Inspector Specter (13 page)

“He left and didn't return the whole rest of the time we were there,” I told Paul.

Instead of his usual routine of pacing and stroking his goatee, Paul had his hand up with the palm extended and was holding it near the ceiling fan in my new movie room. I had given up on the whole investigating thing for the rest of the day and was stripping the last of the paint off the paneling, so I wasn't paying much attention to what new energy games he was playing.

“That doesn't make sense,” he answered after a moment. “There was no reason for him to be that upset. Unless . . .” Neither one of us wanted to finish the sentence.

Indeed, Mom had been thrown enough by our lack of success at Ferry's apartment that she'd just picked up Dad and left for home, saying she'd call the next day.

Paul seemed to be thinking something over as I got the remainder of the white paint off the last plank in the paneling and sat back, the bandana around my neck and the sweatband around my forehead more conceptual than helpful now. “There's no way of knowing where he went,” he said.

I turned to look at him. He was squinting, his neck tense, the arm now pushed directly into the blades of the fan, which would have been very painful if he'd been capable of feeling pain. They were still going at the maximum speed. “What the heck are you doing?”

“I am attempting to transfer the energy from my being into the fan without sustained physical contact,” he said, as if I surely should have realized that. “It's the next step.”

“What is it with this ‘energy' thing all of a sudden?” I asked. “What's the rush to move on to the next thing?”

“You really shouldn't take this personally,” he answered, clamping his eyes shut with effort. “It's not that I'm abandoning you, it's that I'm trying to leave an existence that is fraught with some very daunting limitations for me.” The light fixture underneath the spinning blades flickered a bit, and Paul opened his eyes, looking hopeful.

“Could you practice on something else? It's hot enough in here without you trying to turn off the fan.” Rationally, I understood Paul's desire to get out of an eternity spent in one place doing basically the same thing every day until time eventually just ended. Emotionally, I was hot, tired, irritated and feeling rejected.

If Paul left, I'd be down to one ghost for the spook shows. Could I appeal to him not to leave to save my business? Or would he simply suggest I ask Dad to fill in for him?

Paul looked sheepish and lowered himself to the floor, deciding (apparently) to concentrate on the situation he'd actually asked me to relate. His mouth twitched.

“Did you get the impression that Detective Ferry was trying to evade the questions you were asking, or that he was offended by the suggestion that he'd been involved with Monroe?”

“Both,” I said. “I don't know. Maybe neither. He did seem surprised, but I couldn't tell if it was because the idea was completely unexpected, or if he was shocked I knew about it. Could go either way. I'm confused, can you tell?”

Paul didn't answer, chewing the data over. But Melissa, coming into the room with Oliver (for Jeannie's benefit, please note that I'd closed the can of thinner and left the window open until any fumes could dissipate), was already talking anyway.

“I've been thinking about Detective Ferry's murder,” she said, trying to perpetuate the myth that she
hadn't
been listening in on my conversation with Paul before she'd walked in. Oliver, who had no such pretense, was less than pleased with the slight smell of turpentine in the room, and while he didn't cry, he did wrinkle up his nose and look annoyed.

“I've told you a hundred times,” I reminded my daughter. “We're not investigating Martin Ferry's murder, and
especially
not Harry Monroe's. We're just acting—”

“—as ghost liaisons for Lieutenant McElone,” she parroted back. “And isn't that why you were over at the detective's apartment with Grandma today?” So she had a point.

“What have you found out about Maxie?” I asked in an attempt to change the subject. Paul was now pointing a finger at the floor lamp and getting no results. Oh, yeah, he was going to be a huge help on this investigation, I could just tell. If there was an investigation. Which, I'd just decided, there wasn't. I was done with this one.

“Not much,” Liss admitted, putting Oliver down on the floor once she'd seen that I had removed all potentially dangerous substances and objects. Ollie tried to stand, thought better of it, sat down and picked up a clean, dry paintbrush I'd left on the floor for just such an occasion. He began to paint his face with it. “I didn't want to ask her straight out because she always seems to get mad when you do that.”

“Yeah, but that's me,” I pointed out. “She never gets mad at you.”

Liss shrugged. “Even so. Instead, I asked her if she was getting tired of doing the spook shows, because she always seems to want time off in order to go see her mom. I figured I could start the conversation like that.”

Paul touched one of the bulbs on the floor lamp, which lit. He smiled, but then looked perplexed.

“Nice thinking,” I told my daughter, ignoring the ghost pretending to be Benjamin Franklin out in the rain with a kite. “What did she say?”

“That she'd been tired of the spook shows from the very first day, but that she had a really great idea for them that she's going to try real soon.” Oh boy.

“Did you find out what the ‘really great idea' was?” I asked warily.

“No, but she was smiling really big when she said I'd find out.”

There was no chance I was going to sleep tonight.

I checked my cell phone, after I wiped off my hands, for a message from McElone. Still nothing.

“I'm trying the best I can,” Melissa said.

I looked over at her. “I wasn't suggesting that you did anything wrong, honey. I'm just worried about Kitty.”

“Call her.” Paul's attention was now directed at an electrical socket; he was staring at it like it was a luscious piece of red velvet cake. I chose not to think about why.

“But if Maxie's there now, she'll know I called.”

Melissa thought about that. “Yeah, but she'd be a good distance away and would have to get all the way back here before she did anything about it.” Melissa is always thinking and almost always has my best interests at heart.

“You're right. Enough,” I said. I reached into my pocket for my phone again, and naturally that was the moment it decided to ring. I sighed just loudly enough to hear it myself and looked at the Caller ID.

I didn't recognize the number. Technically, I could have let it go straight to my voice mail and listened to the message later, but thinking the call might be coming from one of my absent guests, in which case I'd want to know immediately, I tapped Accept and put the phone to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Is this Alison Kerby?” The voice—male, deep—was not familiar. It sounded tentative, as one would when calling a complete stranger. But he sounded too old and authoritative to be calling about a political campaign, a credit card scam or a donation to one of the colleges I'd attended.

So I dodged. “Who is calling, please?”

“My name is Malcolm Kidder,” he answered. I was about to try to cut off the pitch that was unquestionably on its way when he added, “I'm Anita McElone's husband.”

My eyes must have grown to the size of hubcaps, because suddenly Melissa and Paul were staring at me with concerned expressions. “You're the lieutenant's husband?” I said, strictly for their benefit. Then
their
eyes grew to the size of hubcaps. I don't think any of us had ever considered the lieutenant having a husband before. Which was silly, in retrospect, considering that I knew she had three children; there wasn't any reason to think she
didn't
have a husband.

“Yes,” Malcolm answered. “Has she ever mentioned me to you?”

What do you say to a guy who asks you that?
No, your wife has chosen to keep you out of every conversation we've ever had?
It seemed a little cold. “Of course,” I lied. “She's talked about you quite a bit.”

“She never brought my name up at all, did she?” he said, though not unkindly. Busted. I'm a remarkably bad liar. Paul had zoomed over to try to hear the conversation better, and Liss simply watched my face. “That's Anita. Business is business, and family is family.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, although I wasn't really clear why. It seemed like the thing to say at the time.

“Don't be; I don't mind,” Malcolm said. “But I was calling to see if Anita is with you right now.”

Well,
that
wasn't what I was expecting. “Did she tell you she'd be with me?” I asked. Why would the lieutenant tell her husband to call me? Why didn't he just call her? She had a cell phone. Heck, I could give him the number if he didn't have it.

“No, but she said she had consulted with you on a case,” Malcolm answered. “I know about all the ghost stuff. You know, your reputation is pretty well known around town.” Of course, McElone lived in Harbor Haven. Harbor Haven can't stop talking about me and my haunted guesthouse. Put two and two together and . . . “The problem is that I can't find Anita, and I was hoping you might know where she is.”

. . . sometimes you get five.

“What do you mean, you can't find her?” I said. Paul immediately put on his Sherlock Holmes face, but Melissa just looked worried. I waved a hand at her, trying to downplay her anxiety. McElone had probably just gone off investigating, and her cell phone needed a charge. It wasn't a big deal.

“I mean, I can't find her,” Malcolm told me. “I know she's investigating the death of her ex-partner, but she hasn't called in. Anita
always
calls in, even more often than usual now that she's on a leave of absence working on this Marty thing. Do you know where she was planning on going today?” His voice, although still ostensibly calm and controlled, was showing edges of concern. If Malcolm was anything like his wife, his “concern” was the normal human equivalent of “total panic.”

“No, she doesn't really tell me all that much about what she's up to,” I said. “To be honest, the lieutenant never really briefs me entirely about the nuts and bolts of the investigation.”

Malcolm's voice softened a little. “You don't have to call her ‘the lieutenant,' you know. I understand you two are friends.”

Friends? Was that what McElone told her husband we were? “Well, yeah,” I stammered. “But I'm afraid I don't know where she is. I take it her cell phone isn't answering?”

Paul's eyes narrowed, which meant he thought something was wrong but hadn't figured out what it was yet.

“No, and I'm getting worried,” McElone's husband said. “I haven't heard from her since yesterday afternoon, and I'm afraid something might have happened to her.” Maybe he
wasn't
like his wife, so he wasn't saying that he was beyond panic now. That's what I told myself.

Suddenly, the look on Paul's face seemed to signal he'd figured out what he thought was wrong.

“She's been taken,” he said to himself.

“You don't know that,” I said to Paul. “You don't know that Lieutenant McElone is even missing, let alone kidnapped.”

We'd been debating the issue for well over an hour now, after I'd promised Malcolm Kidder that I'd call him back at the number he'd used to contact me if I heard from his wife. But I had a bad feeling in my stomach about whether that was going to happen. During my argument with Paul, Oliver had gotten bored, played with a ball, had a diaper change, taken a short nap, gotten up, been given some mashed potatoes and a piece of rye bread (Jeannie would no doubt have a fit, but then, she wasn't ever going to find out) and gotten bored again. He was now cranky, on the floor of the den, sitting on an air-conditioning duct in the floor and watching a DVD of
Dora the Explorer
that Liss had found from her halcyon days. The fact that the flat screen he was watching, left over from a television production's visit to the guesthouse, was ten feet above his head probably didn't help. Every once in a while he grumped a bit, but he hadn't actually started crying. Yet.

“I don't like to make assumptions,” Paul allowed, “but there are very few alternative theories that fit the facts as we know them.”

Melissa, sitting on the floor with Ollie but not looking at Dora, stared up at Paul quizzically. “Are you sure?” she asked. “You don't think the lieutenant could have just turned her phone off or something?”

“If she had failed to respond only to your mom, that might be a very plausible theory,” Paul said. “But from what we know about the lieutenant, the idea that she hasn't gotten in touch with her husband or children since yesterday is disturbing.”

I didn't want to debate this idea any further. For one thing, Melissa looked upset, and I always try to avoid that. For another, I didn't want to deal with the fact that Paul's almost always right about these things. That wasn't a really encouraging prospect at the moment, either.

“Liss, can you do me a favor and get the take-out menus so we can decide on something to eat for dinner?”

Melissa looked a little suspicious—as well she might be, since dinner wouldn't be for at least two and a half hours—but she stood up and headed toward the kitchen door. “While you're up, please check the library and see if there are any guests there, okay?” I added.

Now she looked
really
suspicious, but she didn't say anything as she left the den.

“Okay,” I said to Paul. “What do we need to do now?” If it was something I was going to object to—and I always object when Melissa is anywhere near danger—I prefer to keep the conversation between me and Paul.

Naturally, that was the very moment Maxie decided to drop down through the ceiling, looking unexpectedly happy. Although perhaps “unexpectedly happy” is redundant, as I never expect Maxie to look happy.

“Hello, housemates,” she crooned as she floated gracefully down. “I'm back in time for the afternoon performance. Is there anything special you'd like me to do today?”

Was this really the same Maxie, the woman who will do anything she wants whenever she feels like it?

Paul and I, dumbfounded, watched her drift her way down until she was almost at my eye level, which put her a good foot lower than Paul. If you didn't look closely at the black T-shirt that read “Heck on Wheels,” you could be forgiven for assuming you were in the presence of Glinda, the Good Witch of the North. (Notice we never meet the witch of the South in the movie? I'm thinking she was still smarting over the battle of Gettysburg.)

“Okay,” I said when she finally came to a hovering stop, “who are you, and what have you done with Maxie Malone?”

There is one thing you can never say that Maxie lacks: nerve. Now she had the temerity to pretend she didn't understand. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“I take it your mom is doing well?” I said. It didn't seem likely that Maxie would fly into a rage over my mentioning her mother now, given the pleasant mood she was in.

And she didn't. “Oh yes,” Maxie said. “As far as I know, she's doing just great.”

“As far as you know?” Paul squinted at her.

Maxie seemed to come out of her trance; she shook herself and focused her attention on him. “I mean, she was fine when I left her.” She looked at me. “Just now.” I wasn't sure which was more dishonest, her tone or her face, but she was lying for sure. Which was good and bad, because while it probably meant that Kitty was okay, it also meant that Maxie was up to something, and that's
never
good.

I had a number of options. I could have tried to press Maxie for some indication of what was really going on. I could diplomatically try to coerce a more honest response out of her. I could use my mom or Melissa to find out, but that was going to take time.

So I chose Plan D, which was to completely ignore Maxie's strange behavior in favor of what was going on with Martin Ferry and Lieutenant McElone. “Something weird is happening,” I told Maxie. She may sometimes come across as clueless, but Maxie's not stupid, and she can be helpful in analyzing a situation when she wants to.

“Nothing's weird,” she said. “Everything with my mom is fine.”

“This isn't about you,” I told her, and got her up to date with McElone's radio silence.

Maxie absorbed the information and contemplated it for a moment. “Paul's right. Somebody's taken the cop.”

Melissa, who was now walking back over to me with menus in her hand, looked at me with a little panic in her eyes. “Should we call the police?” she asked.

“And tell them what? That a colleague of theirs is conducting an unofficial rogue investigation into something she'd prefer they don't know about, and that she asked me to communicate with ghosts to help her out? The lieutenant was really clear about me not letting anyone in on that. Besides, reporting her missing, if that's the case, is her husband's call.”

“Sounds about right to me,” Maxie said.

But Paul and Melissa were looking more skeptical now. “Okay, it's a point,” Paul said. “A number of points, in fact. Maybe you should call the lieutenant's husband back and suggest he make the call. A family member's concern would outweigh that of a colleague.” It was so cute that Paul thought I was McElone's colleague.

“We have to do
something
,” Melissa said. “I like the lieutenant.”

“We will do something,” I said. “But we're not going to do it until after dinner.”

I looked down at Oliver, who was dozing, which was just as well: The
Dora
video had ended a few minutes ago. I let out a long breath. “Now there's a guy with the right idea,” I said.

*   *   *

That afternoon's spook show was, I had to admit, a somewhat lackluster affair. The only guests in attendance were Joe Guglielmelli and Bonnie Claeson, who had gotten up in time to go out for (a late) lunch, spend a little time in town soaking up the atmosphere and then come back just in time to watch my household objects put on a show for her. Maxie's threatened new sensational effect had not manifested itself today, and my head hadn't really been in the hosting duties. Melissa had filled in when my interest had lagged. She's a trouper and allowed Maxie to do the “flying girl” bit down the main staircase, which always gives me heart palpitations despite my knowing it's perfectly safe.

Bonnie did seem to get a kick out of it, though. When she was awake, Bonnie was fully engaged, eyes bright, limbs tanned (a wonder, since she was never outside before one in the afternoon) and muscles often in motion. She also didn't say much but smiled a lot, which was another reason I wanted to order home for six more just like her.

Joe, looking interested but always seeming to expect something more spectacular, had additional reasons to look slightly disappointed after this less-than-enthusiastic display. But, like Bonnie, he did not complain, thanked me (and then the ceiling) for the lovely show and went back outside, saying he would head into town and try to find a good egg cream. I directed him to the Stud Muffin, where Jenny Webb can make anything you ask for in no time flat, as long as it's legal. (She can make it if it's illegal, too, but she tells me that takes longer.)

When the heat broke a little, I took myself and Oliver for a walk down to the beach.

For someone who lives on the Jersey Shore, I don't walk on the beach very much. I like the smell of the salt air and the sound of the surf, but to tell the truth, the feeling of sand between my toes has never much appealed. Still, I'll put up with the toe sand once in a while to clear my head.

Today, of course, I had Oliver with me, which slowed down the walking process to begin with, since I had to carry him.

A short while earlier, my phone had buzzed with a text message from Jeannie, which she'd managed to sneak through while Tony was allegedly not looking. Jeannie wanted to be sure her boy wasn't picking up bad habits from living in my house for a couple of days. I had texted back that aside from the smoking and drinking, he was exactly the same eleven-month-old she'd left. So far Jeannie had not responded.

“What do you think, Ollie?” I asked him. “Right now I'm trying to figure out if Lieutenant McElone has met with some foul play at the hands of the mob, which would be very upsetting to a number of people, including me. But that's not all—I know, you're shocked. In addition, I'm wondering what's been going on with Maxie and her strange absences, I'm worried about Paul figuring out a way to move on with his . . . eternity and I don't know whether the hat Rita saw was a ghost, and why it frightened her so much.”

I looked around now for Rita's flying hat to determine if there was a ghost under it. The only ghosts I could see were an elderly lady, easily in her late eighties, in a swimsuit that left everything to the imagination right down to her ankles, which put her in the early twentieth century, and a young man, possibly a lifeguard, in a very small bathing suit that left very little to the imagination, making him more contemporary. The woman kept reaching down into the water as if to cool herself, and occasionally managed to splash some around. The guy was looking out into the water, possibly for swimmers or surfers in distress.

Neither of them wore a hat.

“Gah,” Ollie answered.

“Okay, true enough, but we haven't even covered the Martin Ferry case yet,” I went on. “The detective got himself shot by someone, he doesn't know who, four nights ago. His gun was locked in his desk, unloaded, but whoever it was still got to it and shot him with his own weapon.”

Oliver gurgled a little.

“
And
, there are allegations, admittedly from some dead person I don't know, that Detective Ferry was a dirty cop, working with a guy named Fish when he shouldn't have been.”

“Fiss,” Oliver said.

“Excellent! You're brilliant!” I said to Oliver, who was getting a little heavy in my arms. I didn't want to sit him down on the beach because the sand might still be a little too hot for him to handle. Not that he seemed especially concerned about being carried around. You forget when you grow up what that must have felt like. Never having to walk, but still getting wherever you were going! It has its allure. Of course, you can only go where you're taken, but Oliver hadn't heard of France yet. Wait. Jeannie was his mother. Maybe he
had
heard of France.

“So I ask you, Ollie, how do I stay out of trouble and still find the lieutenant? She's the one who's been doing the real investigating, not me. Which is how it should be. I just want to run my guesthouse and not have to find out about gangsters. I don't want to know if Ferry was a dirty cop; that would be too upsetting. And if something has happened to Lieutenant McElone . . .”

“Why do you think something's happened to the lieutenant?” The voice was male and came from just behind my left ear.

I knew Jeannie had been anticipating Ollie's first sentence, but that was ridiculous.

Grinning, I turned around. “I didn't know you were coming today,” I said to Josh, who'd come up behind us. “I'll have to order more from the Greek place.”

“I like to keep you on your toes. You know, there are times when you tell Oliver more than you tell me,” he said. Ollie held out his arms, so Josh took him and said hello.

“That's only because Ollie doesn't worry the way you do,” I told him. We started back toward the house, which was good because my feet were starting to burn.

“What's this about Lieutenant McElone?” Josh asked. “You sounded upset.”

I filled him in on the conversation with Malcolm and what I had managed not to find out from Martin Ferry. “There are times I think I'm not really cut out for this whole PI thing,” I ended up saying.

Josh pretended to ponder it. “Well, I'm not sure you'd be my first phone call . . .”

“Rat.”