Inspector Specter Read online

  McElone nodded. Then she shuddered a little, bit her lip and looked like she was fighting tears. “He’s dead,” she said finally, forcing the words out.

  “Oh, Lieutenant,” I said. I’ve never called McElone by her name, only her rank. We don’t have that kind of relationship. “I’m so sorry to hear it. Was it sudden?” I recalled Ferry as a middle-aged man with a prodigious belly; I wondered if his heart had given out.

  “Very sudden,” McElone answered. “Somebody shot him.”

  Two

  “Come inside,” I said again to McElone. I was getting really hot out on the porch. “I promise nothing strange will happen.” I might have said that last part a little louder than was necessary; I wanted to emphasize it to Paul. I had to admit, the heat and the news of Ferry had me just a little off balance.

  “No,” the lieutenant answered. “Really.”

  “At least sit down,” I suggested. I have a glider on the front porch, and gestured toward it. McElone surveyed it up and down, as if trying to determine what these puny humans do on such things, but eventually sat down and let out a breath.

  “I’m going to get myself a glass of lemonade,” I told her. “Would you like one, Lieutenant?”

  McElone turned her head suddenly, as if she’d just realized I was there. “Yeah. Sure. Thank you.” This was serious; she wasn’t even being snide. Snide is McElone’s baseline attitude when I’m around.

  I opened the door again and let the cool, dry air envelop me as I walked into my supposedly terrifying house. Paul slipped through the door (and when I say through the door . . .) and followed me, as I’d hoped he would.

  “Why do you think she came here?” I asked him quietly. “She seems really shaken by what happened to him.”

  “I think it’s obvious,” the spook to my right answered. “She wants our help in finding Detective Ferry’s killer.”

  Paul, who’d been a fledgling private investigator when his life was cut short on his first solo case—guarding Maxie—and I had an arrangement: He and Maxie would help me guarantee an interactive experience for some of my guests (those who booked through Senior Plus Tours, looking for the “value-added” aspect of staying in a haunted house) if I helped him. As it turns out, eternity is a long time, and being a ghost stuck within my property lines was a little dull. Paul wanted to keep his hand in the investigation biz. He’d need “legs” outside the house on occasion. And since Melissa was (at the time) nine years old and Mom was not exactly as spry as she used to be, Paul chose me.

  Suffice it to say that while I was not completely thrilled at the prospect of working PI cases, I was thrilled with the idea of guaranteed guests for my business, which is what Senior Plus assured me they’d send if I could deliver the spooks. So after a while I’d caved and sat for the private investigator’s exam, Maxie reluctantly signed up for the “spook shows,” the guests started coming and I forgot all about my PI license until Paul started insisting that I keep my end of the bargain and actually take cases.

  He can communicate with other spirits—I call it the Ghosternet—and he let it be known that “we” were open for business. So once in a while a ghost will ask him for help, and I have to go along for the ride if I want to keep my real business running. Which is also how I know Lieutenant McElone (who doesn’t respect my detecting skills much, and she’s right).

  Now I looked at Paul carefully. “You know, there are times when you overestimate the draw of your imaginary detective agency,” I told him. He frowned at the word imaginary, but I didn’t give him time to answer. “McElone is a detective herself, and a good one. She doesn’t need me—and as far as she knows, the whole ‘agency’ is me—to help her on an investigation. She has the Harbor Haven Police Department.”

  I opened a cupboard and took out two glasses. Melissa would have been impressed that I used the actual glass ones. When it’s just the two of us, we drink out of plastic cups I buy at the Acme. We’re a classy family.

  “No, she doesn’t,” Paul countered. “Keep in mind, Detective Ferry was a member of the Seaside Heights department. Unless he was killed here in Harbor Haven, his case is not within the lieutenant’s jurisdiction.”

  I went to the fridge and got out the pitcher of lemonade (which, in the interest of full disclosure, Melissa had made, following a recipe her grandmother had given her; I’m either the world’s worst or the least-inspired cook, depending on whether you ask me or the my mother, who’s diplomatic to a fault) and walked to the counter.

  “I guarantee the cops in Seaside would be all over the murder of one of their own,” I told Paul. “Even if McElone wants to look into it herself, she has to trust them to handle it. There’s no reason to ask me.” I got a tray from the cabinet under the microwave oven.

  Paul raised an eyebrow and put his hands into the pockets of his jeans, a sign that he was getting stubborn about something. This was different from when he’s thinking, when he’ll feverishly stroke his goatee. You get to know someone when they inhabit your house, even if they died before you got there.

  “I’ll bet you that the lieutenant asks you for help when you go back out to the porch,” he said. “I’ll bet you I’m right.”

  I put the glasses and the pitcher on the tray and lifted it, heading for the kitchen door. (Perhaps it should be noted that this was a special favor for the lieutenant—the guesthouse is not a bed-and-breakfast, so even my guests don’t get more than a morning cup of coffee or tea out of me.) “Fine for you,” I said. “But it’s not like you can pay off when I win. What are you betting?”

  “If I win the bet, we take the case for Lieutenant McElone,” he said.

  “And when I win?” We were almost to the front door.

  “If you were to win, we turn down the next investigation we’re offered, and I won’t complain about it. How’s that?”

  “Double or nothing,” I said.

  He looked puzzled. “Double or nothing?”

  “When I win the bet, I get to turn down the next two cases you cook up on the Ghosternet. Deal?”

  Paul didn’t even stop to think. “Deal.”

  I tilted my head toward the knob on the front door. “Do you mind?”

  Paul reached over and opened the door for me, which was a vast improvement over what he could do when I first met him (at the time, picking up a quarter was a chore requiring intense concentration). I thanked him quietly as I carried the tray back into the blast furnace.

  I put the tray down on a wicker table next to the glider where McElone was still sitting, looking uncomfortable but amazingly not sweaty. I poured the two glasses and handed her one as I leaned on the railing facing her.

  “I’m really sorry for your loss, Lieutenant,” I said, and meant it. “I know Detective Ferry was a friend, and this must hurt. I wish there were something I could do.”

  “There is,” Lieutenant McElone said. “You can help me find out who killed Martin.”

  Paul’s grin was so wide I swear I could see his rear molars.

  I concentrated my attention not on my usual terrible luck in gambling—I lose money driving past Atlantic City—but on the woman inhabiting my glider. “I don’t understand,” I told McElone.

  Her face showed no emotion; her voice was not the least bit wavery. She looked at me with her un-sweat-stained face and said, without hesitation, “I’m asking you to help solve my ex-partner’s murder. Will you do that for me?”

  Now, the fact of the matter is that bet or no bet, Paul or no Paul, I owed Anita McElone my life at least once and probably more times than that. She had been there for me at times when I most needed someone. She deserved to get what she wanted from me in her time of great need.

  But what she really needed was a good detective, which I wasn’t. “Are you sure you want me?” I asked her. “Don’t you want a more . . . experienced investigator?”

  McElone looked
at me for a long time, so long that I started to think maybe she was staring into space, thinking of her lost friend. Maybe she was trying to bore a hole in my face with her eyes.

  Then she did the oddest thing I could have imagined: She laughed. Not long, not uproariously—she laughed like she’d been taken by surprise by something so unbearably absurd that there was no other logical response.

  “I’m not asking you to investigate,” McElone said. “Believe me. I’ve seen you investigate. No offense.”

  “None taken,” I said. I am very objective about my (lack of) detecting skills. But Paul looked a little put off. “But then, how can I help solve Detective Ferry’s murder?”

  McElone’s face lost any hint of amusement, not that there had been much to begin with. She broke eye contact and looked off toward the street. She bit her lip, but not like she was trying to fend off tears; it was more like she really didn’t want to have to say what was about to come out of her mouth.

  She was embarrassed, and I’d never seen her embarrassed before.

  “I want you . . . that is, I’m wondering if you would . . . please . . .”

  Paul broke the silence, but only I could tell. “She thinks there might be something you can do with people like me,” he said. “She wants you to get in touch with ghosts.”

  I almost shook my head to deny it, and then remembered my track record today betting against Paul. I turned toward McElone and tried out his theory instead. “You think a . . . ghost can help?” I asked gently.

  McElone closed her eyes quickly, as if I’d said something dreadfully painful. And she nodded, an almost imperceptible gesture, and let out her breath. Make that Paul two, me zero, for the day.

  “But you don’t believe in ghosts,” I reminded her, though she probably didn’t need the help. “You’ve always made fun of me when I say something about them.”

  “She’s afraid of us, and you know that,” Paul admonished me. “She’s lost a friend. Let her up off the mat.”

  McElone turned back to face me, something like the usual fire back in her eyes. “I have seen stuff go down in this house that I can’t explain away,” she said. “I have watched things fly around with nobody holding them up. I have heard you talk to people who weren’t there and get answers to questions that I couldn’t hear. I have seen you get out of situations you had no business surviving. A friend of mine is dead, and I want to find out who did it. I’ll use anything—anything—to accomplish that. If you can get me some good information, I don’t care where you get it from, understand? I’ll find the way to make it admissible in a court of law later. Now,” she said firmly, “Can. You. Help. Me?”

  I didn’t give Paul time to interrupt, because I wanted him to hear me say it without prompting. “Yes,” I said. “I can, and I will.”

  Three

  Contrary to my expectations, Wendy’s mom, Barbara, dropped Melissa off at home just a few minutes later. Turned out Barbara and Cliff, Wendy’s dad, had plans for the evening, so instead of Melissa spending the night at their place, I offered to provide a roof over Wendy’s head so they could cancel their babysitter for the night.

  It was a shame from my point of view, though. As soon as they showed up, the girls headed up to Liss’s room to “hang out” (kids don’t “play” anymore), depriving me of my daughter’s input when Lieutenant McElone told Paul and me (one intentionally) the details of Martin Ferry’s death. She may be only eleven, but I value Melissa’s perspective on the investigations Paul makes me take on; she has a really good sense of people and a way of cutting to the logic of a point that helps.

  Instead, she said hello to McElone, gave Paul and me a look that said she wanted an explanation when it was possible and led Wendy up the stairs to the dumbwaiter/elevator that leads to her room. She loves that thing.

  Turning back to McElone once the girls were gone, I asked (at Paul’s prompting), “Why do you need to investigate the case? Isn’t Detective Ferry’s own department doing everything they can to solve it?”

  McElone, standing now and ignoring the excellent lemonade (I was on my second glass), held up her hands, palms out, to indicate that she didn’t want to misspeak.

  “They did everything they thought they should do,” she answered. “Between the boardwalk fire and how Hurricane Sandy messed up the town, the Seaside Heights department has had more to deal with than they should’ve. But that’s not the issue—it’s that Martin’s death was ruled an accident. From the trajectory of the bullet and the way the room looked, they determined that his weapon accidentally discharged as he was removing it. They said there was no sign there was anyone else in the room with him. There were no signs of forced entry. There were no prints on the weapon except Martin’s. They truly believe it was an accident.”

  “Then why don’t you believe it?” I asked, without Paul’s help that time.

  McElone did not pause to organize her thoughts. “Because I knew Martin, and that is not a possible scenario. He was so careful with his weapon—and I never once saw him draw it—that the idea he’d just idly toss it on the table and let it shoot him is outside the area of plausibility.”

  “Ask if his current partner would agree with her assessment,” Paul suggested. “Perhaps his behavior has changed in the years since he and the lieutenant worked together.”

  I passed the suggestion along, but McElone shook her head. “Martin hasn’t had a partner since I left,” she said. “He wasn’t always the . . . easiest guy to get along with.”

  “No kidding,” I said. My memories of Detective Ferry were that he’d had a somewhat condescending and irritable manner, which I’d attributed to the usual disdain cops feel for private investigators. I gave him the benefit of the doubt that it wasn’t run-of-the-mill misogyny.

  She gave me a warning look. “He was my partner, and he was my friend.”

  “Okay,” I answered. “So what do you want me to do?”

  The ice in my lemonade had melted, so now I had lemon-flavored cool water. But I took a sip anyway while McElone gathered her thoughts. Paul was watching attentively.

  And then Maxie appeared from overhead, like a vulture. Maxie is sometimes a little thoughtless, I think, in the way she flaunts her ability to travel outside my property, particularly in front of Paul, who is frustrated that he can’t. She floated down from above my roof wearing a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt whose legend read, “Seriously?”

  “What’s the lady cop doing here?” she asked with her usual high level of tact. “Somebody get iced?”

  “As a matter of fact, someone did,” Paul told her. “Be quiet for a minute.” He was all attention on McElone.

  “You don’t get to tell me—”

  “I need you to try to get in touch with Martin’s . . . spirit,” McElone said, practically trembling with the weight of her embarrassment. “I want you to ask him what happened, and how I can find the person who did that to him.”

  Involuntarily, I looked at Paul, my conduit to other ghosts. “Ask her,” he said.

  “What are you looking at?” McElone asked me.

  I dodged the question. “How long ago did this happen to Detective Ferry?” I said.

  “It happened Sunday.”

  Paul raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

  “Two days ago,” I said. “That might not be enough time.”

  The lieutenant squinted at me as if I were far away and speaking Finnish. “Enough time for what?”

  “People don’t become conscious ghosts right away,” I explained. “The ghosts that I know—”

  “Please,” she said. “I’m not ready for that yet.”

  Despite her protest, I continued. “In my experience, it can take a few days before a ghost even knows where he or she is, and a while after that to figure out they aren’t alive anymore.” McElone was a cop and a good one, and she needed the facts in order to function
at her best. “So it might be another day or two—or more—before Detective Ferry can be contacted.”

  McElone’s eyes were serious and focused now. She was on a case and getting the information she required. “That’s doable,” she said.

  “Yeah, if it works,” Maxie snorted.

  Paul nodded at me. “She has a point. Tell the lieutenant.”

  “There’s something else you need to be prepared for,” I told her.

  She looked concerned. “He won’t know me if he sees me?” she asked.

  “It’s not that. What you have to prepare for is that not every person who . . . passes away”—I try to be sensitive and avoid using the words die or dead in front of Paul and Maxie—“becomes a ghost.”

  “You mean it might never be possible to contact Martin about this?” McElone said. The disappointment in her voice was thick; she’d clearly enlisted me as a last resort, and now I was telling her even that could fail her.

  “I’m not saying that for certain,” I said. “There’s no rhyme or reason to it. The rules seem to be different for everybody. Paul says the afterlife comes without a handbook.”

  “Who’s Paul?”

  That was a conversation for another day. “Don’t worry about it,” I told the lieutenant. “What I’m saying is that it might be a few days until I can give you a definitive answer, okay? I promise we’ll—I’ll—do everything I can.”

  McElone stood up straight. “Thank you for doing this,” she said.

  “Not at all. I know it wasn’t easy for you to ask.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You have no idea,” she said, then simply nodded, as if dismissing an inferior officer, squared her shoulders and walked to her personal car (she’d never drive the department-issue vehicle on what she considered to be personal business), got in and drove off.

  So she probably didn’t see me turn toward Paul and ask, “What did we just sign up for?”

  “From your standpoint, I would think it’s a dream case,” he answered. “All you have to do is tell the lieutenant what I tell you. You should be thrilled.”