Chance of a Ghost

by E. J. Copperman

  Lawrence appeared flustered for the first time; he chewed a little on his lips and didn’t speak for a moment, which for him was a long time. He mumbled something I couldn’t hear.

  “What?”

  “I…did not see that happen,” he answered, regaining some of his swagger. “But I was not expecting a toaster to be thrown into my bath. It’s possible I just wasn’t looking in that direction. I was reading.”

  Maxie’s eyebrows literally hit the ceiling and kept going as she rose up bodily in surprise. “Reading?” she asked. “In the bathtub?”

  Mom gave her a look. “It’s not unusual, Maxine,” she scolded mildly. “I read in the bath all the time.” Another in a series of mental images I really didn’t need to carry around with me.

  “What were you reading?” I asked. It seemed completely irrelevant, but it was the sort of thing that Paul would ask. He always asks stuff that I think makes no difference and draws information from it. It’s really annoying. Best to beat him at his own game.

  “Variety,” Lawrence answered. Of course. “So,” he concluded. “That should be enough to begin you on your investigation, no?”

  “Not yet,” I answered. Maxie had been expecting this (we’d discussed it on the way to Mom’s house), so she smirked slyly. “We haven’t discussed my fee. I won’t be doing any investigation unless we reach an agreement on the other issue.”

  Lawrence, sensing the trap being sprung around him, dropped his voice an octave. “What other issue?” he asked.

  “My father,” I told him. “I do nothing for you until I see my father.”

  Maxie hovered down to position herself between me and Lawrence. She said nothing, but the look on her face (which I could sort of see through the back of her head) unmistakably said, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Lawrence, however, did not appear to be contemplating any kind of violence; he looked absolutely stunned. His eyes bulged a bit and his mouth formed an O that made it appear someone had hit him hard in the stomach. After a moment in which his eyes seemed to be looking for a way out of their sockets, he focused on me and said, “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” Well, that certainly ended the argument.

  I twisted my mouth up in an expression of scorn. “Then I’m sorry, but it won’t be…possible for me to help you out. My father is my fee. And I don’t work unless I know that the client has the funds available to pay.”

  Paul had been clear about playing hardball on this point. So I was making a concerted effort not to look at my mother, who as a rule plays Nerf ball. She surely looked desperate, and seeing that would have something other than a positive effect on my confidence.

  “It’s not possible for me to simply produce him,” Lawrence said, regaining some of his composure. “This is a process, and it takes time. Have a little patience.”

  “I don’t understand the process, Mr. Laurentz,” I said. “But I am very concerned that I get some proof you can produce my father when you want to. So far, all I have is your word, and I don’t really know you, do I?”

  The ghost raised an eyebrow so archly Olivier himself would have been intimidated. But I was mad, so it only caused slight goose bumps on the back of my left arm. I took that as a victory.

  “Your father is confined to a space I can’t adequately describe,” he said with a great air of authority. “He is not suffering, but he cannot move about the way he could before.”

  “Why are you holding him?” I asked.

  “I am not. He is, as far as I can discern, operating under his own will.”

  There was a long silence while we digested that tidbit. I assiduously avoided looking at Mom, but from behind me, I could hear her gasp.

  “He’s doing this to himself?” she whispered.

  Lawrence nodded. “I can communicate with him, but I am not able to go to him or to bring him back.” He turned toward me. “So you see, Ms. Kerby, I cannot comply with your demand. I can’t bring your father to you. But I can get messages to him and bring back his replies.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not enough, Mr. Laurentz,” I said. “Why should I believe you?”

  Paul had advised me to watch Lawrence very carefully—he had told me, as he always does, to “look at the subject’s face when you confront him with something he wasn’t expecting. That’s when you get the good information.” What I saw, perhaps for the first time since we’d started talking, was Lawrence without any pretense, without the act.

  And he looked very sad.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Kerby,” he said. “I can’t think of one reason why you should.”

  Well, that was a real nonstarter! If I actually started to feel sorry for the guy who was keeping me from Dad and making Mom miserable, how could I possibly refuse to help him? Since what I really wanted was to turn him down, I used my favorite tactic when trying to refuse someone something—I pretended Lawrence was my ex-husband Steven, The Swine. Just picturing The Swine’s face with Lawrence’s words coming out of it was enough; I was sufficiently pissed off to deny Dorothy a visit with Toto.

  I was about to swing back toward him, angry, but as I turned, I saw Maxie looking worried and staring over my left shoulder. And that led to a major mistake on my part.

  I looked at my mother.

  For the first time since I’d known her (which was admittedly my whole life), she looked her age, plus a few years. Her eyes were wide, her mouth had little lines around it and she was pale and drawn. She looked, in a word, terrified.

  I continued my turn toward Lawrence.

  “We’ll take your case,” I told him.

  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 t
his 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 so 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?”

  Lawrence appeared flustered for the first time; he chewed a little on his lips and didn’t speak for a moment, which for him was a long time. He mumbled something I couldn’t hear.

  “What?”

  “I…did not see that happen,” he answered, regaining some of his swagger. “But I was not expecting a toaster to be thrown into my bath. It’s possible I just wasn’t looking in that direction. I was reading.”

  Maxie’s eyebrows literally hit the ceiling and kept going as she rose up bodily in surprise. “Reading?” she asked. “In the bathtub?”

  Mom gave her a look. “It’s not unusual, Maxine,” she scolded mildly. “I read in the bath all the time.” Another in a series of mental images I really didn’t need to carry around with me.

  “What were you reading?” I asked. It seemed completely irrelevant, but it was the sort of thing that Paul would ask. He always asks stuff that I think makes no difference and draws information from it. It’s really annoying. Best to beat him at his own game.

  “Variety,” Lawrence answered. Of course. “So,” he concluded. “That should be enough to begin you on your investigation, no?”

  “Not yet,” I answered. Maxie had been expecting this (we’d discussed it on the way to Mom’s house), so she smirked slyly. “We haven’t discussed my fee. I won’t be doing any investigation unless we reach an agreement on the other issue.”

  Lawrence, sensing the trap being sprung around him, dropped his voice an octave. “What other issue?” he asked.

  “My father,” I told him. “I do nothing for you until I see my father.”

  Maxie hovered down to position herself between me and Lawrence. She said nothing, but the look on her face (which I could sort of see through the back of her head) unmistakably said, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Lawrence, however, did not appear to be contemplating any kind of violence; he looked absolutely stunned. His eyes bulged a bit and his mouth formed an O that made it appear someone had hit him hard in the stomach. After a moment in which his eyes seemed to be looking for a way out of their sockets, he focused on me and said, “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” Well, that certainly ended the argument.

  I twisted my mouth up in an expression of scorn. “Then I’m sorry, but it won’t be…possible for me to help you out. My father is my fee. And I don’t work unless I know that the client has the funds available to pay.”

  Paul had been clear about playing hardball on this point. So I was making a concerted effort not to look at my mother, who as a rule plays Nerf ball. She surely looked desperate, and seeing that would have something other than a positive effect on my confidence.

  “It’s not possible for me to simply produce him,” Lawrence said, regaining some of his composure. “This is a process, and it takes time. Have a little patience.”

  “I don’t understand the process, Mr. Laurentz,” I said. “But I am very concerned that I get some proof you can produce my father when you want to. So far, all I have is your word, and I don’t really know you, do I?”

  The ghost raised an eyebrow so archly Olivier himself would have been intimidated. But I was mad, so it only caused slight goose bumps on the back of my left arm. I took that as a victory.

  “Your father is confined to a space I can’t adequately describe,” he said with a great air of authority. “He is not suffering, but he cannot move about the way he could before.”

  “Why are you holding him?” I asked.

  “I am not. He is, as far as I can discern, operating under his own will.”

  There was a long silence while we digested that tidbit. I assiduously avoided looking at Mom, but from behind me, I could hear her gasp.

  “He’s doing this to himself?” she whispered.

  Lawrence nodded. “I can communicate with him, but I am not able to go to him or to bring him back.” He turned toward me. “So you see, Ms. Kerby, I cannot comply with your demand. I can’t bring your father to you. But I can get messages to him and bring back his replies.”

  I shook
my head. “That’s not enough, Mr. Laurentz,” I said. “Why should I believe you?”

  Paul had advised me to watch Lawrence very carefully—he had told me, as he always does, to “look at the subject’s face when you confront him with something he wasn’t expecting. That’s when you get the good information.” What I saw, perhaps for the first time since we’d started talking, was Lawrence without any pretense, without the act.

  And he looked very sad.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Kerby,” he said. “I can’t think of one reason why you should.”

  Well, that was a real nonstarter! If I actually started to feel sorry for the guy who was keeping me from Dad and making Mom miserable, how could I possibly refuse to help him? Since what I really wanted was to turn him down, I used my favorite tactic when trying to refuse someone something—I pretended Lawrence was my ex-husband Steven, The Swine. Just picturing The Swine’s face with Lawrence’s words coming out of it was enough; I was sufficiently pissed off to deny Dorothy a visit with Toto.

  I was about to swing back toward him, angry, but as I turned, I saw Maxie looking worried and staring over my left shoulder. And that led to a major mistake on my part.

  I looked at my mother.

  For the first time since I’d known her (which was admittedly my whole life), she looked her age, plus a few years. Her eyes were wide, her mouth had little lines around it and she was pale and drawn. She looked, in a word, terrified.

  I continued my turn toward Lawrence.

  “We’ll take your case,” I told him.

  Eight

  “There’s no record of a Lawrence Laurentz dying suspiciously,” said Detective Lieutenant Anita McElone, sitting behind her desk in the bull pen at the Harbor Haven Police Department. There was commotion all around her, but McElone, who knew me from a few previous cases, was calm and still. She could be really annoying that way.