Be My Ghost

by Carol J. Perry

  “Everything has to be safely stored for thirty days. After that, the inn can put a lien on the things he left there to pay the bill. It doesn’t seem as though a few secondhand electronics would begin to cover it,” she said, “even at the Haven House Inn low rates.”

  “From what I hear, there’ll be several high bidders on the camera and the computer—and very likely the tablet,” Maureen explained. “I’m thinking Elizabeth will cut herself in on the profits. She’s a big believer in employee bonuses for good work.”

  “Nothing illegal about that,” Nora said. “Keep in touch. This is getting more interesting every day, ghost camera and all.”

  Maureen had been so busy she’d nearly forgotten about the ghosts—particularly the one who might be lurking in the room next door. In fact, she’d begun to think about that long-ago bedroom as the place where her new friend designer Trent had been “conceived in love.” She smiled at the thought, hoping that the men would return to the inn as they’d promised.

  “If Trent will turn fifty in June, and his mother’s pregnancy was the typical nine months, his parents were here fifty years ago sometime in September.” The idea came like a lightning bolt. “I have the guest books in the closet. I can look up Mr. and Mrs. John Smith. I’m sure we can identify their luggage, thanks to Penelope’s stickers. Maybe, just maybe, there’ll be a clue there to help Trent find his long-lost daddy!”

  She rushed across the office, opened the door to the bedroom, turned the glass knob on the closet door, and began pulling down the black-covered guest books, one by one. She sat on the floor, the tall, thick books spread out on the soft carpet. The hunt didn’t take as long as she’d thought it might. Mr. and Mrs. John Smith had checked into the Haven House Inn on September 23, forty-nine years ago.

  “Bingo,” she said aloud.

  “Martha,” said a disembodied whisper.

  “What?” Maureen looked around the empty room.

  “Martha,” the voice repeated.

  Another lightning bolt. The ghost in suite twenty-seven hadn’t been calling for his mother all those years. He was calling for a woman named Martha.

  Maureen barely had time to digest that revelation when her phone pinged. Text from Ted: “Ready for beach walk? Waiting at the casino.”

  “On my way,” she answered hurriedly, returned the guest books to the top shelf, and left the bedroom, firmly closing the door. After a quick straightening up of the office, she turned out the lights and locked suite twenty-seven.

  Finn seemed to have remembered the promised walk and waited just inside the penthouse door. Bogie and Bacall weren’t visible. “They may have gone off on some kind of cat-business of their own. They’ll be fine,” she said, and waited for a moment before leaving, thinking perhaps Lorna might put in an appearance. After all, who else could she talk to about her recent, surprising contact with John Smith?

  There was no ding of the push bell and no shimmering manifestation, so with leash in place and flashlight in hand, Maureen and the golden used the stairs and, avoiding the lobby and porch, left via the now-familiar laundry room route.

  By the time she’d passed the thrift store, she recognized Ted, his tall form silhouetted against the wall of the historic dance hall, and walked a little faster.

  “Hey, Maureen. Hi, Finn!” Ted called as they approached. “Nice night for a walk. Look at that big, almost-Halloween moon.” He was right. The nearly perfect golden circle reflected on the water and illuminated the sand.

  “It’s beautiful,” she answered. “How do you feel dinner went tonight? Everything was delicious and it looked to me like a good crowd.”

  “Looks like we’ve hit on a good formula,” he said. “Want me to hold the flashlight?”

  “Sure.” She handed it to him. “After dinner Elizabeth wanted to talk to me. Kind of like getting summoned to the principal’s office.”

  “I know the feeling,” he said. “What did she want?”

  “She heard somewhere about my plan to sell everything in the storage locker—to get rid of Penelope’s hoard and get a little more money into our operating account. Wanted to know what was going on.”

  “What did you tell her?” They crossed the beach and began their walk on the hard-packed sand next to the tide line.

  “The truth. That locker is costing us money. The stuff in it can earn us some.”

  “What does she think about it?”

  “Not a believer, but she didn’t actually object to it.”

  “Good,” he said. “At least, she won’t be fighting against the idea.”

  “Looks that way,” Maureen said. “I talked to my lawyer this evening too.”

  “Oh? Anything I need to worry about?”

  “I don’t think so. She straightened me out on a few legal things about the chain of custody of Wilson’s things—especially his electronics.”

  “Thirty days and it comes back to the inn?” he asked.

  “Right. You’ve been doing some checking too.”

  “I wanted to know how much time we’ve got to solve this mess, before Hubbard drags one of us off to jail.”

  “No joke,” she said. “Got any new ideas?”

  “Maybe a couple. This has to be a group effort, I think. One person couldn’t do it all alone: the bottle switching, getting the poison from your medicine cabinet—”

  “Penelope’s medicine cabinet,” she corrected.

  “Gotcha.” He smiled. “Want to let Finn off his leash? It’s okay this time of night. He looks like he’d like a good run.”

  “If you say it’s okay.” She unfastened the leash and Finn happily dashed away, Ted following his movement with the flashlight. “So should we think of particular groupings of people who might be working together?”

  “That’s the way I see it,” he said. “The obvious ones are Sam and George, Molly and Gert. If any of them did it, the others will cover for them ’til hell freezes over. No doubt.”

  “You’re right about that. How about Clarissa and Alex? Do you think they’re a grouping all by themselves?”

  “I think so.” Ted tossed a stick for Finn. “But the problem there is they wouldn’t know where everything is. Like the pills in Penelope’s medicine cabinet.”

  “Good one. Let’s add someone from the local talent to the Morgan group. Who do you like for that role?” Maureen wondered.

  “Sam, maybe? Some say he hated the ghost hunter.”

  “What about Gert? She’s pretty nosy but keeps her mouth shut about her friends.”

  “Good point,” Ted agreed. “And she has keys to everything. Elizabeth sems to trust her. How about Molly?”

  Maureen shook her head. “Don’t think so. She’s a sweetheart, but she talks too much to be a conspirator.”

  “The problem with Molly and Gert and the others is that none of them were at the bar that night.” Finn returned the stick and Ted tossed it ahead once more. “And the bottle with the digitalis in it was switched with a new bottle between the time Wilson left the bar and the cops came.”

  “Right. All four of the old-timers were peacefully rocking in their chairs when I found Wilson dead,” Maureen said. “Where does that leave us?”

  “The Morgans were definitely at the bar, within easy reach of all the bottles, Wilson’s camera, and Wilson’s drink,” Ted said. “Can we agree that they are involved?”

  “Agreed. Who else was that close?”

  “Hey, what about this? Elizabeth wasn’t at the bar, but she was in close contact with the Morgans!” Ted stopped walking. “Both of them.”

  “The gold bag, rolled-menu incident.” She stopped walking. Finn sat, puzzled, watching both of them. “What was the smallest bottle involved in making the Celebration Libation?”

  “Grenadine,” he said. “Rose’s grenadine syrup. We use twelve-ounce bottles. No bigger than a can of soda.”

  “And if someone mashed half a bottle of pills and dissolved them in grenadine, what would happen?” Maureen tried some mental
calculations involving ounces and milligrams and came up with a big zero. “Can you figure it out?”

  “The grenadine bottle I used that night was about half-full, so there was . . . say, six ounces of syrup—and I guess it would depend on how much medicine was in each pill, huh?”

  “I guess. Anyway, that much sugary syrup would cover up any nasty taste from the pills, I’ll bet.”

  “I used a healthy slug of grenadine in that drink.” He grimaced. “You need it with the blue curaçao to get that purple color. We can safely assume that whatever the proportions were, there was enough poison in the drink to kill the poor guy.”

  “Right.” They began walking again. “So how did they make the switch?” she asked.

  “Clarissa was waving that gold bag around,” he said. “If one of the Morgans grabbed the grenadine it wouldn’t have been hard to pass a bottle from the bag to Elizabeth, but where would Elizabeth stash it?”

  “The pocket. The pocket in the red apron where she keeps menus, and—”

  He finished the thought, finished her sentence: “—and all Elizabeth had to do was slip a new bottle of grenadine behind the bar before the cops showed up.” They exchanged a victorious high five. Finn gave a happy “woof” and fell into step between them.

  They were silent for a few yards. Ted broke the silence. “Motive? Why would Elizabeth get involved in something so messy? I know she liked throwing the old woman’s money around, but this . . .”

  “You’re right. If they wanted the camera, why didn’t they simply grab it? It was right there on the bar.”

  “What if they didn’t need the camera—just the memory card? What about that?” Ted sounded excited again. “Wilson surely would have noticed that his camera was missing, even if he was starting to get groggy. When they were getting the autograph, Clarissa put that big bag on the bar, separating Wilson from his camera—and her husband Alex.”

  “Alex is a photographer. He knows his way around cameras,” Maureen said. “If he has fast hands, he could have yanked that card out, put in another one—probably with a few random pictures taken around Haven on it—and closed the camera back up in seconds. Then all they’d have to do is pop the memory card into a computer and voilà! Ghosts on parade.”

  “Okay.” He stopped walking again. “Then why did they come back to the inn? Something must have gone wrong.”

  “What could go wrong? Seems like the perfect crime so far.” She stopped beside him.

  “If they did what we think they did—if they’re killers—you’d think they’d stay as far away from Haven as they could get.” They began walking again. He took her hand. It seemed a natural thing to do. “But there they are. Back in Haven again. Why?”

  You’ll know the where but not the why.

  Chapter 36

  “I don’t know what we should do next,” Maureen said as the two approached the Long Pier. “Tell Hubbard what we suspect or keep looking for more answers?”

  “More answers,” Ted said. “We have motive and opportunity pretty well nailed down, but we must be missing something or else they wouldn’t all still be hanging around.” They turned at the fishing charters sign and headed back toward the casino. “Maybe one of them will slip up—show us something we can use.”

  “Look for the weakest link,” Maureen murmured.

  “What?”

  “The weakest link. The suspect most likely to crack,” she said. “I heard it—read it someplace. I think that would be Clarissa. She’s already cried a couple of times. She even feels guilty for his death. Maybe somehow we can make her feel just a little more guilty.”

  “Good idea,” he said. “Any thoughts on how?”

  “Work up some more sympathy for the deceased, I guess. How he’d worked for years and was just about to get his big break. His own book of ghost photos.”

  “Yeah. The big break she and her husband planned to steal.” Ted sounded angry.

  “Clarissa told me every ghost junkie in the world would want to come to the inn when their book came out.” She squeezed Ted’s hand. “Same book.”

  “You know, there’s a good chance there are no ghost pictures, no matter what the agent says.”

  She nodded. “Photoshopped. Like Sam said. And Wilson will have died for no reason at all.”

  “Maybe now he’ll haunt the Haven House Inn,” Ted suggested. “How about that?”

  “No thanks,” she said, thinking that the inn already had more than enough ghosts as it was. “Let’s hope he rests in peace. Want to run the rest of the way?”

  “Let’s do it. Come on, Finn.” The three ran back to the casino, the dog bounding joyously ahead.

  When they arrived at the casino, Maureen reattached Finn’s leash. Ted handed her the flashlight and the two approached the boulevard. “Look at that.” Maureen pointed to the T-shirt store on the corner. “There’s the poster for tomorrow night’s special dinner. Our delivery team has already done their job. I’ll bet you’ll have another full house.”

  “I’ll bet the inn will too,” Ted said. “After all, it’s almost Halloween weekend, and Haven is usually a prime destination for guests in search of ghosts.”

  “I guess that makes sense since people seem to believe we’re haunted,” she said, “even though most everyone I’ve talked to since I arrived here in Haven has ‘pooh-poohed’ the idea, although lots of them believed enough to stock up on Halloween merchandise.”

  “Like Halloween pumpkin cookies?”

  “Guilty,” she said. “But everyone seemed to like them.” They’d reached the inn, and Maureen and Finn headed for the side door entrance.

  “Want to stop by the dining room for an Irish coffee and another cookie?” Ted asked.

  “Thanks,” she said, “but I’ve got some homework I need to get into. I’m serious about starting the redecorating project as soon as we can afford it.” She was also anxious to talk with Lorna about the word she’d heard spoken in suite twenty-seven.

  Somehow, Maureen realized with a shock, she’d gone from an often-stated “I don’t believe in ghosts” to turning down a late date with a definitely attractive man so that she could have a confidential chat with her own resident apparition. “Can I take a rain check on that Irish coffee?” she asked, hoping he wouldn’t take her refusal as a snub.

  “Absolutely,” he said. “See you tomorrow. We’ll talk some more.” He gave Finn a good-night pat on the head, and climbed the stairs to the porch.

  There was no one in the guest laundry when Maureen passed by. She’d almost been hoping she’d see Clarissa Morgan there so that she could begin testing her “weakest link” theory. She was pleased with the way she and Ted had brainstormed about Wilson’s murder, and felt confident that they were on the right track. “We have a way to go before we have all the answers,” she told Finn. “But I think we’re pretty darned close.”

  Bogey and Bacall seemed glad to see them—greeting Maureen with a couple of ankle rubs and Finn with a nose bump from Bogie and a less personal tail wave from Bacall. “I’ll get you guys some treats,” she said. With more than a passing glance at the push bell on the desk, she headed to the kitchen. I wonder, she thought, what would happen if I ring the bell? Does it work in reverse? If I push it, will Lorna appear here whenever I want her to?

  With treats and num-nums dumped rather unceremoniously into the proper bowls and placed onto the proper place mats, Maureen returned to the living room. With just a fraction of a second’s hesitation, she very gently, with one finger, tapped the bell.

  There was a whooshing sound.

  “Wow!” Maureen gasped.

  “What?” A windblown and slightly frazzled Lorna seemed to drop from the ceiling.

  “I’m so sorry, Lorna.” Maureen reached toward the image. “Are you all right? I didn’t know what would happen if I pushed it.”

  Lorna sat on the couch, patted her hair, straightened her skirt, and adjusted a diamond necklace that practically screamed Harry Winston!

&n
bsp; “Not your fault,” Lorna said. “The new bell must be more powerful than the old one. That was a wild ride. The old bell gave me about ten minutes’ notice. This one is different. What a rush!”

  “I wasn’t sure it would work at all,” Maureen said.

  “I guess I forgot to tell you about it,” Lorna said. “Or maybe I just hoped you wouldn’t figure it out. Penelope used to push it anytime she felt lonesome and wanted somebody to talk to. You won’t do that, will you?”

  Maureen crossed her heart. “I promise. From now on I’ll only ding you if it’s important.”

  “Good. Now that I’m here, what do you want?” The animals had returned to the living room at the sound of Lorna’s whooshing entrance. Bogie and Finn sat at Maureen’s feet, while Bacall walked through Lorna, then curled up on the couch beside her.

  “A strange thing happened tonight,” Maureen began. “Actually, several strange things happened tonight, but the one I dinged you for is about John Smith. I think I had a little encounter with him in suite twenty-seven.”

  “No kidding. Was it awful?”

  “Not awful. Just strange. I need to hear your opinion, and I might need your help with something. I guess I told you about Trent and Pierre, the guys who are helping me with designs for Haven House.”

  “What about them?”

  Maureen repeated as closely as she could remember Trent’s story about his mother and John Smith. “Her name was Martha—and his name was Trent—and Lorna, when I left the bedroom tonight, I heard John Smith whisper her name just as plainly as I’m hearing you now. ‘Martha,’ he said. ‘Martha.’ Not ‘Mother,’ like people have said all these years. He’s been calling for Martha—and now we know who she is, and that John Smith—Trent—has a son, named after him.”

  “A good story,” Lorna said. “But what has this got to do with me?”

  “Martha told Trent and Pierre that she was ‘going to the light.’ That she would see her true love there. We have to send John Smith—I mean Trent something-or-other—to the light. We have to get them reunited. And get my office unhaunted.”