Inspector Specter (11 page)

“I didn't?” Rita said.

“No. The clothes the ghosts have on are not visible. If there had been a ghost wearing that hat, you wouldn't have seen it.” Again, I was fudging in an attempt to make Rita feel better.

It seemed to work: Rita visibly relaxed. She turned to Mom. “So maybe you were right, it was just blowing around.” But she still didn't seem convinced. “It sure didn't look that way, though.”

“Don't worry,” I said, glad that I wouldn't have to refund any of their week's booking. “But if you see something like that again, you let me know, okay?”

“Okay,” Rita said. She and Stephanie stood up, and Stephanie said they were going to go out on the porch to enjoy the night breeze a little, although I think she might have found that a more appealing prospect than Rita did.

Josh walked back in from the kitchen carrying Oliver, now in his pajamas and fast asleep in his arms. Maybe Dad was right; Josh
was
a keeper. He motioned with his chin that he'd take the baby to my bedroom, where Ollie's travel crib was set up, and kept on walking. Everyone stayed quiet as they passed. A sleeping baby is an easy baby. And something of a miracle.

“Gotta go,” Maxie jumped in. “I'll see you later.”

“Hold on,” I started to say, but she was through the ceiling and presumably out of the house before I could get to the
l
in
hold
. I looked at Paul.

He shrugged. “I don't know.”

I looked at Melissa. “Do you have any idea what's going on with Maxie lately?”

Liss seemed surprised I'd asked. “I figured it was a grown-up thing.”

“Grown-up? It's Maxie.”

“Alison,” my mother admonished.

I asked Liss if she could perhaps probe Maxie—gently—the next time they were alone and see if she could discover what was up, and whether there was anything we could do to help with whatever difficulty Maxie or Kitty was having. My daughter, who is among the most responsible people I have ever met, agreed to report back any findings she might, you know, find.

Dad excused himself, as if he needed to, to do some more work on the movie-room walls. The guests had been warned that it was a construction area, so they were steering clear, and besides, the ghost-lovers among them would probably be tickled to come across a brush and rag stripping paint off a wall by themselves.

“There is more news to report,” Paul said, and everyone turned to look at him.

“I saw you go downstairs,” I said to him. “Did you hear from Detective Ferry again?”

“No,” Paul said. “It's more interesting than that.”

More interesting? Who'd he hear from, Abraham Lincoln? Technically, it was possible. But let's be clear: Lincoln definitely did not die in New Jersey; you can't blame us for that one. “How so?” I asked.

“I got a message.” He looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “From Harry ‘the Fish' Monroe.”

I digested that little bit of information for a moment. “Harry ‘the Fish' Monroe? I didn't know he was dead.”

Paul flinched a little, but just a little. He doesn't like the
D
word. “He wasn't, until just a few days ago.”

“When did he pass away?”

“The same night as Martin Ferry,” Paul answered. “He must have picked up on the message I'd sent looking for the detective, and answered me back himself.”

“What did Mr. Fish say?” I asked.

“Mr.
the
Fish,” Paul deadpanned.

Mom was sitting on the sofa, which gave her a view of the hallway to the movie room. She likes to keep an eye on Dad, mostly because she likes to see him. They have a great marriage, even now, years after my father died. “What happened?” Mom asked. “Did Mr. Monroe get shot like the detective?” Even an (alleged) gangster like Harry the Fish got respect from my mother.

“He's not sure,” Paul said. “You know how these things work. If Maxie were here, she could find out.”

Melissa gave Paul a “duh” face. “This is an easy one. We don't need Maxie.” She went to the stairway, no doubt to get her own laptop.

“And you have to understand that this wasn't a very detailed conversation. I receive messages and I send them, but questions and answers are a little more complicated. He's not happy right now.”

“Well, he's had a pretty serious blow,” Mom said. “After all, he was alive last weekend.”

“Did you get anything, Paul?” I asked. “Impressions, feelings, something?”

Paul stood (floated) and pondered that. “Mostly anger, with a tinge of sadness. And shock. I very distinctly got the impression that Harry was not interested in discussing anything other than his demise, which he seemed to believe was not of natural causes. That's where I'm getting the idea that this was not a lingering illness or something anticipated.”

“Did you mention Detective Ferry?” I saw Melissa walking down the stairs carrying her laptop.

“I tried, but I have not received an answer to that message yet. Keep in mind that like Detective Ferry, Monroe is new to this state of being, and might not be at full energy just yet.” Paul was all about energy these days. It was a small surprise that he didn't try to plug Melissa's MacBook into his left leg to see if it would charge.

“Harry ‘the Fish' Monroe,” Liss said, clearly reading from the screen, “a reputed gangster allegedly tied to organized crime in New Jersey shore towns, was found dead in his car, parked at a Walmart in Brick Township, yesterday.” She looked up. “Based on when this article was written, that would be the same day Detective Ferry died.” Back to reading the article. “Brick police said Monroe was found in the driver's seat of his Lexus with no outward signs of violence. While no official cause of death was announced, a police source who asked not to be named because he has no authorization to speak on the subject said Monroe appeared to have died from natural causes.”

“Harry doesn't think so,” Paul suggested.

“Well, it could've been a heart attack or stroke, some sort of sudden health problem,” I pointed out. “The cops seem to think it was something along those lines.”

“Don't you think it's a very glaring coincidence that the detective and the man he was investigating died suddenly on the same day?” Paul countered. “I am not prepared to accept that on face value without a good deal more data.”

A thought struck me. “McElone must have heard about this,” I said. “It's weird that she didn't say anything.” I rescued my cell phone from the pocket of my jeans and called McElone's private number. The call went directly to voice mail, so I hung up assuming McElone would see the missed call and get back to me.

“I think it's important that we try to locate Monroe and talk to Detective Ferry again,” Paul said when I hung up.

“Doesn't Mr. Monroe know where he is?” Melissa asked. She had not looked up from her screen and was no doubt trying to find more about the Fish.

“He wasn't clear on that, either,” Paul said. “I doubt he's still in the Walmart parking lot, because he mentioned something about being wet.”

“Well, he
is
a fish,” Mom suggested.

“The cops had to take him out of his car, certainly,” I said, thinking aloud. “You have to figure he's in the county morgue or a funeral home by now.”

“That's where his body is,” Paul answered. “His spirit, as you know, could be anywhere. My body is not actually located near this house, and yet here I am.” It really did bother Paul that he couldn't travel around freely.

On the other hand, he'd been experimenting with electricity so he could move on to another plane of existence, and didn't seem the least bit squeamish about trumpeting his delight at the prospect. Was I hurt? Me?

Yeah, I was a little hurt. It wasn't rational, but I was.

“Maybe Phyllis Coates can help,” Melissa said.

Phyllis is the editor, publisher and entire staff of the
Harbor Haven Chronicle
, the town's only legitimate source of news specific to the area. She's a twenty-year veteran of the
New York Daily News
and has been a friend and mentor of mine since I started delivering papers for her when I was thirteen years old. These days, Phyllis's circulation for the physical paper is a little smaller, but she's transitioning to an online presence and is still making enough money through advertising to keep the enterprise going. So the next time an online ad annoys you, think about how it's keeping publications like the
Chronicle
alive. Maybe it'll help.

She also has a special source of information in the county medical examiner's office and can sometimes get autopsy reports before anyone else.

Melissa was right; Phyllis almost certainly would know something more about Harry Monroe. I looked at Paul, who seemed expectant. So I dialed Phyllis's number.

Unlike McElone, Phyllis, at least, answered.

“Harry the Fish?” she asked with a tone of amusement. “Yeah, they're going over that one with a fine-tooth comb. After all the violence that guy caused, to see him go from a heart problem is just a little too neat.”

I told her about Martin Ferry, a rare bit of area information Phyllis seemed not to already know about, and mentioned that the detective had died the same day as the gangster he'd once investigated.

“Interesting,” she said. “Maybe I should do a little digging on that myself.” I had left out the part about McElone's involvement; like the guy in the online story Melissa had found, I had not gotten authorization to speak on that subject.

“Has the autopsy been done yet?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah, they did it right away, but the results haven't come back, and I'll bet it's not just the cops being cautious. I think they really don't know what they're looking at yet. It's just way too coincidental.” I immediately gave up on the idea of a strange cosmic joke causing a situation that made things look, please pardon the expression, fishy. If both Phyllis and Paul tell you you're sick, lie down.

“The only other time I saw a heart attack that wasn't a heart attack, it was an electrocution,” I told her. “That doesn't seem likely in a car.”

Phyllis agreed. “No, I'm putting my money on poison, if I have to make a guess. Although that's a more genteel way of getting rid of somebody than Harry and his pals usually employ.”

I was getting just a little queasy. It was one thing to help McElone with the ghost end of her investigation. This was starting to feel more like I would actually have to try to find out who killed two men, the type of thing I generally try to avoid whenever possible.

Paul, now hovering lower, clearly wanted to know what Phyllis was saying. I could have hit the speakerphone button, but decided that would sound too weird. Phyllis has seen things happen in my house and has heard me say that there are ghosts inhabiting the place full time, but she and I have never had the “ghost conversation.” Even when she has interviewed me for the
Chronicle
after some very questionable events, she avoided asking. I respect that. Phyllis is a journalist. She believes in what she can prove. She can make a logical assumption that there are ghosts in my house based on her own observations and common sense, but that's not the same thing as having hard facts. She avoids drawing conclusions.

It's a shame. In many ways, I expect Phyllis and Paul would've been incredibly fast friends. They think alike.

Anyway, I decided I'd tell Paul about the conversation after it was over. “Is there any way to find out how he died before the report comes out? It could be weeks.” I was implying, delicately, that Phyllis might want to check with her “special friend” at the ME's office.

“No dice, honey,” she answered. “My friend works for the wrong county this time. He's not doing the autopsy. Won't even see the report himself.”

“So how are you covering the story?” I asked. Sometimes I can get ideas for an investigation by watching to see which direction Phyllis heads. If she has an idea, I can often “borrow” it and end up with good results.

“Story? I'm not doing a story on Harry ‘the Fish' Monroe,” Phyllis said with a chuckle. “Not interested. Didn't happen in Harbor Haven, and that's my readership.”

“But you've already made phone calls. You said you'd have to do some digging.”

“I'm a snoop,” she said. “It's not just professional. I'm nosy personally, too.”

“You're being coy,” I told her so Paul and Mom could hear. “What have you got?”

“I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about,” she said in an especially affected tone. Then she became Phyllis again. “You brought it up yourself, the thing with the Seaside Heights detective.”

“Yeah, and you acted like you didn't know about it.”

“Well, I wanted to see what you knew first.” Being Phyllis's friend requires a certain touch. She's a reporter more than anything else, and if she has to do some manipulation to get the information she needs, she doesn't think twice about it. Phyllis is, you should know, a joy and a dear, but she'll quote you on anything you don't declare off the record. “From what I hear, these two deaths are not completely random. These two guys knew each other.”

Of course they knew each other; Ferry had been investigating Harry the Fish, according to Paul's ghost source and the Seaside Heights files. But from Phyllis's tone, I was getting a vibe I didn't like. If Phyllis believed that Martin Ferry was on the Fish's payroll, it was going to turn out to be true. And I'd have to tell McElone. And that meant . . . I'm not sure, maybe that I'd have to sell the guesthouse and leave town so I wouldn't ever have to talk to the lieutenant again, because she'd certainly never want to see my face again.

“Martin Ferry,” I said, and Paul's eyebrows went up.

“I hear there was a connection between them,” she said.

“A professional connection?” I said. Melissa actually looked upset. She's very sensitive and didn't want to believe that a friend of McElone's could've been working for the mob.

“Well, they didn't go out dancing together,” Phyllis laughed. “What kind of a connection
would
a creep like Harry the Fish and a cop have?”

“You think their two deaths are connected, too?” I asked. Maybe I could change the subject just enough so that I could avoid having Phyllis say the words I didn't want to hear. If she didn't say it, I didn't have to believe it was true, and I wouldn't have to report it to McElone.

I'm not proud of the plan, but it was a plan.

“Remember what I said about coincidences? This one would be a whopper.” She was practically giggling; reporters are nuts.

“So what does it mean?”

“A damn good question. You should have been a reporter, sweetie. Where did you go wrong?”

That one made me laugh despite myself. “In so many places it would be impossible to count,” I said before hanging up.

I brought the rest of the room up to date on the conversation, and Paul began to stroke his goatee at about the second sentence. Mom looked unusually determined, moving her mouth back and forth like she was thinking. “Excuse me,” she said, and without hesitation got up to walk toward the movie room. No doubt she wanted to confer with Dad; they're like one person who is split into two bodies for the purpose of mobility or convenience. They have the same mind and express it differently. Mom will ask Dad about any thought she has that she thinks is unconventional. Dad will ask Mom about anything when he thinks he might set a foot wrong and upset her. Upsetting Mom is Dad's idea of hell.

Melissa was also clearly thinking very hard. She wanted to find a way that Martin Ferry
wasn't
working with Harry Monroe. It was exactly what I was trying to do, but the eleven-year-old version.