Be My Ghost

by Carol J. Perry

  “Jean?”

  “Jean Harlow.”

  “I’ve seen photos of her. You do look a lot like her.”

  Lorna sighed. “I know. A blessing and a curse. We were both working in Hollywood at the same time. She was a star. I looked too much like her. I got to double for her once in a while. On my own I never made it past ‘starlet.’ I was in a bunch of B movies nobody remembers. I was the dumb blond girlfriend or the star’s ditzy sidekick or an extra in a crowd scene.” She smiled. “But I was always working.” She returned to the club chair opposite Maureen’s. Finn lay between them, looking from one to the other as they spoke.

  “So tell me, Lorna, how did you—um—pass away?” Maureen realized with astonishment that she was actually having a conversation with a spirit, a wraith, a manifestation. A ghost.

  “Tripped over a damned electrical cord and took a header downstage center,” Lorna said. “Right smack into the prompter’s box. Broke my neck.”

  Finn whined and covered his eyes with both paws. Maureen cringed. “Oohh. Did you—um—cross over . . . right away?”

  “Yep. Didn’t feel a thing. But since I was living at Haven House, and all my clothes were here”—she pointed to the trunk—“I decided to stay.”

  “So I guess you’re the reason that ghost hunter was here. Conrad Wilson?”

  “I doubt it. I try to stay out of their way. We all do. Snoopy little devils. Running all over town with their fancy cameras, recorders, Geiger counters, ghost boxes.” She winked. “But sometimes it’s just too much of a temptation to throw a good scare into one of them. You said Conrad Wilson was here. Did somebody finally scare him away?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that.” Maureen stood, crossed the room, and studied the labels on the trunk. Paris. London. Monte Carlo. “He’s dead, though.”

  Lorna joined her. “Oh, was that him? I saw a little shade go by the window a few hours ago. I thought it was one of the old people.” She shrugged. “Look.” She pointed to a round sticker. Monaco. “That was from nineteen fifty-six. Grace and Rainier’s wedding.”

  “You knew Grace Kelly?’

  “No. Not really. I was dating a photographer. He sneaked me in. What a wedding dress! Helen Rose designed it. It took thirty seamstresses six weeks to make it.”

  “You really like clothes,” Maureen said. “So do I.”

  “No kidding? I sure couldn’t tell by what’s in your closet—though what you’ve got on isn’t bad.”

  “Stella McCartney,” Maureen said, “and there’s lots more clothes in my car.”

  The apparition clasped her hands together. “Goodie. Go and get them please.”

  “Tomorrow,” Maureen said. “I’m tired. Could you just disappear now please, like the ghosts in A Christmas Carol? You know—‘you may be an undigested bit of beef,’ I don’t remember the rest. Something about mustard and cheese. Anyway, poof! Go away.” Grabbing her pajamas from a bureau drawer, she ducked into the bathroom.

  I’m overtired, she thought. My eyes are messed up from driving for fourteen hours. I shouldn’t have had the second glass of wine. Seeing the dead man was more of a shock than I realized. When I come out of here, that . . . that thing will be gone. She undressed, slipped into her pajamas, brushed her teeth, and grasped the glass doorknob. She squeezed her eyes shut for another long moment, “Please be gone,” she whispered, and turned the knob.

  Finn, waiting just outside the bathroom door, greeted her with tail-wagging and a little sideways prance toward the bed—his usual bedtime behavior. Maureen gave him a pat on the head, said, “Nighty-night, Finn”—her usual bedtime behavior. She walked to the bed, pulled back the spread, and climbed in. Finn lay on the floor beside her.

  She pulled the covers over her head and lay awake for a long time.

  Chapter 8

  It took a few seconds for Maureen to figure out where she was. The wide bed felt unfamiliar but extremely comfortable. Early-morning light streamed through a tall window. Finn’s familiar “woof” jogged her memory. “Florida. Of course. We’re in Florida.”

  Padding barefoot across cushy gray carpet to the bathroom, she cast a sideways glance as she passed the vintage trunk. Remembering.

  “I’ll make your breakfast and take you for a nice walk as soon as I get dressed, Finn,” she promised, trying to shake away thoughts of the previous night’s visitation. “Right after I have a cup of coffee to clear my head.”

  Someone had thoughtfully stocked a kitchen cabinet with a variety of coffee pods. She selected hazelnut, loaded the machine, filled one of Finn’s bowls with doggy chow, the other with water, and waited for her South of the Border mug to fill. The apparition, or whatever it was, had been right about the dearth of clothes in her closet. She pulled on a pair of cut-off jeans and a Red Sox T-shirt. She’d left her makeup kit in the Subaru but made do with lip gloss, mascara, and bronzer she’d carried in her purse. “We’ll unload the car today,” she told the dog. “At least the clothes and cosmetics.”

  Maureen made the bed, rinsed her coffee mug, and after a quick walk-through of the suite—determining that there was no see-through black-and-white personage anywhere on the premises—she clicked Finn’s leash on to his collar, stuck her wallet into one pocket, and put the room key and the lucky coin into another. “We’ll take a nice walk,” she told him. “Then we’ll call that lawyer and tell him we’re settled in.”

  She wasn’t surprised to see Molly and Sam, Gert and George, already on the porch. The four rocking chairs were lined up together at the head of the stairs.

  “Morning, Maureen!” Gert called. “How are you and Finn feeling this morning?”

  “Just fine, thanks,” Maureen said. “Good to see you all so bright and early this beautiful day.” Finn greeted each of the four with polite hand sniffs.

  “Quite some excitement last night, eh?” Sam asked, leaning so far forward in his chair that she thought he might tip over. “You got a good look at the body, didn’t you?”

  George chimed in, “Could you tell what it was that finished him off?”

  Too astonished by the questions to form an answer, Maureen tugged on Finn’s leash. “Well, we have to be going.”

  “Oh, honey, don’t mind them.” Molly gave Sam a playful punch on his arm. “Nosiest two old geezers I ever knew. But we saw you and the cop and Queen Elizabeth over there and we just wondered what was going on.”

  “I don’t know any more than you do,” she told them, still backing away. “Just that the poor man is dead. Gotta go now. See you all later.” She hurried down the steps, taking the bottom ones two at a time.

  “What do you think of that, Finn?” she said aloud, once she was out of earshot of both the group and any pedestrians in the area. “Did you catch the ‘Queen Elizabeth’ crack?”

  Finn stopped short, spying a white heron standing directly in his path. He took a step back when the long-legged bird, spreading an impressive wingspan, flew to a nearby outdoor pumpkin display in front of the Quic-Shop Market. “Your first Florida bird, Finn,” she said. “Looks like we’re both in for surprises here.”

  They passed a pastel orchid house with gingerbread trim and pink and red hibiscus plants in profusion in the front yard. “I didn’t notice this place last night. Look at the sign over the door.” Maureen pointed and Finn’s brown eyes followed the hand motion. “Haven Playhouse. Looks like it’s a private home now, but hey, there’s still a bulletin board with a ‘coming attractions’ empty space on it. I wonder if the current residents know that somebody died in there.”

  Rolling her eyes at her own statement, she looked away from the house. “I mean, if you can take the word of a hologram or whatever that was.”

  “Woof,” Finn said. They’d reached the beach.

  “Let’s take a run on the sand before we go back and do boring lawyer business.” She slipped her sandals off and together they ran toward the shoreline where clear water lapped at the fine sand. “Later we’ll come back here for a swim,”
Maureen promised. “I don’t see any ‘No Dogs Allowed’ signs.”

  They spent a happy fifteen minutes on the beach. Running on the hard-packed sand at the water’s edge felt good. The two had often run in Saugus at the Breakheart Reservation, but the trails there had been hilly and much different from Haven’s quartz-like sand. They slowed their pace, Finn chasing an errant sand crab, Maureen picking up a handful of tiny colorful shells. “These look like little butterflies. On the way back let’s stop in that bookstore we passed last night and get a shell book.” She stuck a few of the shells into her pocket, pushed sandy toes into her sandals, and the two returned to the brick sidewalk, heading back toward the inn.

  A bell jangled when Maureen opened the bookstore’s door. “Hello!” she called. “Do you allow dogs inside?”

  A feminine voice answered from another part of the shop, “Is it a nice dog?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman’s white hair was encased in what appeared to be dozens of small pink plastic rollers. A pair of cat’s-eye–shaped purple plastic eyeglasses were perched on a petite nose. She wore a long wooly blue/green tartan plaid bathrobe and unbuckled white ankle boots flapped as she walked toward Maureen. “Yes, he appears to be nice,” the woman said. “You do too. I just popped into the kitchen for a nice cup of hot tea. Won’t you and your pet join me?”

  “Well, thank you. I was looking for a book about—”

  “Tea first. Business later. Come along.”

  Maureen hesitated, but Finn tugged her toward the partly open door. The woman had already placed a second flower-sprigged china cup and saucer onto a small round wooden table. “Sit right down, dear. What’s your name? I’m Mrs. Peter Patterson.” She gestured toward a black ladder-backed chair as she poured steaming liquid into each cup from a flower-sprigged teapot. “Of course poor Peter is long gone, but I still like to use his name. You can call me Aster. Like the flower. Not Esther, like the Bible. Although Esther was right, you know, about the ‘whither thou goest.’ Peter wanted to live in Florida, so of course I goest with him. And here I am. What did you say your name is, dear?” She held a sugar cube aloft with silver tongs. “One lump or two, dear?”

  “Uh, one please.” Maureen sat as directed, Finn close beside her. “My name is Maureen Doherty and his name is Finn.”

  “Ahh. Irish. If I’d known you were coming I’d have served the Irish Breakfast Tea. Lovely stuff.” She plopped one sugar cube into Maureen’s cup. “But never mind. Drink up. Now tell me, how did Penelope happen to leave her place to you, dear?”

  “You know about that?”

  “Oh yes. Small town. Word gets around. Guess you had a bit of excitement over there last night.”

  Maureen took a sip of tea. “Yes. We did.”

  “The ghost hunter. Poor soul.” Aster leaned forward, pink rollers bobbing. “Who do you think killed him?”

  “Killed him?” Maureen put her cup down, spilling a bit of tea into the saucer. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Pish-tush, darling child.” Aster handed Maureen a paper napkin. “Wipe that up, dear. Why else would a healthy young man like that die in his rocking chair unless somebody killed him?”

  Maureen dabbed at the spilled tea. “Died in his rocking chair. You knew that too.”

  “Of course. Everybody knows that. Would you like a shortbread cookie? I made them myself. They were Peter’s favorite. Now, personally, between you and me and the lamppost, I think it was that crazy Sam. He’s always threatening to kill somebody or other and he hates the ghost hunters,” She waved a teaspoon in the air. “Of course, I hate them too. We all do. Doggoned busybodies, bringing TV cameras and all kinds of riff-raff into Haven. A pox on all of them. Conrad Wilson was a pretty famous one, though. He’s on one of those creepy ghost shows on TV all the time and he writes articles every month for Got Ghosts? magazine. I would have ordered extra copies if I knew he was going to die. Oh well.” She stood, put her cup down, softening her tone “But back to business, Maureen. What kind of book were you and Finn looking for?”

  “A book about native shells. I’d like to know what you call these.” She stood, grateful for the change of subject, and reached into her pocket. So Conrad Wilson was a writer for a ghost magazine—apparently one who attracted autograph hunters. Maureen arranged the butterfly-shaped shells on the tabletop. The Bermuda nickel clinked onto the table too, tails up. She reached for it.

  “Coquina,” Aster said. “Look like little butterflies, don’t they? I like your coin. Pretty angelfish. I have some of them in my aquarium. Didn’t you notice it when you came in?”

  “I didn’t, but I’d like very much to see your fish.” Maureen slipped the coin back into her pocket and pulled Finn toward the doorway. And after that, she thought, I’d very much like to get out of here.

  Chapter 9

  Maureen left the bookshop twenty minutes later with a yellow bag marked BEACH BOOKSHOP. In it she carried a paperback copy of Florida’s Seashells: A Beachcomber’s Guide, a plastic bag containing three shortbread cookies, and the latest copy of Got Ghosts? She’d also acquired a smattering of knowledge about angelfish. She had indeed missed seeing the large freshwater aquarium on first entering the shop, located as it was between two of the book-lined aisles. She’d agreed with Aster Patterson that the graceful fish—she’d learned to identify the Zebra, Silver, and Koi varieties—were beautiful and fascinating to watch. Finn had seemed to enjoy the viewing too. She was most pleased, though, that the conversation about fish had diverted Aster’s thoughts away from the death of Conrad Wilson and the recurring question: Who do you think killed him?

  “I guess rumors do fly around quickly in a small town.” Maureen spoke aloud to Finn since no one was within hearing distance on the brick sidewalk and he was taking his time about visiting lampposts. “But I have to wonder who started that crazy one.” She thought of the people who’d been on the porch last night. “Could be any one of them. Gert or George or Molly or Sam. The autograph-collecting couple were there too, and some people from the neighborhood. Oh, and yes, Elizabeth.” She smiled. “I mean Queen Elizabeth.”

  Maureen stopped short on the brick sidewalk. She pulled the Bermuda nickel from her pocket. “Finn! Angelfish in the bookstore and Queen Elizabeth at the inn. Both sides of my coin. Heads and tails. Do you believe in coincidences?”

  “Woof,” said Finn.

  “Neither do I. Usually.”

  They’d reached the inn. The Haven quartet, as she’d begun to think of them, were at their usual posts.

  “Hey, Maureen!” Sam called before she’d even started up the steps. “They’ve got pancakes with real maple syrup for breakfast. Better hurry before they’re all gone. Ted made ’em.”

  “Sounds good.” She stepped around a very large grinning carved pumpkin. “I’ll take Finn upstairs and hope there are a couple of pancakes left. Then I’ve got some unpacking to do.” She walked between the rockers. George beckoned for her to come closer. She leaned toward the old man, sensing that he might be deaf. “What is it, George?”

  “Who do you think offed the ghost hunter?”

  She shook her head, shrugged her shoulders. and lifted her free hand in the air, in a pantomime of, “Beats me,” and kept on walking straight through the lobby to the elevator.

  Once in the suite, she located Attorney Lawrence Jackson’s business card and tapped the number into her phone. She gave her name and the secretary put her through to Attorney Jackson at once.

  “Good morning, Ms. Doherty,” he said. “I was just about to call you.”

  “You were? You asked me to call when I got settled in and I guess we are.”

  “Good. Is the suite satisfactory?”

  “It’s lovely.”

  “Well then. I hear you had some excitement over there last night. A death on the front porch?”

  “Yes. Unfortunately, that’s true,” she said, hoping he wasn’t going to ask her who’d killed the ghost hunter.

  “The poor
fellow didn’t trip and fall there, did he? Is it possible you might need some legal assistance?”

  “That hadn’t even occurred to me,” she said. “Do you think the inn might be liable somehow?”

  “Probably not. I have some paperwork to go over with you anyway. What time would be convenient for me to drop by?”

  “Anytime would be okay. I have some unpacking to do. I expect to be here all day.”

  They agreed on two o’clock in the afternoon and Maureen hurried back to the elevator. She couldn’t postpone unpacking indefinitely, but the pancakes sounded good.

  Pancakes first, she decided. Then a couple of suitcases full of clothes and maybe my computer get moved from car to suite. She headed for the dining room. Breakfast was apparently served buffet-style. A line had formed beside a long table at the front of the room. Bartender Ted, today wearing a white chef’s hat and jacket, presided over a large professional grill. He flipped the golden-brown pancakes with every bit as much style as he’d displayed the previous evening mixing cocktails.

  Maureen picked up a tray—exactly like the brown plastic ones she remembered from high school—and selected a plate, coffee cup, and utensils. She filled a plastic glass with orange juice from a chilled dispenser and joined the line.

  “Good morning, Ms. Doherty. Big stack or little stack?” A smiling Ted poured batter with one hand and turned a round cake with the other.

  “Little one I guess, to start with,” she said. “Your pancakes come highly recommended by some of your front-porch fans.”

  “I know just who you mean,” he said. “We year-round Haven House residents stick together.” He placed a perfect stack of five golden-brown cakes on her plate. “Syrup and butter on the table. Maple, blueberry, and honey. Enjoy!”

  “Thank you.” She looked around the room. Most of the round tables were empty, while several chairs were occupied at most of the others. She spotted Herbie, moving from table to table with a coffeepot.