An Open Spook (A Haunted Guesthouse Mystery) by E.J. Copperman Page A
Authors: E.J. Copperman
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asset in anything
but
a strange way.) Just before I opened for guests, I was contacted by a company called Senior Plus Tours, which provides vacation experiences with a little something extra to people over a certain age. Someone at the tour company had heard tales of spooky happenings at 123 Seafront—in part because word had gotten to them of the shenanigans the night Kerin was there—and offered me a deal: Senior Plus Tours would guarantee a certain number of guests per season as long as I could assure them there would be ghostly “interactions” at least twice a day.
So I took the proposal to Paul, easily the more approachable of the two dead people in my house, and he’d agreed that he and Maxie—who took some persuading—would put on “spook shows” twice a day and cooperate at other times with the guests so I could start my business with a boost.
But Paul wanted something in return. He’d been just getting started as an investigator when his life had been cut short, and he had loved the work. He wanted to “keep a hand in,” and in order to take on the occasional investigation, he needed a partner (or as Paul put it, an “operative”) who had the advantage of still being able to breathe. He also needed someone who could leave the house and its surrounding property since Paul was unable to do so. And he needed someone who could talk to living people and be heard.
In other words, he needed me.
I had agreed, probably without thinking about it hard enough, to train for and receive a private investigator license, which I kept in my wallet mainly to impress the supermarket checkout “yenta” who loves to ask about everyone’s business. I had never intended to actually put the license to use, but Paul had other ideas. So once in a while, when Paul conjures up what is usually an already dead client, I do the legwork on an investigation and let Paul do the thinking. I know that seems backward—I should be the one out of harm’s way because nothing more can happen to Paul—but circumstances force us into illogical situations.
“People will just believe anything they hear, won’t they?” Jeannie asked, bringing me out of my reverie. Oh, yeah. Walking back to Jeannie’s car. Right.
“Anything they think is fun,” I agreed.
“I have to admit, you’ve done a great job of selling that ghost thing, got you a lot of business,” she said. We stopped, having reached her minivan. I’ve learned not to belabor the whole ghost subject with her. “You go get back to work,” I said. “I’ve got to get some cleaning done before I pick up Melissa, and then I have a new crew of guests on the way.”
Jeannie chuckled. “It sounded like you said you had a new crew of
ghosts
on the way,” she said, getting into the van. I waved her off and turned to head back to my vintage (that is, falling-apart) Volvo.
A new crew of ghosts? Bite your tongue, Jeannie.
but
a strange way.) Just before I opened for guests, I was contacted by a company called Senior Plus Tours, which provides vacation experiences with a little something extra to people over a certain age. Someone at the tour company had heard tales of spooky happenings at 123 Seafront—in part because word had gotten to them of the shenanigans the night Kerin was there—and offered me a deal: Senior Plus Tours would guarantee a certain number of guests per season as long as I could assure them there would be ghostly “interactions” at least twice a day.
So I took the proposal to Paul, easily the more approachable of the two dead people in my house, and he’d agreed that he and Maxie—who took some persuading—would put on “spook shows” twice a day and cooperate at other times with the guests so I could start my business with a boost.
But Paul wanted something in return. He’d been just getting started as an investigator when his life had been cut short, and he had loved the work. He wanted to “keep a hand in,” and in order to take on the occasional investigation, he needed a partner (or as Paul put it, an “operative”) who had the advantage of still being able to breathe. He also needed someone who could leave the house and its surrounding property since Paul was unable to do so. And he needed someone who could talk to living people and be heard.
In other words, he needed me.
I had agreed, probably without thinking about it hard enough, to train for and receive a private investigator license, which I kept in my wallet mainly to impress the supermarket checkout “yenta” who loves to ask about everyone’s business. I had never intended to actually put the license to use, but Paul had other ideas. So once in a while, when Paul conjures up what is usually an already dead client, I do the legwork on an investigation and let Paul do the thinking. I know that seems backward—I should be the one out of harm’s way because nothing more can happen to Paul—but circumstances force us into illogical situations.
“People will just believe anything they hear, won’t they?” Jeannie asked, bringing me out of my reverie. Oh, yeah. Walking back to Jeannie’s car. Right.
“Anything they think is fun,” I agreed.
“I have to admit, you’ve done a great job of selling that ghost thing, got you a lot of business,” she said. We stopped, having reached her minivan. I’ve learned not to belabor the whole ghost subject with her. “You go get back to work,” I said. “I’ve got to get some cleaning done before I pick up Melissa, and then I have a new crew of guests on the way.”
Jeannie chuckled. “It sounded like you said you had a new crew of
ghosts
on the way,” she said, getting into the van. I waved her off and turned to head back to my vintage (that is, falling-apart) Volvo.
A new crew of ghosts? Bite your tongue, Jeannie.
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