“I couldn’t see over everybody’s backs,” Melissa said. “I was watching Maxie, because she was up near the ceiling.”
“Who’s Maxie?” Jeannie asked. Then she remembered, nodded, and condescendingly told Melissa, “Of course you did, honey.”
Tony gave me a significant look. He believes it’s easier to indulge Jeannie’s fantasy than to try to convince her otherwise. I was tired and upset and shook my head while I exhaled.
“I feel terrible. I invite Arlice here, and then this happens.” When you’re feeling sorry for yourself, the best thing is to sound pathetic when talking to your mother. She’ll always do what she can to make you feel better.
“Yes, I guess it could have been the closeness of the room that did it,” Mom said. “Or the excitement of the moment. You know, you were really putting on a show.”
Thanks, Mom.
“I don’t think it was anything like that,” Tony said. “I was looking at Arlice just before it happened. I did some contracting work for her a few years ago, and I was trying to catch her eye, say hello, you know. But she was enthralled. She looked very happy. And then something happened, her face changed, she started to turn behind her, and then she dropped.”
“What do you mean, something happened?” I asked.
“I don’t know. One second she was smiling, then she grimaced, like something hurt.”
“Like in her chest?” Melissa asked. Her health class, which the schools insist upon for one quarter of the year instead of letting kids run around in gym, had recently been tackling the issue of heart disease, because the fourth-graders didn’t have enough to be afraid of yet.
“No,” Tony said. “Something seemed to be hurting her, but she didn’t put her hand up to her chest. She looked behind her.”
“Go tell that to McElone or one of the cops,” I instructed him. “Right now.” The last thing I needed was for the detective to think I was letting someone hold back significant information.
“She’ll get to me,” Tony protested.
“NOW!”
Convinced, he walked over toward McElone.
The night progressed as McElone and two uniformed officers debriefed every person in the room. Slowly but surely, it started to empty out. She made a point of telling Trent that she wanted to see every frame his crew had shot, and after he protested that you didn’t measure digital video in frames, he agreed to turn over the footage. But he insisted that the police make copies and return it to Down the Shore before any news organization could get its hands on what he called his “exclusive intellectual property.”
A woman’s death was his intellectual property? The mind reeled.
After a while, the only ones left in the room were Melissa, Mom, Jeannie (protesting at how cops had held “an expectant mother in a crowded room for hours” despite her sitting on a very comfortable armchair), Tony and me.
And three ghosts, waiting for the cops to leave so we could talk and Jeannie could pretend they weren’t there.
By one o’clock in the morning, Melissa was asleep with her head on my lap (McElone had said she’d question her the next morning, but Liss wouldn’t go to bed), I was sitting on the area rug next to Jeannie’s chair, Mom was in another armchair facing it and Tony was standing. The ghosts were hovering overhead when McElone dismissed the two uniformed cops and walked over to our sorry crew.
I stood up, careful not to disturb Melissa, who slept right through. McElone and I are often at odds, although I think she’s a good cop and she thinks I’m . . . insane, and I didn’t want to give her the height advantage in my own den. “What have you found out, Detective?” I asked.
“You don’t seriously think I’d tell you?” she answered.
“No, but it was worth a shot.”
“Until we get a preliminary report from the medical examiner, I’m assuming this was a death due to natural causes. That means you’re free to continue having guests here and operating as a public convenience.” McElone said public convenience like she meant my place was a large restroom.
It brought out my natural Jersey antagonism. “That’s sweet of you,” I said in a voice dripping sarcasm.
“It’s also standard operating procedure. But if we find that there was any foul play involved, things might change quickly. Are any of your guests scheduled to leave tomorrow?”
“No. They’ll all be here until Wednesday.”
“All right. If anything that affects you comes up, I’ll let you know,” McElone said. “In the meantime, if you think of anything you saw or heard, or if one of your guests or . . . the television people . . . remembers anything, call me. You have my number?”
“Memorized. I’m thinking of putting you on speed dial.”
“Take a business card anyway,” she said, giving me one, and left, nodding toward Mom. McElone clearly believed in respecting her elders, if not their daughters.
As soon as the door closed behind her, I looked up at Tony. “Get this pregnant woman out of here,” I told him. “She needs her rest.”
Tony looked like he wanted to say something else, but he nodded. “Come on, Jeannie,” he said. “Alison says you need your rest.”
“She couldn’t have said that two hours ago?”
They headed for the door, and Tony made the “call me” sign with his hand as they left. And the second they were gone, I pointed my gaze upward, where Paul, Maxie and (presumably) Scott were hovering, looking like they were about to explode.
“Yes,” Paul told Scott. “They’re gone. Alison can talk now.” He looked down at me and scowled. “I’d been hoping to give Scott good news tonight,” he said.
“Well, he got good news,” I answered. “He didn’t kill Arlice.” Then I thought about seeing the red bandana behind her when she fell. “Did you?”
“Of course I didn’t!” the blind ghost shouted. “Why would I do such a thing? How would I do such a thing?”
“The old lady just keeled over,” Maxie said, as if we hadn’t all been thinking about what had happened for hours. “I guess it was just her time.”
“Just what time?” I asked. “Was it just your time?”
Maxie made a rude noise with her lips and vanished.
“You know, sometimes you’re too hard on Maxie,” Paul told me.
“Me? Arlice Crosby wasn’t just some old lady; she was a real living person until not too long ago. Maxie was the one being insensitive.”
Nobody said anything for a long moment. Melissa snored a little.
“I guess her heart just gave out,” Mom said to no one in particular.
“That’s not what Tony said,” I reminded her. “He thought she was taken by surprise somehow. It doesn’t make sense.”
“There wasn’t any blood. There wasn’t any wound. She wasn’t killed,” Paul said, and then shook his head. “There’s something very wrong with this.”
“I’m tired,” I told them. “I’m going to wake up Melissa so she can go up to sleep, and I’m going up, too. If you think of anything that explains what happened tonight, feel free to let me know in the morning.”
There were no further comments from the assembled group. Mom got up as I walked to where Melissa lay sleeping, and we admired my daughter together for a moment.
“She’s so dear,” Mom said. Grandmothers talk like that.
“I hate to disturb her,” I answered. “Do you think I can just leave her there on the floor until it’s time to get up for school?” Friday, now today, was still a school day, and Melissa didn’t like to miss for any reason, even if she was tired.
“I don’t know,” Mom said. “Some of your guests will probably be up before Melissa, and you don’t want them to wake her up early.”
I nodded; she was right. I bent down to pick up my daughter and tried to move both slowly and smoothly as I put my arms under her and scooped her up. Mom saw I had her safely in my arms and nodded a good-bye. She walked out the front door as I turned toward the stairway up to the bedrooms, noting that ten
-year-olds are not as light as five-year-olds.
But children aren’t quite as pliable as any of us would prefer, so Melissa woke up just a little as I was carrying her up the stairs. “Where’s the detective?” she asked hoarsely.
“She left, Liss. It’s very late at night.” I was trying to step as lightly as I could on each stair, especially the ones I’d had to repair when I was renovating the house last fall. “Go to sleep. You can brush your teeth in the morning.” So I’m a bad mother, and I promote tooth decay; go ahead, bring me up on charges.
“Did you tell her about the . . .” I couldn’t hear what Melissa was mumbling, but I decided it was best not to rouse her just to finish a sentence.
“Shh . . .”
She shook her head a little as we reached the top of the stairs, and I maneuvered her toward her bedroom. She was getting so big. Why can’t they stay tiny forever?
“Did you tell her about the lady?”
“What lady, honey?”
“The lady who bumped into Mrs. Crosby just before she fell over. Did you tell the detective about that?”
I opened the door to Melissa’s bedroom and lay her down on her bed. “What lady bumped into Mrs. Crosby?” I asked quietly. Maybe I hadn’t heard her right.
“The lady. She walked behind Mrs. Crosby just before she fell, and bumped into her in the back. The lady with one leg.”
Linda Jane Smith.
Nine
Melissa got up late for school the next morning, with just barely enough time to throw on clothes and be at the front door when her BFF Wendy’s mother picked her up. After everyone had gotten up and started the day and Melissa was safely at school, I called McElone. If she wanted to question my daughter, the detective would have to wait until after three o’clock.
But I’ll admit that while I was straightening up before most of the guests went out for breakfast, I was keeping an especially close eye on Linda Jane Smith.
She wasn’t doing anything special, just getting herself together to go out to the café for a muffin and coffee or something, but her every move seemed suspicious to me. Even putting on lipstick (just to go to the Harbor Haven Café?) looked odd.
And Linda Jane seemed to notice me noticing her. “Is something wrong, Alison?” she asked as she was adjusting the shoe on her artificial limb. “I didn’t freak you out when I told you about the leg yesterday, did I?”
“Oh no,” I replied, because in fact, I was not upset by her story so much as awed by it. “You didn’t freak me out. I guess I’m still unsettled because of what happened last night.”
“Yes, an awful thing. That poor woman. I guess when it’s your time, there’s nothing you can do about it.” Linda Jane shook her head, tsk-tsked a couple of times, and then headed out for a nice warm breakfast.
My newfound suspicions of Linda Jane were already working on my head—how could she be so casual after she might have done something nefarious toward the lovely Arlice Crosby last night? I wondered.
And then the good little angel on my shoulder asked, Would you be this sure Linda Jane had something to do with Arlice’s death if it hadn’t been Melissa who’d seen something? Little angels can be great big pains when they do stuff like that.
I didn’t ponder that any longer, because ten o’clock was already on the way, and I wanted to make sure Paul and Maxie hadn’t forgotten about their performance in the wake of the eventful night we’d had and the early morning that followed it.
To be honest, I also wanted to ask if they’d heard at all from the spirit of Arlice Crosby. There was so much she could clear up if she was around, and I’d certainly feel better about having invited her if I knew that, after dying, she was still all right.
Jim and Warren were in the library, for once not drinking beer. They were, in fact, having coffee and looking subdued. For them.
“Rough night,” Warren said when I poked my head in. “You must feel awful.”
“I do,” I admitted. “But there wasn’t anything I could have done about it.”
“Well, you could have stopped that kid from bopping her from behind,” Jim said. “You were the closest one, I guess.”
“What kid?” I, well, demanded. “What are you talking about?”
“You didn’t see it?” Jim asked. “That bikini bombshell from the TV show, Tiffney. The one with the . . .” He gestured with his hands in front of his chest.
“Arthritis?” I suggested.
“Exactly. She slithered up behind the poor lady while you were calling ghosts around, and did . . . something when she was there that made the lady turn around. Next thing I knew, the lady was on the floor, and then Linda Jane was trying to revive her.”
I sat down, a little overwhelmed. “Wait a second. You’re telling me that Tiffney did something to Arlice before she collapsed?”
Jim looked at Warren. “I’m speaking English, right?”
Warren nodded.
“Yup,” Jim said. “That’s what I’m saying.”
“So did you tell the police about that?”
They looked at each other.
“They didn’t actually ask,” Warren mumbled.
“But you just mentioned it to me,” I pointed out.
“You own the place. You need to know. We don’t have to talk to the cops, do we?”
There was no answer to that other than to point out that McElone could use that information as well, but the two men seemed so uncomfortable with the idea of the police that I didn’t press the issue. I had every intention of ratting them out to the cops the first chance I got, however, and foresaw a future for them that included yet more questioning from the local detective.
Now, I really had to find Paul and Maxie. Well, Paul.
I got up and excused myself and headed upstairs. The ghosts were most often to be found on the second floor this time of day, unless Maxie was in what she now referred to exclusively as her room, aka the attic, which I was still planning on converting into a usable space. She could deal with her adolescent temper tantrums once there was wallboard and a solid floor up there. Then, I was sure, she’d give in to the impulse to design the decorations for the suite, and I’d be gracious enough to allow her to consult on the matter. I could be generous when necessary. Unless, of course, she decided to thwart me at every turn and paint things bizarre colors or “lose” crucial tools.
Oh, it had happened before.
Truth be told, Maxie’s decorating ideas could be outré, but they were usually better than mine.
Before the guests had taken up residence, I could scream for Paul at the top of my lungs, and he would appear, looking sheepish, as if he should have known I wanted him before I called for him. Now, however, I had to be more circumspect in my search, because I needed to have a private conversation with Paul, not one that every guest in the house could hear. I walked up to the second floor, checked to make sure no one was in the hallway and said in a conversational tone, “Paul.”
No answer. I walked down the hall, passing two guest rooms that both had their doors closed (the Joneses, and Jim and Warren’s). When I got to the corner, I said Paul’s name again, and again was not rewarded with a response.
That was a little odd. So I made a right turn and continued on past Melissa’s bedroom and my own (the room for Bernice and the one ostensibly for the Down the Shore personalities were on the first floor, as far from each other as possible). Twice more, I said “Paul” as if in conversation, like I was mentioning a friend’s name to someone else. Once, I even pretended to laugh, in case anyone had overheard and thought I was talking to someone else.
I got to the emergency fire exit at the end of the hallway (municipal regulations, you know) and turned back. I frowned. It wasn’t that anything could actually happen to the ghosts, but it was unusual that I couldn’t find them when necessary. I looked down the empty hallway again.
“Paul.”
“Yes?” he asked from behind me. I screamed so loudly that a few moments later I actually saw
the Joneses’ door open, but no one looked out. Then the door closed, just as abruptly.
I turned to Paul. “Don’t do that!” I hissed at him.
“Do what?”
“Show up unexpectedly like that.” It was a losing argument, and I knew it, but it had to be played out.
“You called me. Wouldn’t you expect me to answer?” See what I mean?
“Whatever. Listen, have you heard anything from Arlice Crosby yet?”
He gave me an odd look. “Not even a postcard. Why?”
“I’m not sure that what happened last night was a heart attack. And I thought if she had shown up—you know, like you—maybe you could contact her on the Ghosternet.”
Paul’s face had gotten serious when I’d mentioned my suspicions, and now he nodded. “I’ll give it a try later. But I’m pretty sure it took some time for Maxie and me to become like we are. A few days, at least, by my judgment.”
“Okay. Listen. I have a detective question for you.”
Paul brightened visibly; he loved to be consulted on investigative business. “How can I help?” he asked as earnestly as possible.
I quickly explained the stories I’d gotten from Melissa and Jim about Arlice’s sudden death. Paul listened well; he put his fingers together in a pyramid and watched my face as I spoke. He nodded a few times but never betrayed any surprise, even when I mentioned the dueling observations and how neither of them explained Arlice’s death, but that both pointed to something other than a naturally induced heart attack.
When I was finished with my epic tale, I waited for Paul to digest the information. He didn’t say anything, so I finally asked, “What do you think I should do?”
“That’s simple enough,” Paul answered. “You tell Detective McElone what you just told me. Then she investigates. Your responsibility in this affair is completed; you have no client to serve.”
“But it happened in my house, under my roof, to a guest I invited,” I argued. Later, I’d have time to note that it was usually Paul trying to talk me into investigating something, and not the other way around. But at the moment, I was simply puzzled and irritated that Paul wasn’t picking up on my sense of outrage.
An Uninvited Ghost Page 8
