Be My Ghost

by Carol J. Perry

  The sound of a woman singing issued from the bedroom. Had she left a radio or the television on? Was Gert still there?

  “Hello, Gert? Is that you?”

  “Oh, hi, Maureen,” came the answering voice.

  Definitely not Gert. But Maureen recognized the voice. “Lorna Dubois,” she said. It was a statement, not a question.

  The woman stood in front of the full-length mirror on the closet door, turning from side to side. “This is more like it,” she said

  The apparition—or whatever it was—wore a silk print shirtdress. Maureen’s silk print shirtdress. “That’s my dress.”

  “Of course it is,” the image agreed. “You do have pretty good taste after all.”

  “It’s a Tory Burch,” Maureen said, “and I’ve never even worn it yet myself.”

  “Tory Burch, huh?” Lorna Dubois did one more twirl before the mirror. “Well, it’s no Edith Head, but it’s quite nice. Now, what’s in the other suitcases? I’ve already tried on everything I liked in the closet.”

  I’m not drunk, Maureen thought. And I’m not hallucinating. I’m actually seeing what I think I’m seeing.

  “You’re really here.” She spoke to the image wearing her dress—which was now black and white instead of navy and white.

  “Yes. Of course I’m here.”

  “I mean—you’re real.”

  “Not exactly.” Lorna hesitated. “I mean, technically I’m still dead.”

  “But what I mean is—you’re actually a ghost and I’m actually seeing you.”

  “That shows a remarkable grasp of the obvious, Maureen. You act as though this is your first time. I believe we met last night?”

  “I know, but I didn’t believe in ghosts then.” Maureen sat on the edge of the bed. “I guess now I have to rethink that.”

  “So, you’re not mad about me trying on your clothes?”

  “No. I’m not, but you’re taller than I am, and you have more boob. So how come the dress fits you and me both?”

  “Oh, the dress is still in your closet. I’m wearing the essence of the dress.” The woman sat on the bed beside Maureen. “I just have to see this dress, or your bathing suit, or your underwear and poof! I’m wearing it. Understand?”

  “My underwear?”

  “The essence of your underwear.” Lorna Dubois moved the neckline of the dress to one side, exposing a narrow strap of a Lily of France push-up bra. “See?”

  Maureen hesitated, then reached a tentative finger toward the white strap. “It’s really pink,” she said, “not white.” Her finger went right through the image. “Oh my God. Did I hurt you?” She pulled away, sat upright. Finn whined.

  “No. Didn’t even feel it.” Lorna shrugged. “I’ve hardly ever mastered the ‘full materialization’ thing. That’s when we look solid, not kind of transparent—like me.”

  “So,” Maureen said, looking closely at the black-and-white, kind of transparent-looking woman beside her on the bed, “maybe you’re the essence of Lorna Dubois? By the way, is that your real name?”

  “I think it’s something like that, about the essence,” the ghost agreed, “and no. The studio gave me that name, but they let me keep my initials. I used to be Lena Dombrowski. Now, do you mind if I wear the dress tonight? The Babe’s going to be down at the L&M Bar—after closing, naturally. I’d like for him to see me in this.”

  “The Babe?”

  “Babe Ruth. The Yankees and the Rays play tonight. When he’s in town Babe likes to drop by Haven after the game.”

  “Babe Ruth likes to—um—visit Haven?”

  “Sure. He used to stay right here in Haven House sometimes, back when the Yankees had spring training in St. Petersburg.” Lorna reached down and scratched behind Finn’s ears. He leaned into her hand and knew he was being scratched in his favorite place—even if she was just an essence. “Yep. The Babe was down here when he hit that famous home run—six hundred and twenty-four feet.”

  “I did not know that,” Maureen admitted. “I’ll look it up. I’ll bet our guests would like to know about Babe sleeping here. Does he—um—by any chance haunt the inn too?”

  “No. At least, I’ve never run into him around here. Of course I stay mostly right here in the penthouse. Nice and private.” She wrinkled her nose. “Less chance of one of those ghost hunters getting a picture of me.”

  “Like Mr. Wilson?”

  “Yes. He was one of the worst. He had a special camera. I’ve heard that he actually got a picture of Billy Bedoggoned Bailey playing the piano.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “A full manifestation, I heard.”

  “Billy Bedoggoned Bailey? Was he a famous piano player?”

  “No. Not really famous. He played with some famous bands back in the forties—Harry James, Duke Ellington—but no.” She smiled a sad little smile. “Kind of like me. Never famous, but always working.” She stood and posed in front of the mirror again. “You’ve probably heard him. He plays the piano in the dining room.”

  “The player piano?” Maureen squeaked. “He plays that piano?”

  “Yep. That’s the one. See, they’ve got it wired up so it plays a loop of songs they recorded from the old piano rolls.” She grinned. “When I was a kid we had one. You put the roll in and pedaled with your feet to make it play fast or slow. Billy figured out how to unplug the thing and when he feels like it he just sits down and plays it. The keys go up and down just like they should, but it’s him playing. He’s been dead a long time, but he still keeps up with the music. Sometimes he throws in an Elvis song or a Broadway show tune just for the hell of it.”

  Maureen interrupted, “You said that Conrad Wilson somehow got a picture of Billy playing the piano? A full manifestation? I guess that means he saw the piano player just as plain as I’m seeing you?”

  “Nope. He didn’t actually see Billy. That damned camera did. Gert told me that the man went around taking pictures everywhere. Day and night. See, he couldn’t tell if he had anything until he put the memory card in his computer. Oh yeah. Pictures of everything—just trying to catch one of us.”

  “Gert told you? She talks to you? ’

  “Sure. I love Gert. She’s an old-time Vegas showgirl, you know. My kind of people. She’s my connection to what’s going on downstairs. Penelope used to talk to Gert too.”

  “How did she know about the camera? Surely he didn’t tell her.”

  “You’d be surprised how much a housekeeper overhears. It’s like they’re invisible.” Lorna looked down at Maureen’s feet. “Cute shoes. Anyway, Gert heard him talking on the phone to someone about it. He told them about the camera and said he had absolute proof that Haven had plenty of ghosts—and that he’d send them one sample picture to prove it. Then they could talk about money.”

  “You think he sent somebody the picture of Billy playing the piano?”

  She nodded. “I think so. And if he took a bunch of pictures around Haven, he might have had enough pictures of all of us to ruin Haven forever!”

  “Pictures of all of you?’

  “Yeah. Billy and me and Vice President Charlie Curtis and a few others stay here sometimes. Plenty more of us around town too.”

  “A vice president?”

  “Sure. Nice guy.” She laughed. “Even if Wilson got a good shot of him, nobody would know who he was. Shoot. Billy and I were more famous than Charlie. He was veep to Herbert Hoover. He just likes it here. Mostly seasonal. He does Washington, DC, in the summer.”

  “I see,” Maureen lied, because she didn’t see at all. “And there are other buildings in Haven that are—um—haunted?”

  “Sure. A lot of ’em on the boulevard and quite of few of the regular houses.”

  “Like, for instance, the bookstore?” Maureen asked. “And the bar?”

  “Probably.”

  “The theater?”

  “For sure. I ran into John Carradine there myself once.”

  “Aster at the bookstore told me that everyone in town hates the ghost
hunters,” Maureen said. “True?”

  “Sure. We do our best to stay out of their way.” She shook her head. “But it’s a small town and there’ve been rumors for years that there are ghosts here. It started with the guy in suite twenty-seven. So every once in a while there’ll be a flurry of the pests show up. Like Wilson.”

  Maureen thought about her pleasant new office space, then pulled the business card from her purse. “Ever heard of these two?”

  Lorna held out her hand, but Maureen, remembering that the woman wasn’t quite solid, laid the card on the bed. The ghost picked it up. “ ‘Clarissa and Alex Morgan,’ ” she murmured. “Ghost investigators? No. Gert hasn’t said anything about them. Did they just arrive?”

  “I think they came the same day I did,” Maureen said. “They’re writing a book and I’m afraid we’re in it.”

  Chapter 14

  After Lorna Dubois disappeared, wearing Maureen’s Tory Burch dress, Maureen and Finn began the long-postponed romp on the beach. Maureen took off her shoes and walked along at the edge of the white rippled sand visible beneath clear water. She unhooked Finn’s leash, looked up and down the beach, and seeing no other dogs, she began a game of fetch-the-stick.

  An almost-deserted beach is a good place to get in touch with your thoughts, Maureen told herself. Even if your thoughts are some of the weirdest ones you’ve ever had. She deliberately forced herself to remember the black-and-white image of Lorna Dubois. It had been comforting to think of her as a hologram, a hallucination, a blot of mustard—but no. Lorna Dubois was real—or as real as a spirit, a wraith, a ghost, can be. Maureen was convinced of that. She even believed in Billy Bedoggoned Bailey, even though she hadn’t seen him. Maybe the thing in suite twenty-seven was real—or had been real—too, but at least so far there’d been no hint of haunting in her new office. The sound of a distant bell from a sea buoy interrupted her contemplations. She wasn’t sorry.

  “Whoa. Wait up a minute Finn!” Maureen called. Finn obediently returned and dropped the now-soggy stick at her feet. “We’ve wandered pretty far from where we started. We’d better head back.” They’d arrived at a long pier. A tall and somewhat weather-beaten sign proclaimed: LONG PIER FISHING CHARTERS.

  “I know this place, Finn,” she said. “I’ve been here before. See that sign? I had my picture taken in front of it. I remember. I had a fishing pole in one hand and my fish in the other.”

  “Woof?”

  “We went to a restaurant and they cooked that fish for us. Maybe we’ll charter one of these boats someday and I’ll catch another fish. Would you like that? We can ask Ted to cook it for us.” She turned and tossed the stick in the direction of home.

  As Maureen walked the beach, tossing Finn’s stick, she thought about the searching questions Officer Hubbard had asked her. I suppose he’ll be grilling Ted the same way. The poor guy won’t know any more about it than I do, she thought. But I guess the police have to question everybody that way. I hope he’s not going to bother the guests.

  It was a disturbing thought. Paying guests were scarce enough, and even without a careful study of the figures Larry Jackson had given her, she knew that the inn was, in its present state, a losing proposition. Being questioned by the intense and downright intimidating Hubbard might very well cause a waiting line at the checkout counter.

  But what could she do about it?

  She put the stick into a nearby waste barrel and began to jog. “Come on, Finn,” she ordered. “We need to get back to business.” The golden stalled for a moment, regretting the loss of his stick, then obediently trotted along beside her.

  Maureen knew how to promote a slow-selling sportswear item. If it’s a real dog you just mark it down to cost and get rid of it. “But the Haven House Inn is not a dog,” she said aloud. At Finn’s questioning look she added, “Not that kind of dog.” First, she thought about location. “Location, location, location,” she said. “That’s what the real estate people always say—and we’ve got that for sure. We’re accessible, but far enough off the beaten track to be interesting—and we’ve got history. Hey, Finn, did you know Babe Ruth slept in our inn?”

  “Woof woof,” Finn said.

  The new brochure was already taking shape in her head. She’d need new pictures. Have to hire a good photographer. “Not a creepy ghost hunter photographer,” she promised herself, “but one who does the fancy real estate layouts.” But, she realized, there were parts of the aged building that not even a top-notch photographer could make look appealing.

  “This will take some money, Finn,” she said. “We have five thousand dollars and we may as well invest it in our new home. Okay? We’ll still have our unemployment check and we don’t have to pay for rent or for my food for a while.”

  “Woof.”

  “Good. I knew you’d agree. Look, we’re almost home. I’ll race you to the Haven Casino Ballroom!” Finn reached the historic waterside building first and waited patiently for Maureen to catch up and to attach leash to collar. The two proceeded onto the boulevard, passing by the L&M Bar with a new respect since learning that a baseball great still visited there. They hurried past the bookshop. There wasn’t time for a cup of tea, Irish or not.

  She spotted the yellow tape at the far end of the porch well before they’d reached the inn. She hoped it didn’t have “Crime Scene” printed on it. Kiss of death to business, she told herself, laughed at the unintentional joke she’d made, and wondered how much more of the stuff Hubbard had festooned around the place. Her place.

  When she and Finn reached the front steps, she noticed that another carved pumpkin had been added, relieved that the lettering on the tape simply spelled out DO NOT CROSS. Not really exactly welcoming, but a whole lot better than CRIME SCENE. Next, she’d need to check the dining room.

  “I’ll take you upstairs first, Finn,” she said. “Queen Elizabeth doesn’t like pets in there.”

  Molly and Gert were in their usual places, but the men were missing. Some maintenance duties to attend to, Maureen supposed. She stopped to greet the women, thanking Gert for doing such a fine job of putting her clothes away, and slipping a generous tip into her hand. “Thanks, Ms. Doherty.” Gert winked at her companion. “I’m buyin’ the wine tonight, Mol,” she said, “that is, if the bossy cop is through messing around with the bar.”

  “I’m just about to go in and see what’s going on in the dining room,” Maureen said. “You two seem to keep an eye on what’s happening around here. Do you think the police activity has the guests upset?”

  “A few have checked out already, Ms. Doherty,” Molly offered. “But maybe they were going to leave today anyway. Don’t you worry. This time of year, folks from up north will be lining up to stay here. This is a good place. You’ll be glad Ms. Gray gave it to you.”

  “You sure will,” Gert agreed with her friend. “Why was it she left it to you? I forget.”

  “I don’t know. I’m trying to figure that out.” She wondered if the Morgans were among the guests who’d checked out. She halfway hoped they had.

  Molly spoke in a stage whisper. “You can bet Queen Elizabeth was pissed when she found out the old woman wasn’t leaving it to her. Wasn’t she, Gert?” She slapped her knee and set the rocking chair into motion. “Stomping around here, swearing a blue streak. It was a riot!”

  Maureen was surprised. “Elizabeth expected to inherit the inn? I didn’t know that.”

  Both rocking chairs creaked in unison. “Don’t know why. She was an employee, just like us. She got her apartment for free and got good pay too—for running the restaurant and all. You going to keep her on—and us too, like it’s always been?”

  She hadn’t expected the question. “Well, I—um—I don’t have any immediate plans to change anything,” she stammered.

  “That’s good. We all sure do like living here,” Molly said. “And you seem easy to get along with.”

  “True enough.” Gert gave a broad wink. “Seems like you get along with all sorts�
�if you get my drift.”

  Maureen recognized the veiled reference to the semitransparent third-floor guest but chose not to acknowledge it. “Well, Finn and I have to go. See you both later.”

  She and Finn passed the dining room, listened at the door for a moment for sounds of activity. The piano played “Sentimental Journey.”. Was it a recording or was Billy Bedoggoned Bailey at the keyboard? There was no one at the registration desk. Presumably, anyone who wanted service would ring the bell. Did Elizabeth spend her day listening for the bell and running back and forth between the dining room, the lobby, and her office?

  “We’re going to have to hire some more help, Finn,” Maureen muttered. “This is highly inefficient.” They rode the elevator up to the penthouse. She filled Finn’s water bowl, turned on the bedroom television to keep him company, and looked around the rooms for any signs of ghostly activity. She opened the desk drawer in the living room. The papers and the brown envelope were just as she’d left them. She’d go over them soon for sure. Meanwhile, nothing appeared to be out of order. But why should it? If Lorna Dubois saw anything she coveted, she’d just grab the essence of it and make it her own.

  Maureen locked her door and started down the stairs. It wasn’t yet time for dinner, but there were early-bird prices on the menu she’d seen at lunch. Maybe she could get an idea of what the impact of the death had been on the restaurant. She’d ask Elizabeth about the checkouts—and, she hoped, the check-ins.

  The piano was still playing when she pushed the louvred doors apart. “The White Cliffs of Dover.” That’s a real oldie, she thought, wondering whether Billy was amusing himself by improvising on the standard loop. Elizabeth was in her spot behind the lectern, red apron pocket full of menus. “Good evening,” she began, handing Maureen a menu. She looked up. “Oh, it’s you, Ms. Doherty. Sit anywhere you like. Quite a few for early-bird this evening.”

  She was right. More than half of the tables were occupied, some by more than one couple. “What’s going on?” Maureen asked. “Or does this happen every week?”