Ghost in the Wind (27 page)

“Actually, I'm starting to think I can.” I thanked Sammi for her time and left. I had a daughter to retrieve and a report to make to Paul.

When I picked Melissa up from school, I was feeling less allergic, but I knew that effect would last roughly until I got home. I didn't tell Melissa about the progress in the case because I had a question for her.

“Have you seen a dog around?”

“Why, have you?” she responded. It was a cagey answer. Melissa loves dogs and I suspected that if I admitted that I hadn't actually seen a dog, she'd fall back on flat-out denial.

“No, but I've certainly inhaled some of one,” I told her as we drove through what we unironically referred to as Harbor Haven's “downtown,” the two-block strip of little shops and
Phyllis's
Chronicle
office. “If you know about a dog living near our house, you need to tell me about it. Right now.”

“A dog living near our house?” she repeated.

“Don't divert,” I warned. “I'm asking you directly. And you know we don't lie to each other.” We've been very careful about that all her life. I'm proud to say I haven't lied to my daughter for quite a while, possibly since the Santa Claus debacle of five years earlier.

“There's no dog I know about living on our land,” she said. There was no waver in her voice.

Wow. That took the wind out of my suspicious sails because I trusted her. “Any other ideas why I'm sneezing and itching like this?” I'd like to make it clear that I wasn't actually asking my daughter but stating the problem out loud, rhetorically.

“Maybe somebody's wearing that perfume Grandma used to use,” Melissa suggested. She's heard the family lore and I supposed it
was
possible that one of the guests was wearing White Shoulders . . .

There wasn't much to say after that. So I told her about my various adventures. She asked me if I trusted Sammi and I said I didn't know. Because I didn't know. But she had seemed convincing.

The immediate order of business upon arriving home was the afternoon spook show, at which I would undoubtedly have to explain to a disappointed group of guests why I had failed them yet again and was therefore unable to produce Vance for a song or two at their last official gathering. It had not been my best week as an innkeeper or an investigator.

Liss went up to her room to drop off her backpack and prepare for the “flying girl” sequence and I went into the kitchen to prep it for the cooking she and Mom would be doing for tonight's dinner. With Josh's friends coming, there was no way I'd trust my own “skills” as a chef with the evening's meal.

And so I was the first one to find the small kitchen knife on the counter. The one that didn't belong in my block with the other knives I didn't use. The one with a fixed blade that was sharp on one side.

The one that looked like the utility knife that had killed Bill Mastrovy.

Was someone making a threat?

I took in a strong breath and called for Vance. But he didn't come.

So I called Paul, and he did.

“How did you marinate this chicken?” Liz Seger asked.

I had, personally,
not
marinated the chicken, so I turned toward Melissa, sitting very straight in her dining room chair (which was really a den chair, since this was the first time we'd used the space as a real dining room) and said, “What did you use?”

“Well, I can't tell everything because Grandma says it's a secret family recipe,” Liss said as Liz's eyes widened a bit. “But it had to marinate for at least an hour in salad dressing, lemon juice and two other ingredients, and I covered the bowl with plastic wrap to hold all the flavor in.”

Liz's jaw dropped. “You cooked this?” she said to Melissa. “Really?”

Usually when an adult condescends to my daughter, I either turn my rapier wit on her (it's usually a woman, and I'm sorry about that but it's true) or better yet, let Melissa
do so herself. But this was a special circumstance: I'd vowed against all odds to do nothing tonight but be especially nice to Liz.

I suppose I should back up: After I found the knife on the kitchen counter, Paul appeared in a nanosecond of my shouting his name, perhaps thinking someone had already used it on me. We'd discussed the object, which I had been cool-headed enough not to touch, and he said the best thing to do was to call McElone immediately. I saw the logic in that, hit speed dial (that's right; I have the local police lieutenant on speed dial) and told the lieutenant about my discovery.

She thought the culprit was indeed sending a message, and although she felt it would be fruitless, sent a uniformed officer to very carefully pick up the knife (which she told me not to touch despite my informing her of my cool-headedness at not doing so) and bring it back for official examination.

Other than that, McElone added, “The only thing to do is continue on as if nothing had happened. Maybe that's how we can smoke this person out.”

Lovely. A killer was loose in my house and the cops wanted to put me, my daughter and my guests at risk in order to “smoke this person out.” There was a flaw in the logic, and I was beginning to think it was me.

Paul agreed with the lieutenant—he's always taking her side—and asked what I'd had planned for the rest of the day. I told him the afternoon spook show and then dinner with Josh, A.J. and Liz. Mom had offered to take Melissa home with her after preparing the meal, leaving me with my boyfriend and his friends, but anyone who wants to get to know me had better get to know my daughter, so I declined her offer.

Once Mom heard about the knife (from Paul), she insisted on leaving my father behind at the house “in case there's trouble.” So although the other three adults at the table didn't
know it, the dining room was getting pretty crowded, since Paul, Maxie and Dad were all present. I'd given Paul a pass on his promise to stay away during the dinner because, you know, killer loose in the house and all that. Paul looked interested, Dad looked concerned and Maxie was moving things around behind A.J. and Liz just to annoy me and amuse Melissa.

“Yes,” Melissa told Liz. “I've been learning cooking from my grandmother for a while now.” She gave me a funny look, which translated into
why aren't you using your rapier wit on her?
Or something to that effect.

“From your grandmother?” Liz said, pushing the point. “Not your mom?”

Josh put down his water glass and motioned toward his plate. “It's really delicious, Melissa. Thank you for cooking tonight.” Definite boyfriend points there.

Tessa Boynton walked into the den, saw us around the table and put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I'm sorry!” she said quietly, as if she'd just made a loud noise in a library.

I stood up. “No reason to be, Tessa,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh, nothing!” Tessa seemed horrified. “I'm fine, really. I'll just leave you to your dinner.” And she turned and left before I could protest.

I looked at Josh. “Should I go after her?”

“You probably should,” Liz volunteered. “She's your guest, and you're in the customer service business.” Liz ran a successful consulting firm, so I took her at her word.

“You're right, thank you,” I answered. “That's just what I should do.” I walked into the hallway, saw no sign of Tessa and walked back into the den to resume my seat. “Well, that was easy. Thank you, Liz.”

“You're going to let her tell you how to run your place?” Maxie seemed appalled when I would have expected her to be amused. Practiced, I ignored her.

I thought Melissa was going to feel my forehead for signs of fever. Even Josh's eyes had lit up with curiosity. Dad, in the corner over the fireplace, paid no attention to the commotion and looked up the chimney, head through the brick, no doubt checking to see if I needed to fire up a creosote log before the season began in earnest.

“Not at all,” Liz said. She had probably never heard of sarcasm, but to be fair, I wasn't showing any intentionally. “We businesswomen have to help each other out when we can.”

Jesse opened the glass doors from outside, letting in a cool breeze. Everyone looked up (except those who were floating overhead and had to look down). “Anybody seen Tessa?” he asked. “I think she's hiding from me.”

“If she has a brain,” Maxie offered.

“I haven't seen her,” I said lightly, resisting the urge to give Maxie a stern look. I do that so often the urge barely even makes itself noticed anymore. “Have you looked on the beach?” I asked, despite it being clearly where he'd just come from.

“I'll have to go back and check,” Jesse said. “Hey, is that chicken?”

We admitted it was, and while he didn't actually ask for any food (“I had a salad for dinner and I'm stuffed”), he did look longingly at the table until Melissa offered him a biscuit. He took it like a grateful puppy and headed back from whence he'd come.

“Maybe having the dinner in this room wasn't the best idea,” I said to no one in particular.

“I was going to say something, but I figured I'd be polite.” Liz.

A.J. bailed me out this time. “I think it's a lovely room,” he said. “Would someone pass the green beans, please?”

Josh did so, but not before Berthe Englund walked in from the library side. “I should just open up an ice-cream stand in
here,” I muttered, then stood up. “Hi, Berthe! What can I do for you?”

She reacted much like Tessa had, seemingly stunned to encounter people eating in here and somehow embarrassed, as if she'd intruded on us doing something private. “I'm so sorry,” she said. “Didn't know you were eating.”

“It's absolutely fine,” I said, walking toward her before she could turn tail and run. Liz could
not
have another chance to tell me how a good businesswoman operates. “Please. I'm at your service. What do you need?”

“You're sure it's not an intrusion?” She looked mortified.

“Of course not. Would you care to sit down?” I gestured toward the table, only then realizing the only available seat was my own.

“On what?” Maxie asked, laughing.

Paul, I'd noticed, was watching each guest who walked in, getting close to their faces and examining them intently. He doesn't really think he can determine who is guilty of a crime this way, but he does seem to get some information about each individual character. I'm not sure if it involves close observation or some odd intuition.

“No, I'm fine,” Berthe said. “I was wondering if we might—that is, some of the people staying here—mostly Tessa and me—we'd like to put on a movie in the room, you know. Is that okay?”

“As long as it isn't
Lawrence of Arabia
,” Maxie offered. She was in an especially wise guy mood tonight, which only made me more irritated. I had guests besides my guests, I was trying to make a good impression and there was a decent chance there was a murderer in the house. Listening to Maxie be “hilarious” was the step too far, but I couldn't say anything for fear of looking rude to the invisible person. Ghost etiquette is very tricky.

“I'm planning a game night for later, but of course you can,” I told Berthe. “Do you need help setting it up?”

“No, thank you,” she answered. “It's pretty simple. We've already done it, to tell you the truth. Just thought it would be a good idea to say something to you before you heard noise coming from in there.”

“Feel free. Enjoy the movie,” I said. “What are you watching?”

“
Die Hard
,” Berthe said, heading toward the movie room. “The first one.”

Well, at least nobody seemed especially upset about spending time back there when a man had been knifed to death the last time we tried to show a movie.

Once Berthe was gone, I resumed my seat, although dinner was almost over by now. Melissa had not mentioned a dessert, which was just as well. Liz struck me as one of those women who hears the word
chocolate
and goes into a diatribe about how unhealthy anything that tastes good must be.

Still, it was my mission to convince her that I was the greatest thing since sliced kale, so it was back to work. “So tell me about consulting,” I said. “It sounds fascinating.”

“I've already told you twice,” Liz answered.

“She steps in when a business is faltering and sees to it that the bottom line improves,” A.J. jumped in. He turned to Liss. “It's really a pretty simple process.”

“Fascinating,” I repeated.

“Hardly
simple
,” Liz muttered.

Melissa, who had likely decided I'd gone mad, asked, “May I go watch the movie after we clean up?”

“You can go ahead now,” I told her. “You cooked. We'll clean up.”

Faster than one of John McClane's speeding bullets, she was up and gone. I stood to start clearing the table, undoubtedly missing the incredulous look Liz was giving me.

“
Die Hard
?” she said.

I picked up my own plate, plus Melissa's and Liz's,
deciding I'd get the other two on the second trip, but Josh was up and at it before I could say anything.

“Yeah,” I told Liz. “It's an action movie with Bruce Willis.”

“I know what it
is
,” she answered. “Are you sure it's appropriate for an eleven-year-old?”

I wanted to point out that the real question was whether the movie was appropriate for a nine-year-old, since that was the age Melissa had been when she first saw it, but then I remembered my mission tonight was to be nice to Liz. This presented, unsurprisingly, a conundrum.

“I know it gets a little raw,” I said, “but Liss is really very mature for her age, and I'm sure she can handle it.” Based on the six other times she'd seen it and had not been outwardly affected other than to ask why Professor Snape was pretending to be German.

Josh and I cleared the plates while A.J., over my protests, picked up the glasses and some silverware to bring into the kitchen. Liz, I noticed, was not moving from her seat.

“I just don't know that I'd let my daughter see a movie like that at this age,” Liz huffed, despite not having any children at all. I wondered if this would be an issue if Melissa had been my
son
, but that just led to me wondering why I'd name a boy Melissa.

My goodwill tour was about at its breaking point when Maureen Beckman ambled slowly into the den, eyes on her feet and the fuzzy green tennis balls on the legs of her walker. She did not seem as shocked as the other guests had been at the spectacle of people eating dinner in what had once clearly been a dining room. She just moved through as well as her arthritic hip would allow. “I'm heading to the beach for the last night,” she said. “This is the most direct route.”

“Of course,” I told her. “You feel free to come through whenever you like.”

Maureen stopped and stared at me. “I do,” she said simply.

Josh took the plates out of my hands and he and A.J. headed into the kitchen. If there was a guest in the room, he knew I needed to be available.

“It's just so bloody and violent,” Liz said. She had tenacity, if you consider that a plus.

“What is bloody and violent?” Maureen said, her tone sharp.

“My friend is saying she thinks the movie they're watching inside might be a little rough for Melissa,” I explained. “And she's probably right.” I actually reached over and squeezed Liz's shoulder.

Josh, behind Liz's shoulder, mouthed, “Who are you?”

“I'm concerned about Melissa,” Liz told her, intimating that perhaps I, Melissa's mother, was not.

“That's what makes us love you so,” I said. Okay, there was probably an edge of irony in my voice by this point, but then . . .

It was the fuzzy green tennis balls on Maureen's walker that did it
.
Not really, but sort of. Because I finally realized they reminded me of the green fibers found under Bill Mastrovy's body, and then I remembered where I'd seen that color green before.