Bones Behind the Wheel Read online

  “It looked a lot like a skeleton,” he said.

  Chapter 2

  Usually when I call the Harbor Haven Police Department I talk to Detective Lieutenant Anita McElone (just go with a rhyme for macaroni), but apparently vintage car with a human skeleton in it was only enough to merit uniformed officers. So I stood on what was once the beach behind my house with Katrina, Bill Harrelson, Bill’s excavator operator Jim … something … and Officer Mark Canton, who was holding a tablet computer and taking pictures of the Continental with the extremely dead person in it.

  “It looks like this has been here a while,” Officer Canton said, looking into the abyss and assessing the discovery Jim had made while he was searching for loose change in the sand.

  I had not ventured a close look into the unknown because I liked it remaining unknown to me. The cops could figure out what they wanted and move on. But Paul, who had materialized with the first flashing red and blue light (there was clearly no need for sirens), had actually taken a dive into the hole to do his own reconnaissance. He’d come back looking thoughtful, which is Paul’s go-to expression under any circumstances.

  “I’d have to concur with the officer,” he said despite there being no one there who could hear him except me. He held his hand to his chin. This wasn’t a full goatee-stroker of a problem yet but he was covering his options. “Parts of the car are rusted through and although the windows were closed the person who was inside has clearly been deceased for a number of years at least.”

  I nodded just a little so he would stop before going into a detailed description of the body’s decomposition. I hadn’t had lunch yet and wanted to keep that open as a possibility after this was finished. I looked at Officer Canton while Katrina kept up her intense study of Bill Harrelson, who didn’t seem to notice.

  “So can the crew take it away now and start filling in my backyard?” I asked. “Does anybody need to come and study the scene any more than this?” My priority was on getting the guesthouse back to what passes for normal if you don’t look too closely.

  “Let me get this video back to the lieutenant and she’ll let me know,” Canton answered. That told me a couple of things. First: I wasn’t getting my backyard restored anytime soon. Second: McElone was still afraid to come to my house unless she absolutely had to. She has a problem with what she calls “the ghosty stuff.” “I need to look up and see if there’s any record of a car being buried here legally sometime in the past. And we need to get the registration number on the car to trace it. There are no license plates, at least not on the back, so that might mean they buried the guy in it after he died.”

  “You think somebody killed him?” Jim … somebody … asked Canton.

  The officer made a face that indicated he thought that unlikely. “Some guys just want to be buried in their cars,” he answered. “But until I find out more my job is to get the facts to the detective if there’s going to be one working on this.”

  “Does this area have any history with organized crime?” Paul asked. This was New Jersey, so it was a silly question, but Paul is from Canada and was born in London, so we allow him some lack of knowledge on the history of our home state. “It is possible the victim was murdered and then buried here to cover up the crime.”

  “It seems unlikely someone would be able to bury a whole car in the sand without really big excavating equipment like this.” I pointed at the machine Jim had been using. “Not the kind of thing a killer would be able to do real quietly. But what I really want to know is when can I get my beach back?”

  Bill tilted his head to the right a bit. “That depends on when I can get my crew back to work. We’re still scheduled for another two days, Alison.”

  Of course. Body or no body, Bill and his men would continue to be moving sand around back here. The only thing the police might do at this point was prolong the process, which I could certainly live without. I turned my attention again toward Canton.

  He held his hands up. “It’s not up to me,” he protested. “I’m waiting to hear from the lieutenant.”

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket and hit the button for McElone. That’s right, I have the chief of detectives in my town on speed dial. It’s not as big an advantage as you might think.

  She no doubt saw my number on her Caller ID and ignored the call. That’s what I mean about the whole “advantage” thing. McElone sees me—and I can understand it—as something of a nuisance, an innkeeper who occasionally gets involved in investigations and isn’t exactly Sherlock Holmes. Guilty on all counts, but I wanted the Deathmobile and its occupant off my land as quickly as possible.

  McElone had left me with no choice. I played my ace and called my friend Phyllis Coates.

  Phyllis owns, runs and occasionally cleans the offices of the Harbor Haven Chronicle, the only newspaper to exclusively cover my hometown, although the “paper” part becomes more academic every year as Phyllis moved her news online in keeping with the fickle attitudes of consumers. At least she didn’t link local stories to things like Which Kardashian Are You? These days that is a serious news organization.

  Phyllis, unlike the lieutenant, saw my name and picked up on the second ring. “This about the cops in your backyard?” That’s Phyllis for “hello.” She is constantly monitoring her police scanner. Twenty years working for the New York Daily News had taught her not to worry about the niceties and never to take anything for granted. She hasn’t written about my ghosts only because she can’t verify their existence to her own satisfaction.

  “Yeah. They found a car with a body in it buried under my beach,” I told her. “And for some reason Lieutenant McElone doesn’t want to take my call.”

  “She’ll take mine,” Phyllis said, and hung up.

  I put the phone back in my pocket, satisfied that Phyllis was on the case. I looked over at Katrina and Bill Harrelson, who were now bonding although Bill didn’t know it. He thought he was answering Canton’s questions. Katrina’s eyes indicated she thought otherwise. Who was I to argue? If that made her vacation more enjoyable, it was part of my service. I decided.

  “We usually don’t go down that deep but once they saw there was something that big there they kept digging,” Bill was telling Canton. He looked to Jim for help. “Isn’t that right?”

  The excavator operator nodded. “We thought it was something little, like a buried treasure or something, but it turned out to be a bumper,” he said.

  Canton’s eyebrows danced around on his forehead a bit. “A buried treasure?”

  “It’s been a long project,” Bill told him.

  I stepped forward because I didn’t care that much about the car other than to get it to go away. “What did you hear from the lieutenant?” I asked Canton. “Can I have my yard back yet?”

  “Lieutenant McElone said I should question the witnesses and get back to her,” he reported. “I’m questioning the witnesses.”

  I figured that included Bill and Jim, and Katrina because she wanted to be included, but not me. I hadn’t seen anything happen and didn’t know what I could add to the discussion. So I headed toward the French doors leading into my den. I had innkeeper stuff to do. Paul, however, was fascinated with the investigation—as he would be by any investigation of anything in history—and told me he’d be inside shortly. We’d already had the morning spook show so I wasn’t that concerned with Paul’s punctuality. He’s a free spirit. Literally.

  But Canton called to me before I could make it past the carcass of the car with the skeleton of a person in it. “Hang on, miss!” he called. I stopped because I haven’t been called “miss” in a while and found it refreshing. I turned to look at him. “Officer?”

  “I’ll be needing to question you in a minute,” he said.

  “Well I didn’t see anything,” I told him.

  “Even so. The lieutenant was real clear about that.” McElone was getting at me long-distance.

  I groaned but not loudly enough for Canton to hear. “Okay, tell you
what, officer. I need to get some stuff done in here for my guests. When you’re ready for me you come on in and I’ll be happy to tell you the little I know. Okay?”

  Canton didn’t look happy about it. “The lieutenant said I’d be better off if I didn’t go inside,” he said.

  “Really. Did she say why?”

  “She wasn’t real clear about that, no.” Canton was a nice young man but he looked like he’d graduated high school in the past half hour and didn’t want to make his superior officer angry with him.

  “Tell Lieutenant McElone I gave you special permission to come inside,” I told the kid. “I’ll take responsibility for your safety, okay?” Without giving Canton a chance to reply I opened the French doors and walked into my den.

  The usual state of barely controlled chaos was in full swing when I got there. Melissa was at school and my husband Josh was at his store, Madison Paints in Asbury Park. But that didn’t mean the place couldn’t be bustling with people. It’s what a guesthouse is all about.

  Maxie was just now descending from the ceiling, having “recovered” from her arduous tasks at the morning spook show. Maxie puts on a bigger show about how hard she’s working than the actual show she’s putting on. That’s Maxie. Now she was floating aimlessly about four feet off the den floor wearing her usual sprayed-on jeans and another in a series of black t-shirts. This one bore the legend, I Know I Am. Which didn’t even make any sense.

  “What’s going on outside?” she wanted to know. Maxie spends a lot of time on the roof of the house looking out on the beach in one direction and the town of Harbor Haven in the other. Wherever she can cause more consternation to the living, mostly me, is where she’ll concentrate her attention. She must have seen the brouhaha going on behind the house.

  “The construction guys found a car buried in the sand,” I told her. “They think there’s a skeleton in it.”

  Maxie looked interested. “Anybody I know?” she asked.

  “They haven’t figured that out yet. Where’s Everett?” Maxie’s husband, who married her at the same time I was marrying Josh except that the person officiating at the ceremony wasn’t talking to either of them, had been a mentally ill homeless man when I’d met him at the end of his life, but had reverted to the more stable, fit, military version of himself when he’d made the transition. Sometimes that happens. Dying had done wonders for Everett.

  “He’s at the gas station, patrolling.” Everett died in the restroom at the local service station and still feels an obligation to protect the area, so he goes there to stand guard some days. Other times he just likes to guard Maxie, but he’s also very serious about keeping the guesthouse and its residents safe, which I appreciate. “Said he’d be back but not before the next show.”

  “That’s okay. You and Paul can handle it alone.” I straightened some pillows on the large sofa and started in fluffing up the easy chairs and the loveseat. Appearance means a lot in the inn biz. This was the common area where many of the activities I plan for the guests take place when I have more than three of them in the house at a time. During weeks like this I could concentrate on the library, which was smaller but cozier.

  “Yeah.” Maxie was being quiet, which was disquieting. She’s usually so in-my-face that I have dreams where Maxie is hovering over my bed. I think they’re dreams, anyway. “I’m thinking maybe I’ll be taking … a break from the shows for a while.”

  That caught me off guard and it wasn’t because I was so delighted. I turned to look at her. “What do you mean, a break?”

  “Well …” Maxie was twirling her hair on her right index finger. Coy Maxie was a bad sign; if she didn’t want to come right out and say what she meant it was going to be a problem. For me. “I’ve been thinking about our deal.”

  Deal? What deal? “I don’t understand,” I told her. Best to make it look like I wasn’t on edge. I straightened a picture that didn’t need it. Yeah, that would definitely project the right image.

  “You know, about how you go and detect stuff for Paul and so he and I do these shows to draw people to your hotel.” Maxie liked to say the guesthouse was a hotel because she knew it irritated me. “I’ve been thinking about that.”

  “Yeah? What have you been thinking?” No sense in delaying the inevitable.

  “What’s in it for me?”

  It took a good deal of effort to refrain from rolling my eyes. We’d been through this a number of times before. “Look, you know what I’m going to say. Paul’s the one who negotiated with you on this. I have no idea what kind of bargain the two of your struck, but you didn’t seem to have any objections at the time and I don’t see how anything has changed. If you want to complain, go complain to Paul.”

  “I did. He told me to talk to you.”

  So Paul was ducking responsibility and leaving me with a disgruntled Maxie. Not that I’d ever seen Maxie completely gruntled other than when she was marrying Everett. “I don’t get why this is coming up now,” I said. Yeah, it was a deflection but it gave me time to think.

  “Paul gets to be a detective because that’s what he wanted. You get to run this place because that’s what you wanted.” Maxie began doing slow laps around the ceiling. The faster her pace picked up, the more agitated she’d become. Or the other way around. “So how come I don’t get what I want?”

  I knew I’d regret saying it but I just couldn’t stop myself in time. “What do you want?” I asked Maxie.

  “You know.” Her pace picked up a couple of miles an hour.

  “I really don’t. What do you want?”

  I heard the front door open, which was slightly odd. I knew Adam and Steve were out exploring the mostly deserted boardwalk and were going to have lunch in town. I don’t serve food at the guesthouse. Melissa was at school. Katrina was in the backyard, or what was left of it. My mother was coming for dinner, but that wasn’t for six hours. Nobody else who came through here used a door. I looked toward the front room but the door didn’t open immediately.

  I was about to ask Maxie to go see who had come in—nobody could do anything to her—when two things happened: My husband Josh walked through the door to the den and Maxie said, “I want to be a designer again.”

  One of those was a good thing and I kissed him when he reached me. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Oh no,” Maxie said. “You don’t get to duck out because he came home.” She was getting faster up by the crown molding.

  “I decided to take lunch and come see my wife,” Josh answered, holding me a moment longer. “What’s with all the flashing lights and stuff back on the beach?” He craned his neck to look past me through the French doors.

  “You have to answer me,” Maxie intoned. She sounded ominous and was beginning to be a little blurry with speed.

  “The construction guys found a car with a dead person in it,” I said to Josh. “Excuse me.” I looked up toward Maxie, as much as I could make her out. “So you want to design something. Who’s stopping you?”

  Josh looked at me and mouthed, “Maxie?” I nodded.

  Maxie had been a budding interior designer when she was poisoned at the age of twenty-eight. She hadn’t ever said anything before about wanting to take up her old career although she was generous in her distaste at the way I had decorated the guesthouse.

  She slowed down considerably to look down at me. “You serious?” she asked.

  “A dead body!” Josh was already heading for the French doors.

  “Who’s watching the store?” I asked him as he crossed the room.

  “Sy. Don’t worry. I can leave him for an hour and a half.” Josh’s grandfather Sy was the original owner of Madison Paint and still came in to work most days. He was in his nineties and said coming to the store to talk with the painters and contractors kept him alive. I wasn’t going to argue with him.

  I had no desire to get into a row with Maxie, either. “Sure I’m serious. Since when has anybody told you that you can’t design stuff if you feel
like it?”

  “Well, I can’t get any clients. Paul finds ghosts who want stuff detected but I can’t just redo a house that someone’s haunting.” She stopped circling completely and contemplated the sentence she’d just said. “Can I?”

  “No. You can’t,” I told her. The last thing I needed, in a town where I was already considered the crazy ghost lady and had a sign on my business that read, Haunted Guesthouse, was for people to hear spirits were renovating houses in the area. They’d be at my front door with pitchforks and torches. “But you can just design stuff for fun, can’t you?”

  “Fun.” Maxie looked annoyed. “Fun.”

  I didn’t think I wanted to know what that meant so I didn’t ask. Besides, my phone buzzed and Phyllis was on the other end.

  “You’re going to have a car in your backyard for a while,” she said. That, too, is Phyllis for “hello.”

  “You spoke to McElone,” I said. I’m really perceptive.

  “Yeah, and she says if there’s a dead body in the car they’re going to keep it there until they can be sure it wasn’t just put there an hour and a half ago.”

  “It’s a skeleton,” I reminded her. “Besides, I would have seen someone digging enough sand to bury a car. I do live here.”

  “I don’t make the news,” she told me. “I just report it. Now, what can you tell me about this car?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t get close enough to look. They tell me it’s a Lincoln Continental, probably from the Seventies.”

  “That’s a big vehicle,” Phyllis said.

  “Yeah. My luck this bunch of bones couldn’t get buried in a Smart Car. They could have pulled it out with a pair of tweezers.”

  Phyllis waited. “That’s it?” she asked.

  “Yes. Oddly I didn’t get the make and model of the tires. What do you want from me, Phyllis?”

  “You’re my reporter on the scene. I expect more.”

  I sighed audibly because that’s the only way you get the point across. “I’m not a reporter, Phyllis. I’m an innkeeper and very occasionally sort of a private investigator. And I’m not investigating this thing for two very good reasons. First, I don’t have a client who wants it investigated.”