Haunted Guest House Mystery 03-Old Haunts (29 page)

This turn in the investigation was really throwing me for a loop. It completely shattered the image Maxie and Luther had given me of Big Bob, and seemed to bolster the one that Kitty had apparently held. Big Bob was Bad News.

“I’ve got to go,” I told Phyllis. “I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”

“Where are you going?” she asked, a slight smile on her face. This was what she’d wanted after all—to get me working on this investigation so she could ask me about it later.

“To someone who might know something,” I said.

*  *  *

Shore Cycle of Lakewood, Luther Mason’s “bike shop,” was not what I had expected. I’d pictured a small store with a garage in the back, where Luther and an assistant would provide advice for motorcycle enthusiasts while standing around a hot wood-burning stove during the winter. So I was not exactly prepared for what I found.

The place was enormous, taking up the better part of a half acre (I could judge in comparison to my own backyard). The parking lot alone was bigger than I’d pictured the entire operation, and there were at least thirty motorcycles, serious-looking ones, parked there.

The big glass-enclosed showroom, more reminiscent of an upscale car dealership, was so spotless I considered asking Luther the name of his cleaning lady. Four salespeople—yes, there was even one woman selling hogs—patrolled the floors. Business appeared to be brisk. Luther was nowhere to be found, but when I asked a salesman (whose name was Dan and whose jeans were pressed) where to locate him, I was given directions to “the top floor.” To be fair, there were only two levels, but it sounded good.

I found the proprietor in his “office,” which was really an enclosed cubicle made of glass that overlooked the sales floor. No doubt when a prospective customer was getting hesitant about the outlay of cash, the rep on the floor would bring him up to “see the manager,” and Luther would close the sale.

“I’m impressed,” I told him when he welcomed me into the “room.” It was quite spacious inside, and the view of the much larger space around it added the illusion of greater depth. “You didn’t let on it was this large an operation. A bike shop, indeed.”

“Well, it sort of started that way,” Luther said. “When I bought the original place, it was about half this size and looked like a garage with an auto parts store in front of it. But I knew what real bikers wanted to be treated like, so I took every dime I ever had and turned it into this. It’s working out pretty well.”

“I’ll say.”

“So how come I haven’t heard from you?” Luther asked, hurriedly adding, “What’s going on with the investigation?” in case I thought he meant anything else. He seemed determined not to mention our venture into lip-locking—after all, it was just one kiss—and I was in a business state of mind as well, so I didn’t disagree.

“I need more of your insight,” I told him. “There’s some suggestion now that Big Bob might have been involved in some very large drug deal around the time he died, and that could be why he was killed. Did you know anything about that?”

But the look in Luther’s eyes had already given me the answer: He was shocked. “Big Bob?” he asked. “I never saw that guy venture beyond a couple of beers. I can’t imagine he was involved in drugs.”

“Apparently a lot.”

Luther shook his head. “Couldn’t be. I would have known, or one of the other guys. And it’s just so outside Big Bob’s character. He wasn’t even all that concerned about money. As long as he was making a living wage at the grill during the season and picking up maybe some construction work with Wilson when he got some during the off-season, he was content. A lot of guys have these big dreams, you know, where they’re gonna win the lottery and go live on some island in the Caribbean. Not Big Bob. He was happy with his life the way it was. I can’t see him getting involved in something like that.”

“What about Wilson?” I asked. “Could he have gotten mixed up with a bad deal?”

Luther considered a moment. There was a knock on the door—Luther’s cubicle was the only one that had a door—and after a moment, the receptionist stuck her head in and said, “John’s going to need you in a minute, Luther.”

“Okay.” She withdrew and Luther turned back to talk to me. “Wilson was a different story,” he said. “He had the dreams, and he didn’t especially care how he got where he wanted to go. I don’t know about anything else, but I saw him smoke some weed every now and again. Hell, the fact is I smoked some weed every now and again in those days. Wilson was certainly less worried about doing the right thing than Big Bob.”

“Could he have gotten Big Bob involved in a deal if Wilson thought it was his ticket to the good life? Would Big Bob have done that for a friend?” I asked.

Luther shook his head slowly. “I honestly don’t know,” he said. “Big Bob was pretty scrupulous, but if a friend really needed his help? Maybe. I can’t call that one.” He stood up. “One of my salesmen needs me,” he said. “Can you hang on for about twenty minutes?”

“I can’t,” I answered. “A friend of mine is…ill, and I need to get back.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Luther said. “But I hope your friend is better soon. Let’s walk down together.”

We did, and on the way, I brought Luther up to date with the Seaside Heights investigation. I hadn’t realized Luther was unaware of Kitty’s arrest, and he became absolutely incensed when he heard that she was not being released after her arraignment.

“How is that possible?” he asked. “The woman’s never done anything wrong in her life, and now they’re holding her in county? It’s ridiculous. Maxie’s mother didn’t kill Big Bob. I’ve only met her a couple of times, but I know she’d never do that.”

I agreed, but I told Luther about the million-dollar bail and the 10 percent cash equivalent. “She just can’t put her hands on anywhere near that kind of money,” I told him.

Luther didn’t look happy. “I don’t understand how she got arrested in the first place,” he said. “What makes them think she put a wrench into Big Bob’s skull?”

“It’s clear that somebody is framing her. It’s such an obvious case that I’m shocked the cops are going for it,” I said, echoing Phyllis, “but that’s what’s going on. They’re buying this ridiculous story—hook, line and sinker—and letting Kitty pay the price while the real killer gets a laugh out of it.”

Luther looked concerned. “It’s not right,” he said. “What can we do about it?”

“We have to find the real killer and get him to stop laughing,” I suggested.

“I like that,” Luther said. “I’ll come over tomorrow, and we’ll do that.” Then he walked toward a man wearing a Shore Cycle denim work shirt, who introduced Luther to his customer, a kid maybe twenty years old whose girlfriend was eyeing him more than her boyfriend, something Luther pretended not to notice.

I marveled at him. Sometimes, people aren’t at all what you expect.

Twenty-six

“Where
were
you?” I said—okay, bellowed—at Maxie. “You left Paul and me hanging out there to dry. There’s absolutely no excuse that could possibly be sufficient.”

She stared at me and said nothing.

“Well?” I demanded.

Maxie “sat down” on the dwindling pile of drywall sheets at the far end of the attic. I had measured very carefully, so there wouldn’t be a significant amount of drywall left over when the walls were hung. The last thing I needed was to have to haul all that stuff back down to where it had originated.

Paul had been up here when I’d arrived, which was something of a relief, given the way he’d left the last time I’d seen him. He looked even less solid than usual, and said nothing. But when Maxie had showed up, and it had become obvious that we were going to have a heated discussion, Paul literally sank into the floor and disappeared.

Maxie continued the silent treatment.

“What’s your excuse?” I said.

She drew in her lips and raised her eyebrows. Having to deal with a lunatic like me was clearly a trial for her. “What difference does it make?” she asked. “You just said no excuse would be good enough, so let’s just assume I don’t have one.”

“Oh, that’s great,” I said. It was way easier raising Melissa than raising Maxie would ever be. I’ll be puttering around this house in my nineties, and she’ll still be twenty-eight going on fifteen. “Do you have any idea what kind of damage you’ve done?”

“Yeah, so the quaint little tourists didn’t get to talk to the spooky ghosts,” she mocked. “The world will probably come to an end now.” She yawned theatrically.

“You know, it must be really easy when you don’t have to think about anyone but yourself,” I said. I turned to the wall, where I was lightly sanding a seam between two sheets of drywall with the hand sander attached to my shop vac. There was very little dust, but it was fairly loud, so Maxie had to shout to be heard over the work. What a shame.

“Yeah, I have it real easy!” she screamed.

Halfway through her sentence, I turned off the vac, so her words echoed around the room. Her eyes narrowed, and she stuck out her lower lip.

“You know, I never signed on for this vaudeville gig you worked up with Paul,” Maxie growled. “He gets to keep his mind active with this gumshoe stuff, and you get us to help put your guesthouse on the map. What do
I
get out of it?”

Without thinking, I shot back, “You get to stay in my house for the rest of eternity!” And I immediately felt bad about it. Maxie has a talent for making me say things that I’m going to regret later, sometimes as soon as they leave my mouth.

She looked absolutely stunned. “You think that’s what I want? To stay in this place until time finally ends?”

“No, Maxie, I—” I was backpedaling, but not fast enough.

“Forget it! You don’t ever have to see me again if you don’t want to!” And before I could say another word, she had vanished in a blink. I looked around the room, called “Maxie?” timidly and realized that I’d rarely felt quite so alone. I gave up the sanding and went downstairs.

But once I arrived in the den, where Don Petrone and Albert Westen were playing gin rummy (Don grinned when I walked in, but Albert barely acknowledged my presence), Maxie was there, talking confidentially to Melissa in the corner closest to the kitchen door. And when I got closer, I noticed the one thing I really didn’t want to see.

Melissa was crying. I was the only one who could tell, because she was concealing her face, but we mothers have a sixth sense about such things. Besides, Don and Albert were concentrating on their cards.

I rushed to her just as Maxie finished saying, “not what I wanted,” and glared at me.

“What’s going on?” I asked Melissa. “What’s wrong, baby?”

It took Melissa a while to get herself under control, and when she did, she quietly told me, “Maxie…Maxie says she’s going away and never coming back, and she says you told her she had to go. Why did you say that?”

I think I might have literally seen red. “I
didn’t
say that,” I announced loudly for Maxie to hear, “and I
wouldn’t
say that, ever.” Don and Arthur looked up. Arthur pursed his lips and shook his head—
Nice try, lady, but there’s no ghost there—
and Don just smiled. Don would probably smile if someone dropped a bowling ball on his foot.

I was feeling a level of anger I hadn’t reached since the pre-divorce era, and I looked up at Maxie, who was hovering with a smug grin on her face, arms folded in a gesture of defiance. I didn’t care who heard me anymore. “How
dare
you lie to Melissa like that? Try and make me look like the villain to my own daughter? What kind of monster
are
you?”

“It’s okay, Alison,” Don said, not looking up from his rummy hand. “We believe there are ghosts in the house, honey.”

“You’ve wanted me out of here since the day you found out about me,” Maxie shot back, her eyes slits and her clothes changing into the more aggressive black leather she seemed to unconsciously sprout whenever she was angry. “Well, I’m giving you what you want. You can explain it to Melissa any way you want, but the fact is, I’m leaving because of
you
.”

“You can’t leave!” Melissa wailed. “You’re my friend!”

“You know, it’s really sort of in bad taste to get your daughter all upset just to convince us,” Albert told me.

“I’m not…Look. I can’t prove it to you right now, but I’m having a pretty heated argument with one of the ghosts right now,” I said.

“Say something, Mom!” Melissa begged, gesturing toward Maxie.

“She’s not going anywhere, Liss,” I told her, staring at Maxie the whole time. “You forget—she can’t leave the grounds of this house. She’s just saying that to be mean.”

“You think so?” Maxie yelled. “You couldn’t find me when you wanted me to put on your little spooky show, could you? Where do you think I was?”

You know how, just when you think things can’t get worse, they inevitably do? From behind me came my ex-husband’s voice.

“Lissie, honey! Don’t worry—I won’t leave you again!”

See what I mean?

I turned to see The Swine, arms open, inviting Melissa to come over and shield herself from me in his comforting embrace. Liss, to her everlasting credit, looked at him as if he must have lost his mind, and managed to croak out, “It’s not about you, Daddy.”

The Swine looked absolutely stupefied. “It’s not?”

Then I looked up at Maxie, who had spontaneously changed into a pair of ripped jeans and a shirt bearing the logo of Roadside America, a tourist attraction in Pennsylvania. “You can make yourself invisible whenever you want, but I know you can’t just leave,” I told her.

“That’s not fair,” said my ex. He’s so vain; he probably thinks this book is about him.

“You watch me,” Maxie spat back. And she turned to head for the wall.

“Maxie!” Melissa yelled. And Maxie did turn back, saw her expression, and suddenly looked sad. She hesitated.

“Who’s Maxie?” Steven asked.

But at that moment, a voice from the direction of the front door shouted at her, “Maxine! What do you think you’re doing?”

We all (except the two card players) turned and saw my mother standing at the doorway to the den, a look of sincere concern on her face. “Why is Melissa crying?” Mom asked.