Interview with a Ghost in Arizona (Humorous Cozy Mystery) (Ghost Mysteries of the Southwest Book 2)

by Angela Pepper

  Dr. Walsh's hazel eyes had not flashed with recognition yet, perhaps because she was busy adjusting the turtle shells of the two boys standing on the step with her, but the memories of their sessions jumped to the forefront of Piper's mind.

  Piper's parents had insisted she talk to Dr. Walsh three times a week, starting when they'd moved their American residence from San Francisco to the small town of Copeland, Arizona. Her father especially had been concerned about her “energy levels,” which was code for “everything.” Piper hadn't seen Dr. Walsh in a professional capacity in over a year, though they had occasionally seen and nodded at each other around town. Piper didn't miss therapy, but she did miss Dr. Walsh.

  Without looking up at Piper, Dr. Vicki Walsh said, “Sorry we're so late, but my nephews lost one of their actual turtles, and we had to do a house-wide search. Turtles may be slow, but they're sneaky.”

  The two boys, dressed as Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, held up loot bags and cried, “Trick or treat!”

  Dr. Walsh looked up and blinked, finally recognizing Piper in spite of the witch hat and red wig. “Piper Chen! Is that you?”

  Piper lifted the front of the wig to show her real black hair. “In disguise, but yes.”

  “How are you?”

  How are you? It was a phrase Piper had heard Dr. Walsh say dozens of times, a trigger that fit like a key sliding into a disused lock, a little crunchy and stiff, but then there it was, turning, opening the compartments where Piper kept her feelings and other treasures.

  “I'm doing great, I swear I am!” The words gushed out at high velocity. “I've been spending a lot of time with a new guy in my life.” She beamed proudly. Dr. Walsh had always been concerned about Piper's shyness around boys. Dr. Walsh feared she might never go on dates, let alone form a friendship with anyone other than Winnie, but look at her now! She had a new companion, and though the ghost didn't say much, he was always around. George was her very good friend.

  “A new guy,” Dr. Walsh cooed. “How wonderful for you.”

  “We're practically living together,” Piper gushed. She turned her head, expecting to see George in his Cowardly Lion costume at her side. He tended to pop up when he was being talked about, but he wasn't there now. The TV in the den was still playing a Halloween-themed cartoon marathon, and it must have been good if George was choosing that over listening to a conversation about his favorite subject.

  Dr. Walsh leaned to the side and followed Piper's gaze into the empty home. Her expression shifted toward concern. “Living together?” She took a step back and glanced up at the exterior of the large, stately home. “Here? With your family?”

  “Mom and Dad are in Taiwan on business.”

  Dr. Walsh frowned. Her two nephews shifted from side to side impatiently, bored of the grown-ups' conversation. Dr. Walsh questioned Piper with a neutral, professional tone. “Do your parents know about this guy who's moved himself in?”

  Piper rolled her eyes. “I'm twenty-one, Dr. Walsh.”

  The older woman tucked her curly brown hair behind her ear as she leaned down and told her Ninja Turtle nephews to go ahead to the next house. She instructed them to hold hands and stick to the sidewalk. Once the boys were off and running, she turned her attention back to her former patient.

  “Piper, do you have some time this week to come in and see me at the office?”

  “Why?”

  Dr. Walsh glanced down at the step while holding up one hand, fingers up like she was swearing an oath. “I must make a confession, Piper. I happened to come across a video of you talking about seeing ghosts. And then I read in the paper that you were the one who found the body of that overweight author everyone loves. After he had a heart attack, or whatever it was, and fell down his stairs.” She glanced up and looked directly at Piper, her green eyes burning with inquisitive fire. “Seeing something like that can be traumatic. Talking to someone about your experience can be very helpful.”

  Piper waved a hand dismissively. “Dr. Walsh, I'm fine. I was just joking about ghosts that night. It was a house party. Didn't you notice how drunk I was?” She turned her attention to her candy bowl and began sorting the chocolate bars by type. She wanted to take a step back and slam the door shut, but she also wanted Dr. Walsh to keep turning keys in locks, keep drawing out the feelings so they could work together to make sense of the situation.

  A silent moment passed before Dr. Walsh asked, “How often have you been drinking? How many drinks, usually?”

  Piper continued sorting the candies in the bowl, avoiding eye contact. She pushed all the white wrappers to the center, like an iceberg in a rainbow sea. Coolly, she replied, “Not much. I'm allergic, so even a couple of drinks make me spacey. I had a few too many at my house party, but I swear I'm not binge drinking now, or becoming an alcoholic.”

  “So, it's just one or two drinks at parties. Do you find it easier to talk to people when you're inebriated?”

  Piper wished the Ninja Turtles were still there, or that more trick-or-treaters would show up and cut this unscheduled session short.

  “Sure,” Piper said, practically whispering. “But I think I've grown out of my social anxieties. I've been doing lots of new things lately. For example, there was the time I head-butted a cop and got myself arrested.”

  Dr. Walsh pulled her phone from her purse and viewed the screen, her face momentarily blue from the light. “I have plenty of appointments available in the afternoons. It sounds to me like you need someone to talk to about all these new changes in your life. How about Wednesday?”

  Wednesday? Inside Piper's mind, a door slammed shut. Nope. She didn't want to go in on Wednesday, and nobody was going to make her.

  “Don't worry about me,” Piper said with a weary sigh that she associated with being resigned and mature. “I already have someone to talk to. My new boyfriend. We actually talk all the time, and he's an amazing listener.”

  Dr. Walsh tucked her phone away. “Then I'm very happy for you. What's the lucky young man's name?”

  Piper drew a blank. His name? She couldn't say George Morrison. But who? All she needed was a first name. Her eyes went to Dr. Walsh's chin, and the image of a friendly, pointy-chinned young man with a name tag came to mind.

  “Otis,” she said.

  Dr. Walsh tilted her head to the side. “That's odd. My son's name is Otis.”

  Realization washed over her like an unexpected tsunami coming from behind. Both of them had the same chin because they were mother and son. Now her web of lies was about to unravel, unless she did something.

  Hurriedly, Piper said, “It's a different Otis. Not your son.”

  “Not Otis Plummer, who runs the Roadrunner Café? My son has my ex-husband's last name. Actually, he has his entire name, just rearranged. My ex is Carl Otis Plummer and my son is Otis Carl Plummer.” She rolled her eyes. “This is why I'm now a supporter of natural childbirth. I was still so high from all those labor drugs that I thought naming my sweet boy after his crooked father was a good idea.”

  “That's certainly interesting, but I'm not seeing him. It's a totally different Otis.”

  “Right,” Dr. Walsh said, nodding slowly.

  In the distance, a dog barked, setting off all the dogs in the neighborhood, including Teddy.

  Dr. Walsh backed away and turned in the direction her nephews had gone. “Piper, I've got to run, but promise you'll call me if you need anything at all?”

  “I promise!” Piper gave her a cheery wave and waited until she was out of sight before she closed the door.

  She went straight to her computer and did a search on the name Otis.

  According to baby-name websites, the name Otis—German in origin—had become more popular for newborns in recent years, but would be uncommon for twenty-somethings. The odds were slim there'd be two young men named Otis in a town the size of Copeland, and Dr. Walsh knew it.

  So, the cute guy at the diner was her therapist's son. Could that explain her instant connection with t
he young man? She'd read about transference, but could it happen based on family resemblance?

  She cringed as she imagined a future conversation between Dr. Walsh and her son, with Dr. Walsh demanding to know the details of his and Piper's nonexistent relationship. Or worse, warning Otis about Piper and her “maladaptive behavior traits.” Then he would laugh and laugh as he told his mother about Piper being so awkward, she'd pretended to not even speak English. They'd both laugh at her.

  The cringe worsened to a full-body tremble. She pulled her feet up onto the chair and hugged her knees to her chest, where she rocked as she checked her email.

  There was a new message from Nancy Dowd, asking if Piper was going to take the assignment and attend the funeral to get an interview.

  Piper continued to rock, hugging her knees.

  The memorial was in four days.

  If she didn't go, Dr. Walsh would call that yet another instance of Piper avoiding adult responsibilities, a “maladaptive behavior trait” that kept her from achieving her goal of being independent from her parents.

  With heavy arms and heavy fingers, Piper began typing a response to the reporter's email. With each letter pressed, her arms felt lighter.

  Y. E. S.

  Yes.

  Yes, she would go to George Morrison's memorial, and she would try to get an interview with either his editor or the president of his fan club. Or maybe both!

  Later, when she climbed into bed, a troubling thought stirred up. Otis wasn't just the offspring of Piper's therapist. He was also the son of Carl Plummer, the real estate agent whom Piper had suggested the police look into as a suspect. Had anything come of that? The chief hadn't returned her call. She really ought to follow up with him.

  She also ought to… do about a million things she wasn't already doing. Life as a grown-up was overrated. Too many responsibilities.

  She tried to sleep, but was distracted by the television droning in the den. George was in there. And since Teddy wasn't curled up on his usual spot at the foot of her bed, he was likely hanging out with the ghost.

  After an hour of restlessness, Piper climbed out of bed, grabbed her blanket, and went to curl up on the sofa in the den. George barely gave her a glance. Teddy dutifully moved over to share the sofa with his mistress.

  On the television screen, an esteemed professor of literature was droning on about Morrison's contributions. “His work doesn't compare to Franzen or the other great American writers, but it is rather decent, for genre fiction.”

  Another literary expert cut in, “On the contrary, I dare say the work does hold up against the masters. Morrison was the master of suspense, of microtension, and the depth of his characterization is remarkable. Take away the fantasy setting, and you have an astounding multigenerational saga with themes examining all the complexities of modern life. At heart, the books are about finding purpose. Creating a life worth living.”

  The professor nodded at the camera lens and blinked slowly. “My good sir, you have convinced me. Why are we wasting time on this interview? I should be cozied up in a wingback chair somewhere, revisiting the entire series. Such a shame it will never be finished.”

  The other expert groaned in agreement.

  Piper turned to see George's reaction. He rolled his eyes and then made a gagging gesture.

  “You love it,” she teased.

  He shrugged.

  The show continued with the addition of new guests, including a comedian and a talk show host.

  The adoration and praise continued. Piper was anything but surprised. It was a common trend in the world, the elevation of a dead celebrity to new, dizzying heights. Sins of the past were swept away. Critics admitted they'd been admirers all along. George Morrison had always attracted devotees, but now that he wasn't around to mess up his reputation by actually living and sweating and attending conventions while publication deadlines whizzed by, he was well on his way to the modern equivalent of sainthood.

  Saint George Morrison.

  “By the way, I'm going to your funeral,” Piper told George casually. “In four days.”

  He raised his feathery gray eyebrows.

  “You're welcome to come, but it's during the day, so I'm guessing you can't go.”

  He frowned, then made a puppet gesture with one hand.

  “Yes, of course I'll tell you all about it when I get home. Everything that everyone said about you.”

  He smiled. George Morrison's favorite topic of conversation was George Morrison.

  Chapter 6

  Day 8

  Friday, November 4th, 10:01 a.m.

  Copeland Funeral Home

  Piper arrived at the Copeland Funeral Home by taxi. She had a valid driver's license and a car, but disliked driving and the stress of finding parking in the shade during the scorching Arizona summer. During the cooler months, she enjoyed walking with Teddy or riding her bicycle with the Boston Terrier in the basket. The funeral home, however, was on the opposite side of Copeland from her house, so she'd called a taxi. The driver had been speedy, making her only a minute late rather than the ten minutes she'd planned for so she could slip in unnoticed. She took her time paying the driver, stepped out, and headed toward the building determinedly. The back of her neck tickled as though she was being watched. Nancy Dowd had sworn she would be nowhere near the funeral home that day, but Piper couldn't shake the sensation that her new mentor was observing her every move.

  The funeral home's architecture matched many of the newer buildings in town—stucco walls and a red tile roof. Two large planter beds with thirsty succulents stood on either side of the entrance. The parking lot was half full, and not a single vehicle displayed logos of news agencies. The Morrison family had been successful in keeping the media away. The fact that Nancy Dowd had gotten the location and an invitation spoke to her unmatched skills as a celebrity journalist.

  Piper kept her head nodded forward as she pulled open the heavy wood door. Inside, an imposing man in a suit stood greeting everyone. A group of people who'd arrived ahead of Piper showed the large, burly man their invitation.

  The invitation!

  Her skin prickled with sweat. Why had she ripped it into confetti and tossed it in the trash? Never mind impressing Nancy Dowd with the finished interview. She wasn't even getting access to the funeral.

  But then, the solid wall of man was momentarily distracted by someone asking a question. Piper acted fast, ducking down into a crouch and practically crab-walking for the nearest door. She felt ridiculous, but nobody stopped her, and she pushed through the interior door with relief.

  The door led to a kitchen, where a handful of women in hairnets didn't even glance up from their preparations. Piper straightened up and strode through the small kitchen purposefully, toward yet another door, and slipped out. Now she was in a hallway. Ahead of her was the door for a women's washroom.

  Piper sighed with relief that she'd gotten in. It was a new achievement. She'd crashed parties before, but never a funeral. She entered the washroom, where the air conditioning was set to meat-cooler levels. She freshened up, splashed cold water on her face, checked under the stalls to see that she was alone, and began rehearsing what she would say to George's long-time editor, Robert Jones. The literary man had refused all interviews with the press following George's untimely death, so she couldn't be direct about what she wanted.

  “Mr. Jones, you've built up such an impressive career. I'm sure people ask you all the time to read their work, and I assure you that's not my intent.” And it wasn't. She just wanted to gain his trust so she could get an interview. She continued addressing the mirror sweetly. “I'd love to learn more about you, the man behind…”

  She winced at her reflection in the mirror. She looked as foolish as she felt. Why not try a bit of honesty? A variant on the truth?

  “Mr. Jones, I run a little pop culture blog. It's nothing serious. Totally harmless. Could I interview you sometime if I promise not to ask any hard-hitting questions? It would
only take a few minutes…” She groaned and hunched over the washroom's elegant marble sinks. Her pitch was terrible. Even she, a complete nobody, would turn down a request from someone who described her blog as totally harmless. Nancy Dowd was going to be so disappointed in her. What a failure.

  The door to the washroom swung open. A rail-thin, middle-aged woman in black entered. She gave Piper a dirty look on her way to a bathroom stall. Piper took the scornful gaze without batting an eyelash. It wasn't the first time she'd gotten a dirty look from an older woman simply for existing in the world, and it wouldn't be the last. She'd inherited her mother's genes and would probably still look twenty-one when she was fifty-one, assuming she regularly visited the same dermatology clinic as her mother.

  Behind the washroom stall door, the woman snorted loudly. Piper had been to enough wild parties to recognize that sound. Either the skinny woman had a sinus problem or she was using drugs. From the stall came more snorting, then coughs that sounded like sobs. Was the woman perhaps crying? The stall went quiet.

  Piper studied her reflection again, tilting her face from left to right. Nancy Dowd had hired her for a reason. She had very little experience, but the one advantage she did have was the freshness of her face. Nobody at the funeral knew she was there undercover to get a story. What was stopping her from getting information out of Robert Jones? Not much. Maybe a blouse button or two. He was a man, after all, and Piper was twenty-one and pretty—pretty enough that the cops had mistaken her for a high-priced escort. She opened her purse and doubled the application of her makeup quickly.

  The woman in the stall flushed. Piper closed her purse and left the chilly washroom before the middle-aged woman could emerge and give her more dirty looks.

  Piper walked down the hallway. Absentmindedly retracing her steps, she stepped back into the kitchen again. The ladies in hairnets stayed focused on their chopping and slicing, but one person's head jerked up.

  It was Otis Plummer, the adorable, twenty-something young man who ran the Roadrunner Café. By the look of things, his restaurant crew was catering the funeral. Piper froze in her tracks while her mind overflowed with questions. Had the police questioned his father, the real estate agent? Had his mother mentioned that one of her crazy therapy patients was seeing someone in town who was also named Otis? Had Otis put two and two together and figured out Piper had lied about not being able to speak English?