Seventeen

“This is not good news,” Paul said.

Josh and I had filled him, Dad and Mom in on our visit with the dead Fish. Oliver was fast asleep in his portable crib by now, and Melissa was upstairs, ostensibly getting ready for bed but more likely communicating with her friends online. In any event, she knew better than to come downstairs and participate in this powwow. I’d get her up to speed the next morning.

Meanwhile, Stephanie and Rita had come back from dinner more than an hour earlier, reporting no new hat sightings. Rita still looked a little nervous.

Don and Tammy Coburn had retired to their room, which I think of as the bridal suite, our most spacious guest room on the first floor. They said they’d had a lovely day at the boardwalk, where Don had won Tammy a giant stuffed tiger by spending enough tokens on Skee-Ball to pay off a car loan, from the sound of it.

Nobody had seen Joe Guglielmelli or Bonnie Claeson for a few hours. If the Harbor Haven police didn’t call, I could only assume that each was taking in the town in his or her own way. I don’t require my guests to account for every moment of their time with me as long as they’re getting what they want out of the visit.

Maxie was nowhere to be seen. She’d told my parents that she was out on another of her visits to her mom, so she could be anywhere. Literally. To his credit, Josh had reminded me to call Kitty in the car on the way home, but I’d been too busy texting Phyllis (oh yes, Phyllis texts) to see if she could explore the possibility that Harry had in fact drowned rather than having a heart attack in his car.

Phyllis’s first reply text, “You think he drowned in his car?” had required more of a response than I’d planned, so Kitty had gone uncalled. But it was on my mental agenda.

“I’m aware it’s not good news,” I told Paul. “But what’s really disturbing is that Harry Monroe seems to be saying Martin Ferry was a dirty cop.”

Paul, his finger in the power slot of a large-screen TV I’d bought for the new movie room (even larger than the monitor the TV crew had left in my den) but not yet installed, looked downtrodden. “I don’t understand,” he muttered. “This television doesn’t draw a large amount of energy. I should be able to power it.”

“Maybe you need more fiber in your diet,” I said, then waved a hand to get his attention. “Hey, remember? Martin Ferry? We’re trying to help Lieutenant McElone? Harry the Fish is saying Ferry was on the take, and now even if we find McElone, I’m going to have to tell her that.”

Dad, hovering near my mother as usual, turned his eyes into slits, which I knew meant he was thinking. He got the same look on his face when trying to decide what grit sandpaper to use on a decorative wooden banister. “I don’t think that’s what Mr. Fish was saying at all,” he said. Dad was a terrific handyman and his clients loved him, but remembering names wasn’t his best thing.

“Of course it is,” I said, turning my head.

Josh noted the move. “Is that Jack?” he asked, and I acknowledged I was talking to my father. Josh had known my dad in life—Dad used to visit Josh’s grandfather Sy’s paint store (now Josh’s paint store), which is also where Josh and I first met as kids. He waved at Dad, who smiled broadly and raised a compound knife I’d left on the floor by way of greeting. “Good to . . . well, I can’t see you, but you know what I mean,” Josh said in the knife’s direction.

“He’s a keeper, Alison,” my father repeated. Mom, if she could have nudged him in good-natured embarrassment, would have done so. With all her years of interacting with ghosts, I was surprised Mom hadn’t developed the ability to touch them.

I had to get the room back on topic. “What do you mean, Dad? You don’t think Harry was saying Detective Ferry was on the take?” I asked.

“What you told me is that this Fish guy said some cops are not Boy Scouts. I think that’s what he wants you to think,” Dad explained.

That was a stretch at best. “We’re going to exonerate Ferry based on a mobster’s syntax?” I asked. “I don’t want Ferry to have been a dirty cop, either, but like Paul always says, we can’t make the facts fit what we want them to fit. They lead us where they go. Right, Paul?”

Paul, looking concerned, actually had his tongue stuck out, into the power port of the TV. “What?” he tried to say. It came out, “Blurrth?”

“Will you quit trying to be a backup generator and concentrate on the case?” I scolded him. I didn’t have time to dwell on the irony that I was the one demanding that Paul pay attention to an investigation. It probably would have made my head hurt. “First of all, I don’t know how to find McElone, and secondly, even if I do, I don’t know what to tell her.”

Looking properly chastised, Paul floated over from the television. “The problem at hand is twofold,” he said. “The most important matter in the short term is to locate the lieutenant and determine that she is all right. No member of the team can ever be left behind.” He likes to say stuff like that, as if we were a real team and McElone was a member of it.

“So what can be done?” It was only the fifty-third time I was asking, but somehow it felt old already. (New Jersey’s national language: Sarcasm.)

“We all should concentrate on our strengths. I will try to raise Detective Ferry again, since he was unwilling to speak to you on the subject of Monroe when you were there the last time. I’ll also make a discreet check . . .” He seemed to catch himself midsentence, about to say something he shouldn’t.

“A discreet check on what?” Mom asked.

“On Lieutenant McElone,” I told her. “Paul wants to make sure she isn’t on his side of the line now.”

“You think . . . ?” Josh narrowed his eyes and seemed to be running his tongue over his front teeth. That’s Josh being concerned. Then he shook his head to banish the thought.

Mom looked shaken. “Oh.”

“All possibilities need to be explored,” Paul said.

“What about me?” I asked.

“I think it might be time to start asking questions of the Seaside Heights police,” Paul said. “And I think we have to assume that Lieutenant McElone’s husband will be calling you in the morning. Meet with Malcolm Kidder as soon as you can and see if you can find out where the lieutenant was going. Be respectful, but we also need to know if there were personal problems between them. Circumstances don’t always mean that the most obvious scenario is correct.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Josh asked when he’d been told Paul’s instructions for everyone else.

“Keep an eye on Alison,” Paul said. “We don’t know who we’re dealing with yet, but there are certainly unsavory types involved here.”

I turned to Josh. “He says there isn’t much else that can be done, but he’ll let you know if something appropriate comes to mind,” I said. And off Mom’s look, which was a little incredulous at my duplicity, I added, “You have a store to run. Run it.”

“That’s not what I said,” Paul said. I gave him a look that indicated I was aware of that fact, and he stopped his protest right there. Josh’s eyes flickered for a second, but he knew better than to go behind my back right in front of my face. He did not ask Mom for confirmation.

“I don’t want you to do anything dangerous,” he said.

“I won’t,” I promised, and meant both words. Then I kissed him, right there in front of both my parents and my ghost housemate.

“Okay, then,” Josh said. He said his good-byes to my folks and Paul, then left.

Paul decided to get back to business. “All right. You have your assignments, and I have mine. If only Maxie were here, I could tell her what it is we need researched.”

“And she could complain about the old laptop for the millionth time,” I said absently. “Wait. Maxie.” I reached into my pocket. “I’m not going to forget this time.”

“Forget what?” Dad asked.

“She needs to call Maxie’s mother,” Mom informed him.

This time, I did indeed dial Kitty Malone and got her on the third ring. If Maxie was there, she’d be pissed that I was checking up on her, but I was long past caring.

“Kitty,” I said as soon as the apologies for calling at night were made, “I’ve been concerned about you, and I just wanted to check in and make sure you were okay.”

There was a long pause at the other end, then Kitty asked me, “Why would you be concerned about me, Alison? I’m fine.”

Well, that was a relief, anyway. “It’s just that Maxie’s been spending so much time over there lately,” I explained. “I know she loves to see you, but usually you come here. And she gets so upset whenever I ask about her trips there, so I was naturally a little . . . curious. I wanted to be sure you’re all right.”

“What do you mean, she’s been spending so much time here lately?” Kitty asked, confusion in her voice. “I was going to call you to ask what the problem was, but, well, something keeps coming up when I reach for the phone.”

“Problem?” I asked. “What problem?”

“I assumed there was a problem there,” she answered. “I haven’t seen Maxie in weeks.”