“Of course. I’ll put it in my office.”
“Thanks.” She hurried out the front door, dismissed the inquisitive quartet with a brief wave and a have-a-nice-day, and started down the boulevard toward the beach. There was a uniformed policeman at the end of the porch and she made it a point to wave and smile as she passed—just in case anyone might think she was trying to avoid him.
Larry Jackson greeted her at the door of the red-roofed white cottage housing the law firm of Jackson, Nathan and Peters. “You sounded very concerned on the phone.” He ushered her into his office. “Please tell me exactly what’s going on.”
She began again, describing as best she could recall what Hubbard had said about the digitalis bottle—without any fingerprints.
He took notes, nodding once or twice, then interrupted. “Did the officer actually accuse you of the crime?”
“No, sir. He didn’t. But his questions certainly pointed that way.”
“I think you may need to talk with my associate Ms. Nathan. Nora handles our—um—criminal law cases.”
“Criminal?” Maureen repeated the word. “Criminal! I’m not a criminal!” She felt hot tears welling up. “I’m nobody. I’m a has-been ready-to-wear buyer. How could this be happening?”
Jackson reached for an intercom button. “Nora? . . . Could you come in here for a minute?” His kind brown eyes showed concern. “Now, now, Ms. Doherty. Don’t cry. Please?”
Nora Nathan was a tall, slim woman. Steel-gray hair was fashioned in a no-nonsense French twist. Maureen immediately recognized the two-piece black business skirt-suit—an A-line Anne Klein with single-button jacket. Well made, not too expensive but not cheap, Maureen had had a similar one in blue in last fall’s wardrobe. She’d given it away before she’d left Massachusetts
Larry Jackson discreetly exited the room, leaving the two women alone.
Attorney Nathan practically exuded confidence. She sat beside Maureen. “What’s going on?”
Once again, Maureen explained her situation, this time dry-eyed, with growing irritation. She was innocent of any involvement in Conrad Wilson’s death and she felt a new confidence that she’d come to exactly the right place for help in proving it.
“I know Frank Hubbard,” Nora said when Maureen had finished. “We’ve butted heads before. He’s an honest enough cop, but when he gets an idea in his head he’s like a bulldog. We can handle it.”
“That makes me feel better, but I have to ask—are you awfully expensive?”
“Relatively, but Ms. Gray has our firm on an annual retainer. Other than some possible court costs, you’re good with us until the end of the year. I’ll get in touch with Hubbard and see what he’s got.” She cocked her head to one side. “Is there any reason why you might have wanted Mr. Wilson dead?”
“None,” Maureen said. “I’d never even seen him before the night he died.”
“Do you know of anybody else who might have wanted him dead?”
“Well, there are a lot of people who didn’t like him doing his ‘ghost hunting’ around Haven. He called himself a ‘psychic detective.’ ”
“I read about him in the paper. Quite well known in the ghost business, apparently,” Nora said. “How do you feel about ghosts?”
“Until recently, I’d never given the topic much thought,” Maureen admitted. “But people in Haven seem to talk about them quite a bit. Strange, isn’t it?”
Nora Nathan shrugged well-tailored shoulders. “You get used to it.”
Maureen had no ready answer for that. I wonder if this neat little red-roofed cottage has one, she thought. She wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if it did.
“Will you call me soon, and let me know what I should do next?” she asked. “Mr. Jackson has my number and I guess you know where I live.”
“Sure do. You planning to sell the old place anytime soon?”
“No. I’m trying to figure out how to make it profitable.”
“No kidding?” Nora stood, and offered her hand. “Good luck with that. We’ll be in touch soon. Here’s my card.” They shook hands and as she left the building Maureen felt better than she had since her morning run on the beach—which seemed as though it had been a very long time ago.
There was still time to drop in on Aster Patterson at the bookstore, to thank her for participating in the Halloween ad. The bell over the door jangled when she entered. “Hello, Aster?” she called. “Hello!”
“Just feeding the fish,” came the answer. “Be right with you.”
Maureen studied a display of Halloween-themed books on a round table, where a vintage papier-mâché witch candy bucket filled with foil-wrapped candy Kisses provided an appropriately scary centerpiece.
“No hurry. It’s Maureen Doherty from the inn. I’m just admiring your Halloween table.”
Aster popped her head out from between the aisles, holding a pumpkin mask over her face. “Boo!” she said. “Did I scare you?”
“Maybe a little bit.” Maureen smiled. “That’s a great old mask.”
“Isn’t it? It came from my late husband Peter’s family. He loved Halloween. He saved some of the old decorations from when he was a kid.” She waved the mask. “Come on out to the kitchen. I must have been thinking of you today. I’ve made some of that Irish Breakfast Tea. It’s not just for breakfast, you know. I have cookies too.”
Maureen followed the sound of Aster’s flapping rain boots, pausing to admire the angelfish, darting here and there in their tank, chasing bits of floating fish food. Once again, Aster’s kitchen table held the flower-sprigged china and the expected plate of shortbread cookies. This time, though, each round cookie was frosted in orange and bore a jack-o’-lantern face, “These are almost too cute to eat,” Maureen said. “Do you ever sell your cookies? I could use a few dozen of these for the inn.”
“I’ll think about that,” Aster said. “Indeed, I will. You being Irish and all, you probably know the jack-o’-lanterns originated in Ireland—only they used a carved turnip with a hot coal glowing inside.” Not waiting for an answer, she poured tea from the flower-sprigged pot, and popped one lump of sugar into Maureen’s cup. “There now. This’ll make you feel all better.”
“What makes you think I’m not feeling well?” Maureen put one hand to her forehead. “Do I look ill?”
“Not at all. Here, darling, have a cookie.” Aster pushed the plate toward her. “No, I meant that thing about the police nosing around in your apartment.”
“The police? Who said that?”
“Don’t remember who said it exactly. I heard it down at the Quic-Shop market when I picked up the food coloring for my frosting. They said the cops were searching for something up in Penelope’s room—I mean your room.” She made a “tsk-tsk” sound. “That would upset anybody.”
“Yes, it would.” Maureen accepted the cookie. “But to tell the truth, it upsets me more that it’s already a topic of conversation at the Quic-Shop. I’ve never even been in the place.”
“Hard to keep a secret in Haven,” Aster said. “Like the man said, ‘the walls have ears.’ ”
“Not just ears,” Maureen grumbled. “Mouths too. But somebody around here is keeping a big secret. Like, who killed Conrad Wilson? Have you heard any rumors about that?”
“Sure. Plenty. But it’s like one of those Agatha Christie mysteries. Everybody in the story’s got a reason to want a certain person dead, but you don’t know ’til the last page who done it.” Aster helped herself to a cookie. “Then you smack yourself on the head and say, ‘Why didn’t I see that coming?’ ”
“I hope the last page shows up pretty soon,” Maureen said. “My head is already almost smacked clean off. You know everybody around here. Who’s your top suspect?”
“My top suspect? Of course, I’m no Agatha Christie—even though I’ve read all of her books more than once—but my top suspect would be someone not from around here.”
“Not?”
“Not,” Aster declared. “At
first I thought it might be Sam. Nasty temper that one. But no. The ghost hunter wasn’t from here, and it doesn’t seem to me that he was here long enough to make anybody local mad enough to kill him.”
“That’s true,” Maureen reasoned. “And it took some time and planning to do it the way it looks like it was done.”
“You mean with the poison out of Penelope’s prescription?”
“Well, when you put it that way, yes. Did that information come from Quic-Shop too? About the medicine bottle?” Maureen realized that she’d stopped being surprised at the accuracy of the Haven rumor mill.
“No. I heard that one from my cousin Ernie, the taxi driver. He overheard a fare he’d picked up at the inn talking on their cell phone on the way to Tampa International.”
“I wonder if he’d remember who that was,” Maureen said. “Would you ask him?”
“Oh, I’m not sure I could do that. Ernie’s not one for gossip.” Aster shook her head. “Not at all.”
“But you just said—”
“Never mind about all that, dear. More tea?” Maureen held up her cup and Aster filled it, plopping in a single sugar cube. A tiny bit of tea splashed onto the tabletop. Maureen reached for a paper napkin and wiped the spill without being asked, pretending not to notice how quickly Aster had clammed up.
Chapter 24
Maureen left the bookshop with one of Sherry Harris’s Sarah Winston Garage Sale mysteries, along with three decorated shortbread cookies “for later.” She gave a gentle tap on the window where Erle Stanley Gardner lay dozing alongside a selection of recent Stephen King and Dean Koontz novels and a candy bucket in the shape of a particularly horrific bat. The cat acknowledged her greeting by briefly opening one eye.
The boulevard seemed a little busier to Maureen as she walked along the brick sidewalk, stopping here and there to examine a window display or read a poster. Many of the metered parking spaces were filled and most of the people she saw were carrying packages—a good sign that they were buying, not just looking. She quickened her step as she approached the inn. What could she do right now to take advantage of this increase in traffic—however small it might be?
By the time she’d reached the very edge of her property, she’d designed the poster she’d place at the foot of the stairs. It would proclaim TONIGHT’S DINNER SPECIAL. No matter what Elizabeth had planned for the evening meal, it was about to become “special.” Once again, Maureen hurried past the porch sitters with merely a few smiles, an all-encompassing wave or two, and she was in the lobby. Again, the reception desk was unmanned. “Elizabeth!” she called quietly, pushing the louvred dining room doors open.
“I’m right here, for heaven’s sake. You don’t have to shout.” The woman stood just inside the doors. “What do you want?”
“Do we have a dinner special planned for tonight?” Maureen was hopeful. “Something really good?”
“Everything on our menu is good,” Elizabeth said. “Let me see. Tonight we have pot roast with fall vegetables. Why?”
“I was thinking of making a few posters to post around the neighborhood. A little last-minute advertising. Can we dress it up a little? Make it a little more appealing somehow?”
“You can talk to Ted about it, I guess. He’s running between the kitchen and the bar right now, keeping an eye on both.”
“Thanks. I will.” Maureen headed for the bar where Ted, in chef’s white jacket instead of bartender’s red vest, shook a hammered-aluminum cocktail shaker, then poured a drink for one lone bar customer.
“Oh, hello, Jake,” she said, recognizing the newspaper reporter and sliding into the seat beside him. “Are you still working on that same story?”
“I sure am, Ms. Doherty,” he said. “Just can’t seem to let it go.”
“This guy’s in here every day, Ms. Doherty. Bugging my customers with questions.” Ted smiled as he spoke. “He’s good at his job, though. Like a big old bulldog.”
A bulldog, Maureen thought. That’s what Nora Nathan had said about Officer Hubbard.
“Ted, I need to talk to you about tonight’s pot roast,” she said.
“Bor-ing,” Jake said, drawing the word out. “Let’s talk about murder instead.”
“Sorry, Jake,” Maureen insisted. “It may be boring, but it’s business—and a juicy pot roast is better for business than a juicy murder.”
“Maybe,” Jake said. “Mind if I listen in?”
“I don’t mind,” she said. “You, Ted?”
“Not a bit. Can I get you a drink, Ms. Doherty?’
“A little early, for me,” she said. “Maybe a Shirley Temple?”
“Shirley Temple’s dead, isn’t she?” Jake interrupted. “Why is a drink named after a dead kid star anyway?”
“Hardly anybody orders them anymore.” Ted put ice cubes into a collins glass. “Kids these days mostly get Coke or root beer or Dr Pepper.” He poured a bright red stream of grenadine over the ice. “Been around for years. The name just stuck. There’s no booze in it, but it looks like a regular cocktail. People used to order them for their kids so they’d feel grown-up, I guess.” Ted smiled at Maureen. “And sometimes grown-ups who remember those days order them because they taste good. Matter of fact, Ms. Gray used to like them.” He added 7UP and ginger ale, topping the drink off with three cherries on a sword-shaped cocktail pick. “There you go, Ms. Doherty. Now about that pot roast—”
Jake interrupted again. A common trait in his line of work, Maureen supposed. “You used grenadine in that killer drink you made for the dead guy, right?”
“The Celebration Libation. Right. Grenadine for color and sweetness. Same as in the Shirley Temple.”
“Is that the same bottle you used on the dead guy’s drink?”
Ted lifted the bottle so that the ceiling lights illuminated the crimson contents. “This bottle? No. The cops took that one. We had to get a new one.”
“So there was poison in the first bottle? The one you used in his drink?”
“Nope. At least, they said there wasn’t. Now, about that pot roast.” Ted faced Maureen. “It’s in the big slow cooker along with all the vegetables right now. Enough for about a dozen servings. I always make extra because we can freeze whatever’s left over and use it for lunch later.”
“If we advertise it as a special, what might go with it?”
“Mom’s baking powder biscuits? Molly’s special apple pie and ice cream for dessert?”
“Why is Molly’s apple pie special?” Maureen asked.
“She puts raisins in it along with the apples, and some kind of frosting on the top. Everybody loves it.”
“Sounds good. How much does it cost us to put that meal together?”
“Cost?” Ted returned the grenadine bottle to its place on the mirrored shelf behind the bar. “Elizabeth never asks about cost, but I could probably give you a pretty close estimate.”
“Would you do that? Thanks. I’m going to make up a few posters and some flyers. See if we can attract some extra dinner business tonight. But maybe twelve servings aren’t enough.”
Ted was already at work with paper and pencil. “Of course, we paid too much for the meat, and we could have bought the onions and carrots locally, but never mind.” He stopped muttering to himself and looked up at Maureen. “There are enough frozen leftovers to make up another dozen. If it starts to look like we need more I can do the same recipe real fast in the pressure cooker. We always keep a couple of Molly’s apple pies in the freezer along with plenty of ice cream. So, let’s say each serving will run us about six dollars.”
“So we can feature it at twelve-ninety-five for the whole deal, and most people will order drinks too. Not bad. Thanks, Ted. If this works at all, I’m thinking we might do it every night. Maybe you can brainstorm some ideas.” She sipped the Shirley Temple. “How about you, Jake? Sound good? Want to bring a date for dinner tonight?”
“I might just do that,” he said. “Maybe the killer will return to the scene of the crime.
”
“Could be,” she agreed. “Ted, when did you evolve from bartender to chef anyway?”
“It was the other way around,” he said. “I was a cook long before I learned to tend bar. My mom had a little seafood restaurant down by the Long Pier. I’ve been messing around with food since I was about eight.”
“No kidding? And the restaurant was near where the charter boats tie up? Is it still there?”
“Nope. Long gone. Just condos over that way now.”
“Is that where you were headed when I saw you on the beach this morning?”
“Yeah. Good memories.”
“Me too. I caught my very first Florida fish off one of those charter boats when I was a kid.”
“No way. We used to cook the catches for tourists all the time. Did you have yours cooked? Maybe I fried it for you—when I was a kid.”
“You know something?” Maureen leaned back in her seat. “That’s actually quite possible. We did have it fried at a restaurant—and it was delicious.”
Jake waved his glass, signaling Ted for a refill. “Nice trip down memory lane, you two, but back to important stuff—like a recent murder in this very room, quite possibly at this very bar, death by poison in a fancy drink.”
“The police confiscated all of the ingredients in that drink,” Maureen said. “There was no poison in any of it.”
Jake caught Maureen’s eye in the mirror, and pointed a finger at her image there. “But, Ms. Doherty, there was, I understand, some poison found in your apartment.”
“Where’d you hear that, Jake? Quic-Shop? Not the most reliable of sources.” Maureen knew her tone was angry. She didn’t care. “I hope you’re not planning to put that in print.”
Jake’s smile was sheepish. “It was at Quic-Shop, How’d you know? Anyway, the editor said it was ‘an unsubstantiated rumor.’ I plan to bug the police about it, though—unless you want to talk about it now.”
Maureen took a last sip of the Shirley Temple. “No comment, Jake. Ted, I’ll get to work on the publicity for tonight’s special.”
Be My Ghost Page 14
