Who Invited the Ghost to Dinner: A Ghost Writer Mystery (7 page)

Total silence. No one was apparently too upset to hear this news.

Chapter 10

“I
don’t see what Mrs. Ingram’s death has to do with any of us,” Prufrock said. “Unless she was murdered. Was she, Chief Penhall?”

I looked at Mike, who glared at Prufrock. I slid my hand into Mike’s hand and squeezed.

“At this time, Mr. Prufock, we are treating it as a suspicious death, but that does not mean she was murdered. Mrs. Ingram was not on the guest list, so we are curious as to what she was doing here. I’m hoping that someone might have seen or heard something. Maybe you saw her come in through a side door, or overheard her talking to someone tonight. You might not even realize that you know something. The state police are sending a couple of officers to help us with the interviews. All I ask is for your cooperation, and this will go as smoothly as possible. Thank you for your cooperation and patience.”

Mike led me to the curtain and we disappeared behind it. “Well, that went well,” I said.

“I’m torn between interviewing Prufrock first just to get him out of here, and making sure he’s the last one we talk to,” Mike said.

“Make things easier on yourself; get rid of him as soon as possible,” I suggested.

“You’re probably right.”

“I’m not sure how professional that was to talk to everybody while holding your significant other’s hand,” I teased him.

“You grabbed my hand, remember?”

“I was just trying to be a calming influence so you wouldn’t jump off the stage and strangle the lawyer.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“Anything else I can do for you?”

“At the moment, no. Reagan is talking to the actors and crew in the cast lounge right now. I should probably get back there and help her. The others are going to divide the room between them and start taking statements.”

“Hey, Mike?” Randy interrupted. “The state police are here.”

“Great. I’ll go talk to them. Has anyone tried to leave?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Jeffrey Prescott tried to shove their way past me, but I stood firm, and directed them back to their table. Mr. Prufrock is still squawking out there, threatening to sue the police department. Grandma Alma told him to sit down and put a sock in it. Walt has found a notepad and has started talking to people near his table. I hope that’s okay.”

Mike nodded. “He knows what questions to ask. I’ll send one of the state officers back here to help Reagan, and I’ll go help out there.”

“How will we know if you’ve talked to people? I don’t want to let someone out that shouldn’t leave.”

“If they don’t come from the direction of the main room, then they haven’t been interviewed yet. Turn them away and send them to us.”

“You got it,” Randy said.

As he left, Mike sighed. “Still want to date a cop?”

“Yep. Still want to date someone who can talk to ghosts?”

“Have you seen your ghosts tonight?” Mike asked.

“Just Mac. He’s going to float around, see if he can learn anything.”

“I won’t be able to use it if he does.”

“Who said you had to use it?”

“No way, Cam,” he replied, shaking his head. “I don’t want to risk you getting hurt again. Promise me you won’t get involved.”

“If I just happen to hear something that could help you, may I tell you?”

“As long as you don’t act on it.”

“I can live with that.”

“Good,” he said. “I better go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He gave me an ice melting, heart pounding so loud I could hear it in my ears kiss and left.

The best laid plans of mice and men, and all that rot…

***

I got home around eleven, and the first thing I did was change clothes. Dressing up once in awhile is fun, but I prefer a good pair of comfy sweats and a soft T-shirt.

I felt tired, but my brain was wired. There were so many questions running through my head that it was starting to become a jumbled mess. I just couldn’t keep anything straight, so I grabbed a notepad and pen from my desk, and a bottle of water from the fridge. Propping a couple of pillows on the arm of the couch, I leaned against them and started writing.

Who wanted Susan Ingram dead?
I was pretty sure that was a long list. She was married to Joey, whose family had lived here for two generations. Her father-in-law, Clinton, was a big name in construction. She and Joey have three children, two boys, Junior and Reed, and a daughter, Sirena, who was a holy terror like her mother. Sirena has a major sense of entitlement, just like her mother, the kind that comes with being around money. The only normal person in that family is Reed, who works for his grandfather’s construction company, but as a member of a building crew as a carpenter. He is also a talented woodcarver, and his work is in high demand in North Texas.

Who had the most to gain from her death?
That I did not know, but it was definitely something that I needed to find out.

Where was Joey when Susan was killed?
I hadn’t paid attention to him after spotting him before dinner was served, and Mike hadn’t found him after we found Susan’s body. So where did he go, and how did he manage to get away without being seen?

Is it possible that Susan was killed by mistake?
If so, then who was the intended victim? Was that person still in danger?

I put my pen down and rubbed my eyes. Mother probably had a guest list, so I could get a copy of it from her in the morning. What if Susan was killed as a way to send a message to Joey? He wasn’t as business savvy as his father was, and there were rumors around town that Joey may have borrowed money from a loan shark to cover some debts. Did Clinton cut him off?

Growling in frustration, I put the notepad and pen on the coffee table, grabbed my phone, turned on the alarm, shut off the lights, and went to bed. I dreamt about Susan, Diane, and Rachel. They were standing on the stage, arguing about something. The lights went out, and a spotlight appeared on Susan. I couldn’t tell where the other two women were. Susan was wearing a sleeveless red dress and red heels, with a double strand of pearls around her neck. Suddenly, someone pulled the pearls tight and started choking her. She clawed at them, trying to pull them away from her neck. As she sank to the floor, I could hear someone clapping, and I looked around trying to see who was doing it. When I looked back, all I could see were those red heels sticking out from behind the couch.

I woke with a start. Blinking my eyes, I saw someone bending over me. “Mike?” I said, blinking my eyes.

“No, it’s Mac.”

“What are you doing here?”

“The cops are about done, I think. They talked to everybody who was there and sent them home. The wagon took the body away. Not much else going on really, so I thought I’d pop over here and tell you what I heard.”

I turned on the bedside lamp, grabbed my phone and checked the time. “At one in the morning?”

He shrugged. “Time doesn’t mean a whole lot when you’re dead, sweetheart.”

“I suppose not. Did you learn anything?”

“Yeah, no one liked the dead woman much, that’s for sure.”

“Not surprising,” I said, getting out of bed. I led the way to the kitchen, flipping on the light and opening the fridge to look for something to eat.

“There was one person who was a bit upset by her death, though.”

“Who?”

“Not sure. He sounded a bit like a snob. He pretended not to care, but there was something in the way he acted…I think he knew her.”

“Did you happen to overhear his name?”

“Steve…Steph…something like that.”

“What did he look like?”

“He was wearing tweed, looked like some stuffy college professor.”

“Stephen Showalter.”

“Yeah, I think that’s the guy’s name.”

“He’s from New York.”

“Did anyone there act like they knew him?”

Mac thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so, but there was someone else…”

“What do you mean?”

Mac stood up and paced the floor for a minute. “I thought I recognized someone.”

“You’re kidding.”

He shook his head. “He looked familiar, but I’m not sure why. I’ve been dead for fifty years; I shouldn’t recognize anyone, right?”

“Anything is possible, I suppose. Did you happen to overhear the person’s name or anything?”

“No, I saw them from across the room. It was just a glance, really, and when I looked back, they were gone. I probably just imagined the whole thing.”

There was a quiet knock at the front door. “What is this, Grand Central Station?” I muttered as I went to answer the door. “Mike! What are you doing here so late?”

“I was driving by, saw your light was on, so I thought I’d stop by.”

“Come in,” I said, stepping aside to let him in. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Some water would be great,” he replied, sitting down on the couch. “My throat is a bit dry from talking to so many people.”

I went into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. As I walked back into the living room, I noticed Mac was glaring at Mike from across the room. I handed Mike the water and sat down next to him. “So, how did things go?”

“About as well as could be expected,” he said before taking a big drink. “Nobody saw anything.”

“That was to be expected, Mike. They were all in front of the curtain, not behind it. What about the cast or crew? Surely they saw or heard something.”

“Deaf as a post, the whole lot of them,” he said disgustedly.

“That’s impossible,” I said. “Someone must have heard something at least.”

Mike shook his head. “Not a sound.”

“I saw someone walking backstage just before the end of the first act,” Mac said from across the room.

“Who?” I asked before cringing.

“Who what?” Mike said.

“Um…well…we’re not alone.”

Mike groaned. “Which one?”

“Mac.”

“Where?”

“Across the room by the TV.”

Mike looked in that direction. “I don’t see anyone.”

“Wish I could say that,” Mac retorted.

“Why can’t I see him?” Mike asked me, oblivious to Mac’s comment. “I could see Stanley Ashton.”

“But that was only when all of us were in danger,” I pointed out, “and we figured out who killed him. Besides, when it was all over, weren’t you the one who said you never wanted to see another ghost for as long as you lived?”

“Yes, but I find it a bit unnerving that my girlfriend can see and talk to them,” he replied.

“You think I enjoy this?” I said. “I’m a ghostwriter. I write stories for others who can’t write to save their lives, yet want to tell their stories. I’m the one that’s supposed to be invisible.”

“I can hear you over here, remember?” Mac said. “It’s not like I chose to be seen by you. No one’s been able to see or hear me for fifty years, except other ghosts. And talking to them is boring.”

“I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me, Mac,” I said.

“What’s his problem?”

“He didn’t like what I said.”

“Poor guy,” Mike said. “So when you said ‘who’, you were asking him, correct?”

I nodded.

“Ask him again.”

“Are you sure?”

Mike put his now empty water bottle down on the coffee table. “I’m interested in hearing what he has to say.”

I looked at Mac. “You heard the man. Who did you see?”

“A man.”

“What did he look like?”

“Black hair with streaks of white, white shirt, black pants, black tie. He was moving slowly behind the scenery.”

I gave Mike the information. “Which side of the stage was he headed for?” he asked.

“If you’re looking from the stage toward the audience, he was moving to the left.”

“To the left,” I told Mike.

“There’s a prop table set up on that side,” Mike said. “There’s also a door back there that leads to the dressing rooms. What happened next?”

“He just stood there in the dark for a few minutes,” Mac said. “The curtain went down, the actors went through that door the cop mentioned. The man slipped around the edge of the scenery and walked onto the stage.”

“Why did he do that?”

“Because there was someone else there.”

“Who?”

“The dead woman.”

“Whoa…”

“What?” Mike said. “Do you know how frustrating this is for me? I’m only hearing one side of this conversation. What did he say?”

“He said that the man met Susan on the stage after the first act.”

“That would explain how her body ended up behind the couch,” Mike said. “Did Mac get a good look at the killer’s face?”

Mac shook his head. “I didn’t stick around after they started kissing.”

“Why would he kiss her, then kill her?” I said.