Ghost in the Wind Read online

  Maureen? “But she was all the way at the back of the room,” I said. “You were in the front.”

  “I walked around when the lights came up,” Berthe said. “I sort of wanted to see, but then I got a little nervous and decided I shouldn’t get a look. So I went to Maureen and asked her.”

  “Look here,” Maxie said, indicating the computer screen, which was close enough to Berthe’s head that I could pretend to be looking at her. “We figured out what kind of knife it was.”

  “It’s not a kitchen knife,” Paul said. “This knife is something less precise. Its blade is very sharp but fixed and probably had a three- to five-inch blade.”

  “So Maureen knew what had happened?” I asked Berthe.

  “Yes. She didn’t seem especially upset about it, but she’s short, so she said she had just barely seen him.”

  “It’s a box cutter, not a knife,” Maxie said. “Paul’s telling you all the details you don’t need, but the point is that it’s a box cutter.”

  “It’s not a box cutter.” Paul shook his head. “It’s a utility knife, but an outdoor one, not the kind of disposable or movable blade commonly called a box cutter.”

  “Where in town would someone buy that?” Paul asked.

  “There’s a place,” Maxie told him. Maxie spends a decent amount of time on the main drag in Harbor Haven and knows all the stores. “It’s called Cut It Out. Specializes in all kinds of knives, and I bet you they have some box . . . utility blades.”

  “Well, the waves are waiting and this is my last day here,” Berthe told me.

  “Yes! Don’t let me hold you up. You have a fun day, Berthe.”

  “Alison, you should go there and talk to the owner today. See if he or she recalls anyone buying a fixed utility knife, just one, in the days just before the murder.” Paul seemed positively giddy.

  “Can I go back to bed now?” Maxie moaned, and before there could be an answer, she flew up into the ceiling again. I assumed the whole “go back to bed” thing was metaphorical.

  “This is getting close,” Paul said. “I would guess we’ll have an answer within a day.” Pleased with himself, he sank through the floor.

  Berthe stopped at the glass doors leading to the deck and the beach. “It’s a fine morning,” she said. “I’m glad we had this time to talk alone.” She waved and walked outside.

  “Yeah,” I said now that no one else could hear. “We should do this more often.”

  Twenty-five

  “I didn’t want to be a bother,” Maureen Beckman said.

  With the rest of the guests out enjoying their last day at the guesthouse, Maureen had opted to stay indoors, saying the trip had been a little tasking on her knees and she felt that rest was the way to go. It was the perfect time to interrogate—sorry, chat with—her about the events of Sunday night. She’d had the best vantage point, theoretically, of anyone in the room when Bill Mastrovy had met his end.

  I’d had no luck in finding Jeremy. I’d called Ace and found he was not in his office again today. His cell phone went straight to voice mail. For all I knew he’d hopped a plane to Venezuela or he was in the next room. Either was equally possible. So I was talking to Maureen.

  We were sitting in the library, where Maureen had taken up residence with her e-reader. I was nosy enough to try to get a look at the title she was reading, but she was cagey. At the angle she was holding the reader, even if the book were How To Kill a Guy Using a Utility Knife I wouldn’t have been able to see it.

  “A bother?” I asked.

  She seemed to be embarrassed, staring at the tennis balls on the feet of her walker (which did no discernible good on the rug in the library). “With my knee I don’t get around as well as I want to, and the walker makes noise. I didn’t want anyone to be distracted while the movie was on, so I came in through the rear entrance to the room and I sat all the way in the back. I stayed there the whole time. The walker makes noise.” She said the word walker like it tasted bad.

  “You didn’t have to worry about that,” I said, trying to be the gracious innkeeper as well as the probing private eye. Paul, who was watching from the science fiction section, looked disapprovingly at me. He wanted me to be all business, and the business he wanted me to be all was not entertaining guests in my house. “No one would have been disturbed. You should have sat wherever you wanted.”

  Maureen sniffed. “I didn’t mind. The screen was big enough and I’ve seen that movie before, anyway. Tell the truth, I didn’t see what the big deal was.”

  “I know what you mean. Now, something like Lawrence of Arabia . . .”

  “Oh, that would have been awful,” Maureen said. “I mean, it’s so long, and those seats in the back were uncomfortable.”

  Well, if you’d sat up front in the cushy chairs . . . I decided to regain my focus, especially since Paul was practically throwing his hands up to the heavens and lamenting his awful luck at being stuck with such an inept partner. “But you must have seen some movement from back there,” I suggested. “When that poor man was killed.” I’d decided I had to keep calling Mastrovy “that poor man.” I wasn’t sure about his financial status, but showing some semblance of sympathy made me seem like a concerned and empathetic person. Calling him “the stiff in the hallway” would not have elicited as much in terms of response.

  “I saw something,” she said. She was speaking slowly, staring past my left shoulder. Paul hovered in a little closer to watch her face. “I didn’t know what it was at the time, but I did see some flash of light or something in that direction.” Then the spell seemed to break and she looked directly into my eyes. “But I told this to the policewoman who was here asking about it. She knows.”

  “Tell her you’re aware Lieutenant McElone knows about it but she didn’t share the information with you,” Paul said. “Tell her you’re concerned because it happened in your house.”

  So I did. “Well, I can see how that would worry you,” Maureen answered. “I’m sure you’re expected to supply some security to your guests.”

  I shot Paul an acid look, which wouldn’t have been able to do any damage even if it had contained real acid. “It’s more that I’m always trying to provide a relaxing vacation,” I said, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. “After all, the man who died was not one of my guests.”

  “The poor man,” Maureen said.

  “Yes. The poor man.”

  This was getting me just a few feet short of nowhere. “What did you see?” I said, trying desperately to move the conversation back to something useful. “You said you saw a flash. What did it look like?”

  Maureen looked at me like I’d asked her if she could please jump over the Empire State Building and bring back a cheese danish. “It looked like movement.”

  “Yes, but what kind of movement? A man? A woman?” I might have pushed that last word a bit too hard. “Did you see Mr. Mastrovy come into the hallway?”

  She no longer appeared to be interested in the conversation; her mouth sort of puckered and she let out a long breath. “I don’t know if it was a man or a woman,” she said with an edge. “It happened too fast. And I didn’t see the man at all, but I heard him.”

  “You heard him?”

  There was no longer any pretense to Maureen’s expression: She clearly thought I was an idiot. “Yes. I heard him walk in from behind me and then there was a thump in the hallway, which is, I guess, when he fell down. He grunted, sort of. The policewoman knows this. And you know what happened after that, I’m sure.” Her hands fluttered a bit, the last vestige of ingénue behavior left in her.

  It seemed the right time to end the interview. I reached into my tote bag and pulled out my phone, asking if I might take a picture of Maureen (as I had with Berthe previously) to add to my “Guest Hall of Fame,” an institution I’d instituted that very morning. Maureen looked less than thrilled but all
owed the photograph to be taken. If we found a clearer picture of Claudia, we could compare it with these. But so far Maxie had not had any luck.

  Maureen picked up her e-reader with great ceremony and without a word—but with a stern look—got back to her book. I couldn’t argue with that.

  I gave Paul a head shake that indicated we should leave Maureen to her reading and went back into the movie room, where I inspected Maggie’s work. It was impeccable. You’d never have known that a man had bled to death on this floor less than forty-eight hours earlier.

  It took Paul about a minute to follow me, which was a little odd. “I wanted to see if Maureen would act differently once you were out of the room,” he said. “She just sat there and read.”

  “So that would be a no, then.”

  “You still need to talk to Tessa Boynton,” Paul reminded me.

  “She’s out.”

  “She’s in,” he said. “I just saw her in the den.”

  Fine. I found Tessa at the coffee urn, yawning. “It’s already been a long morning,” she said. “Jesse and I were out early shopping. You always leave souvenirs until the last day, don’t you?”

  “It’s been my experience that most people do, yes,” I told her. “I’m glad this was still an enjoyable vacation for you.”

  “Oh yes,” she said, not looking up from the creamer she stirred into her cup. “But I’m giving Jesse the old heave-ho once we get home.” Then she looked up at me. “The boy has the brain of a fruit bat.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” I lied. “I hope this wasn’t a result of what happened at the screening Sunday night.” I had to create an opening. Paul was watching now but not saying anything just yet.

  “What happened Sunday night?” Tessa asked. “You mean the man who got killed? What would that have to do with me and Jesse?”

  I shrugged. “Sometimes people make decisions when they’re upset about something unrelated.” When The Swine had moved out to California, I’d bought a cappuccino machine despite the fact that I was living in a two-bedroom apartment and didn’t drink cappuccino. It’s sort of the same thing.

  “Well, no,” Tessa said, smiling at the suggestion. “It wasn’t related to that.”

  “You and Jesse were sitting together that night,” I said. It sort of sounded relevant at the time. “All the way at the front, weren’t you?”

  “Yes. Jesse said he didn’t want anyone sitting in front of him to block his view of Demi Moore. Seriously. I’m asking you.”

  “So you didn’t see anything,” I said. Paul frowned. He doesn’t like it when I give the suspect the chance to get out of a question.

  “We saw everything.” Tessa sounded surprised.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. “You did?”

  “Yes! Every pore on that woman’s face. We were in the front row and that’s a very big TV.”

  So much for my neck hairs; they sat down and pouted. “You didn’t see anything related to the murder?”

  “No,” Tessa said. “By the time I turned around Jesse was back in his seat.”

  Wait. Whoa. “Jesse had gotten up?”

  Tessa nodded. “Yes. He went and got a bottle of water from the cooler near the back.” Then, as if she hadn’t just said something significant, she took a sip from her coffee cup and walked out of the den.

  I looked at Paul. “Do we add Jesse to the suspect list?” I asked.

  “I wasn’t aware he was off the suspect list,” Paul said. “Just because there’s circumstantial evidence that Claudia Rabinowitz has been here, there’s no reason to think she killed Mastrovy herself, or that she was involved at all.”

  “Are we actually progressing?”

  “I suppose. This case is going in a number of directions at once. We need to confirm some information with Lieutenant McElone.”

  I had given up my reluctance to talk to the lieutenant and nodded. “Let’s make a list,” I said.

  * * *

  “A list?” Lieutenant Anita McElone looked at the piece of paper in my hand. “Am I the supermarket?”

  “No, you’re a police detective lieutenant and I’m an innkeeper who moonlights as a private investigator,” I said. “Your memory is even worse than mine. You should probably make lists to help you remember.”

  “Put this on your list: I don’t have to tell you everything about the Mastrovy murder. I’m not required to tell you anything at all.”

  It was so nice we were back to a comfortable routine. “I’m aware, Lieutenant. But if you want to know what I’ve found out, you might want to negotiate a trade.”

  She sat down behind her desk, having ushered me to the chair I was starting to think of as mine. “You’ve found something out?”

  “I don’t know what it means yet, but yes. I have information. So let’s share.”

  I sat there and looked at her. She, in turn, sat there and looked at me.

  “You start,” she said. “I’ve played this game before and what you have is never as good as what I have, so you start this time. Then I can decide what I want to tell you.”

  “That hardly seems fair.” More sitting and looking. “Okay. For one thing, green fibers were found under the body.”

  “Your cleaning lady told me about that. The fibers are being analyzed. I’m guessing if you’d recalled someone wearing a horrifying green sweater you’d have already mentioned it. Give me something new.” She was enjoying this. That didn’t seem right.

  “Come on. How about telling me about the angle of the knife wound? How did the killer approach the body?” I tried not to glance at the list but this was a new tactic and I had not practiced. Enough.

  McElone’s eyebrows arched as she considered. “Okay. That was kind of interesting. The stab wound was from the side and seemed to have been delivered on the run. It was just good luck that it landed so perfectly and killed him so fast. You were in the next room. What does that tell you?”

  “Not that much. It lets out a couple of the guests who definitely couldn’t have been running, like Maureen Beckman. See? I told you something valuable.”

  “You’re a citizen. I’m a police officer. That’s what you’re supposed to do.”

  She was good at this.

  “Lieutenant,” I said. “Here’s what I know: Vanessa McTiernan’s death and Bill Mastrovy’s murder are clearly connected. From what I hear, Vanessa’s music was worth a decent amount of money but there was a dispute as to who owned it. Mastrovy might have been one of the people with a claim. So I’m thinking we need to find out who is now the owner of that music and if there was some obstacle—in the form of say Mastrovy—in the way. I think it’s important we find Claudia Rabinowitz.” It was a plan.

  But apparently McElone did not think it was a great one. This time she did lean back in her chair, but not in a smug way. She closed her eyes wearily. “If I tell you something new, will you go away?” she asked.

  I know an opening when I hear one. “Absolutely.”

  “And there are no ghosts in the vicinity?”

  I looked around and saw one ghost in a police uniform from about the 1970s, judging from the sideburns. I knew she didn’t mean him. “No,” I said.

  She didn’t open her eyes. “Good. I’m going to say something and then I’ll count to six and open my eyes. When I open them, that chair should be empty. Okay?”

  I said nothing, not wanting to jeopardize the deal. My list had long since been discarded, since it was clear McElone was going to tell me just what she wanted to and nothing I was asking about specifically.

  “I did some digging after I got the report from the Davenport, Iowa, police. It seems Claudia Baxter Rabinowitz took on the name Judith Holbrook and moved to Iowa because she was involved in some tax fraud that involved the construction business where her son works.”

  That was a lot to take in but th
e solution seemed simple. “So get Iowa to send her here and question her,” I said, knowing McElone would have thought of that already.

  “I can’t. She died of pneumonia six months ago.”

  “That isn’t possible,” I protested. “She was going to meet her daughter Vanessa the day she died. Four months ago.”

  “The Iowa State Police confirmed it. She died in Davenport in March. That’s all I know.”

  “How is that supposed to help?” I protested.

  McElone did not open her eyes. “One. Two. Three . . .”

  I was out of the chair and gone by “five.”

  Twenty-six

  “Dead!” Vance McTiernan looked absolutely astonished. “Claud is dead?”

  “It’s confirmed,” I told him. “She’s definitely dead. And before you ask, she died of natural causes, for certain.”

  “I can’t believe it.” Vance was less substantial than usual, more transparent. I’ve seen that happen when ghosts are especially taken aback. “I was sure I sensed her presence here in Harbor Haven.”

  “That eliminates one suspect,” Paul said. “Our next step is to find Jeremy. I need Maxie.” He looked up at the ceiling; it’s possible he was doing some Ghosternet Local type of thing to summon her, but he didn’t seem to get any results.

  “I’m getting ready to have Josh’s friends over for dinner,” I told Paul.

  When my phone rang earlier and the Caller ID showed Josh’s name, I wasn’t expecting him to say that he’d essentially invited A.J. and Liz to my house for dinner that night. And yet, that’s what I heard.

  “I figured it would be a good way for them to see you and you to see them without all the hoopla of the other evening,” he said when I expressed (perhaps inadvertently) some trepidation about the timing. “I want them to see that someone doesn’t get killed in your house every night.” It was hard to argue with that.

  “We can only hope,” I said. It was fair—I had said I’d invite his friends to dinner, and after Sunday night’s disaster, he wanted to clear the air as soon as possible. I asked Mom and Liss if they would cook so Liz wouldn’t judge me for feeding my daughter takeout, but rather for forcing her to cook my dinner.