Chance of a Ghost (64 page)

“What?” I asked. I was confused by what she’d said; those words just sounded so incongruous coming from her.

“I can help you. I found some stuff out about your Dr. Wells, and maybe that can help you find your dad.” She said this with a straight face and not the least inflection of irony.

“Who are you, and what have you done with Maxie Malone?” I asked this impostor.

Maxie’s lip curled. She let out a sound similar to a whoopee cushion and said, “Do you want to hear it, or not?” I nodded my assent. “Well, Wells’s…that sounds funny: ‘well, Wells’s.’ I like that.”

“Maxie,” I said.

“Yeah. See, he had pretty much a spotless record both as a doctor and as a guy. No hint of any problems with the family, no divorce, two kids, five grandchildren, blah, blah, blah. Never sued for malpractice. Never reprimanded by the hospital or any medical board. Never called in question
for a diagnosis or a treatment. The guy was just about as good as you could get.”

“I don’t see how this is helping.”

“I’m
getting
to that,” she said. “Here’s the thing: One time, out of the blue, he decides to take a break from being a doctor. Just takes six months off, doesn’t go anywhere, doesn’t travel, doesn’t write a book, just stops.” She waited.

“And?” I asked.

“And nothing. After the six months are over, he goes back to what he was doing and never has a hiccup again. Weird, huh?” Maxie grinned broadly and gave an emphatic nod like Stan Laurel proving a point.

“Yeah. A revelation,” I told her. “I’ll be sure to act on that first thing.” I put my arm back across my eyes. Maybe I’d just sleep here on the sofa tonight. It seemed so much easier than actually standing up and walking up all those stairs to my bedroom.

“You want to hear when this happened?” Maxie’s voice asked.

“You mean what day of the week? I’m betting it was a Wednesday. I hate Wednesdays.” But I needed to take off my makeup and brush my teeth, and all that stuff was upstairs. Life was so hard.

“I mean the date.” Maxie read off the date that Wells had taken his sudden sabbatical from the medical profession.

Suddenly, I didn’t need to sleep anymore. I sat straight up and stared at her, no doubt giving her exactly the response she’d been hoping for. But the information had flooded over me like cold water, and now I was wide awake.

“That’s the day after my father died,” I said.

“Interesting,” Paul said.

“Do you have a picture of Dr. Wells?” I asked her. It had been five years since I’d seen him, and I had to wonder…

Maxie clicked some keys and a photograph of Dr. Peter Wells appeared, attached to a recent obituary. I shook my head.

“He’s not the grumpy ghost,” I said, although I’d always pretty much known that to be true.

We debated the significance of Maxie’s finding for over an hour. I suggested it was simply the doctor reacting to losing a bout with an awful disease, but Paul pointed out that such things happen to doctors on a regular basis, and that it could hardly have been the first time Wells had lost a patient. Paul can be annoyingly logical.

I said that it had been a particularly grueling and difficult case, and Paul said pretty much the same thing he did to shoot down my previous argument. So I advocated the theory that Wells had liked my father and the loss had especially devastated him, and Paul didn’t even have to point out what a stupid argument that was.

Maxie, throughout, fought valiantly for her point, which was that she had done a really awesome job of research and should be given lots of credit.

The initial rush of adrenaline finally wore off, and I admitted that I had no reasonable explanation for what Dr. Wells had done, and that it was now past midnight and I was exhausted. So I bid the two ghosts good night, mumbled thanks to Maxie for her help—which she seemed to think was sarcastic—and went upstairs, past the hole in my plaster wall that would need repairing, to go to bed.

At three in the morning I woke up straight out of the recurring dream about finding a tool and sat up in bed. You see people do that in the movies for dramatic effect, but this was, I’m pretty sure, the first time I’d ever done it in real life. Because sometimes when your mind isn’t actively attacking a problem, it will come around to the solution that you’ve been searching for all along.

“Frances killed Lawrence Laurentz,” I said aloud to no one. I could have explained how I knew, but no one was there, and I didn’t have a plan of action yet. That could wait until morning.

For fear of forgetting, I wrote a note on the back of a bank receipt I’d left on the bed stand, rolled over and went back to sleep. I knew exactly what to do in the morning.

But I wasn’t counting on the two and a half feet of snow outside my door.

Twenty-nine

As it was getting cold and an actual flurry was beginning
to fall, we decided to skip going out for dessert and drive back to the guesthouse in the two vehicles, (I told Melissa I was too shaken up, which was about thirty percent true) and instead stopped at a drive-through Dunkin’ Donuts on the way.

Jeannie and Tony dropped off the Hendersons and left to take Oliver home—they said they hadn’t seen anything in the auditorium that would help the investigation. I think they just wanted to go home.

The rest of us converged at the front door to the guesthouse. I fumbled for the key, and after a few bone-chilling moments, we were in my front room removing layers and swapping basic reconnaissance. Paul, clearly having been waiting, had started watching through the door (literally—he’d had his front half on the outside and his back half on the inside) before we’d made it inside. Maxie (who had luckily not wanted to go to the show), he told me, was upstairs
doing further research on Dr. Wells and said she’d have something soon. I did not impart that information to the Hendersons, and Melissa and Mom had heard it for themselves.

Josh, unaware of the extra participant in the conversation, did what he had done at the performance: He found a spot in the den that was a little detached from the group, stood and observed with a wry expression on his face. He appeared fascinated.

“I didn’t see any of the patients there coming up to the performers for drugs,” Morgan said, sounding disappointed. “Of course, a lot of them are a little less active than in the communities these people usually play.”

“Something was wrong,” I said. “I can’t put my finger on it, but there was something just off about the whole thing.”

“I think it was the show,” Melissa suggested, stifling a yawn. She took a bite of the chocolate-frosted doughnut she’d chosen. Eating that doughnut would be the last thing she did before going up to bed, I’d decided, though she didn’t know it yet. Best not to provoke the argument too early; it just gives her time to come up with logical ammunition. “It was terrible!” Everyone had a chuckle at that.

“I don’t get why Penny Fields was there,” I said, giving voice to one of the many things that had been bothering me. “If she really wanted to give Tyra her job back, she could easily have called; she didn’t have to show up in person to do it. In fact, when she finally did it, it was by text, anyway.”

“There’s a bigger picture,” Mom suggested. She eschewed the doughnuts but was sipping on a decaf tea I’d brewed. Morgan and Nan had coffee from the Dunkin’ Donuts, and Melissa had a white hot chocolate. Yes, I was indulging my daughter. “But I don’t think I’m seeing it.”

“I’m most interested in the fishing-rod contraption you told us about, Alison,” Josh said. “I’ve seen that kind of equipment used for a lot of different purposes, and some of
the fishing line you can buy in sporting goods stores can stand up to very large fish fighting a hook. Does it occur to you that…”

“That someone could hook an electric toaster on one and cast it into a bathtub, thus making the person doing the casting ‘invisible’ to the person in the tub?” I said. Yeah, it had occurred to me. “But if that’s the case, why bother? Whoever wanted to kill Lawrence could have just thrown it into the tub or walked in and dropped it. He was going to die, anyway. Why bother to hide yourself from the victim?”

Morgan, who had been eyeing the vanilla crème doughnut but had not partaken, stood from the sofa and raised a finger in contemplation. “Because electrocution is a very tricky way to kill somebody,” he said. “You can’t be sure it’s going to work, even in someone who had a history of minor heart problems like Laurentz did. If it didn’t work, and Laurentz had lived, he’d know who tried to kill him and could put them behind bars.”

Melissa finished her doughnut and hot chocolate, and I immediately sent her to bed—with a sugar high that potent, suffice it to say the argument was short and to the point, but after her grandmother offered a bribe in the form of another home-cooked dinner the following night, she finally was convinced. I felt properly chastised and resolved to ask my mother for cooking lessons.

Putting my maternal shame aside, I came back down from Melissa’s room after giving her a good-night hug and looked at Paul, which was convenient because he was hovering just over Morgan’s head, and this way I could get the opinion of both professionals. “So, we have all the conflicting words everybody said and we think we know how somebody killed Lawrence Laurentz,” I said. “Now how do we figure out which one did it?”

“It’s not the figuring out,” Morgan mused. “It’s the proving it.”

Paul nodded. “We have a lot of testimony and some
good guesswork but absolutely no evidence at all. Even if the ME had done a really thorough autopsy, he would’ve only had a small chance of finding any evidence of electrocution.”

Morgan hadn’t heard that, hearing aids or no, but he added, “The fact is, Laurentz really did die of a heart issue. The only question is whether it was caused by someone tossing an electric toaster into his bathtub.”

“So?” I reiterated. “What’s next?”

There was a long pause. Morgan looked me directly in the face and said, “I honestly don’t know. There’s nothing else to look into. Penny Fields was a witness, but there’s no proof she was actually there when he died. Nobody was reported as acting suspicious near the building at the time, according to Chief Daniels in Monroe, who checked with Manalapan. There was no sign that any drug deals were going on while we were there tonight or that anyone was even interested in doing some. I’ve got nothing left to suggest. I wish I could help more, but Nan and I need to go home tomorrow. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I said. “I appreciate all you’ve done for me when you were supposed to be on vacation. I’m sorry you didn’t get to enjoy yourself more.”

Morgan brightened. “Are you kidding? Best vacation of my life.”

Nan chuckled and nodded. “I’m going to tell all the cop wives I know that if you keep your private-investigator’s license, there’s always going to be something for their husbands to do here.”

I suppose I could have taken that in a negative way, but I chose not to. I gave her a hug. “I’ll be sorry to see you go,” I said honestly.

Nan sniffed a little. “You’ll have to let us know how it all works out.”

I shook my head. “I think you’re seeing that now. I’m out of ideas.” I looked up at Paul, but he was gone, which
was odd. This was the moment he’d usually give me a pep talk about how you can’t give up. Maybe even he thought we were beaten.

Nan and Morgan said their good-nights and went up to their room to pack. I looked over at Mom and Josh and shrugged. “I guess that’s it,” I said.

“I guess,” Mom agreed. “I’m sorry, Alison. If Larry”—she looked at Josh—“were able to hear me, I’d tell him I’m sorry, too.”

“I’m sure he knows, Mrs. Kerby,” Josh volunteered.

Or will, once you get home,
I thought.

She shot me a look that said, “Don’t let this one get away,” and patted him on the hand. “You call me, Loretta,” she said. Then she pulled on her coat and her backpack and walked to the door, saying she was tired. Josh stayed back, letting Mom and me have our moment. Then Mom added casually that, Jerry Rasmussen was coming to her house for brunch the next morning.

“Mom!” I exploded. “How could you not mention that until now? He’s a suspect in what might be a murder! He almost strangled me tonight!”

“I know,” Mom assured me, “but I don’t think he’s actually violent, just crazy like an artist.” She threw me a look. “Not a
good
artist.”

“Mom, Lawrence hasn’t come back to your house yet; he won’t even be there to protect you. What are you thinking?” I demanded.

Mom looked into my eyes. “I’m thinking I can help. Look. Maybe I can do a little detecting myself,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’ll text if there’s trouble.”

You can’t argue with Mom when she decides something. “Call,” I said. “By the time I figure out what your text means, Jerry could be out on parole.”

Mom laughed, as if I was kidding, bid Josh and me good-bye, and went out without so much as a look back. My head was clogged with thoughts, none of them good.

“She’s crazy,” I said, mostly to myself.

“Alone at last,” Josh said when Mom closed the door behind her, and I chuckled a little. Okay, maybe one of those thoughts was good.