“He died alone,” I said. “That means there has to be some report on it. It was about six months ago, at Whispering Lakes in Manalapan.”
McElone raised an eyebrow. “And you’re not talking to the Manalapan police because…?”
“Because I don’t know anyone there, but you know me and love me, and you’ll help me,” I told her.
“Well, I know you, anyway.” McElone and I have an interesting relationship: It’s not exactly a friendship, since we’ve never seen each other except about a crime. And it’s not really a professional interaction, since she’s a cop and I’m just an innkeeper with a private-investigator’s license. Not to mention McElone is fairly convinced that I’m a screwup who gets in the way a lot, which—if I’m being honest—is not all that far off the mark.
Let’s call it mutual respect. Without the “mutual” part.
“Could you please look up the medical examiner’s report?” I asked. “There has to be one.”
McElone would have rolled her eyes if she were any less dignified. Instead, she simply gave me a look indicating her day would be considerably easier if I’d just go away. “I told you. I already looked it up. There’s no report of a Lawrence Laurentz dying in Manalapan. Is it possible you spelled the name wrong or something?”
That hadn’t occurred to me. “Let me check,” I told her, and got out my phone. Lawrence had promised to stay at Mom’s until I could check in, so I texted my mother (we’re so twenty-first century) and asked her to pass on the question.
“Why are you looking into this?” McElone asked me while we waited for the reply from Mom. “Who’s your client?”
This is always a tricky question when dealing with a client who is, technically, deceased. Police officers—especially McElone, who avoids coming to my house because she says it “creeps her out”—tend to look askance at someone who says she communicates with the dead. And the smart-asses always want to know why you can’t just ask the “vic” who killed them and cut out the middleman.
Luckily, I’d been around the block with McElone a few times before and had prepared for the question. “You know I’m not supposed to say,” I told her. “But between us, I was hired by…”
I had timed it nicely, because that was when my phone chirped with the news of a text message coming from Mom. I pulled out the phone and opened it. The message read, “L sz 2 sk bt Melvin Brookman.” Mom has embraced the abbreviated language of texting; I am old-school and write full sentences. Mom’s next text read, “L sz his rl nm.” The lack of punctuation in texting is enough to drive me mad. The lack of vowels was worse. But it translated into “Lawrence says it’s his real name.” After a while, you get the hang of it. Sort of.
“How about a Melvin Brookman?” I asked McElone, while texting back to Mom, “Why?” I’m a multitasker.
McElone dutifully clicked away at her keyboard, waited a moment and nodded. “There’s a Melvin Brookman who died of arrhythmia in Manalapan last summer,” she said. “The ME’s report doesn’t really seem all that interesting. Heart problem. Found in the tub. No evidence of foul play. I can print out the pertinent parts if you want it.”
“I want it,” I said. “Thanks. Is the ME sure it was natural causes?”
She shrugged. “There’s nothing here to indicate there’s anything to be suspicious about.” She pulled a few pages out of her printer and handed them to me. “Now, are you done with your side job for today? Can I start doing some actual police work?”
“In this town? Did a rash of jaywalking break out all of a sudden? It’s winter. There’s nobody here.”
The phone buzzed, and Mom had texted back, “ts hs stg nm.” I had no idea what that meant and decided against texting while I stood to leave.
“There’s enough crime going on for us,” McElone said. “Besides, we have to dig out after that humongous blizzard we had last night.” She never even broke a smile.
“Thanks for the ME report,” I said.
“Don’t mention it,” McElone told me. “To anyone. Hey. You never answered me. Who’s your client on this?”
“Close relative of the deceased. That’s all I can say.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I think you’re wasting your time with this one. The guy died of natural causes.”
He says otherwise, I thought. Instead, I said, “I hope so,” thanked McElone again and walked outside.
Despite the lack of snow, it was still freezing cold, but the kind of debilitating, mind-numbing cold we tend to get with our hard ocean winds this time of year. Standing outside the police department building, I texted Mom, “What’s an stg nm?” And I’d like it pointed out for the record that I went the extra mile and used a real question mark.
Less than a minute later came her reply. “Stage name,” it read.
I returned home to check in with Nan and Morgan Henderson, who were not acting quite as much like they were in the care of a deranged person but appeared (Nan, anyway) disappointed not to be snowed in. They said they had decided to take the opportunity and visit Asbury Park (like many tourists, they wanted to go to the Stone Pony, under the mistaken assumption that it was the first place Bruce Springsteen ever played professionally, and I did not disabuse them of the assumption). That meant they’d be out until after dinner, which left me time to consider what the hell I was going to do about Melvin Brookman, aka Lawrence Laurentz, aka the nut who could reportedly lead me to my father.
“A stage name?” Paul asked. “Was this Laurentz fellow an actor?”
“I don’t think so,” I answered. “I’m taking a break from trying to decipher Mom’s texts, and I don’t have the strength to call right now. But from what he and Mom tell me, he was a ticket taker in Red Bank. Do you think it would work to widen this doorway?”
That last question was aimed at Maxie, who was hovering near the library ceiling in a horizontal position like Cleopatra on her barge. For all my reluctance to puff up her ego, Maxie had been an emerging interior designer when she died, and she’s got a talent for it. She likes to consult on any changes I make in the house, and I’ve given up being annoyed when her ideas are better than mine; it’s inefficient.
She put her hand to her chin in a (literally) transparent overdone dramatic gesture of thought. “It would open up the room,” she said, “but you don’t have a lot of space on either side. How about making the window larger instead? That would add light.”
Paul, trying hard to be the resident gumshoe, frowned at the turn the conversation was taking. “Then why would he have a stage name?” he asked, ignoring the topic Maxie and I had begun.
“I haven’t a clue. You have my notes—I couldn’t record him; you know that. He seems to have a view of himself that’s, let’s say, a little overinflated. He was probably an aspiring actor who lives with the fantasy.”
“Exists with the fantasy,” Paul corrected. He stroked his goatee, which he thinks is a sign that he’s deep in thought but which actually makes him look a little pretentious in a cute way, like a little boy who pretends to be a grown-up.
He looked up at Maxie. “What was your impression?” he asked.
Maxie looked surprised to be asked. “The guy’s hilarious,” she said. We waited, but that was it.
Paul turned his attention back to me, shaking his head slightly. “From your description, he sounds flamboyant but not delusional, as far as I can tell. There’s probably another explanation.”
I mulled a few thoughts over and turned toward Maxie. “The problem with putting in a larger window is that it would require outside work on the siding, which I don’t want to do in the winter, and this is supposed to be my winter project while I don’t have many guests. Besides, a bigger window cuts down on wall space, and in a library full of books, wall space is especially important.”
Maxie considered and nodded. “It would definitely require work outside and might be expensive,” she agreed. “Maybe better overhead lighting in the room itself? Recessed or track?”
Paul sig
hed loudly. It was a day, it seemed, for theatrical gestures from dead people. “Are you even paying attention?” he asked me. “We’re trying to investigate a murder here.”
“No,” I answered. “We’re investigating a death. There’s no evidence yet that this guy was actually murdered.” I turned back toward Maxie. “Yeah, but the room still feels a little tight and claustrophobic. I can’t move the walls, but I can widen the entrance. I’m going to ask Tony about it.”
Maxie scowled. “Do you have to?” she asked. Maxie doesn’t really get along with Tony Mandorisi, Jeannie’s husband and my contractor guru. It’s because Maxie first thought Tony was cute and flirted with him in a manner that seriously creeped Tony out. With good reason, I might add.
“I want to make sure I do it right, and the only other reliable contractor I know is my father,” I answered. Going again from ghost to ghost, I looked over at Paul. “I don’t suppose you’ve been able to raise my dad on the Ghosternet, have you?” I asked.
“Oh, am I still part of the conversation?” Paul pouted. Honestly, men. Don’t pay attention to them for six seconds and they think you’ve forgotten they exist. “No, I’ve tried to contact your father frequently since we met with your mother last night, and I’ve gotten no response. But that doesn’t really mean much. As you know, I’ve tried to get in touch with him before, and I’ve never really been able to establish a connection. My ability to communicate with other people like Maxie and me is still evolving, I suppose.”
“Well, keep trying. I need to know if this Laurentz guy is telling the truth about Dad.”
“Give me a day or two to think about it,” Maxie said, gesturing at the library door. “Maybe I can come up with something else.” I nodded, and Maxie vanished through the ceiling.
Paul cocked an eyebrow and considered me. “Can we go back to discussing the case now that your interior design seminar is over?” he asked.
“Don’t get snippy,” I told him. “It’s your fault I’m in this investigation business to begin with.”
“Some would see that as a good thing,” he answered. “But nonetheless. Given the interview you did with Lawrence and the information we have that he changed his name from Melvin Brookman, I think we have to consider another possibility.”
“It’s a stage name. The guy’s a kook,” I said. “Why do we need another possibility?”
Paul floated down to eye level to emphasize his point. “Melvin Brookman wasn’t an actor; he had no need for a stage name. Why does a person change his name?” he asked. I hate it when he asks a question in an effort to educate me. What I really hate about it is that he’s always right.
“Why does a person ask questions when he already knows the answer?” I countered.
“Alison.” Paul forced eye contact. “Why does a person change his name? Think.”
“Because he doesn’t like the old one,” I suggested. We’d known someone named Alice who’d changed her name to Arlice simply to be more exotic.
“Perhaps,” Paul said, clearly thinking that was not the reason in Melvin Brookman’s case. “What else?”
“For professional reasons?” That was an outright guess.
“Lawrence was, as you put it, a ticket taker in Red Bank, New Jersey. No one he worked with would even ask his name. What else?”
One of my tricks when trying to solve a problem was to think of something else, so I considered how long I had before I needed to go pick Melissa up from school. (If you’re interested, I had three hours and fifteen minutes.)
“Because he doesn’t want someone to know who he is,” I said. I have no idea where that came from.
Paul smiled, the successful teacher with a somewhat dim pupil who was finally grasping the concept. “And why would a man not want people to know his real name?” he rephrased.
I didn’t like the answer I was about to give. “Because he might have a criminal record,” I said.
“Excellent,” Paul beamed.
“Not really,” I answered. “That criminal is a ghost who spends a lot of time in my mother’s house.”
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.
“He died alone,” I said. “That means there has to be some report on it. It was about six months ago, at Whispering Lakes in Manalapan.”
McElone raised an eyebrow. “And you’re not talking to the Manalapan police because…?”
“Because I don’t know anyone there, but you know me and love me, and you’ll help me,” I told her.
“Well, I know you, anyway.” McElone and I have an interesting relationship: It’s not exactly a friendship, since we’ve never seen each other except about a crime. And it’s not really a professional interaction, since she’s a cop and I’m just an innkeeper with a private-investigator’s license. Not to mention McElone is fairly convinced that I’m a screwup who gets in the way a lot, which—if I’m being honest—is not all that far off the mark.
Let’s call it mutual respect. Without the “mutual” part.
“Could you please look up the medical examiner’s report?” I asked. “There has to be one.”
McElone would have rolled her eyes if she were any less dignified. Instead, she simply gave me a look indicating her day would be considerably easier if I’d just go away. “I told you. I already looked it up. There’s no report of a Lawrence Laurentz dying in Manalapan. Is it possible you spelled the name wrong or something?”
That hadn’t occurred to me. “Let me check,” I told her, and got out my phone. Lawrence had promised to stay at Mom’s until I could check in, so I texted my mother (we’re so twenty-first century) and asked her to pass on the question.
“Why are you looking into this?” McElone asked me while we waited for the reply from Mom. “Who’s your client?”
This is always a tricky question when dealing with a client who is, technically, deceased. Police officers—especially McElone, who avoids coming to my house because she says it “creeps her out”—tend to look askance at someone who says she communicates with the dead. And the smart-asses always want to know why you can’t just ask the “vic” who killed them and cut out the middleman.
Luckily, I’d been around the block with McElone a few times before and had prepared for the question. “You know I’m not supposed to say,” I told her. “But between us, I was hired by…”
I had timed it nicely, because that was when my phone chirped with the news of a text message coming from Mom. I pulled out the phone and opened it. The message read, “L sz 2 sk bt Melvin Brookman.” Mom has embraced the abbreviated language of texting; I am old-school and write full sentences. Mom’s next text read, “L sz his rl nm.” The lack of punctuation in texting is enough to drive me mad. The lack of vowels was worse. But it translated into “Lawrence says it’s his real name.” After a while, you get the hang of it. Sort of.
“How about a Melvin Brookman?” I asked McElone, while texting back to Mom, “Why?” I’m a multitasker.
McElone dutifully clicked away at her keyboard, waited a moment and nodded. “There’s a Melvin Brookman who died of arrhythmia in Manalapan last summer,” she said. “The ME’s report doesn’t really seem all that interesting. Heart problem. Found in the tub. No evidence of foul play. I can print out the pertinent parts if you want it.”
“I want it,” I said. “Thanks. Is the ME sure it was natural causes?”
She shrugged. “There’s nothing here to indicate there’s anything to be suspicious about.” She pulled a few pages out of her printer and handed them to me. “Now, are you done with your side job for today? Can I start doing some actual police work?”
“In this town? Did a rash of jaywalking break out all of a sudden? It’s winter. There’s no
body here.”
The phone buzzed, and Mom had texted back, “ts hs stg nm.” I had no idea what that meant and decided against texting while I stood to leave.
“There’s enough crime going on for us,” McElone said. “Besides, we have to dig out after that humongous blizzard we had last night.” She never even broke a smile.
“Thanks for the ME report,” I said.
“Don’t mention it,” McElone told me. “To anyone. Hey. You never answered me. Who’s your client on this?”
“Close relative of the deceased. That’s all I can say.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I think you’re wasting your time with this one. The guy died of natural causes.”
He says otherwise, I thought. Instead, I said, “I hope so,” thanked McElone again and walked outside.
Despite the lack of snow, it was still freezing cold, but the kind of debilitating, mind-numbing cold we tend to get with our hard ocean winds this time of year. Standing outside the police department building, I texted Mom, “What’s an stg nm?” And I’d like it pointed out for the record that I went the extra mile and used a real question mark.
Less than a minute later came her reply. “Stage name,” it read.
I returned home to check in with Nan and Morgan Henderson, who were not acting quite as much like they were in the care of a deranged person but appeared (Nan, anyway) disappointed not to be snowed in. They said they had decided to take the opportunity and visit Asbury Park (like many tourists, they wanted to go to the Stone Pony, under the mistaken assumption that it was the first place Bruce Springsteen ever played professionally, and I did not disabuse them of the assumption). That meant they’d be out until after dinner, which left me time to consider what the hell I was going to do about Melvin Brookman, aka Lawrence Laurentz, aka the nut who could reportedly lead me to my father.
“A stage name?” Paul asked. “Was this Laurentz fellow an actor?”
“I don’t think so,” I answered. “I’m taking a break from trying to decipher Mom’s texts, and I don’t have the strength to call right now. But from what he and Mom tell me, he was a ticket taker in Red Bank. Do you think it would work to widen this doorway?”
Chance of a Ghost Page 10
