The Thrill of the Haunt Page 7

  Cybill.

  I moaned a tiny bit, involuntarily. “I’ll deal with it, Dad,” I said as I walked past him into the kitchen. I saw Mom out of the corner of my eye, carrying her backpack and looking confused at my lack of concern.

  Cybill was indeed setting up what appeared to be incense sticks in a vase I leave on the table in the den, and she was wearing an outfit directly out of 1966. Her long, gauzy dress matched her long, flowing gray hair, and she appeared to be trying to revive Flower Power by sheer force of will. Cybill also seemed to be humming to herself.

  Harry and Beth Rosen were nowhere to be seen, but Tom and Libby Hill were watching Cybill from the opposite side of the room with looks of incredulity, mixed with anticipation: Was this part of the planned ghost shows? The Hills were seemingly unwilling to get too close to the crazy lady; Libby was actually standing in the far doorway, looking as if she was gauging the time it would take her to get to the front door if the place caught on fire or was under attack by evil spirits.

  “Cybill?” I asked in my most pleasant innkeeper voice. “What’s going on?”

  She turned and looked mildly surprised to see me in my own guesthouse. Perhaps I needed to spend more time with the guests. “Why, I’m cleansing the house of spirits,” she said, as if that explained everything. Then she went back to arranging the incense in the vase.

  I could vaguely hear Mom and Dad talking in the kitchen, and the fact that only my mother’s voice would be audible to the other living people in the room wasn’t helping my blood pressure much.

  “But I said that would be a bad idea right now,” I reminded Cybill. “Remember?” The sugarcoating was starting to rub off my voice.

  I saw Maxie appear, headfirst, through the den’s ceiling, possibly attracted by the conversation. It was unusual for her to pay attention to anything going on with the guests. Even if the incense had been lit, she wouldn’t have smelled it, and the next spook show wasn’t scheduled for at least two hours. She only came down if she thought there would be something amusing going on, which usually meant something that would cause me embarrassment.

  Again, Cybill looked back over her shoulder. “But you have a small child living here,” she argued. “It’s not safe for her to be existing with these specters.” I saw Libby’s eyes widen at the prospect that the ghosts in the house they’d come specifically to see might be dangerous. (They’re not.)

  Now, you can tell me that I’m not a good hostess, and I’ll be a little miffed. You can tell me I don’t know anything about being a detective, and the likelihood is that I’ll agree with you. But nobody on this planet can ever look me in the eye (or over the shoulder) and inform me that I’m a bad mother, particularly when it’s related to Melissa’s safety.

  Besides, Maxie let out a whoooo and said to me, “I’ll show her how dangerous the specters are.” And she started toward the fireplace, where there are cast-iron pokers. She was grinning. Paul rose up through the basement and saw what Maxie was doing, flew to her side and started an unnecessarily sotto voce conversation with her about what was and was not all right to do when trying to prove the house was truly haunted.

  I wanted to shout out to Maxie to forget the poker, but that would have probably been a move in the wrong direction, given that Cybill had questioned the security of my establishment in front of two other guests. My teeth felt fused together.

  Still, I think you’d be proud of the way I pulled in my breath, took a second or two, and said, “It’s really quite safe for Melissa and everyone in the house. I can assure you of that.”

  Mind you, things probably would have been fine after that if I’d simply stopped talking at that moment. I can see that now. Instead, trying to convince Cybill and the Hills that there was no danger, I said loudly, “You needn’t worry. The ghosts don’t actually stay here in the house. They come by to entertain you.”

  Maxie, who had barely raised the fireplace poker three inches from its stand, dropped it with a loud clatter, causing everyone in the room to look her way. “We’re here for what?” she hissed.

  I saw Dad zip in through the kitchen door—and when I say “through the kitchen door,” I mean through—with Mom hot on his trail. To the other living people in the room, I’m sure the place looked wide open. To me, it was starting to get overcrowded. “What’s going on?” Dad asked. It seemed to be the question of the day.

  “Your daughter seems to think we’re the circus clowns around here,” Maxie huffed. Then she vanished completely, which is something she does when she gets really peeved.

  Cybill, who for all her purported abilities with ghosts, appeared not to have seen or heard anything and still looked incredulous. “You want there to be deceased spirits in your house?” she asked.

  “Absolutely,” I said, giving Paul a reassuring look. “I can control them.” His expression indicated that control wasn’t his favorite word, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Well,” Cybill said. “If you’re certain . . .”

  “Completely certain,” I assured her.

  She didn’t answer but nodded slightly and began putting her exorcism equipment back into a canvas bag emblazoned with a five-pointed star, which she had dropped on the floor. Tom Hill looked relieved, and Libby practically collapsed into one of the armchairs. I shuddered to think of what Cybill might have told them in the ramp-up to her attempted act of kindness. I’d have to talk to all the guests later and reassure them of their safety.

  I retreated to the kitchen with Mom in tow, to think. Dad and Paul followed. I’m always happy to see my father, but right now, I was sort of ghosted out and really just wanted to regroup.

  “I looked that woman in the eye and told her I didn’t want her to ‘cleanse’ my house,” I said, mostly to myself. “Maybe I’m not communicating as well as I should.”

  Dad didn’t help matters by telling me, “You might want to work on your people skills,” as we entered the kitchen, and I put on a kettle of water to boil. I wasn’t sure what I wanted, but it was definitely a hot drink.

  I looked at him. When Mom’s around, Dad doesn’t hover up near the ceiling or do much that’s especially supernatural. He was right next to her, at the same level, although an inch or so of his feet fell below the plane of the floor. Being a ghost, I’ve observed, is an inexact science. But he does his best, and since he was always a few inches taller than Mom, the sinkage was insignificant.

  “My people skills?” I asked. “I just handled a woman who was performing some odd ritual in my house, despite my specifically telling her not to, and without asking me ahead of time, all the while reassuring my other guests of their safety, and you think I need to work on my people skills?”

  “In the process, you insulted Maxie and Paul, baby girl.” Dad has always called me that, and I’ve always loved it, except between the ages of fourteen and twenty-five.

  “He’s right,” Mom chimed in. They have presented a united front for as long as I can remember, and Dad’s being dead was not changing the rules at all, I’d noticed. “You can’t treat Maxine and Paul like the unpaid help around here.”

  Coffee. With extra caffeine. That was what I needed. I turned off the burner with the kettle on it and started getting the coffeemaker prepared. After taking a few seconds to clear my head—which wasn’t really all that clear even now—I looked at Paul. “Did I really hurt your feelings?” I asked him.

  Paul didn’t make eye contact. “I knew what you meant,” he said.

  “But you didn’t like the way I said it.”

  He looked at me sideways and a half-smile forced its way through. “It might not have been my choice of words,” he admitted. “The problem really is Maxie.”

  As usual. “I’ll apologize to her when I see her because she won’t show up if I call her now, and I really don’t want the guests to hear me just screaming her name,” I said. “But I apologize to you now, Paul. I really didn’t intend to make you feel bad. I was just trying to keep the guests feeling comfortable her
e. That’s important.”

  Paul nodded. “Yes, it is. And I accept the apology. But keep in mind that Maxie . . .”

  “I know.”

  “No, you don’t. She was already miffed at you about last night,” Dad said. “She was talking about it before.”

  Last night? What happened last night? “Miffed about what?” I asked.

  “She said some woman was saying you were the ghost lady and you said there were no ghosts in the house,” Dad reported. “She said you were ashamed of . . . us, I guess.”

  Coffee was going to take too long. Did hot chocolate have caffeine? I went to check the box. Why wasn’t there a Dunkin’ Donuts in my kitchen?

  “You know that’s not true,” I told Dad. “I spent years hoping you’d come here.”

  “That’s me,” he answered. “Maxie thinks you don’t like her.”

  I thought we’d settled that some months before. “Maxie isn’t always easy to like,” I told him.

  Just then, there was a knock on my back door. While I would have expected Maxie to materialize in the kitchen to show off my bad timing, it was even worse news: Kerin Murphy, looking perky.

  I hate perky.

  “Here comes a real test of my people skills,” I told Dad.

  I walked to the door, considered looking Kerin directly in the face and telling her I wasn’t home, and then decided she wouldn’t get it, so I opened the door. “Kerin,” I said, unable to put the exclamation point she probably expected after her name. “What brings you here?”

  Mom, the only other person in the room Kerin could see, exchanged nods with her. But Mom’s eyelids were a little lower than usual. She knew I didn’t like Kerin, knew why and was on my side.

  “How are you, Alison?” Kerin said, and then didn’t wait for a reply, indicating that she really didn’t care. “I’m here for a progress report.”

  “A progress report? I’ve only had eighteen hours to begin an investigation, Kerin. I’m also working for another client, and I have a house full of guests. Believe me, I’ll let you know when there’s progress to be reported.”

  I saw Dad wince at my tone. He was a contractor in life and always exceedingly polite to his customers.

  “How are the children, Kerin?” Mom asked, in her usual subtle style of changing the subject.

  Kerin nearly rolled her eyes, but she knew better than to diss Mom. “They’re just fine, Loretta,” she said. The expression on Dad’s face indicated he thought “Mrs. Kerby” would have been a more appropriate form of address. “But what I’m really here to do is get a sense of where the investigation into Everett’s murder is going,” she continued, looking back at me with a challenging expression. One-track mind, that woman.

  “Well, Kerin, so far I’ve checked in with Lieutenant McElone at the police station,” I said. “Everett’s autopsy report is not available yet. I intend to get over to talk to Marv Winderbrook at the Fuel Pit as soon as I have a chance. Other than that, the case hasn’t progressed much in less than a day. I apologize if you thought these things happened more quickly, but they don’t.”

  My attitude probably wasn’t good for business, but then I wasn’t really a PI, so that wasn’t a very high priority for me. I was an innkeeper and would be happy to never have another investigation client as long as I lived.

  “This is not what we expected when we agreed to your exorbitant salary demand,” Kerin said.

  I shrugged. “So fire me,” I said. Dad shook his head, but he didn’t understand that my business plan was to get out of business as quickly as possible. “Feel free to find yourself another investigator, or as I would advise, let the police handle it. Why are you so hot and bothered over Everett’s death anyway? I agree it’s very sad that the poor guy was killed, but I didn’t know him very well. Did you?”

  Kerin sniffed. “My estimation of a person’s worth isn’t based on how well I know them,” she said. I considered asking whether she estimated a person’s worth in dollars or negotiable bonds, but instead I noted Maxie floating in from the backyard, looking bored. She perked up when she saw Kerin, though, no doubt recognizing that her presence meant conflict, something Maxie enjoys no matter what her mood. “Everett was a part of this community, he was valued, he was worth caring about.”

  “I agree,” I said. “What was his last name?”

  Kerin’s head came close to the land speed record for snapping up. “His last name?” she asked.

  “Yes. Everett’s last name. Surely you know it, since you cared so deeply about him that you would pay three thousand dollars to find out who killed him.” I couldn’t figure out why Kerin was pretending—and I was sure she was pretending—to be so upset about Everett’s death. I wanted to push her into a situation where she would have to drop the mask and have an actual human moment.

  But I had underestimated her. “Sandheim,” she said after a moment. “Everett’s last name was Sandheim.”

  Damn it!

  Nine

  Kerin stayed until the very moment I had to leave to pick up Melissa from school. In fact, she walked me to the door of my Volvo before taking off herself, although she said nothing more that was the least bit interesting or helpful. Which figured. There was clearly something very, very odd going on with that woman.

  “I think your pal Kerin is up to something. What do you think it is?” Maxie said, pulling out her notepad and a pencil. I hadn’t been quick enough pulling the car out of the driveway, and she’d hopped in and was now sitting backward in the passenger seat, arms behind her head and legs extended into the rear seat. I half expected her to start doing the backstroke.

  “She’s trying to get her revenge on me by making me ‘come out’ as the ghost lady,” I explained. “She wants to humiliate me in the circles of Harbor Haven.”

  “Being the ghost lady isn’t humiliating,” Maxie said, licking the pencil point because she thought it made her look more professional. “You should own it. Tell everybody how awesome we are.”

  As I mulled that one over, we pulled up in front of the school and Maxie put down the notepad and pencil to spot Melissa. What did she mean, own being the ghost lady? Shout it from the rooftops? I’d never be able to talk to any of the “normal” people in town again.

  Melissa was ensconced among her bevy of friends and didn’t notice me for a moment, which was not atypical. I touched the horn gently and indicated to Maxie that she should move into the backseat. She chose instead to fly out of the car and over to Melissa, who was hugging all her friends in turn, as if she were leaving on a raft expedition down the Amazon, rather than a ten-minute drive to her home, only to see them all again tomorrow. Eleven-year-olds live in drama. It would be so much better if they lived in musical comedy.

  Maxie whispered into Liss’s ear as she walked to the car, and I saw my daughter’s head snap up to catch her eye. I guessed Maxie had passed along the news of Kerin Murphy’s mysterious visit, and that was confirmed the second Melissa opened the passenger’s door.

  “What’s the deal with Mrs. Murphy?” she demanded.

  “It’s nice to see you too, honey,” I cooed at her. Once her seat belt was in place, I started out of the circular drive around the front door of the school and headed back onto the street. Maxie took up a position in—and I do mean in—the backseat, a smug expression on her face.

  “Mom,” Melissa insisted. “What’s going on? Are you going to admit to being the ghost lady?”

  Something dislodged itself from the back of my throat. “I can’t imagine where Maxie got that idea,” I said honestly. “I’m not going to do that.”

  Maxie, never one to leave well enough alone, volunteered, “You’re just insulting us, you know. It’s like you don’t want to admit you see us, because we’re not good enough to talk to.”

  “I never thought that.”

  “But you won’t tell people otherwise,” Maxie said. Maxie has to have the last word.

  Accordingly, nobody said anything for a while. Paul Melançon playe
d uninterrupted in the CD player as we all tried to figure out what the heck the latest developments could have meant.

  Now I really wanted some alone time to talk to Paul and would have to hustle it up because Josh, Jeannie and Tony were coming for dinner tonight. “What’s really important,” I said to no one in particular, “is that we figure out who would have a reason to want Everett dead. Paul always says the only two reasons people kill someone is for love”—well, he actually says sex—“or money.”

  “Did Everett have someone who would be jealous of him?” Melissa asked. “I never saw him with anybody—he would just ask for money or a blanket or something.”

  “I only saw the guy once or twice,” Maxie said. “And it was when I was alive. But he didn’t seem the type.”

  “Well, he certainly didn’t seem the type to have money,” I noted.

  Melissa ran her teeth over her bottom lip, a habit she calls scratching, which indicates she’s thinking. “Maybe he was one of those homeless people who really has a lot of money but is just, like, eclectic or something.”

  “Eccentric, you mean,” I suggested.

  “Yeah. That.”

  We were just passing the office of the Harbor Haven Chronicle, and Melissa pointed out Phyllis Coates, the paper’s editor/publisher/owner/entire staff locking the front door on her way out. I stopped at the curb and called to Phyllis, whom I’ve known since I delivered copies of the Chronicle on my bike when I was thirteen.

  “Alison!” Phyllis said. She walked to the car and leaned in the window. “Hey, Melissa. You ready to come deliver papers for me yet?”

  Melissa looked eagerly at me, but before she could say anything, I answered, “No, she’s not. But I’m glad we ran into you. What do you know about Everett Sandheim?”

  Phyllis shrugged. “He’s dead,” she said. “What do you want to know?”

  “Come on. A murder in Harbor Haven, and you’re saying you’re not looking into it? I don’t believe you.”