“So what changed?” I was hoping Paul would make sense of all this from the recording I’d informed Brenda I was making. It was just as well she’d agreed to it—the wind up here would have made a secret recording from inside my tote bag pretty much unintelligible.
“I’m not sure. Everett started telling me about people talking to him. People I couldn’t see. People who weren’t there. I figure he’d had a schizophrenic break somewhere along the line, but he was never diagnosed because he refused to go see a doctor.” Brenda was dry-eyed and absolutely steady relating this; she wasn’t happy about what had happened to Everett, but it was so far back in the past that she was no longer shaken by it. He wasn’t her husband any longer, and now he was dead. It was sad, but it wasn’t going to touch her. Not anymore.
“He heard voices?” Suddenly this story was hitting a little too close to home.
Brenda nodded slowly. “He came home one day from work and said he’d heard someone talking to him when no one was there. Said he didn’t understand it, but he figured he’d better listen to the voice, like in that movie where the baseball gods talk to Kevin Costner.”
“Field of Dreams,” I said. Like that was the important part.
“Yeah. And the voice was telling him to quit his job and go follow his dream in life.”
I waited, but that was all Brenda said. “What was his dream in life?” I asked.
“That was just the thing. He didn’t have one.” She shrugged.
“How old was your son then?” I asked. It was a painful subject I was sure, but I knew Paul would ask me later, so I pushed on through.
“Maybe eleven or twelve. It was the last year Everett was living with us, so I guess that’s about right.” Brenda looked off into the distance as if there was something there other than a highway with cars going by. Maybe there was.
“Do you think . . . I’m sorry, but I have no other way to put this . . . do you think that maybe that was when things with Randy started to go in the wrong direction?” I hated myself for asking, but it might lead to something. Okay, so I was grasping at straws, but I really didn’t see Brenda as the killer and I needed a theory.
“Yes,” she answered in choked tones. “It certainly didn’t help. That’s such a pivotal age anyway.”
“Did Everett say whether he ever saw anyone, or was it just a voice? Voices?”
“There was more than one voice, for sure, at least two and maybe more,” Brenda said, still staring into the past and not focusing on me at all.
“Besides telling him to quit his job, what did they say?” I asked.
Brenda blinked, finally seeming to remember I was there, and looked into my eyes. “I guess they told him to leave Randy and me,” she said.
“I bet that made you mad,” I said.
Brenda didn’t acknowledge the implication. “It sure did,” she said.
• • •
“You froze me out,” Paul said.
“I took a little time to gather my thoughts, that’s all,” I told him. “Look, I realize the investigations are very important to you, but the fact is, they can be dangerous to me and there are still things that people can do to hurt me. I try to avoid those whenever possible.”
“And the Dave Boffice case?” he asked. “That’s dangerous?”
“Ask Joyce Kinsler.”
“I’ve tried,” Paul answered. “I haven’t had any luck yet.”
We were in the den, with no guests around at the moment, although at least Cybill would be back after lunch. The two couples were both going on car trips; Tom and Libby Hill to the Seaside boardwalk—what was left of it—and Harry and Beth Rosen to see Lucy the Margate Elephant, one of the few attractions in the area undamaged by the storm: a six-story wooden elephant you have to see to believe. Harry and Beth, in an attempt to believe it, were going to see it.
“I understand it’s scary to see a woman dead like that,” Paul said, doing his best to be reasonable. “But that doesn’t mean you should quit the case.”
“I’m not quitting the case,” I said, doing absolutely nothing to appear reasonable. “I’m done with the case because there is no case. Dave Boffice is not cheating on his wife with Joyce Kinsler. I was hired to find out, and I found out. Where do I send the bill?”
“Helen called and said she wanted you to find out what happened to Joyce, and find out quickly,” Paul countered. “If you’re not going to do that, as a professional, you should at least call and let her hire someone else.”
“Consider it done,” I said. I even intended to do so.
“All right,” Paul answered, but he didn’t appear to think it was even a little right. “What about Everett Sandheim?”
I probably scowled. I felt like I scowled. “That one’s proving tricky,” I told him honestly. “There are a lot of directions to go in, and I don’t know which one’s best.”
“What about the window?” Paul asked.
“The window?” The answering-with-questions had become a reflex.
“The men’s washroom window at the gas station,” Paul answered. “You were supposed to find out whether it was large enough . . .”
“Why can’t I just measure the window?” I said.
Paul stopped floating, was completely still, and looked at me. “What?”
“Why can’t I just measure the window? Why do I have to go through it?”
Before he could answer, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket, and I pulled it out. The number wasn’t one I recognized, but it was local, so I answered it.
“Ms. Kerby?” the caller said. I knew that voice. From where did I know that voice?
“Who’s calling?” I asked. I’m not admitting to anything until I know whether the person on the other end of the conversation is a raving maniac. It’s a rule I have.
“Detective Sprayne of the Eatontown Police Department.” Oh, yeah. That was where I knew that voice.
“What can I do for you, Detective?” I asked.
“I have some more questions about Joyce Kinsler,” he said. “Can we meet for coffee?”
More coffee. So I’d sleep less tonight; what the heck.
He gave me the name of a diner near the Eatontown police station, and I agreed to meet him there in twenty minutes.
“I have to make this quick,” I told Sprayne when I arrived. “I have to pick my daughter up from school in an hour.”
“You have a daughter?”
I was aware he knew that already; he was making small talk. “Quick,” I reminded him.
“Okay,” Sprayne said. “Here’s the thing. We don’t think Kinsler hanged herself.”
I took a breath. “Because there was nothing under her feet. Nothing for her to jump off of.”
Sprayne’s eyes widened, and he tilted his head in respect. “Very good. The only person we’re sure was at the scene anytime around when Kinsler died was your pal Dave Boffice,” Sprayne said. “And you, of course. But I’ve done some checking, and you don’t have a motive for killing Joyce Kinsler.”
“That’s sweet, Detective,” I said. “I feel so much better.” Then it hit me—had he researched me beyond what his iPad had told him at the scene? “What do you mean, you’ve done some checking? On me?”
He pulled a reporter’s notebook from his inside pocket and opened it to a page. “You are the owner of a bed-and-breakfast in Harbor Haven,” he began.
“It’s a guesthouse. I don’t serve breakfast.” It’s become a knee-jerk response at this point.
“Fine. A guesthouse, at 123 Seafront Avenue. There are rumors your guesthouse is haunted. You have an eleven-year-old daughter named Melissa who is in the fifth grade at John F. Kennedy elementary school in Harbor Haven.”
“You were just pretending to be surprised I had a daughter,” I said.
“People like it when you ask about their kids,” he said. “You are . . . let’s say in your late thirties, were once married to a Steven Randell, ended in divorce. You got your private investigator’s license
about two and a half years ago but don’t use it much. You’re currently dating a guy who works in a paint store.”
“He owns the paint store, and where did you get that from?”
Sprayne smiled. It wasn’t exactly kind, but it had that bad-boy quality that some women (like Maxie, for example) find appealing. “You told me,” he said.
Oh, yeah.
“Great. So you’ve researched me. I appreciate your leaving out my weight and how many times per week I change my sheets.” The irritation in my voice sounded real, but it felt fake. I can’t explain it.
“I can look those up if you want me to,” he said playfully.
Was the married guy flirting with me? That was something I certainly didn’t need. “What did you want to know from me, Detective?” I was pushing this back toward the case if it killed me.
“We’ve talked to Dave Boffice,” he said, his voice once again a model of professionalism. “We told him about Kinsler, and he had the good taste not to act surprised. Said he’d gone there and was so spooked by finding her that he went straight home. Says he didn’t call 911, because he was in shock. He claims he was at the Monmouth Mall getting a Nathan’s hot dog when Joyce died.”
“Do we know exactly how long she’d been dead when I got there?” I asked.
“Not yet, just an estimate. More than an hour, less than twelve.”
“I would have seen if he went to the mall, and he didn’t. Either way, he was there right before me and ran out with a look on his face that would indicate he’d seen what I saw a couple of minutes later.” I avoided saying “seen a ghost” since, well, I guess that seemed less shocking to me these days. For instance, there was a transparent woman, I’d say in her early fifties, dressed for 1966, hovering over the booth next to ours, but we hadn’t spoken.
“Do you think he had time to do anything?” Sprayne asked. “Contaminate the crime scene? Maybe straighten up what Kinsler would have been standing on before she died?”
“It’s possible. It would have only taken a few seconds to stand a kitchen chair back up or something, but why would he bother? What difference would it make to him if everything in Joyce’s kitchen was neat and tidy except for the dead woman hanging from the rafters?”
Sprayne shrugged. “You can’t answer the question until you have facts,” he said. “We don’t have facts yet.” Something Paul would have said.
“Anyway, it was well after Joyce had died,” I pointed out. “Dave definitely didn’t kill her while I was outside watching; he wasn’t in there long enough, and your report shows that she was dead awhile before we got there.”
“Let’s say he did kill her earlier in the day,” Sprayne suggested. “Is it possible he knew you were following him?”
So this was going to be about what a lousy detective I am? Only I get to say stuff like that! “I really don’t think he did,” I told Sprayne, making sure my jaw muscles didn’t clench. “There was no sign he knew anyone was on his trail. Why?”
Sprayne cocked an eyebrow; he had noticed my tone. “Don’t get excited,” he said. “Nobody’s casting aspersions. If Boffice knew he was being followed during his lunch breaks, he might have killed Joyce sometime earlier, and then put on a show about how shocked he was because he knew he was being watched. Deflect suspicion.”
Dammit. That made sense.
“It’s just a scenario. I don’t have anything to go on yet,” Sprayne said with a shrug. “Have you spoken to Boffice yourself?”
My lips curled. “What kind of detective do you think I am?” I asked.
Another shrug. “I don’t have any facts about that, either.”
“No. I’ve never spoken to Dave Boffice,” I admitted. “What’s he like?”
Sprayne smiled, but only with one side of his mouth. “The blandest, most average guy you ever met in your life,” he said. “Off the record.”
“But you still suspect him?”
“That’s one of the reasons why I suspect him.” Sprayne waved to the waitress and made that writing gesture that people think means “bring me the check, please,” and people who have waited tables believe signals that you’re an imperious jerk. It’s all a question of perspective.
“Are we done?” I asked. I didn’t actually want any more coffee anyway, not that he’d bothered to ask first.
“Unless you have something else to add,” Sprayne said as the waitress brought our check. and he made a show of picking it up, which, let’s face it, he should. “I didn’t expect to have an amazing lead come out of this meeting.”
“Then why did you call me?” I asked, leaving out the part about how it had wasted both our time.
“Your scintillating conversation,” he deadpanned.
Seventeen
I called Josh when I got home—to be fair, he’d actually returned my call—and I told him about finding Joyce’s body. He asked if I wanted him to come over, and I said yes, after thinking about it, but that he should wait until after the store’s usual closing hour.
Paul wanted the rundown on my meeting with Detective Sprayne, so I gave it to him sans hilarious banter. Maxie was doing some research into Dave’s business, which was keeping her busy for the moment. “So Detective Sprayne agrees with us, that Joyce Kinsler was murdered,” Paul said, stroking his goatee. “David Boffice certainly has to be a suspect, but I imagine Helen would be as well, wouldn’t you say? The wife angered by the affair, deciding to eliminate the competition? If there was an affair.”
“What do you mean, ‘if there was an affair’?” I asked.
“We don’t have proof. We only have Helen’s word for it. Don’t assume, Alison.” Paul loves nothing better than to school me on his personal theory of investigation. I don’t mind it, but I’m not sure it helps. Me.
“If there was no affair, why did Dave go to Joyce’s house?” I asked.
“A good question. We’re dealing in speculation, and I don’t like that.” Paul rubbed his eyes. “If there was an affair, or even if she just believed there was, Helen would be a natural suspect.”
I was repairing a small leak in the sink in the downstairs powder room: not a big deal, but annoying enough to warrant attention. I do minor plumbing, but nothing big. Dad wasn’t around—he must have been at Madison Paint with Sy and Josh—or he probably would have insisted on doing the repair himself. “But the thing is, Helen didn’t seem to want to eliminate the competition,” I told Paul. “She wanted to intimidate her husband.”
“Killing Joyce would certainly accomplish that goal, don’t you think?” Paul countered.
“I think she just wanted Dave to know she knew about the affair,” I said, climbing out from under the sink. “Killing Joyce would be too final, too oversized a response to what she was trying to accomplish. It was about getting the upper hand, not about something as final as death.” I tried the faucet, and it no longer leaked. Am I good, or what? “Besides, it’s not our case anymore. The Eatontown police will handle it.” That was my story, and I was sticking to it.
Paul sputtered but didn’t respond. Melissa, who had been in the kitchen with Mom learning how to make macaroni and cheese, appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. Murphy is on the phone,” she said. “She wants another progress report.”
Groaning is not attractive, but I’ve found it’s sort of involuntary.
I keep the landline in the house for a few reasons, although I use my cell phone mostly for personal and business calls. Having the phone in the house covers me if the cell phone needs recharging, if cell service is interrupted for some reason (it had been out for almost a week after the storm, along with electrical power), and if guests who don’t have cells might need to use a phone while staying here. Also, I’ve never gotten around to canceling the service, and some visitors actually do look me up in the Yellow Pages and call to make reservations. But if Kerin Murphy was going to start calling me at home, that might be enough to reconsider canceling.
“Can you tell her I left the country?” I asked. “Nowher
e far, maybe just Venezuela.” But Melissa gave me one of her looks—the one that indicates she’s more mature than I am—and I trudged out to the den, where the landline sat on a side table, to take Kerin Murphy’s call.
“Why are you calling me at the house?” I asked Kerin as soon as I picked up the receiver.
“Because you never gave me your cell-phone number,” she answered. That was true, and I had been hoping she’d take the hint, but life just doesn’t work like that sometimes. “Luckily, your home number was in the book. What do you have to tell me about your investigation?”
“You can’t expect progress reports every day, Kerin,” I said.
“I certainly can, and I do,” Kerin answered in her best businesswoman tone. “I hired you to perform a professional function, and as your employer, I am entitled to regular reports on your progress toward the achievement of that goal.”
“Did you read that in a self-help book on being a successful businesswoman?” I asked. Maybe I could get myself fired for insubordination. It wouldn’t be the first time. “Look. I met with Everett’s ex-wife. She hadn’t seen him in years. His son is dead. I called his father and got the woman who’s overseeing his care at an assisted living facility in South Carolina. I haven’t gotten to his sister yet, but I have calls in. What is it you’re expecting?”
“Results. We hired you because you claim to have certain . . . abilities. We want you to exercise them.”
Tom and Libby Hill walked in through the front door as I tried to talk sense into a woman who had once baked individual chocolate soufflés for a second-grade bake sale. I lowered my voice. “I do not believe a ghost killed Everett Sandheim,” I told Kerin. “I’ve seen no evidence of that.” Not much, anyway.
“You’re being evasive,” Kerin shot back. “Was it one of your ghost friends and you’re afraid to say so because it will ruin your reputation?”
The Thrill of the Haunt Page 14
