by Terri Reid
She scooted up in her bed, wiped the sleep from her eyes and focused on the translucent apparition. A car passed by her house and its headlights briefly illuminated the room. It was enough light for Maggie to see the ghost’s features clearly and her little heart broke. “Mr. Rupp?” she asked sadly. “Is that you?”
“Maggie,” he repeated. “I’m lost. I don’t understand.”
“Mr. Rupp, you’re a ghost,” she explained. “You must have died.”
“I don’t remember dying,” he said, tears streaming down his face. “Why did I die?”
Maggie climbed out of her bed and stood next to the sobbing man. “I don’t know why you died,” she said. “But it’s okay. Mike says that it’s nice on the other side. He said all you have to do is look around and find the light. Then you can go to heaven.”
Mr. Rupp looked around the room. “I can’t see a light, Maggie,” he said. “It’s very dark where my body is. I’m locked inside somewhere and I can’t get out.”
“Can you push, with your mind?” she asked. “Sometimes, if you think about it hard enough, you can move stuff with your mind.”
Mr. Rupp concentrated and tried to push beyond the darkness, but nothing happened. He turned back to the little girl. “I tried, Maggie,” he said. “I’m just stuck.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Rupp,” she said, “I can help you. I can find where your body is and open the door for you.”
“You’ll be careful, won’t you?” he asked.
She nodded. “I promise,” she said. “I’ll get you out and I’ll be careful. My friend, Clarissa, will help me too. So we’ll both be careful.”
Mr. Rupp started to fade away. “Thank you, Maggie,” he said. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
“Bye, Mr. Rupp,” she said, waving at him. “Don’t be sad, I’ll find you soon.”
Chapter Eleven
Mary slid the electronic key through the door lock and the little light glowed green. She pushed down on the handle and after the familiar click, pushed the door open and let herself into the hotel room. The room was incredibly spacious, even for a suite. Mary strolled across the room and peered out the windows. The view of downtown Freeport was expansive; she could even see the small Debate Site Park from her vantage point.
Taking a deep breath, she turned back towards the interior of the room and concentrated on the ghost she had met the day before. Peter…Peter Swift, she recalled. She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to picture him, dressed, as he looked when he was still alive. Suddenly she heard the water in the bathroom running. She slowly opened her eyes and made her way to the other side of the room.
The door was only slightly ajar. Mary peered in and noted that Peter was still dressed although he was definitely in the process of removing all his clothes and every shred of decency. But she couldn’t blame him, he had no idea she was here.
Strategically turning away, she watched as the clothes piled up in the corner of the bathroom and then heard the door close. She waited until she heard the splash of someone entering the tub and the soft whir of Jacuzzi motors before she turned around.
A little surprised to see Peter swathed in a bath of bubbles, she studied his actions. Nothing reflected the notion that he was inebriated. He leaned over and manipulated the tub’s timer with no problem. And when he leaned his head back against the tub, it was with a movement of relaxation rather than intoxication.
The rumble of the traffic outside the hotel made it hard for Mary to hear movement on the other side of the door, so she just sat and waited to see what would happen next.
Suddenly, Peter sat up and gasped deeply. He placed his hand over his throat and tried to inhale, but Mary could see he wasn’t getting any air. His arms floundered in the water as he tried to get himself out of the tub, but finally, with one last look of pure terror he sunk into the bottom of the tub.
“See, I told you I was murdered,” Peter said, appearing next to Mary.
Without turning, she whipped a towel off a nearby rack and handed it to him. “You need to cover yourself before we have any kind of conversation,” she said.
“Fine,” he grumbled. “I’m covered. But I want you to know that when I was alive, women fought over me.”
She turned, skepticism evident in her face, and shook her head. “Yeah, well, we just won’t go there, okay?”
He folded his arms and snorted. “I really don’t need to stand for abuse like this. I have served with a number of the…”
“Alphabet agencies,” Mary interjected. “Yes, I realize that. But, what I don’t know is why someone would want to kill you. And who could do it with such finesse that no one ever considered it to be murder.”
He sighed and walked over to the tub, running his hand along the edge. Finally, he turned back to Mary. “That’s the problem,” he replied. “I was at a conference with murder mystery writers. Any of them…well, most of them…would be able to plan and carry out a flawless execution.”
“And how many of them would want to see you dead?” she asked.
Turning to her, he met her eyes. “All of them,” he confessed.
“Well, that narrows things down a bit,” she said. “Is there a way to get a list of the people who attended the conference?”
He placed his hands on his flabby waistline and inhaled deeply, reminding Mary of a really old, pudgy imitation of Superman. “You don’t need a list,” he said. “We have my photographic memory.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. How important is the catering anyway? she wondered.
“Your photographic memory?” she asked, trying to be polite. “Is it still working?”
He strode across the bathroom to her. “Of course it is,” he said. “There are some things that never leave you.”
Nodding, Mary walked out of the bathroom and over to the desk against the bedroom wall. She picked up a notepad and a pen and sat down at the desk. “Okay, you talk, I’ll write,” she said.
With a bath towel wrapped around his waist, he began pacing across the room. “Well, first there was…um…you know, the woman, with the hair,” he said.
“Oh, that woman,” Mary replied.
Glaring at her, he shouted, “Hey, before I met you I hadn’t spoken to anyone in ten years. So how about a little patience here?”
“Point taken,” she replied. “Sorry, I’ll be more patient.”
“Okay, where was I?” he asked, resuming his pacing.
“The woman with the hair,” Mary replied, trying, but not succeeding to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
“Yes, she had dark hair, very exotic, quite like a Geisha I knew back in the sixties when I was…”
“Her name?” Mary interrupted.
“Oh, yes, sorry,” he said, pausing and staring into space for a moment. “I recall it was quite exotic too.”
He turned to her. “That’s another trick of mine with memory; you link one idea or thought with another and you are able to recall anything at all.”
“Mnemonic linking,” Mary said.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked.
“Mnemonic linking. It’s what you just described,” she said, “linking words with actions or other ideas in order to remember them all.”
“Well I came up with it,” he insisted. “I invented it.”
“It was probably stolen by one of the alphabet agencies,” Mary replied.
He snapped his fingers and nodded excitedly. “Yes, you’re right. That’s probably what happened.”
Sighing, Mary placed the pen down on the desk. “Perhaps the front desk still has the guest register from ten years ago. I could check with them.”
“Sally,” he announced, smiling broadly. “That’s her name, Sally.”
“Sally is an exotic name?” she asked.
“Well, when you say it with an Oriental accent it is,” he replied. “Get it, Geisha, Oriental accent, Sally?”
She began to nod, but then shook her head. “No. No, I don’t get it at all,” sh
e said. “But, it doesn’t matter. We have one name, a first name. Sally. Anything else?”
“Well, of course, her last name is Hubley,” he said. “Sally Hubley.”
“Excellent, one down…how many to go?” she asked.
“Well, there were about a forty of us at the convention,” he said, closing his eyes and placing his hand on his forehead. “Now, for the next name. I’m picturing a very spiritual woman.”
“She was religious?”
Shaking his head, he opened his eyes and glared at her. “I’m concentrating here,” he snapped.
Mary picked up the phone and dialed “0”. “Hi, this is Mary O’Reilly,” she said. “Is there any chance you might have a guest list from the Midwest Murder, Mayhem and Mystery Writer’s Consortium held here about ten years ago?”
She paused for a moment, watching Peter pace across the room slapping himself in the forehead.
“In a folder at the front desk?” she repeated with glee. “You already pulled it for me because you knew I’d need it? You are amazing. Thank you so much, I’ll be right down.”
Hanging up the phone, she picked up the keycard on the desk and her purse and headed for the door.
“Wait! Wait! I nearly have it here,” he said. “Something to do with being worthy…”
“You just keep on that train of thought and I’ll be right back,” Mary said. “They have something for me at the front desk.”
“But you’ll be back,” he said, a slight tone of panic in his voice.
Pausing, she turned back to him and nodded. “Yes, I might not be right back,” she said. “But I will be back, I promise.”
Chapter Twelve
The elevator stopped at the lobby and the doors slid open. Before Mary could step out, a short, stout woman wrapped in a colorful caftan came barreling towards her. “You must be the psychic,” she said, her voice high and tremulous. “I can feel it in your aura.”
“Well, I don’t know if I’d call myself a psychic,” Mary said, trying to walk around the woman to get to the front desk.
The numerous bangles on the woman’s wrists jangled along with the numerous chins on her neck as she nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yes, you’re a psychic,” she trilled. “One psychic can always recognize another psychic.”
Mary stopped and really looked at the woman. She was at least in her late sixties. Her hair was completely covered by a turban that clashed terribly with her caftan. Her earlobe seemed unnaturally stretched by the weight of the large gold earrings hanging from them and around her neck she wore a large, chunky necklace reminiscent of something that would be worn by an Egyptian pharaoh.
“Are you a psychic?” Mary asked.
“You couldn’t recognize me?” the woman’s asked, her face dropping in abject disappointment.
Shaking her head, Mary stepped forward and patted the woman’s rounded shoulder. “Oh, no, it’s not you,” she insisted. “It’s my…it’s my…aura. It’s been out a whack for a couple of days.”
The beaming smile told Mary she had been forgiven. “Don’t you hate when your aura is out of whack?” the woman responded eagerly. “You are just lost.”
“I know,” Mary replied, trying once again to move around the woman. “Well, it was nice meeting you.”
A small pudgy hand reached out and grabbed Mary’s arm. “Well, your aura is even in worse shape than you thought,” she said.
Mary looked down at the hand. “It is?”
“Why of course, because I’m here to help you solve Peter’s murder.”
“Help me?” Mary stuttered, looking over to the front desk for help.
“Why yes I am,” she said. “My name is Honora Kibbler.”
Looking at Mary expectantly, she waited for a moment. “I’m sure you’ve heard of me,” she said.
Shaking her head again, Mary looked apologetically at the woman. “Sorry, no,” she said. “But I don’t get out much.”
Honora sniffed and her voice lowered slightly. “You do read, don’t you?”
“Ah, you’re an author,” Mary realized. “What do you write?”
Her smile turned a little brittle. “I am a world-renowned author of psychic mysteries,” she explained. “World-renowned.”
Nodding, Mary slid around the woman and started to move towards the desk. “And how is it you want to help?”
“I’m a psychic, remember,” Honora replied as she followed behind Mary. “I’m here to solve Peter’s murder.”
The desk clerk handed Mary the manila envelope and then quickly excused herself and went into the office behind the desk. Obviously she’s met Honora, Mary thought.
Turning from the desk to face her, Mary tried to come up with a way to dissuade Honora without hurting her feelings. The owners of the hotel certainly wouldn’t want an angry customer who was also a writer. “I’m sorry for being so slow here,” Mary said. “But what makes you think he was murdered?”
Honora smiled as if she was a child who had just won a spelling bee. “When the hotel called and asked for the list of names of attendees, I knew something was up,” she said. “And then, when I met with my psychic guides, they confirmed it to me.”
She leaned forward confidentially. “Peter was murdered.”
“Why didn’t your psychic guides tell you he was murdered ten years ago?” Mary asked.
Honora looked puzzled for a moment, and then she brightened. “I suppose I never asked them.”
Mary was just about to cast doubt on Honora’s psychic connections when the lobby door opened and two other women stepped inside. The first had nondescript, shoulder-length brown hair, was wearing a pair of jeans and an oversized cotton blouse and had an friendly smile. The other woman had dark hair, cut in a stylish bob and was dressed in a casually elegant outfit of tailored navy blue slacks and a matching nautical-look blouse and jacket. She glanced around the room impatiently and, with a moue of distaste, cast her eyes on Honora.
“Sally,” Mary muttered, looking at the dark-haired woman.
Honora turned and stared at Mary for a moment, her jaw dropping. “You are a psychic,” she said in awe, and then called to her friends as she bustled over. “Sally, Tracey, you have to meet Mary. She’s a real psychic and she’s investigating Peter’s murder.”
Mary closed her eyes in dismay. Great! Nothing like a little discretion to help in an investigation.
“Honora, shut your mouth,” Sally said. “We don’t have any idea who murdered Peter and you could be chasing possible suspects away with your babbling.”
Although Mary agreed with what the woman said, she probably would have handled it with a little more kindness. Honora looked devastated.
“I’m so sorry,” Honora whispered, her face bright red with shame. “I wasn’t thinking. I was so excited.”
“She never thinks,” the dark-haired woman said, striding forward to Mary. “I’m Sally Hubley. I was the president of the Midwest Murder, Mayhem and Mystery Writer’s Consortium board at the time of Peter’s death. We were contacted by the hotel and, of course, we want to do all we can do to aid in solving this mystery.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Mary lied, “and I appreciate your efforts. But unfortunately, I believe there has been a misunderstanding and I don’t need your help.”
“Why of course you do,” Sally insisted, brushing off Mary’s words. “We are mystery writers. We understand the inner workings of a demented and insidious mind. We insist that you allow us to help, or we might have to contact the media about this unsolved crime. I’m sure the owner of the hotel would find your indiscretion less than professional.”
She smiled at Mary and Mary was instantly reminded of an alligator she saw at Lincoln Park Zoo as a child.
“Honora, do you have our room keys?” she asked imperiously.
“Yes, Sally, we’re on the fourth floor,” Honora said, holding out a key.
Snatching it from her hand, Sally strode toward the elevator, her luggage in tow. “I suggest we all meet
down here in fifteen minutes, once we are settled in,” she stated just as the elevator doors closed in front of her.
“Well, of all the…” Mary began, staring at the closed elevator doors.
“We do understand the inner workings of deluded and insidious minds,” Tracey said, from behind her. “Mostly because we are fairly deluded and insidious ourselves.”
Mary smiled and turned. “Hello, I’m Mary O’Reilly,” she said.
“I’ve read about you and I’ve been very impressed. I almost thought about writing a series based on a woman who can see ghosts and solves murders. But who would believe something like that?” Tracey chuckled, extending her hand. “I’m Tracey Bresnahan and, unfortunately, I also write murder mysteries.”
Laughing, Mary shook Tracey’s hand. “I have nothing against authors,” she said. “I just don’t think it’s safe for all of you to get mixed up in this.”
Tracey nodded slowly. “So, Honora was right,” she said. “You are reopening Peter’s case. You do believe he was murdered and he didn’t just drown in the tub.”
Mary was silent for a moment as she decided what to do. Tracey, of all the women, seemed the most straightforward and intelligent. But, she really didn’t need to have a bunch of amateur sleuths following her around and getting in her way.
“I really can’t say…” Mary began.
“Because you don’t need a bunch of amateurs messing things up for you?” Tracey interrupted with a smile.
“Well,” Mary prevaricated.
“Why don’t you let me handle the sleuth sisters and if we can be helpful in any way, just let us know,” she said. “We can, actually, keep a secret despite Honora’s excitement. And we did know Peter fairly well. So we might be able to give you some insight.”
Nodding, Mary considered her offer. “I can give you a little information,” she said. “And actually, it might be helpful to be able to interview all of you about Peter and the rest of the members of the consortium.”
“That’s fair,” Tracey said. “And I think I’ll be able to keep a handle on those two. I’ve been doing that for years.”
