A Wild Ghost Chase Read online

  This was, at least on its surface, a hopeless case. Antinanco’s mother had died more than two hundred years earlier, and could have done so anywhere from upstate New York—practically near Toronto, where I was brought up—to Maryland. As far as I knew, she had no idea that her son was patrolling the area where he had died of smallpox. Even if she had searched for him, she’d probably given up the effort a century ago, much as Antinanco had stopped hoping he would find his mother until Melissa had helpfully offered our services.

  I’ve discovered that each of us who remain on this level of existence after death has some ability, some talent that helps us manage our indefinite time here. Sometimes these abilities seem to evolve; for example, Maxie could now leave 123 Seafront and its surrounding property, although I could not. She was also still better at manipulating physical objects, although I am improving my skills steadily and can handle pretty much anything I concentrate on touching now.

  But one thing Maxie has never been able to do that I can, is to communicate with the network of spirits like ourselves without speaking or leaving the house. I am gifted with the power of what the living would call “mental telepathy,” although it’s not like an ability to read minds or to predict the future. It is, when I concentrate properly and let myself reach a state of simplicity, a way to send and receive messages from specific spirits or groups of spirits. I can “think” my way into the attention of those like myself. It’s an inexact science, more an art, and Alison, who does not understand it perfectly, refers to it as “the Ghosternet,” which she believes is amusing. Humor is subjective.

  If there was a chance I could contact Antinanco’s mother, Jaci, I felt I owed it to the boy to try.

  The process is not dissimilar to meditation—I had made some attempts at the practice in my prior existence, which might have some bearing on my ability to find the proper mental state now—in that it requires an almost passive state. I clear my head of all conscious thought, stop considering current tasks to perform or brooding over the sad state of affairs that led me to this almost-alive-but-not-quite existence. I give up any anger, anxiety, concern, or fear I am feeling at the moment and focus my attention. In this instance, I focused on one word: “Jaci.”

  I don’t really know how long the process takes; I am not wholly conscious of my effort as I make it. What is necessary is for me to be sure I am thinking solely of the one being I’m trying to contact, or, when attempting to communicate with the ghost community as a whole, on the message I’m trying to convey.

  In this case, I thought of Jaci and Antinanco. I had no mental image of the woman, so I concentrated on the boy, whose face I had seen clearly.

  The process has an odd effect: it is relaxing. All that concentration would seem exhausting to a living person, but I find that time passes quickly when I am in this state of communication, so when I next was aware of time, the sun had risen and light was pouring through the basement windows. I don’t own a wristwatch, but the angle of the light at this time of the year indicated to me that it was full morning, but not yet time for the ten o’clock “spook show.” The creaking of floorboards above me indicated activity upstairs. If the guests were awake, it was a good bet Alison would be as well.

  I rose up through the basement ceiling, having been unsuccessful in receiving any message from Jaci. It was possible my effort had not achieved a “signal strength” sufficient to reach her in a faraway area, or it was possible that she had received the thought and ignored it or misunderstood it.

  What I didn’t want to consider was another possibility: Not all those who die return to the world the way Maxie, Antinanco and I had done. If Jaci had skipped this level of existence, or had already moved on to the next, there was no way I knew of to reach her, and that would mean I’d have to admit defeat to the young native boy.

  Uncomfortable as the thought made me, I found myself placing a good deal of my hope in the possibility that Maxie had uncovered something helpful in her research.

  I floated upstairs, passing by the entrance to the library, a medium-sized room with no door that held books for the guests to read while staying here. I don’t even know what made me turn my head, but I did, and there in the center of the library stood a woman.

  She was decidedly not one of the guests. She stood tall, shoulders back, hair braided on both sides. And she was dressed as a native would have been in Antinanco’s time.

  Also, she was transparent, one of the people like me. She was a ghost.

  “Jaci?” I asked quietly. Perhaps my message had been received after all, and this case would be solved with a minimum of difficulty.

  But I noticed the woman’s hair was very dark, almost black, and certainly not red, as Antinanco had suggested. She didn’t answer, but stared at me. Perhaps this was someone who knew Jaci, and could tell me of her fate. Even if we couldn’t reunite the boy with his mother, he might rest easier if he knew she had moved on to the next level, or had been content at the time of her passing.

  “Do you know Jaci?” I asked.

  The woman stared for another long moment, then began to speak to me in a language I had to assume was that of the Lenni-Lenape, which Maxie had identified as Unami. She gesticulated stiffly, moving her hands as if holding something and then turning them over, and seemed to think I would understand the significance of the movement.

  Then she vanished.

  I stayed there for a while, trying to digest what had just happened. Clearly, I had contacted someone with my efforts, but it had likely not been Antinanco’s mother. But if it were someone from his era, why would she not have learned English like the boy had? Were there some tiers of this afterlife that I did not yet understand, where people who had died in one culture were left to it? Why wouldn’t Antinanco have been included? It made no sense.

  Finally, I decided to make my way into the kitchen. I don’t like to enter areas where the guests might unexpectedly congregate. It’s not that they would see me, but I like to be prepared when there is someone nearby.

  Since being murdered, I have gotten a little skittish. Perhaps that’s understandable.

  Alison was starting the coffeemaker when I first saw her. She makes coffee and tea in the morning for the guests, but does not serve breakfast or any other meal in the guesthouse. She likes to encourage them to patronize local restaurants. I believe there might be other motives at work, but I haven’t pressed the point. I figure there’s time to find out.

  If there’s one thing you know for sure when you’re a ghost, it’s that there will be time for everything.

  “There you are,” she said when she saw me. “I was getting worried. Thought I might have to play loud music or something to wake you up.”

  “You know I don’t sleep,” I reminded her. “Is Melissa at school already?”

  Alison shook her head. “It’s only seven fifteen, Paul. It’s not late; it’s just that I usually see you first thing when I come downstairs. What have you been up to?”

  This was awkward. Perhaps it was time to mention Antinanco’s presence and the case to Alison.

  “There’s a case I’ve been trying to . . .”

  That was as far as I got. “Oh no, Paul. If it’s an investigation, I don’t want to hear about it.” Alison sounded very firm. “I can’t help you now. I’m barely keeping my head above water, and I told you when we started that the guesthouse would come first. Right now, it has to, okay?”

  “You should have let me finish,” I covered. “I was just saying that there’s an experiment that I’m working on. I’ve been trying to communicate with some people like me.” That was technically truthful. And it gave me an idea—perhaps trying to find any Lenni-Lenape spirit might lead me to Jaci or the woman who had just appeared. I would have to attempt that later.

  “Just for fun?” Alison asked.

  “Fun,” I repeated noncommittally. “Ha
ve you seen Maxie?”

  Alison gave me an incredulous look. “This early in the morning?” she asked. “Maybe you guys don’t sleep, but Maxie isn’t willing to talk to anyone before nine. You know that. I wish I could give her some coffee.” She finished filling the coffeemaker with water, and hit the switch that would grind the beans she’d loaded into it. The resulting sound would preclude any conversation for a short time, so I nodded, and rose up into the ceiling to search for Maxie, whom I had decided was my best hope.

  I found her in the attic, where Melissa was brushing out her hair for the school day. “I’m running late,” Melissa said. “We’ll have to keep this quick.” Melissa is a very mature ten-year-old, and sometimes seems to believe she is the chief executive officer of Harrison Investigations. She does have a certain talent for logical thinking that comes in handy on occasion. “Maxie was telling me what she found out overnight.”

  I turned to Maxie, who was in her morning mode, acting like a sluggish college junior who couldn’t believe she’d had to sign up for a first-period class. She was lying on her back, in plaid pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt that read, “Whatever,” and floating very slowly around the large attic room in a circle. Her voice was gravelly, an affectation she used to remind us all how this meeting was an inconvenience for her.

  “It’s not much,” she said. “I already told you what I know about the Lennis. There’s very little anywhere about individuals in the tribe other than chiefs, and they were all men.” She glanced at me with a sneer. “Which figures.”

  Now it was my fault that a group of natives two hundred years ago were somewhat sexist in their attitudes and had an artificial glass ceiling in the tribal hierarchy? “Their wives were not mentioned?” I asked, trying to steer her back to the topic. “Perhaps Jaci was a well-placed woman in the group.”

  “Pah!” Maxie spat out, part amused and part disgusted. “There isn’t so much as one woman mentioned by name at all. I couldn’t find anything. In fact, when I searched for ‘Jaci,’ it didn’t even come up as a Lenni name; it was Tupi.”

  I felt my eyes narrow. “That’s interesting,” I told her. “Was there any crossover between the tribes? Could a Tupi woman have married a Lenni-Lenape man?”

  “Who died and made me Yenta the Matchmaker?” Maxie asked. “I don’t know. The Internet does have its limitations, you know. Like the fact that a lot of the stuff on it is wrong.”

  I told them of my encounter with the spirit in the library. “I think she was trying to answer me, or to tell me something,” I said. “But I don’t speak Unami.” I looked at Maxie.

  She opened one eye. “You think I speak Unami?” she asked.

  “No, but I’m willing to bet you could find a glossary somewhere. At least a phrase book.”

  “I don’t think Rosetta Stone has issued that one yet,” Maxie answered. “You’re going to have to summon up some Indian who speaks English and can translate.”

  “I have my limitations,” I reminded her.

  “So do I.”

  “Why not ask Antinanco?” Melissa asked. “He must speak Unami.”

  Generally speaking, it’s considered bad form to ask the client to participate in an investigation. But since this case was anything but orthodox, it was a possibility, however slim. “He probably hasn’t spoken Unami in a century,” I said, mostly to myself.

  Melissa turned away from her mirror and regarded us. “This isn’t helping. We promised Eagle of the Sun that we would find his mother,” she said.

  “Actually,” I pointed out, “you promised him. I tried to make it very clear that this was difficult and unlikely to be successful.”

  Melissa, not always the cheeriest child in the morning, either, flattened out her lower lip and went on as if I had not spoken. “We’re not going to let him down. There has to be some way we can track his mother in history.”

  I doubted it, but anything was worth a try. “If that’s the way you feel, Melissa, you have a very good source of information that you can tap.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes. That teacher of yours who used to come by when we first met. He was a history teacher, wasn’t he?”

  Melissa scowled a bit. “Mr. Barnes?” When her teacher had briefly dated Alison, she had reacted the way you might expect a nine-year-old to react to the blending of her two worlds: She became grumpy, stayed in her room when he was in the house, and did her best to discourage the relationship. And to her point of view, there had been a satisfactory conclusion. Alison and the Barnes man had decided to stop seeing each other because it wasn’t a good situation for Melissa. I have to admit to some relief at that development. Alison’s choice in men—having met her ex-husband—is questionable at best. I have occasionally thought she would have done well to meet a man like me. Only . . . alive.

  I nodded. “He knew a great deal about this area and its history,” I reminded Melissa. “We need some expertise in that area.”

  She was about to respond, no doubt with some very cogent argument against my suggestion, but she had no time: Alison called her from downstairs. “You’re going to be late for school!” we heard through the floor.

  Melissa rolled her eyes. “I’ve never been late for school in my life,” she said.

  I nodded. “Mostly because your mother or Wendy’s mother drives you there every morning. Keep that in mind. And think about talking to your teacher.”

  “He’s not my teacher anymore,” Melissa said, then left the room. Children will often conclude an argument by pointing out that the adult involved is incorrect on a minor point. It makes them feel better. It doesn’t do much of anything for the adult.

  I glanced at Maxie, who was pretending to be asleep, but continued to float in a perfect oval around the room at a height of seven feet. “I really don’t think we’ll be able to trace one woman in a tribe all those years ago,” I said, more to myself than to Maxie.

  “Some detective you are,” she snorted. This might have been Maxie’s idea of prodding me into action. In truth, it annoyed me, but I understood her intentions. Maxie isn’t normally mean, but she isn’t always as thoughtful as she might be.

  “Have you got any ideas?” I asked.

  She stopped twirling around the room and fixed her gaze on me. Clearly, she’d been waiting for such an opportunity. “Pin the kid down,” she said. “You’re being too nice to him, and he’s playing you.”

  I wanted to protest. No matter how long he’d been a spirit, Antinanco still had the mind and emotions of a small boy, and pressuring him for information would be cruel. He wanted his mother back, and probably had for centuries. Now we’d raised his hopes, and I was all too aware how likely it was that I would be the one to dash them for him yet again.

  But there was a problem—I believed Maxie was right. “You think he’s been holding back,” I said.

  “He’s definitely holding back. He knows way more than he’s letting on.” Maxie grinned one of her more conspiratorial grins and lay back into her “Cleopatra-on-the-barge” pose, an arm dangling off of nothing onto nothing.

  “How can you tell?” I asked, but I already knew the answer.

  “You can’t play a player,” she said. “And I’m a player.”

  4

  “Something’s going on and you’re not telling me,” Alison said to me after the crowd from the second spook show of the day had dispersed. Maxie dripping “ectoplasm” (really rubber cement) down a wall in the den had gone over splendidly, and I had “flown” a bed sheet down the stairs from Alison’s bedroom to the kitchen. If any of the guests believed ghosts were violet with a floral pattern, they might have been truly disturbed.

  Luckily, people like me can’t gasp in air, so I made sure not to betray my concern about her suspicions with my voice or expression. “What are you talking about?” I asked.

 
“I’m saying, there’s something going on in the house,” Alison repeated. “Liss barely talked to me before she left for school today, and I think it was because she’s afraid she’ll blurt something out she’s not supposed to say. So tell me what it is. I’ll keep your name out of it.” She folded up the sheet I had left on the kitchen table. “By the way, you might have told me you were going into my bedroom for props.”

  “It was an ad lib.”

  “So, what’s going on that I don’t know about?” she continued, undeterred.

  “Nothing. You’re mistaken.” I rose up toward the ceiling. If this was going to progress, I might want to make a hasty exit.

  Alison’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think so. You’re acting funny, too.”

  “I’m Canadian,” I reminded her. “I don’t act funny.”

  “Martin Short is Canadian.”

  “Touché.”

  I heard something clatter in the direction of the game room. Was Antinanco checking back in, as he’d promised? I needed to get inside to find out, but couldn’t appear suspicious. Mentally, I tried to summon Maxie, but I was distracted, and it’s very difficult to do when I’m not concentrating completely on the task.

  Worse, Alison’s head turned at the sound, too. “Did you hear something?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. I thought I heard a noise down the hall. Game room, maybe.” She started toward the kitchen door.

  “I’ll check!” I said, swooping past her and (literally) through the door. Alison had no time to argue, but I couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t follow me. She was right. I was acting suspiciously. “Don’t come—you don’t want to know!”

  That didn’t really seem to help much, but I moved on. Antinanco was indeed back in the game room, sitting on (or more accurately, hovering over) the pool table that barely anyone ever uses except Melissa and her grandmother, Alison’s mother, Loretta. Loretta is a very accomplished pool player, but she often lets Melissa win.