Bones Behind the Wheel Read online

  To this day I don’t know why I walked out of the bedroom to the hallway. I don’t believe in intuition—although these days I do believe in ghosts so I guess everything is at least a little bit up for grabs—and I didn’t want to interact with guests in my pajamas. But I thought maybe Josh was coming up or that I’d see him on the lower level and that would make me feel better about the evening. Except the hallway and the front room downstairs were both empty. I didn’t go to the top of the stairs to check, but I didn’t hear anyone moving around downstairs. Adam and Steve were still out, and Katrina had come back to let herself into her room about an hour before. I didn’t hear Melissa roaming around above me, since she’s not exactly a stomper.

  But there was the window at the end of the hall, overlooking the backyard.

  I did want to see how much progress had been made since the crime scene mob had quit for the day and gone home. I just wanted one part of this mess to look like it was heading back toward normal.

  So I walked down the length of the hall and moved the curtain to one side so I could look out my back window and see some sign of stability.

  The motion-activated back light was on, indicating there had been someone at least walking around back there. I wasn’t especially concerned because I’ve seen that light go on for a stray cat walking by. But this hadn’t been tripped by a stray cat.

  The Continental was back, sitting on the sand next to the hole from which it had been violently extracted the night before, if you believed Katrina Breslin.

  I stared at it for a moment and shut my eyes tight. Maybe it was a hallucination or a mirage or something else that would indicate I was losing my grip on reality.

  Nope. When I opened my eyes that big hulk of a rusted-out Lincoln was still there, taunting me.

  “Oh, give me a break,” I said out loud.

  Chapter 12

  I actually debated calling McElone because it was going to keep us awake too late. But I was brought up with a respect for those doing their jobs and for the law of the land (well, most of the laws, anyway—I had a rebellious period in my teens and early 20s) so I didn’t see a way around letting the local chief of detectives know that someone had played Musical Cars in my backyard again.

  First, I went downstairs and informed my husband and resident dead detective that someone had once again towed a not-very-small object onto our property without anyone noticing. This led to a good deal of going outside and looking, which confirmed what I had just told them and surrendered no further information. Men. They won’t just take you at your word.

  That, in turn, had led to summoning McElone, who no doubt was at her own home with her husband and children. She, having been given the power to delegate by the good people (and some jerks) of Harbor Haven, sent another detective under her command, Sgt. Gabriel Yablonski, to investigate with the explicit instructions that he make sure the area was cordoned off—again—and that he not report back to her until at the very earliest eight the next morning.

  Yablonski was a fairly dapper fellow who couldn’t afford the best suits so compensated by wearing extremely classy ties. This one was orange. I didn’t especially care, but it did catch the eye. He was carrying a tablet computer and looked at the photographs taken by the crime scene crew the day before. Standing out on the sand in the cold and the wind, he walked all the way around the Lincoln slowly, comparing it to what he could see on his tablet. I didn’t see how the object itself was all that much more attractive than its photographs, but then I’m not a detective, and you can ask any of my clients if you don’t believe me.

  Josh and I were watching from the den, just inside the French doors. I wasn’t going out there in this temperature unless I had to, and Yablonski had made it clear we were not essential to his work. “You think he’s trying to figure out if this is the Continental’s evil twin?” Josh asked.

  I laughed a little, partially because it was a decent joke and partially because I was glad my husband wasn’t acting like a complete detective fanboy the way Paul, outside and practically on Yablonski’s shoulders, was. “Maybe he’s questioning the car,” I told him. “Wants to see what it knows.”

  We didn’t get to riff much longer—which is probably a good thing—because Yablonski finished his interrogation of the sedan and trudged up the beach to our deck. Josh opened the French door for him and the detective walked in, tracking sand into my den, which was not appreciated. Paul phased through the wall so it was unnecessary to hold the door open any longer than it took Yablonski to bring himself and a small dune inside.

  “Well, that should do it for tonight,” he said once he’d shaken even more sand out of the cuffs on his pants. “We’ll send someone over to cordon off the area very shortly, but we’ll try not to be too loud. Just a couple of questions, if that’s okay.” He gestured into the room as if he were the host and we were the guests. He wanted us to sit down for the interrogation.

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d wipe your shoes before we sit,” I said. “Whatever you bring in I have to clean up.” I pointed at the bunker he’d created just inside my door.

  Yablonski looked down and winced a little. “Sorry about that. I should have done that before I came inside.”

  Yes, he should have, but there was no point in pushing it right now. “Just please, if you wouldn’t mind doing it now,” I said.

  “Alison is very particular about the house because it’s also her business,” Josh said. I shot him a look that indicated he need not have apologized, essentially, for me, but he wasn’t seeing that.

  “I understand,” the detective said as he vigorously scraped his shoes on a mat I have just inside the French doors. “My mistake.”

  Paul, now hovering just a foot or so off the floor, folded his arms. “Enough about the floor,” he said. “There is important business to discuss regarding this case.”

  He got a look for me too, but it was not as sustained because I didn’t want Yablonski to wonder why this crazy woman was staring at a fixed point in the air.

  Josh and I sat on the sofa we’d been sharing previously and Yablonski took an easy chair opposite us. He placed his tablet computer on the table between us and no doubt had it recording the conversation so he could refer to it later.

  “That almost certainly is the same car that was discovered in your backyard yesterday,” he began.

  “Almost certainly?” I asked. “You think somebody has a stockpile of 1977 Lincoln Continentals lying around for the expressed purpose of keeping my backyard stocked with one?”

  “Alison,” Paul scolded. “The man is doing his job.”

  “I have to be certain about any possibility,” Yablonski answered. “We don’t know why the car was there to begin with, why it was removed and we definitely don’t know why it was brought back. I have to be sure about every detail so I can tell Lt. McElone in my report. She’s still the lead investigator on this case.”

  I thought to thank my lucky stars for that, but then I remembered my stars hadn’t been particularly lucky the past couple of days and figured I shouldn’t ask for more trouble. “How do you know it’s the same car, then?” I asked Yablonski, largely because Paul had instructed me to do so.

  “I compared the car out there with the photographs of the one that had been there yesterday and there are a couple of dents and scratches in exactly the same places, as well as rust damage in the undercarriage and the trunk that matched pretty much exactly,” the detective, who now was answering rather than asking questions, said. “I took a quick glance at the registration number on the dash but it had been removed, probably with a file or something, and that was true of the other car as well. Somebody didn’t want us to know where this car was from.”

  “As I understood it, Lt. McElone has said she would check for the registration number,” Josh said. “How can she do that if the number hasn’t been there all this time?”

  Yablonski, who seemed to understand he was now conducting a clinic in being a police detective, held
out a hand to indicate Josh should slow down his thinking. “There are other places that have ID numbers, inside the engine block and on certain parts,” he said. “We’ll be able to identify the car all right.”

  “How about the person they found inside the car?” I asked. “He doesn’t have any number on his engine block, I’m betting.”

  “He or she,” Yablonski corrected me. “I don’t think we have a definitive answer on that just yet. The ME is working on it as we speak. But if you don’t mind, I still have a couple of questions to ask you.” Our luck, he remembered he was the cop. “First of all, how many people are staying in this house at the moment?”

  “Including us and my daughter, six,” I said. “I have three guests this week.”

  “Are they all in the house tonight?”

  “Actually, no. Adam and Steve Cosgrove are out somewhere, probably at dinner or somewhere in town,” I told him.

  Yablonski looked slightly amused. “Adam and Steve?”

  “Don’t start.”

  He didn’t. “So it’s you two, your daughter and one guest in the house tonight?” he asked.

  “That’s right. Katrina Breslin, who was questioned the first time they found a Continental in my backyard, is here, I’m pretty sure.” It occurred to me I hadn’t actually seen Katrina in the house after she’d gone for dinner.

  Yablonski waited. “Can you ask her to come down?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure I want to knock on her door if she’s sleeping,” I answered. I knew Katrina had been up until at least two in the morning the night before, but for all I knew she’d clocked out at eight tonight to compensate. People’s sleep patterns are their own business.

  “Just tap.”

  Josh and I exchanged a McElone-wouldn’t-make-me-do-this glance but I didn’t see a logical out, so I walked out of the den and up the stairs to Katrina’s door. There I tapped lightly, believe me, and waited. There was no answer. I tapped again, maybe a hair harder. Still no response. I shrugged my shoulder toward no one at all and turned to go back down the stairs, and almost had an embolism when I saw Paul hovering there, just in the air where there was no landing.

  “Don’t do that!” I hissed at him.

  “Do what?” He looked sincerely confused.

  “Forget it. What did you come up here for?”

  He pointed to the door. “I’d rather not look inside if she’s sleeping, but I’ll do so if you think it’s best,” he said. It was a kind, if bizarre, offer.

  “Nah. I’ll just let Yablonski know what happened and let him act on it.”

  “Are you certain she’s in there?” Paul asked.

  I didn’t answer him and went back to the den to report to Yablonski. He nodded as if what I told him was completely expected and said he’d tell McElone all he’d discovered tonight, which in my opinion wasn’t very much. Yablonski did glance up at the landing as he left, no doubt wondering if Katrina was hiding out or entirely absent. I chose to decide she was asleep, which was exactly what I wanted to be.

  But when I got back to the den to retrieve my husband I found him furiously texting with the 0-pound ghost in the room. Paul, who had his phone out to communicate with Josh, was clearly responding to something when I got there. He was texting as he spoke despite Josh being unable to hear what he said, and since he wasn’t looking up I was pretty sure it wasn’t for my benefit. Paul just liked to hear his own words out loud. He says it helps him think.

  “The most likely possibility is that the car was removed to check for evidence left behind, but it’s also possible that the emerald found in your ceiling and the pouch I saw the lieutenant remove from the crater in your yard are related,” he said as he tapped his phone. He used both his thumbs, which is something I’ve never really gotten the hang of; I tend to type as if it were a traditional keyboard but my fingers are too large for the tiny display. This leads to a great many autocorrect mistakes.

  “When’s Volume Two of that text coming out?” I asked Paul as I walked into the den.

  He looked up, startled. “Alison.”

  At the same time, Josh said, “Honey, we’re planning strategy.”

  “It’s late, fellas. You can play Hardy Boys again tomorrow.” I beckoned to my husband.

  He stood still.

  “I’ll be up in a few minutes,” he said. Now, Josh is never mean and he almost never gets angry at anything. So he wasn’t giving me a cold stare like some men would when their wives treat them like children. I’d have to scale back. But he did look determined and he shifted his eyes toward Paul and back, even if he missed by eight feet because he had no idea where Paul was actually floating. He didn’t want to lose face in front of his new invisible friend.

  It was almost kind of cute.

  There was no point in insisting. I didn’t want to destroy whatever nutty male bonding thing they were doing because Josh has always been a little wary of the ghosts. He finds the idea of them amusing but until now had never really communicated with either of them, or with my father, whom he knew in life.

  “Okay,” I said. “But I’m going up. Don’t be too long, all right?”

  “Of course not,” my husband said. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  I went up and got ready for bed. Again. Only this time I made it. And when Josh came in I heard him being as quiet as possible to keep from disturbing me, which was sweet.

  It was three a.m.

  Chapter 13

  When you own a one-person retail business that relies on its clientele (as they all do) you don’t have the luxury of calling in sick. The only other employee of Madison Paint was Josh’s nonagenarian grandfather Sy, and no matter how engrossed Josh was in the Case of the Sometimes Vanishing Car, he knew he couldn’t possibly ask Sy to man the store for an entire day alone. And since the early morning is the busiest time of the day in his business, Josh had to be there when the store opened at six.

  So after about 90 minutes of sleep, he stopped to talk to Bill Harrelson and Jim (Fill in Last Name Here) when they arrived. My husband looked like he’d been run over by the Continental, but I saw him outside talking fake-jovially (only I would know the difference) to the men and then trudging over to his car to make the drive to Asbury Park before the sun actually came up. He was texting, no doubt to Paul (who had not yet appeared from his lair in the basement this morning), as he walked. Slightly unsteadily.

  I had mustered all my self-discipline and had not told him I had seen this coming. We’d been married less than a year.

  It was worth noting, however, that while my mostly asleep ears were listening for my husband’s footsteps on the stairs, I had not heard Katrina come back but had heard Adam and Steve. So maybe she’d been asleep in her room after all. I also noted that Bill Harrelson was favoring his left arm, shaking it like it was achy or tight. I didn’t know what that was about and couldn’t see the arm itself through the jacket he was wearing.

  The first thing I’d done that morning (after getting maybe three hours of sleep myself) was look out the window and confirm the Continental had not taken another unexpected nocturnal trip; it had not. It was out there proudly flying its flag inside the yellow crime scene tape on wire posts jammed into the sand. The gaping hole from which the car had emerged only two days ago (was that possible?) was still there, too. Apparently the beach elves who could have filled it in with sand and made the problem go away were on strike.

  The second thing I’d done, as my kitchen was still in full lock down mode and encased in plastic sheeting, was drive quickly to Dunkin Donuts for sufficient coffee and tea for myself, my husband (who didn’t drink coffee or tea, so he was easy), my daughter and my three guests. The Mandorisis would bring their own morning beverages. The inevitable cops who would no doubt descend on my back property were, I had decided, on their own.

  When I’d driven back and parked in the driveway, within sight of the crime scene, Menendez and her crew had not yet arrived. This was surely not considered an urgent emergenc
y by the Harbor Haven cops, and I didn’t blame them. A car that had been buried during the Carter Administration kept leaving and coming back? Hardly seemed a current threat to our citizenry. Maybe the thing just liked to go out for fries and a milkshake at night when there was nothing to do.

  I couldn’t shake the feeling, though, as I walked from the car to the French doors carrying hot beverages, that the Continental’s grille was grinning at me.

  Now that Josh had taken off and I could hear Melissa rumbling around in the attic two floors above me (something about the way the house is constructed, I guess), I reminded myself to put out the morning beverages and a box of assorted doughnuts as a please-don’t-blame-the-hostess offering on the sideboard in the den.

  Before any of the guests showed up downstairs, though, Maxie (of all people) appeared in the den by way of the ceiling. She was wearing the concealing trench coat until she got all the way into the room and then lost it, revealing her outfit beneath to be that of painter’s overalls and work boots. She was carrying a large artist’s pad.

  “What are you doing up so early?” I asked, broadening my definition of up to include the fact that her feet didn’t exactly make it all the way to the floor.

  “Work to do.” Maxie was being terse to indicate she was busy and harried. Maxie, in addition to being a dead spirit, also believes herself to be a character in any one of many vintage movies. I think now she was Rosalind Russell in His Girl Friday. “Sketches to show you.”

  Sketches? She had taken the hypothetical (I had hoped) kitchen/den project to the next phase. I can’t say I was excited by that revelation. “Isn’t it a little early for sketches?” I asked.

  “No! You have no idea of the scope and depth of this project. We need to finalize the designs before we can start acquiring materials.” She floated down farther to right over the coffee table where Yoblanski had placed his voice recorder the night before. She laid down the pad and opened it to display her designs. That coffee table was working overtime these days. Maybe soon someone would put some coffee on it just to remind it of its intended function. “Take a look at this.”