Chance of a Ghost

by E. J. Copperman

  “Got into the family business,” Josh, a tall, curly-haired guy with an ingratiating smile, told me with a light laugh, “after an MBA from Drexel. You can imagine how thrilled my parents are.”

  I was afraid to ask, but it was sort of central to the reason I was there. “But your grandfather. He’s…”

  Josh grinned. “Oh, he’s very much alive,” he assured me. “He’s ninety-one years old now, so doesn’t come into the store on Saturday or Sunday. Says he’s semiretired.” He shook his head. “He’s quite a guy.”

  Maxie, who had followed me inside, was eyeing Josh with something uncomfortably resembling hunger. She muttered, “He’s not the only one.” I shot her a scolding look, and she stuck her tongue out at me. This is the level of maturity I live with on a daily basis.

  Paul had instructed Maxie to fly through the store, looking for signs Dad had been there. This had been one of his favorite places on earth; he might be using it as a refuge. She materialized through a shelf of spackling just as I was introducing myself to Josh and shook her head.

  “I’m betting you’re not here to talk about my grandfather,” Josh said.

  “Actually, I sort of am,” I answered.

  It was possible Dad was hiding in a part of his life that Mom wouldn’t know well. I needed to talk to someone who would have those insights. Sy Kaplan was that guy, but he wasn’t here today.

  Neither was Dad, at least not visibly. And it seemed Maxie was saying he wasn’t here invisibly, either.

  There were, however, two other ghosts hanging around: One was a woman in overalls who wasn’t even looking at us, but was reading a newspaper that appeared to be vintage about 1955 or so; the other had the look of someone who had never had a good day in his life and was extending that streak into eternity. He was a man in his seventies or eighties, dressed in dark clothing that was of recent, if not current, vintage. If I hadn’t been looking for my dad, I probably wouldn’t have even noticed, either—it’s gotten to a point where I expect to see spirits whenever I go out, so I didn’t really pay much attention to these two.

  “You see,” I continued, giving Josh my hastily constructed cover story as Maxie seemed to size him up for some lascivious purpose, “I’m writing a memoir about my father, and this was one of his favorite places to hang out. So I was hoping to run into your grandfather for a few reminiscences, you know what I mean?”

  He squinted at me, as if I were a long distance away or standing directly in the path of the sun. “Oh, Alison Kerby! Of course! You used to come here with your dad! I remember you from when we were kids.”

  Maxie got a really nasty grin on her face; she was trying to figure out how this connection could best be used to humiliate me. But I was busy trying to think back. And I’m sure my face took on the same squint-through-time expression Josh’s had just exhibited.

  When it finally hit me, I actually went so far as to point at him, as if he wasn’t sure he was there. “Joshie!” I shouted. “I remember! You used to crawl your way out of the bottom bins when Sy was stocking Spackle!”

  Josh smiled. “You mean when I was stocking Spackle. It’s so good to see you again.” He reached out and took my hand, and Maxie’s face went from gleeful anticipation to sour disappointment. “But no one’s called me ‘Joshie’ for about twenty years.”

  “Sorry about that.” Neither of us had let go of the other’s hand yet. I wasn’t rushing.

  “It’s okay.” Josh finally let go, which wasn’t as awkward as it should have been. “I could get Gramp on the phone for you if it’s important.”

  Maxie seemed distracted now by the two other ghosts in the room, specifically by the grumpy-looking one. She tried to get between the grumpy ghost and me, but he simply shifted position to continue glaring at me as if I’d insulted him, badly, at some recent moment. “What are you looking at?” she demanded of him, but Grumpy simply glared and remained silent.

  “No, that won’t…be necessary,” I said to Josh, remembering he’d just offered to call Sy for me. “I can come back sometime when he’s here.”

  “That would be nice,” Josh answered. “I mean, I’m sure he’d enjoy that. Your dad was a favorite of his. We were sorry to hear about his passing.”

  “Thank you,” I said, because that’s what you say when people tell you something like that. “Dad loved nothing better than hanging around here with Sy and the other painters. I never heard him laugh so much.”

  Maxie, waving her hands in front of Grumpy’s face, yelled, “Hey! Grim Reaper! What is your problem?” But the dour man never broke eye contact and never said a word.

  “I remember a few things,” Josh offered. “Maybe I could tell you a few stories about your dad from back then. Would that help your memoir?”

  “My…” Oh, yeah! “Yes, oh yes, absolutely, that would be great! What can you tell me?”

  The bells on the front door of the store jingled, indicating a customer was entering the place. Josh looked up and excused himself for a moment, then walked to the front of the store, where I saw a woman perusing the color sample cards for the shade she wanted.

  Finally, as quietly and unobtrusively as I could, I looked up at Maxie and asked, “No Dad?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “I saw some shoes going through the roof, but by the time I got out there, whoever it was had gone. Nothing else.”

  The glare from the angry ghost was distracting me. I look up and asked, “Can I help you with something?”

  Maxie got between us, but her movement did not distract the ghost from the staring contest he appeared to think we were having, as he could look through her. But I didn’t get to ask him anything else because Josh had quickly returned from the front of the store.

  “I’m sorry, but this is going to take some time,” he said.

  “Don’t be sorry. This is your business. I’m taking up your time. I tell you what; I’ll come back when your grandfather is here, during the week.” I really just wanted to get out of the line of that ghost’s hostile glare so I could think clearly. This guy was really spooking me out, and given my usual circumstances, that’s saying something.

  Maxie reached over and pulled off the grim ghost’s black hat. Nothing; he didn’t even try to reach for it back. “Geez!” she hollered.

  I decided it was time to make a run for it. “Thanks,” I said to Josh. “Should I call before I show up next time?”

  He took hold of my arm gently as I walked by. “Wait,” he said. “Maybe I could still tell you some of those stories about your dad. Like”—he looked away, in a shy sort of maneuver—“over dinner or something.”

  “Oh man!” Maxie hollered. “He’s asking you out on a date!” She turned toward Grumpy. “Do you see this?” He, of course, did not respond. “I know!” Maxie answered.

  I chose to ignore their antics. “I’d really like that,” I told Josh, and he smiled at me. I picked up a business card from the desk with his name on it. “I’ll text you my cell number and we can figure out a time and place.”

  “That’s so twenty-first century,” he said. “I like it.” Then he went to attend to his customer, who was choosing among about seventeen shades of mauve.

  As I turned to leave, I could sort of feel Maxie falling in behind me, muttering to herself about how a guy like that could ask me out. Like she’d had a chance.

  But I decided to take one last parting glance at the angry-looking gentleman floating near the back window of the store. And sure enough, he was still there, still staring and still looking like I’d stolen his lunch money and called him a name. He narrowed his eyes as I moved away, and just as I was leaving the store, I heard him whisper: “Alison.”

  I ran. From the safest place I could think to have gone.

  Seventeen

  Saturday

  “A bunch of senior citizens stripping down to do Hair?” Phyllis Coates, editor and owner of the Harbor Haven Chronicle, threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, I can’t believe I missed that one!”


  “Can you find out about it?” I asked.

  Phyllis, as I’d expected, looked at me with mock disdain. “Can I find out about it?” she echoed. “Whom do you think you’re talking to?” Phyllis, a longtime veteran of the New York Daily News, had bought the Chronicle as her “retirement plan,” and prided herself on being a tough, fair street reporter. The fact that she was probably old enough to be my mother (and had been my first employer when I was a paper delivery girl at thirteen) was irrelevant.

  “I think I’m talking to someone really talented and smart who could do me a great favor if she were so inclined,” I answered. “How am I doing so far?”

  Phyllis chuckled. We were standing in her office, which took up only a small section of the overall Chronicle work space, despite the fact that Phyllis was the only full-time employee of the paper. You’d think her work area would take a somewhat higher priority, but the “outside,” as she called it, housed all her previously published issues (aka “the Morgue”), plus advertising brochures, two light tables for studying photographs—Phyllis was just now starting to go digital—and all sorts of other dusty equipment I couldn’t identify.

  “Not bad,” she responded. “Flattery will get you everywhere. Tell me, why are you so interested in this geriatric love-in?” She pulled a pencil out from behind her ear and looked on her desk—which was buried under mountains of paper—for a scrap on which to take notes. Phyllis didn’t mind doing some digging for me, as long as she got a story out of it.

  I explained the situation briefly, without mentioning any dead people I’d talked to recently. “If I can find out who was arrested and if some people took it more personally than others, it might point me in a direction in the case,” I told her.

  Phyllis narrowed her eyes, thinking. “You’re sure this Laurentz guy was murdered?” she said. “You said the ME’s report shows an arrhythmia. People do die from those, you know.”

  “Actually, I’m not sure,” I said. “If I were sure one way or the other, this would be a lot easier. But until I can verify it was natural causes, I have to assume it was a murder, or I have nothing to investigate. Is this coffee from today?” I pointed at the half-full pot on her hot plate, which was inadvisably close to one of the many stacks of papers in the tiny office.

  Phyllis looked, as if the coffeepot’s appearance would give her a clue to its most recent activity. “Today or yesterday,” she said off handedly. I decided not to chance it.

  I gave her the date of the Hair performance and also the location: Cedar Crest, a forty-minute drive from Harbor Haven but close to the Freehold area where most of the New Old Thespians lived. Phyllis took note of all of it, then poured herself a cup of the suspect coffee—she’s always been braver than I—sat down behind her incredibly unkempt desk and surveyed me closely.

  “What’s the problem, sweetie?” she asked out of nowhere.

  That stumped me. “Problem? I told you. I need to find out about what happened to Lawrence Laurentz.”

  “Who do you think you’re talking to?” Phyllis demanded. “We’ve known each other a long time.”

  “I don’t have other problems, Phyllis. I’d tell you.” I didn’t have problems I wanted to think about, anyway….

  “You’re acting funny,” she said, then added—not leaving time for me to make a remark about how nobody was laughing—“You’re hesitant when you should be enthusiastic yet you’re rushing into something when you don’t have all the facts. You don’t know if this guy was murdered. You don’t know why someone would want to murder him. I don’t mind helping as long as I can get an article out of it, but this doesn’t seem like you. Is there something else on your mind?”

  “It’s about my dad,” I said quietly, surprising myself. I’d had no idea that was going to come out of my mouth.

  Phyllis’s eyes got sad. “He’s been gone a few years now,” she said.

  I nodded. “Five years. And I know I’m supposed to have moved on by now, but I don’t think I have. And this thing with Lawrence Laurentz feels connected to him somehow.” I couldn’t say it was because Lawrence’s ghost had insisted Dad was involved. “It’s gotten me thinking about him a lot.”

  Phyllis drank some of the coffee and barely grimaced at the way it must have tasted. She looked me straight in the eye. “You never get over a loss like that,” she said. “Don’t believe what people tell you; you don’t. And every once in a while, he’s going to pop into your mind and make you sad that he’s not here. You have to expect that once in a while.”

  Suddenly I was fighting back tears, successfully, but just barely. “I know. The logical part of my brain is aware of that. But that doesn’t make it hurt less.” I could also have mentioned that I was upset with my father for not coming to visit me and his granddaughter after he was dead, but making Phyllis think I was crazy didn’t really seem like it would be a huge help.

  “You know, I think I have a few clips about your dad in the…archives,” she said, tactfully avoiding the word morgue. “Come back in a couple of days, and I’ll put something together for you to remember him by when you choose to do so.”

  At that second, my battle with the tears was lost. I sniffled, let a few drops go from my eyes, but managed not to break down in loud sobs, which I suppose was a pyrrhic victory. “You’re a good person, Phyllis.”

  She patted me on the shoulder. “I know,” she said. “But don’t spread it around. I have a reputation to uphold.”

  Paul was right: Later that day, while I was driving home, Jerry Rasmussen called to apologize for what he described as “my regrettable behavior when we met yesterday.”

  “I don’t think you need to apologize,” I said, having rehearsed for this once Paul had suggested the situation could arise. “You were upset, and I was saying things that would rightly upset many people.” The Bluetooth I was wearing made it sound like Jerry was in Siberia, but luckily, the drive from the Chronicle office to the guesthouse would be short. That was lucky, too, because the cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee I had in the cup holder (I just wasn’t brave enough for Phyllis’s coffee) would probably be an iced coffee by the time I arrived home.

  “Still,” Jerry said, apparently trying to convince me that he was indeed an awful person, “I attacked the messenger when it was the message I found objectionable. I regret my actions, and I wonder how I might make it up to you.”

  I wouldn’t have seen that one coming if Paul hadn’t exhibited better foresight than I and had already coached me on a proper answer. “Well, you could answer a couple of questions I still need to figure out,” I said. “For example, how many of the other New Old Thespians lived in Whispering Lakes, like you and Mr. Laurentz?”

  “Well, the group’s genesis was actually here,” Jerry answered. “Besides Larry, I’m not sure if you met Frances Walters. She lives there.” I hadn’t told Jerry that Frances had given me his name because I didn’t want him to resent her sending a private eye after him—I’d told him only that I’d gotten his address from “another member of the group.” This might have been his attempt to confirm it had been Frances, but I wasn’t biting, so he hesitated and then went on. “At the time, Marion O’Day was here, too, but she’s since moved to Taos, New Mexico, to live with her daughter. And Barney Lester passed away just a few weeks ago.”

  Uh-oh. “I’m so sorry to hear that. What happened?” I asked.

  “Heart,” Jerry sighed. “He’d been frail for a long time. I don’t think he appeared in a production for more than a year.” Well before Lawrence died.

  “One other thing,” I moved on. “Can you think of a reason someone would want to be rid of Mr. Laurentz?”

  “I can think of thousands.” Droll.

  “Do you know if he left a large estate? Money, property, anything like that?”

  “You haven’t checked on such things?” he asked, unimpressed with me.

  “An investigator asks the same questions sometimes to see what answers she’ll get,” I explained, parrotin
g something Paul had told me. “So, Mr. Laurentz’s estate?”

  “You’d have to ask his accountant,” Jerry sniffed. “The man was a ticket seller at a regional theater. I doubt he was sitting on the Hope Diamond and waiting for the right moment to cash in.”

  As apologies went, it left me just a little unsatisfied.

  “I don’t see how this is getting us closer to Grampa,” Melissa argued. I was driving her to a bowling party for one of her friends from school, and gift in hand, she was still complaining about not doing any investigating today. Meanwhile, my new “official” assistant, Jeannie, had begged off for the day, saying she didn’t work weekends, which was not making her husband, Tony, happy. “You and Jeannie talked to a bunch of people yesterday, I talked to Lieutenant McElone, but even if we find out what happened to Mr. Laurentz, how does that help us get Grampa to come back?”

  “That is a good question,” I admitted. “But I don’t have an answer for you now.”

  “I don’t see why I have to sit in the backseat,” Maxie interjected. This time, I’d actually asked her to come along, as per Paul’s suggestion. She’d have work to do.

  “I’m going to see if Phyllis gets anywhere with the theater troupe arrest angle,” I told Liss, doing my best to ignore the dead woman in the car with us. “There’s nowhere to go with the medical examiner’s report. I can go back and question some of the people I’ve already questioned—especially Penny Fields, now that I know she found Lawrence’s body—but I don’t know if I’m going to do that today. So that’s where we stand in the investigation.”

  “So why am I going bowling for Justin Krenshaw’s birthday?” Melissa moaned.

  “You like bowling.”

  “I don’t like Justin Krenshaw.”

  “Then why are you going to his birthday party?” Maxie asked.

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” Liss answered.

  “You were invited,” I reminded her.

  “Hmmph.” That was Maxie, not Melissa. Occasionally I wonder which one is more mature. The rest of the time, I’m positive it’s Melissa.