Inspector Specter (4 page)

Detective Martin Ferry had mob ties? That wasn't good news, and it certainly wasn't anything I was going to tell Lieutenant McElone unless I absolutely had to. Paul couldn't get any more information out of the “connected” ghost—apparently these guys won't break the code even after they're dead, and
that's
loyalty—to the point that he didn't even know the name of his contact, though Paul noted that the ghost “could be holding a grudge.”

I spent much of the night, when not listening in on the latest fifth-to-sixth-grade (summer is an odd time for kids) gossip from Wendy and Melissa or dealing with the needs of my guests, wondering what else I could do to help the lieutenant.

Let me save you the time: I didn't come up with anything.

The next morning, my Senior Plus Tour guests Don and Tammy were the first up and out. They headed off to Point Pleasant to spend the day on the boardwalk, giggling like a couple of teenagers. It was inspiring.

Another couple from Senior Plus, Stephanie and Rita Muldoon, wandered down around eight thirty and took some of the orange juice I'd made available. Even though I don't cook, I do put out coffee, tea and juice in the mornings. This time of year, I also make sure we have plenty of ice in case any of the guests want their morning beverage cold.

Stephanie asked about breakfast places in town, and I directed her to the Stud Muffin, our local bakery, or the Harbor Haven Diner (where I have an arrangement to get a small percentage for every customer I send their way).

“The next ghost experience is at ten,” I let them know. Rita laughed lightly. You can tell the ones who are a little bit scared by the way they act like they're not scared.

“I think we'll be seeing some ghost juggling,” I told her. It's not that hard to juggle when nobody can see your arms. Paul and Maxie can just hold the stuff in their hands and move it around, and people think it's juggling, I'm told.

“Sounds like fun,” Stephanie said. “But there's another one in the afternoon, right?”

Maxie dropped down through the ceiling—early for her—just in time to hear that. “If they're not going to stay, we don't have to do the morning show, right?” she asked.

With my back to the guests for the moment, I threw Maxie an irritated look. “Yes,” I answered Stephanie. “Around four.”

“Good. I think we might just hang out on the beach this morning before it gets too hot.” Rita looked at her wife. “Right, honey?”

Stephanie put her arm around Rita. “Don't worry. I'm here to protect you.” She smiled indulgently.

“There's nothing to worry about,” I said sincerely. “I assure you, the ghosts in this house are absolutely not dangerous.”

“Depends on your definition,” Maxie said, but instead of proving her bad-ass-ness by throwing something, like she often does, she just smiled at me. “So, am I off this morning?” She knew I couldn't answer in front of a skittish guest, but it's hard for her to contain herself. Maxie has, let's say, impulse-control issues.

I ignored her as I got Rita and Stephanie some towels from the downstairs linen closet, reminded them to make sure they used sunscreen and hydrated regularly (I'm such a mom) and saw them out the back door toward what would be my private beach if my beach were, indeed, private. It's not. The borough of Harbor Haven's zoning laws have seen to that. I don't really mind, but I do have to buy beach badges for my maximum number of guests (and myself and Liss) every year. It adds up.

As soon as they were outside, I turned sharply toward Maxie. “All of a sudden you need your mornings off?”

Maxie made a point of studying the ceiling, like Michelangelo sizing up the Sistine Chapel and deciding one of Adam's fingers needed nail polish. “I'm going to see my mom,” she said.

“Again?” I asked. “What's going on with your mom? Is she all right? Should I give her a call?” It occurred to me that Kitty hadn't come by the house to visit recently; even though she can't see or hear her daughter anymore, Kitty and Maxie were usually able to communicate via notes, or with help from Mom, Melissa or me (the 3 M's, we actually don't call ourselves).

“She's
fine
. Don't call her! Please?” Maxie started circling the ceiling, which is what she does when she's agitated. If someone could find a way to prescribe Ritalin for those beyond the grave, Maxie would be a regular customer.

“Then tell me what's going on with you. How come you've been going to see your mom every day? And why hasn't she come over here recently? She used to come here about once a week.”

“You are not my commanding officer!” she yelled, and once again launched herself skyward and out of the room.

Oooookaaaaaay . . . Well, if nothing else, I guess I'd found a new and effective way to get rid of Maxie when I wanted to. In this case, it was unfortunate, because I'd wanted to ask her to do some research on Detective Ferry, to see if there was any indication he'd been anything but an upstanding, honorable peace officer during his years on the force. I'd have to ask her later. I hadn't actually said she could have the morning off—she'd gotten that, right?

Melissa and Wendy, sleepy eyed from having stayed up late talking, dragged themselves into the kitchen not long after. Liss was stretching her arms over her head, and Wendy smiled, because she always smiles.

“Good morning, Alison,” Wendy said. Kids think it's amazing to call grown-ups by their first names. I had no problem with it because I knew Wendy wasn't being disrespectful.

“Morning, Wendy. Who's that you have with you?”

She looked startled. “You mean Melissa?”

I pretended to look more closely. “It is? Wow. That must be what she looks like when she doesn't get any sleep because she's been up giggling all night, huh?”

Liss regarded me with something like disgust, but no less enthusiastic. “Where's coffee?” she rasped.

“If I'd wanted to have conversations like this, I could have stayed married to your father,” I told her. “You know where the coffee is.”

Wendy, astounded that Melissa actually drinks coffee now, followed her out to the den, where the urn and coffee accessories were currently available, and made sure there was plenty of milk, because my daughter's coffee-to-milk ratio is pretty skewed toward the milk. I chuckled to myself. Liss tried so hard to be an adult, but she was incurably eleven. For a few more months.

It sounded like one of my remaining two guests was ambling down from one of the rooms, so I headed to the den.

Joe Guglielmelli, a single gentleman who had booked his trip through Senior Plus “despite all this silly ghost business,” was a widower in his seventies, a nonbeliever in the spirits and a jovial presence at the spook shows, constantly pointing out to the other guests and me exactly how he believed “the tricks” were done. Normally that kind of thing would get on my nerves, but Joe—he insisted—was so genial and engaged that he seemed like a little boy trying to understand how the magician made the dove appear.

He looked up from his glass of orange juice and smiled when I walked in. “Any new tricks from the ‘ghosts' today, Alison?” he asked. He mimed the quotes around “ghosts.”

“You'll just have to wait and see, Joe,” I said with a wink. “Watch really closely.”

“Can't wait,” he said.

I was about to reply when my phone buzzed. I begged off for a moment, saying I'd be right back and apologizing for my technology-driven rudeness. Joe waved a hand to declare the infraction minor, so I walked to the other side of the room and checked my phone.

The message was from Lieutenant McElone: “Can you meet?”

With less than ninety minutes before the next ghostly spectacle, I couldn't leave my house right now. So I sent back: “Here until 10:30. Want to come over, or wait?” There was a time when this sort of negotiation could have been done quickly and efficiently in a fraction of the time with actual conversation between the two parties, but technology had now advanced us to a point where a simple exchange could take a half hour.

My last guest, Bonnie Claeson, had not yet emerged from her room, but I'd discovered during the past few days that Bonnie liked to sleep in, and our motto is: Do What You Like.

McElone texted back: “Come here by 11?”

I sent back: “Yes, but need to be back here at noon.” Jeannie and Tony were bringing Oliver in time for lunch. Melissa could easily handle him if I was gone, but I knew it would look so negligent in Jeannie's eyes that she might be unwilling to leave Oliver with us, and then Tony would probably kill me for ruining his anniversary vacation, and what good would that do anyone? Then
I
might become a ghost, and the whole thing would just get more complicated.

It's a slippery slope once you've met your first dead person.

There wasn't going to be much for me to tell McElone anyway. Paul hadn't been able to contact Detective Ferry yet, and what he had been told was both disturbing and unconfirmed. I wasn't going to upset the lieutenant, who was mourning her friend, with unsubstantiated allegations that he'd been a dirty cop.

Perhaps the best thing to do would be to find out if those allegations could be substantiated.
Hoping
they were false wasn't quite enough. If I could get information that cleared the detective, I could at least feel better about not mentioning them to McElone.

I needed Maxie. She does the serious online research work when we have an investigation going. Maxie apparently never knew it in life, but she has mad computer skills. Apparently, one
is
never really finished learning.

I walked over to Melissa, who was trying very hard not to laugh at Joe's assertion that the ghost effects were “all done with wires.”

“My mom's good with tools, but she's not
that
good,” she told him.

“Excuse me,” I said, taking Liss gently by the arm. “I need to borrow my daughter for a moment.”

“Of course,” Joe said, and he headed for the front room.

“Find Maxie,” I told Melissa.

Wendy appeared at Melissa's side. “Is this a ghost thing?” she asked.

Liss nodded. “What do you need Maxie to research?” she asked me. We could speak freely because Wendy knew all about the ghosts. The whole town, and those sections of central New Jersey served by the
Harbor Haven Chronicle
and its affiliated website, knew all about us, too. Whether they believed it or, like Joe, thought I was a genius with special effects was irrelevant. I'd given up any pretense that the place was normal.

My daughter looked concerned. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong, but I need her to do some research, and I don't think she'll come if I ask. She'd never ignore you, no matter what.” Maxie absolutely adores Melissa and considers my daughter her “roommate.” So asking Liss to find Maxie was a strategic move. Besides, Joe wanted to see a ghost show, and that meant I needed ghosts.

“I told you what Lieutenant McElone was here about yesterday, right? I need Maxie to find out everything she can about Detective Martin Ferry. Fast.”

“Anything in particular?” Her eyes narrowed.

I didn't want to prejudice the investigation; it's something Paul has taught me. “No. Just whatever she can find out, and tell her to go beyond Google. I want deep stuff, okay?”

“Got it,” Melissa said, but her expression was suspicious. “I'll call her. Better go up to my room. She might be there already, and if she's not, I'll have to yell pretty loud.” Wise beyond her years, that one. She and her BFF were on the staircase in a blink.

Now that I had time to think about it, I wondered why I hadn't seen Paul yet this morning. Maxie was
never
out and about before him. The ghosts don't exactly sleep—they have no need to restore their bodies—but they do go off sometimes to be by themselves and to “rest our minds,” Paul liked to say. It was odd he wasn't around.

I started calling for him quietly. “Paul,” I said in a conversational tone. That's often enough to reach him; maybe he gets vibrations or something when his name is spoken. But this time, as I walked back toward the former game room to do some work on the walls, there was no response.

“Paul,” I said more forcefully. I was dressed for stripping paint, certainly, in a pair of cargo shorts and a T-shirt that, while clean, was not entirely in mint condition. I got the paint stripper out of the closet—something that sounds a lot dirtier than it is—and used a paint-can opener to get the lid off after I'd shaken it sufficiently. Then I opened the nearest window to dispel some fumes.

Still no Paul. And while I can't say I was officially worried, I was certainly confused by this development. It's the rare moment when I call for him and he doesn't appear.

What the hell; everybody in a ten-mile radius knew I had a ghost infestation. Why play coy? “Paul!” I shouted. And was indeed a little relieved when I heard a rustling near the archway that served as an entrance from the hallway. I looked over.