Ghost in the Wind Page 11

  Aha! So this was a reconnaissance mission! Paul was trying to determine what I had or hadn’t done, to make sure he was in charge without actually having to say he was on the case.

  “No I haven’t,” I said. “But I think your ‘Vanessa’ is some ghost pal of Vance’s he convinced to get in touch with you because I’m not doing what he wants me to fast enough. I love Vance’s music, but the man himself is more devious than I would have thought.”

  “So you see what I see,” Paul said. “He can’t be trusted.”

  “Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t see about his daughter’s death,” I told him. I’d said “we” to see if it got a rise out of him; he hadn’t reacted at all.

  “What about Maxie?” Melissa said. “Mom told me she and Vance went off together. If Vance is all unstable like you said, Paul, is Maxie in trouble?” Liss will avoid the point of the conversation only if she wants to, and in this case she wanted to. She was more concerned about Maxie than Vanessa because she knew Maxie. She could be concerned about Vanessa later.

  Paul considered that. “I doubt it. There isn’t much that can happen to Maxie.”

  “What about messing up her relationship with Everett?” I suggested. “That would be a problem.”

  Melissa nodded but Paul shrugged. “I don’t think that will be an issue,” he said.

  I didn’t get to ask him why he thought that because Berthe Englund stuck her head through the kitchen door. “Am I interrupting?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Englund?” Berthe preferred the title even though her husband was long gone. Maybe I would ask Paul to look him up, just to give Berthe some closure.

  “I’m just wondering if there’s going to be a whole concert now,” she said.

  “A concert? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  She pointed behind her, toward the den. “In the movie room,” she said. “The instruments there are playing now.” And my first reaction: There are instruments in the movie room?

  Melissa was up and out the door before I could react. “I wasn’t aware of it, Mrs. Englund, but if you’d like to sit and listen awhile, I see no reason you shouldn’t.”

  Berthe smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “I just wanted to make sure it was on the agenda.” And she was gone.

  Paul looked at me. “If it’s Vance, this would be a good time to confront him,” he said.

  “Does this mean you’re back on the case?” I asked.

  “What case?”

  I ignored him. We went—Mom and me by foot, Paul by whatever that bizarre method of propulsion it is that he uses—to the movie room. But you could hear the music coming from there long before we made it to the door. And even before we got there, I could tell something really special was going on. What we saw, and heard, there absolutely floored me. I stopped dead—pardon the expression—in my tracks and stared.

  At the front of my movie room, just under the ginormous TV I’d installed on the wall, stood—floated—Clarence Clemons, saxophone in hand, wailing away at a rendition of “Baker Street” that completely blew away Gerry Rafferty’s recorded version. But the band that was backing up the former E Street Band’s legendary saxophonist almost upstaged the Big Man himself.

  Phil Ochs and Harry Chapin were on acoustic rhythm guitars. Sid Vicious was on bass. Clemons’s former bandmate Danny Federici was on keyboards, Rick Danko was on electric lead (alongside—get this—Les Paul), and the drummer (playing a set of bongos and some folding chairs) was Levon Helm. Singing backup were Luther Vandross, Tammi Terrell and Phoebe Snow. For this ensemble, Vance McTiernan was reduced to playing percussion.

  Leading the band and singing (which only half of the living people in the room—which included Mom, Melissa, and me along with Tessa, Jesse, and Berthe—could hear) along with his electric rhythm guitar was John Lennon.

  I couldn’t move. I’m not even sure I wanted to move. This was the most amazing group of musicians I’d ever seen. It was probably more amazing than anyone else had ever seen, either, and not one of them was alive. The music they were making, apparently impromptu, was astonishing, each member of the band contributing without having to overshadow the others. They were complete professionals, they were collaborating, and each one had a huge smile that indicated they’d never had such fun in their lives.

  Literally.

  The song lasted another few minutes and when it was over, the assemblage—which now included Paul, Maxie and Dad, who hovered over the musicians, and Josh, who must have appeared when I was busy being mesmerized—broke into a tremendous round of applause.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I invited a few friends over to jam,” Vance said, grinning at me.

  “It’s . . . fine,” I managed to choke out.

  “One more, lads!” Lennon called out. The others looked to him. He raised an eyebrow. “Vance?”

  Vance didn’t miss a beat. “‘Born to Run,’” he said. “This is New Jersey, John.”

  The ex-Beatle beamed. “Always know your audience, don’t you?” He nodded to Clarence and Danny. “We’ll defer to you two on this one, right? Count us in.”

  The big sax player acknowledged Lennon with a nod and shouted, “One, two, three four!” And they were off.

  It was the most exhilarating moment of my life. (I’m sorry, Liss, but I was so tired after thirty-two hours of labor when you were finally born that “exhilarating” doesn’t accurately describe it.)

  They played on, and I was aware of Josh sidling up to my side. “You booked a ghost band?” he asked. “They’re good.”

  “They oughta be,” I said into his ear. “Just listen. I’ll tell you who they are later.” He smiled; he’s used to this sort of thing.

  The music was over far too soon. The band played only about fifteen minutes in total until Levon mentioned he had a gig in the city later that night, so he’d better find a car heading in that direction. Tammi asked if she could ride along. Phoebe was going to visit relatives in Teaneck. Everyone went his or her own separate way, rising, sinking, exiting through walls. Federici folded up the electronic keyboard and hid it inside a long peacoat he was suddenly wearing, saying he’d better get it back to the family restaurant in Freehold before it was missed.

  My guests, thrilled with the music but unaware of the miracle they’d just witnessed, thanked me for the show on the way out of the movie room and asked if there’d be another soon. I said I doubted there would be another one like that, but nothing was impossible at the haunted guesthouse.

  Because all of a sudden that seemed to be true.

  The topper for me came when, after all the guests had shuffled out, John Lennon swooped down, smiled at me and asked if he could come play here again because he liked the room’s acoustics. I told him he was always welcome and couldn’t help wondering aloud why he was still bound to Earth.

  He laughed. “‘Imagine there’s no heaven,’” he said. “Apparently someone is taking that personally.” Then he gave Vance a departing nod, said something about going to haunt Yoko and flew out the back wall.

  “That was so bitchin’!” Maxie yelled from the rafters. “I might have to start listening to those oldies you like. Who was that guy doing the singing? I liked him.”

  I sat down heavily in one of the chairs I’d laid out for the Sunday night movie, which was now definitely going to be a major disappointment, and shook my head. Had I really just seen and heard all that? Josh sat down next to me.

  “I’ve never seen you look like that before,” he said. “Are you okay?”

  I blinked. Three times. “I am so much better than okay,” I said. I looked at Melissa. “Did you know who any of those people were?” I asked.

  “I knew some, but Grandma knew almost everybody,” she said. “Wow.”

  “Wow indeed,” Vance said, crossing his arms in a casual expression of smugness a
nd floating just above my eye level, so I had to look up at him. “Not bad, huh?”

  “That was . . . spectacular,” I said. “Thank you so much.” From the side of my eye I caught Paul looking displeased in the corner near the ceiling. Men are so competitive.

  “Don’t mention it,” Vance said.

  “No, really,” I gushed. “Nobody’s ever done anything like that for me before. I mean, nobody possibly could.” Now Josh looked displeased, which proved he had a male ego, too. “I wish I could do something for you.”

  “Well . . .” Vance stroked his chin. I looked up. Paul was stroking his goatee. They looked like they were doing impressions of each other. “Maybe you can.”

  Paul’s eyes almost closed; he was staring at Vance through slits. Even Maxie, ecstatic a minute ago, looked suspicious.

  “Name it,” I said.

  “Stop investigating about Nessa,” he fired back much too quickly.

  That was too much. “Why?” I exploded. “Aren’t you the guy who wanted me to dive into this with both feet, like, an hour ago? Why can’t you make up your mind?”

  “I don’t want to know. If I was a bad dad—and I was—maybe that led to her wanting to do this, and it would make me feel horrible. Her death left a hole in me. I don’t want another one.” Given that I could literally see through him, the metaphor was a little less effective than he might have hoped.

  Paul, no doubt realizing he could do little good now, did not speak.

  But my father did. “Vance, I have only one daughter,” he said. “And I would be absolutely devastated if anything happened to her. I’d never be able to think straight if I didn’t do something about it.”

  Vance didn’t acknowledge Dad; he just stared straight at me. “You asked if there was something you could do for me,” he said urgently. “There is, and I’m asking. Please. Stop looking and let me move on.”

  Paul looked at me and shook his head. It was a test. For me.

  I knew Vance was trying to charm me, and to intimidate me into doing what he wanted. I knew he was counting on my weakness, my admiration (okay, bordering on idol worship) for him and his music, to convince me that I should do something I thought was wrong. If someone willfully exposed Vanessa to something they knew would kill her, they had to pay. And I knew that the least I should get out of him before agreeing to something so ludicrous was a sincere explanation of his desire to keep me off the investigation I was conducting, solo, supposedly on his behalf.

  There was also the weird alpha-male vibe going on between Paul and Vance that was coloring the discussion. To agree with Vance would be to somehow reject Paul, who had been my friend and confidant for years, and who knew infinitely more about investigation than I did. To refuse Vance would be to turn my back on the great warmth and emotional support he’d offered, even without knowing it, when I’d been badly in need of it.

  “Alison,” Vance said. “Please.”

  There was only one thing to do. I took a deep breath, let it out and then turned my gaze away from Paul and into Vance’s pleading eyes.

  “Okay,” I said.

  Paul actually smote himself in the forehead and fell, backward, through the wall and out of the house.

  “Ooh,” Maxie said.

  Eleven

  “Get Paul,” I said to Maxie.

  Dinner had been a somewhat tense affair. I’m understating it.

  The kitchen, where Melissa, Mom, Josh and I ate, was divided into two camps: On the one side were all those who believed that I’d disrespected Paul’s experience and judgment by agreeing to give up the investigation. Which sounds weird, since Paul hadn’t wanted to take the case. But when Vance had suggested we stop, Paul had shook his head to indicate I should refuse. So now one camp thought I had done badly by Paul. That camp consisted of Mom and Dad, Maxie (of course), Josh and even Melissa.

  The other camp, which believed I had done the only rational thing available under the circumstances, consisted of me. So it was a pretty evenly divided gathering.

  Liss, to be fair, had not chided me for the scene in the movie room, but her expression clearly showed she thought I was being mean to her ghostly friend. And the cacophony from the others (okay, mostly Maxie) had drowned out any questions even after she and Mom had cooked the brisket, some roasted potatoes and carrots and made a side salad. Josh’s perceived disapproval was based mostly on his somewhat nebulous knowledge of Paul, whom he couldn’t see or hear but knew was a decent guy. He wanted to side with me but was already not all that crazy about Vance.

  Maxie had ranted on for the whole time—even when guests were asking about nearby restaurants or thanking me again for the concert they thought I had organized—about my insensitivity and disloyal insubordination (she used other words) that I couldn’t get my thoughts out completely. After a while I realized voicing my defense would make no difference unless Paul was in the room, anyway.

  First, I had to wait for Vance to leave, but that didn’t take long. He had been invited to jam with Clarence and Luther at a “very pre-Halloween gig in Red Bank” and was already late. Maxie had stared after him as he left as if expecting to be asked to come along, but she wasn’t.

  I was going to have to get in touch with Everett and tell him his new girlfriend was looking at other boys. Because life never progresses beyond seventh grade, even after you’re dead.

  “What do you mean, ‘get Paul’?” Maxie asked me now.

  “Is that a complex sentence? I need to talk to Paul and he’s not going to answer me if I call him now.” I was rinsing off some dishes in the sink before putting them in the dishwasher as Josh and Liss cleared the table. Mom was repacking her backpack with those few items she’d determined I would not be able to reheat or in some way convert into another meal.

  “What do you want Paul for?” Maxie’s voice, unsurprisingly, had a combative tone. “All you did was ask him to come back and then tell Vance you’d stop the investigation. You threw Paul under the bus.”

  “I could throw him under a real bus and it wouldn’t hurt him now,” I pointed out. “Please just find him.”

  “I’ll do it,” Melissa said. “He’ll talk to me.”

  “Thanks, baby.”

  Liss, probably grateful for the break from KP duty, headed for the basement door and vanished down the stairwell; it’s always a decent bet to find Paul in the basement.

  Maxie continued on her rant about how I’d betrayed my “best friend in the world” (Jeannie Rogers is actually my best friend, but that was the least of the points worth arguing and I wasn’t even arguing) for the sake of “sucking up to a famous guy” that Maxie had “never even heard of three days ago.”

  “Don’t be so hard on Alison,” my mother told Maxie. I can always count on her when I need defending. “She made a mistake. Everybody makes mistakes.” Everybody has days like this one, too. I just tend to have them four times a week.

  Thankfully, Paul finally rose up through the kitchen floor, face impassive. “Melissa said you were asking for me,” he said with as much inflection as a goldfish.

  “Yes.” I dried my hands on a dish towel. “About what happened before in the movie room—”

  I couldn’t even get a whole sentence out of my mouth. “I understand what happened,” Paul said.

  “I don’t think you do,” I said.

  “Of course I do. You were given a choice and you decided that Vance McTiernan was the more trustworthy person in the conversation.” Paul is often wise and almost always logical. It is rare to hear him be neither at the same time, but now he was sounding like a jilted sixteen-year-old.

  “Paul,” I said.

  “It was clear enough,” Maxie joined in without the benefit of anyone indicating she should. “He got all these famous musicians to come to your house, so you sided with the guy who brought them here. It’s a little sad, really.” She lay back,
hands intertwined behind her head, floating in a pool that wasn’t there. “I would have thought you’d be more loyal.”

  “That’s not the point,” Paul told her. “What hurt was the fact that you didn’t trust my judgment, Alison. You didn’t believe after all we’ve been through together that my advice might be of some value.”

  “Pardon me, Paul, but isn’t that what Alison was saying to you yesterday?” This time Mom really was coming to my defense. (Josh probably would have, too, but he hadn’t heard a word Paul or Maxie had said. Besides, he was engrossed in wiping down the center island.) “That you should have trusted her a little bit more with the case Vance was asking you to take?”

  Paul blinked and looked away; he was thinking.

  Maxie was still floating on her nonexistent barge and thinking is something she tries to avoid whenever possible. “Is that what this was about?” she asked, presumably, me. “A way to get back at Paul for the way he talked to you? Wow. That’s petty.” Hello, Pot? Kettle has a message for you.

  “Is everybody done telling me what I did and why I did it?” I asked. “Because I’d like to say a little something about the case.”

  Paul, newly attentive, turned toward me. “You promised Vance you’d stop the investigation,” he said. “He asked you to stop looking into his daughter’s death. What is left of the case?”

  “Paul.” I almost told him to take a deep breath, but that would have been inappropriate. “I lied to Vance. I told him I’d stop looking for Vanessa’s killer because it was the easiest way to placate him. I’m not giving up the case and I’m not about to drop the only leads I have.”

  “You’re not,” Paul said. It wasn’t a question. A small smile was attempting to break out of the prison his lips had built for it.

  “No, I’m not. But I am feeling a little over my head on this and I really need your help. Will you please guide me through this investigation?”