Chance of a Ghost (13 page)

Mom, who had out of polite habit put out a plate of cookies for her guests despite my being the only one who could eat, got Lawrence’s eye and spoke in what was for her a soothing tone (to me it sounded like the voice of a police hostage negotiator). “Now, Lawrence,” she said. “All Alison asked was about your business.”

It had been strangely gratifying to see how pleased Mom was when I’d agreed to investigate Lawrence’s “murder.” She had such trust in me, however ill-advised, that I’d felt like a heel for hesitating in the first place. So by the time I’d dropped Melissa off at school and seen to the needs of the Hendersons—which were minimal today—Paul had arranged this audience with the ghost.

Once I’d agreed to this meeting, I’d been slightly concerned that I might not be able to see Lawrence. I can’t see as many spirits as Mom and Melissa do; my ability is still in the development stage. Which normally I don’t find at all worrisome, unless I have to question a dead person. But luckily, I suppose, Lawrence was among the ghosts I could have spotted a football field away—his strength of personality was that strong. If you know what I mean.

Lawrence stopped and considered what my mother had
said. “Of course, Loretta, my apologies,” he said, lavishing on the charm. Really, the man should have been wearing a cape. “I am—was—an impresario.”

There was a silence. “A what?” Maxie asked.

The elder ghost turned his head slowly, milking the effect. “An
impresario
. I provided entertainment of the highest order to the residents of this”—and here he sniffed to give us a taste of how unappreciated he’d been in this den of heathens—“area.”

Mom clucked her tongue. “Lawrence,” she chided. “You worked in the ticket office at the Count Basie Theatre in Red Bank.”

Lawrence seemed to deflate in the face of Mom’s bluntness but then pumped himself up again. “It’s true,” he admitted. “But I had a ninety-eight percent accuracy score on my evaluations and no customer complaints in fifteen years.”

“Impressive,” I said. Then, since somebody had to bring this conversation back to the topic at hand, I continued, “So let’s talk about what happened to you.”

Lawrence regarded me. He didn’t look at me; he
regarded
me. And no doubt found me wanting. “I was murdered,” he said.

“Yes. That’s not a lot to go on. Can you give me a few details? You say you were electrocuted?”

“I was electrocuted, whether I say so or not,” he corrected me. “It is a fact.”

“The medical examiner’s report”—which I had not actually seen, but what the hell—“says you died of cardiac arrhythmia.”

He curled his upper lip. “Of course it does. That’s what electrocution looks like to a medical examiner. I’m telling you, someone threw an electric toaster into the tub while I was bathing.”

I tried very hard not to snicker and believe I would have succeeded if Maxie hadn’t puffed out her own lips in
amusement. I contained myself quickly, but Lawrence gave me a look indicating that he’d seen my initial reaction. I plowed on. “Are you sure it was a toaster? Did you see who threw it?”

Lawrence looked the other way. “No,” he sniffed. “Whoever did it was invisible.”

I’d known that was the answer he’d give, so I didn’t react. “Invisible,” I said. “Like you are to most people now?”

“How many ways are there to be invisible?” Lawrence asked.

Mom picked up a cookie and took a bite, which wasn’t characteristic of her; she’s a closet eater. “Keep a civil tongue, Lawrence,” she said. “Alison is trying to help.”

Maxie covered her mouth. She loves it when Mom scolds people who aren’t her.

I decided to ignore Lawrence’s previous comment. “Did you see anything at all before…it happened?” If I’d started to think of Lawrence taking a bath and having a toaster tossed in again, I’d have to picture him in a bathtub, and that wasn’t going to do anybody any good.

“Nothing,” he said, still not making eye contact. In fact, he floated up a little and the top of his head disappeared. Mom’s house doesn’t have high ceilings.

“What about the plug?” I asked. That was a question Paul had primed me with before I left for the interview. He’s always careful to tell me exactly what to ask, for two reasons: One, he’s a control freak, and two, I don’t know what I’m doing.

“The plug?” Lawrence repeated.

“Yes, the plug on the toaster,” I answered, stuttering just a tiny bit on the word
toaster.
“If you were electrocuted by a toaster”—I couldn’t look at Maxie—“it had to have been plugged in. An unplugged toaster wouldn’t have done you any harm. Did you see that?”

Lawrence appeared flustered for the first time; he
chewed a little on his lips and didn’t speak for a moment, which for him was a long time. He mumbled something I couldn’t hear.

“What?”

“I…did not see that happen,” he answered, regaining some of his swagger. “But I was not expecting a toaster to be thrown into my bath. It’s possible I just wasn’t looking in that direction. I was reading.”

Maxie’s eyebrows literally hit the ceiling and kept going as she rose up bodily in surprise. “Reading?” she asked. “In the bathtub?”

Mom gave her a look. “It’s not unusual, Maxine,” she scolded mildly. “I read in the bath all the time.” Another in a series of mental images I really didn’t need to carry around with me.

“What were you reading?” I asked. It seemed completely irrelevant, but it was the sort of thing that Paul would ask. He always asks stuff that I think makes no difference and draws information from it. It’s really annoying. Best to beat him at his own game.

“
Variety
,” Lawrence answered. Of course. “So,” he concluded. “That should be enough to begin you on your investigation, no?”

“Not yet,” I answered. Maxie had been expecting this (we’d discussed it on the way to Mom’s house), so she smirked slyly. “We haven’t discussed my fee. I won’t be doing any investigation unless we reach an agreement on the other issue.”

Lawrence, sensing the trap being sprung around him, dropped his voice an octave. “
What
other issue?” he asked.

“My father,” I told him. “I do nothing for you until I see my father.”

Maxie hovered down to position herself between me and Lawrence. She said nothing, but the look on her face (which I could sort of see through the back of her head) unmistakably said, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Lawrence, however, did not appear to be contemplating any kind of violence; he looked absolutely stunned. His eyes bulged a bit and his mouth formed an O that made it appear someone had hit him hard in the stomach. After a moment in which his eyes seemed to be looking for a way out of their sockets, he focused on me and said, “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” Well, that certainly ended the argument.

I twisted my mouth up in an expression of scorn. “Then I’m sorry, but it won’t be…
possible
for me to help you out. My father is my fee. And I don’t work unless I know that the client has the funds available to pay.”

Paul had been clear about playing hardball on this point. So I was making a concerted effort not to look at my mother, who as a rule plays Nerf ball. She surely looked desperate, and seeing that would have something other than a positive effect on my confidence.

“It’s not possible for me to simply
produce
him,” Lawrence said, regaining some of his composure. “This is a process, and it takes time. Have a little patience.”

“I don’t understand the process, Mr. Laurentz,” I said. “But I am very concerned that I get some proof you
can
produce my father when you want to. So far, all I have is your word, and I don’t really know you, do I?”

The ghost raised an eyebrow so archly Olivier himself would have been intimidated. But I was mad, so it only caused slight goose bumps on the back of my left arm. I took that as a victory.

“Your father is confined to a space I can’t adequately describe,” he said with a great air of authority. “He is not suffering, but he cannot move about the way he could before.”

“Why are you holding him?” I asked.

“I am not. He is, as far as I can discern, operating under his own will.”

There was a long silence while we digested that tidbit. I assiduously avoided looking at Mom, but from behind me, I could hear her gasp.

“He’s doing this to
himself
?” she whispered.

Lawrence nodded. “I can communicate with him, but I am not able to go to him or to bring him back.” He turned toward me. “So you see, Ms. Kerby, I cannot comply with your demand. I can’t bring your father to you. But I can get messages to him and bring back his replies.”

I shook my head. “That’s not enough, Mr. Laurentz,” I said. “Why should I believe you?”

Paul had advised me to watch Lawrence very carefully—he had told me, as he always does, to “look at the subject’s face when you confront him with something he wasn’t expecting. That’s when you get the good information.” What I saw, perhaps for the first time since we’d started talking, was Lawrence without any pretense, without the act.

And he looked very sad.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Kerby,” he said. “I can’t think of one reason why you should.”

Well, that was a real nonstarter! If I actually started to feel sorry for the guy who was keeping me from Dad and making Mom miserable, how could I possibly refuse to help him? Since what I really wanted was to turn him down, I used my favorite tactic when trying to refuse someone something—I pretended Lawrence was my ex-husband Steven, The Swine. Just picturing The Swine’s face with Lawrence’s words coming out of it was enough; I was sufficiently pissed off to deny Dorothy a visit with Toto.

I was about to swing back toward him, angry, but as I turned, I saw Maxie looking worried and staring over my left shoulder. And that led to a major mistake on my part.

I looked at my mother.

For the first time since I’d known her (which was admittedly my whole life), she looked her age, plus a few years. Her eyes were wide, her mouth had little lines around it and she was pale and drawn. She looked, in a word, terrified.

I continued my turn toward Lawrence.

“We’ll take your case,” I told him.

Eight

“There’s no record of a Lawrence Laurentz dying suspiciously,”
said Detective Lieutenant Anita McElone, sitting behind her desk in the bull pen at the Harbor Haven Police Department. There was commotion all around her, but McElone, who knew me from a few previous cases, was calm and still. She could be really annoying that way.

“He died alone,” I said. “That means there has to be some report on it. It was about six months ago, at Whispering Lakes in Manalapan.”

McElone raised an eyebrow. “And you’re not talking to the Manalapan police because…?”

“Because I don’t know anyone there, but you know me and love me, and you’ll help me,” I told her.

“Well, I
know
you, anyway.” McElone and I have an interesting relationship: It’s not exactly a friendship, since we’ve never seen each other except about a crime. And it’s not really a professional interaction, since she’s a cop and I’m just an innkeeper with a private-investigator’s license.
Not to mention McElone is fairly convinced that I’m a screwup who gets in the way a lot, which—if I’m being honest—is not all that far off the mark.

Let’s call it mutual respect. Without the “mutual” part.

“Could you please look up the medical examiner’s report?” I asked. “There has to be one.”

McElone would have rolled her eyes if she were any less dignified. Instead, she simply gave me a look indicating her day would be considerably easier if I’d just go away. “I told you. I already looked it up. There’s no report of a Lawrence Laurentz dying in Manalapan. Is it possible you spelled the name wrong or something?”

That hadn’t occurred to me. “Let me check,” I told her, and got out my phone. Lawrence had promised to stay at Mom’s until I could check in, so I texted my mother (we’re so twenty-first century) and asked her to pass on the question.

“Why are you looking into this?” McElone asked me while we waited for the reply from Mom. “Who’s your client?”

This is always a tricky question when dealing with a client who is, technically, deceased. Police officers—especially McElone, who avoids coming to my house because she says it “creeps her out”—tend to look askance at someone who says she communicates with the dead. And the smart-asses always want to know why you can’t just ask the “vic” who killed them and cut out the middleman.

Luckily, I’d been around the block with McElone a few times before and had prepared for the question. “You know I’m not supposed to say,” I told her. “But between us, I was hired by…”

I had timed it nicely, because that was when my phone chirped with the news of a text message coming from Mom. I pulled out the phone and opened it. The message read, “L sz 2 sk bt Melvin Brookman.” Mom has embraced the abbreviated language of texting; I am old-school and write full sentences. Mom’s next text read, “L sz his rl nm.” The
lack of punctuation in texting is enough to drive me mad. The lack of vowels was worse. But it translated into “Lawrence says it’s his real name.” After a while, you get the hang of it. Sort of.