Be My Ghost

by Carol J. Perry

  “I told you before,” Nora began. “Frank Hubbard is a good cop. Tenacious, but honest and fair. He’ll consider everything. What you’ve told me, although it’s strictly circumstantial, makes sense. You and Ted have thought it out carefully. He’ll listen. But meanwhile, we need to tell him you’re here. Deliberately avoiding the police doesn’t look good, you know, especially since he already suspects that you’ve been doing exactly that all along—ducking behind buildings, slipping out side doors—remember?”

  “But I wasn’t. I mean I wasn’t then,” Maureen protested.

  “You are now. Come on. We’ll go in my car.” Nora gave her an appraising look. “Nothing we can do about the romper or whatever that thing is, but maybe you could ditch the wig.”

  Chapter 38

  On the way to the inn, Nora phoned Officer Hubbard and politely informed him that she and her client were on the way. Maureen, with the wig carefully rolled up and stuffed into the straw bag, couldn’t hear his reply, and Nora didn’t offer to repeat it. They parked in the rear lot, beside Maureen’s Subaru, and the two women entered from the front of the building. Weaving their way between the pumpkins, they climbed the steps and crossed the porch to the lobby.

  Frank Hubbard stood beside the front desk, arms folded, foot tapping, not bothering to disguise his impatience. “Maureen Doherty?” His voice was gruff.

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  He pushed a paper into her hand. “Consider yourself served. Now let’s go upstairs and get this over with. Elizabeth is already up there waiting for us with the key.”

  At Maureen’s questioning look, he explained, “She’s the building super, so she can open the penthouse, but the warrant is in your name as the owner.”

  “I’ll take a look at that, please.” Nora reached for the paper, concentrating on the printed words while the three rode up to the third floor in silence.

  Finn’s excited barking could be heard as soon as they exited the elevator. Poor dog must be anxious, knowing that

  Elizabeth’s right outside the door, Maureen thought. The cats must be curious and nervous too. He’s right. Let’s just get this over with.

  Elizabeth unlocked the door. Finn growled. “That dog doesn’t like me,” she said, retreating into the hall.

  “It’s okay, boy.” Maureen patted the golden. “It’s okay. Come on in, everybody. He doesn’t bite.” Both cats watched the proceedings solemnly from the cat tower.

  Hubbard headed straight for the kitchen. Maureen followed with Finn and Nora behind her. Elizabeth stayed in the doorway. “Which one is the liquor cabinet?” Hubbard asked. Maureen pointed. He pulled a pair of blue gloves from his pocket, slowly slipped them on, and opened the cabinet door. A plastic bag appeared from another pocket. The grenadine bottle was still there. He lifted the bottle gingerly.

  “This yours, Ms. Doherty?”

  “No. I haven’t removed anything from that cabinet. It’s just as Penelope left it as far as I know.”

  He slid the bottle into the waiting bag. “Witness, Ms. Nathan?” he asked.

  “So witnessed,” Nora answered.

  “All right then, Liz,” he said. “You can go on about your business. Thanks for opening the door for us—and for making sure no one else got in.”

  “No problem,” she said, backing away from the no-longer-menacing golden. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.” The door to the penthouse remained open.

  “I expect you understand my interest in this particular bottle, Ms. Doherty.” Hubbard patted the pocket containing the now-filled evidence bag.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “I imagine that you believe it contains poison. Digitalis, probably.”

  “Correct. And since now I’ve not only found a bottle containing pills which may have killed Mr. Wilson, but also the remainder of the liquid which almost undoubtedly went into the lethal drink, both in your apartment, either you appear to be a killer, or . . . ”—he paused and stared at the cat tower—“or someone wants to make it look as if you’re a killer.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said again. “Someone surely does.”

  “I plan to take this bottle to the police station for fingerprinting,” he said, patting his pocket again. “Since this one will not be returned to the bar, I presume you have no objection to our doing the fingerprinting off your premises.”

  “None at all,” she said. “I’m sure you won’t find my prints on it.” She thought then of Ted’s statement that he knew his prints should be all over it. “Maybe, though, there may be no prints at all.”

  “As was the case with the medicine bottle,” he finished the thought. “Your attorney says you have some ideas about the circumstances leading up to Mr. Wilson’s death.”

  “I do.” She repeated what she’d told Nora about the Morgans and Elizabeth, the switching of the bottles, and the memory cards. She didn’t mention Ted.

  Hubbard’s expression didn’t change. “Is that all?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is my client free to go about her business then, Frank?” Nora asked. “Do you have any questions for her?’

  “Not at this time,” he said. “You aren’t planning on leaving town, are you, Ms. Doherty?”

  “No, sir. I have an inn to run.”

  Besides that, she thought, I have no place else to go.

  The officer left the penthouse and Maureen closed the door behind him. “How do you think that went?” she asked the attorney. “Do you think he believes me?”

  “I think he does,” Nora said. “Mostly, I think he has to. You have no discernible motive.”

  “The Morgans and Elizabeth do,” she answered. “Still, I hate to think that people I know, people who sleep under my roof, can be cold-blooded killers. Do you mind if I grab a sweater to cover up this South Seas rig?”

  “Greed does strange things to some.” Nora watched while Maureen shrugged into a long gray cardigan sweater. “If Conrad Wilson had what he claimed he had—actual photographs of actual ghosts—the value of those images may be enormous. If Alex Morgan has the memory card where the photos are stored, and if the Haven police have the device that will display them, all the killers have to do is wait until the two are in the same place and they’ll be rich—and so far, there’s no real evidence against anybody.”

  “Except Ted and me.”

  “Yes, well, that. But neither of you has motive.”

  The ride down in the elevator was, again, quiet. Before the door slid open on the first floor Maureen spoke. “Three bottles of grenadine,” she said. “Three bottles all switched around.”

  “How do you mean?” Nora asked.

  “There must have been an original bottle—plain old grenadine syrup. Then someone—someone who knew a Celebration Libation would be ordered—put a bunch of crunched-up pills into that bottle.”

  “Right,” Nora agreed.

  “Then, after the bartender had used the poisoned bottle, it had to be switched for a fresh bottle quickly, so no one else would get poisoned—and that’s the bottle the police took as evidence, along with the rum and the others after the body was found.”

  “True, then the police gave all those bottles back to the bar after they’d been tested and came up clean,” Nora said. “Where is the third bottle?”

  “Elizabeth had to send Sam out to get replacements for all of the liquor bottles while the police had the original ones. When they were returned she poured everything down the drain—said she didn’t dare to serve them because she didn’t know what the police had done with them.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “So by then, someone had possession of the poisoned bottle. The clean bottle had been put into the bar stock; then it went to the police; then it got tossed out with the others. So then what was the bartender using if he needed grenadine?”

  “There had to be a third bottle.”

  “Yes. We know that Ms. Gray liked Shirley Temples. I think the third bottle came from the liquor cabinet in my kitchen—and the kille
r switched the poison bottle for the third bottle. The one that’s on the bar now.” Maureen faced Nora. “Gert told me that Hubbard fingerprinted a bottle in the kitchen. I wonder whose prints were on that one.” The elevator opened, and the women crossed the lobby. “I’ll walk with you to your car,” Maureen said.

  Once outside, Nora spoke softly. “You know, Maureen, maybe you should tell Hubbard your idea about the third bottle. I won’t say anything about what you’ve told me—lawyer-client privilege—but it seems to me it would be helpful if you talked to him. And Maureen, I can’t help worrying that you may have already put yourself in danger.”

  “Me?” The two left the porch and started around the building to the parking lot.

  “Certainly. Someone is planting evidence in your rooms. And chances are, someone may know that you like Shirley Temples. What if you’d decided to use that contaminated bottle of grenadine yourself?”

  “It might look as if I’d committed suicide.” Maureen stopped walking. “It might look as if I’d killed Wilson and then killed myself.”

  Nora pulled her phone from her purse. “Shall I call him back?”

  “Okay.”

  Frank Hubbard answered immediately. This time Nora’s phone was in speaker mode. “Yes, Ms. Nathan. Does your client have something else to tell me?”

  “She does. Can you come back to the inn, or do you want to speak to her on the phone?”

  “I’m still on the premises. In the kitchen. I’m picking up another piece of evidence,” he said. “The recent on-site fingerprinting turned up some prints that shouldn’t be here.”

  “Shall we join you in the kitchen?”

  “If you wish.”

  The women retraced their steps, moving aside as the black Lexus backed out of the space marked MANAGER. Elizabeth didn’t return Maureen’s wave. She’s probably on a run to Quic-Shop for some overpriced groceries, Maureen thought, stepping over a small smiling pumpkin on the bottom step. Looking up, she noted that the quartet were in their usual places. They’d been joined by reporter Jake. Alex Morgan was on the far side of the porch with Mr. Zamora. Several of the rockers were occupied by new guests. Maureen stopped to welcome each one, while Nora waited just outside the green door—which burst open so fast that Nora barely had time to jump out of the way.

  “Help! We’ve been robbed!” A distraught Clarissa Morgan, barefoot, hair uncombed, clutching the front of a white terry-cloth robe, stumbled onto the porch. “Somebody call the police.” She ran toward her husband. “I was taking a nice bath. I heard the door slam. Our luggage was opened and our clothes are thrown around all over. And, Alex, the room safe is wide open—empty. What are we going to do?”

  Nora spoke into her phone. “Frank? You’d better come out onto the porch. Something’s going on.”

  Within seconds, Hubbard and a pair of uniformed cops, one with gun drawn, appeared in the open doorway. Alex Morgan, holding a sobbing Clarissa, began to swear. Loudly, profanely, uttering an astonishing unbroken string of expletives and blasphemies. Hubbard flashed his badge close to Morgan’s face. “Take it easy, sir. Ladies present. What’s going on?”

  The man, lowering his tone, echoed his wife’s words. “We’ve been robbed.” He looked around. “Where’s Elizabeth?”

  “Calm down, sir,” Frank Hubbard commanded, motioning to the officer to holster his gun. “Elizabeth is in her office, making some copies for me.” The faint, rhythmic throb of a copier sounded from inside.

  “Uh, no, she isn’t,” Maureen interrupted. “We just saw her leaving the parking lot in her Lexus.”

  Frank Hubbard lost no time in assembling four people in Elizabeth’s office. Nora and Maureen, Alex and Clarissa. Zamora and Jake had followed—Zamora claiming to be Alex Morgan’s new agent and Jake brandishing press credentials—but both had been denied entry. One of the officers stayed on the porch with the remaining guests. The second one was dispatched to secure the Morgans’ suite and to await backup. Elizabeth’s copier continued to whirr out sheet after empty sheet.

  “Liz isn’t answering her phone.” Jamming his own phone into his breast pocket, Hubbard shut off the machine “Mrs. Morgan, you go first. Tell me exactly what happened.”

  Alex Morgan pulled his wife close. “She told you. Someone broke into our rooms and stole . . . something.”

  “Mrs. Morgan,” Hubbard repeated.

  Clarissa sniffled loudly, buried her head on her husband’s shoulder, and mumbled something unintelligible.

  “She’s too upset,” Alex Morgan protested.

  “Mrs. Morgan. Tell me exactly what happened.” The officer’s words were louder, spoken more firmly this time.

  The weakest link, Maureen thought. And he’s going to make her talk.

  “The room safe is open, Alex,” she moaned. “They got it.”

  “Hush, darling,” her husband told her. “Somebody get her a glass of water. Can’t you see she’s upset?”

  No one spoke. No one moved. Clarissa’s sniffling grew louder. A voice came from the lobby. “Don’t worry. I’ll get the water.” It was Jake, who obviously had his ear to the door, and who—true to his word—pulled open the office door within minutes and hand-delivered a cold bottle of spring water to the weeping woman.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Go on with your story, Mrs. Morgan,” Hubbard ordered. “You say you were taking a bath and you heard a door slam.”

  “Yes. I was frightened. I peeked out of the bathroom and no one was there. Then I saw our clothes thrown around. Somebody had dumped both of our suitcases out.” Her voice began to rise. “I grabbed this robe.” She pulled it close around her. “I looked in the closet where the guest safe is,” she wailed. “It was wide open.”

  “Come on, sweetheart.” Alex tightened his arm around his wife. “You need to take a nap. We can talk to the officer later.” He led her toward the door.

  “What was in the safe?” Hubbard asked.

  “That’s personal.” Alex reached for the doorknob. Jake stood in the way.

  “Personal,” Clarissa muttered, eyes downcast. “Anyway, it was cursed. I’m glad it’s gone.”

  “Cursed?” Hubbard frowned, looked confused. “Sit down, Mr. Morgan. Mrs. Morgan, what was in the safe?”

  “Wilson’s curse,” Clarissa said. “Now it’s on her.”

  “Wilson’s curse? What are you talking about, ma’am?”

  “Excuse me, Officer Hubbard,” Maureen said. “Mrs. Morgan believes she cursed Conrad Wilson the night he died. Isn’t that right, Clarissa?”

  “Yes. I cursed him and he dropped dead. He wasn’t supposed to die, you know. He was only supposed to pass out so we could get it. She promised us no one would get hurt.” She looked up at her husband. “Tell them, Alex. She promised and Wilson died and now she’s gone and the curse is on her.”

  “Shut up, Clarissa.” He pulled her by the arm, all the tenderness gone from his voice. “Just shut up.”

  “Did Elizabeth take the memory card from the safe, Clarissa?” Maureen asked. “Is that what happened?”

  The woman nodded, rubbing her arm, moving away from her husband. “It was all her idea anyway. Alex would grab the memory card from Conrad’s camera and Elizabeth would figure out how to get the tablet. We were supposed to work together. Now she has the card and the tablet and all of the pictures.”

  Frank Hubbard spoke into his phone. “Get out an APB stat. Elizabeth Mack. She’s driving a twenty-twenty black Lexus with ‘Haven House Inn’ lettered on it. Get the license number from DMV. She’s wanted for questioning regarding breaking and entering, theft, and possibly murder.” He put the phone down and faced the Morgans.

  “You have the right to remain silent . . .” he began.

  Chapter 39

  Things moved fast after the confrontation with the Morgans in Elizabeth’s office. Alex and Clarissa lawyered up right away. It took a while to locate Elizabeth. She’d left her phone behind, so there was no tracking her that way. An a
lert citizen discovered the Lexus in the Amtrak parking lot up in Sanford, Florida, and police were on hand to arrest her when she got off the train in Virginia. All three suspects were scheduled for hearings at the county courthouse in Clearwater.

  Clarissa’s statement that Elizabeth had both Wilson’s memory card and his tablet had been a surprise. It turned out that in addition to the three-way bottle switch, there’d also been a tablet switch.

  Examination of the repair estimate Maureen had seen revealed that before turning over all of Wilson’s electronics to the Haven police Elizabeth had acid-wiped clean the hard drive on her own tablet, then to be sure it was completely destroyed had it checked by a professional before she exchanged hers for Wilson’s. Sam had actually seen Elizabeth “pour something onto a tablet,” but that information didn’t win him that thousand dollars from Zamora. It was, however, of interest to the police.

  Clarissa had been correct. Elizabeth had keys to not only the rooms but the room safes as well. Instead of sharing the money from Wilson’s unearthly photos. Elizabeth had planned to keep it all for herself. The police now had custody of both the memory card and Wilson’s own special tablet, which—if Gert was right about Wilson’s talent with machines—was capable of showing the ghost pictures.

  Who was the rightful owner of card and tablet? Were there really pictures of Haven’s ghosts on them? Maureen had a feeling that between court proceedings, book contract litigations, and murder-trial evidence custody, the question wouldn’t be answered for a long time.

  Nora said Hubbard had told her that the bottle he’d fingerprinted in the kitchen—the bottle that had prints that didn’t belong there—revealed a partial set of prints belonging to Penelope Josephine Gray. But since Penelope was already dead when that bottle appeared on the bar, it had to have been the one from Maureen’s suite. He’d also confided that in his opinion the very idea of a camera that took pictures of ghosts was “total nonsense.”