Be My Ghost

by Carol J. Perry

  “Nope. We didn’t.”

  “Is it possible that you were adopted? That you may be related to Ms. Gray in—um—that way?”

  Maureen smiled. “You mean that I could be Ms. Gray’s long-lost child? Believe me, that thought occurred to me, but it’s extremely unlikely.”

  “Such things do happen, you know.” Nora scrawled something in her notebook. “Have you asked your parents?”

  “I’m positive that’s not what happened in this case.” Maureen moved from the striped chair to the one behind her desk. “Just before I was born, my dad got his first video camera. The occasion of my coming into the world was recorded in living, somewhat gory color, for all to see.” She held up both hands. “You have no idea how excruciatingly embarrassing watching your own birth is to a kid. And the poor groaning woman in the stirrups was definitely my mom—not Penelope Josephine Gray.”

  “That’s pretty strong evidence.” Nora smiled. “I wonder why Ms. Gray had your picture.” She tapped the notebook with the end of the pen. “How did you happen to discuss it with the bartender anyway?”

  “His mom had a restaurant near that sign,” Maureen recalled. “He wondered if he was the one who cooked that fish for me that day.”

  “Interesting,” she said. “But the circumstances of your birth aren’t what we’re here to discuss, are they, although Larry and I still have concerns that someday someone may come forward and make some claim on the estate. That’s why I asked.” Once again, the pen was poised over the page. “However, as I mentioned, I’ve talked with Frank Hubbard about his investigation into the death of Conrad Wilson. Oddly enough, the bartender you mention is also part of the investigation. This Ted was the one who mixed and served the allegedly poisoned drink to Mr. Wilson. Is that your understanding as well?”

  “Yes. Although I didn’t actually see Ted mix the drink.”

  “Frank—Officer Hubbard—says that the digitalis which killed the man came from your medicine cabinet. That you witnessed his removing the pills from your bathroom. Correct?” Nora emphasized the word “your.”

  “Those were Ms. Gray’s pills,” Maureen insisted, “and as far as I’m concerned, that’s still her medicine cabinet. I haven’t put my things into it. I don’t even want to touch it, now.”

  “I understand.” Nora’s voice was soothing. Calm. “I’m only asking these questions because I need to correlate your account with what the officer told me. Now about your relationship with the bartender. Had you met him before your arrival here in Haven?”

  “No. Of course not. I didn’t know anyone from Haven.”

  “You admit to having been in Haven some years ago.”

  “Yes. For a day when I was a child. We chartered a fishing boat and I caught a fish. That’s all.” Maureen pushed her chair back. “You sound as though you don’t believe me.”

  “Of course I believe you,” Nora said. “I need to be sure that your recollections line up with what we already know about Mr. Wilson’s death. The man did die on your property, from a poison which may have come from your bathroom, administered by a man with whom you have some sort of relationship.”

  “I don’t have a ‘relationship’ with Ted. Or anybody else in Haven!” Maureen felt anger rising. Tried to keep her voice steady.

  “Yet you’ve had a conversation with him about a picture taken in Haven. A picture including a fish he says he may have cooked for you when you were both teenagers. Where did this conversation take place? At the bar? In this office?”

  “At the bar,” Maureen said. “In public. That’s hardly a relationship. I barely know the man.”

  “Apparently you and this Ted are collaborating on some sort of restaurant promotion. The officer says you spent several hours together in Elizabeth’s office. That you have promoted him to an ‘executive chef’ position without consulting the current restaurant manager.”

  The “current restaurant manager” being Elizabeth, Maureen thought, worried that she might be losing one of the many jobs she’s charging me for.

  “That is a business decision. I believe I can hire and fire anyone I want to. And are you my lawyer or not?” This time, anger sounded through the words and Maureen was aware of it.

  “Of course I’m your lawyer, Maureen. I’m asking you the questions that Officer Hubbard will ask. We need to be sure your answers will not be self-incriminating.”

  “Nonsense. How can I incriminate myself when I’ve done nothing criminal?” Maureen felt a slight change in the room’s temperature and lowered her voice. “And I’m sure Ted hasn’t either.”

  “I believe you,” Nora said again. “We’re trying to see this from Hubbard’s position. Don’t forget—you found the body. You admit to having touched the body—actually changing the position of the body.”

  “I didn’t change his position,” Maureen insisted. “He slid out of the chair by himself.”

  “Hubbard is wondering if, while removing the camera from his pocket, you caused the body to slide from the chair.”

  “The camera! I never touched the camera. I didn’t see any camera.” Maureen felt the beginning of hot tears behind her eyes, threatening to spill over. “It seems as if Hubbard has his mind made up that I killed that poor man. What can I do?”

  “If he decides to charge you, and that’s a big ‘if,’ ” Nora said, “first we’ll address ‘probable cause.’ There appears to be no good reason for you to kill the man. There is no apparent benefit to you from his death.”

  “Whoever did it must have a reason,” Maureen said. “I suppose it has something to do with the camera—the camera that they say takes pictures of ghosts.”

  “ ‘They say’ doesn’t hold up in court. Who are ‘they’?” Nora’s pen was poised again.

  “His agent says he had pictures of actual ghosts,” Maureen recalled. “At least one was taken in the inn’s dining room. Gert, one of the housekeepers, talked about the camera too. She says he even took her picture with it and showed it to her on a ‘little TV.’ ” Maureen watched as Nora printed “little TV” in the notebook.

  “Interesting,” Nora said. “I didn’t see any ‘little TV’ listed among his effects. Do you know anything about a television set? Perhaps a portable one?”

  Maureen shrugged. “I think it’s possible that Gert mistook a tablet for a TV.”

  “Odd,” Nora said. “Is Gert one of the staff that lives here? I understand that some of them do.”

  “Actually, several of them do.” She held up her hand, counting off on her fingers. “Elizabeth, of course. Gert, George, Sam, and Molly do too. And Ted. That’s all as far as I know.”

  “Hubbard’s talked with all of them. Special attention to Ted and Sam, as far as I can see, and you, of course,” she said. “He’s interviewed all of the guests who were here at the time too. Did any of them stand out particularly to you?”

  “Just the Morgans. They’re fellow ghost hunters. They bought the Celebration Libation drink that killed Mr. Wilson.”

  “I have their names,” Nora said. “They’re staying here now, I understand.”

  “Yes. Mrs. Morgan—Clarissa—told me that she and Wilson exchanged words that night when she asked for his autograph.”

  “I didn’t know about that. I don’t think Hubbard does either.” Nora wrote a few lines in her notebook, then looked up. “What did she tell you?”

  Maureen repeated, as closely as she could recall, the conversation the two women had had in the laundry room. “She’s still upset about it. She cried. Says she feels guilty because of that ‘drop dead’ remark.”

  “Hmm. Hubbard says a witness told him that the same couple had some sort of confrontation with Elizabeth that night too.” Nora put the pen down.” Did you see that?”

  “No. Ted told me about it.”

  Another “Hmm,” from the attorney. “So we’re back to Ted again.” Nora rubbed her arms. “Is it chilly in here or is it me?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes the AC in here goes a little haywire.
It’s a pretty old system. We could finish downstairs if you like.”

  “Sure. I could use a cup of coffee. And Maureen, don’t worry too much about Hubbard. Without some kind of probable cause, he doesn’t really have much of anything. The Morgan couple, though. They’re interesting. Maybe there’s something there.”

  “Maybe,” Maureen said. “I believe Clarissa Morgan is truly sorry about something she’s said or done. But murder?”

  Maureen and Nora got their coffee in to-go cups and joined a few others on the porch, rocking quietly, enjoying the balmy weather, watching the passing activity along the boulevard. The quartet was notably missing—undoubtedly busy with their housekeeping, errand-running duties, Maureen thought. Maybe Molly was baking more pies.

  “You know, Maureen,” Nora said, “this place does have a certain amount of charm. I can see why you might be tempted to try to save it.”

  “Can you? I’m glad to hear you say that because I’m deadly serious about it.” Maureen immediately regretted her use of the word “deadly,” considering their recent conversation, and their proximity to the very spot where Wilson had died. She hurried to lighten her tone. “I’m such an optimist that I even have a portfolio of sketches of how Haven House might look someday.”

  “Good for you.” Nora finished her coffee and picked up her briefcase. “I need to get back to the office, and Maureen, I hope I haven’t made you anxious about Hubbard’s investigation, because I’m totally optimistic about the outcome of this case. We’ll stay in touch.”

  “You have no idea how relieved that makes me feel,” Maureen said. “I hope all this mess can be settled soon so I can concentrate on saving my inn.”

  The two women stood and shook hands. “You keep your eyes and ears open around here, Maureen,” Nora instructed, “and don’t hesitate to call me anytime—day or night—and be careful.”

  The lunchtime customers had dwindled to a very few when Maureen went back into the lobby. She tossed the empty coffee cups into a wicker wastebasket and opened the door to the dining room. Only one or two tables were occupied. The barstools were empty. Leo polished wineglasses, carefully returning each one to the overhead wine rack. Would it be all right if she went into the kitchen? Would she be in the way? Would Elizabeth think she was intruding?’

  Why should I care what Elizabeth thinks? she asked herself. This is my dining room and it’s my kitchen. I can go anywhere I please. She rounded the corner of the buffet table and opened the door leading to the kitchen. She stood, silent, just inside the doorway, watching what appeared to be well-ordered activity. Molly rolled piecrust on a floured board while Gert stood nearby slicing green apples. A pretty teenage girl Maureen recognized as one of the “regulars” who assisted the housekeepers chopped bunches of fresh parsley and a young man placed Hawaiian rolls into baskets lined with Halloween napkins. Another girl grated cheese into a stainless-steel bowl. Ted, in short white chef’s jacket, moved among them, pausing occasionally, speaking softly to one or another of the workers.

  The only jarring note was the uniformed police officer standing, arms folded, just inside a door leading to the outdoors. What was he looking for? What did he expect to see among the freshly peeled carrots and plump red tomatoes and the just-filled salt and pepper shakers? What did Maureen herself expect to see?

  She’d expected to see Elizabeth, for instance, but the woman wasn’t there. “Keep your eyes and ears open,” Nora Nathan had instructed.

  Maureen caught Ted’s eye, smiled when he motioned for her to come over to where he stood beside the grill. She nodded, and staying close to the outside edges of the long room, she approached him. “What do you think?” he asked. “Do we look like a high-tech assembly line or what?”

  “I’m amazed. How did you manage to get this place so organized—so absolutely synchronized—virtually overnight?”

  “I used what my mama taught me,” he said. “She knew how to run a kitchen. ‘A tight ship,’ she always said. ‘A good crew. The right tools. A place for everything and everything in its place.’ ” He looked around the room, pride evident in his expression. “I put in a little overtime last night—rearranging things, sharpening knives, throwing away wilted lettuce. Between George and me, we scrubbed everything down. We were ready for some early-morning deliveries from the wholesalers. Sweet, huh?”

  “Sweet for sure,” she said. “Where’s Elizabeth?”

  “I guess Elizabeth isn’t happy with the changes. Took one look at all the activity going on here this morning and stomped out.”

  “And what’s with law enforcement over there?” Maureen tilted her head in the direction of the outer door where the cop was unmistakably watching the two.

  “Guess I’m still a prime suspect,” Ted said.

  “Me too,” she answered. “With me it’s mostly patrol cars, and an occasional personal visit from the man himself.”

  “Hubbard?”

  “Yep.” She purposely returned the officer’s stare. To her satisfaction, he looked away first. Once again, she faced Ted. “Look, I didn’t do it and you didn’t do it. It might be up to us to figure out who did so we can get rid of our police escorts. When can we talk?”

  “Do you know how to peel potatoes?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “I’m missing a worker at one station.” Big smile. “I’ll pick up an apron and a bag of potatoes and meet you over there by the double sink. We’ll talk.” He handed her a scrub brush and a paring knife. “Here you go.”

  Chapter 34

  Ted presented Maureen with a hairnet and a long white bib apron. While she slipped the net over her hair, he showed her how to loop the long apron ties around her back and to tie them in front. He stood back.

  “There now. You look like a professional.”

  “Far from it,” she said. “I know how to peel potatoes, but I’m afraid I’m pretty slow at it.”

  “No problem,” he said. “I’ll have to keep walking around, checking everybody’s progress. If I spend too much time with you, our snoopy friend over there will notice. We’ll talk whenever I stop at your station. Okay?”

  “Good idea,” she said. “For starters, do we agree that the killer has to be somebody who was here at least a few hours before Wilson died?”

  “Agreed,” he said. “Preferably somebody who had a reason to want him out of the way.”

  “Agreed,” she echoed, picking up a potato and the scrub brush. “Who’s your first choice?”

  “I don’t have one. How do you think whoever it is got the poison into the drink?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Someone besides you who has access to the bar?”

  “Everyone who works here and a few who don’t. Looks like we have a lot of work to do. See you on my next trip around the room.” He moved away from the sink. “Be careful. Don’t cut yourself.”

  Maureen scrubbed the first potato, then carefully picked up the knife, straining to remember her mother’s instructions for potato peeling. First you scrub it, she recalled. That’s done. Next dig out any eyes. There were no eyes or dark spots on Maureen’s chosen potato. Then, slice off a piece of one end so you can stand it up at an angle on the cutting board, instructed Maureen’s memory of Nancy Doherty. Peel in a downward motion.

  It worked. Maureen put peeled potato number one into a pan of cool water and moved on to the next. By the time Ted returned, there were three potatoes in the pan, she’d had a few minutes to think about murder, and she hadn’t cut herself.

  “Not bad,” he said. “You’re doing a good job. I think the likely subjects—besides you and me and maybe Sam—are Elizabeth, all of the kitchen and housekeeping crews, Leo, delivery people, maybe the guests who were here that day.”

  “Okay. I’ve tried matching them up. Finding things some of them had in common.” Maureen began scrubbing another potato. “Like, the Morgans and Wilson were both ghost hunters. Sam and his three buddies don’t like the ghost hunters and, by the way, they each have keys to
every room in the place.”

  “Sam and George have keys to the liquor backup cabinet because they do some of the shopping,” Ted added. “Any ideas on where Elizabeth fits in? She doesn’t seem to be really fond of any of us, ghost hunters, ghost lovers, or don’t give a damn.”

  “Elizabeth is a bit of a puzzle, isn’t she? I can’t figure her out at all. Some of your crew really liked Conrad Wilson, though,” Maureen said. “Leo and Herbie both told me that he was a good tipper, and Wilson and Gert had something in common because they’d each worked in Las Vegas.”

  “That’s interesting. I knew about Gert. She brags about her showgirl past to anyone who’ll listen. What did Wilson do there?”

  “Took care of the slots. Made sure they didn’t pay off too often. Gert says he was a whiz with machines.” She cut a little piece from the potato, stood it on end, and began to pare.

  “Nice technique,” Ted said. “I’d better move along. The cop is giving me the evil eye. Think about how the poison got into my bar.”

  Maureen though about it, and realized immediately that with so many people having access to the bar—and just about anyplace else in the dining and kitchen area—it would be hard to narrow down the field of suspects. Since the digitalis was in pill form and had come from Ms. Gray’s medicine cabinet, someone would have had to first swipe the pills and then crush them one by one and put them into a bottle. That kind of planning took some time.

  Which people had access to the medicine cabinet? Maureen asked herself. Elizabeth, Sam, George, Molly, and Gert, just for starters. How many of the part-time housekeepers had keys to the penthouse too? And did anyone else have old keys to the rooms—as Trent had?

  When Ted returned there were a few more potatoes in the pan and more than a few questions still unanswered.

  “How is it that when the police examined all the bottles you used making Wilson’s drink, they found no trace of digitalis in any of them?” she asked. “How can that be?”

  “Somehow, somebody switched bottles after I mixed the drink,” he said. “The trick is going to be figuring out who—and how.”