are you talking about?”
“You didn’t see it?” Jim asked. “That bikini bombshell from the TV show, Tiffney. The one with the . . .” He gestured with his hands in front of his chest.
“Arthritis?” I suggested.
“Exactly. She slithered up behind the poor lady while you were calling ghosts around, and did . . . something when she was there that made the lady turn around. Next thing I knew, the lady was on the floor, and then Linda Jane was trying to revive her.”
I sat down, a little overwhelmed. “Wait a second. You’re telling me that Tiffney did something to Arlice before she collapsed?”
Jim looked at Warren. “I’m speaking English, right?”
Warren nodded.
“Yup,” Jim said. “That’s what I’m saying.”
“So did you tell the police about that?”
They looked at each other.
“They didn’t actually ask ,” Warren mumbled.
“But you just mentioned it to me,” I pointed out.
“You own the place. You need to know. We don’t have to talk to the cops, do we?”
There was no answer to that other than to point out that McElone could use that information as well, but the two men seemed so uncomfortable with the idea of the police that I didn’t press the issue. I had every intention of ratting them out to the cops the first chance I got, however, and foresaw a future for them that included yet more questioning from the local detective.
Now, I really had to find Paul and Maxie. Well, Paul.
I got up and excused myself and headed upstairs. The ghosts were most often to be found on the second floor this time of day, unless Maxie was in what she now referred to exclusively as her room, aka the attic, which I was still planning on converting into a usable space. She could deal with her adolescent temper tantrums once there was wallboard and a solid floor up there. Then, I was sure, she’d give in to the impulse to design the decorations for the suite, and I’d be gracious enough to allow her to consult on the matter. I could be generous when necessary. Unless, of course, she decided to thwart me at every turn and paint things bizarre colors or “lose” crucial tools.
Oh, it had happened before.
Truth be told, Maxie’s decorating ideas could be outré, but they were usually better than mine.
Before the guests had taken up residence, I could scream for Paul at the top of my lungs, and he would appear, looking sheepish, as if he should have known I wanted him before I called for him. Now, however, I had to be more circumspect in my search, because I needed to have a private conversation with Paul, not one that every guest in the house could hear. I walked up to the second floor, checked to make sure no one was in the hallway and said in a conversational tone, “Paul.”
No answer. I walked down the hall, passing two guest rooms that both had their doors closed (the Joneses, and Jim and Warren’s). When I got to the corner, I said Paul’s name again, and again was not rewarded with a response.
That was a little odd. So I made a right turn and continued on past Melissa’s bedroom and my own (the room for Bernice and the one ostensibly for the Down the Shore personalities were on the first floor, as far from each other as possible). Twice more, I said “Paul” as if in conversation, like I was mentioning a friend’s name to someone else. Once, I even pretended to laugh, in case anyone had overheard and thought I was talking to someone else.
I got to the emergency fire exit at the end of the hallway (municipal regulations, you know) and turned back. I frowned. It wasn’t that anything could actually happen to the ghosts, but it was unusual that I couldn’t find them when necessary. I looked down the empty hallway again.
“Paul.”
“Yes?” he asked from behind me. I screamed so loudly that a few moments later I actually saw the Joneses’ door open, but no one looked out. Then the door closed, just as abruptly.
I turned to Paul. “Don’t do that!” I hissed at
“You didn’t see it?” Jim asked. “That bikini bombshell from the TV show, Tiffney. The one with the . . .” He gestured with his hands in front of his chest.
“Arthritis?” I suggested.
“Exactly. She slithered up behind the poor lady while you were calling ghosts around, and did . . . something when she was there that made the lady turn around. Next thing I knew, the lady was on the floor, and then Linda Jane was trying to revive her.”
I sat down, a little overwhelmed. “Wait a second. You’re telling me that Tiffney did something to Arlice before she collapsed?”
Jim looked at Warren. “I’m speaking English, right?”
Warren nodded.
“Yup,” Jim said. “That’s what I’m saying.”
“So did you tell the police about that?”
They looked at each other.
“They didn’t actually ask ,” Warren mumbled.
“But you just mentioned it to me,” I pointed out.
“You own the place. You need to know. We don’t have to talk to the cops, do we?”
There was no answer to that other than to point out that McElone could use that information as well, but the two men seemed so uncomfortable with the idea of the police that I didn’t press the issue. I had every intention of ratting them out to the cops the first chance I got, however, and foresaw a future for them that included yet more questioning from the local detective.
Now, I really had to find Paul and Maxie. Well, Paul.
I got up and excused myself and headed upstairs. The ghosts were most often to be found on the second floor this time of day, unless Maxie was in what she now referred to exclusively as her room, aka the attic, which I was still planning on converting into a usable space. She could deal with her adolescent temper tantrums once there was wallboard and a solid floor up there. Then, I was sure, she’d give in to the impulse to design the decorations for the suite, and I’d be gracious enough to allow her to consult on the matter. I could be generous when necessary. Unless, of course, she decided to thwart me at every turn and paint things bizarre colors or “lose” crucial tools.
Oh, it had happened before.
Truth be told, Maxie’s decorating ideas could be outré, but they were usually better than mine.
Before the guests had taken up residence, I could scream for Paul at the top of my lungs, and he would appear, looking sheepish, as if he should have known I wanted him before I called for him. Now, however, I had to be more circumspect in my search, because I needed to have a private conversation with Paul, not one that every guest in the house could hear. I walked up to the second floor, checked to make sure no one was in the hallway and said in a conversational tone, “Paul.”
No answer. I walked down the hall, passing two guest rooms that both had their doors closed (the Joneses, and Jim and Warren’s). When I got to the corner, I said Paul’s name again, and again was not rewarded with a response.
That was a little odd. So I made a right turn and continued on past Melissa’s bedroom and my own (the room for Bernice and the one ostensibly for the Down the Shore personalities were on the first floor, as far from each other as possible). Twice more, I said “Paul” as if in conversation, like I was mentioning a friend’s name to someone else. Once, I even pretended to laugh, in case anyone had overheard and thought I was talking to someone else.
I got to the emergency fire exit at the end of the hallway (municipal regulations, you know) and turned back. I frowned. It wasn’t that anything could actually happen to the ghosts, but it was unusual that I couldn’t find them when necessary. I looked down the empty hallway again.
“Paul.”
“Yes?” he asked from behind me. I screamed so loudly that a few moments later I actually saw the Joneses’ door open, but no one looked out. Then the door closed, just as abruptly.
I turned to Paul. “Don’t do that!” I hissed at
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