Night of the Living Deed

by E. J. Copperman

  Ignoring Maxie, I grabbed a paper towel, spit on one corner and rubbed the grime off the glass tube that indicated the furnace’s water level. What I had wasn’t really a furnace as much as a boiler, and the heating system was run by hot water.

  “That’s gross,” Maxie said.

  “You sound like Melissa.”

  Maxie’s face changed in a half second, and she brightened. “That’s one terrific girl you’ve got there,” she said.

  Oh sure, say nice things about my kid now! Hating Maxie was getting even harder.

  “I like to think so,” I said, trying to sound objective. “She seems to like you, too. You know, she won’t play board games with just anybody.” Melissa had said she and Maxie played the Game of Life the night before, which seemed ironic.

  “She’s ruthless,” Maxie said. “That kid will hold you to every rule.”

  “I know. She told me about your cheating.”

  “I didn’t cheat!” Maxie insisted. “I just . . . didn’t do what I was supposed to. It’s different.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s called cheating.”

  “You would say that. You’re on her side, no matter what.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “I’m her mother. I’m sure your mom would . . .”

  “My mother never approved of anything I did in my life,” Maxie cut me off. “From beginning to end, she thought I was a screw-up.”

  “So I guess you don’t want me to get in touch with her.”

  “No,” Maxie intoned.

  I pulled the old thermostat out and held up the new one for positioning. Luckily, I’d gotten the right replacement part, and it would fit. In a few hours, I’d know if the change made any difference. “Just, if you wanted me to tell her you’re—”

  “No!” Maxie shouted. “Which part of no are you having trouble with?” Maxie walked through the wall into the side room, which I was planning on making a library. “Geez, you’re a pain!”

  Now, that was the Maxie I’d come to know. And dislike.

  Eighteen

  “Mom?” Melissa looked out the window of the station wagon. It’s nice to drive around the Jersey Shore in the fall. The traffic from the summer visitors is gone, the trees change color and the ocean, although grayer, still has a calming rhythm. “Why don’t you like Maxie?”

  Living with a nine-year-old can be like living with a combination of an investigative reporter and a district attorney. There’s always a question, and you’re usually under suspicion. And when I got home, I knew that there’d also be a ghost asking me more questions about everything I’d done today. I was feeling a little picked on, to be honest. “What makes you think I don’t like Maxie?” I asked, dodging.

  Melissa rolled her eyes. I elicit that response from her on a regular basis. “I can see, and I can hear. That’s what.”

  “Okay, let me ask you a question: Why do you like Maxie?”

  Melissa answered after thinking a moment, but her cadence was that of a fourth grader reciting a memorized response for a class. “I like Maxie because she’s fun and doesn’t worry about anything,” she said. “And she has good taste in decorating.”

  “Did Maxie tell you to say that?” It was the “decorating” part that really gave her away.

  “A little, but I still believe it. Except I’m not sure about the whole ‘good taste’ thing,” my daughter told me honestly.

  “Why do you care whether or not I like Maxie?”

  “Why does every question I ask you become a different question you ask me?” Melissa said.

  “Because I’m the mom.” When you don’t have an answer that makes sense, you can always use that one. You’re welcome.

  The Acura in front of me was enjoying the fall scenery just a little too much, and was therefore driving at a speed of fifteen miles an hour in a twenty-five-mile-per-hour zone. This is what we in New Jersey call a crime against nature. I honked. The car didn’t speed up.

  “I don’t want you to get too attached to Paul and Maxie,” I told Melissa, “because sooner or later, we’ll figure out a way to get them out of the house.”

  “What?” Melissa demanded. “You want to get rid of them?”

  “I’ll admit, I haven’t read any ghost stories for a couple of decades, but yeah. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? Take care of their ‘unfinished business’ so they can leave, right?” That Acura was following my route, but before I could follow it myself. Every turn I wanted to make, he made first. And all on single-lane roads. I couldn’t pass the Acura, no matter how slowly it crawled along.

  “No!” Melissa wailed. “You can’t just put them out on the street!”

  “These aren’t stray dogs we’re talking about, Liss. They need to move on to . . . the next stage of existence.” I made that part up on the spot. “It’s not up to us.”

  “You’re just doing this because you think I like Maxie better than you. I don’t, you know.”

  I turned my head to stare at her. “I think . . .”

  And that was when I hit the Acura.

  It wasn’t a really hard collision; we weren’t going nearly fast enough for that. But the sound was still loud and blunt enough to cause an adrenaline rush and some heart pounding. “Are you all right?” I asked Melissa.

  Eye-rolling. “Of course I’m all right,” she said. “You were going, like, five.”

  I avoided her judgmental gaze and looked at the car in front of me. It didn’t look like the damage was very severe. I pulled our station wagon over to the shoulder so traffic could flow by, and the Acura did the same. Then a man got out of the car to assess the damage.

  It was Mr. Barnes, Melissa’s history teacher. And he was just as attractive as I remembered. I, of course, looked like I had been sanding baseboards all morning. Because I had.

  “Get the insurance card out of the glove compartment,” I told Melissa. I opened the car door while trying to smooth my hair down, but sea air doesn’t really help all that much, even in October.

  Melissa handed me my insurance card, and I walked over to the Acura to assess the damage.

  “Mr. Barnes! I am so sorry,” I said. “It was totally my fault.”

  “That kind of attitude isn’t going to be at all helpful in court,” he said. “You’re supposed to be belligerent. Didn’t you know that?” He smiled.

  Wow. The blue eyes and the dimples really created an effect.

  It took me a few seconds to catch my breath. “I’m sorry. It’s my first accident. I’ll get better.”

  “Your first? I’ll be gentle.” He smiled again. I was going to have to sit down soon. “But I’m afraid it was my fault. I was trying to find your house, and you know, you’re a little off the beaten path, so I was driving very slowly. It’s no wonder you hit me.”

  “You were trying to find my house?”

  He nodded. “Remember? I asked about seeing it? As a . . . study, sort of? I’ve sent you a few notes through Melissa, but . . .”

  “Something tells me she might have . . . forgotten to tell me,” I said, glancing back at the station wagon, where Melissa was pretending to ignore us.

  “I thought it might be something like that,” Mr. Barnes agreed.

  I handed him my insurance card. “Here. Just write down the information. I’m sure they’ll pay for the repair.”

  He took a moment to assess the damage again. “What repair?” He handed me the card back. “There’s not enough damage to bother. A little rubbing compound and it’ll look just like new. Probably better—it’ll be the first time I’ve washed the bumper in years.”

  “Are you sure?” If I could just see his insurance card, I could finally find out his first name. “I don’t want you to have to drive around with a dent just because it’s my first accident.”

  “I’m certain,” he said. “But if I could get that tour of the house . . .”

  Oh man, not now! Not while my face—I mean, the house—looked like this. “I’d love to show you the house, honestly, I would.
But Melissa and I are meeting her grandmother for dinner, and we just don’t have the time. Can we maybe set up a time?” I’d apologize to my mother later for using her as a fictional excuse. If I told her about this at all.

  “Not a problem,” he answered. “But I’m going to hold you to that tour. And listen, Melissa is a terrific student. She’s really smart, and she really cares. Those don’t often go together.”

  I never know what to say when someone compliments Melissa. I mean, I think she’s wonderful, but I’m her mom. Thinking she’s great is sort of reflexive. “Thank you,” I said. “It’s nice when someone notices.”

  “It’s part of my job,” he said. “But yes, I noticed. You and her father must be very proud.” What do you know—he was looking at my hand and noting the absence of a ring!

  “Her father lives in Los Angeles,” I said. “We’re divorced.”

  “Well, then,” he said. He took a deep breath. “Maybe we can settle this situation over dinner.”

  Hey, if he was asking me out when I looked like this, he’d be bowled over if I showed up to dinner disguised as a human female. “I’d like that,” I managed to croak out.

  “Great. How’s Friday night?”

  We exchanged phone numbers and agreed on a place and time, and I was about to head back to the station wagon when I couldn’t avoid the issue anymore. “There’s just one thing,” I said.

  Barnes, walking toward his car, turned back. “What’s that?”

  “I don’t know your first name. Melissa always calls you Mr. Barnes, and I feel that would be awkward on a date, don’t you think?”

  He smiled again, and the same dimples appeared. Dangerous. “Ned.”

  Ned? Really? There are still people named Ned?

  “Nice to meet you, Ned.” I walked back to the Volvo (which, in accordance with its reputation, had suffered not a scratch) and got in on the driver’s side.

  Melissa, arms folded, was waiting for me. “That took long enough,” she said.

  “It’s grown-up stuff. You wouldn’t understand.”

  She twisted her bottom lip. “You were flirting with him, weren’t you?”

  Busted. “I had to,” I said. “Our insurance card expired last month.”

  Eye-rolling.

  Nineteen

  “What do you suppose Ned is short for?” I asked Tony.

  Tony was studying the plaster mold he’d made of the crevasse in my hallway wall and concentrating. “Edward. Why?” He and Jeannie had been quiet about it, but since he’d heard there had been threats made against me, one or both of them had been calling or dropping by at least once a day. They were watching us, in a nice way.

  My mother, who was more obvious without even knowing there was anything to worry about, was in the kitchen unloading groceries she thought I could use, like paper plates, plastic utensils, plastic cups and other things that were destined to destroy the environment.

  I was grateful for her help, but wished she’d stay home.

  “But there’s no N in Edward,” I told Tony.

  Tony measured the mold for the sixth time, then went back and measured the hole in the wall for the seventh. “Okay, so Nedarsky. Why do I care what Ned is short for?”

  “Melissa’s history teacher is named Ned Barnes,” I told him. From inside the kitchen, I could hear Mom talking to herself. She had done that since I was little. I worried that I’d start soon.

  Tony looked up from his measuring. “Uh-oh.”

  “What? Something wrong with the mold?”

  “No, you. Worrying about Melissa’s history teacher’s name. I’m guessing this Ned isn’t some sixty-two-year-old guy with thinning gray hair and liver spots.”

  I tried not to look him in the eye. “We’re going to dinner Friday night,” I said.

  Paul suddenly appeared through the floor, startling me, but I couldn’t say anything with Tony in the room. I gasped a little, and Tony took that as a cute little signal of my interest in Ned. He grinned and said nothing, then walked to the section of wall with the hole in it, and dipped a trowel into the bucket of plaster he’d left on the floor near there.

  “With whom are you going to dinner on Friday?” Paul asked. Canadians can be so grammatically correct.

  “I don’t see why you think a simple friendly dinner with Melissa’s history teacher is so significant,” I said, ostensibly to Tony.

  “You’re having dinner with Melissa’s history teacher?” Mom, in sneakers so she could, you know, sneak up on me, stood at the end of the hall.

  “I’ll tell you about it later, Mom,” I said. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “When you say that,” she reminded me, “it’s usually a big deal.” Then she turned and walked back toward the kitchen.

  Paul glowered. “If the repairs to the house are taking up so much time that you might not be able to investigate our deaths, I don’t see how you have time for a social life,” he interjected. He already felt I wasn’t giving the investigation the time it deserved. He got cranky whenever I came back to the house to work, rather than going out on some mission he’d devised.

  “So just calm down,” I added.

  “I am calm,” Tony said as he spread plaster on the wooden studs in the wall that he’d exposed when we (okay, he) measured for the mold’s dimensions. “I want this to be wet when we put it in,” he said. “We can’t screw it to the studs the way you would with wallboard; it would break.”

  “You are a genius,” I reminded him.

  “We’ll see.” Tony finished spreading the wet plaster, and motioned me to the right side of the mold, which was resting on two sawhorses a few feet from the wall. “Get over there, and lift when I say.”

  So I did. “I mean, it’s really not a big deal,” I said, returning to the topic of my date. “We had a minor fender bender, and he offered to buy me dinner to discuss it.” Okay, so I fudged it a bit, but I had to wipe that smirk off Tony’s face and the frown off Paul’s.

  “You’re insured, right?” Mom called from the kitchen.

  “Unpack!” I shouted.

  I had no better luck in this room—Tony’s smirk just got bigger, and Paul’s frown didn’t budge. “Uh-huh,” Tony said. He walked to the left side of the mold, took hold of it and nodded for me to do the same. “Gently,” he said.

  We gingerly lifted the mold, about three feet square, and moved slowly to the wall. “Now, just rest it on the studs,” Tony said. “Don’t try to force it. It’ll be a little bit smaller than the hole; we can fill it in later.” We maneuvered the mold into its space. It seemed to fit almost perfectly into the hole, but I was convinced that if I let go, it would fall and shatter.

  “Hang on,” Tony said. He took a length of two-by-four he’d left on the floor and propped it up against the mold to steady it. “Okay. Let go.”

  I did, and the patchwork piece did not move. We stood and admired it for a long moment. “I told you,” I said. “You’re a genius.”

  “We’ll see,” said Tony.

  “Stop saying that.”

  We stood and stared at it for some time, hardly believing there was something approximating a whole wall where there hadn’t been before. Tony, convinced the patch was steady, removed the two-by-four, and the patch held. We both exhaled.

  “So tell me about this history teacher,” Tony said.

  “Yes, Alison,” Mom called in. “Let’s hear.”

  And that was when Maxie appeared, walking directly through the section of wall where we’d just placed the mold. “Ooh, look who’s here,” she said, whooshing into the room with more gusto than she should have.

  The mold began to wobble and, before either Tony or I could reach it, had cracked on both sides where it met the studs and collapsed onto the floor, where it crashed into a ridiculous number of pieces. And some dust. A lot of dust.

  “Oops,” Maxie said. “My bad.”

  My jaw moved up and down a few times. No sound came out. Tony sighed and nodded, as if he’d expected this
to happen.

  “I guess we’ll have to think of something else,” he said.

  Twenty

  When Terry Wright had failed to call back and give me the Prestons’ new address, I tried googling them and came up with nothing. But then I remembered what a great friend Bridget Bostero had said she was to the couple, and I figured that since the mayor and I were now tight buddies, I could call and get the information from her.

  “Oh, I’m sure they’ll be delighted to hear from you,” Bridget told me on the phone, although I couldn’t think of a reason why they would be. I didn’t ask.

  “Thanks for the help,” I told her.

  “I checked on that thing you asked me about,” the mayor volunteered. What thing?

  “Oh, that wasn’t necessary,” I told her, although, for all I knew, it might have been vital.

  “I love helping,” said my public servant. “Chief Daniels assures me that the investigation into those two deaths at your house is ongoing, just as I told you.”

  She had told me nothing of the sort. “The investigation is ongoing?” I repeated.

  “Mm-hmm. The chief says the case is still open. But I can’t give you any more details, you know, because the case is . . . open.”

  Right. “Well, thank you, Mayor,” I said.

  “Not at all,” she said. “And let me know if you’re interested in that hair coloring we discussed.”

  Madeline Preston was a gracious hostess. She had put out a plate of cookies, which appeared to be home baked, and a pot of coffee, which she assured me was decaffeinated because, “I wasn’t sure, and when you’re not sure, it’s better to go without.” I couldn’t argue with that. I could have used the caffeine, though. After I’d kicked Tony and Mom out of the house and cleaned up the broken plaster and the dust myself, Paul had once again gotten after me about the investigation, without so much as an apology from him or Maxie about the damage done to my wall-repair plans. Ghosts, it should be noted, can be infuriating.