The Hostess With the Ghostess Read online

  “Have you tried to connect with him?” Maxie asked. “You said you could make a little contact with other ghosts. Did you try to find Keith Johnson and ask him what happened?”

  I thought Maxie was getting a little off the track, since we were now discussing Richard’s murder, about which I had heard nothing, as opposed to Keith’s, of which I had heard nothing I liked. But Richard’s eyes widened a bit, and he raised an index finger.

  “That hadn’t occurred to me,” he said. “I will try.” He closed his eyes.

  “Not now, Richard,” I said. This could take hours. “Tell us about what happened to you in the hotel in New Brunswick.”

  Richard opened his eyes again and nodded; yes, he had strayed from the topic. “Sorry. As I said, I do not remember much. I was working at my desk on a laptop computer I carried with me.”

  That reminded me of something, and I said, “Maxie.” She looked over at me and I pointed at the ceiling. Maxie keeps a laptop—which sadly is newer than mine, and she’s been dead five years—in Melissa’s room. When we investigate cases, she is in charge of Internet research and has shown a real affinity for it. She understood immediately what I meant, nodded, and rose up through the library ceiling.

  “Please go on,” I told Richard.

  “Well, all I remember is hearing a sound behind me and starting to turn, but then there was just pain in the back of my head, and the next thing I knew, I was in the hotel room, but there was police tape on the door and all my belongings had been removed. It took a while for me to understand what had happened to me. Three days later, I thought of Paul and found a map in the hotel lobby that started me in this direction. Once I realized I could jump into a vehicle heading in a certain direction and speed up my trip, it did not take long to get here.”

  That added up with the process of ghostification as I understood it. The person making the transition spends a few days essentially unconscious, with no memory of life or understanding of his present state. Once he realizes he’s dead, there’s a period of disbelief, and then with eternity staring him in the face, he begins to adjust. Some do better than others. Richard sounded like he’d become a ghost with almost no trauma at all. I guessed he was lying.

  Maxie floated down from the ceiling wearing a long trench coat. Ghosts, we have discovered, can carry solid objects through walls and such by hiding them in the clothing they’re wearing. So when Maxie made it through the ceiling and the trench coat vanished, it was clear to see she’d brought her laptop with her, and it was already open and running. Mine would have still been sputtering to remember what functioning was like.

  “Cassidy Van Doren was charged with first-degree murder eight months ago after her stepfather, Keith Johnson, was found drowned in the bathtub of a bed-and-breakfast in Cranbury Township,” she read off her screen. Maxie doesn’t worry about pleasantries.

  “Skip to the parts we don’t know,” I said.

  Maxie scowled. She expects everyone to be astounded at her amazing Internet skills, when in fact at this stage of an investigation, she had probably just Googled Cassidy’s name like anyone else would have done. “You’re no fun anymore,” she said.

  “I never was.” I pointed at the laptop.

  “Okay, okay. She’s currently out awaiting trial.” Maxie looked up.

  “We don’t do cash bail anymore in New Jersey,” Richard said.

  “Even so. And she’s living near here, in Rumson.”

  I whistled. “Cassidy’s not doing so bad for herself.” Bruce Springsteen used to live in Rumson. In New Jersey, that’s as close to a royal address as you can get.

  “The family has a good deal of money,” Richard agreed. “But Cassidy is largely unaffected by her wealth and is a very sincere, honest, down-to-earth person.” His eyes stared off into empty space for a moment.

  “Richard,” I said. After getting no response, I repeated, “Richard.”

  He seemed to awaken. “Yes?”

  “Why are you so concerned about time? Is Cassidy’s trial still ongoing? Is she about to be convicted and you want to absolve her of the murder?” I don’t usually use words like “absolve,” but Richard inspired a certain formality.

  “No,” Maxie said. “They suspended the trial when Richard here was found dead of blunt trauma to the head. Won’t start up for another week.”

  “I’m concerned because Cassidy’s life is in danger,” Richard said.

  I was starting to see why Paul and his brother had not been the closest of siblings in life. I closed my eyes briefly and let out a little air. “Richard,” I said, “you have a habit of doling out information in short bursts whenever you feel like it. That’s not helping. Can you give it to me all at once this time?”

  “You seem upset,” Richard said. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s easy,” Maxie, ever helpful, said. “First you tell us you’re looking for Paul, but you don’t say why. Then you tell us it’s because you were working on this case and the girl is going to be convicted unless you can prove she didn’t do it. Then you tell us you were murdered too, and that’s got to have something to do with what we were talking about before, but you didn’t bother to mention it. Now you’re telling us the girl on trial is in danger, and you never said that before either. See how that’s a problem?”

  Richard’s eyebrows twitched in various directions. “Not really,” he said.

  I closed my eyes again.

  “I told you everything,” Richard’s voice said through my eyelids. “I honestly don’t see what the order of the information has to do with the process.”

  Against my better judgment, I opened my eyes again and realized what a mistake that had been. Closed was so much more restful. But it was too late. “Forget it,” I said to Richard. “Tell us why you believe Cassidy Van Doren’s life is in danger, and then we can figure out what we want to do about it.”

  Richard, clearly glad to be on more solid ground (metaphorically speaking—he was still floating in midair in my library), nodded. “The night . . . this happened to me, I was doing research into Keith Johnson’s business dealings to attempt to establish a motive for someone to have killed him other than Cassidy’s simple dislike of her stepfather. In doing so, I came across some very serious malfeasance not in Keith’s but in the handling of his household accounts, which held millions of dollars.”

  “You’re a lawyer,” I pointed out, in case Richard had blanked on the law school years and the bar exam he’d no doubt had to pass in Canada. “Why are you looking through Keith’s books and not hiring an accountant to do that?”

  “In addition to the legal degree, I hold a PhD in economics and accounting from McGill University,” he said, puffing out just a bit.

  I rushed back in before he could further fill us in on his curriculum vitae. “So you know what you’re looking at. How does that lead to your concern for Cassidy’s life?”

  Richard held up his index finger like a person about to make a significant point calling for quiet. Nobody was trying to interrupt him, so the gesture felt a little pointless. “I saw that the moneys earmarked for a number of Richard’s relatives, including his biological children Braden and Erika, were being diverted toward Cassidy’s account.”

  I waited. Maxie waited. Anyone else living or dead on the planet would have waited for a further explanation if they had been in the room. But no more was forthcoming. Richard looked at me as if he had just proved his point beyond all question and was ready to rest his case. At the moment, his case was still resting in the cushion of my side chair, and the fact that he’d crossed his legs “casually” wasn’t helping him convince anyone of anything.

  “So Keith’s kids weren’t getting their money and Cassidy was?” I asked. I was pretty sure that was what he’d been saying, but it didn’t add up at all, so maybe I was mistaken. You’ll be shocked, but this wouldn’t be the first time.

  “That’s right,” Richard said. Okay, so I had not being mistaken on my side.

  “
She was getting money that was supposed to go to other people, and that’s why you think her life is in trouble?” I’ve seen Maxie in many different moods under many different circumstances. But I didn’t think I’d ever seen her this puzzled before. Usually even when she doesn’t know what’s going on, she’s certain she really does.

  “Not entirely,” Richard answered, which gave me a little hope. “But think about it: if for some reason one of Keith’s children were to discover what was going on with the finances, he or she would no doubt jump to the conclusion that Cassidy was manipulating her stepfather to cheat them out of their allowances and give the funds to her. They could very well decide Cassidy was an impediment to their fortunes and conspire to eliminate her from the picture.”

  That was flimsier than the wallboard Dad and I had installed over the gaping hole in my den ceiling. I really did have to get back to that repair soon. Maybe tomorrow. “That really doesn’t add up, Richard,” I said.

  “How so?” He was asking in earnest. There are six jokes I could put in here, but you wouldn’t like any of them.

  “It assumes someone besides you found out about the scam with Keith’s money, and instead of suing for it or confronting Keith, they decided to kill him. Why didn’t they kill Cassidy if that was the case? Killing Keith doesn’t move the money back; it just perpetuates the skimming, doesn’t it?”

  Richard shook his head. “When Keith died, his last will was immediately read and is in the process of going through probate. It’s very complex, but the accounting of his estate will undoubtedly find the same malfeasance I discovered after doing a few hours of research. Certainly the funds taken from other accounts will be removed from Cassidy and given back to their rightful owners. It was Keith’s death that made that process begin.”

  “How much money are we talking about?” Maxie asked.

  “At least thirty-eight million dollars in the entire estate,” Richard responded with no hesitation.

  “That’s not nothing,” Maxie said. She has a talent for understatement—when she’s not exhibiting her talent for overstatement.

  “I think you might be overlooking one possibility,” I told Richard. My job as an innkeeper, I’d discovered over the years, was more about diplomacy than it was about providing clean sheets and firm pillows. It was about delivering information in a way that made it palatable to the listener, as opposed to Phyllis’s job, which was about delivering information intended to wake the audience up.

  “I don’t believe I’ve left anything out of my consideration,” Richard said. It was almost like his words were starched; you got the impression they’d be a little stiff if they hit you in the face.

  “What about the idea that Cassidy Van Doren really did talk her stepfather into siphoning off some money for her?” Okay, so I’ve been more diplomatic in my day. This wasn’t my day.

  Richard’s neck stiffened. “You’re saying you think Cassidy murdered Keith Johnson?” he asked.

  I couldn’t rule it out, but that wasn’t what I was saying, so I moved forward. “I’m not saying anything about the murder right now,” I told him. “I’m saying the impression that she was getting favorable treatment is clearly a correct one, and since she was the person to benefit from it, you can’t simply say she’s too nice a person to have done something like that.”

  “I will not allow you to insult Cassidy in my presence.” Richard actually rose, in the sitting position, two feet out of the chair.

  “I’m simply trying to get you to consider the possibility,” I told him, “not to conclude that it’s what happened. Paul would tell you not to reach a conclusion before you have enough facts to support it.”

  “Then get Paul and have him tell me that,” Richard said in a huff. “I will not stay here and listen to more.”

  And then he was gone.

  “Guy knows how to make an exit,” Maxie said.

  Chapter 6

  It was the next morning that I heard the sound coming from the basement.

  Melissa was upstairs getting ready for school. Maxie, as was her custom, had not appeared in the house yet, although Everett could be seen doing crunches in the sand beyond my driveway. I’m not sure why Everett feels it’s important for him to work at staying in shape after death, but it makes him happy, and I am not going to get in his way.

  I had not seen Richard since before he’d vanished the day before, when he told me to find his brother and stop denigrating the woman he loved, who was currently out on bail in the middle of her suspended murder trial. So I’d decided to do nothing on his behalf other than to attempt to contact Paul. Okay, so I’d called Phyllis to tell her about the murders in New Brunswick and Cranbury because she’s a great source of information and a rabid snoop. I hadn’t heard from Madame Lorraine, but I guessed she’d tell me there was no timetable in the afterlife. I could argue that the spook shows were at ten AM and one PM daily, but what would be the point?

  Josh left promptly at six that morning, as one does when one owns a paint business that opens at seven, and promised to be home on time tonight, reminding me to catch him up by text if there were any developments in Richard’s case. Josh doesn’t see or hear the ghosts, but he definitely empathizes with them. He cares for his fellow humans whether they’re alive or not.

  Two of my guests, Eduardo DiSica and Penny Desmond, had not yet left their rooms and were presumed asleep. Vanessa, Eduardo’s wife, had gotten herself a cup of tea and headed out to walk on the beach “to clear her head.” She had reported no further “stretching noises” in the room above hers, but I would ask Maxie to do some research on what might have caused that kind of sound.

  Abby Lesniak had passed through, made herself an iced decaf, and asked me if I’d had a chance to talk to Mr. Lewis yet. I confessed I had not, as Gregory had left very early in the morning to watch the sunrise, having informed me he would do so the night before. I didn’t tell Abby about that because then she’d want to know why I hadn’t Dolly Levi–ed my way into fixing her up, and that was a situation I could put off for a bit.

  I was in the kitchen getting some orange juice and looking forward (sort of) to cleaning up the movie room, where some of the guests had been watching Field of Dreams the night before. Movies with ghosts go over big in the guesthouse.

  And that is when I heard a definitely nonstretching noise coming from the basement.

  It was more like an animal had gotten into the house somehow and was knocking over some of the detritus I (and everyone else in every part of the world) keep in the basement. Melissa’s ghost puppy, Lester, was presumably in her room, where he was supposed to stay. Even if Lester had gotten into the basement, he couldn’t knock anything over. He would pass through it.

  Now, I like animals as well as the next girl, as long as they’re not in my house uninvited. Even Lester had taken some getting used to, given that his transparency had not seemed to make a difference to my allergies. So I was faced with the dilemma of letting some creature take my basement apart or waiting until my husband arrived home in eleven hours and making him deal with it.

  The second seemed like the coward’s way out, which was not at all the reason I decided to go downstairs anyway. I’m not some little scaredy-cat who needs a big strong man to save her—I told myself. So I was investigating another strange noise in my admittedly strange house. I was a fierce ghost seer or something. I could handle it.

  I did pick up a four-battery flashlight, though. I’m not stupid.

  The basement door leads to the requisite creaky staircase, which I was now descending as loudly as possible. If there was some creepy critter down there, I wanted it to scurry away in fear so I wouldn’t see it and could pawn it off on my husband. There’s being a coward, and then there’s just being practical.

  That strategy seemed to have worked, because after turning on the basement light (which is at the top of the stairs because nobody’s that dumb) and stomping down the admittedly noisy staircase, there was absolutely no evidence of a lo
ose raccoon, opossum, or other animal I didn’t want to deal with right now or, to be fair, ever. There was one box of Melissa’s old books that she couldn’t bear to part with that had been knocked off a shelf, spreading Dr. Seuss all over the basement floor. That was it.

  Whatever had gotten in here, it could reach a shelf about three feet off the floor. That wasn’t comforting.

  Had a stray ghost passed through and accidentally disrupted the box? It was possible. Most ghosts steered clear of the place, I’d surmised. Maybe they had known Paul and Maxie—and now Everett—had taken up residence here and didn’t want to intrude. Maybe the place just wasn’t good enough for the ungrateful wretches. Huh! Imagine such a thing. I go out of my way to put up a sign that says, “Haunted Guesthouse,” and ghosts won’t even . . .

  What was I talking about?

  I picked up the books and replaced them in the box, which I now resolved to donate to the Harbor Haven Public Library on my next visit. What Melissa didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me. And since there had been no further unusual noises, I saw no reason to linger in what was a fairly well-organized basement, but still a basement. I’d toyed with the idea of finishing the basement some time ago, but there just wasn’t much utility to the idea. I was having enough trouble filling guest rooms without adding another belowground.

  A quick scan of the area with the flashlight—because lighting down there is always inadequate—revealed nothing out of the ordinary. I told myself I’d ask Everett or Maxie to come down and look around when I wasn’t there because they are capable of actually making no noise at all, and they don’t smell like anything, so animals don’t always notice them.

  So much for that. I could come down here the next time the pilot light in the boiler went out or I needed an extension cord or a power tool. Right now, there was cleaning to be done upstairs in society.

  The stairs were just as creaky on the way up, but that didn’t seem quite as significant on the return trip. I was intent on drinking that orange juice I’d promised myself back when I was young. Five minutes ago.