Chance of a Ghost

by E. J. Copperman

  Josh stood on the doorstep holding two bottles of wine, one white, one red.

  “I didn’t know what we were eating,” he said. “So I brought both.”

  “You should have drunk them both,” I told him. “You don’t know what you’re in for.” He grinned and we walked inside. He must have thought I was kidding.

  Josh didn’t even look all that overwhelmed when the throng, which had moved into the den, descended upon us like teenage girls around the Beatles in A Hard Day’s Night. There was slightly less screaming but only because Jeannie was busy changing Oliver as a ploy to get him out of the “dangerous” swing. Melissa waited until Josh’s attention was elsewhere and gave me a thumbs-up, which was befitting someone of her age but not her maturity level. Mom winked, which I won’t even discuss.

  Introductions were made all around, except for the ghosts, for obvious reasons—though Maxie continued to look at Josh the way she might have looked at a juicy steak when she was alive (I’m assuming).

  Paul, who has had jealousy issues whenever I have shown even passing interest in a breathing man, hovered in a corner and stroked his goatee, but he did not look particularly peeved, which was really all I’d have asked.

  Nan and Morgan were cordial. Morgan was probably catching every other sentence, since ambient noise is a problem even with hearing aids, and stood there with a fake smile plastered on his face while Nan exchanged the requisite pleasantries. Tony assessed Josh coolly. He tends to act like a father figure when I least require one, but he smiled and shook Josh’s hand, apparently deeming his grip acceptable. I’m not sure, but I think Josh probably expected someone to check his teeth by now. So far, things were going fine. Being me, I expected to hear an entire Payless store drop shoes any second.

  We grow sunny dispositions in New Jersey.

  Mom had timed the dinner perfectly, and we sat down to pot roast, sautéed onions, asparagus, salad (I had contributed by putting baby carrots on top, the one thing Mom trusted me to do), rice pilaf and sourdough bread. Still, she apologized for, as she put it, “the rushed dinner.”

  “It’s delicious, Mrs. Kerby,” Josh volunteered. “I can’t imagine anything being better prepared.” His parents were right; he was wasting his talents in the paint store. He should have been involved somehow in diplomacy.

  Mom blushed.

  “What version of Peter Pan is the one they’re doing?” Melissa wanted to know, perhaps trying to give Josh a break from the constant scrutiny. She’s a sensitive girl.

  “It’s one Jerry Rasmussen wrote himself,” I told her, omitting the eye-rolling that Lawrence had performed when passing the information on to me. “Apparently he writes music and lyrics, too.” Okay, so it was hard not to eye-roll.

  “Uh-oh,” Jeannie intoned. She was letting Tony feed Oliver, because Jeannie eats first. That’s the deal. You don’t get between Jeannie and her dinner. I’ve been there when some have tried; it wasn’t pretty. That’s all I’m saying.

  “Keep an open mind,” Mom said, sounding close to sincere. “You never know.”

  I would have joined in, but as good as Mom’s cooking is, my stomach was still a little nervous while I watched Josh take in the scene.

  “I can’t imagine what this one sees in you,” Maxie helpfully told me from her perch just to Josh’s right. “He cleans up nice.”

  “Are you a big Peter Pan fan, Melissa?” Josh asked. Rule number one of dating a single mom: Show interest in the child. Well played.

  “Not really,” Liss told him. “I’m more of a Star Trek fan. Or Harry Potter.”

  Josh nodded. “Both good.”

  Morgan, who had complimented Mom’s dinner (as had everyone else), found his way back into the conversation, clearly having missed much of what was being said. “Here’s what we should be looking for tonight,” he said out of the blue. “Any signs of tension between the group members would be interesting. But we also want to see if any of them tries to get some residents aside and talk privately.”

  I immediately looked to Josh. You never know how a guy will react to talk of cases and suspects. Some might be, let’s say, a little put off by the idea of a woman they’re dating being involved with violence and crime. They might feel the need to be the “protector” or to feel threatened that the woman is more macho than they might be.

  He was intent and hanging on every word, like it was the best movie he’d ever seen.

  “That would mean they were probably trying to sell some drugs, right?” Melissa asked. Criticize my parenting. I dare you. She’s intelligent and interested. Hasn’t had a nightmare in three years. Go ahead.

  Morgan nodded. He didn’t seem at all fazed that the question had come from a ten-year-old. To him, everybody thought like a cop, or should. “But I don’t want you anywhere near that, Melissa. You tell me or Nan or your mom if that happens, and we’ll deal with it, okay?” Liss nodded earnestly; she was going to follow Morgan’s orders because he commanded respect, and because she really was a smart kid who knew enough to be wary of anything shady.

  “Also,” Morgan continued, “I want you, Alison, to talk to Rasmussen and Tyra Carter, just so I can see their faces when you do.”

  “I’m not sure I want to ask Tyra anything even a little bit touchy,” I said, having cleaned my plate and noting that others had done the same. I nodded to Melissa, and we began to clear the table. We’d decided on no dessert right now, with the possibility of something after the play if it wasn’t too late.

  Josh asked no questions. He hadn’t heard some of these names before, but he was taking it all in. I assumed he’d ask me later what he needed to know.

  “You don’t have to ask her anything about Laurentz,” Morgan told me. “I just want to see her manner when you approach.” Paul, wanting as always to learn from a more experienced professional, pursed his lips—this was something he hadn’t thought of before.

  “Anything I should do, Morgan?” Jeannie asked. She was getting a little bit too into this detective sideline, I was starting to think.

  “Watch your baby,” Morgan answered. Shockingly, Jeannie looked a little disappointed. “If a situation arises, I’ll be sure to let you know what to do. That goes for everybody else here.” Josh looked a touch surprised, but he didn’t say anything and helped, over objections from Mom and myself, to clear the table and load the dishwasher. “You should all be watching for anything unusual, and let Alison or me know about it,” Morgan concluded.

  “Should we get going?” Mom asked.

  Many coats, sweaters and other garments were donned, and the party headed for my Volvo and Tony and Jeannie’s minivan. Paul stopped me as we were starting out, and called me over toward him.

  “One last thing you need to watch,” he said quietly. “Try to keep Melissa with Jeannie and Tony, and away from the others. Make the seating seem as if it’s a coincidence these people are all together.”

  That sounded ominous. “Why?” I asked.

  Paul looked just as ominous as he sounded. “Because none of the Thespians have ever seen you with anyone except your mother or Jeannie before. If someone there is a killer, and they think you’re getting too close, they’ll look to see who means something to you. Those are your weak spots, and they can be exploited.”

  I quickly tried to think of a way to dissuade Melissa from going, but there was no way she’d be talked out of it. I’d make sure she stayed close to Mom and away from me. “Gee, Paul, thanks a heap for that one,” I told the ghost.

  “Enjoy the show,” he said.

  Twenty-six

  I picked Melissa up at school and drove home, a place I felt like I hadn’t been in a very long time. We found Mom there with Paul and Maxie in the kitchen. My mother was already cooking, despite my having said I’d make dinner tonight for the large contingency coming to the show. Mom had seen me struggle with cooking before and was making a preemptive strike.

  I had spent the drive home on the phone with Murray Feldner, who once again seemed n
ot to understand why he shouldn’t be paid for something he hadn’t done. When I suggested I would be happy to pay him for not plowing my sidewalk if he would agree not to charge me when he did, he did not find the humor in my suggestion.

  “I don’t get it, Alison. We agreed on the rate when you called me the first time.”

  “That’s for plowing, Murray. You’re charging me for not plowing.”

  “Look,” he said, clearly on the road himself because there was a police siren in my phone and not in my vicinity, “if you don’t want to honor our agreement, I don’t see how we can honor your contract.”

  Melissa saw the look on my face and become very engrossed in her science notebook. It was the wonders of the Milky Way galaxy all the way home.

  Once there, Melissa stood by the stove and observed my mother closely. She loved watching Mom cook, probably because it was such a novel sight for her. Again, I hoped for Melissa’s sake that she’d inherit some of Mom’s skills in that area.

  Mom asked if there had been any further progress since we’d spoken. I didn’t want to mention my suspicion that Dr. Wells had had more to do with Dad’s death than simply signing the paperwork. The fact that Dr. Wells had been the only one in the room when Dad died, and that neither Mom nor I had requested an autopsy, would have made Mom feel guilty, and that wasn’t necessary. Whatever had happened to Dad, it certainly hadn’t been her fault.

  “Nothing we didn’t already know,” I said, which was technically true. Paul gave me a look that indicated he didn’t believe me, but he inclined his head toward Mom, who was concentrating on the stove, and I nodded back. We’d talk later.

  “Did you find anything on Dr. Wells?” I asked Maxie. Mom’s brow wrinkled a little, but I couldn’t completely hide my questions. She seemed to understand; she said nothing.

  “Haven’t had much time to look,” Maxie answered, a green visor appearing on her head, her hair moving back to form a bun. “But he wasn’t ever sued for malpractice or anything like that. What is it you want me to find?”

  I was saved from having to tell her I didn’t know the answer to the question because Nan and Morgan Henderson arrived, and from the canary-eating grin on Morgan’s face, had clearly unearthed some new information. As always when there was a police officer (or former police officer) around, Paul paid extra attention and Maxie looked bored.

  “Okay, out with it,” I told Morgan. “I take it you had a good day?”

  “Better than good,” Morgan said. “I think we have some stuff that will help. You’ll probably be able to make an arrest in a day or two.”

  “I’m private, Morgan. I couldn’t make an arrest if the killer showed up in my living room and confessed.” (Not that it had never happened…) “But I get what you mean.”

  Nan and Morgan took stools by the center island. I put out a plate of celery, carrots and slices of apple with a savory dip (it said it was savory on the package I’d picked up at the convenience store on the way home) and gave them drinks. Nan nibbled, but Morgan was too excited to eat, it seemed.

  “I spoke to Chief Daniels in Monroe,” he began. “He was more open with me than Officer Warrell was with you. The fact is, this group of actors has something of a reputation. It seems all the active adult communities like to book them, and it’s not because they put on such a great show.”

  “It’s because someone in the New Old Thespians has a connection to illegal blue pills,” I said. “The question was who snitched about the Viagra.”

  Morgan pointed at me and nodded his head, acknowledging my guess. Mom turned and gave Melissa a worried glance. Mom sometimes thinks I let Liss sit in on conversations I shouldn’t, but since Mom’s code of never thinking I do anything wrong is ingrained in her cerebral cortex, she can’t admit that, so she never says anything.

  “Not just Viagra,” Morgan said. “A number of different prescriptions. The word is that someone can acquire a number of drugs, not necessarily prescribed for the seniors in the communities, and when the actors come to put on their show, whoever it is can deliver the goods. So to speak.”

  “Did the Monroe cops find out who the connection is?” I asked. Paul nodded approvingly at the question; it was what he wanted to know, too. We both figured it was Frances or Jerry, but you had to be able to prove such things.

  But Morgan frowned and he shook his head. “They’d gotten this tip it was either Frances Walters or Jerry Rasmussen”—bingo!—“but they didn’t find any pills on them or anything else on any of the company members.”

  “Ask him if they searched the residents who attended the show,” Paul suggested, so I passed it along.

  Morgan looked impressed with my—that is, Paul’s—question. “No, and that was interesting,” he said. “I asked Chief Daniels about that, and he seemed embarrassed. They couldn’t arrest someone for possession of Viagra without finding the stash, so it’s possible the cops looking for a bust didn’t bother because they didn’t think it would do them any good.”

  “If they were looking for a bust, they were in the right place,” Maxie grinned. Everyone (who could see her) glared at her, and she put a hand to her mouth. “I mean, hey, they were all naked,” she added. We all went back to looking at Morgan, who didn’t appear to have noticed.

  “I also did some checking on some of the other people you mentioned, through the state police databases,” Morgan said. “Penny—not Penelope, mind you—Fields has never been arrested but was fingerprinted once when she was teaching a class at a public school in Westfield, which requires it. She didn’t appear to have a record of any kind.”

  “Wait,” I said, and told him that I’d discovered (through my diligent detective work, of course, and not from a ghost) that Penny and Lawrence had been involved romantically but that Lawrence was not a candidate for Viagra use because of his previous heart condition.

  “I’m not blaming anybody for the investigation,” I said. “I’m looking for someone to blame for Lawrence Laurentz’s death.”

  “Then you might want to take a look at this Tyra Carter,” Morgan suggested. And then he told me everything I already knew about Tyra, which he’d managed to get through use of the police computers in Monroe, and added, “When he was a guy, he was a pretty bad guy. Six arrests, no jail time, but he did break a guy’s jaw once.”

  “What about Jerry Rasmussen and Frances Walters?” I asked.

  “Rasmussen worked for thirty years for Johnson & Johnson in New Brunswick,” Morgan said, referring to a notepad he took out of his back pocket. “Something to do with marketing for the consumer products division. They don’t make Viagra, by the way. Married once, divorced after three years, has a son, no arrest records on him and no fingerprints before the arrest for public nudity. Joined this theater group six years ago, became its manager and”—here he mimed quotes— ‘artistic director’ two years ago. Not really a guy you like for the crime, if there was a crime. Same with Ms. Walters. Born Frances Nussbaum, married Philip Walters, who died a few years back, and Frances moved where she is now. Two sons: Barry, a pharmacist and Mark, an accountant. Barry lives in Livingston, Mark in Flagstaff, Arizona. Again, no prints on Frances; no record, and she never worked in a public school or other profession that would require it.

  “They’ve both been as close to off the radar as you can get, just by not misbehaving.”

  Mom checked her pot roast one last time and walked to the island, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “So there’s really no evidence that anyone killed Larry.” Mom apparently had now appointed herself a member of the detective agency I had been striving not to create.

  “That’s right,” Morgan agreed. “We might have some suspects, but we have no proof at all.”

  That was hardly encouraging.

  Jeannie and Tony arrived a few minutes later, carrying Oliver in the requisite car seat, just as Melissa was helping me set the kitchen table, the only one in the house large enough to accommodate all of us. We got them up to speed on the Laurentz investigation,
leaving out the odd messages left in my house. Once Oliver was happily ensconced in a baby swing I’d discovered in my basement among the toys I’d never gotten rid of (although Jeannie seemed slightly less happy, presumably counting ways this contraption could somehow be harmful to her son), Tony went back to contemplate the library doorway, looking for inspiration.

  The kitchen was quiet for a while, everyone was in one way or another lost in thought. Okay, Maxie was changing her toenail color every few seconds, but each of us has his or her unique method of thinking.

  Tony walked back in, shaking his head. “I just don’t see any way around those beams in your doorway,” he said. “I mean, it could be done, but not within your budget.”

  “You’re just trying to get out of our deal,” I teased him.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Never.”

  Just then the doorbell rang. It was the moment I’d been anticipating and in some ways dreading—Josh’s arrival and introduction to my motley crew—and my stomach turned around a couple of times as I walked to the door, having let Melissa know I’d handle this one myself (kids love to open the front door and will let absolutely anyone in).

  Josh stood on the doorstep holding two bottles of wine, one white, one red.

  “I didn’t know what we were eating,” he said. “So I brought both.”

  “You should have drunk them both,” I told him. “You don’t know what you’re in for.” He grinned and we walked inside. He must have thought I was kidding.

  Josh didn’t even look all that overwhelmed when the throng, which had moved into the den, descended upon us like teenage girls around the Beatles in A Hard Day’s Night. There was slightly less screaming but only because Jeannie was busy changing Oliver as a ploy to get him out of the “dangerous” swing. Melissa waited until Josh’s attention was elsewhere and gave me a thumbs-up, which was befitting someone of her age but not her maturity level. Mom winked, which I won’t even discuss.