The Thrill of the Haunt Page 6

  “Everett Martin Sandheim was fifty years old at the time of his death,” she said, reading from her screen. “He was born in Atlanta, Georgia; went to Fairleigh Dickinson University in Madison, New Jersey, ROTC. Then he got out of college and immediately went into the Army. Participated in the Grenada invasion in 1983. No injuries as far as I can tell, but two commendations for bravery. Came home a lieutenant just about thirty years ago.”

  “How did he end up homeless?” I asked.

  McElone gave me a withering look. “All I have is official records,” she answered, her tone indicating that I should have known better than to ask the question. “It doesn’t list everything about the guy’s life. He was first cited for loitering seven years ago, a couple of times against municipal ordinances for disorderly conduct, which probably means they wanted to get him off the street on cold winter nights. Occasionally some tourist who didn’t know better would complain, but it never led to an arrest. Hasn’t been cited for two years, because nobody ever complained about the guy during that time.”

  “So there’s nothing in his record to indicate why someone might be really mad at him,” I said, thinking aloud. I looked up at McElone. “Did he have any family?”

  She punched a few more keys, probably just to scroll down the page. “He has a sister in Montana, and his father is currently residing in South Carolina. We’ve contacted the sister, haven’t gotten through to the father yet.”

  “I thought all older people from New Jersey went to Florida,” I said.

  “Get with the times. South Carolina is the new Florida. Closer to the grandkids and still no snow in the winter.”

  “More hurricanes though.” We exchanged a look.

  McElone looked over the page, turning the screen toward herself so I couldn’t crane my neck and look at it, then took her hands off the keyboard. “That’s about it,” she said.

  “What are you guys doing about it?” I asked. Then, realizing that it sounded like I thought the police were not investigating, I added, “I don’t want to step on your toes if I start asking around.”

  McElone’s eyes indicated either irritation or amusement; with her it’s hard to tell. “We’re investigating,” she said with an edge. “When we get the M.E.’s report, we’ll know more. I talked to Marv Winderbrook, who owns the gas station where Everett was found. He says he didn’t see anything.”

  “They don’t have security cameras?” I said. I thought it made me sound professional.

  “Not in the bathrooms.” McElone was indicating that my intention had not been realized. “But they do have some outside, and we’re checking to see if anyone went in or out while Everett was in there. So far it doesn’t look like anybody did.”

  “And the door was locked from the inside,” I said, chiefly to myself.

  “That’s right. Now. Is there anything else I can do to make sure you continue to be employed, or can I get on with my actual job now?”

  I stood up. “You know,” I said to McElone, “there are times when I think you don’t consider me with a good deal of respect.”

  Not even a flicker of amusement. “Run with that thought,” she said.

  Well, if she was going to be that way about it . . . I picked up my tote bag and took two steps toward the squad room entrance. Then I turned back and looked at McElone again. “Is anybody looking into Everett’s estate?” I asked.

  She took off her reading glasses and considered me. “The guy was homeless. What estate are you talking about?”

  “That’s what I thought,” I said and continued toward the door. I had no idea what I’d meant when I said that, but somehow I felt a little better.

  • • •

  My mother was waiting for me on a bench outside the police station. Mom doesn’t really have anything against cops, and she will go inside if it’s necessary. But she’s leery of what she insists on calling precinct houses. Mom watches a little too much television.

  We had arranged to meet because Mom was going to give Melissa and me (mostly Melissa) a cooking lesson by way of making dinner while we were there. To road test said dinner, Jeannie, Tony (and their son Oliver) and Josh were coming to the house tonight to eat. Also, Tony is a contractor and a good one, so he could offer more ideas on my soon-to-be-not-a-game room.

  “There was a very nice man here just a minute ago,” she said after I’d filled her in on my consultation (which is what I’d decided I’d call it) with Detective McElone. “He thought it was possible that poor Everett was killed by a thrown knife, rather than one the killer held.”

  “Multiple times? Even so, that wouldn’t explain what happened to it after Everett died. There was no knife found in the men’s room.” We started toward my pathetic old Volvo, which was parked around the corner. “What are you doing asking strange men in the street about the murder of a homeless man anyway? Do you think that’s the best way to solve a crime?”

  Mom sniffed a bit at what she perceived as my rudeness. But she’d never say anything because she believes I’m perfect (which is not as great as it sounds, believe me). “He was just hovering over my head,” she said pointedly. “It would have been impolite to ignore him. You were in there awhile, and we couldn’t just stand out here and talk about the weather.”

  Mom is probably the best ghost spotter in the family, although Melissa is getting better the older she gets. Guess who that leaves as the least talented in the line? I’ll give you a minute.

  “Well, I don’t think your ghost buddy’s theory is very plausible,” I said. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t start random conversations in the streets of my hometown with people no one else can see. They already call me the ghost lady. Do you want to be the ghost lady’s even crazier mother?” Mom has gotten more brazen about her ghost not-so-whispering since I joined the club.

  “People shouldn’t be so quick to judge,” Mom said. “Anyway, I don’t see why I had to come with you here; I thought you wanted cooking lessons. Why couldn’t I have just come to your house after you were done with the lieutenant?”

  I opened the passenger door of the geriatric Volvo for Mom, and she looked at me questioningly. “We have somewhere else to go first, and I wanted you with me for it,” I said. She got in and reached over to unlock the driver’s door for me.

  “Where are we going?” Mom asked as I started the car.

  “To watch a man go to lunch,” I told her.

  I’d followed Helen Boffice’s presumably wayward husband, Dave, from their nice-but-not-fancy home on Surf Road to his office in Red Bank this morning at eight and watched him go inside, and then I drove back to my house in time for the morning show. That was just to get the lay of the land; Helen had been clear that I only had to follow Dave at lunch. Luckily, the guests—even Cybill—all left for the day after the show. One of the advantages of not providing meals is that guests have to leave the house to eat, which frees up some time during the day for me. I give all my guests the number of a cell phone I keep specifically for them to call me on if there are any issues, but so far, no one ever had.

  I filled Mom in on my non-ghost case during the twenty-minute drive to Lakewood. You might think a woman in her late sixties would be appalled at the idea of being hijacked to stake out a suspected adulterer, but Mom was quite pleased. She reached around to the backseat to get her backpack, which she uses in lieu of a purse, and which was no doubt full of food and cooking supplies. She pulled out a pair of dark sunglasses. “These will be good to hide my face,” she said.

  “We’re not supposed to be seen at all. Besides, he’s never seen you in his life,” I reminded her.

  “How do you know?” Go argue with that.

  Fortunately, we were pulling up to the office building, a three-story mostly glass structure whose second floor was completely rented by ClearServe Industries, Dave’s employer. I’d discovered that by walking up to the building directory. Buildings largely made from glass are excellent for stakeouts because you can often see people even when t
hey’re inside.

  “What makes you think he’ll be coming out now?” Mom asked, now pulling on a baseball cap she’d also retrieved from the backpack.

  “Helen gave me his daily schedule,” I told her, doing absolutely nothing to conceal any part of my face. “She said he pretty much never varies from it at all; he’s a real creature of habit.”

  Of course, once I had said that, it was inevitable that we would sit there checking a picture of Dave that Helen had given me for about twenty minutes before Dave, of medium height, medium weight and medium attractiveness—in short, the most average man in history—walked out of the building.

  “I was afraid we’d missed him,” Mom said, re-buckling her shoulder harness. Once snapped in, she put a hand up to her face in a really awkward attempt to obscure it from view.

  I started up the Volvo, which I’d parked far enough away that the inevitable coughing, sputtering and grinding it does wouldn’t attract any attention. “I showed you his car when we drove in,” I reminded her. “Unless he’d decided to walk to his mistress’s place, there was no way we were going to miss him.”

  “Do you have to say ‘mistress’?” Mom asked.

  I didn’t answer and instead just drove behind Dave as he pulled out of the parking lot, hoping I was being discreet. If Helen’s outline of his daily routine was accurate, we had a ten-minute drive to Joyce Kinsler’s garden apartment in Eatontown.

  We took Route 35 south into Eatontown, but we didn’t make the turn at Broad Street that would have been the logical one to get to Joyce’s, according to the British woman who gives directions on my portable GPS box.

  “She sounds a little annoyed,” Mom pointed out about the mechanical guide. “Maybe she doesn’t approve of where Dave is going.”

  “I don’t think she makes that kind of value judgment.”

  Luckily, there was no opportunity to continue our assessment of a person who didn’t exist, because Dave began signaling a right turn.

  “He’s pulling into the mall,” Mom said, just in case I hadn’t figured that one out on my own.

  The Monmouth Mall is not one of New Jersey’s most prominent (those are all in Bergen County), but it’s pretty big, and if this was indeed where Dave was planning to meet his girlfriend for an afternoon quickie, it was not only an indication that he had some really kinky ideas but also a problem for me, because there would be people everywhere and plenty of places for Dave to elude a tail.

  He pulled into a parking space near the movie theater entrance, and since it was a midweek afternoon, it wasn’t difficult for me to find another one fairly nearby. I didn’t have much time to give Mom instructions, because he had just gotten out of his car and started toward the mall.

  “I’m going in after him,” I said and didn’t allow her to answer. “You stay here. If I lose him, I’ll call you. You have your cell phone, don’t you?”

  “Always. I—”

  “If you see anything suspicious, text, don’t call me,” I said, noting that Dave was already starting toward the entrance. She looked a little startled. “And use vowels!” I warned as I opened my car door, leaving the key in the ignition so Mom could listen to the radio if she wanted. Mom’s version of text shorthand consisted of using all consonants, therefore making everything look as if it were written in Cyrillic, which doesn’t make it easier to understand.

  It was a warm day but not humid; that wouldn’t come for another month or so if we were lucky. When this kind of day hits us, New Jersey can be a lovely place, particularly down the shore, where a sea breeze can remind you of your childhood, and the sun shows you the deep blue of the sky and the rich green leaves on the trees.

  Which is why I couldn’t believe I had to spend it in a shopping mall.

  I typically avoid malls like the plague (which I’m pretty sure first gestated in a mall). I’d rather shop at neighborhood stores, certainly in individual stores, than be trapped in an environment where the very air seems manufactured and the population is glassy-eyed and intoxicated with consumption of things I don’t want or can’t afford.

  I made sure Dave was far enough ahead of me that I wouldn’t be noticeable, but I couldn’t get too far behind or he’d get lost in the throng. People on the hunt for whatever passes for bargains at a mall, where a pretzel is four dollars, are determined beings and will not yield for a woman simply trying to take pictures of a man cheating on his wife. What has this country come to?

  Dave seemed to be on an urgent mission, and I had to really hustle to keep up with him. He sliced his way through the crowd until he reached a bank of escalators and hopped—gingerly, I noticed—onto one. I followed as well as I could without actually gasping for breath.

  Once at the top of the escalator, though, I panicked—Dave was nowhere to be seen.

  I scanned the area while disgruntled mall patrons (there are no other kind) treated me like the impediment to their progress that I was. Already I was rationalizing: So I didn’t catch Dave today. Surely his wife could wait another twenty-four hours before she got the details of the extramarital affair she wasn’t planning to use as grounds for a divorce? She could just hang on for one more rotation of the globe before holding his infidelity over him like the Sword of Damocles, constantly present and usable should he fall out of line again, right?

  There are marriages, and there are marriages. Theirs didn’t sound like either one, but who was I to judge?

  Wait! I spotted Dave behind a woman with a stroller being pushed by her older child with a younger one sitting inside. He headed away from me again, and I took up the chase once more. I reached into my pocket to ensure that my cell phone, which would double as my camera in this case, was ready. I pulled it out.

  Only one bar of power was left. I’d have to make sure I got the shot on the first try.

  To be honest, I still wasn’t really sure what I thought I’d be photographing. Clearly Dave and Joyce, if she showed up, were not going to be doing anything scandalous while surrounded by countless mall patrons. But Dave was obviously in a very big hurry, and Helen Boffice had been absolutely sure he was going to be seeing his girlfriend today at lunch. Of course, Helen believed that he saw his girlfriend every day at lunch, but my experience has been that men are generally neither that consistent nor that dependable.

  Perhaps being married to The Swine hadn’t given me the best basis for comparison.

  Doubling my speed, I reached the corner Dave had turned; I took a moment to build up my reserve of nonchalance. Then I let out a breath and casually turned right to look for him.

  Dave was in the food court. Which appeared to be his intended destination.

  Okay . . . maybe his affair with Joyce consisted of buying food that was bad for them and eating it together? Hardly grounds for divorce, but since Helen didn’t want one anyway, maybe it was a win-win for everybody. I scanned the area for possible Joyce candidates, but I’d left her photograph with my mother, and it was hard to remember her face. Not that it seemed to matter, because no one was approaching Dave, male or female.

  He walked past the Salad Works and the Burger King, but stopped at Master Wok and . . . yes! A small blonde woman, somewhat obscured by larger New Jerseyans hustling by her with trays and shopping bags, walked over to him and smiled broadly. Dave reached toward her. If this was going to be a passionate embrace, I was much too far away to photograph it. I started to trot toward them.

  But Dave’s hand, which had appeared to be making scandalous advances a moment before, turned out to be merely reaching for a sample on the tray the woman was carrying. The tray bore small cups that no doubt held samples of Master Wok’s most flavorful menu items. Dave tried whatever it was, nodded in appreciation, dropped his toothpick on the young woman’s tray, then turned to move on.

  Good: I hadn’t missed the picture. Bad: Still no sign of Joyce.

  Dave walked to the far end of the court and stopped at Nathan’s Hot Dogs. He walked to the counter and ordered something, and in very little
time was eating the first of two franks he’d gotten with a side of fries and a (somewhat ironic) diet soda. He sat—by himself—at a table and wolfed down the whole trayful of food with absolutely no sign of contact with anyone who could be named Joyce, or for that matter anyone who could be named anything.

  Not only had I not gotten any incriminating photographs, now I was really hungry. And I couldn’t even buy anything to eat, because Dave, no doubt in a hurry to get back before his lunch hour was over, was already done and practically sprinting out of the mall. I hadn’t eaten, he had, and there had been no sign of an affair with anybody for me to immortalize in pixels. All in all, Dave was easily getting the better end of the deal this afternoon.

  I kept him in sight as best I could until we were back out in the parking lot, Dave heading to his sensible Nissan and me to my prehistoric Volvo. Mom started talking even before I’d restarted the car to follow Dave back to his office. “Why didn’t you answer my texts?” she asked.

  “My battery was low. What’s the problem?”

  “Dad texted me. He says to come home now.”

  Eight

  It transpired on the ride home that Mom had kept Dad’s cell-phone plan active, despite his having died almost six years before. Ghosts can’t be heard across phone lines, but some of them (apparently like my dad) can text. It had never occurred to me to give him my cell number, but in my family, death is not always an impediment to communication. Anyway, Mom hadn’t asked questions when she’d gotten the text. Dad said to get home; we were on our way.

  As I parked the Volvo at home, Dad was already outside, waving his arms at us as if we weren’t going to notice him floating around near the kitchen door. Mom practically leaped out of the car, and although there was nothing on earth that could possibly hurt my father anymore, I understood the impulse. He looked panicked.

  “There’s some woman inside threatening to drive all of us out of the house!” he shouted. “She says the house needs to be cleaned, and she doesn’t mean vacuuming the rugs.”