Ghost in the Wind (5 page)

“Sure I am. Wendy. Weird. Test. Unfair. I got it all.”

“I was talking about quitting the Tech Club.” Melissa looked at me with something approaching pity. It's so hard raising a mother these days.

“Okay. So my mind was elsewhere for a minute. I admit that.” I don't believe in lying to my daughter unless she asks me questions about her father, because telling her the truth would be too upsetting. She knows it, but she doesn't need to hear it from me. “I'm sorry. Why do you want to quit the club?”

“It meets twice a week.” Liss was already looking out the window to see which of her friends would be available immediately after escaping from the bowels of my car. In sixth grade, friends are your world and your mother is the chauffeur. It's important to have priorities.

“Are you really that busy?” Something sounded fishy.

“I don't like getting home that late when we have a—” She caught herself.

That was it. “Because we have a case?” I asked.

“Yeah.” She still wasn't looking at me.

“Don't quit the club for that, Liss. You're not a detective, you're a sixth-grader. Be that.”

We'd reached the entrance. Melissa got out of the car and fled as fast as she could without giving me a response. Luckily, I had stopped the car at the school entrance or that could have gotten messy.

Well, at least I had stopped sneezing for the moment and I didn't smell anything unusual anymore. Maybe whatever was giving me an allergic reaction was back at the house. I'd have to get the antihistamine out of the medicine cabinet when I got home.

But first I was heading back toward the center of town, and I had enough time before the upcoming morning spook show to squeeze an invaluable source of information for everything I could get.

*   *   *

“Vanessa McTiernan?” Phyllis Coates looked over half glasses at me and scrunched up her mouth into a small circle. “I don't remember the name.”

“I hadn't heard about it, either, which is weird,” I told her.

“Honey, let's be real. It's much weirder that I didn't know about it than you.”

Phyllis was right. Well, no she wasn't. I was the major Jingles fan, and she had never heard of Vance McTiernan (which came close to damaging our relationship but I had to be magnanimous about such things or I'd have no friends at all). But under almost any other circumstances, Phyllis would know more than me about virtually anything. As the editor, publisher, reporter and custodial staff (the one area in which she was badly unskilled) of the
Harbor Haven Chronicle
, she knew everything and everybody that had anything to do with my hometown.

The minute I'd mentioned Vanessa's name, Phyllis had yanked a binder off a shelf just to her right and found all the
information she had on the death from the past spring. Some people have computers; Phyllis has knowing where everything is in her suffocatingly cluttered office. But she wasn't looking at her notes now. One glance and she could access the part of her brain that already had it memorized. Ask her what she had for lunch today and she'd have no idea. Ask her where the strand of hair that produced the DNA evidence in a six-year-old murder was found, and she wouldn't hesitate for one second. Phyllis, as much as I love her, is scary.

“So what else do you know?” I asked her. If she wanted to show off, I could only benefit from it.

“I know enough not to tell you anything unless I'm going to get a story out of it.” Okay,
that
could have gone better.

“I promise the minute I find out who killed Vanessa, you can have the story,” I said. “You know I'll completely snub CNN.”

“Ha! Nobody watches them anyway.” Phyllis smirked at me. “You really think she didn't just die from the allergic reaction? There wasn't anything crazy in the autopsy report.” Phyllis has a source in the county medical examiner's office with whom she shares “information.” Well, in the broadest sense of the word. Phyllis gets information and her friend gets . . . let's leave it at that. “Besides, it happened months ago. How come you're all hot and bothered about it now, all of a sudden?”

She sipped from the Dunkin' Donuts iced coffee I'd brought her. Phyllis's office, which is among the greatest firetraps in the land, is covered in paper, but it does have a lovely hot plate on which a pot of coffee has been brewing since Jimmy Carter was in office. It would be safer to face Vanessa's killer armed with a toothbrush than to drink a cup of Phyllis's office coffee.

“A family member came to me with questions about Vanessa's death,” I said. That was true. “I agreed to look into it. So you're my first stop because you know everything. Are you
saying there's no chance whatsoever that Vanessa McTiernan was forcibly fed soy sauce?” I took a sip of my own Dunkin' Donuts iced coffee. I was just as worried about my own health as about Phyllis's, after all. Maybe even a touch more.

Phyllis waved a hand. As a retired reporter for the New York
Daily News
, she's seen everything at least twice and knew enough not to make definitive statements about something being completely impossible. She's the same way about the ghosts in my house—what she couldn't confirm was just a rumor, and Phyllis was interested in facts. “You know perfectly well there's always a
chance
,” she said. “But the odds are against it. Vanessa had an allergy, the thing she was allergic to was present in her system, there was no sign of forced entry to her place, no sign of a struggle and no record of anybody being mad at her.”

“A perfect setup,” I argued. “The cops didn't really give it much of a look because it was just someone who showed up dead with an easy-to-explain medical condition. Why even look over the scene of the death? File it away, call the case cleared and move on to the next thing. Right?”

Phyllis shook her head no. “The primary detective on the scene after the uniforms called it in was Anita McElone.”

For once, I did not groan at the mention of Lieutenant McElone (with the long
e
at the end, rhymes with
macaroni
). McElone and I had a somewhat complicated relationship, in that I always came to her for help and she always thought I was a nut who was going to get in the way. But lately McElone and I had found a touch more mutual respect—as in, she now respected me a little, and I continued to respect her a lot—after I'd saved her life. Technically.

“She's good,” I said. “McElone should know if there was anything sketchy about the way Vanessa died. But why did they call a detective if everybody thought it wasn't suspicious?”

“That's a good question,” Phyllis answered. “You should ask McElone that when you talk to her.”

My gut still had a little twinge of butterflies when I considered that. McElone might finally regard me as within driving distance of competent, but she still acted like I was a total screwup, and that fed into my natural insecurity. I didn't like asking the lieutenant for help when I didn't have to. Now it seemed I'd have to.

“That's the best you can do?” I asked. Sometimes prodding Phyllis a little gets you information, and sometimes it's just a way to put off seeing McElone. “You tell me it's routine and I should go ask the cops for anything else? What happened to being the source of all information down the shore?” I tried to say that with a twinkle in my eye so Phyllis would know it was gentle teasing. Have you ever
tried
to get your eye to twinkle? It's very hard to do.

Phyllis scowled, as if denigrating my twinkling ability. “You think that's all I've got?” she asked.

“No. Clearly I think you've got more and you're just not telling me.” Playing up to her ego couldn't hurt, either, especially since the whole “prodding” tactic had fallen flat on its face.

“You're right,” she answered.

“So what is it? What have you got that you're not sharing?”

“If you hadn't been so snarky, maybe I'd tell you.”

Well, that was hitting below the belt. I apologized profusely and explained that I'd only been kidding. Phyllis graciously accepted my apology, patted me on the head (really!) and then kicked me out of her office without telling me anything else.

Sometimes being Phyllis's friend is hard.

I was halfway out the door and regretting that I'd even bought her an iced coffee when she said, casually and off-handedly (unless those both mean the same thing), “There's something in the ME's report.”

Right at the door, I stopped and looked at her. “What did you say?”

Phyllis's back was turned. “You heard me.”

“Well, what is it?” I took a couple of steps back into the
Chronicle
office. Mostly because I realized I'd forgotten
my
iced coffee.

“Too much soy sauce. Either she was trying to induce a reaction, or somebody made her drink it.”

Even after I'd picked my iced coffee up off Phyllis's desk, she wouldn't tell me anything more. Which, I realized, probably meant she didn't know any more—Phyllis likes to be seen as a tough cookie (and she is one), but she loves me and will help me when she can. Especially if she suspects she'll get a story out of it.

I pestered her for a full three minutes but she just kept telling me to go see Lieutenant McElone. It was getting close enough to the morning spook show, however, so I decided it was smarter to go back home first and see the lieutenant later.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Harbor Haven is a small town, so it normally takes no more than five minutes to drive from the
Chronicle
office to my house. But I had barely made it a half mile back to Seafront Avenue, where my stately mansion is located, when I noticed a ghost on the side of the road.

Now, I don't see anywhere near the same number of ghosts
that Mom and Melisa do; they tell me it's because my “talent” is new and not as developed as theirs. Which is a nice way of saying they're good at something I'm lousy at, but this is one instance in which I don't mind being the second runner-up. However, as time goes on, I have been seeing more ghosts than I did when this wondrous adventure (I speak fluent Sarcasm) began.

This particular ghost looked especially forlorn, and that always gets to me. She looked to be in her sixties, and was alone (which isn't wildly unusual but isn't always the case either. Sometimes ghosts travel in pairs or packs). But this one just looked lonely.

She was walking (okay, floating—you feel better?) along the side of the road, staying out of traffic, which is more than most living people do. Behind her she dragged a wagon by the handle, a child's toy which appeared to have been crafted out of wood. It made no sound as she moved for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that both the ghost and the wagon were about six inches above the ground.

I stopped along the side of the road, noting that there were no other cars or people in the area, and lowered my passenger window. (No small feat, by the way, because my Volvo wagon is the last car on earth to exist without automatic windows. I had to lean over and crank it down manually. Yes, I'm a pioneer.)

“Can I help you?” I asked the ghost.

She did not respond, probably used to people talking to each other nearby but not knowing she was there, and slowly continued on her way. Ghosts know for a fact that they don't need to be in a rush for anything.

“Excuse me, ma'am—I can see you and your wagon and I'm wondering if there's anything I can do to help you,” I said again.

The ghost turned, startled, and looked at me carefully. Then she pointed to herself. “Me?” she asked.

“Yes. You looked like you might be upset about something, and I wanted to see if there is anything I could do.” I mean, what were the odds? I was being a Good Samaritan and probably wouldn't actually have to follow up on my offer at all.

And okay, she just looked a little sad. I can't explain it, but she got to me.

“Yes, there is,” the ghost said. Karma is a bitch. “Can you find Lester?”

It seemed tactless to inquire as to whether Lester might be living or not-so-much, so I started with something easier.

“Who is Lester?” I asked.

“Lester is my friend,” she said. Well, that settled it; I'd begin looking immediately. The woman's eyes were a little too wide, a little too focused, like she might not have been in her best state of mind when she'd died and had not reverted to anything better when she'd made the transition to ghost-hood. I was starting to regret that I'd stopped the car and moved my foot closer to the gas pedal just in case.

“What does he look like?” I asked.

“He has light hair and is not very big,” the woman said. “He has brown eyes and a very generous mouth.” I wasn't sure I wanted to know what that last part meant.

“Where did you see him last?” I doubted I could find Lester, but it would help if I had some idea of where to look.

“In Topeka, Kansas,” the ghost said. “Can you find him?”

“I'll do my very best, ma'am,” I said. “But I can't make any promises.”

The ghost looked at me as if I were very far away. “All right, then.”

“How will I find you if I have any news? What is your name?”

“Yes,” the woman said, then turned and pulled her wagon farther down the road.

I felt like an idiot.

Back at the house, I made sure that everything was set
for the morning spook show. Today it would be in the library, which is one of the smaller rooms but one with lots of bookshelf space. As for the spooks themselves, Maxie was on hand, which was unusual. She usually shows up at the last minute, running a comb through her hair for no reason and complaining (naturally) about having to be on a schedule. Maxie sees herself as an artist (she was an interior designer in life) and believes she should be experiencing a bohemian existence. The fact that she exists only in theory doesn't seem to make a difference.

More unusual today was the fact that Paul was
not
present. Under normal circumstances, he is the more reliable of the two by far, with a strong sense of responsibility and the knowledge that he'd engineered the deal linking my interests (the spook shows) with his (investigations).

I guessed these were not normal circumstances.

I was straightening a few books that guests had taken out to read and either returned incorrectly or not returned at all. Keeping the shelves organized had been one of Melissa's tasks over the summer, and I hadn't yet adjusted to her being back in school.

Maxie looked distracted, which isn't unusual. Maxie is better when distracted; it keeps her from dreaming up things you'd (okay,
I'd
) prefer she not think up.

“You know a ghost named Lester?” I asked her.

“Huh?”

“Lester. You know a guy named Lester? Light hair, short? ‘Generous mouth'?”

She squinted at me. “Are you taking some medicine or something?”

No, but I wondered if I should have been as I sneezed again.

“Gesundheit,” Maxie said.

“Forget it. Is Paul boycotting the show this morning?” I asked Maxie as I tried to remember whether I had
Ulysses
classified as classic or foreign language.

“He didn't say anything to me,” she answered helpfully. “Maybe he figures if he's not on the case, he doesn't have to hold up his end of the deal.” She lay down on her side, one of her favorite poses; like Cleopatra floating down the Nile sans barge.

“If Paul's not going to make it, can you get Everett?” I asked. Maxie's boyfriend, Everett, with his military bearing, sometimes “sat in” on the shows and did some drill maneuvers that wowed the guests. I thought of trying to get Dad to fill in, but I knew he'd be spending some time at Josh's paint store today. He loves the painters, even if he doesn't know most of the current crew, and Josh's grandfather, Sy, in his nineties, still comes by most days. He can't see Dad, but Dad doesn't care. I'd hate to impose if it wasn't absolutely necessary.

“Nah. He's at the Fuel Pit. It's too far away for him to get back here in time.” Everett stays fairly close to the Fuel Pit, a local independent gas station, much of the time. It's where he died, and ghosts sometimes take a while to break free of their final resting spots. It's been three years for Paul and Maxie, and they still get all their mail here at 123 Seafront.

(They don't get any mail. They're ghosts.)

I let out a sigh. Maxie could probably handle a rudimentary spook show on her own, and with two-a-day shows, the guests could stand one slightly skimpier entry.

“I could help,” came a voice from behind me. A voice that had the power to make my stomach quiver. “If you tell me what you need, I'll bet I could handle it,” Vance McTiernan said when I turned to face him. “I imagine I'm still a fairly decent showman, I don't mind sayin'.”

My mind raced. A private Vance McTiernan performance for me and my guests! The closest to a musical section any of our previous spook shows had come was Paul hitting a bongo drum a few times and strumming the strings on a guitar without changing their pitch—it was more an “ooh, scary” thing than a real musical display.

But before I could respond, Paul rose through the floor and gave Vance a stare just a touch short of dagger-like. “That won't be necessary,” he said. “I have an obligation and I intend to fulfill it.”

I'll confess it: I was disappointed. “Um, we could do both,” I suggested.

“I don't think that will be an advantage,” Paul insisted. “Maxie and I have done this hundreds of times before.”

“Yeah,” Maxie said ominously. No doubt the tedium of actually having to do something that made people happy was wearing on her.

Vance looked at Paul for a long moment. “Another time, then,” he said, and rose up into the ceiling and through it. I tried calling after him to ask if he knew Lester but he was gone already.

I tried to remember that my purpose when I'd gotten out of bed this morning had been to apologize to Paul for my emotional and rash behavior the night before. But I had just had the opportunity to present
Vance McTiernan
in concert in my own house and Paul quashed it because he had marked his territory in my library, or something.

“What were you thinking!?” I demanded of Paul, who had the unmitigated nerve to look surprised. “Are you that insecure?”

He didn't have time to answer because just then, two of my guests—Roberta Levine and Maureen Beckman—arrived at the library door. Maureen, leaning on her walker, looked into the room and asked, “Isn't this where we get to see the ghosts today?”

Maxie swooped down from her orbit to a position about two inches from Maureen's face. “You don't get to see me at all,” she mocked.

“That's right,” I told Maureen, trying hard not to give Maxie a poisonous look (what good would poison do on a dead person?). “Please, come on in. We'll be starting in just a minute.”

Maureen, Roberta and Tessa Boynton came in and sat in three of the easy chairs I have for reading in the library. The fourth remained unoccupied, but I was sure that Stan Levine would not be far behind his wife. Tessa's companion, Jesse Renfield, seemed to keep to himself—I'd only seen him once so far. He was young for the Senior Plus set, technically not a senior at all (a junior?) in his late forties. Twenty years ago, he had probably been a surfer off Sandy Hook. But he still had his hair and his teeth (at least in the sense that he held the receipts), and he seemed to know the art of keeping an older woman interested.

Hey, anything can be an art. Jesse was an artist. Just keep in mind that not every artist is a
good
artist.

My sixth guest, Berthe Englund, was out for the morning because she said it was easier to get a good Skee-Ball lane at the boardwalk if you showed up early, especially when school was in session. What made one Skee-Ball lane better than another was a question I hadn't felt the urge to ask.

“If you're truly upset, Alison, I can tell Vance to come back and I'll sit this performance out,” Paul suggested. He seemed more puzzled than upset.

I shook my head. The guests know I frequently talk to people who technically aren't there, but the spook shows are about their (the guests') experience, and I was concerned with putting on a good performance. I didn't want to be seen arguing with the “talent.”

This group of guests had seen only one spook show the afternoon before, so there was no need to mix it up too much. We could rely on our usual staple, the “floating” objects, and move on from there. As they'd pointed out, Paul and Maxie had done these bits quite a number of times now, and could probably do them in their sleep. If they slept.

“Let's just wait for everyone to be here,” I said to the assembled group.

“Stan isn't coming this morning,” Roberta informed me. “He's taking a nap, but he'll be here this afternoon.”

Maxie huffed an irritated sigh. She actually believes the guests come to the house merely to irritate her, as if it said on the brochures, “Don't pass up your chance to annoy a dead person!” Maxie, as I've said, might be a tiny touch self-centered.

“So then should we wait for Jesse?” I asked Tessa.

“Oh, I don't think so,” Tessa answered. “He's probably just wandering around the beach. He doesn't seem that interested in ghosts.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Maxie volunteered. Again, I pretended she hadn't spoken.

Instead, I sneezed. I had stopped sneezing when I'd left the house, but now that I was back, I felt itchy and allergic again. I wondered if one of the guests was wearing a perfume that might have irritated my sinuses, or something. Mom has told me how she had to stop wearing White Shoulders when I was little because it made my eyes tear and my nose run.