The Thrill of the Haunt (14 page)

Was the married guy
flirting
with me? That was something I certainly didn’t need. “What did you want to know from me, Detective?” I was pushing this back toward the case if it killed me.

“We’ve talked to Dave Boffice,” he said, his voice once again a model of professionalism. “We told him about Kinsler, and he had the good taste not to act surprised. Said he’d gone there and was so spooked by finding her that he went straight home. Says he didn’t call 911, because he was in shock. He claims he was at the Monmouth Mall getting a Nathan’s hot dog when Joyce died.”

“Do we know exactly how long she’d been dead when I got there?” I asked.

“Not yet, just an estimate. More than an hour, less than twelve.”

“I would have seen if he went to the mall, and he didn’t. Either way, he was there right before me and ran out with a look on his face that would indicate he’d seen what I saw a couple of minutes later.” I avoided saying “seen a ghost” since, well, I guess that seemed less shocking to me these days. For instance, there was
a transparent woman, I’d say in her early fifties, dressed for 1966, hovering over the booth next to ours, but we hadn’t spoken.

“Do you think he had time to do anything?” Sprayne asked. “Contaminate the crime scene? Maybe straighten up what Kinsler would have been standing on before she died?”

“It’s possible. It would have only taken a few seconds to stand a kitchen chair back up or something, but why would he bother? What difference would it make to him if everything in Joyce’s kitchen was neat and tidy except for the dead woman hanging from the rafters?”

Sprayne shrugged. “You can’t answer the question until you have facts,” he said. “We don’t have facts yet.” Something Paul would have said.

“Anyway, it was well after Joyce had died,” I pointed out. “Dave definitely didn’t kill her while I was outside watching; he wasn’t in there long enough, and your report shows that she was dead awhile before we got there.”

“Let’s say he did kill her earlier in the day,” Sprayne suggested. “Is it possible he knew you were following him?”

So this was going to be about what a lousy detective I am? Only
I
get to say stuff like that! “I really don’t think he did,” I told Sprayne, making sure my jaw muscles didn’t clench. “There was no sign he knew anyone was on his trail. Why?”

Sprayne cocked an eyebrow; he had noticed my tone. “Don’t get excited,” he said. “Nobody’s casting aspersions. If Boffice knew he was being followed during his lunch breaks, he might have killed Joyce sometime earlier, and then put on a show about how shocked he was because he knew he was being watched. Deflect suspicion.”

Dammit. That made sense.

“It’s just a scenario. I don’t have anything to go on yet,” Sprayne said with a shrug. “Have you spoken to Boffice yourself?”

My lips curled. “What kind of detective do you think I am?” I asked.

Another shrug. “I don’t have any facts about that, either.”

“No. I’ve never spoken to Dave Boffice,” I admitted. “What’s he like?”

Sprayne smiled, but only with one side of his mouth. “The blandest, most average guy you ever met in your life,” he said. “Off the record.”

“But you still suspect him?”

“That’s one of the reasons
why
I suspect him.” Sprayne waved to the waitress and made that writing gesture that people think means “bring me the check, please,” and people who have waited tables believe signals that you’re an imperious jerk. It’s all a question of perspective.

“Are we done?” I asked. I didn’t actually want any more coffee anyway, not that he’d bothered to ask first.

“Unless you have something else to add,” Sprayne said as the waitress brought our check. and he made a show of picking it up, which, let’s face it, he should. “I didn’t expect to have an amazing lead come out of this meeting.”

“Then why did you call me?” I asked, leaving out the part about how it had wasted both our time.

“Your scintillating conversation,” he deadpanned.

I called Josh when I got home—to be fair, he’d actually
returned my call—and I told him about finding Joyce’s body. He asked if I wanted him to come over, and I said yes, after thinking about it, but that he should wait until after the store’s usual closing hour.

Paul wanted the rundown on my meeting with Detective Sprayne, so I gave it to him sans hilarious banter. Maxie was doing some research into Dave’s business, which was keeping her busy for the moment. “So Detective Sprayne agrees with us, that Joyce Kinsler was murdered,” Paul said, stroking his goatee. “David Boffice certainly has to be a suspect, but I imagine Helen would be as well, wouldn’t you say? The wife angered by the affair, deciding to eliminate the competition? If there was an affair.”

“What do you mean, ‘if there was an affair’?” I asked.

“We don’t have proof. We only have Helen’s word for it. Don’t assume, Alison.” Paul loves nothing better than to school me on his personal theory of investigation. I don’t mind it, but I’m not sure it helps. Me.

“If there was no affair, why did Dave go to Joyce’s house?” I asked.

“A good question. We’re dealing in speculation, and I don’t like that.” Paul rubbed his eyes. “If there was an affair, or even if she just
believed
there was, Helen would be a natural suspect.”

I was repairing a small leak in the sink in the downstairs powder room: not a big deal, but annoying enough to warrant attention. I do minor plumbing, but nothing big. Dad wasn’t around—he must have been at Madison Paint with Sy and Josh—or he probably would have insisted on doing the repair himself. “But the thing is, Helen didn’t seem to want to eliminate the competition,” I told Paul. “She wanted to intimidate her husband.”

“Killing Joyce would certainly accomplish that goal, don’t you think?” Paul countered.

“I think she just wanted Dave to know she knew about the affair,” I said, climbing out from under the sink. “Killing Joyce would be too final, too oversized a response to what she was trying to accomplish. It was about getting the upper hand, not about something as final as death.” I tried the faucet, and it no longer leaked. Am I good, or what? “Besides, it’s not our case anymore. The Eatontown police will handle it.” That was my story, and I was sticking to it.

Paul sputtered but didn’t respond. Melissa, who had been in the kitchen with Mom learning how to make macaroni and cheese, appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. Murphy is on the phone,” she said. “She wants another progress report.”

Groaning is not attractive, but I’ve found it’s sort of involuntary.

I keep the landline in the house for a few reasons, although I use my cell phone mostly for personal and business calls. Having the phone in the house covers me if the cell phone needs recharging, if cell service is interrupted for some reason (it had been out for almost a week after the storm, along with electrical power), and if guests who don’t have cells might need to use a phone while staying here. Also, I’ve never gotten around to canceling the service, and some visitors actually do look me up in the Yellow Pages and call to make reservations. But if Kerin Murphy was going to start calling me at home, that might be enough to reconsider canceling.

“Can you tell her I left the country?” I asked. “Nowhere far, maybe just Venezuela.” But Melissa gave me one of her looks—the one that indicates she’s more mature than I am—and I trudged out to the den, where the landline sat on a side table, to take Kerin Murphy’s call.

“Why are you calling me at the house?” I asked Kerin as soon as I picked up the receiver.

“Because you never gave me your cell-phone number,” she answered. That was true, and I had been hoping she’d take the hint, but life just doesn’t work like that sometimes. “Luckily, your home number was in the book. What do you have to tell me about your investigation?”

“You can’t expect progress reports every day, Kerin,” I said.

“I certainly can, and I do,” Kerin answered in her best businesswoman tone. “I hired you to perform a professional function, and as your employer, I am entitled to regular reports on your progress toward the achievement of that goal.”

“Did you read that in a self-help book on being a successful businesswoman?” I asked. Maybe I could get myself fired for insubordination. It wouldn’t be the first time. “Look. I met with Everett’s ex-wife. She hadn’t seen him in years. His son is dead. I called his father and got the woman who’s overseeing his care at an assisted living facility in South Carolina. I haven’t gotten to his sister yet, but I have calls in. What is it you’re expecting?”

“Results. We hired you because you claim to have certain . . . abilities. We want you to exercise them.”

Tom and Libby Hill walked in through the front door as I tried to talk sense into a woman who had once baked individual chocolate soufflés for a second-grade bake sale. I lowered my voice. “I do not believe a ghost killed Everett Sandheim,” I told Kerin. “I’ve seen no evidence of that.” Not much, anyway.

“You’re being evasive,” Kerin shot back. “Was it one of your ghost friends and you’re afraid to say so because it will ruin your reputation?”

This conversation was passing the edges of ridiculous and heading for . . . something beyond ridiculous. But Tom and Libby, standing discreetly by and trying to look like they weren’t listening, were listening. I had to be careful with my response.

“Why, that’s just silly,” I attempted, trying to sound like Kerin had suggested that I might be working too hard or should plant palm trees in the front yard. “That’s just not what is happening here.”

“Then what
is
happening?” Kerin demanded. “You’re the one who sees ghosts. You base your whole business on it. Do you deny their existence?” I couldn’t do so in good conscience, because Maxie was floating down from the ceiling and Paul had wandered in from the bathroom.

I kept the light tone in my voice, which might have been my biggest triumph of the day. “I’m just saying that I haven’t got anything to report yet, and that you should expect an operation like this to take a little time. It’s not the kind of thing that can be completed quickly.”

Tom Hill made a show of examining an “antique” I had on a shelf over the fireplace. It was a small figurine of a sea captain holding a fish, and I’d picked it up at a flea market in Englishtown for seventy-five cents because I felt the guesthouse should have something ocean-ish. Maxie hates that thing, and as with most such issues involving interior design, I am loath to admit she is right.

“We’re not paying you all that money to stand still,” Kerin said.

If she thought that was a threat I’d take to heart, it was necessary for me to disabuse her of that assumption. “If you’re not happy with my service, I can recommend some alternatives in the area,” I said. “Feel free to call them.”

Kerin’s voice took on a growl. “Oh no,” she said. “You’re not getting out of it that easily. I’m going to call for a status report
every day
until this case is solved. You can count on it.” That was it; I was definitely having the landline disconnected.

“And I can assure you that you’ll hear about every bit of progress that is made,” I said. My tone wasn’t fooling anybody. “Nice to hear from you, Kerin.” I hung up before she could make some other threat. I just wasn’t in the mood.

“Man,” Maxie drawled. “Some customers are so demanding.”

I turned directly toward Tom and Libby. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” I told them. “What can I do for you?”

Libby walked over and Maxie assessed her but said nothing. That’s not unusual for Maxie; I think most of the time she’d like to pretend there are no guests in the house, though she does love to amuse herself by interacting with them at the spook shows.

“Alison,” Libby began, “Tom and I were wondering if you might be able to move us to another bedroom in the house.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed. He has a sense about when things aren’t quite right, and it appeared to be surfacing with Libby’s not terribly unusual request.

Mentally, I went through my room inventory. There were three guest bedrooms being used at the moment, the Hills and the Rosens in two of them, and . . .

Of course. “Your room is right next to Cybill’s, isn’t it?” I asked.

Libby tried to avoid my eyes by looking at the picture frame on the table next to her, but she nodded. “Yes,” she said. “The chanting goes on well into the night, and it’s something of a . . . problem for us, you understand. We don’t want to be a bother.”

“It’s not at all a problem,” I assured her. “I have another room you can move into right away, right here on the first floor, where you won’t be disturbed at all. Is that all right?”

Tom broke in before Libby could answer. “That would be great,” he said. “You have no idea how that woman has been keeping us awake. I mean, I don’t want to run down anybody’s religion, but I need to sleep, you know?”

“Tom,” Libby admonished.

“Don’t worry about it,” I told them. “I’ll get you a key to the downstairs bedroom right now.” They both seemed quite relieved and went upstairs to pack their belongings for the long journey down one flight of stairs.

“There’s more to Cybill than you’d expect,” Paul suggested as I walked toward the kitchen to open the locked cabinet where I keep the room keys. “She believes she has a mission here, and I don’t think it’s one that’s especially helpful.”

“She’s a pain, he’s saying,” Maxie chimed in. “And I agree. Let’s boot her out.”

“You two seem to forget that I need this guesthouse to succeed so I can keep my daughter in shelter and food,” I growled. “You guys do what you do, and let me do what I do. I’ll go deal with Cybill.” And it was at that moment that I realized I didn’t know exactly where Cybill was. So much for trying to keep close tabs on her. “Uh, you two don’t happen to know where she is right now, do you?”

They looked at each other. “Oh, we wouldn’t want to step over the line,” Maxie said. “You do what you do. We’ll do what
we
do.” In an instant, they were both gone.

I sighed. I probably should have been a little more diplomatic in dealing with the ghosts, but there are days when they’re like close friends and days when they’re like annoying insects. Today was a day to hide the can of Raid.

I pushed the kitchen door open and found Mom and Melissa putting the final touches on a macaroni-and-cheese casserole I happily would have eaten now, even though it hadn’t officially been cooked yet. “The bread crumbs create a crunchy crust on top,” Mom was saying. “You put it in the oven, and we’ll clean up while it bakes.” Okay, so it wasn’t
baked
yet. These technical terms were overwhelming.

“Hi, guys,” I said with a veneer of cheerfulness that couldn’t hide my fatigue. It had been a long day, and it wasn’t close to over yet. “How’s dinner going?”

“We’re baking it now,” Melissa answered.

“Melissa did it almost all by herself,” Mom told me, as Liss slid the baking dish—did I own a baking dish, or had Mom brought that with her?—into the oven.

Liss tried to hide her beaming pride but failed pretty seriously. “Grandma told me what to do every step,” she said.

“Don’t be modest,” Mom told her. “It was you all the way.” It was such a nice gesture, and Melissa was so happy, that some of the weight on my neck seemed to ease.

“Is Dad coming over later?” I asked Mom. “I wanted to ask him about something.”

“I don’t know,” Mom answered. “Is it important?”

“Not really.” I wanted to talk to my father about the white paint I’d used, which wasn’t exactly covering the red marker on the walls. The weird message underneath was still showing through. It occurred to me that I could also ask Josh when he arrived. If we were speaking to each other. I walked to the locked cabinet where I keep room keys while Mom and Melissa set about cleaning up the countertops, which didn’t need that much cleaning. Mom has always made it a policy to wash and put away as she cooks, so by the time she’s finished there isn’t a huge cleanup job left to do. I looked over at Melissa. “Thanks for making dinner, baby,” I said.

“Dinner?” Melissa asked, a sly smile on her face. “Macaroni and cheese isn’t dinner. It’s a . . . side dish, right Grandma?”

I got the key out and locked the cabinet again as Mom answered her, “You’ve got it, honey. We’ll get to the rest in a minute.”

I walked out of the kitchen and found Tom and Libby ready and waiting at the hallway entrance with their two suitcases on the floor next to them. “This is so good of you,” Libby told me. “I hope we’re not being unreasonable.”

“Not at all,” I assured her as I led them to the downstairs suite, which has its own bath. I usually charge more for it, but under the circumstances I thought it was the perfect solution. “You’re entitled to a relaxing vacation, and I’m happy to do anything I can to help.”

Before we got to the bedroom door, Paul appeared at the other end of the corridor, and his face told me what he had to say was important. That’s never good.

“Here we go,” I said, my voice rising about half an octave. I unlocked the door and opened it, and handed Tom the key. “Enjoy the new room,” I said. Normally with the suite, I give a little tour, showing the guests the bathroom attached and reveling in the extra space, but that’s really just to show off why it costs more than a regular room, and it appeared that I should be in a hurry.