Spouse on Haunted Hill

by E. J. Copperman

  The doctor looked around. “I haven’t seen the house,” she said. “Someone else will have to tell her.”

  “There was just the one hole in the ceiling from the gunshot,” Melissa said. “But Tony thinks it might have hit a beam, and that means doing some serious work in the rafters there.”

  “Looks like you’re not done with that house yet, Baby Girl,” my father said.

  “Can I close my eyes?” I asked the doctor.

  She immediately looked concerned. “Are you feeling light-headed or nauseated?”

  “No. It’s just the anesthesia hasn’t worn off yet.”

  Dr. Murthy raised an eyebrow. “Anesthesia?”

  “Yeah. Why’d I need surgery for a concussion?”

  Everybody looked at me funny. Even Maxie, who you would normally expect to laugh out loud. “What?” I asked.

  “You didn’t have any surgery,” the doctor said. “You were never under anesthesia. You were unconscious briefly, but then you were in pain and we gave you some medication. You slept. And now, unless there’s something else you’re not telling me, you’re going home.”

  “Home?” Clearly my brain wasn’t functioning properly. I needed medical observation.

  “Where you live,” Maxie tried. And I couldn’t even answer her.

  “Home,” Josh said. “Where we’re getting married on Saturday. You remember that?”

  “Oh yes,” I said as he leaned over and kissed me lightly. “I remember that.”

  “Okay,” Dr. Murthy said. “You can go home.”

  * * *

  Detective Lieutenant Anita McElone doesn’t like to walk into my house. She’d made her peace with the fact that there are ghosts there, but she works on fact and evidence, and there is very little of those available when Paul and Maxie get involved. For example, she was now trying to piece together exactly how Richie—the ersatz Maurice DuBois—had gotten smacked in the head with a baseball bat.

  “This Susannah Nesbit insists the bat just appeared in the air and clobbered Richard Attanasio in the back of the head, causing a slight crack in a thin part of his skull and a subdural hematoma,” she said. She gave me a very stern look. “Now, since we both know that couldn’t happen, what actually did?”

  Maxie, floating at the other side of my bedroom, huffed a bit. “What does she mean, it couldn’t happen?” she demanded. “Without me you would’ve gotten shot instead of having the roof fall down on you.”

  “I don’t know, Lieutenant,” I said. I was lying on the bed, no longer as punchy as I’d been at the hospital but still not exactly ready for the triathlon. “I was busy having a concussion. I’m not really even clear on why Richie shot Maurice DuBois. I mean, what did he expect to gain from it?”

  “He’s been awake enough to question and kept off the pain meds. He said he went out to Hanrahan’s with DuBois that night to try to convince him to take your ex’s name off the patent and put his on,” McElone said. “Apparently that was part of the agreement he and your ex had reached about some four hundred thousand dollars owed to Mr. Attanasio’s employer, Lou Maroni. Things didn’t go the way Attanasio wanted, angry words were said and DuBois ended up in the alley with a couple of bullets in him.”

  “But I don’t understand how you even knew to show up at Madison Paints and arrest Maroni last night,” I said. “I didn’t call you. Nobody else could have. Who tipped you off?”

  McElone looked directly at Maxie, but she didn’t know it. “I’m not able to discuss that, because it was information obtained from a confidential informant.”

  A confidential . . . no. “The Swine?” I said aloud.

  Maxie blew out her lips in an involuntary laugh.

  “The what?” McElone said, looking at me again.

  “It’s a . . . nickname I have for my ex-husband,” I said. “He was your CI, wasn’t he?”

  McElone drew a breath and let it out. “I can’t say.”

  “Except you would tell me if I was wrong. It makes sense. You let him go almost as soon as you arrested him because you made a deal. So he probably arranged the arrest himself to gain cred with his buddies. He’d provide information to you in exchange for what, amnesty?”

  McElone shook her head. “No need for immunity. He hadn’t broken any laws, but he was in over his head and he knew it. And you didn’t hear that from me. Now, about that baseball bat . . .”

  “You don’t want to hear my answer, Lieutenant,” I said, closing my eyes. “You really don’t.”

  She knew what I meant. “That’s what I figured.” She closed the notebook she used that I knew she didn’t need. “You need rest. I’ll come back and talk to you again later.”

  “Good. Something to look forward to.”

  My eyes were closed, but I heard her walk to the bedroom door and stop. “I hear you’re getting married Saturday,” she said.

  That got my eyes open again. “That’s right. Are you free?”

  McElone raised an eyebrow. “Are we at that level?” she asked.

  “If you want us to be.”

  She nodded. “I’ll be there. I love weddings.” She walked out.

  “Check out the lady cop,” Maxie said. “Never figured her to be a softy.”

  “Well, I never figured you were, either. You just don’t know about some people.”

  Maxie puffed out her lips. “Oh, cut it out,” she said as she rose into the ceiling and away.

  * * *

  “I’m your first phone call,” Phyllis Coates said. “You know that. And do I get the phone call when a murderer is caught holding people hostage?”

  “I was unconscious, Phyllis,” I reminded her. “I don’t see how you can hold that against me.”

  We sat in the library with the sun coming in through the skylight and reflecting off the window my father had installed over the door. Aside from the snow visible outside, you’d never know it was still ridiculously cold. Phyllis, voice recorder complementing her reporter’s notebook, looked grumpy.

  “You weren’t unconscious the whole time,” she said. “You could have called from the hospital.”

  “I guarantee you already knew about it by then.”

  Phyllis smiled. “Okay, you’ve got me there, but you know I need details. This ain’t your first rodeo.”

  “No, but it’s gonna be my last. I’m tired of having guns pointed at me. I’m hanging up my investigator’s license and going back to running a guesthouse.”

  Yoko Takamine stopped at the open library door, her suitcase on wheels behind her. “The van will be here very soon,” she said. “I wanted to thank you for a lovely stay here.”

  I stood up, which was still something of an adventure but definitely an improvement over the day before. “I feel like I didn’t do enough for you,” I told her. “Things have been kind of hectic around here the past few days.”

  Yoko waved a hand, dismissing the thought. “It was very peaceful for me. You were the one having the hectic time. Are you feeling better?”

  Well . . . “Much,” I said. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. Thanks for asking.”

  “Just one thing,” Yoko said. “Did you know your daughter has a dog upstairs?”

  She knew about Lester? “You’ve seen him?” I said.

  “Of course. He’s adorable.”

  He’s also dead. “You know he’s a ghost, right?”

  “Of course,” she repeated. “So are Maxie and Paul, and they’re perfectly visible. And your father is a very charming man.” She picked up the handle on her suitcase. “Thank you for the most wonderful stay, Alison. I hope I get to come back sometime.”

  She wheeled the bag away and I looked at Phyllis, who shrugged. “I can’t help crazy people,” she said. “I’m just a reporter.”

  I decided not to take that crazy-people crack personally. “I have to see my guests
off,” I said, heading for the coatrack. Phyllis followed.

  The Swine was already at the front door, shaking hands with Mel Kaminsky when I arrived as if he were the host of the establishment, which he definitely was not and never would be. Josh was back at the store after a day of caring for me, just as Melissa was back in school even as she had argued that I needed rest. The fact that there was a test in earth science that day had no bearing on her argument. She said. So if Steven wanted to pretend for a minute, that was his business. As long as he didn’t think it would last more than ten minutes.

  Mel and Anne were smiling at the door, watching for the van but making sure no freezing wind made its way inside. I’d never seen a happier couple. Anne had informed me Mel had an appointment with a sleep specialist when they got home to do something about his snoring problem. I marveled at their ability to remain calm and cope.

  “Well, you do that,” Anne said. “I’ve seen it. People coming and going and guests asking for special favors, and you just keep it all together. It’s amazing.” I immediately deducted the cost of the second room from their bill. I did it mentally because if I’d told Anne, The Swine would have heard and berated me for being a terrible businesswoman as soon as they left.

  The Senior Plus van arrived, in this case a minivan for only three guests, and Dave the driver got out to come grab everybody’s luggage. This took roughly twenty seconds and then my three guests were loaded on the van and driving off, waving to me as they went. Phyllis, still grumbling that she hadn’t gotten special treatment on “the story,” took off a moment later.

  Steven closed the door and looked at me. “It actually sort of worked out, didn’t it?” he said.

  “You mean how you were informing to the police and almost got me killed? You might have mentioned that little detail before I sent you and the cast of The Sopranos to Madison Paints. Why’d you leave the patent stuff there, anyway?”

  “I didn’t. The papers were with Lieutenant McElone the whole time.” He grinned an especially swinish grin and almost dislocated a shoulder patting himself on the back. “But I knew if I let you think they were there, you’d send us. I had a GPS device in my right shoe. Once I managed to get it activated, the cops could follow me to the store and you know the rest.”

  “With you, Steven, I never know the rest. I’m not even sure you know the rest. You were calling your ‘cousin’ Richie by the name Maurice when you came out of the library.”

  “It was supposed to work that way,” The Swine protested. “He said if he could be Maurice he could get the patent and I’d be clear of the debt to Lou. I didn’t know he was going to shoot Maurice; I thought the idea was to convince him to take a small cut because the thing wasn’t going to work.”

  My head started to hurt and I didn’t even think it was the concussion talking. I started for the den. Now that there were no guests in the house—and wouldn’t be for a week—I could take a look at the damage to my ceiling and figure on what needed to be done next.

  My father was already there, looking over the hole, much larger than you’d expect from just one bullet. “This is more than just Spackle,” he said.

  Mom had insisted Dad stick around full-time to see to my recovery, but since my recovery had consisted mostly of sleeping he’d had very little to do. So in the ensuing thirty-six hours, Dad had been doing triage on the gaping abyss in my den ceiling.

  Steven had given up following me and might very well have been packing his bags. His flight for Los Angeles left in six hours. He’d spent much of his time the past day and a half giving the police depositions, and he seemed anxious to get back to a land where he could walk outside without an extra three layers of clothing. It was one of the few sentiments on which I could agree with him.

  He would not, however, be returning with the patent for SafT in his back pocket. McElone and the county prosecutor’s major crimes unit had confiscated it as evidence in the killing of Maurice DuBois. Legal issues would probably keep it in limbo for years. If the investors didn’t get antsy, Steven might be a very wealthy man. Someday.

  I looked up at the ceiling and my father. It was good he wasn’t merely a dream I’d had after being hit on the head. “I know,” I said. “Any ideas?”

  Dad frowned, which meant he was thinking. He pointed at the hole. “The bullet went in and hit a beam,” he said. “That’s the real problem. The plaster we can get somebody to fix. I know a few people.” The best plaster artists were on Dad’s side of the continuum. “But the beam is old and it’s broken enough to be compromised.”

  That got me frowning. “Is it going to collapse?”

  He shook his head. “Not any time soon, and maybe not for years. But you might as well replace it with a steel beam and not have to worry. In the meantime, you don’t have to steer clear of it or anything. It’ll hold well enough for now.”

  “What about fixing it? What’ll that take?”

  He tilted his head from side to side. “It’ll be a project. You up for a project?”

  I laughed despite myself. “Not today, but maybe soon.”

  “Good enough, Baby Girl.”

  Twenty-eight

  Melissa looked at me appraisingly and I could tell something was wrong. “What?” I asked.

  “You don’t look like a bride. You’re getting married in twenty minutes and you don’t look like a bride. You look like someone going to a wedding.” She looked me up and down.

  It was true that I didn’t look like a traditional bride; there was no white gown or veil. This was my second wedding, and one that had been organized in less than a week. There had been no time and I’d had no inclination to guest-star on Say Yes to the Dress. “It’s okay,” I told her. “I look fine.”

  “Yeah, but not like a bride. Here.” She walked to a vase I kept in the library, where we were getting ready because it was the best light in the house, and took out the flowers. “Hold these.” She extended them to me.

  “They’re fake,” I said. I don’t keep fresh flowers in the house during the winter because . . . it’s winter.

  “You can sell it.” Melissa, who looked wonderful in her maid of honor dress (which had also been her spring dance dress and I was fairly sure her grandma’s birthday dress), took a step back and observed again. “Let me see.”

  I stood there exactly as before, only holding fabric flowers. “Much better,” my daughter said.

  “Thanks. Now go wrangle your grandmother and make sure all the chairs are set up.”

  She started toward the door, which admittedly wasn’t far, but I couldn’t let it go any farther than this. “Liss,” I said, “I’m sorry I put you between me and your dad. I didn’t mean to make you choose.”

  Her eyes indicated I might not be completely recovered from the concussion. “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  “When Dad was here. I wasn’t working too hard to clear his name and you seemed upset.”

  It took a moment to register with her and then she laughed. “That’s what you thought was bothering me? Mom. I get the divorce thing; I have since I was ten. It had nothing to do with you and Dad, believe me.”

  “Then what was it?”

  She looked away. “It’s . . . do I have to tell you?”

  “If something’s wrong you do.”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” She turned, then turned back and let out a breath. “It was about Jared.”

  “Oh!” Jared. Jared. “The crush?”

  Her face reddened. “Do we have to?” she asked.

  “No. We don’t. I don’t want you to be embarrassed.” Despite the fact that I’m your mother and it’s pretty much my job to embarrass you.

  The words seemed to fly out of her. “I found out he liked another girl and I got mad, okay? And then I found out that wasn’t true and he really liked me and now I’m not sure if I like him or not. So I’m processing.”
/>   “Don’t ever give a guy that much control over your feelings,” I told her. “Trust me on this.”

  “Jared isn’t Dad, Mom.”

  “He better not be. Will he be here today?” I’d given her permission to invite up to four friends. The den is large, but not that large.

  Melissa shook her head. “Just Wendy,” she said. “She’s the only one important enough and the only one I don’t have to explain to about the ghosts.”

  “So, what’s the latest with Jared?” I asked.

  She smiled. “He’ll just have to wait to find out.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  Liss smiled at me and stopped at the door. “I’m glad you’re doing this,” she said.

  “You know what? So am I. Now scram.”

  I spent a couple of minutes doing absolutely nothing. You plan a day like this and then there’s this time when everything’s just done but it’s not time to start yet. I was in the library and didn’t even feel like reading a book.

  Because of my agreement with some of the local restaurants that I’ll recommend them to my guests, they give me a small percentage of the business they get when patrons mention the guesthouse. One of them, Belinda Rosenberg at Just Eat, had offered to provide food for the twenty guests on their way here today, at a discount.

  Jenny Webb, proprietor of Stud Muffin, the local bakery, had sent a lovely cake that was also going to be delicious because that’s what Jenny does. And she didn’t even go the discount route—Jenny said she would not accept payment.

  So the table was set, buffet-style. Marv Winderbrook, the mechanic at the Fuel Pit, was also a justice of the peace and was already in the house ready to go, having replaced the Volvo’s heater “as a wedding present” earlier that day. So were my soon-to-be-husband, my parents, Phyllis, McElone (with her husband, Thomas), Maxie’s mother, Kitty Malone (whom the ghost insisted had to be on the guest list), Jeannie, Tony, Oliver and Molly, Josh’s parents, Sy and Josh’s friends A.J., Pollitzer (he didn’t seem to have a first name) and Kenny (who didn’t seem to have a last name).