Chance of a Ghost (17 page)

“Okay,” I told Tony. “I get your point. But what can I do?”

“Get her out of here
,
”
he repeated. “What are you doing this afternoon?”

“Visiting you. Then I’m taking Liss back home and I have a quick errand to run on an investigation I’m doing.”

“Perfect!” Tony shouted—well, breathed with enthusiasm. “Take Jeannie with you on the investigation! She loves when you ask her to help with that stuff!”

“It’s late already,” I protested. “I might not even do it today. I have guests…”

“Alison,” he said in a voice weighted down by weariness and desperation. “If you don’t take Jeannie out of here, she’s going to spend the night taking Ollie’s temperature.”

That didn’t sound good. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing! That’s the point!”

“Okay.” There was no sense fighting it. “Let me see what I can do. But you’re going to help me with my library doorway.”

Tony’s face looked so relieved I felt like I’d helped starving orphans get adopted by billionaires. “I’ll do the library door for
nothing
!” he said. “Thank you, Alison!”

“What’re you talking about?” Jeannie called from the living room, where she was rechecking the baby-proofing on one of the socket plugs that the baby couldn’t reach. “What are you two plotting?”

“I’m just giving Alison a little carpentry advice,” Tony said, and even though that was technically true, his tone was so forced that even I didn’t believe him.

I took Tony by the arm, giving him a look that indicated I should do the talking and marched him into the living room. Melissa was nuzzling Oliver’s belly, which produced the desired effect of making him laugh. Jeannie was
watching and visibly stopping herself from reaching for a box of aloe-enhanced tissues on the table next to her seat on the couch.

“I was telling Tony about the case I’ve agreed to investigate,” I told Jeannie. “It looks like it’s going to be a bear.” Melissa looked up, her expression puzzled. I sent a “go with it” look her way, and she smiled and went back to making Oliver laugh.

“You’re taking a case? Voluntarily?” Jeannie knew I wasn’t that keen on the whole investigation thing, but since she refuses to believe in Paul and Maxie, I’ve given up trying to explain to her the truth about my motivations for getting the private-investigator’s license.

“It’s the off-season, and I could use a little extra cash,” I told her instead. “I didn’t think this one would be a big deal, but it’s proving to be more puzzling than I thought.” I turned away from her at that point because I wasn’t sure I could sell that line of crap without breaking into a ridiculous grin.

“Oh, really?” Jeannie said. I’d have expected to need more of a lure than that, but she took the bait eagerly. “What’s the case about?”

It seemed safe to turn back and face her. Melissa grinned at me from out of Jeannie’s line of sight, and started to play with Oliver’s feet, which were currently snug in a blue woolly-looking sleeper. He giggled.

All I had to do now was reel Jeannie in.

“It seemed like it was going to be a simple case, just confirming that a man in my mother’s residential community had died of natural causes, but now it seems like maybe he didn’t,” I told her. “His sister called Mom to ask for my help, and now I can’t figure out what to do next.”

“Is this what all the intrigue with your mother and her mysterious visitor was about yesterday?” Jeannie asked. Um…sure! I nodded. “What have you done so far?” Jeannie asked.

“I checked the medical examiner’s report. There’s nothing
unusual there, but even if there were elements that would point to a crime, they probably weren’t found since it’s obvious they weren’t looking for anything unusual.” Indeed, the report McElone had given me was incredibly routine and superficial.

“So what makes you think there was anything to find?” Jeannie wanted to know. It was a good question, especially given the fact that telling her I’d heard it from the corpse himself seemed just a little bit pointless.

“This was a man whose heart problems were under control,” I said, which was true, according to Laurentz/Brookman. “He’d had some prior heart issues, but nothing major. He wasn’t under stress at the time and he’d had a completely clean medical checkup three days before he died.”

Jeannie shrugged. “It happens,” she said.

“Yeah, but his sister thinks it didn’t just happen. She told Mom she thinks somebody electrocuted him.”

“Please don’t speak of such things in front of…” Jeannie cocked her head toward Melissa, sitting on the floor.

“Liss knows about the case,” I told her.

“I meant Oliver,” Jeannie corrected me. Of course.

“Sorry,” I told her, despite the fact that it would be a miracle if Oliver even knew his own name yet. “But I’m so stumped, I’m not thinking straight.” Was that too over the top?

“It’s all right, but I really don’t want him exposed to violence this early in his life,” Jeannie said, apparently in earnest. Nah, the top was so high Shaquille O’Neal couldn’t get over it with a trampoline.

“What do you think I should do? In the case?” I said, before she could lecture me further on the proper way to speak in front of a four-month-old baby.

Jeannie pursed her lips and nodded. This was her “thinking” face. I’d seen it applied to everything from whether she should have the chocolate chip muffin to whether she should marry Tony. (She’d ultimately decided yes to both.)

“The obvious thing would be to find out whether this man had any enemies,” she said. “See if there was anyone with a reason to want to, you know, not be nice to him.” Her gaze was at her son, who had fallen asleep on the baby mat.

“That’s brilliant!” I said, not loudly enough to wake Oliver, as that would undoubtedly break the mood. “Exactly what I should have been thinking.” Normally, I’d have thought “brilliant” was a bit much, but Jeannie was on a roll.

“Glad I could help,” Jeannie said, beaming.

I walked over to her and took her hand. “What would I do without you?” I asked. Then I turned away and saw Tony’s alarmed expression as I did. I gave my head a small shake to indicate he shouldn’t worry. And I waited three seconds.

Jeannie said, “Hmmm…”

I had her.

“Do you really need help on this case?” she asked in a very quiet voice, no doubt intending not to disturb her baby’s slumber. “Is it really a tough one?”

I kept my back to her and struggled to control my grin. “Toughest I’ve ever taken on,” I said.

Jeannie looked at me, then at Oliver, who was drooling on the baby mat. She swooped in with a tissue and wiped it up, waking her son, who started to cry. So Jeannie picked him up and held him close to her shoulder, patting his back. My hopes of a wider entrance to my library, with no work done by me personally, sank.

Jeannie grinned. “I think I can help you out,” she said. Before I could answer, she turned toward the entrance to the dining room, where her husband was standing. “Tony!” she said. “You can help Alison with her case, can’t you?”

Tony looked like he was trying to break the Guinness Book of World Records mark for longest dropped jaw. If the floor hadn’t been there to hold it up, no doubt his chin would have been in the basement.
“Me?”
he asked.

“Sure. You don’t have that much work right now.” Oliver stopped crying as Jeannie bobbed him up and down.

“But I do have some,” he answered. “And I think it’s just the thing for
you…”

“Me?” Jeannie echoed. “I can’t just leave Oliver with a babysitter all day. This is a very important moment in the child’s development. He’s only just started eating a little solid food, and he might actually be”—she whispered—“
a little behind
on his motor development. I need to be here.”

Tony’s eyes darted from me, to Jeannie, to Melissa, to the clock; nobody was offering him an out. Almost all in one word, he blurted, “Well, take the baby with you!”

There was an uneasy silence, followed by a strange gurgling sound that turned out not to be emanating from Oliver but from my own throat. Because Jeannie was smiling.

“That’s a
great
idea!” she said.

Ten

I managed to convince the new parents—after failing to
make my case that investigating a possible murder could be dangerous for an infant—that I’d be doing no detecting at all until the next day, which I hoped would give me time to think of a way to extricate myself from days of sleuthing with an obsessive mother and a nice little guy who might burst into loud, easy-to-locate tears at any given moment.

I don’t know a great deal about murder investigations, but I’m pretty sure that would be bad.

Melissa and I drove home from Jeannie and Tony’s, Liss texting her BFF, Wendy, about something that went on in school that day—or the utter tragedy that there had actually
been
school that day, after the buildup that had convinced them they’d be sledding and throwing snowballs instead—and me musing on how I’d gotten hip-deep in playing detective for a guy who, let’s face it, was already dead.

Nan and Morgan Henderson had not yet returned from their dinner, so the evening was spent in consultation with
Paul and Maxie, then reporting in to Mom, who passed on our complete and utter lack of new information to Lawrence Laurentz (whom I still suspected might be a dangerous lunatic or criminal, neither of which I wanted keeping company with my mother for the duration).

I’d have to ask McElone to check him out the next day. Not calling her today had been a cowardly mistake. And one I would, under similar circumstances, no doubt make again.

When my guests arrived back at the house around nine, I believe I might have added to their suspicion that
I
was a dangerous lunatic by suggesting, in an ill-fated attempt to keep myself in their good graces, that we have karaoke night.

“Karaoke night,” Morgan parroted, with his usual deadpan.

“It sounds…lovely,” Nan attempted. “But we have early plans tomorrow, so I think we’ll turn in.”

“Early plans?” I asked.

“Yes,” Nan said, hustling her husband out of the room without further elaboration. I hoped the early plans didn’t involve finding other lodging possibilities. I began to fear the lousy reviews these two would be posting on TripAdvisor.

That night, when lying sleepless in bed, I thought mostly about my father.

I simply didn’t believe the part of Lawrence’s story in which Dad had supposedly exiled himself from the rest of the world—ghost and otherwise—for no discernible reason. It was odd that he hadn’t come to see Mom for weeks, especially without letting her know that would happen. It wasn’t like my father, dead or alive, to cause us worry.

That had been, perhaps, the most difficult part of his battle with the cancer that killed him. He detested seeing Mom and me so concerned about him, so sad that he wasn’t getting better, so terrified that the prognosis was dire. Particularly because it proved to be correct.

“I don’t want you to worry about me, baby girl,” he’d said to me the last time we spoke. I saw Dad a few times after, but he was asleep every time—he’d been in terrible pain, on morphine, and had barely registered recognition when I walked in the door of his hospital room. “I want to know that you’ll take care of your mother.”

“Mom will be fine,” I’d told him during that last conversation, regretting the message that she would get by just dandy without him. “She’s a lot tougher than you give her credit for. All we’re thinking about now is you getting well.”

Dad shook his head. “That’s not going to happen, Alison,” he said. When he called me by name, I knew he was serious. Mostly, it was “baby girl.”

“Sure it will. You’ll get stronger.” He gave me a look that indicated something less than complete confidence. I was lying, and we both knew it. He was in such pain that he could only talk for a minute or so at a time, and on enough morphine to make fifty addicts happy. It didn’t seem to be helping. He drew in a lot of quick, unexpected breaths when the pain struck especially hard.

I hate hospitals, by the way. Even when I gave birth to Melissa—the only happy time one spends in such a place—I hated the hospital and left the minute it was possible. There’s only so much hope you can summon on linoleum floors and under dropped ceilings. Whenever I was in a hospital room with Dad, we’d discuss what we’d have done to liven up the décor. Tops on the list were hardwood floors and incandescent lighting. Florescent sucks.

Again, he shook his head. “You don’t have to sugarcoat it for me,” he said. “I know the deal, and I’ve had a good life. I got no kicks coming.” That was a quote from his father, my grandfather, that we both loved. “But you take care of Mom, okay?”

“Dad…”

He fixed his gaze on me. “I promise I’ll try as hard as I can, but you have to promise to take care of Mom. Okay?”

I fixed my gaze on him. “You promise. You’ll never give up.”

“Promise. Now,
you
promise.”

I was putting such effort into not crying that I could only nod and say, “Okay.”

Dad had then closed his eyes and was snoring within a minute.