Ghost in the Wind (14 page)

I hadn't even been able to fully brief Paul before Berthe chose that moment to walk into the den and must have assessed our faces. “Is something wrong?” she asked. I handed Paul the voice recorder, which he stashed in his pocket to make it vanish. He sunk into the basement.

“I'll be back,” he said. He didn't even have the good taste to do an Arnold Schwarzenegger impression.

I stood up, back in hostess mode. “No, not at all, Berthe,” I said. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Alison, I don't want to complain, truly. I've loved all the little shows and everything that goes on here at the hotel.” You can tell them a million times it's a guesthouse; they'll call it what they want and you'll agree because the customer is always paying. “And the musical performances have been lovely.”

“But?” I said.

“
But
when it gets a little later in the evening, even nice music is something that can be, well, too much. Do you know what I mean?”

“Music?” I asked Berthe. “What music is that?”

Vance was out somewhere and I was pretty sure John Lennon hadn't come back already.

“Well, it sounds like it's coming from the library to me.”

There was nothing to do but go and look. Maxie came along as I followed Berthe to the library. Berthe led the way, in case I'd forgotten where the rooms were in my own house.

Sure enough, when we got there, a ukulele was (to Berthe's eyes) playing itself in one of the armchairs. And making quite a lovely sound, although I couldn't really recognize the tune.

Sitting in the armchair, playing the uke, was a ghost who looked to be in his seventies, though quite fit for a person who had passed away. His longish gray hair was pulled back in the requisite aging hippie ponytail, and his eyes sparkled as much as a ghost's can when he saw us walk in. He stopped playing.

“I swear I heard it a second ago,” Berthe said. She shook her head and walked out, mumbling something about a hearing test.

“Ah, good!” the ghost shouted. He had a fairly thick Cockney accent, so understanding him was going to be a challenge, I could see. Hear. You know. “The music brought ya in! Glad to see it. Which one of you is the innkeeper?”

He didn't seem especially dangerous, but that didn't mean anything. Still, I
was
the proprietor of the place, and with all the musicians passing through here lately, it didn't seem too risky to admit to it, so I did. “Alison Kerby,” I said. “And you?” I asked, though I was pretty sure that even with the wrinkles, I knew the face.

“I'm Morrie Chrichton.”

“The bass player for the Jingles?” I asked. I was a little jaded after meeting Vance McTiernan and John Lennon, but hey, not bad.

“The same. I heard through the grapevine that Vance
McTiernan's been through here lately. I was hoping you might direct me toward where old Vance might be keeping himself.”

“He's not here now,” I told him truthfully. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I'd like to strangle the old swine with me bare hands,” Morrie said, still smiling.

“You're too late,” Maxie said.

Morrie Chrichton had made it to the age of sixty-six before he'd died a mere eight months previously, he'd told us, from “extremely natural causes”—a heart attack sustained while playing electric bass in a recording session for a trio called Squirrel Meat.

“So I'd like to find the swine who forced me into playing these cheap boring gigs for the last twenty years of my life and probably contributed to me keeling over with a Fender in my hands, playing the dreariest repeat riff in the history of rock 'n' roll,” Morrie told us, demanding to know where Vance was and if anyone could find a way to make a ghost feel a great deal of pain. Cost, he'd mentioned, would be an object.

Although he hadn't reverted to a younger self, I still recognized Morrie from old Jingles album covers, though he said he'd stopped getting royalties after Vance McTiernan had sued him and thrown him out of the band—not necessarily in that order—when the Jingles were already on their
way down in popularity. (Many believed
Jell-o
, the only Jingles album without Chrichton's input, was the band's weakest.) I couldn't expect to be paid handsomely for my information “because McTiernan, that louse, took all my money and reduced me to living in New Jersey.”

Morrie Chrichton wasn't making a great number of friends in my house.

I'd assured him that I had no idea where Vance McTiernan might be, which was technically true because Vance hadn't told me where he was going and I hadn't asked.

That was my story, and I was . . . well, you've got it by now.

Melissa had quit the poker game to see what was going on and suggested to Morrie that, with all eternity awaiting both him and Vance, maybe it was time to bury the hatchet.

“That's a good idea,” Morrie said to my eleven-year-old. “Maybe I can bury it between a couple of his ribs.”

At that point, I asked Morrie to vacate my premises, ostensibly because I didn't like the way he had talked to Melissa, though she seemed completely unperturbed by what he'd said. The fact was, I didn't want Morrie around the house when Vance returned and I had no idea when that might happen.

Morrie, calm as the surf at low tide, nodded, made the ukulele disappear into his coat and rose up through the ceiling to exit. “I'll be back,” he intoned as his head broke through into the rooms above (I estimated that was Tessa's room).

Once he'd vanished into the rafters, Liss looked at me with a wisdom that belied her tender years. “What a jerk,” she said.

“Got that right.”

Paul chose that moment to rise through the floor. “The recording of your interview with William Mastrovy is interesting,” he said. “But I didn't hear anything from any of the other band members except the woman, and that was only an occasional comment. What did the others say?”

Um . . .
“I didn't get to talk to them,” I admitted. Total honesty with Paul was my latest resolution; we'd see if it lasted longer than that whole thing about exercising every day. “The one guy was really, really occupied with the woman on the couch, and I think he's new anyway. The other guitarist wasn't in the band when Vanessa died.”

Paul did his best not to look impatient. We were healing our relationship, and we both knew it. “What about the woman?” he asked, tone flat and consciously nonjudgmental.

“Sammi didn't want to talk,” I told him, and that was true. She'd simply stared blankly at me and then walked out.

Paul, clearly having decided he would do what it took to make this arrangement work, nodded. “Very well. You'll get to them next. Our priority now should be to find Vanessa's mother and half brother.”

Given the chance, I told him about our encounter with Morrie. Paul is an excellent listener and waited until the end of my tale to put his hand to his goatee and say, “I'm not sure if this simplifies matters or complicates them. This might be a side issue unrelated to Vanessa's death.”

I considered Morrie. I'd never had the same blind admiration for him as I'd developed for Vance when I was a teen. In interviews, he'd seemed almost contemptuous of the fans, as if we were somehow a necessary inconvenience that went with his true goal, living the rock star life. It could be somewhat off-putting.

“If I didn't know better, I'd swear he was drunk,” Maxie chimed in.

There was no sign of Vance or Morrie in the den. Quietly (as if I didn't want to disturb the poker players' concentration) I asked, “Where
is
Vance?”

“I have no idea,” Paul said. “I haven't seen him since before you left.”

“Well, Morrie's not here now,” I said. And perfectly on cue, I was proven wrong.

Morrie Chrichton sank down through the ceiling, which meant he'd passed through at least one of the guest rooms. I wasn't crazy about that. And as soon as he saw me, he pointed a somewhat shaky finger—it really
was
like he was drunk!—and said, “You're hiding him! Where is that dirty Vance McTiernan?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “I'm just the innkeeper.”

“We know, dear,” Tessa sighed. She must have wandered in from the card game. “I'll be going up to my room now.” And she turned and left.

This conversation with Morrie would just be easier elsewhere, I realized. “I'm going into the kitchen,” I said.

Liss, Paul and Maxie followed me, and after a second, Morrie did, too. We walked through the den on our way, and my mother, sensing something was up, came in behind us without asking questions.

Once we were all in the kitchen, I turned to Morrie. “When my guests are present, you're going to be civil and you're going to let me tend to them,” I said. He looked confused. “Is that clear?”

“What, can they hear me?” Morrie tried to focus.

“No, but I can. And are you drunk? How can you be drunk? You can't drink anything!”

He smiled wryly. At least, that's what
he
thought. “It's all sense memory, my pet. I spent so much of my life like this I can pretty much summon it whenever I want. It's a kick, isn't it?”

I looked at Paul, who shrugged. “I never drank much,” he said.

“Oh, you should try it,” Morrie suggested. “Do you a world of good.”

“Well, I need to talk to you seriously right now,” I told him. “Can your senses remember how to be sober?”

“Yeah, but it's not half as much fun.” Suddenly his eyes focused, his expression sharpened and his voice lost a
percentage of rasp. “Now tell me where Vance McTiernan is and I won't trouble you again.”

“I have no idea where Vance is right now, and given the way you've been talking, I don't think I'd tell you if I did. I don't know what went on between the two of you but I'm not going to leave him open to whatever warped idea of revenge you have in your mind. So stop haunting the place, pal. You're not going to find what you want here.”

Paul looked proud, and Maxie looked astonished, which wasn't very flattering. I can be very authoritative when I put my mind to it. Ask my daughter.

Okay, maybe
don't
ask my daughter. But it's true.

Morrie stared at me. It wasn't a pleasant gaze. “Why would you protect that swine?” he asked, using an unfortunately familiar word. “What has he got on you?”

What did that mean?
“He hasn't got
anything
on me,” I said. “He's a guy who made music that matters to me, and he's asked me to help him with something that's weighing down his whole being. His daughter is dead and he's distraught. Why should I turn him away?”

“Because he's a lying snake!
I
wrote most of that music you're so nostalgic about,” Morrie answered, completely sober. “He's a fraud and that daughter of his never meant anything to him until she was dead.”

My eyes must have narrowed unconsciously because the amount I could see decreased. “How would you know that?” I asked.

“I was his bandmate and supposedly his friend all those years until he died,” Morrie said. “For the first twenty years of her life, I never heard one word about his daughter in all that time except when Vance complained about some bird in the States trying to squeeze him for money.”

Paul took over the questioning, which was something of a relief, given that I had no idea what to say. This was not the Vance I'd seen. Of course, the Vance I'd seen had changed
moods and intentions so many times I wasn't sure I knew anything about him at all.

“Why would Vance suddenly develop an interest in his daughter after she died?” Paul asked Morrie. “What is the advantage for him?” Paul was lightly stroking his goatee, a sign he was in Sherlock Holmes mode.

“It must be almost impossible for a parent to survive the death of a child,” Mom chimed in, looking concerned.

“He didn't survive it,” Paul corrected. “He died years before Vanessa.” Forgive him; he can't help it.

“Vance has always been a drama queen,” Morrie answered. “It's always about him.
He
wrote the words;
he
wrote the music. Or so
he
said. He had to have it that way in every press release, every interview. His daughter was trying to make a name for herself in music and he didn't lift a finger, did he? Then she passes away and the next thing you know
he's
the grief-stricken dad out for revenge. He makes the story about him, again. If Vance can get his name back in the papers and on TV, he'll be a happy man.”

“But the press won't know he's trying to get revenge,” I said. “They'll have no idea Vance is around driving the investigation. That doesn't play into this publicity push you say he's trying to generate.”

Morrie shrugged. “Doesn't matter if the punters know he's behind it. What matters is that people will be talking about him and playing the records again. He'll be able to float around and hear his voice coming from people's houses. What could be better than that?”

“Why did you just arrive?” Paul asked. “You've been harboring this resentment since you passed away.”

“I died in New Jersey,” Morrie reminded us. “McTiernan was in England.”

“You could have gone there,” Mom pointed out.

“And give him the satisfaction?”

It was all starting to make too much sense to me. Vance
clearly had a pretty healthy ego, which wasn't the least bit surprising for someone in his line of work. Vance might very well have simply seen Vanessa's death as a way to attract publicity, even from beyond the grave. Given what Bill Mastrovy had said about Vance's relationship with Vanessa, I felt the trap springing around me.

Suddenly everyone seemed to be looking toward me, waiting for some defense of Vance, but I didn't have one. The only thing I could muster was, “It doesn't matter. If what the autopsy report says is right, somebody probably killed Vanessa McTiernan. What difference does it make if Vance wants to be seen as a hero as long as we find out who did it?”

“Who wants to be seen as a hero?” The voice behind me was familiar, mostly from hours of listening to his recordings. I turned.

Vance was floating just inside the kitchen door, looking at me with a perplexed expression. Then he looked up.

“Chrichton,” he said.

“That's right, you old villain,” Morrie said. “I'm here to settle with you.”

Vance pointed to himself. “Settle with
me
? About what? About you wanting credit for work you never did? Will you never get off that one?”

“You don't get to take that tone this time, McTiernan,” his ex-bandmate said. He swept his hand majestically around the room. “They're not taken in by you anymore.”

Mom held up a hand. “Now, boys,” she said. “This is no time to bicker about who did what all those years ago. Isn't it time to forgive and forget?”

My mother, spreading reason and just-getting-along from birth to the afterlife.

But the two Jingles weren't hearing it. They drew closer to each other, which necessitated Vance actually moving through me. This time his sensation was hot, fueled by anger.

“You claimed every idea, every guitar lick, every drumbeat as your own,” Morrie Chrichton said. “Nobody could
ever
have an idea, especially not a good one, when Vance McTiernan was in the room!” His fingers curled into talons as Vance approached.

“And you thought every little note from your bass was genius,” Vance countered. “If it wasn't for you hitting that D sharp, the whole band would have collapsed, right?” Vance's sneer, his go-to expression when not trying to charm, took on some seriously scary undertones.

“The whole band
did
collapse! Under the weight of your gigantic ego!”

“Liar!”

“Thief!”

“Plagiarist!”

“Fraud!”

Vance howled in anger and lunged at Morrie. The two men grappled for a moment, grunting with effort, until Maxie slammed two frying pans from the hooks over my center island together. It made a dreadful noise, and they stopped their wrestling match and stared at her, as did everyone else.