Night of the Living Deed (40 page)

Meanwhile, Kerin Murphy and her husband were separating while she defended herself against obstruction charges. Kerin also gave up the presidency of the PTSO “until this difficult time is behind us.” I was hoping she’d move out of town, but I don’t really have that kind of luck.

Phyllis asked me whether I’d be interested in writing a column for the
Chronicle
, and I declined. I had enough to do. But she encouraged me to stay in touch and, as she was leaving, promised to do so herself. She also asked if Melissa would like to deliver papers for her, and I told her to ask again in a couple of years.

Jeannie and Tony still called pretty much every day, having gotten into the habit. Jeannie’s calls were especially entertaining, as she would never refer to anything the least bit unusual at my house. But whenever she came by, she was tense. When I’d ask her about it, she’d deny everything and tell me
I
was crazy.

It’s nice to have friends.

Maxie, who’d been unusually quiet and often absent in the two weeks since the Halloween insanity, poked her head up through the perfectly repaired window box when Spud and Phyllis were gone. “I thought they’d be never leave,” she whined.

“What do you care? They can’t see you. You could have made faces at them and otherwise tried to embarrass me to your heart’s content. Assuming you have a heart.”

She scowled. “You’re really mean to me sometimes,” she said.

“I
told
you that crack about never coming near Melissa again was just me being angry,” I reminded her. “I
told
you that you can talk to her whenever you want, and I’ll even let you be alone in a room with her again once her eyebrows grow all the way back in.”

“See? Mean.”

Before I could respond, the doorbell rang, and Maxie looked a little anxious. She’d hadn’t said anything, but lately she seemed to dislike seeing people she wasn’t expecting, and was going outside the house less and less. I thought it was sinking in that unmasking her killer wasn’t going to change her situation—she’d still be a ghost stuck in my house. So I took a deep breath before opening the door, because I didn’t know how she’d react.

Maxie’s mother, Kitty Malone, looked just as anxious on the other side of the threshold. But I’d told her on the phone that it was really important she come by and, after she’d protested mightily, I’d told her why. She hadn’t believed me when I’d said she could speak to Maxie—and I didn’t blame her—but I wore her down.

“I’m not sure about this,” Kitty said, but she bravely stepped into the foyer and looked around. “Wow. This place is really beautiful.”

Maxie, peeking in from the living room, looked astonished. “Oh my God,” she said. “Mommy.” She seemed to regress to about six years old, and she backed up a little in shock, but she didn’t leave the room.

“Thank you,” I told her mother. “Actually, as much as I hate to admit it, many of the best ideas were Maxie’s. Like painting this room white with navy blue molding.” Maxie didn’t seem to hear that, because she didn’t react at all—normally, she’d do a dance of victory at my admitting she was better than me at something.

Kitty’s mouth opened a little. “That does sound like Maxie,” she said.

I led Kitty into the living room, where Maxie seemed unable to move. She stared at her mother. And I believe I saw tears on her cheeks, but the framed painting on the wall behind Maxie, which showed through, might have obscured my view a little.

“What are you doing?” Maxie asked me.

“She wants to know why I invited you,” I told Kitty. “I didn’t tell Maxie you were coming.”

Kitty’s eyes widened. “You mean . . . she really is here?”

“In the room with us.”

Kitty sat down on one of the sofas without asking, which was perfectly fine with me; I wanted her to feel at home. “Didn’t she want to see me?”

Maxie fluttered down from the ceiling to her mother’s side and stared into her eyes. “Tell her I always wanted to see her,” she told me. “I thought she didn’t want to see
me
.”

I relayed the message, but Kitty’s eyes narrowed a bit. “How do I know she’s really there?” she asked.

It was a good question, and one that I hadn’t been able to plan for in advance. But Maxie knew what to do: She flew to the small secretary I’d put in one corner, took out a pen and a pad of paper, and brought it back to the sofa.

Kitty looked with fascination as the pen, seemingly suspended in midair, wrote, “I’m here, Mommy.” She ran her hand around the pen a couple of times, looking for hidden wires.

“That’s Maxie’s handwriting,” she said. “She never could write very well in cursive.” And she started to cry, but the tears were those of restoration rather than of sorrow.

Maxie ran her hand over her mother’s cheek, and Kitty put her hand up to her face, having felt her daughter’s presence. “Oh Maxie,” she said. “My God, I’ve missed you.”

“Me, too,” came the reply, a little slower as Maxie worked on her penmanship.

“Are you okay?” Kitty asked, and I watched the pen move over the paper again.

I didn’t stay to see the reply, but I heard some laughter from both of them as I walked out of the living room. I was going to head for the library, where I was still sorting some books for the shelves (I’d made sure they looked good for Spud, but they weren’t properly categorized), but the doorbell rang again, and this time I was the one startled, because I wasn’t expecting anyone else.

A little man of about seventy, dressed very nattily in an overcoat and a hat, stood on my doorstep and presented a business card identifying himself as Edmund Rance, representative of Senior Plus Tours.

“My company helps to provide its clients with special and unique accommodations, particularly on the New Jersey coast.” (That was classy—everybody in New Jersey says “down the shore.”) “We schedule as many as ten tours per season.”
Holy mackerel! That could put me on the map!
“I have seen some online mentions of this house as a tourist accommodation during the spring and summer months, but I couldn’t find your Web site,” he said.

“Year-round accommodation,” I corrected. “We’re ready to accommodate people immediately, but the Web site is still under construction.” After all, the photographs had just been taken today. I hadn’t expected guests until April at the earliest, but I could certainly be flexible.

Rance’s stern expression did not change. “May I come in and inspect the facility?” he asked. He took off his hat, an indication that a gentleman was entering the “facility.”

I stood aside and gestured him in, and then I remembered the paranormal family reunion going on in my living room. How could I steer him away from such a central location?

“Would you prefer to tour the bedrooms first, Mr. Rance?” I asked, leading him away from the living room and toward the stairs.

“Any order is fine. But I do have one question, Ms. Kerby.”

“Please, ask away.” I’d given up the expression
shoot
on Halloween night.

“There have been rumors, both online and in the town of Harbor Haven, that undead spirits walk the halls of this house.”

Oh, brother. I knew I shouldn’t have let Maxie loose on those kids, and then let them all in to tear the place apart. They’d mouthed off to their tight-assed parents on Halloween. There went my ten tours a season.

“Oh, that’s just silly, Mr. Rance,” I told him. “People like to make up stories. There are no such things happening here.”

But he looked disappointed. “There aren’t?”

Now I didn’t know what to say. “Um . . . no.”

Rance put his hat back on. “Then I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Ms. Kerby,” he said. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Wait. I don’t understand. You
want
a house with ghosts in it?”

He looked back at me, assessing. “Of course. Without some spectral experience, this is just a house by the beach, isn’t it? If you don’t mind my saying so.”

“I don’t mind at all.” I turned away from Rance, considered the personal experience going on in the living room, and shouted, “Paul!”

 

 

After an experience (including a game of “keep the hat away from the distinguished old gentleman” that Paul wouldn’t have been able to pull off even a week earlier) that convinced Rance there were, indeed, spirits on the premises, I got a promise of at least five tours of four people or more each for the spring season, and more if there were “paranormal encounters” that could be verified among the guests to bolster word of mouth. Paul nodded in my direction, and I told Rance I could guarantee such visits. Then Rance, given his hat back, smiled a very distinguished smile, almost bowed a little in the direction he imagined Paul to be, and got into a black sedan for his trip back to wherever he’d come from.

Paul and I decided to give Maxie and Kitty, who were still hooting it up with laughter on a regular basis in the living room, some privacy, and took a walk in the backyard. Taking a quick peek, I could see that Kitty looked fifteen years younger, and I was thrilled to have played a part in that.

Paul, a bemused smile on his face, kept looking at me as if trying to decide on the proper time for something.

“What?” I finally said to break the tension.

“I liked being a detective with you,” he blurted out.

“Well, aside from the threats to my life and my daughter, I sort of liked it, too,” I said. “You’re good at what you do.”

“I know,” Paul said, and then smiled at his audacity. “I was thinking maybe we could continue doing it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Just every once in a while,” he said, putting up his hands to slow things down, it seemed. “I’d like to take on the occasional case. To keep my mind occupied. You have no idea how dull being dead can become.”

I thought about that. “I suppose not, but I’m not crazy about the danger.”

“We’ll only take safe cases, and only when you’re not too busy. You would have to sit for an exam and get a private investigator’s license, since we obviously can’t use mine. But I can certainly help you with the test, and you don’t have to investigate anything you don’t want to. Okay?”

“Well . . .” I had to play this right.

“Well, what?” Paul was already wary.

“You need me to become a private investigator.”

“Yes.” He looked at me, waiting for the shoe to drop.

“I need you to supply ‘paranormal experiences’ to tourists.”

Paul smiled. “I don’t know if I can convince Maxie.”

“I think it’s possible the problem with Maxie will be holding her back.”

Paul smiled, and we walked a bit farther. Soon, we’d have to turn around, as Paul was about to reach his border.

“Meeting you has been an interesting experience,” I told him. “Don’t ever tell Maxie, but I’m almost glad she dropped a bucket on my head.”

“I won’t tell.” A pause. “I was thinking our first . . . well,
second
investigation . . .”

“Another day, Paul,” I said. “Another day.”

E. J. Copperman is a native New Jerseyan and an award-nominated screenwriter, mystery author, and freelance journalist who has written for the
New York Times, Hollywood Scriptwriter, Writer’s Digest, Entertainment Weekly
and many other publications.