Joyce let some air out of her mouth in a sound of amusement and disgust. “Yes, I do,” she said. “Sometimes people actually do get away with murder.” And she turned to leave.
“That’s it?” Beth Rosen called out. “The bad guy wins? What kind of mystery theater is this?”
“Yeah,” Tom Hill chimed in. “It’s not a very satisfying ending. I mean, this woman is way overplaying her role. Nobody’s that evil.”
Joyce Kinsler’s face took on a frightening expression, one that I still see in anxiety dreams to this day. She sneered at Tom and said, “You don’t think so?” And she pointed the gun directly at me. “Watch this.”
I don’t know where it came from. I don’t know what motivated me. Some circuit breaker in my head must have blown. But I can tell you that I wasn’t the least bit afraid. I wasn’t worried about what would happen to me. I felt like the room had slowed down, that there was all the time in the world to do what I needed to do. And I started to walk toward Joyce.
“You don’t get to win,” I said.
“Alison,” Paul warned. “Don’t.”
Josh tried to grab my arm, but I was on a mission and shook it loose. I must have been moving faster than I was aware of at the time. Tony also sort of dived in my direction, but I was already out of his reach.
All I saw was Joyce and the gun she had pointed at my chest.
“Stop,” she said. But she didn’t have time to say anything more.
I socked her square on the jaw with a balled-up fist and a week’s worth of rage. Before she could pull the trigger on her gun, she had dropped it. McElone ran across the room to pick it up off the floor.
But I wasn’t done. I wailed on Joyce for a good half-minute—no, a great half-minute—before Josh managed to grab hold of my shoulders and pull me back. “Easy, champ,” he said. “Save something for your next bout.”
Joyce, on the floor, wasn’t unconscious, but I’m willing to bet she wished she was.
The guests broke out in applause.
McElone, taking no chances, cuffed a semi-alert Joyce and a stunned-but-still-uncomprehending Randy, and led them out of the room, muttering something about “this freaky house.”
I don’t remember much else. The adrenaline rush must have faded because suddenly I was crying and Melissa was hugging me. Paul and Maxie, looking astonished, were hovering over my head. Matthew Kinsler, badly surprised, rose up through the ceiling and out of sight.
Mom knelt next to me—I was in one of the chairs, I think—and asked if I wanted some soup. I think I might have said I did.
Phyllis wrote in her notebook, said something about the story of the year, and began interviewing Cybill.
I looked up for Josh. He was standing next to me, as unobtrusive as ever, but smiling with what appeared to be relief. I held out a hand to him, and he took it and didn’t let go.
Kerin Murphy looked at my still-clenched fist, said a quick good-bye and beckoned to her posse. None of them moved. I’d never seen anyone slink out of a room before, but Kerin certainly did do that. (I never got the $3,000, which figured.) The women from her entourage stuck around for a few minutes, then left without a word. It might have had something to do with Maxie swinging the pool cue she took from under the drop cloth over their heads.
Tom and Libby grinned joyously as they left, shaking my hand, saying what a good show it had been and how much they’d enjoyed their last night at the guesthouse.
That was the moment my father appeared from the basement, looked around at the painted paneled walls and said, “I’ve got it! A fitness room!”
Thirty-one
It took some time to process all that had happened. McElone took Randy and Joyce back to the police station and sent some uniformed officers to question the remainder of the guests and attendees, especially about the confessions they’d heard. We were up late, although the officers did make a point of questioning Melissa first—she’d been out of the room for much of the drama anyway—so that she could go to bed after completing an art project I had assigned her. More on that later.
Phyllis Coates was considerably more thorough than the cops in her questioning but promised she would follow up with me and Mom before the Chronicle came out on Thursday. The guests were leaving the next day, so she had to get all the information she could from them immediately. She talked to anyone the cops weren’t questioning.
Matthew Kinsler eventually came back down through the roof, sadly thanked Paul, Maxie and me for our efforts, and left, saying he’d follow Joyce through her coming ordeal. He never directly addressed his daughter’s crimes but shook his head a lot while he was talking. I felt awful for him, but there was nothing I could do to help.
By contrast, Brenda Leskanik said she’d check in with the Harbor Haven police in a few days to keep track of her son. She said she didn’t think Randy wanted to see her, hadn’t much reacted to her presence, and somehow didn’t seem like the Randy she knew. She seemed less sad than rocked; she’d thought her son was dead, and then she found out he’d simply decided not to be her son anymore.
I was glad to have Melissa. Of course, I always have been.
Cybill, basking in the glow of her new celebrity, commiserated for a while with her coconspirators, Maxie and Paul, at the swell prank they’d played on me. In light of things, and since Maxie and Paul were already dead, I decided to be a good sport about it. But I did scold them pretty adamantly about their timing. Then Cybill went off to talk to a reporter from News 12 New Jersey, who had just driven up in an unobtrusive blue van with a satellite dish on its roof.
The guests, fully convinced this was the best ghost show they’d seen all week (Libby Hill actually tried to tip me “for the ghosts,” with a wink), thanked me roundly for the entertainment, commented on how realistically the actors playing the policemen were questioning them, and eventually went up to their rooms to rest and pack to go home the next day.
Sprayne showed up within minutes of McElone’s call to him. We didn’t really say anything to each other, he looked Josh up and down, and went about his business. There wasn’t much else to do.
McElone finished up her work, looked around the front room, shuddered, and left.
Initially, Mom refused to leave, but we gave up on the soup (I didn’t have anything in the house that would make a soup base, but I did have some instant chocolate pudding), and eventually she saw that I was all right. She also saw some of the looks Josh and I were exchanging and said she’d call me in the morning. Dad said he’d hitch a ride with her and be back the next day whether Mom dropped by or not.
I’d considered his fitness-room idea and thought it was good, but I didn’t give it the absolute okay until I cleared it with Maxie, who approved. Dad smiled and followed Mom out of the house.
Of course, Paul and Maxie weren’t going anywhere. So even when Josh and I were left “alone,” we had two ghosts kibitzing over our heads. It was going to make things a little more awkward, and they were already awkward enough.
I led Josh out onto the porch, hoping at least Paul would take the hint and stay in the house, but no such luck. I’d have to play this scene out before an audience.
We admired Melissa’s completed art project, which covered the spooky graffiti Kerin had left on the wall to my house, something I fully intended to see McElone about in the morning. If I could press charges against Kerin Murphy, it would be a good start to the day. The least I could do was sue her for $3,000.
The project Melissa had completed was a sign on poster board, in bright green and blue letters (any house with an eleven-year-old has poster board on hand at all times). It boldly read, “HAUNTED GUESTHOUSE.”
“I like it,” Josh said. “It’ll bring in the tourists when word spreads beyond Harbor Haven.”
“I have to talk to you,” I blurted out. “I’ve been trying to work up the courage for weeks.”
Josh turned and looked at me. I expected his face to be concerned, but it was a touch amused, as if he’d been waiting for this m
oment. Of course, I knew that this was the same expression he got on his face when he was tense. So I read nothing into it. “Tell me,” he urged.
“Here it comes,” Maxie said. Thanks a heap, Maxie.
The words came out fast, almost as if they were one long word. “The ghosts are real and their names are Paul and Maxie and they live here in the house and they’ve become friends of mine,” I said in one breath. Before Josh could interject, I went on. “I understand if you think I’m crazy and you don’t want to see me anymore, but I don’t want to lie to you about it and that’s what’s true. The ghosts are real.”
He took a step back to assess me, but it wasn’t the step back I’d anticipated, one that would indicate horror or disgust. In fact, his face didn’t change expression at all—there was still that look of slight amusement.
“There, now,” Josh said finally. “Was that so hard?”
I must have blinked a couple of times because while I was trying to decide what to say, Josh laughed. “Wow,” he said. “You really thought I didn’t know?”
“You knew there were ghosts here?” I managed to choke out.
He did a half-grin with the left side of his mouth and shook his head, but in an “oh Alison, you nut” way, not a negative one. “I didn’t know,” he said. “But I knew you believed, and that was good enough for me.”
I felt all the tension wash out of me. It was replaced mostly by guilt. “You trusted me, but I didn’t trust you enough.”
“Oh, you’re being too hard on yourself,” Josh said. He took a moment to think. “Well, maybe not.”
I punched him on the arm. My knuckles hurt from wailing on Joyce.
Josh looked up at Paul, who nodded. “Come on,” he said to Maxie. “We need to go inside.”
“No, we don’t.” She saw Paul’s look. “Oh, man . . .” And they were gone.
I turned my complete attention to Josh. “Why didn’t you say something?” I asked.
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I figured you’d think I was insane.”
He looked thoughtful. “Until you told me, I couldn’t be sure you trusted me. After your ex-husband and a couple of the other guys you’ve told me about . . .” His voice trailed off.
Josh was right: I’d built walls because of The Swine and after. “But you’re different,” I said.
“I needed you to see that.”
I turned to face him full-on. “I see it,” I said. “What do you see?”
He kissed me. And that was good.
When it ended, I said very quietly, “I’m going to talk to Mom about watching Melissa tomorrow night. I don’t have any guests the next day.”
Josh’s face showed interest. “Really!”
“Yeah. I think it’s time I saw your place, don’t you?”
He kissed me again. And it was better than good.
• • •
“I don’t remember much,” Everett Sandheim said.
Maxie and I found Everett at the gas pumps of the Fuel Pit. He’d been able to make it out of the men’s room, but not much farther yet. Still, he thanked Maxie for the instruction and said he hoped to do better than that soon, “maybe get to the road and start wandering around a little.”
After I’d said good-bye to my guests—each of whom had expressed their pleasure in the stay (especially the “murder mystery ghost show” the night before) and promised to report back to Senior Plus Tours about their experience—I’d driven Melissa to Mom’s for the day and a sleepover. Maxie had hitched a ride and I hadn’t objected, particularly since this stop to see Everett was on the agenda.
McElone reported that Joyce Kinsler had refused to speak after being arrested and had retained an attorney who had advised her against doing so. Randy Sandheim, on the other hand, had been singing like Adele all night long in an effort to get a deal from the county prosecutor.
They were still piecing together the forensics of Helen’s death, but it appeared her neck was broken before she was hanged, to make it look like suicide. Either way, forensic experts did not believe Joyce could have managed the feat herself, so Randy—who could easily have at least assisted in the murder before going back to his office and letting me see him “discover the body”—was still a major suspect. McElone told me a deal for Randy would probably not include immunity. And getting Joyce to roll over on Randy was just as possible; she had expressed some interest in letting investigators know all the things he had done wrong, McElone told me.
According to the lieutenant, Randy had pretty much sealed Joyce’s fate already. “She’ll go away for a long time,” she guessed.
It was hard to know which one of them finally had the upper hand.
“You don’t remember about Joyce Kinsler?” I asked Everett now. We’d given him a very sketchy recap of the past evening’s events.
“I really don’t have that time clear yet,” Everett answered. “I suppose it might have been Joyce who stabbed me. I wasn’t in the best shape mentally the past couple of years. I don’t know what I’ll get back and what I won’t.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Randy.”
“The police said he got out of the accident with his motorcycle, healed and detoxed as a John Doe, then took on the name David Boffice on leaving rehab,” I reported.
Maxie, eager to take credit for her online research, added, “He met Helen Boffice after she had the millions, figured he could live well with a wife like that, and married her after about six months,” she told Everett. “But Helen was smart. She insisted on a prenup. Randy hung in there, living well but not like a millionaire, until he met Joyce Kinsler. It looks like she’d come from a series of bad relationships, and she’d decided that anything she needed to do for four million dollars, she’d do.”
Everett took what for a living person would be a deep breath. He didn’t let it out, because there was no air involved in the process. “I don’t know,” he said. “I let that boy down at the worst time, I guess. What happened afterward is partly my fault.”
“You had an illness,” Maxie said, with more compassion than I would have expected. “You can’t blame yourself for that.”
“He was my son,” Everett said soberly. “I should have done more.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t do more for you when I could have,” I told him sincerely.
“Don’t let it worry you, Ghost Lady,” Everett said, then caught himself. “I’m sorry. Alison.”
I waved a hand. “Ghost Lady is fine,” I told him.
I had one more stop to make.
• • •
Maxie stayed in the car when I drove around the back of the Fuel Pit and parked near the dune where the homeless had set up their community. The beach was probably closer to the street now than before the storm, but they were sheltered from the main road by a row of trees and some garbage cans.
It took a few minutes to locate Cathy Genna, who emerged from the trees as if from a fog, a little at a time. I was struck again by how ethereal she was, how she almost floated off the ground. She was a calm soul, I supposed; there was no hurry or tension in her movement or her voice.
“You came back,” she said. It was a statement of fact, nothing else.
“I promised I would when I found out what happened to Everett,” I reminded her.
“And you have found out.” Again, not a question.
But I answered as if it were. “Yes. Do you want to know the whole story?”
Cathy smiled sadly. “No,” she said. “The circumstances don’t really matter. Do you know if Everett is at peace?”
I wanted to tell her that Everett was less than three hundred yards away, but there would be no point in confusing the issue. “I don’t know about peace,” I said. “But he appears to have cleared his mind, and he accepts what happened to him.”
Cathy picked up a beer bottle from the sand. “It’s a shame what people do to the beach, don’t you think? Even with all they’re doing to fix it again.” She examined the bottle. “You can’t ev
en get a deposit back for this one.” She moved to the nearest trash can, almost full, and dropped the bottle inside. “Too bad they don’t have a recycling bin here.” She turned again to look at me. “What about you? Are you satisfied with what you found out?”
I hadn’t considered that. “I don’t know,” I told her. “Everett’s still dead. Does it matter if we found out how it happened?”
Cathy smiled. “You’re learning,” she said.
“We never did find out about the other ghost,” I told her. “Everett said he heard Randy and another ghost. A woman. I wonder who that was.”
Cathy nodded. “Me, too,” she said.
And vanished.
The Thrill of the Haunt Page 27
