Night of the Living Deed (7 page)

So did I. “Who needs a bodyguard to go to a planning board meeting?” I asked.

He took a deep breath—which was interesting, since I doubted he needed the air anymore—and re-boarded his train of thought. “There was a proposal to condemn this property and sell it to a developer. The only place you can be assured of making money on real estate is near the shore. Maxie was there to defend her claim on the house.”

“They can do that? Just take the house out from under the owner?” How come I hadn’t heard about any of this when I was buying the place? I’d have to get on the phone to Terry Wright the minute I was finished hearing the sad story of these two freeloading displaced spirits.

“Yes,” Paul answered. “Assuming it gets approved by the various levels of the municipal government. But Maxie spoke up at the meeting, and the plan was rejected that night.”

“I don’t understand what that has to do with your . . . circumstances,” I told him.

Paul frowned. “Neither do I,” he said. “All I can tell you is that after we went out for a celebratory dinner, we came back to the house, and I was just about to leave for the night when we both collapsed.”

“Collapsed from what?” I heard an ominous scraping noise coming from the living room. But I wasn’t willing to deal with it at that moment.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Something hit us very suddenly, because one minute we were fine, and the next, we were . . . like this. Here. And we couldn’t leave, so there was no one here but us for days.”

“So, what did you die of?” The heck with Miss Manners. You could tiptoe around the word only so long. They were going to be dead a long time; Paul might as well start getting used to it. Maxie seemed to have moved on emotionally, assuming she had emotions.

“I have no idea,” Paul told me. “Our physical bodies weren’t here when we became conscious. Well,
aware
.”

“Well, you might have died of natural causes, then,” I said. “Food poisoning. Some kind of fever. Swine flu.”

From the living room came a flat, moist sort of sound. I guess Maxie didn’t agree with my reasoning.

“We were definitely murdered,” Paul said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “After the threats, and immediately after that meeting, it doesn’t make sense otherwise. But since I can’t get past the front walk, I need you to find out who did it and why. Alison, please. You can’t imagine what this means. It’s the last wish of a man who’s already dead. You’re special—you can see and hear us. You’re the only one who can help.”

There had to be a way to avoid a reply to that. “Where are you from?” I asked instead, stalling. “I can’t place your accent.”

“London, originally,” Paul said. Damn! I’d thought Canada. “But my family moved to Toronto when I was six.” Aha!

In the driveway, I heard the sound of tires on gravel. Perfect! “Tony is back with my daughter,” I said, not to anyone in particular. “We can’t talk in front of her.”

I turned to walk to the back door. Paul moved toward me and reached for my arm. “Alison, stop,” he said.

His hand passed right through my forearm. It wasn’t an altogether unpleasant sensation; I would have expected it to feel cold, but instead it was a little like a warm breeze. I looked up into his eyes.

“Please,” Paul said. His eyes were desperate.

Melissa opened the door and stuck her head in. “Tony says let’s go out to the diner,” she said. “He’s buying.” And then she turned and walked back out to Tony’s truck. She knew I wouldn’t turn down that deal.

“Please,” Paul repeated.

The answer was a no-brainer. “No,” I said, and went to walk out the front door.

On the way out, I saw that Maxie had picked up a box cutter and carved “WITCH” into the wall next to the hole she’d created with the mallet.

“Alison!” Paul called after me.

I got out as fast as I could.

That first night back in the house was difficult, although I didn’t see the ghosts when Melissa and I returned from the diner. I still wasn’t 100 percent convinced I wasn’t suffering the effects of a severe blow to the head. In fact, I
wanted
to believe I had injured myself severely enough to see things that weren’t there. But the headache was gone, the bump had pretty much subsided, and when I’d called Dr. Walker’s office to follow up, he’d actually gotten on the phone, asked me about symptoms, and told me I sounded completely recovered.

Okay, so I still hadn’t told him about the hallucinations. The man was so busy; why trouble him?

Sleeping wasn’t easy, particularly when I could’ve sworn that just as I closed my eyes, I saw Paul’s head peeking in at me—through the bedroom ceiling. I resolved not to open my eyes again until morning, and fell asleep not long (maybe just an hour) after.

Melissa was grumpy and uncommunicative the next morning, which was not terribly unusual—she’s not a morning person and she hates Mondays. I didn’t even ask her whether she wanted me to cook breakfast; I knew she’d just glare at me and eat one of the small, single-portion cups of cereal I’d bought to use until I could get the kitchen into some kind of shape. After a wordless breakfast, she went upstairs, dressed, and came down to get a ride to school. I reminded myself for the umpteenth time to attend a board of education meeting and demand a school bus route.

“Is something wrong?” I asked her on the way. She’s always quiet in the morning, but not
this
quiet.

“No.”

There are few species on the planet less communicative than nine-year-old girls still coming off divorces. Especially before school. I regrouped. “Maybe it’s something I can help with.”

“You wouldn’t want to,” Melissa said as we pulled up to the John F. Kennedy Elementary School. I could see her friend Wendy waiting on the sidewalk. Melissa ran over to her without so much as a backward glance, and the two of them hugged as if they hadn’t seen each other in months.

I smiled ruefully, thinking about how, when Melissa was three, she’d refuse to let go of me whenever I dropped her off at day care. I used to call her “the Velcro baby” because she couldn’t be pried off my leg.

You pay a price for such sentimental reminiscences, and today was no exception. Before I could drive away, a woman with a superior-seeming smile leaned into my open window. I fought the impulse to hit the gas.

Kerin Murphy (seriously, can’t anyone be named Karen anymore?), whose daughter Marlee was in Melissa’s class (Liss said Marlee was “stuck-up”), was the head of every parent-involved committee at the school, and still somehow had time to work out diligently, chauffeur her three children to Everything lessons after school, and hold down a job at the local hospital as a birthing coordinator, when not volunteering at a soup kitchen or raising money to fight drought (how do you pay clouds to rain?) in Africa.

“Alison!” Kerin always spoke in exclamation points. “Have you donated to the PTSO’s SafeOWeen program yet?”
PTSO
is the twenty-first-century PTA, and stands for “Parent-Teacher-Student Organization.” I’m sure they would have added the custodial staff into the acronym, too, if they could’ve.

“SafeOWeen?”

“Sure! It’s a way for the kids to go trick-or-treating without having to go door to door!”

I must have raised my eyebrows. “Isn’t going door to door the whole point of trick-or-treating?”

Kerin’s look indicated she thought I was speaking Klingon. “We set up stands in the school’s playground, and each one gives out a different kind of healthy snack. So the kids can come here, all see each other, and get lots of wholesome treats without any danger.”

Now, I should have known from past experience that it was futile to argue with Kerin
or
the PTSO, but if I’d actually ever learned from my past experiences, I’d be back in college now getting an accounting degree instead of trying to restore a ghost-infested house.

“I understand the intention,” I told her, “but that doesn’t sound at all like fun for the kids.”

“It’s
tons
of fun!” Kerin countered. “We’ll have music playing, and bring in some cars with their headlights on to light it up. The kids will love it!”

There were at least six different arguments I could have used, not the least of which was questioning the entertainment value of all the vehicles that would need jumpstarts afterward, but instead I took the coward’s way out and just gave Kerin five dollars. Sometimes, there’s just no point.

Once again, I should have just put the car into drive and hit the road, but a very attractive man walked over and stood next to my window, and that doesn’t happen every day, so I stopped again.

“Are you Melissa Kerby’s mom?” he asked.

It’s always nice to be recognized as a person in your own right. “Yes,” I admitted.

“I’m her history teacher, Mr. Barnes,” he said, and he had such nice eyes I really didn’t care that he seemed to have no first name. “I missed you at Back-to-School Night.”

Mostly, he’d missed me because I hadn’t been there: Back-to-School Night had occurred on an evening when I’d really needed to sweat some copper pipe in the upstairs bathroom. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it,” I said, and at this moment, I actually
was
sorry. If I’d realized then that Mr. Barnes was a good-looking guy under sixty, I might have made more of an effort. “Is there a problem with Melissa?”

“Oh no!” Mr. Barnes seemed astonished at the very idea. “She’s a terrific student. I actually wanted to ask about your house.”

A regular man magnet, that place was. “My house?”

“Yes. Melissa says it’s over a hundred years old, and I’m very interested in the area’s history. I’m wondering if I might come by sometime to see it.”

That was a new one, all right. “It’s not a historical landmark, or anything,” I said. “It’s just a house.”

Barnes looked disappointed. “I understand,” he said. “It was a little forward of me, I guess.”

I felt like I’d just told him he couldn’t have a puppy for Christmas. “No, it’s fine,” I said, smiling. “Come by anytime. But I have to warn you, the place is under construction to restore it, and there’s a lot of dust.”

His face brightened. “That’s great,” he said. “I can’t wait to see it.”

“The dust?”

“No, the house.” Okay, so I couldn’t be my usual hilarious self with him. “Oh, I see what you mean.” He chuckled.

“We’ll work out a time,” I said. “Send a note home with Melissa.”

Barnes nodded, shook my hand like a business associate, and started back toward the school.

Had I just made a date? It was hard to tell. I put the car in gear and took off before anyone else could stop me.

When I got back to the house, the ghosts were still there. Paul (in different clothing, which was interesting—when, how and especially
why
does a ghost change clothes?) was pacing in front of the picture window in the living room, and I could hear Maxie, somewhere out of sight singing an Elvis Costello song.

Paul’s head snapped to attention, and his body (or the image of it) followed suit when he saw me. “Alison!” he shouted. “Thank God you’re back!”

“Of course I’m back, you figment of my imagination,” I answered. “I own the place.”

“Have you reconsidered?” He looked positively stricken. “Will you help me find out who killed us?”

“Not a chance, dead boy.” I started unpacking tools from the box. Today would be devoted to the kitchen cabinets. I’d taken them down, but I wasn’t replacing them: It would be more economical—and tons more work—to strip the cabinets and refinish them, something closer to the oak shade they had once been. Then I’d add new wooden doors and hang them at a less beanstalk-like height.

“Alison.” Paul’s voice dropped to a seductive tone that I’m sure must’ve worked nicely with the ladies when he was, you know, breathing. “I would do this myself if it were possible. But I can’t leave these grounds, and no one else can see or hear us. You’re the only one who can help.”

I had to sound unmoved. “I have cabinets to strip.”

“You’re letting a murderer go free,” Paul tried.

I turned to face him. “Okay, let’s say you were murdered. If I find out who killed you, will you come back to life?”

He probably would have blushed if he were solid. “Of course not.”

“The person—or persons—who you think killed you would probably be of a violent nature, yes?”

“I can only assume.” Paul’s eyes narrowed as he saw the trap beginning to ensnare him.

“Then I don’t see the point to getting violent people mad at me when it’s not going to do you any good in the long run. Sorry, Paul. I’d like to help, but I really think it’s a lousy idea. Besides, as I believe I’ve pointed out, I’m trying very hard not to believe you’re real, and you’re not helping.” I put on the mask to work with paint stripper. You don’t want to smell that stuff full-on, and it can damage your lungs. Use the mask. You should wear goggles, too, and rubber gloves are an absolute must. The last thing you need is paint stripper on your hands.