Ghost in the Wind (4 page)

Friday

“Do you smell something?” I asked Melissa the next morning. Then I sniffed.

I was getting dressed while Liss, almost ready for school (something she was just now getting used to again after summer break), was sprawled faceup on my bed, watching the ceiling fan and doing her best not to mention what had happened the evening before.

Mom and Dad had left for Mom's place roughly five minutes after my dramatic exit from the kitchen. Luckily, cleanup from dinner was remarkably easy and quick, consisting mostly of throwing things away. Melissa had wrapped up the leftover pizza in aluminum foil and put it in the fridge, where it was undoubtedly feeling very lonely. I think all we had was milk (for cereal and coffee), some baby carrots and two bottles of beer. In a former life, I was undoubtedly a frat boy.

Melissa had come out of the kitchen as soon as it was under
control, but Paul had remained out of sight, so I couldn't have apologized to him even if I had wanted to.

But to be honest, I didn't want to. It wasn't just that I was hurt by Paul's lack of confidence in me—I more or less understood that. It was more that Paul didn't believe in Vance, the man who had helped me get through such difficult years with his sensitivity, his understanding and his adorable smile (on the album covers and in magazines). His music had been out for decades before I discovered it, but it had spoken to me in a way that few other artists had ever managed, even to this day.

It occurred to me to explain to my daughter, early in her sixth-grade year, why I had been so quick to fly off the handle the night before, but she had never really embraced the Jingles and might not understand. Melissa is open to all kinds of music and loves some of my favorite bands—she has three Beatles T-shirts—but had never really warmed to Vance and his less-direct poetry. It was okay; she could still be my daughter. I was magnanimous about such things as long as she didn't play any serious rap when I was around. I've never warmed to it and usually take refuge in my oldies. I'm a throwback.

I love a lot of oldies bands, but to me the Jingles were just as up-to-date as anything on your radio this morning. (Not everyone feels this way—approximately one in every six thousand people appears to have heard of the band, which confuses me. How could they not recognize the genius?) Nobody's adolescence is easy, and mine was not worse than most, but there were nights when I turned off the lights, closed my window and let the glow from the cassette player (Mom wouldn't let me keep the albums in my room, so I recorded all of them) be the only thing I could see and Vance McTiernan's voice the only thing I could hear. To this day I get a warm feeling in my chest when “Claudia” or “Misspent Youth” or the Jingles masterpiece “Never Again” plays on my radio or my iPod. Some things just don't die.

Which brings me back to Paul.

Of course I had been impulsive about kicking him off the case and stomping out of the kitchen in a huff. He'd attacked my idol and my pride at the same time and I hadn't had a moment to sift through my feelings. But he also wasn't allowing for the idea that I might be right or that Vance might actually need me—us—so much that turning him down would be an act of cruelty. Sure, he was dead, but that didn't mean he was without feelings.

“Smell what?” Melissa asked. She closed her eyes and sniffed. “I don't smell anything.”

“I don't know. Maybe my nose is playing tricks on me.” This is the kind of thing you say when you don't want to discuss something else.

On cue, Maxie descended through the ceiling, even though she knows I prefer she knock before entering my bedroom. “What's with Paul?” she asked as she floated down. Maxie's sensitivity extends only to all things Maxie, so it was a surprise to hear that she had actually noticed her fellow spirit acting strangely. “He hasn't said a word all morning.”

“Mom's mad at him because he won't take Vance's case,” Melissa informed her “roommate.” Whatever issues I have with Maxie, I know she adores my daughter and I think Liss looks at her as the rebellious older sister she never had.

“I'm not mad at Paul,” I said, and it was mostly true. I wasn't mad at him
anymore
. Now I was mostly feeling a little hurt and a little worried about how I'd impulsively taken a case on my own, but I wasn't mad.

“Oh,” Maxie said. That was odd. Maxie, not questioning something that could potentially be a source of irritation for me? The small hairs on the back of my neck didn't stand up, but they were definitely crouching at least.

“Do you have an opinion?” I asked. It was the first time I had asked Maxie that question, mostly because it was the first time she hadn't offered one without being asked.

“I dunno. I was more into the punk scene, so I don't know anything about this guy. I've never heard his music.”

I felt my brow crinkle. “That's your criteria? If his music is to your liking, we should find out who killed this poor man's daughter, but if it's not, we should just ignore his pain?”

“Chillax, Mom,” my daughter said. She's a lovely girl, but she is still rather seriously eleven. “You were the one who said we should take the case because Vance is such a sensitive songwriter.”

As usual, she was right, but what was different this time was how annoyed it made me. “Don't you have to get to school?” I asked.

Maxie and Liss exchanged a look I wish I hadn't noticed before my daughter got off the bed and headed downstairs to make herself a rudimentary breakfast, which would undoubtedly have exceeded my cooking skills. I can't properly toast an English muffin.

Maxie did not follow Melissa downstairs, which I found curious. She waited, then pulled a pencil from behind her ear and picked up a pad of paper I had on my dresser. “So what's the assignment?” she asked.

“Assignment?”

“Yeah. When Paul makes you take a case, I always get some research stuff to do. I figured even without him, you were going to give me some stuff to find out.”

This was serious. Maxie was the sensible person in this conversation.

“Okay. Yeah. Um . . . find out whatever you can about Vance's daughter, Vanessa.”

There was a long pause. Maxie said, “That's it?”

Right—I should have more for her to do! “No. No, I also want you to find out where and when she died, who she was with, anything about this band she was in and who survives her.” That sounded pretty good. Thorough. Professional.

What Paul would say.

“I told you most of that last night, remember? She died four-and–a-half months ago, she played in a band called Once Again, worked at a medical records firm, she had a mother and a half brother.” Maxie floated directly over my head to the point that I lay down on the bed to avoid neck strain looking at her.

“Well, find out more about the band. If she was following in her father's footsteps, that might have caused some rifts, maybe with her mom. There were lawsuits over her when she was a child. See if you can find out where Claudia Rabinowitz is now.” I closed my eyes. I'd gotten up at five to clean before the guests got up, something I do most days. But having my eyes closed seemed such a good idea now because of that early hour.

Some might say I should go to bed earlier. Some wouldn't know that I can't sleep until all the guests are in their rooms. It's a rule I established for myself when I opened the guesthouse.

“Okay, but Paul would have told me to find out more stuff.” Maxie rose up into the ceiling and vanished before I could tell her how much I cared what Paul would have told her. Because the fact is, I really was starting to care what Paul would have told her.

I sniffed again and sneezed. I hadn't bothered to ask Maxie if she'd smelled anything because ghosts can't smell or taste. They can see and hear, and I know they can interact with things, but whether or not they feel is something I'm still a little fuzzy on.

I
smelled something, or at least was reacting to it. I felt allergic, the inside of my nose and the back of my throat itching. I wondered if a stray cat had wandered onto the property; I'm allergic to cat dander and dog fur. That was one of the main reasons I don't have pets in the house (the other being that it would be awful for business if we had to turn away anyone who was afraid or allergic). But I hadn't seen any
unfamiliar animals around the place lately. Was I allergic to something else?

There wasn't time to think about that because Vance McTiernan floated in through my bedroom mirror and boomed out, “Good morning, love! Any news on the investigation yet?”

It still stunned me to be talking to
Vance McTiernan.
I was a little in awe of him—you don't get used to seeing one of your idols in the . . . ectoplasm . . . right before your eyes very quickly. It was like looking at an album cover and having it talk to you.

But I was a little thrown by his unannounced appearance in my bedroom, so I played it casual. “Not yet, Vance. Besides, I do have to sleep. For a few hours a night, anyway.”

“Of course. It's just very hard for a parent to wait. I'm sure you understand, don't you?” He moved into a sitting position that was probably more for my benefit than his. It looks natural, but the ghosts aren't actually sitting; they're just floating in a different configuration.

I didn't want to think about what a parent might feel under such circumstances, so I decided to change the conversation.

“Vance,” I said, “from now on, don't come in here unless you ask first, okay? It's one thing in the rest of the house, but this is my bedroom.”

He grinned impishly. “There was a time when I was a welcome presence in some ladies' boudoirs, you know.”

“I know. That's how you got Vanessa. But this is now and I'm me, and I'm asking to please be careful about coming in here, okay?” I stood up. “I have to get ready to drive my daughter to school, and then I promise I'll be right on your case.”

“Of course, love. Pardon me for not knocking, but it's hard to do when you don't have real knuckles, isn't it?” He was still smiling as he floated down through the floor. I was somewhat relieved he hadn't risen, because Melissa's attic bedroom
is right above mine. I was in awe of Vance McTiernan, but that didn't mean he didn't worry me a little, too.

I went downstairs and checked on Melissa, who was having a cup of coffee (she's a little too advanced sometimes, but puts lots of milk in it) with a few minutes to spare before we had to leave.

After checking on the guests, two of whom were already heading to the Stud Muffin for breakfast (the Levines, a lovely couple in their sixties from Maplewood), I did a quick scan of the downstairs, making sure the movie room looked ready for the grand opening in two days, the library had all its books shelved neatly (or close to neatly) and the den, my largest room (probably once a dining room), looked homey, welcoming and clean.

Who am I kidding? I was really looking for Paul so I could apologize, and he wasn't around.

He'd undoubtedly be present a little after ten, when we did the first spook show of the day. Paul never misses one, although Maxie does occasionally “forget” to show up and is then outraged when I scold her for it. Lately, she'd been more reliable. I wondered if it was due to Everett, with his military training, having a positive influence on Maxie.

But that didn't solve the Paul question for right now.

“Gotta go, Mom.” Melissa appeared at my left elbow (okay, my left shoulder—she'd grown a decent amount in the past year) checking her cell phone. “I see there's an accident on Ocean Avenue; we'll have to take the long way today.” My daughter is so responsible it's a little bit frightening. I know she didn't get it from me, and as
responsible
is not a word one would ever dredge up when thinking about The Swine (something I try not to do whenever possible). I'm guessing she got it from my mother, and it skipped a generation. Like cooking and being able to see ghosts without suffering a concussion first.

I took another quick look around the room and smiled at her. “Okay, let's go,” I said.

Melissa looked at me sideways. “Paul's not here. I saw him out in the back before, floating around the beach.”

“I wasn't looking for Paul.”

“Sure you weren't.”

Liss chatted on about school while I drove her there. She had a science test on Tuesday, which was so unfair because now she'd have to spend her whole weekend studying and why couldn't teachers just take that into account when they were planning out their marking periods, and also her best friend, Wendy, had a crush on some boy whose name I was supposed to recognize and was therefore acting “weird.”

I was thinking about Vance McTiernan's daughter, Vanessa, and decided that I'd check with my best source of information on such things after I dropped Liss off at school.

“You're not listening, are you?” she asked, bringing me out of my stupor.