Spouse on Haunted Hill

by E. J. Copperman

  It was time to end the games. I had reached this point countless times with The Swine, and it always ended with me blinking first. “You can’t turn this one on me, Steven,” I said. I saw McElone shaking her head, but I didn’t care and I didn’t stop. “You’re mixed up in something way over your head and you need to come clean about it. Right now.”

  The Swine fell back on his usual line. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I was fairly sure McElone’s eyes popped out of her head when I said, “I’m talking about the dead man in the alley next to Hanrahan’s and what exactly he has to do with you,” I said.

  Paul, usually so undemonstrative, moaned. Loud. If you could hear him.

  “Mom,” Melissa said. This time she did pull away from my arm.

  “Give me the phone,” McElone said.

  But Steven had already hung up.

  Mel stood up, smoothed his pants and walked out of the room past us without so much as a nod. He headed for the downstairs room he had until recently shared with his wife, and I heard the door close behind him.

  “I think he just went from person of interest to suspect,” McElone said.

  Nine

  “We don’t have a case to investigate,” I protested. “It’s McElone’s job. We don’t have a client. Let her do the work.”

  I was sweeping—not shoveling—the latest dusting we’d gotten off my front porch the next morning. Melissa had said all the right things the night before, told me she didn’t blame me for her father being the prime suspect in a murder and then gone up to bed saying she had school in the morning.

  It was about twenty degrees this morning, so I was dressed in jeans, snow pants, a work shirt, a fleece, a parka, a scarf, a pair of knitted gloves and a woolen hat as well as earmuffs. Paul, hovering just off the porch, was in his usual jeans and T-shirt and even though he was dead I resented him for that.

  “I understand your reluctance,” he said. “And I’m not just saying this to engage us in a case so I can relieve the boredom. I’m working on my energy experiments and don’t need anything else to engage my mind.”

  Paul had been working for over a year on the idea that he and Maxie and people like them were actually composed of energy and that this information held the key to their moving on to some higher plane of existence, something Paul has been pursuing pretty much since I met him. I’m sort of ambivalent about the subject, since Paul moving on would remove from my life one of the closer friends I’d made since moving back to Harbor Haven.

  If just Maxie was moving on, I’d have been happy to buy her the bus ticket and pack her a lunch for the trip.

  “Then what’s your point?” It hadn’t taken long to get the snow off the porch and I’d already done the steps and the walk. Now I needed to spread ice melt and then I could bolt for my kitchen, where my real closest friend, coffee, was waiting.

  I went to the bucket of pet-friendly ice melt I kept next to the door this time of year. (Lester wouldn’t have minded the stuff on the ground, but other people bring actual living dogs and cats around now and again. I sneeze more but I don’t take it out on the animals.)

  “The point is that your ex-husband is being hunted by the police now. You can’t simply ignore that. Clearly you have information that can lead to his being found, but you haven’t given it to the lieutenant, which indicates to me that you don’t want her to locate him right now. So in order to clear him of the suspicions surrounding him, the best thing for us to do is figure out where your ex-husband is at this moment, for you to go there and try to convince him to go to the police and cooperate with the investigation. It’s better for him, it’s better for you and most of all it’s better for Melissa, who can barely hide her tension every second. I don’t think Maxie has left her side since last night.”

  Since those were probably the most words I’d ever heard Paul say in a row, it took me a moment to process everything he’d said. There was some truth in what he’d brought up, but he was skimming over some serious issues, too. It wouldn’t do me any good to ignore that.

  I’d tried repeatedly to get Steven to call me back, but he was going straight to voice mail. Even when Melissa had texted him at McElone’s behest, he had simply texted back to tell her mother (me) he’d be in touch and that he was sorry.

  At least the “sorry” thing was showing progress. He’d never said that to me.

  McElone was all business, reminding me to let her know if I heard from The Swine at any time and assiduously avoiding telling me not to worry. She did make a point of saying to Melissa, “We’re going to get this worked out,” which probably didn’t make Liss feel any better but was at least an attempt.

  “Look,” I told Paul as I flung some ice melt onto my front walk. I love that stuff; it makes ice go away, and ice is my sworn enemy. Innkeepers live in fear of having a guest slip on the walk and then suing for all said innkeeper is worth, which in my case would be a distinct disappointment to the suer. “The fact is that I don’t know where Steven is and I didn’t give McElone any names of friends because it’s been years and I don’t know who his current friends are. But if you’re asking whether I want the police to lock up Melissa’s dad for killing a shady business associate, no, I’d like to avoid that if we can.”

  Paul, trying to show off his energy theory, stuck his finger up into one of the bulbs in my outside lamp and turned it on. I looked up. “Just trying to give you some more light,” he said.

  “It’s morning. The sun’s out. You’re showing off.”

  He looked sheepish as he floated down. “Just trying to help.”

  I threw the last handful of ice melt onto the sidewalk and headed quickly back to the porch. Warmth was starting to sound really good. “No, you’re not,” I told Paul, the Bluetooth device—not connected to anything—starting to chafe against my ear behind the earmuff. “You’re stalling for time because you don’t have an answer.”

  “Not true. You’ve made my point for me. In order to keep your ex-husband out of jail, we need to do some investigating.”

  We made it inside the house. I used the door; Paul just phased through the wall, which was showy but second nature to him. “Are you overlooking one possibility?” I asked him.

  “I don’t believe so.” Mel and Anne were nowhere to be seen, but Yoko was doing yoga, which seemed redundant, in the library, probably the quietest room of the house. I headed for the kitchen, where she wouldn’t be disturbed and I could get that coffee. Everybody wins. “I have weighed the facts and determined that the police hold the best solution to the case unless we do our own digging, in which instance I believe we might discover the truth faster.”

  In the warmth of the kitchen I decided a cold day actually screamed for something other than coffee. I started a burner on the stove and got a small saucepan out of the cabinet. Mom and Melissa could cook, but I could make the best hot chocolate on the planet. Well, on the Jersey Shore.

  “That’s the problem,” I said. “Maybe the truth is exactly what we don’t want to discover.”

  Paul actually stopped in space, which was disconcerting because he was halfway through my refrigerator and I was reaching for the milk. “You’re saying you think your ex-husband actually killed that man?” he gasped.

  I closed the refrigerator door perhaps a little too hard, which had no effect on Paul but made the little Peanuts statuette on top of the fridge shake a bit. Snoopy did not appear to be especially concerned, so I walked to the stove and poured some milk into the saucepan.

  “I’m not saying that, exactly.” I was still trying to figure out what I really did think, but my stomach was knotted with the idea. Steven had never been violent that I knew about, but he’d also never been completely honest. About anything. There was always something a little disturbing about his business dealings. It had not been a surprise when Overcoat showed up on my doorstep with vaguely threatening
words. I’d always sort of expected something like that to happen. “I’m saying I don’t know, and that bothers me enough. I worry that if we find out something we don’t want to know, it’ll hurt Liss and I absolutely don’t want that to happen. Can you understand?”

  Paul moved out of the fridge—his head had always been outside anyway—and he nodded. “I do understand. But consider this—the police already suspect your ex-husband. And while Lieutenant McElone is a very good detective, police officers tend to stick with a theory until it is disproven without question. She isn’t necessarily looking for other suspects, and from what I can tell, your ex is not especially good at covering his tracks. Maybe he didn’t kill this man. If that is the case, the lieutenant might not find the evidence that exonerates him. If we investigate, we might.”

  Maxie dropped down from above slowly and deliberately. She did not try to determine what the conversation in the room might have been about or whether we were indeed paying any attention to her. “Melissa just got up,” said. “She’s not in a great mood.”

  A teenager in a cranky state of mind. Stop the presses.

  I sighed. The milk on the stove was warm enough, so I turned off the heat and poured it into a mug I’d already readied with cocoa powder and some sugar. You don’t need anything else. Anyone who tells you otherwise is mistaken or lying. And marshmallows are a ridiculous distraction. “Tell me something I don’t know,” I said.

  Maxie, in her current subdued mode, was doing her best to be uncharacteristically understanding. She floated to an eye-to-eye position with me and made sure her “sincere” face was on. “I know this is tough. Usually she likes you as much as she likes me.” Maxie was in her own world, which was probably a good thing for the rest of us.

  I knew one thing I could do. But I had to set some ground rules first. I looked at Paul. “I’m going to make a phone call,” I said. “This doesn’t mean we’re investigating the murder, okay?”

  “I don’t understand.” Paul understood just fine. He didn’t want to commit to anything without thinking it over.

  “Yes, you do. I just don’t want you jumping to conclusions. This is one phone call and it’s simply a fact-finding mission.” I didn’t ask if it was okay again, because I had already decided on this course of action and didn’t want to discuss it. I pulled the phone from my pocket and hit the speed dial for Phyllis Coates.

  Phyllis, who owns, runs and sweeps out the offices of the Harbor Haven Chronicle, continued to print a paper edition of the weekly paper in the face of . . . all the rest of society. She’s not stupid, though; she also has an online version of the paper that charges for access.

  She likes me because she considers me a work in progress. I think Phyllis believes that at some point I will realize my mistake and come write for the Chronicle. This is based on the erroneous belief that I have any talent whatsoever for journalism, and the fact that I did indeed deliver the Chronicle for her when I was the very same age Melissa was right now. Liss used to talk about following in my bicycle tracks, but the number of paper copies Phyllis has to distribute these days can’t even sustain a part-time job. Which is fine with me. Newspaper journalism isn’t necessarily the growth industry to which you want your teenager to aspire.

  “You’re calling about the murder at Hanrahan’s,” Phyllis said as soon as she picked up the call. That’s the Phyllis version of “Hello! How have you been! It’s been much too long since we’ve spoken!”

  Maxie rose back through the ceiling, no doubt to check on Melissa again now that she had decided it was her mission in . . . eternity.

  “It’s great to hear your voice, too,” I said in return. I don’t follow all the rules of decorum—okay, I follow two of the rules of decorum—but one of them I believe in is the need for meaningless conversational boilerplate.

  Phyllis, of course, has no such compunction. “The deceased is a Maurice DuBois,” she began, probably reading off a sheet of notes she’d taken or a copy of the police report. “Shot twice, one in the leg and one in the head, execution-style.”

  “This part I know already.” When you’re talking to my friend the journalist, it’s sometimes important to remind her that, one, you’re not a complete and total idiot and, two, you’re still included in the conversation.

  Paul moved closer, no doubt wanting me to put Phyllis on speakerphone, but I was in a cantankerous mood and didn’t want to have to explain to the journalist why I was making her voice echo around the room when I was supposed to be alone.

  “Okay, you’ve spoken to Anita.” Phyllis likes to show off how well entrenched with sources she is by referring to them by first name only. Luckily I knew McElone’s first name. “So, here’s what you don’t know: Mr. DuBois was from Santa Monica, California. He was forty-eight years old, not married, no children. Flew here night before last on a ticket that was purchased that evening ten minutes before the plane left the gate. He’s listed as being in the import/export business, which means he’s a career crook. Didn’t find a murder weapon, which is no surprise. No doubt the gunshots are the cause of death. But nobody heard the shots and there’s not as much blood as you might think, so he might have been killed somewhere else and then dumped in the alley, likely from the trunk of the killer’s car, except probably not because he wasn’t light and there are no drag marks. How much of that did you already know?”

  “Some,” I admitted. I had known Overcoat was from the Los Angeles area and flew in the same night as Melissa and Steven. That was about it. “But what I don’t get is what he could have done in such a short time here to get someone that mad at him.” That was a test balloon; I wanted to see how much Phyllis knew.

  There was a certain ironic lilt in her voice. “Why don’t you ask your ex?” she asked. “I hear he’s back in town and the police are very interested in discussing this shooting with him. That what you wanted me to say?”

  Okay, she knew enough. “I’d sort of have preferred not,” I allowed. “What do you think the best course of action for me would be under these circumstances?”

  “You want to cover the story for me?” Phyllis asked.

  “No!”

  “Just checking.”

  There was a pause while Phyllis considered my question seriously. During that time, Paul actually put his ear into my phone, which meant putting his head into mine. I got that he wanted to hear what was being said, but it was a little too surreal for me, so I took a step back and shook my head. Paul, looking surprised at my squeamishness, remained motionless.

  “If I’m you,” Phyllis answered, “I’m doing my very best to convince your ex to tell his whole story. It might not be the one you want to hear, but once you know the truth you’ll be able to act responsibly. And by ‘responsibly,’ I mean—”

  “You mean telling you exactly what he said so you can publish it in the paper,” I finished for her.

  “You are wasting your talents in the hotel business,” Phyllis suggested.

  “You’d be amazed how many people agree with you,” I told her.

  The kitchen door opened on cue and Melissa, hair unbrushed, pajamas still on, shuffled in and headed for the coffeepot, not the lovely hot chocolate (okay, at this point let’s call it warm chocolate) I extended toward her. She poured herself a cup and put in only a fraction of the half cup of milk she usually used. She sat down at the center island and sat there drinking it while looking as tortured as Humphrey Bogart after Ingrid Bergman has walked into his gin joint in Casablanca.

  “I’m not telling you anything about what Steven might say to me,” I informed Phyllis. Liss turned to look at me, the dazed expression still on her face. “And that’s not only because I have no idea where he might be at this moment in time.” Liss turned back to face forward and sip her hot cup of joe.

  “Then you’d better find him,” Phyllis answered. “The cops find him first and your options are all about paying attorneys
and finding ways to reduce the charges. You find him first and maybe you can sort something out.”

  Paul was close enough to parse some of that out, and he nodded in agreement.

  “Sort what out?” I asked. “You’re making it sound like it’s a foregone conclusion that Steven actually killed this guy.” Melissa’s shoulders shuddered, but she did not look back.

  “He was the only contact your DuBois guy had in Jersey,” Phyllis said. “He owed the guy’s boss a lot of money. He couldn’t pay that money no matter what he promised. The only person on this coast who actually benefits from DuBois being dead is your ex. Who else should the cops suspect?”

  “You’re not helping,” I sighed.

  “Yes, I am. You just don’t want to see it yet. Look, you had enough issues with the guy to divorce him.”

  “Half the marriages in this country end in divorce,” I pointed out. “How many of those people blow a thug’s brains out in an alley?”

  “Or possibly somewhere else,” she reminded me. “We haven’t ruled that out yet.”

  “Thanks. That’s a huge weight off my shoulders. The fact that I divorced Steven doesn’t have a logical conclusion in my believing he’s a murderer, Phyllis. The guy has never lifted a finger against another human being in my presence. The Steven you’re describing is not a guy I would recognize.”

  “Okay, let’s say he didn’t kill DuBois. Who did?”

  I closed my eyes because it felt better. “How would I know that?” I asked.

  “You have an investigator’s license. Find out.” Phyllis, with a flair for the dramatic and a real instinct for a great exit line, disconnected the call.

  I put the phone down on the counter next to me without opening my eyes and just stood for a few seconds. I heard Paul say, “What did she say?” and heard Melissa slurp some coffee at the same time. Through the wall—which I really should not have heard—I heard Yoko chanting something. I even heard Maxie, no doubt coming back down from the attic, asking in a clear, loud voice, “What the heck is wrong with her?”