Be My Ghost

by Carol J. Perry

  “What’s going on?” Maureen stopped at the doorway. Finn moved close to her and gave a soft, worried “woof.”

  Elizabeth waved a manicured hand toward the room. “Somebody ordered a ‘Celebration Libation.’ It happens on birthdays or if they had a baby or they hit the Lotto or something.” She shrugged. “Penelope thought it up. Good for business.”

  The man at the bar had spun around on his stool and smiled, lifting a very large brandy snifter in a salute to the assembled guests. The glass, its purple liquid contents topped with the still-shimmering sparkler, was further decorated with varicolored paper umbrellas, a pink hibiscus blossom, and a small American flag. The player piano swung into “You’re a Grand Old Flag.”

  Elizabeth pushed the doors open. “Well, come along. Let’s get you settled.” She motioned to the waiter. “Herbie. Take over here for a minute I’ll be right back.”

  With Finn in the lead, Maureen returned to the spot where she’d left her bags. A middle-aged couple now occupied two of the wicker chairs, he in suit and tie, she in a black crepe sheath—which Maureen immediately recognized as a Victoria Beckham number that had sold in Bartlett’s boutique department for well over a thousand dollars—gold high-heeled sandals, and an enormous gold handbag. She—reading a magazine. He—texting. They look as if they’re going to dinner in Boston, not here in the land of Hawaiian shirts and Bermuda shorts, she thought. Definitely not local folks.

  Maureen smiled at Elizabeth. “Perhaps you can just direct me to my room. We’ve been traveling for a long time. I’d love to get a shower and a change of clothes. Finn would like to go for a walk—then perhaps I can get a bite to eat in your lovely restaurant.”

  “Of course.” Elizabeth reached beneath the counter and handed Maureen a folder. “Your key is inside. You’ll have Penelope’s suite, of course. It’s on the top floor all by itself. Kind of a penthouse. Nice view.” She dropped her voice. “I hope you like cats. Penelope’s two cats have had the run of the place for years—except for the dining room, of course. They have their own door to her room and another to the outside.”

  Maureen shrugged. “I like cats well enough,” she said, “but I don’t know how Finn feels about them. Guess we’ll find out.”

  “They’ve been keeping to themselves since Penelope died. Ted, the bartender, feeds them outside the back kitchen door, I guess. I haven’t seen either of them lately.”

  Finn gave a sudden tug toward the front door just as the well-but-overdressed couple rose from their chairs and hurried toward the dining room. “I think Finn wants his walk now. May I leave my bags here for a few minutes?”

  “Of course. I’ll put them here behind the desk. No sense leading anyone into temptation.” Elizabeth hurried around the counter, grabbing both bags. “Done. Now you’ll have to excuse me. Looks as if I need to waylay a couple of autograph hunters.” She followed the man and woman toward the plantation doors.

  “No problem,” Maureen said, wondering if bag snitching was common at her newly acquired inn, and at the same time wondering if someone famous was dining there. “Whose autograph?” she asked.

  “Just the writer at the bar,” Elizabeth said over her shoulder. “No big deal. They can get his autograph later—just not in my dining room. Take care. We’ll be serving dinner until ten.”

  The dog tugged again, and as the two crossed the porch and stepped out onto the brick sidewalk Maureen couldn’t help thinking of what it would be like taking Finn out for an evening walk back in Saugus. “Glad we’re here tonight, boy? Nice warm breeze instead of cold, drizzly rain.” Not that New England isn’t usually lovely in the fall, she reminded herself—leaves changing colors and all—but being here, on this pretty street with its old-fashioned iron lampposts lighting her way, carved pumpkins grinning from the front steps of the inn, and the fragrance of flowers everywhere, was for now a welcome change.

  There were buildings spaced out along both sides of the street. There were several of the expected gift shops and one of those giant T-shirt emporiums. But many of the storefronts had a look of age about them. She peered into the windows of the Beach Bookshop, where an assortment of Halloween-themed paperback mysteries shared space with a retro-looking Frankenstein trick-or-treat bucket. She crossed the street to get a better look at the Paramount, an old movie theater with a lighted marquee advertising Rear Window with Jimmy Stewart, while Finn visited several lampposts and two fire hydrants. Happy sounds—and a slight aroma of beer—issued from the L&M Bar at the end of the street, and where the beach began was a long wooden building whose painted sign proclaimed it the HAVEN CASINO BALLROOM, along with a bronze historic landmark plaque like the one on Haven House. “I’ll be glad to see all this in the daylight,” Maureen said. “Especially my property.” She paused, recalling the mismatched chairs, the threadbare carpet, the sparsely populated dining room. “At least, I hope I’ll be glad to see it. Anyway, I can hardly wait to explore our new hometown, Finn.” Maureen turned and started back along the brick sidewalk. She passed a small two-story white house with a red tile roof. A discreetly lettered sign next to the door read JACKSON, NATHAN AND PETERS, ATTORNEYS AT LAW.

  “Look at that, Finn.” She pointed to the sign. “Our lawyer is just down the street. That’s handy. We’ll do some more exploring tomorrow. But first, a shower and some dinner.”

  They approached the inn, which looked especially attractive from that angle in the glow of the streetlamps, heightened by soft lighting from beneath the sloping roof. Several guests were on the porch in rocking chairs, including the four Maureen had met earlier, seated at the top of the stairs. The autograph-hunting couple, her gold bag reflecting light from one of the grinning pumpkins, sat, chairs close together, apparently sharing a magazine. The only other occupied rocking chair was at the far end of the wraparound porch, facing away from the others. Must be the “ghost hunter” sitting all alone again, she thought. That’s sad.

  Finn greeted the quartet, the two men and two women, with enthusiastic tail wags and kisses as though he’d known them for years. They responded with pats and ear rubs and “atta boy” and “Hey, Finn.” The six nearby porch sitters made friendly comments and before long Finn had greeted them all. Maureen smiled and gave an all-encompassing wave to the group. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Maureen. Welcome to Haven House.” She learned that the four, Molly, Sam, Gert, and George, were year-round tenants, two of the other six were town residents who’d just come over for dinner, and four were vacationing Haven House guests.

  Finn glanced around and tugged Maureen in the direction of the alleged ghost hunter. “You’re right, Finn,” she whispered. “It’s not right for him to be excluded this way. Let’s welcome him to Haven House. After all, he’s one of my guests.”

  Finn didn’t hesitate. He bounded happily down the length of the porch, pulling Maureen along behind him. The chair creaked, rocking gently back and forth, when Finn put his nose on the man’s knee.

  “Hello there,” Maureen said. “Sorry to disturb you. I’m the new owner here and my dog Finn and I would like to welcome you to Haven House.”

  The man didn’t respond and Maureen dropped her voice. “I guess he’s asleep, Finn. Maybe we’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

  Again, the dog pressed against the man’s knee, making the chair tilt backward and rock forward.

  The man slid silently to the floor. Even in the dim light Maureen saw that his eyes were open—and unseeing.

  Chapter 4

  Her first instinct was to scream. She didn’t. Instead, she reached for the man’s wrist. All the Bartlett’s employees had taken a mandatory first-aid class. Maybe he was alive. Maybe she could help. She’d recognized him immediately as the lone customer she’d seen at the bar just before she’d taken Finn for a walk. The man who’d been celebrating something special in his life was the mysterious ghost hunter and writer she’d heard about. His wrist was limp, still warm, but she could detect no pulse. The dog had backed away, and now sat, whining faintl
y.

  There was no point in upsetting the others assembled on the porch. Maureen, as calmly as she could, with Finn, head down, tail between his legs, walked back to the front of the building, and through the tall green door. There was still no one at the reception desk.

  Should she call 911? Or leave that to Elizabeth?

  She pushed open the plantation doors, almost striking the woman who stood just inside. “Watch it,” Elizabeth commanded. “What’s your hurry?’

  “We have a problem,” Maureen said, speaking slowly and softly. “There is a dead man on the porch.”

  “Oh, God. One of the old people?”

  “He doesn’t look old,” Maureen said. “I’m pretty sure it’s the man who was celebrating at the bar.”

  “No kidding. Conrad Wilson. Where is he?”

  “At the far end of the porch. He fell out of his chair. He’s on the floor now. I don’t think anyone else has noticed. What do we do in a case like this?”

  “I’ll call for an ambulance.” Elizabeth sounded almost bored. “This isn’t the first time. Won’t be the last.” She tapped a number into her phone and shook her head. “Why the hell do they all come here to die?”

  Beware the place one comes to die.

  “Yes. Hello. This is Elizabeth Mack at the Haven House Inn. One of our guests has apparently died.... What? . . . A male. On the front porch.... Yep. Better send the ambulance.” She put the phone down. “Let’s go out there and cover him up before those old harpies gather around him. Wait a sec. I’ll grab a tablecloth.” She reached into a tall cabinet behind the screen, selecting a neatly folded white oblong. “Come on. They’ll be here in a minute.”

  Maureen followed the woman while Finn, his head still down, trailed reluctantly behind his mistress. Within what seemed like seconds Conrad Wilson’s still-warm body was shrouded in a sparkling clean white linen tablecloth, its fine fabric skillfully mended in places., its crisp surface divided into precisely pressed square folds.

  “There now, Conrad,” Elizabeth said, giving the body a gentle pat in the vicinity of its head. “Snug as a bug. That’ll keep those old vultures away.” She stood, smoothing her slim black skirt. “You stay here with him,” she told Maureen. “I’ll go up front and wait for the ambulance and the cops.”

  “The ambulance and the cops?” Maureen asked. “Why?”

  “The ambulance in case he might still be breathing. The cops to figure out why he isn’t. You stay here,” she ordered again, then sighed. “Not my first time at the rodeo, you know.”

  “But . . .” Maureen began to object. Too late. Elizabeth had dashed away, leaving Maureen—along with a recoiling dog—alone with the neatly linen-wrapped corpse.

  “I don’t know, Finn,” she whispered. “Elizabeth behaves as though it isn’t unusual for people to die suddenly around here. Not her first time at the rodeo, she says. Like dying is no big deal in Haven.”

  Finn managed a feeble, “Woof.”

  “Yeah. It’s a big deal to me too.”

  Elizabeth had been correct, though, about the rapid response of the police and/or the ambulance. A wail of sirens announced the arrival of one or the other or both at the Haven House Inn. The assembled guests and visitors on the porch, inside the restaurant, or maybe even in their rooms responded immediately to the sounds. In seconds there was a rush—a near stampede—to where Maureen and Finn stood guard over the rapidly cooling late Conrad Wilson.

  Elizabeth, accompanied by several men, fast-walked toward them, but Molly and Gert got there first “Lookie, Gert.” Molly pointed to the fabric-covered mound. “I bet it’s that ghosthunter. This is where he always sits.”

  “Psychic detective,” Gert corrected. “Hi, Maureen. What happened to him?”

  Finn, perhaps remembering some of his guide dog training, had placed himself between Maureen and the oncoming crowd, growling a low warning. It worked. When Elizabeth and her uniformed male escorts arrived, two of them carrying a stretcher, none of the curious guests, tenants, or random passersby had come within even a few feet of the body—although the glow from multiple phone cameras added an eerie luminescence to the scene.

  “This is Officer Frank Hubbard from the Haven police department,” Elizabeth announced. “He’ll take over.” She nodded in Maureen’s direction. “She’s Maureen Doherty—the new owner of this place. She found the body.”

  While the officer herded the crowd away, directing them inside the inn or down to the sidewalk, a second officer stood at the foot of the steps, arms folded, discouraging further entry. The two EMTs went to work immediately. Removing the tablecloth, one shone his flashlight onto Conrad Wilson’s eye, then gently closed them, while the other pressed a stethoscope on the man’s chest, then shook his head. “He’s a goner. A guest, Liz?”

  “Yes. Conrad Wilson. Been here about a month.”

  “Whew. Strong smell of alcohol.” The other EMT looked up at Elizabeth. “Drinker?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed,” she said. “He had one of Penelope’s famous ‘Celebration Libations’ tonight, though.”

  The first medic laughed shortly. “Oh boy. I had one of them on my birthday last year. Chock-full of one-fifty-one-proof rum. Those things’ll knock you on your ass all right.”

  “Shouldn’t kill you, though,” the other replied. “Is the coroner on the way?”

  Officer Hubbard answered, “Yep. Just leave the body as you found it. Ms. Doherty? You’re the one who discovered the deceased?”

  “Yes. I guess I am,” Maureen answered, avoiding looking at the now-uncovered body.

  The officer faced Elizabeth. “Liz, you got a room somewhere where I can question Ms. Doherty here about all this? Some place with a little privacy?’

  “Sure, Frank. You can use my office.”

  “Good. We’ll wait here for the coroner. Meanwhile, can you put the dog somewhere, Ms. Doherty?”

  Maureen looked at Elizabeth. “We haven’t been to our room yet. He’d probably like to go to sleep.”

  “Fine. Liz, can you get somebody to take the dog up to his room? I’ll let Ms. Doherty go as soon as possible.” He bent and patted Finn, who, as soon as the crowd had dispersed, had abandoned his on-guard stance. “Nice dog. What’s his name?’

  “Finn,” Maureen answered. Elizabeth reached for the leash. Maureen waited to see if the golden would object, but he seemed willing. “Okay, Finn. Off to bed with you. I’ll be up soon.” She handed the leash to the woman, remembering the unattended bags in the lobby. “Could somebody take our bags up too?”

  “Sure. Come on, doggy.”

  Finn gazed up at Maureen. “It’s okay, “she told him. “Go with the nice lady.” Finn did as he was told, looking back at Maureen a few times before the green door closed behind him.

  The long. empty porch with its mismatched unoccupied rockers was hushed except for the faraway tinkle of the player piano, the low rumble of an occasional passing car. And crickets. Actual chirping Florida crickets. She suppressed an enormously inappropriate urge to giggle.

  Officer Hubbard stood opposite Maureen, the body, with its cast-off tablecloth shroud between them. Averting her eyes from the corpse, she attempted to break the silence.

  “Do you have to call the coroner for every death?” she asked.

  “Oh no,” he said. “Usually, around here, people die in the hospital, or home in bed after an illness. Normal, everyday dyin’. You know? But when somebody dies all by themselves in a kind of public place”—he nodded in the direction of the deceased—“we need to know who he is and why he’s dead. The coroner’s job is to figure that out.”

  “The inn knows who he is. Conrad Wilson. I’m sure he must have provided identification when he checked in,” she offered.

  “I’m sure it’s a pretty simple case. Maybe the guy had a heart condition or something. But we need to know what he was doing here and why he died.”

  You’ll know the where but not the why.

  “And the coroner will figure all tha
t out?”

  Officer Hubbard held up a big hand and counted on his fingers. “He has five possibilities to choose from. Natural death, accident, homicide, suicide, or judicial execution. It’s got to be one of those.”

  She thought about that. “Makes sense, I guess.”

  “It’s important,” Hubbard said. “Like, for instance, the difference between a suicide and an accident can be important to the family. Lots of insurance companies won’t pay off on a suicide, but they might get double or triple if it’s an accident.”

  She nodded understanding. His expression was grim. “Of course, if it’s homicide, then it gets to be my business.”

  “How long will they leave—um—him out here on the porch?” she asked.

  “That’s up to the doc. Here he comes. We can go inside and I’ll take your statement.” He gave a half smile. “Don’t worry. He probably died of natural causes and they’ll take him away and everything will be back to normal at Haven House in the morning.”

  I have no idea what normal is at Haven House, Maureen thought. “Nothing about this so far has been the kind of normal I’m used to. And truly, I don’t know if I can be helpful,” she said.

  “Just routine,” he answered, and repeated, “Don’t worry.”

  There was a fast introduction to the coroner, a busy-looking little man, dressed entirely in black, wearing thick glasses. He looks as though they got him from Central Casting, Maureen thought, unable to look away as, in quick succession, the coroner photographed the body, used an electronic scanner to take fingerprints, then encased the hands in paper bags.

  “Shall we go inside?” Officer Hubbard suggested again.

  “Yes, please.”

  Together, they hurried away from the sad scene.

  The officer opened the green door for her. All of the wicker chairs in the lobby were occupied now, and all eyes were on the two as they crossed the lobby to an office marked MANAGER.