Be My Ghost

by Carol J. Perry

  “Where do you get that ‘we’?” Lorna began to fade.

  “Don’t you skip out on me now. There’s nothing to be afraid of in suite twenty-seven. John Smith is just a poor lonely soul. Nothing evil about him at all. He’s just been waiting all these years for Martha to come back to the Haven House Inn.”

  “What do you want me to do about it?” Lorna pouted. It was a well-rehearsed movie starlet pretty pout.

  “You can tell him how to go to the light—how to get to see Martha again. You can do it ghost-to-ghost,” Maureen said. “I have no idea how to go about it. And if he’ll talk to you, we can get to hear the rest of the story. Where did he and Martha go that night? And did he really die in Vietnam? Maybe he’ll tell you his last name. Come on, Lorna. It would be such a kindness to him—and to Trent too.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Maureen. I’m scared. I always heard bad things about that suite.”

  “Finn and I will go with you. You can probably do it through the closet door. Maybe we won’t have to see him. Please, do it, Lorna.”

  “Look at Finn,” she said. “He doesn’t want to do it either.” Finn had once again assumed his lying-down-flat-with-paws-over-the-eyes posture.

  “I know. But he’s a brave good boy. He’ll do it. I’ll bet John Smith will talk to you. I’ll bet he’s seen your movies. He’ll be thrilled to talk to a real movie star.”

  “You think so?”

  “I do. And if you get too scared, you can just disappear, can’t you?”

  “That’s true,” Lorna agreed. “It’s one of those perks of being dead.”

  “Then you’ll do it?” Maureen pleaded. “Pretty please?”

  “Oh, all right,” Lorna grumbled. “But give me a minute to change. I’m a little overdressed for talking a ghost out of his closet.”

  “You do look gorgeous, though,” Maureen said. “The necklace sets the outfit off perfectly.”

  Lorna dematerialized instantly, her disembodied “Thanks” hovering in the air. Within less than a minute she popped back into sight, this time in all-over, formfitting black leather.

  “Wow. Nice. Where’d that come from?”

  “What? This old thing?” Lorna took a turn in front of the mirror. “I popped downstairs and grabbed it out of Clarissa’s closet. She has some high-end stuff.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Maureen agreed. “The girl has expensive tastes. Come on, Finn, let’s go downstairs. Lorna is coming with us.” Finn gave a soft, reluctant “woof” and, tail between his legs, followed Maureen to the door.

  “I’ll meet you down there,” Lorna said, and disappeared.

  Maureen, with Finn close behind her, hurried downstairs, unlocked the door to suite twenty-seven, and went inside. Lorna had kept her word and now sat in a striped chair. She looked up from the copy of Got Ghosts? open in her lap. “What took you so long?”

  “Very funny,” Maureen said. “Are you ready? Let’s go in and get this over with. The poor soul has been haunting that room for far too long.”

  “Okay.” Lorna stood. “I think I heard him moving around in there a minute ago. Do you think he knows we’re here?”

  “I don’t know. But you need to tell him how to go to the light. Tell him that Martha is there now, waiting for him. If you can, find out what his whole name is. Tell him he has a son. Ask if he died in Vietnam.” She turned the knob and opened the bedroom door. “Mostly, send him to the light.” She stepped into the room. Lorna followed. Finn cowered in the doorway at first, then scampered back to his under-the-desk sanctuary.

  “I’ll try.” Lorna stood in front of the closet. “John Smith? Trent? Are you here?”

  Maureen watched as the glass knob turned and the door opened slowly. A shape—just a shadow really—moved toward Lorna. “Trent?” Lorna said. “I have a message for you from Martha.”

  The shadow shimmered, much the way Lorna did sometimes. It made a sound—not exactly words. Maureen strained to listen—to understand. The shadow-thing said, “Martha,” several times, but the rest of whatever he was telling Lorna sounded more like a series of musical notes than words. Lorna answered in the same lilting language with only the occasional understandable syllable. Maureen heard “Army,” and “cars,” and “love.” She realized that Finn had abandoned his hidey-hole and was standing beside her, ears alert, clearly listening to the melodic conversation coming from the closet area.

  Maureen checked her watch. She’d been aware of time passing but hadn’t realized how much. They’d been in suite twenty-seven for over an hour when the shadow made a sudden lurching move toward Lorna, then seemed to envelop her in its darkness. Maureen ran toward the dark mass. “Lorna! Are you all right? Oh my God. Lorna.” Then the shadow-thing was gone and Lorna stood there alone. Finn ran too and stood in his protective stance between Lorna and the now-closed closet door. “Are you all right?” Maureen called again.

  “Yes. I’m fine. Got a pencil or something to write with? I don’t want to forget any of this. Listen. Take this down.” Maureen grabbed pen and paper from the desk. “Shoot,” she said.

  “The ghost isn’t John Smith,” Lorna began. “He’s Army Sergeant Trent Sullivan. He died in December nineteen seventy-two near Kon Tum Province. His remains were returned to America in twenty fifteen and he was buried with full military honors in Arlington National Cemetery.” Lorna paused. “Did you get all that, Maureen? He wants his son to know where he is.”

  “Got it,” Maureen said. “Is he going to the light? Is he going to join Martha?”

  “He’s gone,” she said. “Oh, Maureen, he was so happy that he hugged me. And know what? He’d seen a couple of my movies!”

  “Did you find out what happened here that night? Where they went?”

  “They were young. Martha was working her way through the University of Tampa. Trent had aged out of foster care and had enlisted right out of high school. He was due to report for duty the following day. This was their only chance to be together before he left for the war. Back in the seventies a lot of people still didn’t approve of young kids sleeping together, so they checked in here where they figured no one would notice. They arrived in separate cars, but used Trent’s license number She had a dorm check-in time so she left first. Then he did. They never saw each other again. He was dead within three months. What a terrible, sad story.” Tears sparkled in her eyes. “But now they’re finally together. So there’s a happy ending.”

  Maureen felt tears spring to her own eyes, making the bridge of her nose hurt. She’d get in touch with Trent immediately, of course. But wait. What if Trent didn’t believe her? What if he didn’t believe in ghosts? “What if he thinks I’m nuts?” she worried. “I wish I could talk to Ted about it, but what if he thinks I’m nuts?”

  She’d already noticed that suite twenty-seven was warmer, now that John Smith was gone. Finn had noticed the difference too, and had begun investigating, happily sniffing around the edges of both rooms.

  “Can we please go back upstairs now?” Lorna asked. “I’d like to change into something more comfortable. Your clothes are a lot more my style than Clarissa’s.”

  After Lorna had left—wearing Maureen’s rose-colored “world’s softest pajamas”—and Finn had curled up beside her on the blue couch, Maureen finally had time to think, to sort out the day’s, and night’s, happenings.

  “First of all,” she said aloud—even though Finn didn’t appear to be listening—“I think we’ve got the answer to Conrad Wilson’s death, at least some of the answer. Elizabeth and both of the Morgans are involved. We only need a little more information, a few more facts, and Ted and I will have enough to give to Hubbard. Hopefully, enough to get him to stop hounding us.”

  Finn opened his eyes. “Not that kind of hound. Look, I’m pretty sure Clarissa is the weak link we need. She knows how the bottles got switched and I’m sure she and Alex have the memory card from Wilson’s camera. I’m betting they couldn’t get it to work and they’re waiting around here to get a chanc
e to use his equipment. The problem is, the cops won’t return any of his electronics for almost a month.” Finn yawned, stretched, and put his head on her lap. “Then there’s the broken tablet. Elizabeth must have thought it could be repaired—unless her own tablet was broken, and Nora says that’s too much of a coincidence.”

  Finn yawned again. “Stop yawning,” she said. “You’re making me sleepy.”

  Maureen yawned. “Time for bed, I guess. We’ll figure all this out tomorrow. Ted and I will talk some more, and I’m definitely going to think of a way to tell Trent what I’ve learned about Martha and his father. Maybe there’s some way to tell him without involving ghosts.”

  Chapter 37

  Dressed for the busy day ahead in madras Bermudas and a white silk shirt, with her coffee brewing, the animals fed, Maureen looked around her neat and pretty kitchen. “Maybe it would be all right if I invited Ted up here tonight for an Irish coffee. It would give us a chance to talk in private about the murder.” She had to admit to herself that solving Wilson’s murder wasn’t the only reason the idea had crossed her mind. Some alone time with the handsome chef would be welcome no matter what the topic of conversation happened to be.

  “I wonder if Penelope left me any Irish whiskey.” She opened the cabinet where she’d seen the liquor supply earlier. Standing on tiptoe, she looked over her inventory. There was a partially filled bottle in the front row. Shorter than the others, it stood out because of the grenadine’s bright red color.

  Automatically, she reached for it, then snatched her hand back. Could this be the switched bottle? The poisoned bottle? She slammed the cabinet door shut. What was she supposed to do now? Call the police? Call Nora? Call Mom and Dad and say, “Get me out of here”? None of those options seemed right. With a slightly shaking hand, she poured a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table. This was a problem she’d hadn’t anticipated. First the digitalis pills had been found in her bathroom medicine chest. Now, if anyone cared to look, the poisoned sweet syrup could probably be found in her kitchen cabinet.

  What happens to a person who’s found in possession of a murder weapon?

  She had darned well better tell somebody about it—and do it fast. Whoever put it there knew it was there. Whoever put it there could tell somebody. Whoever put it there could cause Maureen Doherty a whole lot of trouble.

  If she and Ted had figured out the chain of possession correctly, using the cover of Clarissa’s giant gold bag Elizabeth and Clarissa had switched bottles in front of everyone in the dining room by staging that little scuffle. Elizabeth had put the poisoned bottle into the gold bag, and taken a fresh bottle out—slipping it, rolled up in a menu, into her apron pocket. Meanwhile, Alex had switched Wilson’s memory card for one with a few innocent tourist-type shots of Haven on it. So the cops would be left with a clean grenadine bottle, a ghost-free memory card, and no suspects except the bartender who’d mixed the lethal drink and the new owner of the Haven House Inn who’d had the apparent last contact with the deceased.

  We can’t prove any of it, but I’d better call Officer Hubbard anyway. She reached for her phone. No. There are probably no fingerprints on that bottle either. He might just take it as a confession of my guilt, she told herself. I’d better call Nora instead. She scrolled through her contact numbers. Nora Nathan. Her finger reached for the name, then drew back. No. I know she’ll go with me to the police station, but then what? Calling Mom and Dad was, of course, out of the question.

  She called Ted.

  “I’ll be right up,” he said.

  Finn’s “woof” announced Ted’s arrival even before his urgent knock on the door. “Come on in.” She pulled the door open. “I don’t know what to do.” It seemed the most natural thing in the world for him to put a comforting arm around her shoulders.

  She leaned against him for a moment, then straightened her back and moved away. “It’s out in the kitchen,” she said. “I’ll show you.”

  “You didn’t touch it, did you?”

  “Nope. Just slammed the door on it, sat down, and freaked out. Then I called you.” He followed her into the kitchen. She pointed to the cabinet. “It’s in there. See?” She opened the door. He moved closer, peering at the bottle.

  “Yep. It’s the right brand. Just about the right amount of syrup in it too.” He took a step back. “And guess whose fingerprints are probably all over it?” He held up both hands. “Mine.”

  “What do you think we should do?” She sat at the table, motioning for Ted to take the seat opposite. “Want some coffee?” He nodded. She popped a fresh pod into the machine. “We’ve got to tell somebody. Somebody has to get that bottle out of here and into the right hands.”

  “Which one of them do you think put it into your kitchen?”

  “Elizabeth,” she said promptly. “She admitted she’d been up here. Said it was to close a window because it looked like rain.”

  She handed Ted the full mug of coffee and pushed the sugar bowl and creamer toward him. “Thanks,” he said. “Maybe you should call your lawyer—just in case.” She nodded agreement and pulled Nora’s number up again. This time she tapped the name. She put the phone on speaker mode so Ted could listen.

  Nora answered immediately. “Maureen. I was just about to call you. What’s going on over there? I just found out that Frank Hubbard has applied for a search warrant. Wants to search your apartment. Is there anything you haven’t told me that I need to know?”

  “There wasn’t, until this morning—less than an hour ago,” Maureen said. She told the attorney about the grenadine bottle in the cabinet. “And Nora, there is something else. It’s kind of a theory. We . . . I . . . don’t have proof, but I guess I’d better tell you about it anyway Wilson’s killer could have done it.” She launched into a condensed, but orderly, verbal report on what she and Ted had put together.

  “I’m glad you told me this. It may be important. But for right now, Hubbard must have had a tip from someone, Maureen—someone with good information—in order to get a search warrant. It’s likely that he knows about the grenadine bottle. They don’t just hand those warrants out. Maybe I’d better head down there to be on hand in case there’s any problem.”

  “Would you? I’d appreciate that,” Maureen said. “I’m worried. Should I be?”

  “Yes. You should. I told you. Frank Hubbard is a bulldog.”

  Finn whined.

  “Hush. Not that kind of bulldog,” Maureen whispered.

  “What?” Nora asked. “Is someone else there?”

  “Talking to my dog,” she said. “I’ll see you as soon as you get here.”

  “I have a few things to tie up here; then I’ll be right along,” the attorney promised.

  Ted stood, carrying his coffee mug to the sink. “I’d better get downstairs before Elizabeth notices that I’m not there. Maybe you should make yourself scarce too, before Hubbard gets here.”

  “Good idea. I don’t want to have to talk to him before Nora arrives.” She walked to the door with Ted. “Better take the stairs,” she suggested. “Go out the laundry room door and come back in through the kitchen. She’ll think you’ve been there all along.”

  Ted smiled. “You have a devious mind,” he said. “I kind of like that.”

  After Ted had left, she gave some serious thought to his idea that she should avoid Hubbard. “There’s no place to hide. I’d try to go to Nora’s office instead of just waiting here, but there seem to be police cars everywhere I look lately.” As she closed the door and faced into the long living room, she remembered Aster’s admonition. Like the man said, the walls have ears.

  Eyes too, Maureen thought. Everywhere. If only I could make myself disappear, like Lorna does. She looked at Lorna’s trunk, with all its stickers and decals, reminders of the faraway places Lorna had been while she was alive. Her fingers traced one of the colorful labels. “Guatemala,” she said. “Guatemala and Tarzan and a sarong and a long, black wig.”

  It didn’t take long a
t all. The trunk opened easily. The wig, carefully tissue wrapped, was nestled beside the colorful sarong. With a pair of Key West Kinos on bare feet and her biggest round-lensed Jackie O sunglasses, and wallet and cell phone stashed in an out-of-season straw shoulder bag, Maureen left the inn via the side door just in time to see Frank Hubbard’s patrol car park pull up in front of the building. She flashed him a pleasant smile and, with hips swaying, proceeded down the boulevard in the opposite direction.

  If it wasn’t such a serious business, this would be fun, she thought, as her newly acquired persona drew attention, stares, and some obvious male approval—but not the slightest flicker of recognition even though she passed at least half-a-dozen people she knew. Even Aster Patterson, on her patio watering potted marigolds, was completely fooled. At the law office, Maureen wished the receptionist a good morning and, smiling, asked for Nora Nathan.

  “Do you have an appointment?” The woman gave her a searching up-and-down look.

  “Not exactly,” Maureen said, “but I’m sure she’ll see me.” She leaned across the counter, removed the sunglasses, and whispered, “I’m Maureen Doherty.”

  Eyes wide, the receptionist gasped. “Ms. Doherty? It is you! What a fabulous Halloween costume! Wait until Nora sees you. She’ll be amazed. Please put the glasses back on and have a seat like a regular client.” She muffled a giggle and spoke into a desk mic. “Ms. Nathan? Someone here to see you.”

  Maureen sat in a waiting room chair as demurely as one can while wearing a sarong, ankles crossed, hands folded in her lap. The door to Nora’s office swung open. The attorney spoke first. “Hello. I’m Nora Nathan.”

  Maureen stood, Halloween prank over, deadly serious. “It’s me. Maureen. I’m ducking the bulldog cop and I’m scared.”

  “You sure fooled me,” Nora said. “Come on into my office and tell me what’s going on.”

  Maureen followed. “I told you on the phone about what Ted and I suspect about Elizabeth and the Morgans. Did it sound crazy to you? I know it’s just an idea. We have no proof of any of it. Is there any chance that Frank Hubbard will believe us? Or will he just believe his ‘evidence’?”