She wished she’d had a chance to shower and change and put on some makeup. She almost wished she were back in Massachusetts and had never heard of Penelope Josephine Gray.
Chapter 5
Officer Hubbard sat in the chair behind the white wicker desk after directing Maureen to sit in a wicker chair opposite him. Everything here matched the lobby décor. A pair of sunshine-yellow file cabinets dominated one wall and a flowering pink plant in a green ceramic pot bloomed beside a floor-to-ceiling window, partly covered by white louvred plantation shutters. A cork bulletin board was crowded with what appeared to Maureen to be notes about menu items. A painting of a tree covered with red flowers was a bright touch.
The officer put his phone on the desk between them and asked if she minded being recorded. She said she didn’t. “Mr. Wilson was seated a good distance away from the other folks on the porch,” he said. “Why did you approach him?”
“I wanted to welcome him to Haven House. Perhaps to invite him to join the others.”
“Were you acquainted with Mr. Wilson?”
“No. I just arrived a few hours ago.” Maureen looked at her watch. “I’m not acquainted with anyone here.”
“Elizabeth says that you are the new owner of Haven House.”
“That’s correct,” Maureen said.
“Elizabeth says that Ms. Gray left it to you in her will.”
Maureen nodded, suddenly aware of how very tired she was. “Yes,” she agreed.
“Did you know that Mr. Wilson was investigating the possibility of—uh—ghosts on your property?”
“I didn’t know anything about Mr. Wilson at all.” Slight annoyance began to replace exhaustion. “I don’t know anything about anyone here. And I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Of course not. But some people think that reports about a place being—well—being haunted might discourage business.” The officer leaned forward, frowning. “Business here at Haven House. Do you think so?”
“I’ve never given it a moment’s thought, one way or another,” Maureen said. “I told you. I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Mr. Wilson was apparently drinking at the bar in the dining room before his . . . unfortunate passing. Did you see him there?”
“Yes. He was drinking an unusual-looking cocktail. Everyone noticed. It had a sparkler in it.”
“The Celebration Libation.” He smiled. “You’d not seen him before then?”
“Not his face. I’d seen somebody sitting in that chair earlier this evening. I presume it was he.”
Officer Wilson shut off the recorder and stood. “All right. Thank you, Ms. Doherty, “That’ll do it for now. You must be anxious to get back to Finn.”
“I am,” she said.
He opened the office door for her and they both moved back into the lobby. “Officer Hubbard,” she whispered. “How long do you suppose the—uh—Mr. Wilson will remain on the porch?”
“Not long. Doc’ll check his vitals and if there’s nothing strange going on, they’ll carry him on down to the morgue and finish up with him there. Good night, Ms. Doherty.”
“Good night, Officer.” There were only a few people still in the lobby, and Maureen hurried past them in the direction Elizabeth had said led to the elevator. It did. The Haven House elevator was quite a piece of work. Shiny brass accordion-style doors enclosed a polished wood and scrolled metal interior. Maureen had admired similar ones in some of Boston’s old buildings. She pressed the UP button. The doors slid open and she got in. I love this, she said to herself, watching through etched-glass windows as the cage ascended two stories within its brick-walled enclosure.
She stepped out of the elevator onto soft rose-patterned carpet, taking the folder Elizabeth had given her from her purse, looking inside for the usual slim plastic card entry device. Instead, she found an old-fashioned metal key with an attached long brown plastic fob marked HAVEN HOUSE INN with the number 33. She heard Finn’s welcoming “woofs” from behind a white paneled door, a brass numeral 33 affixed to it and a round cat door at its base. “I’m coming, boy,” she said, inserting the key. “I’m home.”
Finn greeted her with the usual happy kisses and tail-wagging, the leash trailing from his collar. She nearly tripped over the two pieces of luggage. “Oh, poor dog,” she said, kneeling beside him. “That woman must have just shoved you in the door, leash and all, along with the bags.” She unfastened the clasp, hugging him and ruffling soft fur. She stood, taking a first look at her surroundings.
No white wicker furniture in this room, which was a welcome relief from the extensive use of it she’d already observed downstairs. The furnishings here were what Nancy Doherty might term “mid-century modern.” The walls were white, and a long blue couch stretched along one side of the room. Two beige armchairs flanked a wide, un-curtained, floor-to-ceiling window with a narrow balcony outside running its length—not wide enough for a chair—probably just decorative, she decided. A huge oak tree provided some privacy and the branches framed a view of the street Maureen and Finn had walked that evening, a moonlit shimmer of ocean in the distance. At either side of that window were two narrower ones with crank-out panes.
A clean-lined desk, a sideboard, and a kidney-shaped coffee table were of polished blond wood, and a multi-level cat tower stood in front of another, narrower, floor-to-ceiling window. Potted green plants, whose names she promised herself she’d learn later, added color and texture. A wall-hung television above the sideboard was the only nod to the twenty-first century, and on the wall above the couch hung a large colorful painting similar in style to the one in Elizabeth’s office.
“Oh, I think we’re going to like this place, Finn,” she said. “But have you seen any cats yet?”
With a “woof” that sounded dismissive to cats in general, Finn bounded across gray carpet toward an open doorway. Maureen followed. The kitchen was neat and efficient, with white cabinets and appliances, red countertops, a small red-and-white enamel kitchen table with a pair of blond wood chairs with red-and-white–checked cushions. A red apple-shaped cookie jar, an old-fashioned drugstore blender, and a Keurig coffeemaker were lined up on one counter. She opened one of the cabinets, revealing a set of colorful Fiestaware dishes and mugs along with assorted glass tumblers. A top shelf reveled four china bowls—two marked BOGIE and two marked BACALL—a larger aluminum bowl marked WATER, and several stacks of canned cat food and boxes of dry kibble. Another cabinet contained some basic “people” food. Beans, canned veggies, boxes of rice and pasta, assorted soups, crackers, breakfast cereal, coffee, tea bags, sugar, and powdered creamer. Yet another served as a modest but nicely stocked liquor cabinet. The refrigerator and attached freezer were spotlessly clean and empty except for a six-pack of bottled water.
“Someone has been really thoughtful,” Maureen told the golden. “We’ll just add your food to all this and we’re good to go for quite a while. Have you found the bathroom yet, Finn? I need a shower. It’s been quite a day.” She followed the dog into a bedroom with more white walls and gray carpet. The king-sized bed, bureau, end tables, and side chair in the style she recognized immediately from her department store background as gorgeous, blond, hard-to-find, and pricey Heywood-Wakefield. Bedspread and draperies were dark green. More plants in terra-cotta pots provided contrast and texture. Two club chairs in lighter shades of green were located at either side of the door. A full-length oval mirror reflected a large, aged-looking black leather trunk, dotted with labels from many countries, adding an amusing, offbeat touch to the décor.
The adjoining bathroom had pink walls, a claw-foot tub, a glass-doored shower, and a linen cabinet stacked with fluffy pink towels and white sheets. A mirrored medicine chest was centered over the white marble counter and its shell-shaped sink. The one instance of white wicker was the clothes hamper.
Maureen unpacked her small suitcase and Finn’s bag, arranged her wallet, watch, car keys, the Bermuda nickel—and, as an afterthought, the blue Zoltar card—on top of
the bureau, then took another tour of the suite. It’s perfect, she decided. The whole place is just perfect. I mean, except for the body on the porch.
Chapter 6
Showered, shampooed, and appropriately dressed in one of Bartlett’s very best resort wear outfits—white pants with a navy-and-white–striped top—purchased at cost in the going-out-of-business sale, Maureen returned to the lobby, leaving Finn alone in the so far cat-free suite, happily curled up at the foot of the king-sized bed.
All seemed quiet in the lobby. Perhaps the excitement was over. Maybe Mr. Wilson had been transported to more clinical surroundings. It was a few minutes before nine-thirty. Maureen hoped they were still serving food in the restaurant.
“Good evening, Ms. Doherty.” Herbie, the red-vested waiter she’d seen earlier, handed her a plastic-coated menu. “Elizabeth said you might be joining us this evening.” He waved to the almost-empty restaurant. “Sit anywhere you like. May I get you something to drink?”
“Thank you,” she said, selecting an oak chair with a pressed-wood back at one of the round tables. “I’d like a glass of rosé please.” Herbie had clearly been informed that Maureen was to be his new boss.
“Yes, ma’am.” He hurried across the room toward the bar where the bartender polished glasses and returned quickly, bearing the pink liquid in a stemmed glass on a silver tray. She wondered if all the customers were so favored. That would be nice.
“May I suggest the crab-stuffed jumbo shrimp with sweet potato waffle fries?” Herbie asked. “Perhaps with a house salad and Elizabeth’s own green goddess dressing?”
“That sounds wonderful. Thank you.” Maureen sipped her wine. “Do you happen to know if Ms. Gray’s cats are all right? I haven’t seen them at all.”
“I haven’t either,” he said. “Not since she died. Cute little buggers. I think Ted has been feeding them. Want him to come over and tell you about them?”
“If he’s not too busy.”
“No problem. Nothing going on here tonight. I mean after the . . . you know. The ghost hunter thing. The place really cleared out after that.”
“Is that all over—I mean, is he gone?”
“Yep. The coroner’s big van left a while ago.” Herbie shrugged. “Poor guy. He seemed like a nice enough person. Good tipper. Kept to himself pretty much. He just kind of sneaked around, day and night, taking pictures everywhere with that fancy camera he always had with him.
“Interesting,” she said. “I’ve never met a ghost hunter.”
“Oh, you’ll meet plenty of ’em here,” he promised. “Well, let me run this order out to the kitchen and I’ll tell Ted you’d like to talk to him.”
Maureen held the menu up to her eyes, peering over the top, stealing a glance at the others in the room. The man and woman she’d seen earlier in the lobby—the ones Elizabeth had dubbed “autograph hunters”—were at one of the round tables with another couple. Two men in business suits were in deep conversation at another. Other than those few and herself, the big dining room was empty. She lowered the menu. First thing tomorrow she’d call Larry Jackson and find out where she stood financially. For now, she’d enjoy dinner and wine and a good night’s sleep in her new home.
“Hello. Ms. Doherty? I’m Ted. Herbie said you wanted to talk to me. Anything wrong?” The bartender was tall and slim with sun-streaked brown hair and brown eyes. His smile seemed genuine, but nervous fingers twisting a corner of his vest gave away his uneasiness.
“Wrong? Why, no. Not at all.” Maureen returned the smile. “I’m concerned about Ms. Gray’s cats. I haven’t seen either one and I’d heard that you might be feeding them.”
Ted’s relief was evident. “Oh, the cats! When Herbie said you were the new owner and you wanted to see me I thought I was about to get fired. Those little guys are fine. After Ms. Gray died, though, they didn’t want to come inside anymore. I feed them out back. They show up every morning. Even bring me a dead mouse now and then. They know their way around outdoors.”
“I’m so glad they’re okay. Thank you, Ted, for caring about them,” she said. “By the way, just in case I meet them, what are their names?”
“Bogie and Bacall. Ms. Gray was a big old-movie fan.” He glanced toward the bar. “Oops. Looks like I’ve got a late customer. Nice to meet you, Ms. Doherty.” He gave a brisk salute and hurried back to work.
Questions about cats and bartenders disappeared with the arrival of perfectly browned plump jumbo shrimp snuggled next to round orange crisscrossed fries. The salad fairly shouted, Crisp! Green! Healthy! For the next thirty minutes Maureen’s full concentration was focused on food, wine, and—finally—coffee and a generous slice of key lime pie. She signaled to Herbie and waited for him to present the check.
He held up both hands. “No charge to you, ma’am,” he said. “Everything here already belongs to you.”
Startled, she realized it was true. Leaving a generous tip on the table, once again she rode the elevator up to suite thirty-three.
Putting the key into the lock, Maureen heard no welcoming “woof” from Finn. Odd, she thought. Poor guy must be sound asleep. She pulled the door closed as silently as she could, and tiptoed inside. She stopped short when she heard a muted “woof” from the bedroom followed by a soft, feminine giggle. Must be housekeeping, she thought.
“Hello!” she called, and walked into the bedroom.
The woman turned and faced her. So did Finn.
“Oops, sorry,” the woman said. “Didn’t hear you. I was just talking with your dog. He’s much more fun than the cats. Did I scare you?”
Maureen didn’t—couldn’t—answer. Abruptly, she sat in the closest pale green club chair. Finn approached and nudged her hand with his cold nose. Almost automatically, she stroked his head, her eyes still fixed on the woman.
At least, the figure appeared to be a woman. The shape was right. A tall, slim, blond woman wearing a sleekly fitted long, shimmering white gown. Something was decidedly wrong with the image, though—she was entirely black and white.
And transparent.
Maureen squeezed her eyes shut, willing the hallucination—or whatever it was—to go away.
It didn’t. When she opened her eyes, the woman was closer, leaning toward her, an expression of concern on her face. “Are you all right? You’re not going to faint, are you?”
Maureen looked from side to side. There was no one else in the room. The words were definitely coming from the woman. “Uh . . . no. I don’t think so.”
“Good. I guess Penelope didn’t tell you about me. You are Maureen, aren’t you?” Again, the soft giggle. “Penelope told me all about you.”
Maureen could say nothing, only continue to stare.
A riddle, a puzzle in plain sight.
An answer, a vision in black and white.
Chapter 7
Finn turned his head and faced the woman. “You see her too, don’t you, boy?” Maureen pleaded. “Don’t you?”
“Of course he sees me! Come here, Finn.” The dog looked at Maureen, gave her hand a lick, and trotted to the woman . . . the apparition . . . the hallucination—whatever she was.
“Okay. Who—What are you?” Maureen addressed the image.
“Oh, where are my manners? I’m Lorna Dubois. I don’t suppose you’ve seen any of my films,” She fluffed pale hair. “Of course not. You’re much too young.”
Maureen looked away, then back again. She could be a hologram, she thought. Yes. That must be it. Somebody is making a hologram appear in my room. She stood, beginning an inspection of the walls, the windows, the electrical outlets. Finn followed, giving a curious sniff to each item, each surface she touched. She returned to the pale green chair and sat. “I don’t understand,” she said.
“I know.” The woman sort of floated toward the matching club chair, gracefully lowering herself into it. “I thought Penelope had prepared you for”—she waved a fair hand—“this.”
“I’ve never even met Penelope. I don’t
know anything about her. She apparently left this place to me. I don’t know why.” Maureen fought back tears. “I came here because I had no other options at the moment.”
“Oh dear. I suppose then, that it’s possible you don’t believe in spirts? Wraiths? Manifestations?” The form moved closer to Maureen, whispering, “In me?”
“I don’t believe in ghosts, if that’s what you mean.” Maureen spoke firmly. “And I don’t know why I have to keep telling everybody that.”
The woman giggled again. “Finn believes in me, don’t you, Finn?”
“Woof,” said Finn. “Woof woof.”
“Just because you don’t understand something doesn’t mean it isn’t there.” The woman shook a finger in Maureen’s direction. “Loosen up a little, why don’t you? Open your mind. And you can call me Lorna.”
“I’m open-minded,” Maureen insisted, then paused. “I mean, I’ve always thought I was.”
“See? There’s room in there for new understanding. I’m a ghost. Deal with it.”
“You’re dead,” Maureen spoke slowly. “But you’re here.”
“Yes.”
“Why here? Why in Haven, Florida?” Maureen asked. “Why in my inn?”
“That’s easy. I died in Haven. I was doing Summer Stock down at the Haven Playhouse. It was nineteen seventy-five. I was playing Mrs. Boyle in The Mousetrap. Agatha Christie wrote it. You know the play?”
“Of course. I saw it at the Charles Playhouse in Boston.”
“Good. Well, anyway, Mrs. Boyle is supposed to be ‘middle-aged,’ but even at sixty-five, I could do the part.”
“Sixty-five?” Maureen’s eyes widened. “You can’t be sixty-five. You look younger than me.”
“Oh, darling, I’m not sixty-five now! We get to come back at our best age. I’m twenty-six.” She raised her hands and stroked the unlined face, then smoothed the satin gown over svelte hips. “Like the dress? It’s an original Adrian. He designed it for Jean in Red Dust. I doubled for her in the dust scenes and the water barrel nude shot.”
Be My Ghost Page 4
