Authors: E.J. Copperman
“You guys like English muffins?” I asked.
The New Old Thespians performance of
Peter Pan
(who
puts on
Peter Pan
for an audience of people over fifty-five?) this coming evening was already starting to be a hot ticket, if only because I was bringing just about everyone I knew. Besides Mom and Melissa, Jeannie was coming along as part of her new role as “operative” in the PI agency, Tony had insisted on coming as “protection,” Oliver was coming in his continuing role as a baby, Morgan and Nan Henderson would attend to see if the retired cop could catch any clues I couldn’t (which was a decent bet) and, oh, yeah, I was bringing Josh Kaplan as a date.
It was a good thing Jeannie and Tony had a minivan.
In preparation, I’d alerted Mom by text that I’d be dropping by her house this morning, and she had sent back an incomprehensible jumble of consonants that indicated after some deciphering that she’d try to contact Lawrence before I got there. I had some questions for my client, who until now had been anything but completely forthcoming with me.
Melissa was slightly more grumbly this morning than usual, but it
was
a Monday in January, the Christmas break rush had completely worn off, and the sky was the kind of steel gray we get here from roughly the end of November until sometime around the first of May.
This message has been brought to you by the New Jersey Tourism Board. You’re welcome.
We didn’t talk a lot in the car, but of course once
dropped off, Melissa rushed into a gaggle of her friends and there was much celebration. Parents are the people you don’t have to notice. I tried to keep that in mind on the way to my mother’s house, but I was really thinking about Josh Kaplan.
Lawrence had not yet materialized—literally—when I arrived, so Mom went about making coffee, and what do you know, she had some blueberry muffins available. Freshly baked. I’m hoping the cooking gene skipped a generation and will eventually manifest in Melissa. I sat down with a warm muffin and hot coffee and told Mom that I’d recognized the handwriting in the message over the door in the hallway.
“Your father?” Mom asked, seeming truly surprised. “Why didn’t I notice that?”
“Because the downstairs has ten-foot ceilings and the message is maybe three inches in height,” I pointed out. “It’s not important that you didn’t recognize it; what’s important is that I did, and it was Dad’s handwriting. I’d know it anywhere.”
Mom’s face got serious. “Tell me about the other two messages you say you’ve found in the house.” There was no way around it, so I did. Mom listened carefully and expressed the requisite concern for my and Melissa’s well-being, and for my privacy while showering, a sentiment with which I heartily concurred. When I’d finished, she sat for a few moments digesting the information.
“What does it mean, he didn’t die the way we think?” she asked. “Your father had cancer for over a year. Of course that’s the way he died. The death certificate lists cancer as the cause.” She was dry-eyed, but I could hear a catch in her voice. Even though unlike me, she could see and talk to Dad, I guessed it wasn’t the same as having him there alive.
“I have no idea what it could mean,” I said. “I think whoever left the message was just trying to scare us.”
“They’re succeeding,” Mom said drily.
Our conversation was cut short by a rumbling in the living room, which Mom said meant that my client had arrived. We went in to receive him and sure enough, there “stood” Lawrence Laurentz, in a theatrical cape and a black fedora. The only prop he was missing was an elegant walking stick. Maybe because he wasn’t really walking.
“So, the
private investigator
returns,” he said, his voice dripping haughty contempt. I saw Mom’s lips tighten; nobody got to talk to her daughter like that. “I trust this time there is progress to be reported.”
“There is,” I informed him, “but I don’t think you’ve earned the right to information.”
Lawrence’s face flattened out as if he’d been hit with a pie. Which would have been a nice touch, if I could have managed it. It’s tough when the person you’re trying to hit isn’t actually there. “Young lady,” he said, “do you have any idea—”
I didn’t let him finish. “Here’s the deal,
Mel
,” I said. Lawrence went to raise a finger in warning, but I plowed through. Which reminded me to call Murray back about his bill and clarify. “You get absolutely nothing from me until you start to tell the truth, and I mean
all
of the truth when I ask you a question. So far, you’ve told me everything you wanted me to hear and nothing else. Well, I don’t care about your ego and I don’t care about your dignity. I care about finding out who killed you—if anybody did—and getting in touch with my father. The only way I’m going to be able to do that is if you start owning up. So I’m giving you this ultimatum, and then I’m going to ask you a question, which you will answer
completely
: I hear one more half-truth or I think you’re not being totally honest, and you can find yourself some other PI who can see ghosts. Are we clear?”
Mom looked torn: On the one hand, the ghost had dared be rude to her daughter. On the other, her daughter had been blunt and disrespectful to a guest in her house. It was a tough choice, but she looked at me and managed a tiny smile.
Lawrence, however, was not in a cheery mood. “How dare you?” he demanded. “The idea that I have been anything less than candid with you—”
I cut him off again. “Are. We. Clear?” I repeated.
“Must I remind you that I hold the key to your father’s whereabouts?” the old specter asked, playing his hole card.
But this time I was ready. “What you hold, Mr. Brookman, is a very poor hand indeed,” I told him. “I think I can find my father without you. In fact, I believe my father came and found
me
just yesterday. So I’m going to say this one last time: You tell me everything you know, or I walk and you spend the rest of eternity with the image of a toaster flying into your bathtub. Now. What’s it going to be?”
The puffed-up old actor seemed to deflate like a Macy’s balloon on Thanksgiving afternoon. He got smaller. He got thinner. He actually looked like he got older, which was not the least bit possible. His eyes took on a sad quality that replaced the arrogance they usually displayed. It was not an improvement.
“You’re right,” he said. “I have been holding back. I don’t like people to know the real me; that’s why I loved the theater. I could pretend to be someone—anyone—else. But you’re doing a favor for me and I have not been helping. For that, I apologize.”
But I was sticking with the tough-chick approach. “That’s all well and good,” I said. “But it doesn’t tell me anything I don’t already know. Spill.” I sat down on Mom’s overstuffed easy chair and crossed my arms.
“Everything I’ve told you is true.” Lawrence did his best to compose himself after that emotional scene, which I believed since he wasn’t that good an actor. “With one exception.”
“You really don’t have a clue where my father is, do you?” I challenged him.
“No.”
Behind me, Mom gasped, but I’d had my doubts about
Lawrence’s story from the beginning. He’d never been able to provide any details at all.
“I have tried to contact him,” he went on, “but I have been unsuccessful. He doesn’t appear to be staying anywhere I’d know to look.”
“How did you know to use him as incentive?” I asked him.
“Your mother mentioned she hadn’t seen your father in a few weeks and that it was odd,” Lawrence answered. “I assumed that would be sufficient to motivate you.”
“Why did you need to motivate Alison?” Mom jumped in. “Why didn’t you just ask?”
Lawrence stared at the floor, which was about eighteen inches below his feet. “It never occurred to me that she would help,” he said.
“Where did you get that business card?” I asked him. “The one from my father’s business?”
Lawrence pointed at the side table next to the sofa, which had a drawer where Mom kept some odds and ends in addition to coasters she might need while entertaining. “There,” he said. “One day when you weren’t in the room, Loretta, I found it. And I kept it in my pocket to use if you demanded proof. And you did, so I left for a few seconds to make it appear I was traveling to see Jack, and then I came back and handed you the card I had already gotten ready. Please forgive me.”
Silence. I looked behind me. Mom was standing at the entrance to her kitchen, backed against the pass-through. Her face was pale and her eyes were wide. For a moment, I was worried about her health.
“You looked through my things?” she gasped.
The old ghost hung his head. “I am sorry. I needed something that could solidify my story. You don’t understand. Not knowing what happened to me, or why, it’s made me do things I would never have considered when I was alive. I can’t go on not knowing why I am this way. But I was very, very wrong, Loretta. I am so sorry.”
I breathed out, knowing Mom would understand. Lawrence was a guest; she’d give him a good deal of leeway.
“Get out of my house,” Mom said.
I reacted so fast I think I was facing her even before I could stand. As I spun, I saw Lawrence’s eyes widen and his mouth drop open. But before I could absorb that sight, I was staring at my mother, who was pointing at the ghost floating in her living room over the coffee table.
“Get out of my house,” Mom repeated. “And don’t ever come back.”
“Mom,” I began. If Lawrence left and couldn’t be contacted, I would never be able to find out what else he knew about his case that he’d been concealing. Lawrence was the only one who could answer the questions that might come up after tonight’s performance of the New Old Thespians. The whole case was gone if he was gone. “You can’t just—”
Mom shook her head slowly. And she pointed behind me. I turned back to face into the living room.
Lawrence Laurentz had left the building.
It wasn’t until I was halfway to Asbury Park that I realized
I wasn’t sure whether I still had a client or a case to investigate. Somehow it felt odd to consider not finding out what had actually happened to Lawrence; on the other hand, if I were to find out and still never see him again to tell him, what would I have accomplished?
Mom had been immediately apologetic about the way she’d reacted to Lawrence’s confession and had even tried (through gritted teeth, but still) to summon the ghost and forgive him, but he had not responded, and we were left with no client, no source of information on his death, and no forwarding address.
It was only nine in the morning, and already I had lost ground to yesterday.
Route 33 was not cooperating this morning, which was
typical, and I was stuck in traffic, frustrated, and cranky. This was not the proper attitude for a woman about to drop in unexpectedly on a guy she’d had a first date with only the night before.
I decided to call Jerry Rasmussen, whose number was luckily programmed into my cell phone since he had once called me to apologize. He answered on the first ring, and I asked him if I needed to buy tickets in advance for tonight’s performance of
Peter Pan
.
He sounded just a little startled. “You want to come to Brookside Manor to see
Peter Pan
?” he asked. “You sure?”
“Is there a reason I shouldn’t?” I said. “Does the play need more rehearsal or something?” I’ll admit it; I threw that in because I knew it would annoy him. I wanted to get a reaction out of him.
“Of course not,” he huffed. “We are professionals.” They weren’t, really, but there was no use quibbling—I didn’t want to alienate him entirely. “The show will go off exactly as planned. My concern is the venue.” He said that last word with a real sense of heady condescension in the pronunciation.
“The venue?” I realized it was a straight line, but it was the only way to get to the next piece of information. I’d been sitting with my foot on the brake here for five minutes. There was no sense that any of us would ever move again, so I needed at least the illusion of progress.
“Yes,” Jerry answered, having been properly primed. “It is an assisted-living facility. Many of the residents will be in some way incapacitated, so it will not be exactly the best showcase for our troupe. The stage is simply a raised platform. I’m not sure it will be large enough for all the scenery.”
Like I cared whether it was the best showcase. “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I said. “But again, do I need to buy tickets in advance?”
“There are no tickets,” Jerry admitted. “But if you like,
I will leave your name at the front gate. Brookside is fastidious about security. How many will be in your party?”
I decided to go with the best case scenario. “Eight,” I said.
Jerry sounded astonished. “Eight?”
I counted again: me, Mom, Melissa (how could I leave her behind, even on a school night?), Jeannie and Tony, Nan and Morgan and Josh. “Yup, eight,” I confirmed. “Unless babies count. Then nine.”
“Excellent!” he shouted. “We will look forward to seeing you there!” He hung up before I could return his enthusiasm, which was just as well since I was feeling particularly unenthusiastic as it became obvious that the three lanes on the highway were being condensed into one, and some of my fellow drivers were doing their very best to ignore the alternate feed rules that most Jersey drivers are usually pretty good with, at least in comparison to those assassins from New York and Pennsylvania.
I checked in with Mom again, ostensibly to confirm the time for the play but really to find out if Lawrence had reappeared; he had not. Mom said she’d considered baking cookies to lure him, then realized that would not do much good. Ghosts don’t eat. Which takes a lot of the allure out of the afterlife for me.
Mom and I ended the conversation, and I mused on my latest theory, that Dr. Wells and/ or the grumpy ghost had left the first two messages in my house. This was based strictly on the timing of his death and of Dad’s vanishing (and the complete lack of other ghostly suspects), but it was all I had to go on. Assuming he had been the intruder, how could the doctor have gotten my address?