Be My Ghost

by Carol J. Perry

  “I wish,” Elizabeth said. “No. They’re just curious about the murder—especially because it was a ghost hunter. It was in the afternoon paper, so some folks from St. Pete and Tampa had to come out and see what they can see. There’s even a reporter from the Tampa paper over there.” She gestured with the menu to a man seated at the bar. “The Channel Nine news crew is outside. I’m just hoping we don’t run out of anything. I sent George over to Publix for more salad materials and chicken breasts and a bottle of one-fifty-one rum. The cop took ours.”

  “Chicken breasts?” Maureen asked.

  “No. He took the grenadine, the fruit juice, and the curaçao too, but we had backups for those.”

  “I hope the police will return the liquor.” Maureen thought about the replacement costs.

  “I don’t think we could use it even if they do,” Elizabeth said. “I mean, I’d be afraid to serve it. We don’t know what they do to it down at the police station.” She lifted her shoulders and smiled. “We’ll just pour it down the drain and chalk it up to experience, I guess.”

  Easy for her to say, Maureen thought. Her five thousand dollars wouldn’t go far with the “pour it down the drain” attitude on display in the inn’s dining room. “Elizabeth,” Maureen said, in as gentle a tone as she could manage, “maybe the next time the officer needs to examine our inventory he could do it here.”

  “Hey, Maureen!” a familiar voice called from the bar. “Come over and join us. Gert’s buyin’!” Molly swung her barstool around and waved. “Come meet our new friend.” Molly and Gwen were seated on either side of the man Elizabeth had identified as a reporter from Tampa.

  “Guess I’d better see what they’re up to,” Maureen excused herself, and started across the room. If the reporter is looking for information about this place he sure has picked the right drinking buddies, she thought. The player piano started up just as she reached it. She recognized the Jim Reeves song immediately. It was “Maureen,” and she knew it had been written long after the advent of the player piano. “Thanks, Billy,” she whispered as she passed, just in case the song selection was something other than coincidence. She was more than a little amazed by her own acceptance of what a day ago she would have ridiculed as superstitious nonsense.

  “Here she is,” Molly said. “She’s the boss here now. I told you she was pretty. Maureen. This is our new friend Jake. He works for a newspaper.”

  Maureen felt her cheeks coloring. “How do you do, Jake,” she said. “I’m Maureen Doherty. Welcome to Haven House Inn.” They shook hands. He was definitely good-looking. “Hi, Gert. Hi, Molly. What’s going on?”

  “Gert’s spending her tip money,” Molly said. “Right, Gert?’

  “Right,” Gert said. “We’re just sitting here, talking about the ghost hunter getting himself killed. Join us. Name your poison, Maureen.”

  If anyone beside Maureen noticed the inappropriate choice of words, considering the current situation, no one said so. Ted was back at work as bartender. She sat facing him, asked for a glass of the house rosé. “Glad to see you, Ted,” she said. “I stopped by earlier to tell you how much I enjoyed your soup today. Leo said you were busy.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Doherty. Busy is right. Cops asked me questions for an hour or more.”

  Maureen offered a sympathetic nod. “I hear you. Me too.”

  Maureen was more listener than participant in the conversation at the bar. She’d been at the inn such a short time she had little to contribute, and other than a polite inquiry as to her health, the newspaperman directed all of his questions to Molly and Gert. Officer Hubbard could have taken lessons on interrogation technique from Jake. He placed his phone on the bar, set to record. His questions were focused, but not intimidating, delivered in a conversational, nonconfrontational tone.

  “So, Gert,” he said. “I can tell you make friends easily. You must have gotten to know Mr. Wilson pretty well during the weeks he was here.”

  “Not so well, really,” she said. “He was a bit standoffish, if you know what I mean. But we had the occasional chat, him and me, when nobody else was around.”

  That was a surprise to Maureen. It was apparently a surprise to Molly too.

  “You never told me that, Gert,” Molly said. “What did you talk about?”

  “Vegas,” she said. “We were both from Vegas. I mean, neither one of us was born there, but we both worked there. Different time of course. He was a little younger than me.”

  “A little!” Molly snickered. “Like about forty years younger than you!”

  Gert raised a penciled brow. “Shut up, Mol. Anyway, I worked onstage, you know.” She favored Jake with a flutter of heavily mascaraed eyelashes. “Lots of feathers and not much clothes. But Conrad, he worked on the machines—the slots, you know It takes some skill to keep them operating just right—so they pay off just enough to keep the customers coming back, but still favor the house. A genius with machines, that boy.”

  “That’s interesting, Gert.” Jake gave her a big smile. “I’d heard that Mr. Wilson was a writer. Did he talk about what he was working on here?”

  “Not with me, he didn’t,” she said. “I was more interested in talking about Vegas. Gambling odds, that stuff.”

  “He wrote about ghosts,” Jake said. “Did he talk to you about the ghosts that are supposed to haunt this hotel?”

  “Listen, honey.” Gert tapped her wineglass on the bar for emphasis. “He talked to everybody about that. But like I told him, there’s no ghosts in this place. I ought to know. Me and Sam have been here longer than anybody. Never seen a one.”

  Maureen almost gasped out loud. That was a flat-out lie. Gert not only saw ghosts; she had regular conversations with at least one. Maureen looked past Jake at Molly, who, with an absolutely straight face, nodded agreement with Gert’s statement.

  “That’s right,” Molly said. “No ghosts here. Nope.”

  Jake didn’t look happy with those answers. He tried another tack. “He was quite a photographer, I understand. Did he ever take your picture?”

  “He sure did.” Gert patted thinning but still-jet-black hair. “Couple of times. He showed ’em to me too, on his cute little TV.”

  Jake nodded. “A portable TV. I had one when I was a kid. Used to take it on camping trips.”

  “Sometimes at night Mr. Wilson used to sit way over in his corner of the porch and watch that TV,” Molly said. “He was real considerate, though. Kept the sound turned off so he wouldn’t be bothering anybody.”

  “I understand he always carried a camera. Took lots of pictures everywhere in the building,” Jake said. “Did he show you any of those pictures?”

  “No. I’m not interested in that stuff at all. It’s just an old building. Nothing special about it that I can see. You, Molly?”

  “Just a raggedy old building,” Molly agreed. “But it’s home.” She looked at Maureen. “No offense intended.”

  “None taken, Molly.” Maureen watched the reporter’s face in the mirror behind the bar. The ready smile was gone. He clearly wasn’t getting the answers he wanted. She was pretty sure if he asked Sam and George about ghosts he’d get the same kind of denial. Those four weren’t the easy marks you might assume.

  Jake made a sudden spin on his stool and faced her. “Tell me, Ms. Doherty, you’ve heard the tales about the infamous suite twenty-seven, I suppose?”

  “I’ve heard that they closed it back in the seventies.” she replied. “Guests apparently found something—um—disturb-ing about it.”

  “I know about that,” Molly interrupted. “It was a stupid, made-up story. They said there was a really creepy ghost in there. Used to sit on the bed and watch people. Nobody would rent the suite after a while, so they just used it for storage. Put the things people left behind in there. Ms. Gray—she didn’t want to get rid of anybody’s belongings. She always thought they might come back for them—even stuff from the forties! Gert was in there once. Tell them, Gert.”

  “The
re were old trunks and suitcases and boxes of stuff. Lots of water toys. People buy them while they’re here and then leave them. But the old woman, she wouldn’t part with any of it. Said it didn’t belong to her.”

  Jake looked happy again. “Did you ever see the ghost when you were in there, Gert?”

  “Of course not. I told you. There’s no ghosts here.”

  “Can I go in there, Ms. Doherty?” He faced Maureen again. “Would you let me take a look at suite twenty-seven?”

  “It’s not a guest suite anymore,” she said. “It’s my office now.”

  “It is? Your office? Have you noticed anything strange? A drop in temperature? Unexpected noises? Anything unusual? Frightening?”

  “Sorry, but no,” Maureen answered truthfully.

  “Did Mr. Wilson ever go into suite twenty-seven?”

  “I doubt it,” Maureen said.

  “He did.” Gert spoke softly. “He did go in there. With his camera. Took a lot of pictures, I heard.”

  “Who let him in?” Molly asked. Maureen wanted to know the answer too.

  “I’m not at liberty to say.” Gert tipped her head back, nose in the air.

  “ ‘Not at liberty to say,’ ” Molly mimicked. “Well, la-deda. How come you never told me about that?”

  “I don’t blab everything I know,” Gert said.

  “Since when?” Molly countered.

  “Promised not to tell. Pinky swore.” Gert held up one multiringed hand with pinky extended.

  Jake nodded understanding. “I’m assuming money changed hands.”

  “I guess,” Gert said, “though I sure didn’t get any of it.”

  “Perhaps if some more money was offered . . . ?” Jake left the thought unfinished.

  Maureen held up both hands. “Wait a minute. It’s my office we’re discussing. In my inn. In my personal space. Nobody gains admission to suite twenty-seven unless I say so. Thanks for the wine, Gert. Nice to meet you, Jake.” She stood. “Excuse me. I have to walk my dog.”

  Chapter 15

  Maureen knew that Finn was happy napping, and might not have wanted to go for another walk, but she was in the mood for a nice head-clearing stroll on the boulevard, so she clipped on his leash, hand-fed him a couple of his very favorite treats, and took the stairs down to the first floor. She resisted the temptation to peek into the dining room—to see if the three were still at the bar. There were several guests in the wicker chairs and Elizabeth was busy at the registration desk. The flurry of business was encouraging even though it was probably the result of the recent death and “ghost exploitation,” a topic Maureen knew was unpopular with most Haven House residents—both human and otherwise.

  The four top-of-the-stairs rockers, two on each side of the broad staircase, were unoccupied. There were guests here and there rocking, but it almost seemed that there were invisible RESERVED signs posted on the four.

  Gert’s tip had been a generous one, so Maureen thought it likely that the women would remain at the bar for some time. George had been sent to forage for food and liquor. Maybe Sam was busy on a repair or upkeep project. A glance at peeling green paint gave evidence that much of the Haven House Inn was beyond Shabby Chic.

  Maureen said a pleasant “Hello,” or “Hope you’re enjoying your stay with us,” to the guests as she passed. Finn, as usual, made friends quickly.

  “Going to be a pretty sunset, Ms. Doherty,” one of them said. “You and Finn going down to the beach to catch it?”

  “That’s where we’re headed,” she said.

  The streaks in the western sky already promised a colorful show by the time they’d reached the bookshop. “Uh-oh. There’s Aster—all set up in her front yard with table and chairs and a frosty pitcher of something and a plate of cookies. Peter’s favorite shortbread, I’ll bet.”

  “Yoo-hoo. Ms. Doherty!” Aster called. “Come watch the sunset with Erle Stanley Gardner and me.” She pointed to a large black cat sitting on the wide windowsill in front of the shop’s display window. Maureen hesitated. “Don’t worry about Finn,” Aster insisted. “Erle Stanley likes dogs. Always has.”

  “I’m not sure,” Maureen said. “He hasn’t met any cats yet.” Finn took a hesitant couple of steps back and sat. Firmly.

  “Really? I figured he’d be all palsy-walsy with Bogey and Bacall by now.”

  “We haven’t had the pleasure yet.” Maureen moved toward the table. “Ted, the bartender, says they are both fine. He feeds them. But they haven’t come inside since Ms. Gray died. I don’t even know what they look like.”

  Aster no longer sported pink rollers and the gray hair lay in uneven waves. The bathrobe had been replaced by flannel pajama pants with pictures of Mickey Mouse on them, topped with a khaki shirt with sergeant’s stripes on the sleeve. The rain boots were still unsecured. “Well, I can help you out there. I’ll tell you all about those two rascals. Look. If Finn and Erle Stanley don’t get along, I’ll just put him inside. He’s a bookstore cat, you know. Used to being indoors.”

  The golden and the black cat solved the problem on their own, opting for some extra social distancing—Finn a leash length away from the table and Erle Stanley at the far edge of the windowsill. Maureen accepted the offered chair, lemonade, and cookie.

  “Well then,” Aster began, “first of all, they’re both rescue cats. Bogie is a big boy. Even bigger than Erle Stanley. He’s a striped tiger cat. Got one ear looks like it was bitten half off. Oh, he’s had a tough life, that one. Bacall now, she’s a big cat too, but she’s a princess. French Chartreux, they call her. Silvery gray with those copper-colored eyes. Anyway, Penelope wanted a cat, so she went to the animal shelter. Those two were in cages right next to each other and it looked as though they’d become friends. Kind of curling up as close as they could get to each other, you know? So Penelope said she’d take them both. Seems they were both chipped. Bogie had somehow got here all the way from West Virginia and they’d been unable to find his owner. Bacall was local, but her owner had moved to a no-pets place and had to give her up.”

  “An odd couple.” Maureen smiled. “That’s nice.”

  “Yep. Bogie taught her the joys of the outdoors and she showed him how nice it is to have a comfortable bed and regular pedicures and good restaurant food.”

  “I hope they’ll come inside soon. I can hardly wait to meet them,” Maureen said. “I’m pretty sure Finn can adjust.”

  “Sure he can. Here, have another cookie. These were my Peter’s favorites. Shortbread, you know. Now tell me all about the murder, honey. Did you see all the murder mysteries I have in the shop? A whole section devoted to ’em. I’m real interested in murder. Is it true the ghost hunter was poisoned?”

  “What?” The glass shook in Maureen’s hand, splashing a few drops onto the table. “What makes you say that?”

  Aster handed her a paper napkin. “Here, darling. Wipe that up. That’s what people are saying, that’s all. Saying that Conrad Wilson got what was coming to him. Sticking his nose into where it didn’t belong. Somebody slipped him a mickey in his drink.” She nodded satisfaction and folded her arms. “Good riddance, that’s what I say. You don’t think he was poisoned?”

  Maureen thought of how Officer Hubbard had taken the bottles from the bar. No wonder anybody who knew about that would assume Wilson had been poisoned. But it might mean that Ted was involved. Maureen admitted to herself—she didn’t want to believe that.

  “At this point, I don’t know what to think,” she said. “The police haven’t told me anything.”

  “Aw, sweetheart, that’s too bad. I thought you’d know all about it. By now Penelope would be right on top of it.” She raised her glass. “Oh well, you’ll learn. Looks like it’s going to be a lovely sunset. Since you don’t seem to know much about the murder under your own roof, maybe you’d like to pick up a murder mystery book or two? Have you read Carolyn Hart’s latest? Lovely mystery and there’s a ghost in it too. Which reminds me, you must have learned a thing or two a
bout ghosts by now, haven’t you?”

  Maureen had, but she wasn’t about to share that information. She shook her head and nibbled on a cookie, giving her time to think.

  “My office is in suite twenty-seven,” she said, as though that answered the question.

  Aster bobbed her head enthusiastically, apparently satisfied with the answer “Seems like there was some goin’s-on across the street last night.” She pointed to the L&M Bar.

  “Oh? Noisy crowd? Haven seems so laid-back compared to where I come from.”

  “I don’t mind hearing the young folks having fun. Peter and I enjoyed an evening out once in a while.” She looked around and put a hand beside her mouth, whispering. “It was after the bar closed. Once in a great while the jukebox starts up at three, four in the morning—and there’s nobody inside. I’ve called the electric company myself a couple of times. They say there’s no short circuit or anything else they can find to make the darned thing go off like that.”

  Maureen could only wonder if the Babe had liked seeing Lorna in the Tory Burch dress.

  Chapter 16

  Elizabeth had been right about the publicity surrounding Conrad Wilson’s death causing a rush of reservations. An increase in staff had become even more necessary. An assortment of neighborhood women and girls had been pressed into housekeeping service under the direction of Gert and Molly. The inn’s laundry was busy keeping linens fresh and the kitchen staff had been amplified.

  “How can I help?” Maureen asked.

  “What do you know how to do?” Elizabeth sighed. “Can you cook? Clean? Run a dishwasher? An ironing mangle?”

  Maureen hesitated. What could she do? “Do you need any printed material? Menus? Room rate sheets? Posters? I know how to design those and I have a first-rate large-format printer and access to some excellent artwork. I could even man the registration desk at the same time. You can’t very well run back and forth between the dining room and the lobby the way you’ve been doing.”