Chance of a Ghost

by E. J. Copperman

  Melissa ambled down, looked out the front door and scowled.

  “No snow,” she said. She must have been really tired and disappointed, because usually she’s a chatterbox first thing in the morning. Something she inherited from her father.

  “No, sorry, baby,” I said in a soothing tone. “Looks like you have school today.”

  She gave me a dirty look and headed for the stairs. A shower would be next on the agenda.

  Before I could make it to the kitchen to start coffee brewing, Paul dropped down through the ceiling, as if he was using an invisible fire pole.

  “Maxie has been doing some research,” he said quickly. Once Paul gets the idea of an investigation into his head, it’s hard to get out, and now that Maxie, our resident Internet expert, was on the case, he probably thought he had some tantalizing piece of information that would make it irresistible to me.

  You’d think he’d know me better by now.

  “Yeah?” I said. Indifference, not eloquence, was the point here.

  He plowed on, choosing not to notice my fantastic display of boredom. “It seems that Lawrence Laurentz did indeed die just over six months ago, and the attending doctor at the emergency room wrote it up as a cardiac arrhythmia.”

  “So there you are,” I said in my best efficient-but-cool businesswoman voice. “Mystery solved. The ghost is delusional.”

  Paul nodded, which I hadn’t expected. I retaliated by continuing into the kitchen, walking directly through him, which is a strange but not unpleasant sensation. Paul’s touch is like a warm breeze, Maxie’s more like a cooling paper fan.

  “Maybe so,” he said. I pushed the kitchen door open and let it swing through him as he followed me. “But arrhythmia is not an uncommon misdiagnosis in cases of electrocution. Laurentz’s story merits at least a cursory look.”

  “So go ahead and look,” I said. It sounded cold even to me.

  Paul’s face couldn’t have looked more wounded if I’d actually been able to slap it. “You know I can’t,” he mumbled.

  I drew a breath and looked up at him. “I’m sorry, Paul,” I said. “You know I didn’t mean…”

  “My problem isn’t the point,” he said, not making eye contact. Having forgotten why I’d come into the kitchen, I sat down at the chair. I felt like there were heavy weights on the top of my head. “Your problem is the point.”

  “My problem?”

  Paul hovered down to try and approximate a level eye-to-eye approach. But he can’t really hold still, so I was getting a trifle seasick watching him. “Think about it, Alison. This man is in the same position Maxie and I were when you met us. And he came to you through your mother. Either of those things alone would normally be enough to spur you to action.”

  I tried to interrupt, but he went on. “And by working on this case, you might get your father out of what sounds like a potentially unpleasant situation. I can’t imagine that you don’t want to do that.”

  Suddenly, my eyes felt a little damp. I looked away from Paul. And when I heard my own voice reply to him, it sounded squeaky and quiet. “Then why didn’t he ask me himself?” I managed. “Why haven’t I ever heard from my dad when he obviously could have spoken to me whenever he wanted? Why doesn’t he want to talk to his own granddaughter? Paul, why?” I stopped talking because I was afraid of the next sound that would come out of my mouth.

  Paul spoke softly and gently. “Maybe this is your way to find out,” he said.

  Finding my father: That hadn’t occurred to me. My head snapped up. Paul seemed startled by the sudden movement; his eyes widened a tiny bit and his mouth straightened out.

  Before either of us could speak, the kitchen door swung open and Melissa slouched in, dragging her backpack behind her and heading for the refrigerator with the manner of a prisoner being led back out into the quarry to break rocks. “What’d I miss?” she mumbled as she opened the fridge in search of something quick and easy for breakfast.

  Paul surveyed my face and it must have told him something; he smiled. “Your mom is going to help me investigate what happened to Mr. Laurentz,” he said.

  Melissa’s head turned toward me quickly, and for the first time today, she looked enthusiastic.

  “I want to help,” she said.

  Six

  Wednesday

  In the history of modern meteorology (which really begins in the eighteenth century), weather forecasts have been correct a larger percentage of the time than most people would believe. But it’s easy to blame the weather reporter on TV when you’re told it will be a lovely day and instead find yourself having to brave a raging monsoon, sans umbrella, from the parking lot to your office.

  So it wasn’t difficult for me to forgive the blizzard hysteria of last night when I woke up this morning to find what could charitably be called a “dusting” on my front porch. Despite having loaded up on ice melt and bought a new, ergonomically designed shovel, I removed what had accumulated on the porch, sidewalk and driveway with an old broom in roughly four minutes.

  As I was putting the broom away, I saw Murray Feldner drive up with the plow attached to the front of his pickup truck and start to position himself at the mouth of my driveway. I walked over and tapped on his driver’s side window. He lowered it.

  “What’s up, Murray?” I asked. It’s always best to pretend you’re friends with the people who charge you for stuff. It makes it more difficult for them to gouge you. Not impossible but more difficult.

  “Here to plow the driveway,” he answered. Murray, a guy from my high school football team who might have taken a few too many shots to the helmet, gave me a look that indicated I must be somehow mentally deficient for having asked the question.

  “Plow it of what?” I asked. “We got a flurry. There’s nothing there.”

  “Big snow north of here,” Murray said, as if that justified his action. “Belleville, Montclair, Bergen County. Foot and a half, I hear. South of here, too. Cape May got a lot.” He started to raise the window, clearly having declared the conversation ended.

  I had to hurry to be heard. “But nothing here,” I noted. “There’s nothing to plow on my driveway or anywhere else. See?” I pointed to the nothing.

  Murray’s mouth moved to one side. This might have indicated thought. It was hard to know. “Your daughter called last night. Said to make sure I was here first thing today. Said you had guests.”

  It was becoming obvious that “obvious” was lost on Murray. “That was when we thought we were getting a lot of snow,” I told him. “We didn’t get any. You’ll scrape your plow. You might damage it.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Hadn’t thought of that,” he said. “You don’t want it plowed?”

  “Not today. Be ready if it really snows at some point.”

  “Okay.” Murray nodded and tugged on the Phillies cap he wore all the time except during baseball season, when he wore a cap with the logo of the New York Knicks. “No plowing today. Send you a bill.”

  It wasn’t until he was halfway up the street that I realized he’d just said he was charging me for not plowing. I clenched my teeth. We’d have to talk before the next snowstorm.

  I checked to make sure Nan and Morgan Henderson didn’t need anything, but they hadn’t come down from their room yet. (They had, however, returned to the guesthouse after dinner the night before, which was a relief.) This made things somewhat difficult, since I had a few errands to run in town—I didn’t want to leave before showing my face to my guests. They already thought I was a raving lunatic; it would be worse if they thought I was an unaccommodating raving lunatic.

  Melissa ambled down, looked out the front door and scowled.

  “No snow,” she said. She must have been really tired and disappointed, because usually she’s a chatterbox first thing in the morning. Something she inherited from her father.

  “No, sorry, baby,” I said in a soothing tone. “Looks like you have school today.”

  She gave me a dirty look and headed f
or the stairs. A shower would be next on the agenda.

  Before I could make it to the kitchen to start coffee brewing, Paul dropped down through the ceiling, as if he was using an invisible fire pole.

  “Maxie has been doing some research,” he said quickly. Once Paul gets the idea of an investigation into his head, it’s hard to get out, and now that Maxie, our resident Internet expert, was on the case, he probably thought he had some tantalizing piece of information that would make it irresistible to me.

  You’d think he’d know me better by now.

  “Yeah?” I said. Indifference, not eloquence, was the point here.

  He plowed on, choosing not to notice my fantastic display of boredom. “It seems that Lawrence Laurentz did indeed die just over six months ago, and the attending doctor at the emergency room wrote it up as a cardiac arrhythmia.”

  “So there you are,” I said in my best efficient-but-cool businesswoman voice. “Mystery solved. The ghost is delusional.”

  Paul nodded, which I hadn’t expected. I retaliated by continuing into the kitchen, walking directly through him, which is a strange but not unpleasant sensation. Paul’s touch is like a warm breeze, Maxie’s more like a cooling paper fan.

  “Maybe so,” he said. I pushed the kitchen door open and let it swing through him as he followed me. “But arrhythmia is not an uncommon misdiagnosis in cases of electrocution. Laurentz’s story merits at least a cursory look.”

  “So go ahead and look,” I said. It sounded cold even to me.

  Paul’s face couldn’t have looked more wounded if I’d actually been able to slap it. “You know I can’t,” he mumbled.

  I drew a breath and looked up at him. “I’m sorry, Paul,” I said. “You know I didn’t mean…”

  “My problem isn’t the point,” he said, not making eye contact. Having forgotten why I’d come into the kitchen, I sat down at the chair. I felt like there were heavy weights on the top of my head. “Your problem is the point.”

  “My problem?”

  Paul hovered down to try and approximate a level eye-to-eye approach. But he can’t really hold still, so I was getting a trifle seasick watching him. “Think about it, Alison. This man is in the same position Maxie and I were when you met us. And he came to you through your mother. Either of those things alone would normally be enough to spur you to action.”

  I tried to interrupt, but he went on. “And by working on this case, you might get your father out of what sounds like a potentially unpleasant situation. I can’t imagine that you don’t want to do that.”

  Suddenly, my eyes felt a little damp. I looked away from Paul. And when I heard my own voice reply to him, it sounded squeaky and quiet. “Then why didn’t he ask me himself?” I managed. “Why haven’t I ever heard from my dad when he obviously could have spoken to me whenever he wanted? Why doesn’t he want to talk to his own granddaughter? Paul, why?” I stopped talking because I was afraid of the next sound that would come out of my mouth.

  Paul spoke softly and gently. “Maybe this is your way to find out,” he said.

  Finding my father: That hadn’t occurred to me. My head snapped up. Paul seemed startled by the sudden movement; his eyes widened a tiny bit and his mouth straightened out.

  Before either of us could speak, the kitchen door swung open and Melissa slouched in, dragging her backpack behind her and heading for the refrigerator with the manner of a prisoner being led back out into the quarry to break rocks. “What’d I miss?” she mumbled as she opened the fridge in search of something quick and easy for breakfast.

  Paul surveyed my face and it must have told him something; he smiled. “Your mom is going to help me investigate what happened to Mr. Laurentz,” he said.

  Melissa’s head turned toward me quickly, and for the first time today, she looked enthusiastic.

  “I want to help,” she said.

  Seven

  “It’s a conspiracy, I tell you!” Lawrence Laurentz turned out to be an imposingly tall, probably artificially dark-haired ghost, hovering over the sofa in my mother’s living room, looking as theatrical as a box of seven-dollar Milk Duds. The man, I’d guess in his seventies, had a flair for overacting that William Shatner himself would envy.

  “A conspiracy?” I parroted back. All I’d asked was what Lawrence had done for a living when he was, you know, living.

  This meeting had been hastily arranged through Paul with help from Mom. Mom couldn’t summon the dashing ghost herself, but she knew something of his habits. We’d agreed to meet at Mom’s house because much like Paul, who couldn’t leave my guesthouse property, Lawrence could travel only within the boundaries of Whispering Lakes, the active adult community where Mom lived. (Apparently he’d been a neighbor of hers on the other side of the complex when he was alive, but they’d never met.)

  Maxie, who had gotten to come along in her usual way (by materializing in my car after I’d traveled too far to take her back) was with me, too, but Melissa had been convinced—after a good deal of protestation on her part and some old-fashioned threat-making on mine—that she still had to go to school today, though I’d conceded she would be allowed to aid in the investigation when it was possible. Of course, in my mind that still meant “never.”

  “A conspiracy,” Lawrence repeated back, looking down his nose at me. “I am the victim of a vast network of vandals, thieves and”—he paused briefly here—“murderers.”

  Maxie watched Lawrence openmouthed. It’s not easy to impress Maxie, but this guy was a first-class drama queen if ever I’d seen one.

  Mom, who had out of polite habit put out a plate of cookies for her guests despite my being the only one who could eat, got Lawrence’s eye and spoke in what was for her a soothing tone (to me it sounded like the voice of a police hostage negotiator). “Now, Lawrence,” she said. “All Alison asked was about your business.”

  It had been strangely gratifying to see how pleased Mom was when I’d agreed to investigate Lawrence’s “murder.” She had such trust in me, however ill-advised, that I’d felt like a heel for hesitating in the first place. So by the time I’d dropped Melissa off at school and seen to the needs of the Hendersons—which were minimal today—Paul had arranged this audience with the ghost.

  Once I’d agreed to this meeting, I’d been slightly concerned that I might not be able to see Lawrence. I can’t see as many spirits as Mom and Melissa do; my ability is still in the development stage. Which normally I don’t find at all worrisome, unless I have to question a dead person. But luckily, I suppose, Lawrence was among the ghosts I could have spotted a football field away—his strength of personality was that strong. If you know what I mean.

  Lawrence stopped and considered what my mother had said. “Of course, Loretta, my apologies,” he said, lavishing on the charm. Really, the man should have been wearing a cape. “I am—was—an impresario.”

  There was a silence. “A what?” Maxie asked.

  The elder ghost turned his head slowly, milking the effect. “An impresario. I provided entertainment of the highest order to the residents of this”—and here he sniffed to give us a taste of how unappreciated he’d been in this den of heathens—“area.”

  Mom clucked her tongue. “Lawrence,” she chided. “You worked in the ticket office at the Count Basie Theatre in Red Bank.”

  Lawrence seemed to deflate in the face of Mom’s bluntness but then pumped himself up again. “It’s true,” he admitted. “But I had a ninety-eight percent accuracy score on my evaluations and no customer complaints in fifteen years.”

  “Impressive,” I said. Then, since somebody had to bring this conversation back to the topic at hand, I continued, “So let’s talk about what happened to you.”

  Lawrence regarded me. He didn’t look at me; he regarded me. And no doubt found me wanting. “I was murdered,” he said.

  “Yes. That’s not a lot to go on. Can you give me a few details? You say you were electrocuted?”

  “I was electrocuted, whether I say s
o or not,” he corrected me. “It is a fact.”

  “The medical examiner’s report”—which I had not actually seen, but what the hell—“says you died of cardiac arrhythmia.”

  He curled his upper lip. “Of course it does. That’s what electrocution looks like to a medical examiner. I’m telling you, someone threw an electric toaster into the tub while I was bathing.”

  I tried very hard not to snicker and believe I would have succeeded if Maxie hadn’t puffed out her own lips in amusement. I contained myself quickly, but Lawrence gave me a look indicating that he’d seen my initial reaction. I plowed on. “Are you sure it was a toaster? Did you see who threw it?”

  Lawrence looked the other way. “No,” he sniffed. “Whoever did it was invisible.”

  I’d known that was the answer he’d give, so I didn’t react. “Invisible,” I said. “Like you are to most people now?”

  “How many ways are there to be invisible?” Lawrence asked.

  Mom picked up a cookie and took a bite, which wasn’t characteristic of her; she’s a closet eater. “Keep a civil tongue, Lawrence,” she said. “Alison is trying to help.”

  Maxie covered her mouth. She loves it when Mom scolds people who aren’t her.

  I decided to ignore Lawrence’s previous comment. “Did you see anything at all before…it happened?” If I’d started to think of Lawrence taking a bath and having a toaster tossed in again, I’d have to picture him in a bathtub, and that wasn’t going to do anybody any good.

  “Nothing,” he said, still not making eye contact. In fact, he floated up a little and the top of his head disappeared. Mom’s house doesn’t have high ceilings.

  “What about the plug?” I asked. That was a question Paul had primed me with before I left for the interview. He’s always careful to tell me exactly what to ask, for two reasons: One, he’s a control freak, and two, I don’t know what I’m doing.

  “The plug?” Lawrence repeated.

  “Yes, the plug on the toaster,” I answered, stuttering just a tiny bit on the word toaster. “If you were electrocuted by a toaster”—I couldn’t look at Maxie—“it had to have been plugged in. An unplugged toaster wouldn’t have done you any harm. Did you see that?”