asked if we could provide evidence thereof at least twice a day in exchange for a steady supply of paying guests during the tourist season (which on the Jersey Shore is at least part of every season except winter, so I was surprised to have even two guests staying with me this week). I prevailed upon Paul, who in turn prevailed upon Maxie, to perform “spook shows,” making objects fly around the house and lately adding such touches as musical instruments “playing themselves” and strange substances (usually rubber cement, sometimes corn syrup with food coloring) “bleed” down the walls.
That’s entertainment.
But Paul exacted a price for my exploitation of the two ghosts. He’d loved being a PI in life, and even now wanted to keep his hand in investigations—apparently eternity is, in addition to other things, boring—but he’d needed someone living (i.e., me) to do the “legwork.”
There had been some negotiations, but I’d ultimately agreed to get a private-investigator’s license, and so far had used it twice already. I still wasn’t fully on board with the PI life, however—both those experiences had been, to put it mildly, a little unnerving for me. Getting your life threatened will do that to a person.
But back to the problem of what was going on with Mom.
“Okay, I’ll let you live your fantasy,” Jeannie answered me. “Your mother
isn’t
seeing some guy. So what’s
your
explanation for what you heard?”
I couldn’t tell her that I was pretty sure Mom had been talking to a ghost. I mean, I
could
have told her that, but she wouldn’t have believed me, so it wasn’t going to get us anywhere.
She took my momentary silence for capitulation. “Aha!” she shouted. “You agree with me that she has a boyfriend!”
“No. I really don’t. I was just thinking that it doesn’t make sense for some guy to just walk into her house and wait in her bedroom.”
“Why not?” Jeannie demanded.
“Because Mom wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t trust someone enough to give him a key yet never even mention his name to me. She wouldn’t set up some weekly . . . rendezvous in her bedroom just for . . . that. Mom hasn’t even talked about meeting anyone. It’s too soon since Dad died.”
“It’s been five years,” Jeannie chimed in helpfully.
I pulled into the driveway at my guesthouse and drove all the way back behind the house to the carport. There was a little overhang there that would shield the car from most of the snow, if I got lucky and the wind was blowing the right way. A girl could dream. “It’s been a slice, Jeannie,” I told her, “but I have to go batten down my hatches. Is Tony home yet?”
“No, but he’ll be here soon. It’s the baby’s first snowstorm, and we want to make sure he enjoys it with his whole family.” At four months, Oliver would be lucky to stay awake until a full inch was on the ground, and certainly wouldn’t know the difference, but you can’t tell new parents anything.
I hung up my phone and got out of my car, wondering if Murray Feldner, the guy I’d hired to plow snow from my sidewalk and driveway areas, would remember our contract. I’d have to call and remind him. I raised the windshield wipers straight up in the air so they wouldn’t stick to the windshield (although I’ve always harbored a secret plan to leave the car running with the wipers on all through a blizzard), and was halfway to my back door when the realization hit me.
There
had
been something familiar about the way Mom spoke to the person in her bedroom. It
had
conjured up an emotional memory. There was only one person my mother had ever spoken to with such a scolding tone, because she was secure in the knowledge he’d still love her no matter what she said.
The ghost Mom had been shooing out of her house
because I was there
had been my father.
* * *
Click here for more books by E.J. Copperman
Berkley Prime Crime titles by E. J. Copperman
Haunted
That’s entertainment.
But Paul exacted a price for my exploitation of the two ghosts. He’d loved being a PI in life, and even now wanted to keep his hand in investigations—apparently eternity is, in addition to other things, boring—but he’d needed someone living (i.e., me) to do the “legwork.”
There had been some negotiations, but I’d ultimately agreed to get a private-investigator’s license, and so far had used it twice already. I still wasn’t fully on board with the PI life, however—both those experiences had been, to put it mildly, a little unnerving for me. Getting your life threatened will do that to a person.
But back to the problem of what was going on with Mom.
“Okay, I’ll let you live your fantasy,” Jeannie answered me. “Your mother
isn’t
seeing some guy. So what’s
your
explanation for what you heard?”
I couldn’t tell her that I was pretty sure Mom had been talking to a ghost. I mean, I
could
have told her that, but she wouldn’t have believed me, so it wasn’t going to get us anywhere.
She took my momentary silence for capitulation. “Aha!” she shouted. “You agree with me that she has a boyfriend!”
“No. I really don’t. I was just thinking that it doesn’t make sense for some guy to just walk into her house and wait in her bedroom.”
“Why not?” Jeannie demanded.
“Because Mom wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t trust someone enough to give him a key yet never even mention his name to me. She wouldn’t set up some weekly . . . rendezvous in her bedroom just for . . . that. Mom hasn’t even talked about meeting anyone. It’s too soon since Dad died.”
“It’s been five years,” Jeannie chimed in helpfully.
I pulled into the driveway at my guesthouse and drove all the way back behind the house to the carport. There was a little overhang there that would shield the car from most of the snow, if I got lucky and the wind was blowing the right way. A girl could dream. “It’s been a slice, Jeannie,” I told her, “but I have to go batten down my hatches. Is Tony home yet?”
“No, but he’ll be here soon. It’s the baby’s first snowstorm, and we want to make sure he enjoys it with his whole family.” At four months, Oliver would be lucky to stay awake until a full inch was on the ground, and certainly wouldn’t know the difference, but you can’t tell new parents anything.
I hung up my phone and got out of my car, wondering if Murray Feldner, the guy I’d hired to plow snow from my sidewalk and driveway areas, would remember our contract. I’d have to call and remind him. I raised the windshield wipers straight up in the air so they wouldn’t stick to the windshield (although I’ve always harbored a secret plan to leave the car running with the wipers on all through a blizzard), and was halfway to my back door when the realization hit me.
There
had
been something familiar about the way Mom spoke to the person in her bedroom. It
had
conjured up an emotional memory. There was only one person my mother had ever spoken to with such a scolding tone, because she was secure in the knowledge he’d still love her no matter what she said.
The ghost Mom had been shooing out of her house
because I was there
had been my father.
* * *
Click here for more books by E.J. Copperman
Berkley Prime Crime titles by E. J. Copperman
Haunted
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