Ghost in the Wind (19 page)

“Perhaps someone who slipped in to do the killing and out after,” Paul answered. “None of us saw the murder happen.”

“Thank goodness,” Mom said. She looked up at Dad, who floated down specifically to put his hand over hers.

“Agreed,” Paul said. “But there might have been someone who had a grudge against Mastrovy and wasn't on the guest list for the showing tonight.”

“But that person would have to know that Mastrovy was going to be here,” I argued. “Who could have wanted to kill him that bad and known he'd show up uninvited?”

Josh looked thoughtful. “Sammi,” he said.

It wasn't much, but it provided, as Paul put it, “a path.” Tomorrow we—or rather, McElone, which was the plan I was advocating—could look into finding Sammi. Paul didn't seem to have any serious objections.

It was a couple of months past Melissa's bedtime and a school night to boot, so I made sure she went straight to her room. She protested, but not wholeheartedly.

Mom and Dad left soon after. It wasn't only because the murder had put a serious damper on the evening; it was late, and the absence of their granddaughter just took a little of the allure out of staying.

I got Josh to come into the kitchen with me, ostensibly to help clean up, although the only thing that had to happen was for some pizza boxes to get recycled. Once there, I interlaced my fingers behind his back and gave him a very therapeutic hug.

“I didn't do great with A.J. and Liz tonight,” I said. “I'm sorry.”

Josh smiled at me with that what-a-nut-my-girlfriend-is look I get more often than I suspect most girlfriends do. “Did you kill Bill Mastrovy?” he asked.

“What? No!”

“Then I don't see how this is your fault.” He held me a little closer, to which I did not object. “Don't worry—I'm not going to dump you if you're not best friends with Liz and A.J.”

That was, sadly, something of a relief. “You sure?”

“I'm sure. Hey, she annoys me sometimes, too. And besides, you offer things I can't get from my friends.” He kissed me quite adequately.

And that was when I heard the voice from behind me. And a little above.

“Isn't that sweet?” Vance McTiernan said. “I do wish I had a camera.”

I must have broken off the kiss and turned at the speed of sound, because I think I still heard the smack of our lips when I was already facing Vance. “You have some nerve,” I said.

“Not really. I do that all the time,” Josh said. But he was looking up where I was looking, so he knew someone was there, even if he didn't know who.

“Me?” Vance said. “I have nerve? What'd I do?”

“You keep showing up in my house, in my rooms, at times when I'd prefer to be left alone,” I said. “But the real point is,
you vanished out of the movie room before the lights came back up.”

“I didn't like the movie,” Vance said. “If I don't like the movie, I leave the cinema.”

Josh leaned against the center island and watched me. I was, after all, the only other person in the room actually refracting light. I guessed. I'd have to ask Paul how that worked.

“When you can look me in the eye and say that, I probably still won't believe you,” I told Vance. “Were you there for the main event? You know, when Bill Mastrovy ended up with a knife in his back?”

Vance seemed unfazed. “Yeah, I heard when it happened but I didn't do it.”

“Of course not. You expressed a specific desire to do precisely that to that exact man, but you had nothing to do with it actually happening. Convenient. Did it occur to you that he might
not
have killed your daughter?”

Vance McTiernan lost the grin he'd been wearing when he thought he was being witty. Now, his face looked pained. I almost felt bad that I'd brought up Vanessa's death. But the bloom was definitely off this rose. Yeah, he was the hero of my adolescence, but I wasn't buying any of Vance's acts anymore.

“Yes, it did,” he said with the requisite touch of sadness in his voice. “That's why I
didn't
kill him. Because from what you told me, I can't be sure what really happened to Nessa. I wouldn't have really done it, anyway. I'm a passionate man, not a violent one.”

“What about Morrie Chrichton?” I pointed out. “He was there with you before the movie started and nobody's seen him since.”

“I can vouch for Morrie,” Vance said, raising his hands as if to hold me back. “I was with him the whole time.”

“I understand Morrie vanishing,” I told him. “Of course he did. There's no reason to come back here now; the
business is finished, isn't it? What I don't understand is why you came back at all, Vance.”

He looked me straight in the eye as if I were in the front row of a concert and he was putting over the most tender ballad you've ever heard. Like “Violet” on the Jingles album
Enemy of the Mind
, the one that had been playing on eternal rotation in Vanessa's apartment when she died.

“I came back because I know who killed William Mastrovy,” he said.

“Speak very slowly and carefully,” Paul said. “I don't want anything to be misheard or misconstrued.”

When Vance's bombshell dropped in the kitchen, I immediately insisted he accompany me to the movie room, despite not having wanted to go back in there until a crime scene cleaning crew had done its magic. I'd have to find an affordable one on the Internet in the morning.

I wanted Paul to hear Vance's claims and explanations directly. Maxie and Everett had left, heading to the Dunkin' Donuts sign on Route 35, one of Maxie's favorite vantage points. She used to enjoy moving the donuts in the shop around, to the consternation of the late-night crew, but Everett has mellowed her. A little.

Josh came with me into the movie room and made sure we were seated at the front of the room near the screen, facing away from the tape outline in the hallway. Josh looks out for me without my asking. I try to do that for him, too,
but he doesn't need very much. I'd have to grit my teeth and invite A.J. and Liz to dinner. He deserved it.

“I know who killed William Mastrovy,” Vance repeated, slowly and clearly. “It was Claudia.”

Claudia?
“Claudia Rabinowitz?” I blurted. “Vanessa's mom?”

“The same.”

“That doesn't make any sense,” I said. “We don't even know where Claudia is, and she certainly wasn't in the room with us tonight. We would have seen her.” Vance was clearly just rambling or trying to divert our attention from something.

Before he could ask, I relayed the conversation to poor Josh, who was sitting there watching my face get more and more concerned and not understanding why. “Is this recent or before Vance came here?” he asked.

“Her presence drew me to this house,” Vance answered, though only Paul and I could hear him. “And then when I was in the room, I could tell she was near. The same thing tonight.”

Too much information was coming at me at one time. “You think Claudia was here all along? Like her spirit lives here? Impossible; she's alive. Isn't she?” I said.

“No, I don't think she's a ghost. I think she came here as a guest.”

There was silence for quite some time after that one. “You think one of my guests is actually Claudia Rabinowitz, and that she came here specifically to kill Bill Mastrovy? That's crazy.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Vance suggested. I couldn't actually think of one, and I live in a haunted house.

Paul, stroking away at a breakneck pace, considered Vance, and to my horror, seemed to be taking him seriously. “Do you think Claudia is here now or was here as a past guest?” he asked.

Vance shook his head. “Can't be sure,” he said. “You know how you sense a presence sometimes? I get that pretty strong
for Claudia. It's what drew me here. But you have to remember I only . . . met her . . . the one time, and that was more than forty years ago. I have the feeling, but I can't say I'm perfectly certain on it.”

He'd flown right past it, but that caught me. “Wait. You only met Claudia
once
? The night Vanessa was conceived?”

Vance's face registered surprise, like that point should have been obvious. “Yeah. What did you think?”

“You fathered a
child
with this woman, she grew up here in Jersey and you never once came to see her? Not even when you were on tour, playing in New York?”

Vance must have seen the trap closing on him, but it was so outside his life—or death—experience that he didn't know how to react. “Well, no. I sent money.”

“How does that help your daughter have a father?” I demanded.

“Alison,” Paul suggested, “this might not be the time.”

“No, really! What kind of a dad never sees his child?”

Vance held up his hands. “Now, I didn't say that, love. Didn't say that. I said I hadn't seen
Claudia
again, because that was the way she wanted it. I saw Nessa. She came over to see us once in a while and I always visited when we played the States. Always.”

“And what about your will? You didn't leave her a dime!” I'd had such admiration for Vance McTiernan. Before I knew him.

“The sad truth is, there wasn't much of anything left, love.”

“How is this about the murder?” Josh asked. And he hadn't even heard the other half of the conversation.

They were right; I was off topic. “Okay. So you believe you sensed Claudia's presence in my house, both tonight and once before, when you were playing that song—“Claudia”—in my library. How did you know it was her?”

Vance looked at Paul for some kind of affirmation. “You
know how it is,” he said to the other ghost. “You can't really say how you know something, but you know it?”

Paul nodded. “It's true,” he told me. “It's similar to what you call the Ghosternet. I don't hear the messages from other spirits as much as I feel them. It's difficult to describe.”

“But it's reliable?” I asked.

“I have found it to be, yes.”

Okay, if we were going to treat it that way, I could dive in. I turned and looked at Vance. “You said the ‘presence' you felt drew you here to the house. When did you first sense it? Were you still walking the ocean at the time?”

“No. It was when I had arrived here in New Jersey. I had come this way because of what I'd seen about Nessa, because she had been here.”

“Why should I believe you?” I asked. “You haven't said one thing that held still long enough to be true since I met you.” I was playing it a little over the top, but it felt right. A showman like Vance would respond to that. But I had a clincher. “You even got some female ghost you know get in touch with Paul and say she was Vanessa, didn't you?”

Vance looked away and tilted his head. “I did. This bird I knew in Leicester. A
very
long time ago. I thought it would give you a little more push. At the time I wanted you to stop digging, stop doing what you were doing. I pushed too hard. I do that.”

“You lied to me and you lied to Paul,” I told him. “That's not the way you get people to do the things you want them to do. That's how you make us feel we can't trust you.”

“I deserve that,” he said, his voice slightly wounded and ashamed. He was a much better actor than I would ever be. “I don't have any reason to give you. I can't say you should believe me because I mean it this time. I would have said that all the other times, too. But the fact is, I
know
Claudia was here tonight.”

“Even so,” Paul interjected. I think he was trying to defuse the situation. “Let's work on the assumption that you are correct and the woman with whom you had a daughter was in the room. What proof do you have that she killed Mr. Mastrovy?”

Vance's head was hanging like a schoolboy caught trying to grab a cupcake without paying at the bake sale. “I have none.”

“All that from intuition?” Paul asked. He shook his head. “It's more than I could do.”

“I can't explain it. If it was a lie, I'd be able to make it sound more plausible.” Of course, his saying that made it sound more plausible. It was a difficult conundrum.

I leaned back in my chair and Josh's arm found its way around my shoulders. “It's incredibly late and I passed ‘tired' about an hour-and-a-half ago,” I said. “I need to go to sleep.”

Josh, clearly thinking I was talking to him, nodded. “Me too. I have to open the store in about four hours.”

“I wasn't trying to get you to leave,” I said. “I still have more apologizing to do.”

“Tomorrow. If you tried now it might kill me.” He stood up and so did I. He kissed me quite pleasantly, right there with the ghosts looking on, and left, promising to call the next day.

Dad was right. Josh was a keeper.

Once I was the only living person in the room, I looked over at the two ghosts. Paul was standing, hand on his chin but not stroking. Maybe he was tired, too. Ghosts don't sleep, but that doesn't mean they don't get at least mentally worn out.

He was watching Vance, who looked the exact opposite—he seemed like he was on amphetamines. He was moving around the room, not exactly floating but propelling himself in unpredictable patterns around the room, just navigating the space without a conscious effort. Or maybe this was what he was like when he was tired.

Except Vance was a former rock star. This was the shank of the evening to him.

“Fellas,” I said, “if you two want to rehash the whole subject some more, feel free, but I have to get at least twenty minutes of sleep a night or I'm completely useless the next day.”

“Is that it?” Vance said, staccato delivery and with an expression that cried out for sweat. “You're just going to sleep when I told you a murderer is here under your roof?”

It wouldn't be the first time, but I didn't feel like telling him that. “I'll deal with it in the morning.” I turned to head for the hallway, the first move to the staircase. My bed was getting closer.

“I think Claudia killed Vanessa, too,” he called out.

“Good night, Vance,” I said back.

I don't remember if I even brushed my teeth; I was in bed within seconds. And then at about two in the morning, I was awakened by what I would swear was the sound of a dog howling, briefly, somewhere nearby. Just the sound of it made me sneeze.

I began to form a theory.

*   *   *

The next morning, I got up to a house with two fewer guests than the night before, one hallway completely off-limits until such time as I could get professional cleaners into it and a somewhat pessimistic view of life.

Ignoring the more complicated concerns, I spent the first twenty minutes looking online for an urn cart. I found one after some doing but decided first to see if the independent furniture store in town, Sit On It, might have something I could use. The itch in my throat and my eyes was a reminder that antihistamines were also in order. I'd given up wondering what I could possibly be reacting to at this time of year and simply decided I must've developed an allergy because I was older than I used to be.

Berthe Englund was already up when I got downstairs, which was something of a surprise. I apologized to her for
sleeping in—it was six a.m., after all—but Berthe waved a hand and said I shouldn't feel guilty.

“After last night, I couldn't sleep very well,” she said. “I figured I'd go out and try to catch some waves early, work out the cobwebs a little.”

“I feel awful that the special night I'd planned for all of you turned out to be such a terrible experience,” I said.

She smiled a little crookedly. “It's okay,” she said. “I've already seen
Ghost
.”

“Anything I can do for you today?”

Berthe thought a moment. “Treat yourself well,” she said. Without another word or look, she turned and walked to the glass doors, no doubt about to pick up her rented surfboard from the shed in back, where I'd told her she could store it.

That was it. She was too nice to be Claudia Rabinowitz and a murderer. That left me with Tessa, Jesse, Maureen and the Levines (because let's face it, they had hightailed it out of here awfully fast last night) as candidates. Assuming Vance was correct and not lying.

Two very large assumptions.

It would be another four hours before the morning spook show, if we decided to go ahead with one. I hadn't gotten a strong read on the remaining guests the night before. If they were too upset after what had happened—and who could blame them?—I might curtail some of the more ghost-oriented events for the next two days.

The only thing to do was ask the guests when they came down for the morning. If the consensus was that they wanted a hiatus, we'd stop, but if they preferred to keep the spook shows going, we'd do that.

Paul rose up through the floor as I was moving the coffee urn, sans cart, and grunting like an Olympic weightlifter during the clean and jerk. “Why don't you just let the guests into the kitchen for coffee in the morning?” he asked.

“Shut up.”

I finished with my Andre the Giant impression and saw Paul, tea urn in his arms, moving into the den and setting it on the side table next to the coffee. “Well, thank you,” I said. “Where have you been all my life?”

He looked stymied. “I believe you know where I've been,” he said.

Go teach Jersey sarcasm to a British Canadian ghost.

“So what do you think?” I asked Paul when my breath was coming in regular intervals again. “Should we believe Vance this time?”

Paul tilted his head. “It's a difficult question. He's been inconsistent with his story for the few days we've known him, but he did seem particularly sincere after Bill was killed. I have been thinking about this all night, and there is one issue I have been unable to reconcile.”

We were back in the kitchen, where I was making myself a toasted bagel, having defrosted one in the microwave and cut it in half. It pays to plan ahead. “Just one?” I asked.