them and make them feel like they’re not trusted here. I doubt the person who injected Mrs. Crosby kept the syringe or the vials of insulin after you all went to bed last night.”

  “Then, what should the next order of business be for the investigation?” Tony asked.

  “The next order would be to let Detective McElone do her job,” Paul reiterated. “She’s the professional, and we do not have a client asking questions about this murder.”

  “What about Scott?” Melissa wanted to know. “Isn’t he worried about what happened to Mrs. Crosby? He seemed to really care when he thought he’d done something bad to her.”

  “Yeah,” I asked, remembering Dolores’s odd assertion. “What about Scott? Have you heard from him since last night?”

  Paul shook his head. “I get the general feeling that he’s brooding, but no direct messages. And before you ask, I haven’t heard anything from Arlice, either. If she shows up in a form . . . like me, I doubt it will be for at least a few days.”

  “Until we can get her to show up, I have to figure out where I’m going to put two extra guests come Tuesday,” I whined. “The TV people are using my only open room to not sleep in.”

  “The new people can stay in my room,” Melissa said. “I can sleep in your bed.”

  “No,” I answered, making a rule I didn’t know I’d decided upon already. “No guest ever puts you out of your bed, Liss.” She smiled. She was being a good citizen, but she really didn’t want to leave her room.

  “One problem at a time,” Tony said. He’s good at injecting sense into a chaotic situation; it comes from working on construction sites and being married to Jeannie. “The biggest thing right now is to figure out who killed Mrs. Crosby.”

  “No,” Paul argued, “that’s a job for the police. Alison’s priority should be her business here in the house.”

  Tony answered after I relayed the message. “They’re one and the same. Until the murder is cleaned up, Alison won’t be able to run the guesthouse the way she wants to.”

  “Alison can run the business perfectly well while Detective McElone does the investigating,” Paul said. “But this is the first group of guests in the house, and there’s already been an incident damaging her reputation. She has to address that and make sure things operate as close to normally as possible.” Paul had the advantage of not having to wait for me to tell him what Tony had said. I, of course, had the option of not telling Tony what Paul had said, but that seemed unfair. So I looked for a way to end the debate.

  “Alison can—” Tony began.

  “Does anybody want to know what Alison thinks?” I asked.

  They both turned toward me with the same combination of surprise and sheepishness. I had to hold back my laughter.

  “I’m very touched that both of you are so concerned for my welfare, but I’m a grown-up now, and I can make my own choices,” I began. “I decided to move back here to Harbor Haven after my divorce because I always wanted to run a guesthouse here. Now, after a lot of hard work, I’ve got that guesthouse up and running. I know, I just met Arlice Crosby yesterday, and she seemed like a very nice woman. But I can’t let her death change my priorities. There’s no reason on earth for me to do anything but run my business and let the police do theirs. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m not investigating anything, Tony. I’m concerned with making sure my guests have a good time, don’t get run over by insane television crew members trying to catch a glimpse of a girl running down the beach with no bra—cover your ears, Liss—and seeing to it that nobody else dies on my watch.”

  “All well considered, Alison,” Tony said. “And I agree. But you’re forgetting one thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Arlice Crosby was murdered by someone in your den last night. And all the suspects in your den last night are staying under your roof.”

  It was already closing in around me, but I was trying not to acknowledge it. “So?” I said.

  “So whoever killed Mrs. Crosby is still here.” And then Tony did something so unconscionable, it’s amazing I still consider him my friend.

  He looked at Melissa.

  “What?” she asked.

  I’m sure my voice was a little icier than I intended. “Melissa is just fine, Tony. Don’t worry. I never let anything keep me from protecting her.” But the seeds of doubt were already planted in my mind. “I’m doing that now by not investigating a crime the cops can handle.”

  “There’s nothing that can change your mind?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Tony put up his hands, palms out. “Good enough,” he said. “You know what you’re doing.”

  There was a knock on the door at the same time Maxie flew up through the floor (and, consequently, the bed). “Hey, there’s some guy—” she began.

  I opened the bedroom door, and there stood my mother.

  “Hey, what’s everybody doing in here?” she asked.

  “We were discussing—” I began.

  Mom cut me off. “Never mind. There’s a man at the door who says he needs to talk to you. Says he’s Arlice Crosby’s attorney.�
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  “What does he want from me?”

  “He told me he wants to hire you to investigate her murder.”

  Tony is a good enough friend that he did not smirk as I walked out the door.

  Fourteen

  Thomas J. Donovan, Esquire, was a distinguished-looking gentleman of about sixty. In a black suit with a dark tie (he was mourning his client, after all), he stood tall and straight in my front room.

  All around him, cameramen were following swimsuit-clad twentysomethings determined to show off as much of themselves as was possible without depleting the production company’s budget for pixelation. Donovan, distinguished gentleman that he was, managed not to drop his jaw and stare openly. But he did steal the occasional glance, and I can’t say as I blamed him. The Down the Shore cast might not have been even passably polite, but they sure were a photogenic bunch.

  “Can’t I show you into the library?” I offered. “It gets a little chaotic here when the crew is shooting.”

  “This is fine, Ms. Kerby,” he answered. “I’m sure you have to keep an eye on the proceedings in your guesthouse.” Maybe he wanted to keep an eye on the proceedings more than I did, but I deferred to his preference.

  After all, rumor had it he wanted to pay me money for something.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Donovan?” I asked.

  “As you’re probably aware, I was Mrs. Arlice Crosby’s attorney,” he began. “I understand you are a licensed investigator, and I’d like you to look into the circumstances of her death.”

  Of course, I’d been warned, but it still didn’t add up for me. “I’m flattered you thought of me, but I am a bit puzzled. Surely as experienced and capable an attorney as you has an investigator or two he uses on a regular basis. Why take a chance on me with a client this influential?”

  H-Bomb was rubbing herself up against the more buff young man in the cast. I think it was Mistah Motion, assuming one could tell which one that was—with all the ab crunches these boys did, it was astonishing they had time to curse and flirt with the girls on camera.

  Either way, Donovan was noticing.

  “Mr. Donovan?” I prompted.

  He forced himself to look away and actually turned his back on the spectacle in the other half of the room. “Sorry. The question?”

  “Why me?”

  “Of course. The fact is, Arlice herself called me yesterday afternoon to recommend you.”

  I must have looked like he’d hit me with a brick. “Arlice Crosby called you and said you should hire me in case someone murdered her last night?”

  Donovan almost smiled. “No, no. She said she’d just met with you, and was impressed with you as an investigator.”

  Really? Perhaps I’d underestimated her perception. Or overestimated it.

  “Arlice was a real believer in supporting new businesses,” Donovan went on. “She championed new artists and often helped finance new business ventures that wouldn’t have survived without her help. She thought I should give you a chance. I’m truly sorry that this is the chance I have to give you.”

  “Again, I’m flattered,” I answered as Tiffney wandered into the front room and saw H-Bomb draping herself all over Mistah Motion. I thought her eyes might actually pop out of her head. She made some protest, and the entwined couple turned to “notice” her. Ed the director was chewing on the end of a dishtowel, which I was glad to note was not one of mine. I continued, “But surely the police investigation will—”

  “I’m sure the police are doing all they can,” Donovan said, cutting me off. “But Arlice was a very wealthy woman, and in such cases it’s always possible her estate was the real target. The fact is, you’re in close proximity to these people all day and night, and you have more access. You can find out things the police will not.”

  Why not push it? “Like what you were doing with Arlice at the Ocean Wharf Hotel a while back, looking for ghosts?”

  This time, Donovan did smile. “Very good, Ms. Kerby. I can see Arlice’s evaluation was accurate. You are good at what you do.”

  “What I do is run a guesthouse, and it is yet to be seen if I’m any good at that,” I said. “And you haven’t answered my question.”

  The fray in the other room was getting louder, with a lot of migraines being thrown around, but I didn’t want to speak up for fear of ruining the scene and making them do all this again, only phonier. “Very well. I went with Arlice to the Ocean Wharf Hotel because she had been told—and I don’t know by whom—that the place was haunted. She wanted to find out, because she had developed a very strong interest in such things.” He said such things in a tone similar to the one I’d use to describe the bats I’d been imagining in my attic.

  Suddenly, I noticed Paul’s face sticking through the wall over the piano, about ten feet away. I wondered how long he’d been lurking. I managed not to jump. It takes practice.

  “And what happened when you got there?” I asked Donovan. I wanted to see if he’d corroborate Arlice’s account of her “meeting” with Scott McFarlane.

  For the most part, he did. “We didn’t find much of anything there,” he said. “A few obvious parlor tricks someone had gone to a good deal of trouble to place there, but not much else. It wouldn’t have frightened a six-year-old child.”

  I think I saw Paul smile.

  “And then Arlice said you fell down?”

  Donovan didn’t get the chance to respond. Behind us the sound of H-Bomb’s screechy voice rose to a level that threatened to decalcify the spinal cord of every person in the room.

  “Keep your migraine hands off my man!” she screamed at Tiffney. “You keep away from him—forever—or I promise I’ll kill you! Do you hear me? I’ll kill you!”

  Donovan turned back to look, and I stared in their direction. The three cast members held their terrified (Tiffney), terrifying (H-Bomb) and absolutely vacant (Mistah Motion) glares at each other until Ed the director yelled, “Cut!”

  Then, I swear to you, there was applause from the crew. Trent Avalon, who apparently had been just out of sight in the kitchen doorway, walked out toward them, clapping his hands as well. “Very nice,” he said. “That’s going to be a real moment for you, H-Bomb.”

  But he was still behind his star, and couldn’t see her face. H-Bomb had not relaxed when the lights went out, as the other two had done. She was still staring daggers at Tiffney, until she broke the eye contact, pivoted a full hundred and eighty degrees, and stomped her way out of the room.

  As she passed Donovan and me, I could hear H-Bomb mutter, “I’ll kill her.” And she didn’t sound like she was acting. I’d seen her when she was acting. This was a lot more convincing.

  I told Tom Donovan I’d think about taking the case and that I’d call him the next day with my decision. He told me how much he would be willing to pay for a successful conclusion, and that was going to make it more difficult for me to decline.

  My mother appeared as soon as Donovan left, which led me to believe that Paul and/or Maxie had been relaying messages up to my bedroom while I was downstairs negotiating. She walked to a cabinet I keep near the front door, reached in and pulled out an honest-to-goodness picnic basket she must have stashed there when she’d arrived.

  “Thought you might like some home cooking,” she said.

  I defended myself. “I can cook.”

  “I know, Ally, and you’re wonderful at it, but you just don’t have the time. So I prepared a little something. I hope you don’t mind.”

  She went into the kitchen to heat up whatever it was she’d made, with specific instructions not to make anything smell too delicious until most of the guests were already outside, heading for a restaurant. Meanwhile, I wanted to confer with Paul but was waylaid by Dolores on my way to the stairs.

  “Linda Jane says we are not to leave town,” she began. Oops. I knew there was something I’d forgotten to do. “I’m sorry, Dolores. I was looking for you before. You see, the detective investigating Mrs. Crosby’s death—�
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  But she didn’t let me finish. “I think it’s marvelous,” Dolores gushed. “This will give me that much more opportunity to locate the spirits living in your house.”

  “Of course it will.”

  “Will there be an extra charge if we have to stay past our scheduled departure date?” Dolores wanted to know.

  That was a good question; I hadn’t considered it before. “Let’s see how long the extra stay might last, and I’ll reassess,” I told her. This, in the guesthouse business, is called procrastination. “I’ll talk to you about it on Tuesday.”

  She looked positively tickled as I walked away.

  Jim and Warren were heading out the front door, dressed for a night out (their white pants and white shoes were especially festive). Warren, the taller of the two, looked over his shoulder and saw me. He stopped and walked back over.

  “Alison,” he said, smiling. “There’s a slight problem with the felt on the pool table.”

  “What’s that, Warren?”

  “I sort of . . . tore it.” He averted his eyes, apparently worried that I would tell him he had to go to bed without supper.

  “And how many beers did you have before you sort of tore it?” I asked him.

  “Maybe one or two.” Still not looking at me.

  “Well, suppose I take a look, see how bad the damage is, and find out what it’s going to cost to repair. Then we can figure out what to do, okay?”

  Warren smiled and looked me in the eye. “That sounds good, Alison. I’m really sorry.”

  “It happens,” I said. It especially happens when you have your first beer at eleven in the morning, but it would have been supremely ineffective to mention that. Warren joined Jim and waved as they headed off. I shook my head a little and waved back.

  I was going to head into the kitchen to help Mom with dinner, but now I guessed I should check out the damage my first guests had done to the expensive pool table I’d picked up used.

  Tony walked into the front room as I went toward the game room. Toolbox in hand, he was getting ready to head home. Just his luck—another few seconds and he would have made it, but I caught sight of him and beckoned him over.