Be My Ghost

by Carol J. Perry

  Page by page, Maureen leafed through the first album. Some of the faces she knew at once—Frank Sinatra, Lucille Ball. Others only had familiar names—Arthur Godfrey, Milton Berle. Most of the pictures were black and white, but as she neared the end of the pages there were more color shots.

  By the time she closed the back cover, she’d already made plans for how the special room identifications would work. She’d have the best photos of the most famous guests blown up and framed. She’d pore over the guest books and figure out when each star of stage, screen, or ballpark had actually stayed at the Haven House Inn. There’d be wooden plaques on the doors to those rooms. “This will attract new guests for sure, Finn,” she told the dog, who was now asleep on her right foot.

  She wiggled her foot free, trying not to disturb the slumbering pet, carried the album back into the bedroom, and replaced all of the guest books on the top shelf. She also put the first album back onto the shelf but placed the remining one onto her desk. She’d have plenty of time the following day to study it. Now for the decorations. Lifting the cover from the bin marked: 1950, she had to smile at a grinning crescent-moon–shaped papier-mâché candy basket. A green Frankenstein monster bucket of the same material had bright yellow eyes, and a black cat in yowling posture was scary-cute. “These are going to look so great on all the tables. Let’s take them downstairs and show them to Ted and Elizabeth.”

  So much to do and not much time. There were still police officers lurking around every corner of the inn, trying to figure out who had killed Conrad Wilson. The newspapers and local television hadn’t let up on the man’s death either—still focusing attention on the writer’s murder by poison and on the inn itself—and they all had sidebar information about the reputed ghosts. This wasn’t good publicity. And Officer Hubbard’s nosing around in her medicine cabinet wasn’t a good look either.

  “Maybe I can try to help Hubbard figure out who actually did kill the man, instead of just complaining about how wrong he is about everything,” she said aloud. There was a soft “woof” from under the desk. “Maybe I could ask some questions around here. At least I won’t get sidetracked by ghost stories. Maybe I can get some straight answers—not a lot of tap dancing around the point like Gert and Molly did when Jake tried to get them to talk about the murder. It was a good bet that they knew a lot more than they’d shared with the newspaperman.

  “I’ve been acting as though the murder is none of my business, Finn,” she said. “But it darned well is, isn’t it? Heck, if I’m consulting a lawyer who specializes in criminal law and a cop is snooping around in my medicine cabinet, I had better treat it as if it’s my business!”

  Finn left his hiding place but didn’t follow when she went back into the bedroom, firmly secured the closet, picked up the plastic bin of decorations, then returned and opened the door to the corridor. “Come on, boy. Let’s go. It’s still freezing in here. I’ll take you home, then go downstairs and talk to Ted about food—and maybe ask a question or two about murder.”

  Chapter 27

  The lobby was empty when Maureen arrived. She tucked the plastic bin under the reception desk and took a quick peek into the dining room. There was no doubt that her last-minute advertising blitz had paid off. Most of the round tables were occupied by at least a few patrons and some of the tables were full. If a stack of posters and a handful of flyers can do this in a few hours, I can hardly wait to see what some real promotion will do for the old place. From where she stood in the doorway she could see that Leo was behind the bar, and that Herbie and Shelly and two other servers were at work in the room.

  “Hi, Ms. Doherty,” Leo greeted her. “What’ll it be?”

  A glass of the house rosé, please, Leo,” she said. “Nice to see some activity here, isn’t it?”

  “Sure is.” He poured the wine. “Hope it keeps up. I can use the work. Want some popcorn with that?”

  “Absolutely. I haven’t eaten much of anything today.” She glanced around the room once more. “Are the police still hanging around, asking questions?”

  “They were here earlier.” He passed the bowl of hot popcorn, drizzled with butter. “Still trying to figure out how the poison got into that guy’s drink. They talked to Ted for a long time. Elizabeth was pissed about it. They had to call me in early. Like I said, though, I can use the work.”

  “They’ve checked all the liquor bottles,” Maureen said. “No digitalis—I mean, no poison turned up in any of them.”

  “I know. I heard about that,” Leo said. “But somebody slipped old Conrad a mickey somehow. No doubt about that. Had to be an inside job.” He looked toward the end of the bar where a customer held up a hand. “Oops. Excuse me. Duty calls.”

  Maureen sipped her wine, turned slightly on the barstool so that she could watch the dining room as well as the length of the bar reflected in the mirror. She recognized the man who’d attracted Leo’s attention. Jake, the newspaper reporter. He caught her eye in the mirror, lifted his glass in salute, and—within mere seconds, drink in hand—slid onto the stool beside hers. “Want to share that popcorn, Ms. Doherty? Or may I call you Maureen?”

  “You may, Jake,” she said, pushing the bowl toward him. “How’s your investigation going?”

  “Oh, you know. A little bit here. A little bit there. Eventually, it all adds up.” He smiled. “You’re looking particularly lovely tonight, Maureen.”

  “Thank you,” she said, wondering where the sudden flattery would lead. “Since I’m sharing the popcorn, want to share some of those little bits?” She searched her mind for a good question. “For instance, did they ever find Mr. Wilson’s camera?”

  “I’m pretty sure the cops have it—that it was on the body. Ted says it was on the bar when he served that Celebration Libation and it was gone when the guy left.”

  “Do you know for sure who ordered that drink?” She remembered the Morgans’ claim that they had bought Wilson a drink.

  “Yep. Ted told me it was ordered from a house phone. A couple who were staying here charged it to their room.”

  So the ghost investigators had told the truth. “The Morgans,” she said.

  “You already knew that?”

  “I’d heard it. But the way rumors fly around here, it’s hard to tell what’s true and what isn’t.”

  “You mean like, are the ghost stories real?”

  “No. Of course that’s not what I meant.” She reached for the popcorn. “You heard what Gert and Molly said. There are no ghosts here. They ought to know. They’ve lived here for years.”

  He edged a little closer to her, the smile more intimate. “Like you said, it’s hard to tell what’s true and what isn’t.” He reached into the popcorn bowl, his hand brushing hers. “Have you ever seen Rear Window? It’s playing right down the street.”

  Was he going to invite her for a movie date? Or was he referring to the movie’s plot? Was what Jimmy Stewart thought he saw from his window true or wasn’t it? If this was about to be an invitation, it was interrupted when Ted, in white chef’s jacket, appeared behind the bar. “Ms. Doherty? Leo said you were here. Do you need to see me?’

  “Yes, I do.” She wiped melted butter from her hand with a paper napkin. “Excuse me, Jake. ‘Duty calls,’ ” she quoted Leo, and faced Ted. “Do you have time to work on a menu for tomorrow’s dinner special?”

  “Looks like tonight’s dinner rush is over,” he said. “We can use Elizabeth’s office.” He held up a key. “Sorry to interrupt, Jake.”

  “That’s okay,” Jake said. “Talk to you later, Maureen.”

  “Later, Jake.” She picked up her half-full wineglass and followed Ted toward the lobby.

  He unlocked the office, then stood aside and motioned for her to enter first. She paused for a moment before taking Elizabeth’s usual seat behind the white wicker desk. Ted sat facing her.

  “How do you feel today’s dinner went, Ted?” she asked. “I know it was terribly short notice, but do you feel that it’s somethi
ng we could do regularly?”

  “Regularly, like every day?”

  “Well, yeah. Think we can do it?” She hoped the half smile on his face meant “Sure we can” and not “Are you nuts?”

  “It won’t be easy,” he said. “We’ll have to have a plan, Ms. Doherty. A system. Today was a good trial run, but to do it every day we need to map it out.”

  At least they were on the same page. “Using fruits and vegetables that are in season. Taking advantage of wholesale prices. Buying local produce when we can,” she said.

  Ted’s half smile grew bigger. “Especially local fish,” he said.

  “Exactly what I was thinking about for tomorrow. And please call me Maureen.” Her smile matched his. “Do you think Leo could take over the bartending duties? This new plan is going to depend on you. Would you accept the position of executive chef?”

  “Pretty fancy title,” he said. “Thanks, Maureen. I guess the rumor going around is true then, that you don’t plan to sell the place?”

  “Some of the rumors in Haven are true,” she agreed. “I want to hold on to it if I can. I know it won’t be easy. I don’t have any money to speak of, but I have ideas—and by the way, my ideas don’t involve ghosts.”

  “Glad to hear that. Some people thought you might want to take the easy way—push the ‘haunted hotel’ story for all it’s worth. Load the place up with ghost hunters and never mind how it might ruin the town.”

  “I’m thinking we’ll start with the daily dinner specials,” she said. “Really promote them, build up some loyalty. We’ll expand into the lunch menu later.”

  “Count me in,” he said, “for all of it. I guess you’ve noticed that I like to cook breakfast occasionally. Would I still be able to do that? The neighborhood sems to look forward to my breakfasts.”

  “I’ve had your amazing pancakes. Even dreamed about them once,” she admitted. “Certainly. You cook breakfast anytime the spirit moves you. I don’t want to attempt too much too soon, though. We still have that murder hanging over our heads. Police prowling around don’t enhance our image.”

  “Tell me about it, Maureen.” The smile disappeared. “The reason Hubbard is around so much is he thinks I did it.”

  “You? He thinks you killed Wilson?” She frowned. “I’m pretty sure he thinks I did it.”

  “Not you! Why would he think that? You just got here. You didn’t even know the guy. Hell, Maureen, I mixed the drink that probably killed him.”

  “The poison, the digitalis, came out of my medicine cabinet.” She fought back tears, surprised by the intensity of a rising fear. “Hubbard put on gloves. He put the bottle into an evidence bag right in front of me. He’s accused me of hiding from the police, ducking police cars. I have a criminal attorney on retainer, for heaven’s sake.”

  Ted reached across the desk and touched her arm. “Hey, maybe it’s just some kind of cop game he’s playing. You know what? Old Sam thinks Hubbard believes he did it. Everybody knows how much Sam hates the ghost hunters. He used to talk to Wilson. Got right in his face about what creeps the ghost hunters are. And Sam was on the porch that night, right around the corner from where the guy died.”

  Maureen sniffled. “Aster down at the bookstore thought at first s it might be Sam,” she confided. “I can’t even begin to imagine it. Not Sam. Nope. And not you and not me.”

  “Then who?” Ted asked. “All the questions and the yellow tape—things like that aren’t good for business.”

  “I had a thought about the yellow tape where it says ‘Under repair.’ Maybe we can get Sam and George to help out by sanding the peeling paint in that corner. Then someone can repaint it. We don’t want to try to do too much, too soon. But I have some ideas about the dining room too.”

  When Elizabeth knocked on the glass window of the office door, annoyance evident on her face as she tapped on her watch, both Maureen and Ted looked up from a scattering of papers on the desk. A nearby wastebasket overflowed with more paper, crumpled into balls. Maureen looked at her own watch. Two hours had passed.

  “Wow! Look at the time.” Ted jumped up, opened the office door. “Sorry, Elizabeth, if we hogged your office for too long. But you won’t believe all we’ve got planned!”

  Elizabeth raised both eyebrows and smirked at the same time. “Huh. Planning is one thing. Getting it done is quite another. I’ll take care of staffing and setting up the room for you. Then let’s see how you two do with getting all the food in—and out—of the kitchen on time, without disrupting the regular dinner prep.” She held out her hand for the office key. “And you’ll have to find another place for your meetings. I need my space for all the other jobs I’m expected to do around here.”

  Ted dropped the key into her outstretched hand. “Here you go, Elizabeth. We’ll do our best and we appreciate any help or advice you can give us.”

  Maureen stood, gathered the papers from the desk, and stuffed them unceremoniously into the briefcase. “We’re both happy about how well today’s special went over, Elizabeth. Thank you for your help in making it work. I’ll be interested to see the day’s figures. Hope we showed at least a little profit. By the way, I’ve put a box of beautiful Halloween centerpieces under the reception desk. I think they’ll look great on all the tables. Could you see to that?”

  “Oh sure. Why not? I don’t have enough to do as it is. Don’t forget to empty that wastebasket.” Elizabeth pointed to the overflowing white wicker container, pushed her way past Maureen, carefully centered the mahogany and brass engraved desk plate marked MANAGER, and reclaimed her chair.

  Chapter 28

  “I really like your ideas about the dining room.” Ted emptied the wastebasket into the larger receptacle in the lobby, then carefully placed the basket beside the closed office door. He took Maureen’s arm, guiding her toward the elevator. “The new uniform sketches are good too. Let’s hurry up to your office and rock this thing!”

  She loved his enthusiasm. They were alone in the elevator. “About the fresh fish, we’re square on what tomorrow night’s special will be?”

  “Tomorrow’s special,” he said. “I’ve already texted the wholesale fish dealer down on the pier. Got a good deal on black grouper. Right off the boat.”

  “With fries?”

  “Sweet potato fries,” he said. They were definitely on the same wavelength. “And a salad,” he added.

  “With that green goddess dressing Elizabeth makes,” she finished the thought.

  He grinned. “Exactly. But she doesn’t make it. Buys it by the gallon from Kraft. Do you have dessert figured out?”

  “I do. Aster Patterson’s shortbread cookies with Halloween frosting and orange sherbet.”

  They stepped out onto the second floor. “Perfect,” he said. “Suite twenty-seven, right?”

  She stopped walking. “That’s right. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”

  “Not a bit,” he said. “I’ve heard it’s really nice.”

  “It is. Who told you about it?” She hoped he hadn’t heard it at Quic-Shop.

  “Gert,” he said. “Gert told me all about it.”

  “She gets around,” Maureen said. “I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that Conrad Wilson had seen it too. Seems like he took pictures of just about every inch of Haven with that little camera of his.” They’d arrived in front of suite twenty-seven.

  “That camera!” Ted stood aside as Maureen pulled the key from her pocket and unlocked the door. “Hubbard questioned me for a good half hour about it. Wanted to know if I got a good close look at it when it was on the bar that night.”

  “Did you?”

  “Not up close. I mean, it was on the bar. He picked it up every once in a while and snapped a few pictures.” Ted sighed. “It was just a regular digital camera. A small one. A Canon, I think. Nothing special about it that I could see.”

  “Come on in.” She approached the desk. “Pull up a chair. What was he taking pictures of?”

  “Same as al
ways. Nothing special.” Ted sat in one of the maroon-and-gray–striped chairs, pretending to hold a camera out in front of him, pushing an imaginary button as he moved his hands from side to side. “He’d aim it one way, then another. Never seemed to be focusing on anything or anyone in particular. Click. Click. Click. All over the place.”

  Maureen pulled the sheaf of notes from her briefcase, piling them on top of the desk. “Gert said he was trying to get pictures of ghosts, but he couldn’t tell if he had any ghost pictures until he put the memory card into a special TV. He even took pictures in here.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “I know. Gert believed he actually did get at least one picture of a ghost, though.”

  “Oh that, yeah. I heard something about it. But I mean it’s weird that he took pictures in here. Who let him in?”

  “I don’t know. Gert said she guessed money changed hands.”

  “I wonder if Hubbard knows about that.” He moved his chair closer to the desk. “Well, let’s get to work.”

  Too late, Maureen realized that she hadn’t heard that story about ghosts showing up on the memory card from Gert. She’d heard the story secondhand—from a ghost named Lorna Dubois.

  “Yes, let’s,” Maureen said. “And to tell the truth, I didn’t hear that part about the memory card from Gert herself. Someone else told me about it.”

  “Another one of those famous ‘Haven rumors,’ huh? You can’t believe everything you hear around here.” He picked up a pen. “I won’t bother Hubbard with that one. Anyway, if it’s true he’s probably already pried it out of Gert herself.”

  “You’re right. It probably got started at the Quic-Shop,” she said. “Now what do you think about something on the lighter side, like a nice chicken salad, for day after tomorrow? Maybe stuffed in those big beautiful Ruskin tomato shells, served with devilled eggs and Hawaiian rolls?”