The Thrill of the Haunt (9 page)

“It looks like a men’s room,” Paul said.

He was making a very big show of carefully examining each photo Maxie had downloaded from my camera onto my several-generations-ago MacBook, searching for the one anomaly that would surely solve Everett’s murder and get the ghost-lady posse off my back. In theory, anyway.

“Isn’t it supposed to look like a men’s room?” I noted. We were holding an impromptu meeting in my bedroom, which is never my first choice, but I was hiding from Cybill, who seemed bound and determined not to leave the house during her
vacation
(and I use the term loosely). It was already everything I could do to keep her from donning that robe and troubling my other guests again. “What did you expect?”

“I didn’t expect anything,” Paul said, using his college professor voice. “I have to look at the scene with no expectations in order to see what I need to see.”

This was a lecture I’d heard more than once, but I managed to curtail the groan trying to organize in the back of my throat. Instead, I asked, “So what do you think?”

Paul frowned. “These aren’t great pictures.”

Maxie, perched near the top of my dresser, looked down with wide eyes. “I’ve never used that camera before,” she defended herself. “And it was a men’s room. I didn’t want to look too closely.”

There was no response to that from Paul. He kept staring at the picture on the screen and stroking his goatee. The game was no doubt afoot.

“What?” I asked.

“According to the police report you got from Lieutenant McElone,” Paul said, “Everett was found sitting in the men’s room with blood pooled around his feet. But there were no footprints in the blood. Whoever killed him either got out before he had bled very much or . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Or what?” Maxie wanted to know.

“Or they didn’t leave footprints.”

“Don’t you start,” I warned him. “I get enough of that from the Kerin Murphy Brigade. I’m not going to listen to it from you.”

“You don’t think it’s possible a ghost murdered Everett?” Maxie said. “It’s not like we haven’t come across that kind of thing before.” She loves it when she can puncture my argument. Maxie still holds a little resentment because she owned the Victorian before me, but being alive is ten-tenths of the law, so it was a moot point.

“I’m just saying it doesn’t seem like a real likely occurrence,” I said.

“But we can’t definitively rule it out yet,” Paul said, clearly thinking he had closed the book on the issue. Maxie’s smug smile bugged me, but I decided to be an adult about it. For now.

Of course, it was possible that thinking about Josh and the two cases and my guests all at the same time was making me a touch irritable. Mostly the part about Josh.

“Okay, but aside from the lack of bloody footprints and other horror movie clichés, what do the pictures tell us?” I asked Paul. He likes it when I use words like
us
and
we
because he thinks that means I accept the idea of our having an actual detective agency. He’s wrong, but why make a big deal of it?

He studied another shot that Maxie had taken from the ceiling looking down. One major benefit of having ghosts take pictures is their ability to get an angle like that.

“I see the window is open,” Paul said. I waited, but that was all he said.

“So? It’s a bathroom that I’m willing to bet doesn’t have an exhaust fan. I’m
hoping
the window is open.”

Paul shook his head just a little but didn’t take his eyes off the photograph. Then he reached down and tapped the button to get to the next photo. His fine motor skills and ability to interact with physical objects have really progressed since I first met him.

“It’s open, and there’s no shade or screen on it,” Paul said. “The window is probably there to stay up to code and provide a little more light than the single fluorescent fixture in the ceiling.”

Maxie floated down and admired her handiwork. “It still creeps me out to look at that place,” she said.

“I don’t get what’s so important about the window being open,” I said to Paul, so as not to respond to Maxie. “Maybe Everett wanted a little air.”

“While he was bleeding to death?” Paul countered. “No. What’s important is that it might explain how the killer got in and out.”

Maxie looked more carefully. “That’s a pretty small window,” she noted.

“But not impossibly small. It’s something to test out, anyway.”

“How do we do that?” I asked, despite not really wanting to know.

Paul actually took his gaze off the picture and looked directly at me. “One of us is going to have to try it to see if it’s possible,” he said.

“Easy,” I tried. “Maxie can just . . .”

He shook his head. “Maxie’s body isn’t material. It wouldn’t provide the kind of data we’d need to prove conclusively that a person could squeeze through that window.”

Something moved around in my stomach. “Well, all people aren’t the same size,” I said. “Even if . . . someone . . . were to try it, there’s no guarantee a smaller or larger person would have the same results.”

“No,” Paul agreed. “What we need is more in the area of a base reading. Something we can use as a referent.”

“Yeah,” Maxie said. “A referent.”

It was lucky for her at that moment that her body was not material.

• • •

“You have to climb through a bathroom window?” Josh asked.

After I’d seen to the late-afternoon spook show—at which Maxie had done little more than juggle some fruit because she just “wasn’t into it today”—cleaned up a little, and addressed all my guests’ needs (which were pretty skimpy—even Cybill had given in to the need for food and left the house), I’d showered and changed. Mom arrived about five and was watching Melissa tonight. Josh had said something about a cause for celebration, something special, so we were going out to dinner.

The restaurant in Asbury Park was a little trendier than the ones we usually frequented (I’m a cheap date), done up in neon and no TV screens, which has become something of a rarity. It was only a block down Ocean Avenue from the Stone Pony, famous for being where Bruce Springsteen used to gig. He was not performing for the 13,735th consecutive evening, however. At least the Pony was still standing.

Josh had been almost giddy with anticipation when he’d arrived, but insisted he wasn’t telling me his news until he could get a bottle of champagne, which was on its way. Instead, he made the mistake of asking how my investigations were going. “I suppose I have to,” I said, making the revolting excursion through the men’s room window sound like it was my own idea. “It’s the only way I”—I’d almost said
we
out of habit—“can get an accurate idea of whether the killer could have gotten in or out that way.”

Josh was a great listener; he could listen you into a stupor if you weren’t careful. He was leaning on his right hand, all the fingers curled under his mouth except the index finger, which pointed up toward his temple. He took in what I’d had to say, seemed to consider it, then asked, “Why can’t you just measure the window?”

“Oh, that wouldn’t work,” I said, all the while wondering why the hell I couldn’t just measure the window.

“Oh.” He nodded.

“How would I be able to tell if a person could fit through it?” I was going to prove to him that the thing that would make a trip into a gross bathroom
through a window
unnecessary was in fact wrong.

“Well, all you’d have to do is measure the width and height of the window when it was open, and then you could measure it against yourself, and you’d know if you could fit through the window. You could get exactly the same information as you would if you squeezed through, but without all the trouble. Besides, how are you going to get the gas station guy to let you climb through his men’s room window? I bet he’d have insurance issues with that.”

Boy, was I going to let Paul have it when I got back home. Maxie would claim I was being a wuss, but I’d seen how she looked—and heard how she sounded—when she’d left the scene of the crime, so I had leverage.

Just then the waiter brought over the champagne, so I wisely didn’t take the bathroom conversation any further and watched as the cork was removed expertly and two flutes of champagne poured. Josh thanked the waiter, and then gave me his full attention again. I love it when he gives me his full attention; his eyes absolutely sparkled more than what we were about to drink.

“I’d like to make a toast,” Josh said, clearly having rehearsed this moment for some time. We held up our glasses. “First, to you, for making the past few months the best I’ve had in a very, very long time.”

I did my best to look modest, but I’m sure I was grinning hideously. What was this about? My mind raced. As it was, I didn’t have long to ponder, because Josh went on.

“But I’d also like to toast my grandfather, Sy Kaplan, who has informed me that he is retiring, and that as of the first of next month, I will be the full owner of Madison Paints!” He smiled broadly.

I joined him without hesitation. It was no surprise Sy was retiring. He was ninety-one years old and couldn’t really carry a gallon of paint anymore. For the past few years since Josh had been a partner, Sy’s function had largely been decorative, sitting in the back of the store with the regulars, painting contractors who frequented the place and used it as a hangout when there was no work. He could still kibitz with the best of them, and his presence was a draw for many of the steadiest customers Madison Paints had.

“That’s terrific,” I said, clinking glasses with Josh. We each took a sip. Champagne, to be honest, has never really been a huge favorite of mine—I like a nice white wine or a beer, myself—but as sparkling things went, this was a good one. “Congratulations to you. I’ll have to stop by and see Sy before he stops coming to the store every day.”

“Oh, you have plenty of time,” Josh said with a mischievous grin. “He’s not going to stop coming into the store every day.”

I squinted in confusion. “Didn’t you just say he was retiring?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah.” Josh’s tone was amused. “His idea of retiring is that he’s giving up his half-ownership, selling it to me for a fraction of what the store is worth, and then still coming in every day to hang around with me and the regulars. He says that’s his retirement resort because we’re the only people who’d put up with him.” What wasn’t being said was that since Sy’s wife, Rose, had passed away a few years before, he didn’t have much of a life outside the store and was probably terrified of having to spend his time somewhere else.

“Well, I still think it’s great,” I said. “You’ve worked hard on that store, it’s what you like doing, and now you’re going to own it outright. You are a very impressive man.”

Josh cleared his throat nervously, and that was the moment I did queasily wonder if he was going to propose something I wasn’t prepared to consider. And in a way, he did. “Well, thanks for that,” he said. “Because I think you’re pretty impressive, too. And that’s why I want to talk to you about something.”

When people want to talk to you about something fun or exciting or delightful, they never tell you they want to talk to you; they just talk to you. It’s when they have to announce it in advance that you need to be on your toes. I felt my neck muscles tighten up.

“Since we met—I mean, since we met again—I’ve been doing my very best to be open and honest with you,” Josh began. I could tell that he’d rehearsed this part, too, but he was more nervous now. “I don’t hold anything back, and I always tell you what I’m thinking. Well, most of the time, anyway.” I even think that part was scripted. “But I’m not sure that you’ve been as straightforward with me.”

That took a second to sink in. “What do you mean?” I asked. I knew exactly what he meant, but it was a way to buy time, if not much time.

“I mean, I’ve been feeling, especially lately, that you’re holding stuff back,” Josh answered, not angrily but sounding almost a little offended. “Like there’s something you’re not telling me, and it’s having an effect on our relationship.” I’m pretty sure that was the first time either of us had used the word
relationship
to describe what we had.

I glossed over that. “What kind of effect?” I asked. I figured if I kept asking questions, I wouldn’t have to address the issue, which was that Josh knew something was up with me, that I wasn’t telling him about it, and that he was now calling me on it.

“Well, not a good effect,” he said.

That was not what I wanted to hear. I had
not
rehearsed for this moment, had not created a speech in which I explained about the ghosts and tried to convince him I wasn’t a terrifying lunatic he should never see again. And I don’t do well on the fly. I needed time.

“What do you think I’m keeping from you?” I asked.

Too late. He was on to me. “Stop stalling by asking me questions,” he said. “You know exactly what I mean, and I’m asking you directly: What is it that you don’t want to tell me?”

“There’s nothing,” I said. “Really.”
I have ghosts in my house, including sometimes my dad, and one of them is a former PI. And that’s why I make believe I’m a detective sometimes. Happy now?
It didn’t seem the best strategy.