Be My Ghost

by Carol J. Perry

  I don’t want to sit all by myself at one of those big tables, she thought, and approached the closest one.

  “Excuse me. Mind if I join you?” She recognized one of the couples she and Finn had met the previous evening. They’d explained that they lived in the neighborhood and came to dinner several times a week.

  “Of course. Sit right down,” the woman said. “How’s Finn today?”

  “He’s fine,” Maureen said. “We took a walk down to the beach this morning and he chased a crab and met a large white bird.”

  “Gert tells us that you’re the new owner of Haven House,” the man said. “We’re the Flannagans. Dick and Ethel. Live right down the boulevard from here. Heard you come all the way down from Boston.”

  “How do you do,” Maureen said. “Yes. I lived just outside of Boston.”

  “You found the body, that right?” Ethel asked.

  “I did.” Maureen began to regret her choice of tablemates. She poured maple syrup on her pancakes and cut into the hot, fragrant circles of goodness.

  “Guess maybe you don’t want to talk about it while you’re eating,” Dick said. “Right?”

  “Right,” Maureen agreed. “I sure don’t. These pancakes are wonderful. So light they practically float up off the plate.”

  “Yep. Everybody shows up when Ted’s cookin’,” Ethel offered. “He’s a good bartender too. Everybody likes Ted.”

  Maureen had no opinion one way or another about Ted except that he was kind to cats and made delicious pancakes. She chewed quietly, sipped her orange juice, and watched while Herbie filled her coffee cup to exactly the right level, leaving room for cream and artificial sweetener.

  Maureen had spent enough years in the retail business to know that a good product, properly promoted, could be extremely profitable. The beach location, the Shabby Chic charm of the place, Ted’s pancakes, and Herbie’s service were small examples that showed the Haven House Inn—rough edges and all—was a basically good product.

  She tasted her coffee. It was excellent. Just one more tiny indication that this hurried trip to Florida might have been more than a move of desperation. It might even be the beginning of something wonderful—dead body on the porch and midnight apparitions in the bedroom aside.

  Chapter 10

  Breakfast finished, Maureen excused herself from the table, wished the Flannagans a good day, and prepared for some serious moving. The couple-of-suitcases and a knick-knack here and there would take forever. This was a good time to empty her car and complete the move to her new home. She loaded one of the inn’s wheeled luggage carriers, took several trips up and down in the elevator, and within the hour she’d managed to transfer several suitcases full of clothes, her makeup kit, computer, printer, and fax machine, a small TV set, two lamps, the box of plaques and photos, the jade plant, a carton of books, and a few assorted tchotchkes onto the floor of the mid-century modern living room. Finn sat joyously wagging his tail in the center of the mess. With a sense of satisfaction, Maureen made a final trip to the Subaru, did a fast cleanup with a hand vacuum, and locked the doors.

  It was only when she returned to the suite and surveyed the confused jumble of belongings spread on the soft gray rug that the thought occurred to her. She had no appropriate place for her two o’clock meeting with Lawrence Jackson.

  She sat on the couch. Finn, tail still wagging, put his head in her lap. “Wait a minute. Penelope Josephine Gray must have had an office somewhere in the building. After all, she wasn’t running this whole operation out of these rooms. All I have to do is find out where it is.”

  She patted Finn and stood. “I have to go down and talk to Elizabeth. I’ll be right back. Be a good boy.”

  It was close to noon when she approached the dining room once again. Almost lunchtime. Elizabeth would be busy and undoubtedly not happy to be interrupted. Too bad. She pushed the plantation doors open.

  “Elizabeth?” she said.

  “How can I help you?” The woman’s tone was frosty, the words delivered with an exasperated sigh.

  “I have a two o’clock appointment with my attorney,” Maureen explained. “Is there an office where Ms. Gray conducted business? I’d like to use it.”

  “Oh, that. Well, I’ve had to take that office over, since I’ve been more or less running things around here since Penelope passed. We hired some guys to move her desk and file cabinets and everything into suite twenty-seven and a professional cleaning service made sure everything is spic-and-span. Nobody’s used it for years. I’ll give you the key.” Another long sigh. She pulled a stack of menus from the deep pocket of the red cobbler’s apron, placed them on a nearby lectern, and motioned to a young waitress. “Shelly. Take over here. I’ll be right back.” She pushed the louvred doors open. Maureen followed.

  Elizabeth didn’t go to the check-in desk. Instead, she opened the door to her office. “Come on. It’s in the safe.” Maureen followed, watching as Elizabeth moved the painting of the red tree aside, revealing a small safe in the wall. She spun a dial, opened the thing, reached inside, and handed Maureen a key marked 27. It was on a brown plastic fob like the one to her suite. “There you go,” Elizabeth said. “It’s at the end of the hall on the second floor. There’s no number on the door. It’s marked ‘Staff Only.’ Good luck.”

  “I don’t get it,” Maureen said, holding the key up, inspecting it. “Why keep it in the safe? Why has the suite been unused for years?”

  Elizabeth replaced the painting. “We’ve been using it for storage, mostly. Anyway, it’s supposed to be haunted.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Nobody wanted to sleep in there. Closed it back in the seventies Listen. Don’t tell anybody about this. The damned ghost hunters will want to get in.”

  “Haunted?” Maureen lowered the key.

  “It’s nonsense, of course.” Elizabeth smiled. “It’s a nice suite. Beautiful desk, chairs, bookcase, everything you’ll need. I presume you have your own electronic devices? I’ve had to keep Penelope’s.” She held the office door open. “I need to get back to the restaurant. When you get settled in your new office, come down and join us for lunch. Ted made butternut squash soup.” Maureen stood in the lobby, the key in her hand, as Elizabeth disappeared into the dining room with a gay little wave.

  Shoving the key into her back pocket, she headed for the elevator. So the office was spic-and-span. A nice suite. Everything she’d need.

  And quite possibly haunted.

  Once on the top floor—the penthouse—she hurried to suite thirty-three. Stepping over the piles of belongings on the floor, Maureen welcomed Finn’s happy “woof.” “Come on, Finn, let’s take a look at our new office.” She retrieved his leash from a hook behind the kitchen door and lowered her voice. Skipping the elevator this time, the two walked down the one flight of stairs.

  “It should be down at the end of this hall,” she told the dog, pulling the key from the pocket of her shorts. Finn trotted ahead of her, looking from side to side as though reading the room numbers. “It’ll be on the odd number side,” Maureen said. “Here we go. Twenty-three, twenty-five—here it is.”

  Maureen paused at the entrance. “Okay. Let’s do this.” The key turned easily. She took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

  It was a corner suite. Sunlight streamed through tall windows in two of the white walls. “It’s a nice suite,” Elizabeth had said. Beautiful furniture, she’d promised.

  Elizabeth had understated on both counts. It was a gorgeous room. The furniture, desk, bookcase, table, and even the file cabinet were crafted of rich, lustrous mahogany. Chairs, upholstered in a striped maroon and gray fabric, faced the desk. A couch in the same fabric and a mahogany coffee table dominated one wall. Two long tables, gleaming from a recent polishing, awaited office machines and the desk had plenty of room for Maureen’s desktop computer and two screens. The bookcase displayed a few books about Florida, a handsome wooden carving of a manatee, and several black-and-white photos in gold frames.


  “Holy cow, Finn! Look at this place.” She crossed the room, admiring the rich tones of a fine Oriental rug There was an attractive powder room behind one door. Another revealed what must have once been a bedroom. It was empty of furnishings, and lightweight beige draperies covered the windows. A good-sized closet stood empty except for a dusty-looking stack of identical black leather-covered volumes on a top shelf. She’d find a way to fill the closet, she had no doubt. “Sure doesn’t look like a haunted room, does it?”

  “Woof,” said Finn, backing away from the closet, pulling Maureen toward the exit.

  “Okay. Let’s go upstairs and get my office stuff. This is a perfect place for my meeting with that lawyer—haunted or not.” Borrowing another wheeled luggage carrier from its spot beside the elevator, she headed back to her suite. The computer, screen, printer, and fax machine, along with a few file folders the lawyer might want to see, fit easily onto the carrier. Removing them from the pile made the remaining items seem less daunting and Maureen made a silent promise to put everything away properly before evening.

  She left Finn asleep on the bedroom floor, and by one o’clock the new office was outfitted with office machines, books in the bookcase, jade plant on the coffee table, along with a selection of magazines, fanned out decorator-style, and Maureen’s plaques and diploma nicely arranged on one white wall. That left her one hour to walk the dog, take a shower, and get dressed for her meeting.

  Dog walk first. She hurried back to her rooms and clipped on his leash. “Come on, Finn. It’ll be a fast one.” Down the elevator again, through the lobby, past the dining room, and out onto the porch. Maureen avoided looking in the direction of the previous night’s painful discovery. There was no way, however, to avoid passing by the four rocking-chair sentinels on either side of the front stairway.

  Finn, proving his “too friendly, too easily distracted” designation, stopped to greet each one, who, in turn, felt obliged to pat, scratch, rub, and verbalize their sentiments. Maureen fielded a few questions from the group, without actually answering any of them, then jerked the leash. “Come on, Finn. Gotta go. See you later, folks.”

  Finn did not want to be hurried, and sulked as they walked along the brick sidewalk. “Be a good boy,” she urged. “A nice long walk later, maybe a run on the beach.” She held a plastic bag with her free hand. “Just do your business, please, and I’ll get back to mine.”

  Maureen had been glad to see on her previous walks that Haven’s city fathers and mothers not only had provided handy stations for doggy waste but also even had curbside water fountains positioned at just the right height for its thirsty four-legged citizens. Finn seemed to take uncommonly long to accomplish what needed to be done, and even attempted to dawdle by stalking one of the tiny lizards native to Florida.

  By one-thirty, with Finn taking his afternoon nap, Maureen emptied two of the suitcases onto her bed and decided on “business casual”—white silk blouse, black capris, and black kitten heels. With a promise to herself to get her clothes organized and into the bedroom closet before bedtime, she returned to the lobby intending to meet Attorney Jackson there, rather than try to give directions to her oddly marked office.

  Maureen stood when the tall man carrying a leather briefcase entered. He looked like a young Jamie Foxx, only taller. He wore a pale tan Hart Schaffner Marks wool/silk blend suit. (The men’s department at Bartlett’s of Boston had carried the identical one.) “Mr. Jackson?” she asked, extending her hand.

  “Ms. Doherty?” he countered. His grip was firm, his smile orthodontically perfect.

  “My office is on the second floor. I’m sure you’re familiar with our vintage elevator.” He followed, waiting while she pushed the UP button.

  “Ms. Gray was quite fond of it,” he said. “All the brass and wood and etched glass. I expect the guests like it too.”

  Maureen nodded. “I expect they do. I’ve only met one or two guests and a few of the residents so far.” The brass accordion door slid open. “Here we are. It’s at the end of the hall.”

  The attorney paused at number twenty-five. “Is your office suite twenty-seven by any chance?”

  “Yes,” she said, “although Elizabeth tells me that we don’t call it that.” She put a finger to her lips and whispered, “It’s a deep dark secret.” They’d reached the door marked STAFF ONLY. She inserted the key and pushed the door open. “It makes quite a handsome office; don’t you think so?” She sat in a leather swivel chair behind the desk, and motioned for him to sit in one of the striped chairs.

  Lawrence Jackson hesitated just outside the doorway for a long moment, then stepped inside, sat in the chair indicated, and put his briefcase on a table beside him. “Yes indeed. Handsome. Now I expect you’ll want to have a look at the most recent profit and loss statements. Please be warned. The place is losing money. Has for years.” He placed a sheaf of spreadsheets on Maureen’s desk. “You’ll note that there’s still a significant amount of cash in the operating account. But it won’t last forever. Ms. Gray was more sentimental about Haven House than she was practical about it. I also have a few papers for you to sign. Transfer of property, bank accounts, tax schedules, and such.” He fanned out several official-looking documents next to the spreadsheets. Each had highlighted areas with little “Sign here” stickers on them. Maureen pushed them to one side, still concentrating on the business statements.

  Maureen was good at figures. Her job at Bartlett’s had demanded it. She’d always worked a six-month plan. She’d known by Memorial Day exactly what her budget would be for Christmas, and had placed orders, planned advertising lineage, accordingly. She studied the papers silently for several minutes. According to what the lawyer had just presented, there was no budget plan at all for the Haven House Inn. Not even for the following month.

  She tapped the top paper. “There are several different room rates here for what appears to be the same type of accommodations. How does it work?”

  He sighed. “Ms. Gray was a wealthy but softhearted woman. The four old folks you’ve undoubtedly met by now—Gert, Sam, Molly, and George—they each pay the same rate year round, in high season or midsummer. They pay one-half of the amount of their monthly Social Security checks—and their meals are included in their rent. Some of the dining room staff along with Elizabeth, the manager, live here. They exchange work for rent. Of course they all draw salaries too. Frankly, it’s a mess.” He glanced around the room, staring for a moment at the closed bedroom door.

  “What about upkeep?” Maureen asked. “Repairs? Do we have a maintenance crew?”

  “Not exactly. Ms. Gray hired local help along with Sam and George. Some are more—um-—professional than others.”

  “Housekeeping staff?”

  He shrugged. “Not exactly. That’s mostly Gert and Molly and some high school girls from the neighborhood.”

  “Isn’t there an advertised rate for new guests?”

  “Oh sure. It’s very reasonable. There are some return guests every year along with new ones.”

  “Are the rates changed according to the season? Higher during the winter months?” Maureen scanned the pages. “I don’t see it.”

  “Ms. Gray tried that for a while, but it somehow morphed into the low rate year round.” He pulled an advertising brochure from the briefcase. “She hadn’t changed the layout or the copy or the room rates on these since the early eighties. I think a lot of people seeing these rates figure the place must be a dump.”

  Maureen shook her head. “I think you’re right. Looks like I have a lot of work to do here.”

  “You plan to stay then? You mean to operate Haven House?” His face showed real surprise. “I thought you’d want to sell it to the highest bidder. There have already been offers.”

  “Somebody else wants to run it?”

  “Oh no. It would be a teardown. As the real estate folks say, ‘the dirt’s worth more than the structure.’ It would be a good site for condos or even a fast-food place.” He reached
into the briefcase once again. “Would you like to see the offers Ms. Gray turned down? Against my advice, I might add.” He handed Maureen a fat brown envelope. “There are several in here.”

  She accepted the envelope but didn’t open it. “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll take a look at them later.” She picked up the papers with the ‘Sign here’ stickers. “I’ll read these over today. Shall I deliver them to your office? I noticed that you’re just down the street from here.”

  “Yes. We’re all readily available to you if you need us. As you know, I handle wills, estate planning, that sort of thing. My partner Nora Nathan handles criminal law and John Peters specializes in family law as well as personal injury cases. I’ll leave you John’s card just in case there are—um—any ramifications due to the unpleasantness that occurred here last night.”

  “Thank you.” Maureen accepted the card. “I don’t anticipate any problem. I believe they’re trying to locate the poor man’s next of kin.”

  He stood, took another sideways glance at the closed bedroom door, and picked up the briefcase. “I’ll see myself out. Good to meet you.”

  “Yes. Good to meet you too.” Maureen stood, extending her hand, but the lawyer had already opened the door and faced her across the threshold of suite twenty-seven. “I expect we’ll be seeing one another from time to time,” she said. “I’m sure more questions will come up as I learn to find my way around here.”

  “Feel free to call on me anytime, Ms. Doherty. Anytime.” He hurried away toward the elevator. “You have my number.”

  Chapter 11

  Picking up the brown envelope and the documents the lawyer had left, Maureen started for the door. I still have a mess to clean up on the floor of my suite, she remembered. A pile of clothes on the bed too. She paused, looking back at the closed room, remembering Jackson’s several glances in that direction. Were the glances apprehensive? Curious? What?