Be My Ghost

by Carol J. Perry

  I should sleep like a baby—or a cat—tonight, Maureen told herself as she climbed the stairs to the penthouse. I’m exhausted. It’s been a busy—even terrifying—day for sure, but I got a lot done. At the head of the stairs the light was dim—reminding her that she hadn’t yet ordered those LED bulbs. She looked down the short hall to her apartment and fast-walked the rest of the way home.

  Chapter 32

  Maureen did sleep like that proverbial baby—with no ghostly visitations, no phone calls, no meows or woofs, at least none that interrupted her dreamless slumber. At seven a.m. waking was a different matter—with two cats clamoring to be fed, one golden retriever pacing back and forth to the front door, indicating a need to go outside. A ding of the push bell announced the imminent arrival of Lorna Dubois.

  “Okay, okay, everybody. I’m up. See?” Cats first. She filled the named containers with Meow Mix and put fresh water into the common bowl. She’d slept a little later than usual. No time for a run on the beach this morning. A quick trip to the bathroom, a promise to Finn that they’d go for a walk ASAP, a shout-out to the not-yet-visible Lorna to wait a minute. Maureen shed pj’s, showered hastily, and, towel wrapped, opened her closet.

  “You ought to wear that Stella McCartney thing again. It looked good on you,” Lorna advised from the edge of Maureen’s recently vacated bed. Finn had stopped pacing and sat quietly at Lorna’s nearly transparent feet—fashionably clad in Maureen’s favorite white Birkenstocks.

  “Thanks. I think I will. What brings you here so early?” Maureen took the navy-and-white outfit from its hanger. “I was going to wear those shoes. Is it okay if we both wear them at the same time?”

  “As long as we don’t show up at the same party,” Lorna quipped. “Listen, I just popped in to tell you that Elizabeth was up here when you were out last night. Is that okay?”

  “I’m not sure. I know she has keys to everything and she is the building manager.” Maureen selected bra and panties from her underwear drawer. “I guess she could have been checking on the plumbing or the air conditioner or something. I know the AC downstairs in my office has been acting up lately.”

  “In suite twenty-seven?” Lorna snickered. “That has nothing to do with the AC. Don’t you know about some ghost turning the room cold? It’s just John Smith hanging around down there.”

  “How come you don’t make the room cold?”

  “Not sure. Penelope used to say I did sometimes, but not very often. You should ask Elizabeth about coming in here, though.” Lorna began to fade away. “I’ll let you get dressed in private.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  “I knew it was John Smith,” Maureen mumbled. “I just don’t want to admit it.”

  “I heard that,” came Lorna’s disembodied voice.

  “Go away,” Maureen commanded. After donning the McCartney outfit, she brushed still-damp hair into place, slipped into the Birkenstocks, and attached Finn’s leash. “Okay. Let’s make it quick.” She was partway down the stairs to the lobby when her phone buzzed. Nora Nathan’s name flashed on caller ID.

  “Hello, Maureen? . . . Nora Nathan here. Hope I’m not calling too early. I’ve had a little talk with Officer Hubbard. Can we meet in your office later today to go over a few things?”

  “Of course. Anything wrong?” Maureen asked.

  “We’ll talk later. How’s around two this afternoon?”

  “That will be fine,” Maureen said. “Until two o’clock then.

  “Oh boy. Something else to worry about,” she told the golden. “Oh well. One problem at a time. First let’s take our walk and see if our four friends did a good job of poster placement. We’re going to need every cent we can generate with our dinner specials. Next, we’ll try to dump as much as we can of Penelope’s hoard. Then we’ll figure out how to deal with the police. How does that sound?”

  Finn gave a less-than-enthusiastic “woof.” They crossed the porch, noting that the quartet was missing—probably lining up for an early breakfast, Maureen decided. Finn wove his way down the front steps between smiling and frowning pumpkins, then hurried along the brick sidewalk, choosing to cross to the opposite side of the boulevard for a change.

  Maureen stood for a moment, looking across toward the inn. The building needs paint, and all of the windows could use a good washing, she thought. But even as she stands, she looks better than a fast-food joint or another steel-and-glass condo would. She quickened her step, passing the Quic-Shop with barely a glance except to note her poster was visible, but partly obstructed by a BOGO Halloween candy display. Between lamppost and fire hydrant stops, Maureen and Finn checked each store window up and down the boulevard. The quartet had done their job. There was even a poster tacked up on the bulletin board at the onetime playhouse where Lorna had seen the light and decided to stay in Haven.

  Maureen turned around at the cottage housing the offices of Jackson, Nathan and Peters—pleased to see the poster propped up in a front window—crossed the street, and started back toward Haven House, with thoughts about the impending appointment with Nora Nathan. It was good that Nora had talked with Officer Hubbard—since she’d dealt with him before. Maybe Nora could talk some sense into the man!

  Finn stopped at the window of the bookshop. The poster was there and so was Erle Stanley Gardner, snoozing in a little patch of sunshine. Finn woofed a hello to the cat, which Erle Stanley acknowledged with a wide yawn. The “woof” was enough to alert Aster to Maureen’s presence. The door opened and bathrobe-clad Aster, with tightly wound pink rollers in white hair, greeted Maureen.

  “Good morning, dearie. You aren’t here to pick up your cookies yet, are you? They’re not ready.”

  “Just walking Finn, Aster. George or Sam will come by later to pick up the cookies. You call the inn when you’re ready.”

  “I will,” Aster said, “but send George, please. I’m still not crazy about that Sam.”

  Maureen was in no mood to hear Aster’s on-again-off-again theory about Sam as Conrad Wilson’s possible killer. “That’ll be fine,” she said. “Everyone’s looking forward to your cookies.” She tugged on Finn’s leash. “Thanks for posting our dinner special. See you later.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to stop for a cup of tea and a little chat?”

  “Maybe later,” Maureen said, realizing that maybe Aster had become the Florida version of Mrs. Hennessey. “I have an appointment with a couple of decorators this morning.” It sounded good, she thought, even if it wouldn’t amount to anything in the near future.

  “Good for you. Come on back anytime, honey!’ ”

  With a wave, Maureen broke into a jog, which clearly made Finn happy. The two were back at the inn within minutes, breathless, and just in time to see a patrol car roll to a stop in front of the building.

  “This time I’d really like to duck into an alley,” she whispered to Finn. “I hope whoever it is, isn’t here to see me.” She waved and smiled in the direction of the car to avoid any appearance of dodging the cops, and headed for the side door.

  With Finn fed and comfortably settled on the blue couch, Maureen brushed her hair, applied a quick lick of lip gloss, and took the elevator down to the lobby. A uniformed police officer, carrying a large to-go coffee cup with a powdered sugar doughnut balanced on top of it, wished her a good morning and left through the front door. It looked as though the free coffee and doughnuts program for Haven’s law enforcement was still in place and, Maureen thought, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing after all. Besides, that doughnut looked delicious and she was in need of some quick energy.

  She took a seat at one of the empty round tables where coffee cups and silverware were already laid out on the white linen tablecloth. Herbie hurried over with a coffeepot. “Regular, Ms. Doherty?”

  “Yes, thanks, Herbie,” she said. “I’m expecting some company at around eight. I think I’ll just have a powdered sugar doughnut this morning.”

  “Want that toasted?”


  “Sure. Why not? Is Elizabeth around?” Maureen was curious about Lorna’s report of Elizabeth entering the penthouse.

  “She’s in the kitchen, I think,” Herbie said. “I’ll tell her you’re here.”

  Herbie returned with the toasted doughnut, Elizabeth close behind him. “What do you want, Maureen?” The woman’s voice was polite enough, but the expression showed annoyance.

  “I heard that you were in my apartment yesterday. Is everything all right? Any repairs needed that I should know about?” Maureen’s tone was polite also.

  The woman didn’t answer right away, glared at Herbie’s retreating back, then shook her head. “Nothing’s broken. You left a window wide open—for those cats, I suppose. It looked like there might be rain coming.” She shrugged. “I went up and adjusted it so the drapes and furniture wouldn’t get ruined.”

  “I see. Thank you.”

  “Who told you I was there?” Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed.

  “I don’t care to say.” Maureen took a bite of the warm doughnut. “Ummm. This is delicious. Thanks for attending to the window, Elizabeth. I’ll be more careful about it in the future.”

  “Good,” Elizabeth said. “Anything else?”

  “I just wanted to tell you that I like the little tea lights you put in the papier-mâché buckets. Nice touch.”

  “I thought it might update the tatty old things.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’ll bet they’re older than I am.”

  “Could be.” Maureen sipped her coffee.

  “Is that all?” Elizabeth asked. “I’m busy.”

  “That’s all.” She watched the woman walk away. How had Elizabeth known the window was open? She’d have to have been standing at the very back of the building, straining to look up through the tree branches. Is she deliberately spying on me? Maureen wondered. Is she interested in something more than protecting my drapes and furniture from a passing shower?

  Maureen checked her watch. Nearly time for Trent and Pierre to arrive. It would be a relief to consider something positive—like making the Haven House Inn more attractive—instead of dwelling on chipped paint, faded carpets, mismatched furniture, and employees who thought money grew on trees, to say nothing of finding a dead man on the porch, and a cop who thought he was Inspector Clouseau.

  Maureen’s new friends arrived in the dining room at exactly eight, a beaming Trent carrying a large art portfolio, which he placed on the round table in front of her. Trent’s idea of “a few sketches” turned out to be a series of full-color, artistic renderings of half-a-dozen areas of the inn. She recognized immediately the much-improved images of the front of the building, a guest suite, the inn’s lobby, the dining room, the front porch, and even a small gift shop covering the far end of the porch where Wilson had died.

  “Oh, Trent. These are amazing,” she said. “You must have spent hours on this. Your ideas are exactly right for the way I picture Haven House.”

  “These days we have software to help us out. See?” He put a tablet on the table beside the portfolio. “See? We start with the room’s dimensions and build from there. I can select colors, furniture, draperies, the whole deal.”

  “I can’t thank you enough,” she said. “And when you come back next time, with a little luck I’ll hope to have put some of your ideas into practice.”

  “Maybe we’ll come back next June for Trent’s fiftieth birthday,” Pierre suggested.

  “Please do! That would be great.”

  Gert, in red-vested uniform, appeared at the table with the coffeepot. “Excuse me, Ms. Doherty,” she said. “Herbie had to go and take care of a room service delivery. I’ll be taking care of your breakfast orders. Coffee all around?” She filled the cups, wrote down orders for eggs Benedict for the two men, and tried unsuccessfully to convince Maureen that another doughnut would be a good source of whole wheat.

  “Thanks, Gert,” Maureen said. “You certainly get around. I didn’t know you worked in the dining room too.”

  “Maid of all work, that’s me.” Gert looked over Trent’s shoulder. “I see you’ve got one of those portable TVs too. What’s that? A picture of this place?”

  Maureen smiled. A tablet probably did look like a small television to a generation that wasn’t raised with internet access. When Gert had reported that Conrad Wilson had shown her the picture he’d taken of her on “his cute little TV,” she must have meant a tablet then too. “It’s a picture of what this place can look like if we can get enough money together.” Maureen peered closely at Trent’s drawing of the renovated lobby, sans white wicker. “Nice, isn’t it?” Maureen ate the last of her doughnut, savoring the partly melted sugar.

  “Real nice. You can start with my rooms if you want to.” Gert chuckled. “Won’t hold my breath.”

  The three spent the better part of an hour discussing means of preserving the vintage charm of Haven House while at the same time offering guests the relaxing feel of an upscale beachfront resort. “I know you can do it, Maureen,” Trent said. “See what you’ve already done right here at this table. You’ve given us perfectly cooked eggs Benedict, excellent coffee presented on a real linen tablecloth with what appears to be an authentic antique centerpiece.”

  “Total upscale vintage,” Pierre agreed. “You wouldn’t want to sell any of these papier-mâché candy buckets, would you?”

  “I think I’ll keep the ones we’re using here in the dining room, but there are dozens more where these came from. Some masks and some of those honeycomb folded tissue paper pumpkins too, and all kinds of old-time Halloween stuff.”

  “Really? Can we look at them today?” He looked closely at the black cat bucket. “If they’re all this good they’d bring fifty to a hundred dollars apiece from our customers who like to throw big, themed dinner parties.”

  “Sure. Actually, they’re all upstairs in the same room where Trent was conceived in love.”

  “No kidding.” Trent was plainly excited. “Let’s look at them now. Maybe we can make a deal.”

  You bet we can, Maureen thought. Penelope Josephine Gray’s hoard was beginning to pay off already.

  Chapter 33

  It didn’t take long for Trent and Pierre to buy the contents of all three of the plastic containers—even the new ones Elizabeth had purchased turned out to be (no surprise) top-quality items. The men agreed to keep in touch, asking for first refusal in the event that any more fabulous vintage decorative items should show up. They promised to be back soon for another stay, very happily leaving Maureen with not only the wonderful art portfolio of designer sketches but also a check for nearly three thousand dollars.

  Leo was thrilled to have full-time work bartending; deliveries from the food wholesalers were on time; Aster had called to say her cookies were ready to be picked up; Ted seemed to have everything in the kitchen under control. So far, it had been an excellent morning.

  Just before two o’clock, Maureen moved to a wicker chair in the lobby to await Nora Nathan’s arrival. Nora entered the inn wearing a crisp khaki linen shirtdress with navy accessories, carrying a black leather briefcase. Sharp, businesslike, Maureen thought. I need a whole new Florida-business wardrobe. She stood to meet her attorney. Her criminal attorney.

  They rode the elevator up to the second floor. “I have a few answers for you,” Nora said, “and a few questions as well. This case is beginning to be quite interesting—not nearly as simple as I thought it was going to be.”

  Does that mean it’s going to cost more money? Maureen wondered, but didn’t dare to ask. Instead, she said, “So you’ve talked to Officer Hubbard? He’s in and out of here as much as some of the help.”

  They stepped out onto the second floor. “Love that elevator,” Nora said. “You just don’t see craftsmanship like that anymore. Yes, Frank is thorough in his work.” She smiled. “A police craftsman, you might say.”

  Maureen unlocked suite twenty-seven. Unlike Larry Jackson and even Frank Hubbard, Nora did not pause in the doorway or hesitate to enter
the room. “Lovely office.” She walked to the window. “You even have a view. Nice.” She paused beside the bookcase, then reached for one of the gold-framed photos. “This your daughter?” she asked.

  “My daughter?” Maureen was puzzled. “I don’t have a daughter. I have no children.” She crossed the room to where Nora stood. “Those photos all belonged to Penelope. I haven’t had time yet to look them over.”

  Nora handed her the picture in its neat, small frame. “She looks just like you.”

  The smiling child stood in front of a sign proclaiming LONG PIER FISHING CHARTERS. She held a pole in one hand, a fair-sized fish in the other.

  “It is me,” Maureen whispered. “But how can that be?” She returned the picture to the top of the bookcase and sat in one of the nearby striped chairs. “The pictures, the carved manatee, the Florida books—those were just part of the décor. They were all here when I arrived. I’d assumed they belonged to Penelope. So how . . . ?”

  She couldn’t finish the sentence. Nora finished it for her. “So how did a picture of you as a child become a decorative accessory at Haven House Inn?”

  “I don’t know. That’s definitely me, though,” Maureen said. “I was just talking to someone the other day about that same photo. My folks have an identical one in an album along with pictures of me with Mickey Mouse and having lunch at Cinderella’s castle.”

  “Do you remember who it was that you talked to about it?” Nora’s voice was gentle, persuasive.

  “Sure. It was Ted. The bartender.”

  “If I remember correctly, you told Larry that you have no idea why Penelope Gray left this property to you. Is that right?”

  “That’s right,” Maureen agreed. “Neither I nor my parents can think of any connection between our family and Ms. Gray, except that we spent a day in Haven after we went to Walt Disney World. We were celebrating my eighth-grade graduation.”

  Nora took pen and notebook from the black briefcase. “Did you by any chance stay here? At this inn?”