And that’s why it was somewhat disturbing to hear someone opening and closing drawers in my kitchen before I got through the upstairs doorway.
It seemed unlikely that an opossum had been stealthy enough to elude me, climb up the stairs, and take up residence in my kitchen, but stranger things happen pretty much every day in the guesthouse. And when I considered I was about to enter a room full of sharp knives and heavy frying pans, the flashlight in my hand didn’t seem like so dandy a weapon anymore. But it was all I had.
I suppose I could have used the cell phone in my pocket to call the police, but then I’d tell them . . . what?
The upstairs door was already open, and I didn’t want to alert the intruder to my presence, assuming it wasn’t just Maxie, Liss, or one of the guests getting more milk for their coffee. I was (pardon the expression) spooked now. Maybe I could get a signal to Everett, who was probably into the “running in place” part of his morning workout.
Instead I made a point of being light on the top step of the staircase and stuck my head—which was after all the part with the eyes—into the room.
Nothing, but my vantage point was not optimum. I could see only the refrigerator and the sink, with the window to the driveway, from here. Another very careful step into the room. For sure it was Liss or Maxie, I told myself. No reason to be—
Floating in the light from the back door, refracted enough to be difficult to see, was a ghost, fairly tall and with dark hair, as far as I could tell. Direct sunlight makes it awfully hard to make out details in a transparent spirit.
This one turned toward me and clasped his chest. “Alison,” he said.
I knew that voice. “Richard?”
“Richard!” the ghost said. “Has it been that long?”
Now that I knew there was no danger, I walked into the room and got a better angle on the ghost. And my voice must have risen half an octave as I ran toward him.
“Paul!” I shouted.
Chapter 7
When you see someone you haven’t spoken to in a long time, someone who means a good deal to you, naturally you want to give that person a hug. In this case, that was something of a problem. My arms just went through Paul’s torso, which felt warm and calming. He chuckled and put a hand on each of my shoulders. When he does that, I can sort of feel it.
“It has been a long time,” he said finally. “You called me Richard.”
“It was the sunlight,” I explained, pointing at the window. “I couldn’t see you very well, and your voices are similar.”
Paul looked at me for a long moment. “But Richard is alive,” he said.
There was going to have to be a lot of explaining in the next few minutes. I decided to avoid that particular issue for the moment. “What brought you back?” I asked.
Paul looked at me with some puzzlement in his eyes. “You did put an ad in the Harbor Haven Chronicle trying to contact me, didn’t you?”
Wow. The power of the press. “Yeah, but it never occurred to me you’d actually look there. I was trying to figure out a way to access the Ghosternet.”
He nodded. “I’ve gotten some garbled messages from other spirits who claim to have heard from a Madame Fontaine,” he said. “But the messages were never clear or complete, and everyone assumed it was simply another crank trying to pretend she could talk to the dearly departed.”
“They weren’t far off. Where have you been?”
“In Boston,” Paul said. “I’ve been traveling the country the past few months trying to have experiences I didn’t have when I was alive. I went to Fenway Park yesterday to see a baseball game between the Red Sox and the Toronto Blue Jays.”
“You grew up in Toronto. You must be a fan,” I said.
“Not really. I liked hockey when I was a boy. It just seemed like something to do.” He focused on me. “But your advertisement said my brother, Richard, is here and needs me. Where is he?”
I’d also written that all was forgiven, but he probably knew that was just boilerplate. “Okay, you need to get filled in on a lot of stuff, Paul,” I said.
And with perfect theatrical timing, Richard phased his way through the kitchen door and saw the two of us standing—okay, one standing, one hovering—there. “Paul,” he said, slightly more animated than if he had just run into a business acquaintance at the country club, “you’ve come back.”
Paul fell back a little, and his eyes widened. “Richard,” he gasped, “you’re . . .”
“Yes, dead like you,” his brother informed him. “In fact, I was murdered much as you were, only with a blunt object to the head, it would seem.”
Paul shook his head in spurts as if to clear it. He was trying to process the information, and it was taking time. “How could that have happened?” he finally said.
Richard looked at me. “You didn’t tell him?”
Sure, blame it on me. “I just found him two minutes ago,” I said.
Richard simulated a sigh and looked at his brother. “I suppose it’s up to me, then.” What a chore, to have to explain to your dead brother how you were murdered. Surely the servants should have handled it.
While he told Paul his story (in considerably fewer installments than it had taken him to tell me), the following things happened:
• I finally got myself that glass of orange juice;
• Melissa dragged herself down the stairs looking for coffee, saw Paul, and had a very touching reunion, which seemed to annoy Richard because it slowed down his recitation;
• Penny Desmond knocked on the kitchen door asking if there was more cream, which I provided;
• Everett came inside, wiping his brow as if it were wet, saluted Paul, and retreated to a corner of the kitchen opposite the brothers’ somewhat-less-than-touching reunion, which he watched silently;
• I also got myself an English muffin because I remembered we had some in the fridge;
• Maxie drifted down from the ceiling, saw Paul, said, “Oh. Hey,” rubbed her eyes a little to show me how cruel I was being by requiring her to be “awake” at this time of the morning just for a spook show, and rose back up into the ceiling again;
• Melissa asked if she could skip school because Paul was home, and I said no.
By that point, the somewhat-incomplete (in my opinion) story had been related, and Paul was in full investigator mode, pacing back and forth in thin air and stroking his goatee furiously. If it had any substance, it probably would have been completely worn away.
“There are many threads to these events that require investigation,” he said. Then he turned directly to face me. “Get Maxie.”
“Get Maxie? You need help in an investigation, I go to all this trouble to get you back here, and your first reaction is, ‘Get Maxie’?”
I saw Everett rise up into the ceiling. No doubt he would let his wife know her presence was being requested.
Paul seemed mildly surprised. “You told me you were finished with investigations, and I agreed because I wanted to travel and not fulfill my obligations here,” he reminded me. “I was simply assuming you would not be interested in assisting on Richard’s case.”
That made me stammer a bit, but I managed to squeak out, “Well, you’re right about that. I don’t want to be an investigator anymore. I mean, I got shot, sort of, the last time.” I walked over to where Richard, arms folded impatiently, was floating. “But this is family.”
Melissa’s eyebrows met in the middle. “You want to help?” she asked. “Mom?”
She was reacting to my unexpected change of heart, which I’ll admit was a surprise even to me. But Paul investigating Richard’s murder, and perhaps that of Keith Johnson, presented a number of problems in logistics, not the least of which that Paul and Richard were both dead.
“You’re going to need a living person to go and talk to people involved,” I said to Paul. “You need someone with access to transportation even if you’re going to do the snooping yourself. You need someone who can ask questions and
come back here with the answers you need.” And as my daughter started to raise her hand to indicate she was about to speak, I added, “I don’t want it to be Melissa.”
“Mom!” She was, after all, thirteen. I was lucky it hadn’t been Mother!
Before she could protest any further, Paul nodded. “You’re right. I am not comfortable with Melissa being involved in this kind of case, at least not on a face-to-face basis with any of the principals. And we will need access to a motor vehicle.”
“You know I’m here in the room, right?” Melissa said.
“Can you drive?” I asked her. She remained silent.
“Very well, then,” Paul said, the matter apparently being settled. “Alison, if you would, I think you and I should sit down and discuss the people and places you need to visit.”
“I’d pay money just to see you sit down,” I said.
Maxie descended from the ceiling in her trench coat, laptop tucked inside. Everett followed, having let his wife know there was an investigation brewing and her expertise might be needed.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
Paul got her up to speed fairly rapidly. Richard, I noticed, was watching his brother with an expression approaching interest on his face. I guessed he’d never seen Paul work before.
After her briefing, Maxie looked determined. “So what do you need me to do?”
“Find out whatever you can about Keith Johnson’s business dealings. How did he make his fortune? Were there changes in the structure of the business lately? Who besides his stepdaughter might have benefitted from his death?”
“Gotcha.” Maxie started back up. She stopped midair, something I always find surprising even after seeing it for years. She looked at Paul. “Where ya been, anyway?” she asked.
“You name it,” he said.
Maxie smiled and floated up through the ceiling. She likes to work in Melissa’s attic bedroom, or sometimes on the roof where she can be left alone. Liss has given her and her alone permission to enter her room when Liss isn’t there (I occasionally go in there under the authority of being her mother), and Maxie, who calls herself Melissa’s roommate, takes advantage or goes up on the roof. This, I imagine, leads to people in low-flying planes wondering why a laptop is suspended in the air above a large Victorian on the shore, but I tend to doubt that happens very often.
“What can I do?” Melissa asked. She considers herself a vital part of the investigative team, and to be honest, she’s right. Her insight and perspective is usually much more analytical and considered than, say, mine.
“Right now, you can go to school,” Paul said. “You are still in school for the year, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. There’s another three days before we get out for the summer. But—”
“Don’t worry,” Paul told her. “I’ll make sure you have things to do. I’ve only been back for fifteen minutes. Give me time to remember where everything is.”
Liss smiled. “Okay, Paul.” That was the moment, movie-style, when we heard a car honk in the driveway. “That’s Wendy’s mom,” she said. “I’ve gotta go.” And with that, my daughter was out the door and on her way to the other life she leads, which becomes a little more important to her every day. That’s how it’s supposed to go, and I hate it. Just for the record.
Everett, who had stayed behind after Maxie left for higher ground, did not ask for an assignment. He merely stood by while Paul paced some more, thinking. “Everett,” Paul said finally, “are you trained in reconnaissance work?”
“I have been on some covert missions,” Everett answered.
“Good. I have an idea for you, if you’re interested.”
“Anything I can do to help, sir.”
Paul smiled his wry smile. “Don’t call me ‘sir,’ Everett. That’s something you should reserve for my brother, here.” He pointed at Richard.
“Yes . . . okay, Paul.”
Richard gave his younger brother a look that indicated he was less than pleased with that wise guy stuff. But he remained silent, watching with his hands clasped behind his back, not dissimilar from Everett’s “at-ease” pose.
“It’ll be something after Alison and I figure out what she’s going to do,” Paul told Everett. “You’re welcome to sit in, but I can tell you later if you prefer.”
“I’ll skip the briefing and wait for your instructions, if that’s all right.” Everett correctly assumed it would be (all right) and left through the back wall onto the beach, no doubt to do even more exercises he would never need.
Paul turned toward his brother. “Richard,” he said, “is there anything about this case that you have not told me? Anything that will be relevant?”
Richard made a show of thinking about it, then shook his head. “I don’t believe so.”
Paul’s eyes narrowed, and I got the impression he didn’t care for his brother’s answer. But just when I thought he’d have pressed the point, he looked down at the floor and nodded. That was odd. “Very well, then.”
“Wait,” I said. Somebody had to. “You’re leaving something out, Richard. You said you are in love with Cassidy Van Doren.”
“That’s correct, yes.”
Paul made eye contact with Richard, which his brother had been subtly trying to avoid. “Was Miriam aware?” he asked.
“I am not certain,” Richard said.
This was new. “Miriam?” I asked.
Richard had no qualms about making eye contact with me. “My wife,” he said.
Chapter 8
“Well, I guess we can add another suspect to Richard’s murder,” I said.
Paul and I were in the bedroom Josh and I share, a larger one than what I’d been using before we were married. We’d decided on the location for this meeting because it was certain that none of the guests would come up here looking for me unless there was an emergency.
I sat on a chair next to the bed, and Paul was considerably higher in elevation than was his habit. He was excited about being on a case, but I imagine the involvement of his recently deceased brother wasn’t making things easy for him.
“Miriam?” Paul said. He looked skeptical. “I’m not sure she cared enough about Richard to kill him. Their marriage had taken on the air of a formality, really. Even when I was alive.”
“Even so, there’s nothing like a little competition to bring out the worst in a woman,” I said.
“She can’t be ruled out, certainly, until we have physical evidence, but it seems more likely Richard’s death had something to do with his vigorous defense of Cassidy Van Doren than with his marriage.” Paul’s head rocked back and forth. “We have a lot of work to do.”
“It’s good to see you too, Paul. Tell me about your travels.”
He stopped his back-and-forth midair pacing and regarded me carefully, apparently remembering who I was and what our friendship had been like. “Of course. I apologize, Alison. It has been a very eventful day.”
“And it’s still only eight thirty in the morning,” I pointed out. Hey, he left it hanging there for me; it would have been rude for me to ignore it.
“Indeed.” Paul has a sense of humor so dry you could light a match on it. He stopped to think for a moment, closing his eyes briefly and slowly nodding his head. “Well, when I left here the last time, you had just been married.” He looked at me.
“I’m still married, Paul. It’s only been four months, and I expect this one will stick.”
“I was setting the time. I was lucky in that the first car I entered on the road outside was headed for Philadelphia, and I managed to find my way to the airport. It is remarkably easy for me to get on a plane, Alison.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You can probably even bring all the shampoo you want.”
Paul looked at me strangely and then shrugged his left shoulder, deciding not to follow up on that, which was wise. “I decided not to leave the country just yet, although a flight to Rome or Istanbul would have been interesting. Instead I headed to Seattle and fig
ured I would work my way back by car.”
“Seattle?”
“I’m from Canada, Alison,” Paul said. “I like to start in the north. And I stayed there for a few days, then caught a car heading east. I did that for some weeks. Butte, Montana; Grinnell, Iowa; Chicago; Painesville, Ohio. I saw Mount Rushmore, which is quite impressive.”
“Was the trip what you wanted it to be?” I asked. Paul had been very unhappy when he was bound to my house and its grounds. I hoped the freedom to move around had satisfied him.
“It was interesting for a while,” he answered thoughtfully. “But it is odd not to have a base of operations.”
I hadn’t expected that from him. Paul had never seemed comfortable staying in the house with a family that wasn’t his and guests who stayed for a week or less. “That’s sweet,” I said.
He blinked. “I meant for the investigation agency,” he said. Paul truly believed that what we’d had was a working detective operation, and no amount of argument on my part could convince him otherwise. What we’d actually had was the occasional client—usually a ghost—who didn’t pay us (Paul obviously didn’t care about that) and got me involved in something dangerous I would seriously have preferred avoiding. “I didn’t do any work the whole time I was away.”
“But you weren’t expecting your brother’s murder to be something you’d find when you got back,” I said.
Paul lowered himself a foot or so, an indication of his mood, I think. “No, that was something of a surprise.”
I didn’t want to say what I said next, but there was no avoiding it. I’d already committed myself to the current lunacy and was already mentally kicking myself for it. “So what do you want me to do first?”
Paul inexplicably perked up. Well, maybe not “inexplicably.” He loved nothing more than a juicy case to solve, and if his brother was dead, well, that was unfortunate, but it provided him with the mental challenge he needed. He rubbed his hands together, which is a weird sight to see when the hands are mostly transparent.
The Hostess With the Ghostess Page 6
