Ghost in the Wind (10 page)

Luckily, my mother exercised her gift for perfect timing at that exact moment and emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “I've been making cookies,” she announced out of the blue. “Anyone want one?”

Maxie and Vance, who after all don't eat, shook their heads out of politeness. “I think I'll be off to do some exploring,” Vance said. He looked at Maxie. “Do you know the area?”

“I'd love to show you around,” Maxie said to Vance. She didn't extend her arm for him to loop his own through but he did so anyway and they phased through the den's outer wall toward Seafront Avenue.

For some reason, this annoyed me. Maxie and Everett hadn't been together long (and they were dead, of course), but her cavalier attitude toward that relationship was worrisome at best. Yeah, I'd asked her to keep an eye on Vance, but this looked like more than an eye. Everett had been a really good influence on Maxie these past weeks, with his military discipline and sensible attitude. Was she really going to jeopardize that for this flaky British musician? (That's how concerned I was, to think of Vance McTiernan as a flaky British musician.)

“I'll get Liss,” I told Mom, mostly because I couldn't
think of anything to do other than ask Paul to Ghost-mail Everett and warn him about what was going on behind his back. That probably wouldn't have helped and Paul might not have agreed, given the mood he was in.

“What's with them?” Mom asked. “I thought she was with Everett.”

“Apparently Maxie is easily distracted,” I said. I think a drop of acid may have fallen off that last word and burned a hole in one of my floorboards.

Mom considered my face carefully. “I'll get Melissa,” she said. “You go in the kitchen and have a cookie. There's cold milk in the fridge.” There are times we both forget whose house this is. Mom walked off toward the stairs toward Liss's attic room. She'd probably just get to the first landing and text; Mom's knees aren't what they used to be but she seemed to want to give me a moment alone.

I took it: I went into the kitchen because, hey, there were freshly baked cookies. I was sitting there idly munching on one of them when Paul raised himself up through the floor, at least up to his belt.

“I think I just got a message from Vanessa McTiernan,” he said.

“What does that mean?” Melissa asked. “You
think
you got a message from Vanessa? How come you don't know?”

She chewed on one of Mom's chocolate chip coconut cookies, which she had whipped up with no prior preparation, having simply brought the ingredients for them by chance. That was Mom's story and she was sticking to it.

Melissa had a glass of milk in front of her. I had finished my cookie before she and Mom had come down from upstairs and was considering taking another because neither of them had seen me eat the first one. Paul had, but he doesn't care about such things and wouldn't rat me out. For the record, Mom and Melissa wouldn't care, either, but in my guilty mind they would judge me and that was keeping me from taking the second cookie.

For now.

“It's not an exact experience,” Paul explained. He was gracious enough not to affect a weary tone despite having
explained his ghost telepathy to us more than once before. “I receive impulses, feelings. It doesn't take the form of words all the time. This one was a very strong sense of regret and she seemed to be trying to tell me she was Vance McTiernan's daughter.”

“So she
has
come back as a ghost,” Mom said. Mom was eschewing the cookies entirely but she didn't fool me; she'd probably eaten some of the dough while she was baking them and maybe had a “test” cookie when they came out, too. There is an advantage to having grown up in her house. “I was sure you wouldn't hear from her.”

“I'm not completely sure I did,” Paul reminded her. “People don't generally materialize in this state after four months. This is highly unusual.”

“What did she say?” I asked. I took a step away from the cookies, which were on a white plate ringed with yellow on my center island. I was being a responsible adult. It was new to me, but I believed I liked it.

Paul refrained from once again mentioning that these messages weren't literal. “She was concerned about her father,” he said. “She seemed to think he was engaged in a campaign of revenge and she didn't want that.”

This sounded suspiciously like Paul conjuring up a fictional conversation with Vanessa to convince me I should quit her case. The idea that Vance was unstable and irrational was awfully convenient, especially given that this revelation had come to him right after the spook show when Vance had stomped all over Paul's turf.

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Did she want you to do anything?”

“She wasn't that direct. But she said something about finding her band, that they could be the key to her death.”

Curiouser and curiouser, Alice would say. “Doesn't she know what happened?” Mom asked.

“She wasn't clear about that.”

This seemed fishy. “She's saying exactly what Vance said
to me before,” I said. “Doesn't that seem like too big a coincidence? Who in the band does she want me to talk to?” (I was going to see the band that night anyway, but Vance, significantly, didn't know that.)

“She didn't say.” Paul stroked his goatee. I'd been waiting for that; it was a sign he was thinking about the case as a case.

“Interesting,” I said. If I let Paul stew in his own juices, he might come back to being an investigator without my prodding. I wanted him back on the case but I didn't want to have to swallow my pride any further to get him there. Does that make sense? I'd have to gently nudge him here—
very
gently. “What do you think it means?”

Paul's head snapped up like he'd been challenged to a duel. “Means?” he asked. “It means she wants you to talk to her band. Why? Have you told Vance something you shouldn't?”

Aha! So this was a reconnaissance mission! Paul was trying to determine what I had or hadn't done, to make sure he was in charge without actually having to say he was on the case.

“No I haven't,” I said. “But I think your ‘Vanessa' is some ghost pal of Vance's he convinced to get in touch with you because I'm not doing what he wants me to fast enough. I love Vance's music, but the man himself is more devious than I would have thought.”

“So you see what I see,” Paul said. “He can't be trusted.”

“Doesn't mean we shouldn't see about his daughter's death,” I told him. I'd said “we” to see if it got a rise out of him; he hadn't reacted at all.

“What about Maxie?” Melissa said. “Mom told me she and Vance went off together. If Vance is all unstable like you said, Paul, is Maxie in trouble?” Liss will avoid the point of the conversation only if she wants to, and in this case she wanted to. She was more concerned about Maxie than Vanessa because she knew Maxie. She could be concerned about Vanessa later.

Paul considered that. “I doubt it. There isn't much that can happen to Maxie.”

“What about messing up her relationship with Everett?” I suggested. “That would be a problem.”

Melissa nodded but Paul shrugged. “I don't think that will be an issue,” he said.

I didn't get to ask him why he thought that because Berthe Englund stuck her head through the kitchen door. “Am I interrupting?” she asked.

I shook my head. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Englund?” Berthe preferred the title even though her husband was long gone. Maybe I
would
ask Paul to look him up, just to give Berthe some closure.

“I'm just wondering if there's going to be a whole concert now,” she said.

“A concert? I'm afraid I don't understand.”

She pointed behind her, toward the den. “In the movie room,” she said. “The instruments there are playing now.” And my first reaction:
There are instruments in the movie room?

Melissa was up and out the door before I could react. “I wasn't aware of it, Mrs. Englund, but if you'd like to sit and listen awhile, I see no reason you shouldn't.”

Berthe smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “I just wanted to make sure it was on the agenda.” And she was gone.

Paul looked at me. “If it's Vance, this would be a good time to confront him,” he said.

“Does this mean you're back on the case?” I asked.

“What case?”

I ignored him. We went—Mom and me by foot, Paul by whatever that bizarre method of propulsion it is that he uses—to the movie room. But you could hear the music coming from there long before we made it to the door. And even before we got there, I could tell something really special was going on. What we saw, and heard, there absolutely
floored me. I stopped dead—pardon the expression—in my tracks and stared.

At the front of my movie room, just under the ginormous TV I'd installed on the wall, stood—floated—Clarence Clemons, saxophone in hand, wailing away at a rendition of “Baker Street” that completely blew away Gerry Rafferty's recorded version. But the band that was backing up the former E Street Band's legendary saxophonist almost upstaged the Big Man himself.

Phil Ochs and Harry Chapin were on acoustic rhythm guitars. Sid Vicious was on bass. Clemons's former bandmate Danny Federici was on keyboards, Rick Danko was on electric lead (alongside—get this—
Les Paul
), and the drummer (playing a set of bongos and some folding chairs) was Levon Helm. Singing backup were Luther Vandross, Tammi Terrell and Phoebe Snow. For this ensemble, Vance McTiernan was reduced to playing percussion.

Leading the band and singing (which only half of the living people in the room—which included Mom, Melissa, and me along with Tessa, Jesse, and Berthe—could hear) along with his electric rhythm guitar was John Lennon.

I couldn't move. I'm not even sure I wanted to move. This was the most amazing group of musicians I'd ever seen. It was probably more amazing than anyone else had ever seen, either, and not one of them was alive. The music they were making, apparently impromptu, was astonishing, each member of the band contributing without having to overshadow the others. They were complete professionals, they were collaborating, and each one had a huge smile that indicated they'd never had such fun in their lives.

Literally.

The song lasted another few minutes and when it was over, the assemblage—which now included Paul, Maxie and Dad, who hovered over the musicians, and Josh, who must
have appeared when I was busy being mesmerized—broke into a tremendous round of applause.

“I hope you don't mind that I invited a few friends over to jam,” Vance said, grinning at me.

“It's . . . fine,” I managed to choke out.

“One more, lads!” Lennon called out. The others looked to him. He raised an eyebrow. “Vance?”

Vance didn't miss a beat. “‘Born to Run,'” he said. “This is New Jersey, John.”

The ex-Beatle beamed. “Always know your audience, don't you?” He nodded to Clarence and Danny. “We'll defer to you two on this one, right? Count us in.”

The big sax player acknowledged Lennon with a nod and shouted, “One, two, three
four
!” And they were off.

It was the most exhilarating moment of my life. (I'm sorry, Liss, but I was so tired after thirty-two hours of labor when you were finally born that “exhilarating” doesn't accurately describe it.)

They played on, and I was aware of Josh sidling up to my side. “You booked a ghost band?” he asked. “They're good.”

“They oughta be,” I said into his ear. “Just listen. I'll tell you who they are later.” He smiled; he's used to this sort of thing.

The music was over far too soon. The band played only about fifteen minutes in total until Levon mentioned he had a gig in the city later that night, so he'd better find a car heading in that direction. Tammi asked if she could ride along. Phoebe was going to visit relatives in Teaneck. Everyone went his or her own separate way, rising, sinking, exiting through walls. Federici folded up the electronic keyboard and hid it inside a long peacoat he was suddenly wearing, saying he'd better get it back to the family restaurant in Freehold before it was missed.

My guests, thrilled with the music but unaware of the miracle they'd just witnessed, thanked me for the show on the way out of the movie room and asked if there'd be another
soon. I said I doubted there would be another one like that, but nothing was impossible at the haunted guesthouse.

Because all of a sudden that seemed to be true.

The topper for me came when, after all the guests had shuffled out, John Lennon swooped down, smiled at me and asked if he could come play here again because he liked the room's acoustics. I told him he was always welcome and couldn't help wondering aloud why he was still bound to Earth.

He laughed. “‘Imagine there's no heaven,'” he said. “Apparently someone is taking that personally.” Then he gave Vance a departing nod, said something about going to haunt Yoko and flew out the back wall.

“That was so bitchin'!” Maxie yelled from the rafters. “I might have to start listening to those oldies you like. Who was that guy doing the singing? I liked him.”

I sat down heavily in one of the chairs I'd laid out for the Sunday night movie, which was now definitely going to be a major disappointment, and shook my head. Had I really just seen and heard all that? Josh sat down next to me.

“I've never seen you look like that before,” he said. “Are you okay?”

I blinked. Three times. “I am so much better than okay,” I said. I looked at Melissa. “Did you know who any of those people were?” I asked.

“I knew some, but Grandma knew almost everybody,” she said. “Wow.”

“Wow indeed,” Vance said, crossing his arms in a casual expression of smugness and floating just above my eye level, so I had to look up at him. “Not bad, huh?”

“That was . . . spectacular,” I said. “Thank you so much.” From the side of my eye I caught Paul looking displeased in the corner near the ceiling. Men are so competitive.

“Don't mention it,” Vance said.

“No, really,” I gushed. “Nobody's ever done anything like that for me before. I mean, nobody possibly could.” Now Josh
looked displeased, which proved he had a male ego, too. “I wish I could do something for you.”

“Well . . .” Vance stroked his chin. I looked up. Paul was stroking his goatee. They looked like they were doing impressions of each other. “Maybe you can.”

Paul's eyes almost closed; he was staring at Vance through slits. Even Maxie, ecstatic a minute ago, looked suspicious.

“Name it,” I said.

“Stop investigating about Nessa,” he fired back much too quickly.

That was too much. “Why?” I exploded. “Aren't you the guy who wanted me to dive into this with both feet, like, an hour ago? Why can't you make up your mind?”

“I don't want to know. If I was a bad dad—and I was—maybe that led to her wanting to do this, and it would make me feel horrible. Her death left a hole in me. I don't want another one.” Given that I could literally see through him, the metaphor was a little less effective than he might have hoped.