Chance of a Ghost

by E. J. Copperman

  I chose not to listen to the rest of the conversation (Maxie has a way of convincing Melissa that everything is my fault) and pondered Liss’s original question: How was this getting me any closer to finding Dad or figuring out exactly what was going on with him? And when I searched my heart, the fact was, I cared more about that than I did about what happened to Lawrence Laurentz. I know; I’m a bad person and a lousy private investigator. I have never suspected otherwise.

  After I dropped Melissa off at the bowling alley (where her mood immediately brightened when she saw Wendy and a couple of her other friends and went giddily inside), Maxie slithered up into the front seat and sighed contentedly.

  “So,” she said. “Where are we going now?”

  Before I could answer her or even move the car out of park, my cell phone rang, with a number I didn’t recognize in the caller ID. I hesitated, but put the call on speaker to be hands-free. And got an earful of an angry Tyra Carter.

  “What are you doing talking to Penny Fields about me?” she demanded. “How am I supposed to get my job back if I’m being bad-mouthed behind my back?”

  “Since when do you want your job back?” I asked.

  “I don’t make enough money. I need that job back. So how come you’re bad-mouthing me to Penny?”

  “I’m not.” I thought back over the sequence of events. “Wait. I never even mentioned your name to Penny Fields—she gave your name to me! What are you talking about? How did you get my number?”

  Maxie seemed amused, which was not at all unusual when I was made uncomfortable.

  “You gave me a business card,” Tyra shot back. “The point is, how come you were talking to Penny Fields about me?”

  I took a deep breath and thanked myself for not putting the car in gear. “Listen carefully, Tyra. The only time your name came up in my conversation with Penny was when she brought it up. I’d never heard of you before then, and I haven’t talked to Penny since I met you. So what makes you think that I’m talking about you behind your back?”

  “All I know is that before you talked to Penny, she said I had a chance to come back and work at the theater, and now she says they’re full up and there are no jobs available. Does she think I don’t talk to the people on staff there? She has a job available—she just doesn’t want to give it to me! It’s got to be because of something you said.”

  “Look,” I said. “Do you want me to call Penny and ask her? Because I’m telling you, I never…”

  “No, I don’t want you calling Penny!” I pictured Tyra, all six feet of her, standing up with that headset on, looking angry. It was not a comforting image. “Lord knows what you’ll tell her this time. But mark my words: If I have to spend the rest of my life trying to tell people how to inflate their tires, you had better start looking over your shoulder, because one day, I’ll be behind you.” She hung up.

  I looked at Maxie, who was not attempting to conceal her glee. “Shut up,” I said.

  “I’m not saying anything.”

  I decided while I was parked there to take Frances Walters up on her offer and called her. She knew the people involved better than I did, after all. I told her about Tyra’s call and asked her what she thought it meant.

  Frances was silent for a long moment, and I didn’t get the sense it was because she didn’t have an opinion, but because she wasn’t sure exactly how she wanted to express it. “I think it means that you should be very careful,” she said. “Tyra has something of a temper, and she can still be extremely physical.” That didn’t sound good.

  “Still?” I asked. “What do you mean, still?”

  This time I got the impression the pause was because Frances was trying to determine exactly how stupid I might be. “You know about Tyra, don’t you?” she asked. Sort of asked. More like insisted.

  “I’m guessing I don’t. What do I need to know?”

  “You’re not driving, are you?” Frances could tell I was calling on a cell phone. I assured her I was parked (we still hadn’t had a chance to leave the bowling alley parking lot) and able to withstand any shock. “Well, the fact is, until about a year ago, Tyra Carter was Tyrone Carter.”

  “She’s a transsexual?” If it was true, I had to admit her doctors had done admirable work. You’d only know because of her size and to some extent her voice, if you were more observant about those kinds of things than I was, clearly.

  “Yes. And before she managed to come to terms with her gender, Tyra told me that she was a rather, well, excitable man who would occasionally act out his emotional frustration physically.”

  “Tyrone was violent?”

  “Yes, according to Tyra. She never did any jail time or anything like that, but there were arrests after the occasional bar fight. Tyra says it stopped when she learned to go to different bars and says she hasn’t had any violent feelings since she finally decided to go for gender reassignment.”

  I moaned. Now I had to actually worry about Tyra’s threats that she’d dog my tracks. I thanked Frances for her help and disconnected the call. “Let’s go somewhere safe,” I said, more to myself than to Maxie.

  “Like where?” she asked.

  “The only logical place to go,” I said. “A paint store in Asbury Park. Time to put you to work.”

  Madison Paint had not altered much since I’d last been there, and yet it had changed, or I had; it was like going to your childhood home and realizing it’s much smaller than you remembered. The colorful sign hanging on the front of the store was a little shabbier now, illuminated a touch less completely. But the primary colors behind the letters P-A-I-N-T were still clean and joyful, inviting the customer in to bring a little variety of color into his life.

  Inside, the place was a paint store like most others that weren’t part of huge home improvement superstores (and I would know, since I used to work at one of those). It smelled slightly of, well, paint, a smell some people don’t like but I do. Whenever Dad was painting a room in our house, even before I was old enough to help, I had a sense of anticipation—that things were going to look new and different. The smell was part of that excitement. I’ve always loved it.

  Inside, the shelves were stacked, though not with gallons of different colors anymore. As Josh Kaplan—grandson of Sy Kaplan, the owner—was telling me, the procedure now was to stock various kinds of primer (essentially a colorless paint), find out exactly what hue the customer wanted and then add the color with a precise formula and mix it on what Josh called “the shaker,” a machine that did exactly that to a can of paint.

  “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.

  Eighteen

  By the time I picked Melissa up from the bowling party, Maxie and I had hashed, argued, questioned, puzzled and dissected the idea of the grumpy ghost’s knowing my name. She had said I was overemphasizing it (I believe her words included the phrase “drama queen”), and that the old spirit had simply heard Josh Kaplan use my name and repeated it for effect. But I knew how it felt, and it felt like he was threatening everything I held at all dear in my life, and possibly to all life everywhere.

  Okay, maybe “drama duchess,” but that was as far as I was willing to go.

  Maxie was also appalled because after I’d texted Josh Kaplan my number, he’d called me almost immediately, and we’d made plans to go out the following evening (he closed the store early on Sundays). He’d pick me up at the guesthouse and we’d “discuss my memoir,” which I was starting to think could become code for something else.

  The one thing Maxie and I had agreed upon was not to mention the angry ghost to Melissa, who could put on quite a show of being self-possessed but was in reality still only ten years old. There had been no argument about that.

  But I sure as hell was going to tell Paul the first chance I got.

  Despite having complained about going to Justin Krenshaw’s birthday bowling party, Melissa seemed reluctant to get into the Volvo to come home. This was partially understandable, as all her friends were standing in the frigid parking lot laughing and gabbing and also because the Volvo’s heating system was roughly as efficient as the United States Congress, which is to say it made a lot of noise but got very little done.

  But Liss’s hesitation turned out to be less about hanging around and more about a possible sleepover at Janine’s
house that she hadn’t known about until the sixth frame of the second game. “They asked me, but I’m not sure they really want me to go,” she said. “Should I say no?” I should point out that at no time was permission to go to a sleepover that night with no prior notice an issue. I’m a fun mom.

  “You have to go,” Maxie suggested. “If you don’t, they’ll talk about you.”

  “Go, but only if you want to,” I countered as quickly as I could. “Don’t worry about why you were invited; the point is, you were invited. They wouldn’t ask if they didn’t want you to come.”

  “Hmmph,” Maxie snorted.

  In the end, of course, it was decided that Liss would spend the night at Janine’s, which had been hastily arranged but okayed by Janine’s mother, Kate. But first we had to go back to the house so that she could gather her sleepover equipment and I could check on my guests. I lit a fire in the fireplace in the den to try to heat the house a little and went to greet the Hendersons.

  As advertised, now that I’d delivered Morgan’s hearing aids, he was a changed man. He still seemed to have to strain a little to hear conversation, but his demeanor was much less dour, and he could converse almost seamlessly. I wished I had known the devices had been on their way from the beginning, but Nan told me that Morgan was still vain about the hearing aids and hadn’t wanted to mention what was in the box at all.

  They had just returned from a long trip to the site of the Lindbergh baby kidnapping near Princeton, almost entirely on the other side of the state, and so were especially tired. I offered to order them in something to eat, but they said after a short rest stop, they intended to revisit one of the local restaurants they’d especially enjoyed. It was one that pays me a percentage for sending guests their way (with a ten percent discount for the diners), so I didn’t argue too strenuously against their plan.

  I did, however, resolve to ask Morgan for advice on my investigation into Lawrence’s death as soon as there was a natural opening in our conversation. You can’t rush these things when you’re the innkeeper, I thought.