“Okay. About the bottle switching. I’m pretty sure Gert and Molly and the boys were on the porch along with some of the neighbors and a few inn guests when Wilson left the bar and sat in his regular chair, away from the others,” she reasoned. “Anyway, you would have noticed if any of them were touching any bottles.”
“The Morgans were outside too,” he said. “I don’t know where Elizabeth was.”
“When I went for help, after I found the body,” Maureen said, “she was in the dining room, just inside the door. It looked to me as though she was watching the desk and the dining room at the same time.”
“That sounds about right,” Ted agreed. “Elizabeth’s a great one for multitasking. Just before the cops came she came over to see how I was doing. She even offered to take over at the bar, but I told her I was okay.”
She bartends too? Why not? Maureen thought. She’s billing me separately for each task. She kept the thought to herself.
“The police shut everything down as soon as they arrived,” she said. “They sent everybody home or to their rooms. That left time and space for somebody to move bottles around.”
“Nope.” Ted shook his head. “There was a cop stationed behind the bar right away, and I stood there myself until they shooed me away.”
“This isn’t going to be easy.” Maureen frowned. “It has to be an inside job, but it looks as if all of the insiders have alibis.”
“Except you and me. Gotta go. Keep thinking.” Ted moved away to check on the cheese-grating process and Maureen selected another potato. This one had eyes. She dug into it, carefully removing the blemishes before beginning the downward strokes that would reveal the smooth white surface.
“Dig out the bad parts. The mistakes. That’s what we need to do,” she muttered. Had the killer made any mistakes so far? The medicine bottle without any fingerprints. That could be a mistake. And what about the time lapse between Conrad Wilson’s leaving the bar and the time Maureen had found him? Had the police established who was where? Could one or more of the front-porch quartet have approached the man in the rocking chair and given him a fatal drink? They were all close enough to him and Maureen already knew that they stood by one another. She thought of how Gert and Molly each swore to the reporter that there were no ghosts in the inn, and how Gert had pleaded, “I’m not at liberty to say,” when questioned about Wilson’s visit to suite twenty-seven. Was the old Vegas showgirl hiding behind more than feathers?
What about the guys—George and Sam? They’d each expressed dislike—maybe downright hatred—of ghost hunters in general. She dropped the potato into the pan with a splash. Maybe Aster was right. Nobody in Haven likes them. We need to figure out a more specific motive than dislike. How about . . . who can profit from his death? That leaves me out. Ted and Elizabeth too. The Morgans could, but only if they had the camera that takes pictures of ghosts and the computer to view them on—if any of that is even true—and the cops have those.
“Sorry, Ted,” she said when he made his next round of the kitchen. “No answers, just more questions.” She shared her scattered thoughts.
“Okay,” he said. “Maybe this isn’t the right time or place to figure it out. How about someplace quiet, without cops or food prep in the way?”
“It’ll have to be after tonight’s dinner special is over,” she reasoned. “You need to concentrate on that for now.” She scraped the potato peelings into the sink and activated the garbage disposal. Ted leaned a little closer to her, to be heard over the sound of the machinery.
“How about a late-night walk on the beach?”
It was agreed. Ted would call her when the dinner cleanup was finished. She and Finn would meet him in front of the old casino at the end of the boulevard. Meanwhile she’d print out posters and flyers for the rest of the week’s dinner specials.
Back in the penthouse Maureen tossed the blue-and-white McCartney outfit into the wicker hamper and stepped into the shower. From the next room came the gentle ding announcing Lorna’s imminent arrival. “I’m in the shower!” Maureen called. “Be out in a minute!”
“That’s okay. I’m in here. Boy, this room is awfully pink, isn’t it?”
“You’re in here?” Maureen peeked from behind the pink-flamingo-embellished shower curtain. “I didn’t hear the door open.”
“Silly goose.” Lorna looked at herself in the mirror. “I can walk right through doors. Walls too. Fringe benefit of being dead.”
“Great. Can you hand me a towel?” Maureen stuck out her hand.
“Sure. They’re all pink too. Are you going to do some redecorating pretty soon?” The towel sort of floated toward Maureen. She reached for it, wondering at the same time if she didn’t grab it, it would fall to floor or just keep on floating.
“Thank you. I’m thinking about it.” She wrapped the towel around herself and opened the door to the bedroom, where Finn waited. “Actually, I’m thinking about decorating the whole place.” Lorna followed, using the door in the proper manner.
“I thought we were broke.” The ghost was now in front of the full-length mirror, admiring herself in a hot-pink cocktail dress. “Did we come into some money all of a sudden?”
“Where do you get that ‘we’?” Maureen asked. “And I thought you didn’t like pink.”
“I like it when it’s done right,” she said, turning to admire her back view. “Edith Head did this one for Audrey. Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Nineteen sixty-one.”
“Wow! Whose closet have you been shopping in?” Maureen opened her underwear drawer and quickly slipped into bra and panties.
“Big closet.” Lorna spread her arms wide. “Paramount Pictures Costume Archives. I drop by there whenever I get a chance.”
“Big-time fringe benefit,” Maureen agreed. “There must be lots of great clothes in Hollywood.”
“I’ll say. I think the wardrobe department at MGM must be the most haunted place in America. Everybody shops there. I don’t know why the ghost hunters haven’t figured it out.”
“Speaking of ghost hunters, do you have any good ideas about who killed Conrad Wilson?”
“Maybe. What are you going to put on now?”
“Oh, nothing special. Just jeans and maybe a lightweight sweat shirt. I’ve got some work to do in my office; then Finn and I are going for a walk on the beach.”
“Bor-ing,” Lorna declared. “Don’t you ever have a date?” Finn had perked up his ears at the mention of his name.
“Well . . .” Maureen spoke hesitantly. “I guess you might say the walk on the beach is sort of a date.”
“No kidding. Who? The hot lawyer? The cute bartender? The nosy cop?”
“So you do get around the inn, huh? You’re not as afraid of having your picture taken as you say you are,” Maureen accused. “And it’s the cute bartender. We’re trying to figure out who killed Wilson because the nosy cop seems to think it’s him or me.”
“I don’t worry about the pictures that much anymore since Wilson is dead,” Lorna said. “That camera of his creeped me out. You saw the picture he took of Billy.”
“I wanted to ask you about that. Are you sure that’s Billy in the picture?”
“Absolutely.”
“Not just an old publicity shot?”
“Not with a bottle of Sam Adams Boston Lager just left of the keyboard,” Lorna said. “That wasn’t around in Billy’s day.”
“Good point. But pictures or not, we need to find out who got the poison into Wilson—how they did it, and why.”
“The why is easy,” Lorna said. “Whoever it is wants to get their hands on that magic camera.”
“Nosy cop has the camera, so that’s not happening.” Maureen pulled on her jeans.
“Oh. Too bad.” Lorna shimmered for a second, then came back into focus. “Could someone have put the poison into his drink when everyone was looking at something else?”
“A diversion tactic? Like the sparkler in the drink on the bar or Elizabeth and Alexa Morgan’
s little shoving match at the other end of the room?” Maureen liked the idea. “Good one, Lorna. Did you ever play a detective?”
More shimmering. “I worked as a stand-in for Glenda Farrell in most of the ‘Torchy Blane’ movies.”
“Did you solve any murders?”
“Naturally. I solved all of them. I mean Glenda did. Torchy was a newspaper reporter. She was always in trouble with the cops. Just like you are.”
Maureen put her sweat shirt on, moved in front of Lorna, and studied her own reflection in the mirror. “How’d she do it? Solve the murders?”
“She found clues. Talked to people. I remember one where a guy was found dead in a hotel. Sort of like this place. Nobody could figure it out. See, there were several people involved. Torchy got one of them to rat on the others.” Lorna clapped her hands together. “The weak link. All you and the cute bartender have to do is find the weak link. Gotta go. See you later.” She began to fade.
“Where are you going?”
“Tiffany’s. Fifth Avenue. I need something sparkly to wear with this. Bye.” Finn woofed goodbye and she was gone.
“Want to come down to my office with me, Finn?” Maureen asked. “I have to work for a while.” She waved a copy of the proposed week’s dinner menus.
Finn ducked behind a chair.
“Oh, come on. We’ll go for a nice walk on the beach afterward. Ted’s coming with us.”
“Woof?”
“Yeah. He’s a good guy.” The golden, with a tentative wag of the tail, followed her out the door, down the stairs, and—with some prodding—into suite twenty-seven. While the printer whirred out colorful copies, large and small, collated, sorted, and dated, Maureen stacked the window posters and flyers for the following day on top of the desk. “I’ll take these downstairs first and get the quartet ready to deliver them—and at this rate of speed, I’ll be finished before nine, in plenty of time to grab a bite at tonight’s dinner special.” Finn knew the word “dinner” and poked his nose out from the kneehole. “Sorry. No dogs allowed in the dining room. Elizabeth’s rule. No dogs or autograph hunters. I’ll fix you a treat before we go for our walk. Okay?” With a grudging “woof,” the dog retreated to his spot beneath the desk.
At a few minutes before nine Maureen delivered Finn to the penthouse, offered the promised doggy treat, as well as a pair of kitty num-nums for Bogey and Bacall, and with freshly printed materials under one arm headed down the stairs. A hum of conversation and the muted clinking of china and glassware greeted her as soon as she reached the lobby—the welcome sounds of a full dining room.
We’ve got this, she told herself. And it’s just the beginning.
Chapter 35
Maureen finished the last frosty taste of orange sherbet and the final crumb of a jack-o’-lantern cookie. Savoring a fresh cup of after-dinner coffee, she relaxed in the straight-backed chair with its pressed-wood faux carvings and studied her surroundings. There was a feeling of satisfaction in having prepared the flyers and posters, turning them over to the quartet for delivery. Next, should she order new draperies immediately, or have all the mismatched chairs refinished first? Get rid of Penelope’s horde by holding Haven’s largest garage sale on the upcoming Halloween weekend, or wait until after the holiday?
“A penny for your thoughts.” Jake joined her at the round table with its flickering tea-lighted witch-faced candy bucket. He’d brought his own coffee.
“Oh, hello, Jake. Just doing a little mental redecorating of the place,” she said. “New drapes or new chairs? Recarpet or sand floors?”
“Decorating? You looked so focused I figured you must be figuring out who killed the ghost hunter.”
She smiled. “Who killed the ghost hunter? Sounds like a headline.”
“I hope it will be—and pretty soon. Mind if I run a few things by you? For verification?”
“Go for it.” The player piano broke into a bouncy rendition of “Music, Music, Music.” Was it a new recording of an old tune or was it a live performance by a dead artist? She tapped her foot to the beat. “I’ll help if I can.”
Jake put his phone on the table. “On the record. Okay?”
“Sure.”
“Is it true that you’ve hired an attorney because the inn may be at fault somehow in Mr. Wilson’s death?”
Already regretting her quick positive response to Jake’s question, she thought carefully before she answered, “The inn has a law firm on retainer for all legal matters.”
“Even for a murder on the premises?”
“No one has suggested that Haven House is responsible for Mr. Wilson’s death in any way.”
“The police say it’s an ‘ongoing investigation.’ ”
“Yes,” she said.
“Have they questioned you personally?”
“Of course.”
“What were you able to tell them?”
“That’s confidential. You said you have something you want me to verify.” Maureen felt her anger rising. “What is it?”
“Is it true that the pills that killed Wilson came from your medicine cabinet?”
“Some digitalis pills have been found on the property. They are not mine.”
“Not prescribed for you?” He sounded disappointed.
“Excuse me. Ms. Doherty?” Waitress Shelly approached the table. “Elizabeth needs to see you in her office. She says it’s important.”
“Thanks, Shelly.” Maureen stood, trying not to show how welcome the interruption was. “Sorry, Jake. We’ll talk some other time.”
Leaving an extra-generous tip for Shelly—partly for the excellent food and careful service, but mostly for the timely intrusion—Maureen hurried from the dining room and into the lobby. Elizabeth’s door was closed, but the glass pane revealed that she was inside. Maureen knocked—timidly at first, and then a little louder. The woman looked up from the wicker desk, beckoning for Maureen to come in. “It’s not locked. Come on. Come on. Don’t just stand there. Sit down and tell me what the hell is going on around here.”
Maureen did as she was told, pushed the door open and sat. “You mean the dinner specials? That seems to be going really well, don’t you think so?”
“Oh, that. Sure. No. I mean what’s all this I’m hearing about you throwing a giant garage sale over at the storage locker?” Elizabeth pushed a stack of papers aside. “Why wasn’t I consulted about it? Are you planning to just get rid of Penelope’s collection?”
“Well, if you put it that way, yes. I am,” Maureen said. “We’re paying out good money every month to store other people’s castoffs in a high-security, air-conditioned locker. We can’t afford it. Some of Penelope’s hoard is worth a few dollars. No decision has been made about actually holding a sale. I’ve put in a call to Mr. Crenshaw at the thrift store to arrange an appraisal. Who told you about the garage sale?”
“I don’t know. Everybody is talking about it. They say you already sold some old Halloween stuff and now you’re going to sell the rest of Penelope’s collection.” Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “You planning to share that money?”
“When we do it, if we do it, I’m planning to start by updating the dining room,” she said. “If we begin to show a little profit, maybe later we’ll be able to start working on the guest rooms.”
“Huh. Throwing good money after bad, that’s what I say.” Elizabeth balled up her fist and pounded the desk, scattering papers—some onto the floor. Maureen bent to pick up the few that had landed on her side of the desk. Elizabeth reached across, snatching the pages from Maureen’s outstretched hand. “Whenever I see a little extra money coming in around here, I hand out some nice bonuses to the help.”
Maureen took a deep breath and fought the urge to comment that the first and biggest bonus would undoubtedly be paid to Elizabeth herself. “That’s a generous thought,” she said, “but putting some capital back into the business seems like the wisest course right now. The dinner specials are a good start. What do you think about having Sam an
d George do a little work on the outside of the building? Some sanding and a coat of paint would do wonders.”
“Well, let’s see first how your little yard sale goes. You’ll probably get about enough money from Penelope’s dusty old stuff to buy a gallon of paint at Walmart.” She stood up. “I need to get back to work in the kitchen. I’ll have to make sure the bartender—excuse me, the executive chef—knows enough to get everything cleaned up and put away before the breakfast crew shows up.” She’d moved across the room and opened the office door before Maureen had a chance to leave her white wicker chair.
A lone sheet of paper peeked out from under the desk. Maureen picked it up as she left the office, crossing into the lobby. She handed it to Elizabeth, but not before she’d read the heading. “Estimate for repair of an eight-inch HD display tablet. Inoperative device. No charge.”
Did Elizabeth actually have the tablet—the “cute little TV”—that Conrad Wilson had used to display the pictures he’d taken of Gert? He’d taken those pictures with the camera he always carried with him—the one that Lorna believed could photograph ghosts—and Ted had told her that the tablet was “broken.”
Maureen thought about confronting the woman, but the door had closed behind her before she could form the right words. Just as well, she realized No sense in making her more disagreeable than she already is. But somebody should look into it. Maybe I should tell Officer Hubbard. That idea was quickly discounted. I’ll call Nora. Maureen climbed the stairs to her office, where, she assumed, she’d have some measure of privacy for her phone call to the attorney.
“As far as I know, all of Wilson’s electronics are still safely locked up in the Haven PD’s evidence room,” Nora reported. “Of course, it’s possible that Elizabeth’s own tablet is broken, but that seems like too much of a coincidence. Want me to check this out?”
“I think it’s worth checking,” Maureen said. “Even if Officer Hubbard has Wilson’s tablet in his custody, maybe Elizabeth is doing some advance planning. The cops will return everything to the inn eventually, won’t they? Wilson had been there for a month and hadn’t paid his bill yet. I just checked the figures. It’s sizable. He used room service a lot.”
Be My Ghost Page 21
