“Not bad,” he said. “You’re pretty good at this.”
It was nearly dinnertime when the two finished making notes, comparing grocery lists, studying online recipes. They’d made telephone and online contact with local restaurant supply houses and meat and produce wholesalers, and had placed an order for six dozen jack-o’-lantern cookies for the following day with a delighted Aster Patterson. “From what I’ve seen so far,” Maureen said, “it looks as if there’s been virtually no profit made on the dinner menu for a long time. Some meals were served at a loss.”
“It’s true,” Ted agreed. “Elizabeth said as long as Ms. Gray liked the food, it didn’t matter what the cost was.”
“Matters to me,” Maureen mumbled, looking over the cost estimates for the next week’s specials. “If we fill the dining room every day for dinner, the profit will just about cover the costs for food, salaries for the wait- and maintenance staffs, and the tiny ad budget.” She waved the papers. “Gotta do better than this. How does Haven feel about garage sales?”
That brough a grin. “My mom loves them. Why? You planning to sell off a few rocking chairs? The white linen tablecloths?”
“Not the rocking chairs. I plan to get them painted, though. But getting rid of the tablecloths? Not a bad idea.” She paused. “All that laundering, bleaching, ironing. Pretty labor intensive. Although I really like the look. But we may have to go to paper place mats.”
Ted pretended to fall sideways in his chair, clutching his heart. “Paper place mats? Now that would really have given Ms. Gray a heart attack!”
“Yes. You’re right. The linens should be one of the last things to go.” She thought about Conrad Wilson’s body with its tablecloth shroud, then shook the dark memory away. “Actually, I was thinking of a giant garage sale to get rid of all the junk in the storage locker.”
“Really? That makes sense. I guess the storage locker is where Wilson’s luggage and whatever else he left here at the inn will wind up too. I heard that his agent swears that Wilson owes him money and he wants to claim the camera and the guy’s computer.”
“No family?”
“Guess not anybody close. Molly says a couple of cousins showed up. All they want is the computer and the camera too. Guess they’ll have to fight it out with the agent. Elizabeth says his wallet and watch and rings stay in the safe in her office until somebody claims them. The cops still have the camera, his phone, his laptop, and his tablet. Elizabeth says the tablet is broken, though. I guess his suitcase will go to the storage locker until it all gets settled.” He stood. “Well, time for me to go to my bartender job. Will I see you in the dining room later this evening?”
“Maybe,” she said. “I’ve got a lot more figuring to do. I think I’ll just microwave some macaroni and cheese for now. I might come down later for a drink, though.”
“Shirley Temple?” He grinned.
“Could be something a little stronger this time. I’ve earned it today.”
“Yes, you have—and it sounds to me as though we have a lot more work to do if we’re going to get the old place up and running.”
Maureen liked the sound of the “we” and said so. “I’m glad you’re on board.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He stood and shook her hand. “Even if it might be a bumpy ride.”
Maureen walked to the door with him. “I’ll probably see you later downstairs then,” she said.
“Hope so.” He rubbed his arms. “It’s freezing in here. Is the air conditioning on?”
“I guess so. I think it’s on some kind of automatic system. Every once in a while, the temperature just drops. I’ve been meaning to ask Sam or George to take a look at it.”
“Good idea. Where’s the thermostat?”
She signaled with a jerk of her thumb over her shoulder. “In there. In the bedroom. Want to take a look and see if you can figure out what’s wrong with it?”
“Nope. Not my expertise,” he said. “See you later.”
After he’d left, Maureen added the new notes they’d made, the contact numbers for wholesalers, and the proposed menus to a new file folder, turned off the computer and the desk lamp, stepped out into the corridor, welcoming the comfortable, preset 78-degree warmth.
Back at the penthouse, the pets seemed pleased to see her, Finn prancing in his “let’s go for a walk” mode, Bogie and Bacall together on the windowsill, looking out at the little balcony and the oak tree. She cranked the window open so the cats could use that exit if they chose, and clipped Finn’s leash on to his collar. “Okay, everybody,” she said. “Some nice fresh air will be good for all of us.”
Maureen and Finn took the stairs to the first floor, then took the corridor past the guest laundry, on the way to the side door. It seemed wise to avoid the lobby in case Elizabeth might still be cranky. “No sense looking for trouble,” Maureen told the dog.
“Woof,” Finn agreed.
“Hello there, Ms. Doherty.” The voice was familiar. Clarissa Morgan waved from in front of a large white Maytag dryer. “Hi, Finn.”
“Hi, Mrs. Morgan. Enjoying your stay?” Maureen tugged on the leash, urging the friendly golden to skip the usual tail-wagging, hand-licking, love-everybody greeting he enjoyed so much. No such luck. Anyone would have thought Clarissa was a long-lost bestie.
Pulling a pile of clothes from the dryer, dumping them onto a nearby folding table, the woman knelt to receive Finn’s enthusiastic salutation.
“So glad I ran into you, Ms. Doherty. May I call you Maureen?” She patted Finn’s head with one hand and extended the other for a handshake. “I’m afraid I may have made a bad impression when we spoke last.” She pumped Maureen’s hand. “I shouldn’t have been so critical of poor Mr. Wilson. I allowed an old personal grudge to come to the surface. I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize. Death affects us all differently.” Maureen clutched the leash, attempting to direct Finn toward the nearby exit. He did not cooperate but instead sat, facing Clarissa Morgan. “Come along now, Finn. Time for our exercise.”
“It was inexcusable.” By then Clarissa had a firm grasp on the dog’s collar. “We’d had some—um—artistic differences in the past,” she said. “When Alex and I learned, by mere coincidence, that Conrad was at the same inn we’d chosen, I thought it would be a good chance to make amends, to let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Woof,” Finn said.
“Not that kind of dogs, Finn. Clarissa, this is really none of my business. Please don’t worry about it.”
She loosened her hold on the collar and stood. “I asked for his autograph. Told him how much Alex and I admire his work.”
“That’s nice. Come along, Finn.” Maureen faced the side door.
Clarissa pulled a blue shorty nightie from the pile of warm laundry and dabbed at her eyes with it. “He told me to drop dead. Honest to God, that’s what the miserable bastard said. He signed the magazine ‘With love, Conrad,’ then handed it back to me and said, ‘Drop dead, Clarissa.’ ”
“I’m sorry,” Maureen said. “Truly, I am, but,” she repeated, “this is really none of my business.”
“The thing is.” The woman blew her nose on the nightie. “The thing is, I said, ‘Same to you Conrad,’ and then—that’s what he did. He walked away and then he dropped dead. I feel so guilty. It’s as if I put some sort of curse on him.”
“Now, Clarissa.” Maureen put a tentative hand on the woman’s heaving shoulder. “That doesn’t even make sense. Anyway, I don’t believe in curses.”
As soon as she’d uttered the words, she thought about how very recently she’d been adamant in stating to anyone who’d listen that she didn’t believe in ghosts.
Chapter 29
After a bit more shoulder patting and nightie sniffling, Clarissa Morgan calmed down, folded her fluff-dried belongings, and with profuse apologies for airing her “dirty laundry”—funny, considering the surroundings—finally left Maureen and Finn to their delayed walk.
&
nbsp; “That was strange, wasn’t it, boy?”
“Woof, woof, woof!” Finn exclaimed.
“Darn right it was. She thinks she cursed him, so he dropped dead. I hope she doesn’t go to the police with that theory—although it makes just about as much sense as Ted or Sam or me being responsible for the man dying like he did.”
Finn visited a nearby lamppost without further comment. A few of the boulevard merchants still had the day’s dinner special posters in their windows, reminding Maureen to get new ones prepared and distributed for the next day’s dinnertime offering. “Our day’s work isn’t finished yet,” she told the dog. “I don’t look forward to going back to my ice-cold office this evening, but I guess I’ll have to.”
After their walk, the two used the front stairway. The rockers were nearly full. The success of the promotion was even better than she’d anticipated. The four regulars were already seated in their usual spots. “What’s up, Gert?” Maureen whispered to the occupant of the first rocker on the right. “Dinner guests, ghost chasers, or nosy murder types?”
“A few of each, I’d say,” Gert offered. “I hung around in the lobby for a while, trying to see if any of them are overnighters.”
“What do you think? Have any of them checked in?”
“Yep. The two men over there checked in this morning. Here for the food, I’m pretty sure, and see the one guy sitting alone on the steps beside the big pumpkin?” She leaned toward Maureen, covering her mouth with one hand, whispering, “I think he’s Conrad Wilson’s agent, or lawyer, or something.”
“Why?”
“Asking a lot of questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Oh, you know. Like who has his camera? Where is his computer? Has any of his family showed up to claim the body?” She shook her head. “Nosy stuff like that.”
“What did you tell him?” Maureen took a closer look at the man on the steps.
Gert smiled, then made a zipper motion across her lips. “I know nothing,” she said. “I say nothing.”
“Good girl,” Maureen said. “Has Officer Hubbard talked to him yet?”
“Haven’t seen Hubbard since this morning. He was out in the kitchen, and even behind the bar, making a nuisance of himself while we were all trying to get breakfast served and lunch started.”
“What’s he looking for?” Maureen wondered aloud. “I thought he’d already pretty much examined every inch out there “
“We did too. But no, there he was, spraying that damned fingerprint powder on this and that, here and there.” She made a face. “Remember, you said if he had to mess with our booze anymore he should do it here? Did you ever try to wash that crap off of a glass bottle? What a mess.”
“Sorry about that. I just didn’t want to have to pour good liquor down the drain again. I sure wish he’d get this case solved so we could get things done that need doing around here—things that don’t involve cops and ghost hunters and nosy questions,” Maureen said. “Keep your ears and eyes open, Gert. Maybe we can hear something, see something, learn something, that will help Hubbard—and hopefully get rid of him!”
Sam, who’d been rocking quietly with his eyes closed, spoke up. “I saw something.”
Molly interrupted, “I heard something. Down at the Quic-Shop.”
George leaned in her direction. “Huh. Quic-Shop. ‘Believe nothing that you hear, and only half of what you see’ in that place.” The crowd on the porch had started to thin out. One or two at a time, the rocking-chair sitters began to head for the dining room. Before long, only Maureen, the quartet, the newly registered pair, and the man on the steps remained.
“What’d you hear, Mol?” Gert wanted to know. “Who’s it about?”
“The dead man. Conrad Wilson. They say nobody’s claimed the body yet. The town might have to bury him. Guess they’ll have to sell his stuff to pay for it.”
“That’s not true!” The voice came from the steps below. The man sitting next to one of the pumpkins stood and climbed the stairs to the top. “I’m his agent.” He handed a card to George. “If his family doesn’t claim him, I’ll see that he gets a decent burial.”
“See, Molly? Told ya.” George glanced at the card in his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Zamora.”
Maureen lost no time in stepping forward to greet the man, to welcome him to Haven House. This might very well be a “learn something” moment.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Zamora,” she said. “I’m Maureen Doherty, the owner here. Welcome to our inn. If there’s anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable at this difficult time, please don’t hesitate to ask.” Finn sat, tail wagging, watching the man’s face expectantly.
Zamora gave Finn a perfunctory pat on the head, and pulled another card from a silver card case and handed it to Maureen. “I’m Conrad Wilson’s literary agent—and longtime friend. I’m here to try to figure out why a good-natured, talented, up-and-coming author like Conrad died in this boring, godforsaken, end-of-the-road hellhole of a town.”
Maureen accepted the card and took a step back. So much for making his stay more comfortable, she thought. She tried a straightforward approach. “Yes, well, all of us here are interested in finding out exactly that same thing. Had he contacted you at all during the month he’d been here? He kept to himself pretty much, mostly taking pictures all over town. It was said that he was working on a book. Is that correct?”
“Damn right. Not just a book. A blockbuster. A best seller. I’ve already sold the rights to it.” He tapped the breast pocket of a silk Tommy Bahama shirt. “Had a contract in my pocket for him to sign.”
“Was it a book about—um—spirits?” Maureen pressed the subject, dropping her voice, aware that others—like everyone on the porch, including the two men—were all listening.
“Spirits? Freakin’ ghosts! He promised me pictures of ’em. Dozens of ’em.” Zamora didn’t bother to speak quietly. “Maybe even hundreds of pictures, he told me. “The whole place is crawling with ghosts,” he said. “He even sent me a picture of one. Wanna see it?” He pulled a photo from the same breast pocket. “See? Anyone you know?” He waved it in front of Maureen’s face, then spun around, holding it so that anyone nearby could get a fast look at it.
Maureen had recognized the player piano in the Haven Inn’s dining room at once. She didn’t recognize the profile shot of a smiling man sitting on the piano bench, wearing a striped shirt and straw hat, hands on the keyboard, a bottle of beer close at hand, but she figured it was probably a very good likeness of Billy Bedoggoned Bailey, who, according to Lorna Dubois, had been dead for quite a long time.
“Photoshopped,” Sam snorted. “Any kid can do it.”
“Not like this.” Zamora handed the picture to Maureen. “I’ve had the best techs in New York City examine it. It’s the real thing.” He turned around again, this time slowly. “I’m thinking that somewhere in this dead-end town—maybe even in this run-down hotel—there are dozens, maybe hundreds, of pictures like this, and I’m willing to pay a lot of money to anyone who can show me how to find them.”
“Count me in,” Molly said.
“Me too,” Gert declared.
“How much money?” George asked.
“How does a thousand dollars sound?” Zamora reached for the photo in Maureen’s hand and snatched it back, tucking it back into his pocket. “A thousand bucks in good hard old-fashioned American cash.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s a fake, “Sam insisted, “but I’ll give finding them a try. First of all, do the cops still have his little camera?”
“I’m pretty sure they do,” Maureen said.
“That’s probably where all the pictures are stored then,” George said. “Or else on his computer. You can bet the cops have that all figured out.”
“I don’t think so,” Gert said. “I don’t think they have anything about this figured out, the way they keep prowling around, bothering everybody all the time.”
“I’m afraid you might
be right about that, Gert,” Maureen said. “Hey, Sam, didn’t you say you ‘saw something’? What did you see?”
“I did see something,” Sam answered. “But maybe what I saw is worth a thousand bucks. Guess I’ll keep it to myself for now.”
Chapter 30
Maureen wished a “good evening” to the group on the porch, just after the sun had set, and the quartet, along with the agent, decided to go inside for dinner. Maureen was determined to have the microwaved supper she’d promised herself and to run off the posters for the following evening’s blackened grouper dinner special. Before she left, she introduced herself to the two men who’d checked in earlier. Trent and Pierre turned out to be interior designers, stopping over for a night before a big home show in Tampa. They declared the “ambiance” of Haven House “utterly charming,” found Finn “absolutely adorable and very smart,” and said they’d be back again later in the season for a much longer stay.
“That’s what we like to hear,” she said. “I’ll see you in the morning.” Finn trotted just ahead of her and they climbed the stairs to their third-floor home. The cats had come inside and were already perched in their tower. Maureen cranked the window closed, wondering how Bogie had squeezed through the space allowed, emptied a can of macaroni and cheese into a saucepan, trying not the think about the pot roast dinner downstairs.
“We don’t have time for a leisurely dinner, Finn. We have to go downstairs and work.” The golden lay down and covered his eyes with his paws. “You don’t want to come downstairs with me?”
“Woof,” he said.
“I’ll give you lasties on my macaroni. There’s still plenty of cheese left in it.” She put the nearly empty bowl on the floor and Finn, unable to resist the cheese, as she’d known he would be, stood up and lapped the bowl clean. “You’re so easy, she said. “Come on. Let’s go. Let’s just get it over with.” Not bothering with the leash since they’d be staying within the building, together they descended the stairs and let themselves into suite twenty-seven, where Maureen was pleased to note that the temperature this time seemed normal. Finn headed straight for the kneehole under the desk, while Maureen began the layout for posters and flyers advertising the next day’s dinner menu. She easily found online photos of the popular southern pan-fried fish treatment, added advertising copy, heavy on descriptions like “flaky,” “Cajun spiced,” and “fresh from local boats.” As she photoshopped sweet potato fries and a green salad from her Bartlett’s of Boston restaurant file into the shot, she recalled Sam’s insistence that Conrad Wilson’s picture of Billy at the player piano was a fake.
Be My Ghost Page 17
