Spouse on Haunted Hill Read online

  “That’s exactly right,” Steven said. “I was maybe five days away from having all the cash back in the bank when Lou Maroni decided he has to have his seed money back, and he means now.”

  “How much?” I asked. It was not—believe me—out of character for Steven to charge a plane ticket from Los Angeles to Newark in order to ask me for the money he needed to pay off his scarier investors. Mentally I calculated how much I could spare from my savings, with the understanding that despite his assurances, I would never see the money again.

  “How much what?” That kind of bargaining tactic wasn’t going to get him what he wanted from me.

  “How much do you need to pay off Lou Maroni?” It’s possible my tone was not the most patient one you would ever have heard, had you been there.

  “Six hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Whoa.” That was Paul. I think it was the most surprised I’d ever heard him sound.

  My mental checkbook closed shut with a resounding snap. “Well, I can offer you some pizza,” I said.

  Three

  “This is not a case, Paul.” My British/Canadian ghost friend was “pacing” a foot or so off the floor of my basement, where I’d found him when I came downstairs the next morning. Paul spends his “alone time” in the basement, while Maxie frequents Melissa’s room in the attic. She considers herself Liss’s roommate, which isn’t getting uncomfortable . . . yet. Maxie will also occasionally situate herself on the roof when she really wants to be left alone. “We don’t have a client, so we don’t have a case to solve.”

  I got out my trusty tape measure and took, for the fifth time, the dimensions of the part of the basement closest to the stairs and away from the boiler that runs the heating system. We also have a freezer down there where I mostly keep bags of ice because I never have more food in my kitchen fridge than I might need.

  “I understand divorces are often contentious, Alison,” Paul said, eyes down toward the floor. That’s his “thinking” pose. “But your ex-husband appears to be in some danger and we have the ability to do something about that.”

  The area of the basement I was measuring was exactly twelve feet and three inches across and ten feet, two inches deep. The ceiling was a quarter inch over seven feet. Write that down in case I ask you for the dimensions later.

  “No, we don’t,” I told the goateed ghost. “There’s nothing to investigate. Steven got himself into trouble. He does that on a regular basis. Now he thinks there are people after him who want six hundred thousand dollars. So he skipped town and is hiding out in my house for what I assure you will not be more than a couple of days until he figures his next move. We don’t have a role in this, and I’m especially not interested in getting involved with Lou Maroni and his orchestra, so let’s drop it, okay? Here, hold this.”

  I handed him the end of the tape measure so I could figure out the distance from the post holding up the ceiling (and the rest of the house) to the wall. The plan was to convert part of the basement to living space so I could have an extra guest room when I needed one. I got the measurement—don’t worry, I wrote that one down myself—and relieved Paul of the tape measure. “Thanks.”

  “I’d really prefer you leave the basement as it is.” Paul sniffed. “It’s the only place I can go when I need to think. Having guests down here would not be conducive to my process.”

  “That’s the way we do things in the Lower Forty-eight, stranger,” I said. I had no idea why. “Look. Nobody’s going to bother you, and I’ll only rent out the room when I need it. It’ll be the cheapest one in the house because there’s really only that little casement window at the top.”

  “I don’t see the point,” Paul said. “You can’t fill the rooms you already have for guests.”

  That was hitting below the belt. “It’s February, Paul. It always slows down in the real winter months. Things will pick up again in the spring.”

  “They didn’t last year.”

  The previous year had been my least profitable since opening the guesthouse three years before. With the diminishing roster of Senior Plus guests and some let’s say unsavory happenings that had taken place here the year before, publicizing the guesthouse was becoming something of a challenge. So that last remark stung a bit.

  “They will this year,” I said drily. “Besides, it just increases the value of the house to have living space down here. That’s off-topic anyway—we’re not going to do anything about Steven and his current screwup. He’s done it before and he’ll do it again. He won’t learn if we help him every time.”

  I stood in the center of the space I’d blocked off and tried to envision a bedroom here. Unfortunately at the moment it looked a lot like a basement, and that wasn’t helping. A concrete floor, exposed beams in the ceiling and walls. It was over a hundred years old and it wasn’t as if there was a portrait stashed in my attic of a basement that looked much older; this place was showing every year clearly.

  “He could be in danger,” Paul countered. “If something happens to him, wouldn’t that be a terrible blow to Melissa?”

  “You’re really playing dirty today, Paul,” I said. “What’s bothering you?”

  He looked surprised. “Bothering me?”

  “When you repeat me, you’re just stalling for time. You’re acting uncharacteristically cranky and I want to know why. So let’s hear it.”

  Paul’s face registered irritation initially. He was going to try to protest. But he realized the pointlessness of that and shrugged. “It’s starting to wear on me, Alison,” he said.

  “What’s starting to wear on you?”

  “This existence. I’ve been in this house or on this property for over four years now. I don’t want to upset you, but being in the same place for this period of time would become tedious no matter where I was confined. Do you understand that?”

  This was not a new sentiment. Paul envied Maxie’s ability to move around outside the boundaries of my property, which had appeared out of the blue. Paul says the afterlife does not seem to have rules that apply evenly to each person. Some people die and never become ghosts; those like Paul and Maxie who do sometimes move on to some other level of existence, but that doesn’t seem to have any rhyme or reason to it, either.

  In short, whoever is running the afterlife has a mean streak, or ADHD.

  “Of course I understand, Paul. I wish there was something I could do to help you. I realize you get more antsy when we don’t have a case to investigate. But that’s not a reason to get involved with one of Steven’s ridiculous schemes and subject me and my daughter to any risk that might come with it. Okay?”

  Paul, in midpace, looked into my eyes and saw my conviction. “Of course not,” he said. “I was not trying to suggest we should investigate simply to make me feel better. You’re absolutely right about the danger. I will find something else to occupy my mind.” With that he vanished, which was something he rarely did. Maybe he was more upset than I had realized.

  I decided that was unfortunate but unavoidable. Steven was going to be out of the house by the next day (another decision I’d just reached) and he’d have to deal with the consequences of his actions just like everybody else. It wasn’t my problem and it wasn’t something I wanted our daughter to see happen before her eyes. I’d tell my ex to find alternative accommodations as soon as I saw him.

  Once upstairs again, I barely had time to clean up the den before Anne Kaminsky came in from the downstairs guest room. Anne, a lovely woman in her early seventies, looked concerned. After four days with a person—especially when she, her husband and another woman were the only guests in the house—you could read her expression.

  “Something wrong, Anne?” I asked.

  She looked up, having been watching her steps as if she were afraid she would fall. “What? Oh no. No, Alison. I’m fine.” Some guests are so horrified at the idea of being a bother that th
ey wouldn’t tell me if they saw a headless man parade through the library. Which had happened once; it’s a long story.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “If there’s something troubling you and I can help, that’s what I’m here for.” That, and to make a living for myself and my daughter, but that part wasn’t really relevant to the conversation.

  “Well . . .” An innkeeper is part hotelier, part concierge, part parent, part tour guide, part local liaison and part psychotherapist. But we only get paid once.

  “What can we do to help?” I asked. I say “we” because Melissa was something of an assistant manager, and the ghosts were . . . there in the house, too. In fact, Maxie, who rarely showed up before the first spook show at ten in the morning, was uncharacteristically descending through the ceiling as I asked.

  “I was wondering if I might have another room,” Anne said.

  That was strange; the downstairs guest room was the largest and most lavishly furnished one I rented, originally intended as the master suite for the house. It had a separate bath and a walk-in closet. I couldn’t imagine what would make Anne request a better room. Maybe Mel was offended by the chenille bedspread or thought they were being cheated by being housed on a lower floor than everyone else. That must be it—some people are afraid of being isolated and might think being on the ground floor in a strange house constitutes a security risk. “Why do you and Mel want to move out of the room?” I asked.

  “Not Mel,” Anne said. “Just me.”

  Um . . . “I don’t understand.” Actually I was afraid I did understand, but I wanted to buy myself a moment to think about that.

  “I have had enough of sleeping with that man and I want to stay in another room,” she said. “Can you accommodate me on that?” That last sentence sounded like the request of a small girl and not the demand it might have been from someone less polite. You get a lot of people less polite than Anne Kaminsky in the innkeeper trade.

  “I can, certainly,” I said. “If you like I can move you into a room upstairs right now.”

  “Good,” she said. “That’s a relief. I’ll get my things.” She turned toward the door and then stopped and faced back toward me. “How much will the extra room cost?” she asked.

  This raised an ethical question. On the one hand, I was underbooked and had plenty of rooms available in the house. There would be no huge expense involved in moving Anne to a new room. Aside from cleaning her new space every day, something I would do once a week for an unoccupied room, it was basically the same as having her stay where she was.

  On the other hand, I was underbooked and wanted more money.

  Actually it wasn’t all that huge an ethical question after all. “Well, it’s only a partial week,” I said. I quoted her a price that was less than the nightly rate I usually charged for the room I had in mind, and Anne agreed.

  She brought out a rolling suitcase about five minutes later and I showed her a second-floor room that wasn’t as large or luxurious as the one she’d been staying in with her husband. “It’s very cozy,” she said when she saw it. I’m not partial to that word, but Anne seemed pleased.

  As I turned to leave her in the room, a thought occurred to me. “Have you discussed this with Mel?” I asked. It would be awkward if I saw him first and he asked where Anne and her luggage might be.

  “Not yet, but I will when he’s awake.”

  I thanked her and left her to unpack. Again. Walking back downstairs, I made a mental note to avoid the area of Mel Kaminsky’s room until I could be sure he was up to date on the status of his marriage.

  It’s one thing to leave your husband. I’d done that. It’s another to leave your husband and stay in the same house as him. Actually I’d sort of done that, too. But at least The Swine knew he had to leave, and had booked a flight to California the day after we decided to split. By “decided to split,” I mean when I told him he had to haul his sorry carcass to the West Coast or face severe bodily injury, which I described in a great amount of detail.

  In Anne’s case, the process seemed a little more cold-blooded. She was leaving him while they were on vacation and staying in the same accommodations—and she hadn’t mentioned any of this to Mel yet. That seemed uncharacteristically mean for Anne, but I supposed she had good reasons. It’s not the hostess’s responsibility to know what those reasons might be.

  Luckily Mel was not at the landing of the stairs when I descended. I made sure to scoot past that section of the front room quickly and started toward the kitchen, where I get tea and coffee ready in urns every morning and cart them out to the den for the guests. With only three extra people in the house, I was using a smaller coffee urn and a standard teapot, but the same cart.

  Before I could get to the kitchen, however, the doorbell rang.

  From upstairs I heard a tiny amount of barking. Melissa had adopted a small dog in the golden retriever family, probably a puppy, who also happened to be a ghost. He barks whenever the doorbell rings, but nobody living hears him except Liss or me, or my mom when she’s around. So I didn’t have to worry about Lester barking upstairs.

  Maxie and Paul followed as I headed toward the door. It’s not incredibly unusual for the bell to ring, as I get deliveries and such for myself and the guests, but it was not at all typical at this time of the morning. Guests get their own keys to the front door, which is more often than not unlocked until everyone is in for the night anyway.

  “What’s going on?” Maxie wanted to know. She sounded annoyed that she’d been disturbed from whatever it is she does at night. The ghosts don’t actually sleep but they do seem to need some kind of downtime. Paul says they are probably made of energy, so perhaps that needs to be replenished the same way a living person needs sleep.

  “You see me approaching the door. How would I know?” I said.

  Paul, still in a contemplative mood apparently, said nothing but floated in behind me. Maxie stuck her head through the door, a talent of hers that makes a peephole somewhat unnecessary.

  “It’s some guy,” she reported when her head was back inside. “He’s wearing a coat.”

  “It’s February,” I reminded her. The ghosts don’t feel heat or cold, so they tend to lose track of the weather. “Thanks for the useful information.”

  Before she could reply I unlocked and opened my front door and was face-to-face with “some guy,” whom indeed I did not recognize. “May I help you?” I said. It seemed the thing to say.

  The man, in his mid-forties, was wearing a woolen overcoat, which wasn’t inappropriate given the rush of cold air that met me when I swung the door open. It wasn’t the usual parka you see in the area; it was more formal. It went with a cherry red scarf that circled his neck and was tucked into the front of the coat. His gloves were real leather. In short, this man had not bought his ensemble at Kmart.

  “I’m looking for Steven Rendell,” he said in a voice that wasn’t at all unpleasant. “I have a message for him.”

  “There’s a bulge in his right front pocket,” Paul said. “It could be a gun.”

  The day was starting off swimmingly.

  “There’s no one here by that name,” I told the man. “Are you sure you have the right address?”

  “Oh, I think so,” Overcoat said. “This is 123 Seafront Avenue in Harbor Haven, New Jersey.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And you are Alison Kerby, Mr. Rendell’s ex-wife. You and your daughter, Melissa, live here and run a public accommodation, and according to the sign to my left, the house is haunted. That’s very quaint.”

  “Uh-oh,” Maxie said. “You want me to hit him with anything?”

  I shook my head slightly.

  “Perhaps you should find something, just to be safe,” Paul suggested. I thought he might have been trying to get the excitable Maxie out of the picture for the moment. “But don’t let him see it.” Maxie was gone in
a second.

  “Mr. . . .” I began.

  “I’m a friend of a friend,” he said.

  I wanted to get some of my own back. “You are a friend of Lou Maroni,” I told the man. “You’re here because my ex-husband owes Mr. Maroni some money in relation with a software development project your friend was helping to finance. And you’ve come apparently to threaten Steven in an attempt to get the money, which I can assure you he doesn’t have. So let’s not pretend anyone is fooling anyone here.”

  “Nice,” Paul said.

  Maxie swooshed in behind me; I could feel her more than see her without turning around. I saw a tiny flash of a trench coat she wears to conceal especially big items from the eyes of the living, something the ghosts can do with the clothes they wear. I didn’t want to think about what she might be carrying now.

  “Very good, Ms. Kerby,” Overcoat said. “May I come in? It really is very cold out here.”

  “I don’t think so. Steven isn’t here. But I’m sure the car you drove here has a very efficient heater, so why not use that and try to find him elsewhere?” I started to close the door.

  I stopped when the man spoke again. “Mr. Rendell flew here on United flight 1947 from Los Angeles International Airport last night,” he said. “He and your daughter got off the plane and were driven home in the red Volvo station wagon that is currently parked behind your house. So I agree, let’s not pretend anyone is being fooled at the moment. May I come inside?”

  “I’ve got a shovel,” Maxie said. “Should I use it?”