Haunted Guest House Mystery 03-Old Haunts (10 page)

I took a quick bow and handed the mic over to Melissa, who looked relieved and launched into “Say Hey (I Love You),” by Michael Franti and Spearhead. As I walked back into the “crowd,” a little abashed by my own lack of inhibition, Steven sidled up to me near the easy chair.

“See? Not such a bad thing,” he said, pointing at how Melissa was holding the audience in the palm of her hand.

“She’s a natural,” I answered.

“I didn’t mean Melissa,” my ex said. “I meant spending a little time together just having fun as a family.”

“A family of Mom, Dad, their daughter and several senior citizens?”

“It takes a village, Alison,” Steven said.

I didn’t answer for a while as I sorted out my emotions. “You know I wish I could believe that,” I told Steven. Before he could protest, I added, “All I can say is that you never showed this much interest in being Melissa’s father until your silicone-enhanced friend showed you the door.”

“She’s not…No. I’m not letting you take me there. Alison, did you know that I’ve been texting with Melissa at least twice a day for the last year?”

My daughter was just hitting the part in the song where she says that her momma told her “don’t lose you / ’cause the best luck I had was you.” And I absorbed what my ex-husband had just told me. “She never said anything to me,” I told him.

“That’s because she’s afraid you’d insist she have no contact with me,” he answered.

My mouth dropped open. “You know I would
never
—”

“I know,” Steven assured me. “But she’s ten. And she wants so badly for us to be all together again. Don’t we owe it to her to at least try?”

I felt the trap springing around me again. But this time, I shook it off. “Not yet,” I told him. “I don’t trust you yet. I’ve spent a long time convincing myself that what happened with us wasn’t my fault, Steven. I don’t want to look back at this moment someday and think, ‘That’s where I made my mistake.’”

Melissa ended her song and took a bow, bending her leg behind her like a pro. She held out the microphone and said loudly, “Who’s next?”

“You got any Tony Bennett on there?” Mrs. Fischer asked.

“Who’s Tony Bennett?” Melissa asked, and there was a groan among some of the older inhabitants of the room. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, honey,” Mrs. Fischer said, looking right in my direction. “It’s not
your
fault.”

“I’ll take the next turn,” Steven called, and he bounded over to where Melissa was holding out the mic. He took it from her hand like, well, Tony Bennett jumping on stage and launched into a version of “Stormy Weather.” The crowd, especially Lucy, were immediately taken by his charm. I was a little more practiced than that.

Melissa stood to one side of the area between the sofas, which had become the stage section of the room, and beamed at Steven. Maybe she really
did
want us to be a family again, but then, most children of divorce hope for that, according to the therapist I was seeing right after The Swine left for Los Angeles.

Mrs. Fischer wandered over to me as Steven charmed the crowd more with his attitude than any actual semblance of talent. She smiled a motherly smile at me and nodded her head in his direction.

“That’s quite a guy you used to be married to,” she said.

“Yes,” I agreed. “I just wish I knew what he was up to.”

Eight

“I haven’t been able to find out anything about Robert Benicio,” Phyllis Coates said.

I’d gotten up especially early the next morning (and I get up early every morning, so this was
early
) to visit the
Harbor Haven Chronicle
office, still bleary from the late-night karaoke festival (it had gone on until nearly eleven o’clock!), because Phyllis (who’s at her desk every day at six) knows everybody on the Jersey Shore and isn’t the least bit concerned about sharing information, especially if she thinks there’s a good story in it. And if we could get something on Big Bob’s murder, well, that would be perfect for the
Chronicle
.

“Nothing on the autopsy?” I asked.

“Well, the county cops aren’t exactly making it a priority,” she answered. “So far, it looks like a blow to the back of the head with a heavy object like a hammer or a vase or something. And it doesn’t sound like Big Bob was the vase type.”

“Don’t assume,” I told her. “I had a vegetarian biker over for dinner last night.”

Phyllis looked interested all of a sudden. “Oh really?” she said. “Going through your ‘dangerous man’ phase?”

I waved a hand. “Hardly. I told you about Luther. He’s my client, the one who wants me to find out about Big Bob’s murder.”

It’s so unattractive when a person smirks. Phyllis was being quite unattractive.

“What’s that face supposed to mean?” I asked.

“What face? This is my regular face.”

“Uh-huh.” I decided to move on. Phyllis, after all, was now a valuable source of information; it was time to utilize her. “You ever heard of a Julia MacKenzie?” I asked her.

She stopped and seemed to think for a long moment, then shook her head. “That one’s not ringing any bells,” she said.

Damn!

“But you know everybody.”

Phyllis smiled and put her hand on my shoulder. “I hate to have to tell you this, sweetie, but I’m not infallible.”

“All right then, you’re a good reporter and—”

She cut me off. “I’m a
great
reporter.”

“You’ll get no argument from me. So lend me your expertise—I’m looking for a woman who used to live in Gilford Park. Worked for CableCom and was working on a master’s degree at Monmouth. She doesn’t appear to have had an address, and she doesn’t have a phone number, at least not a landline, listed or unlisted. What’s my best bet?”

Phyllis scrutinized me closely. “What do you think your best bet is?” she asked. Sometimes talking with Phyllis can be like talking to a therapist. They’re supposed to help you, but all they do is make you come up with the answer yourself. It’s really annoying.

“I was thinking I’d go to Monmouth University, spread my alumna status around, and see if I could find some student records.”

Phyllis applauded quietly. “I have taught you well.”

“You haven’t taught me at all.”

“That’s what you think,” she said. “But keep in mind that the university will probably consider all student records confidential, since they are, and won’t want to tell you anything. What’s your recourse then?” She had the temerity to look amused.

“Um…I can flash my private-investigator’s license?”

Phyllis’s mouth flattened out in disappointment. “Yeah, that and a couple of bucks will get you on a bus to Atlantic Highlands. What else ya got?”

“I could turn on the charm. Flirt a little.”

She looked me up and down. “When did you become Angelina Jolie? Besides, suppose the clerk you encounter is a heterosexual woman or a gay man?”

“All right, Master Yoda. What’s your best strategy for such situations?”

Phyllis took a moment to consider. “I think maybe you need to figure this one out for yourself,” she said.

I had never considered frustration a physical sensation before. “Phyllis! This is no time for an object lesson! Help me! I can’t ask—”

“You can’t ask whom?” Phyllis said.

“I can’t ask you any nicer than that,” I said by way of recovery. To have told Phyllis that I couldn’t ask Paul this time would have raised questions about my house, my ghosts and my sanity. Phyllis and I have not discussed the ghost issue at 123 Seafront. She doesn’t like taking things on faith, and I don’t like her thinking I’m completely out of my mind. It’s a win-win.

She chewed her lower lip for a moment. “I’ll tell you this: People always like to help when they think it’s about
them
.”

When they think it’s about them? How could I make finding Julia MacKenzie’s student records about the person in charge of student records? Had Phyllis been taking classes in how to be inscrutable?

“That doesn’t help,” I told her.

“Yes, it does. Think about it.”

“That does it. Cancel my subscription to the
Chronicle
.” I headed for the door.

“No,” she said as I walked out.

The clerk at the provost’s office of Monmouth University was, in fact, a petite African American woman in her late twenties, who looked like she had received her baccalaureate degree from that institution roughly a half hour before I showed up to ask about Julia MacKenzie.

“May I see some ID, please?” she asked when I requested Julia’s student records.

I produced my PI license from the tote bag I use as a purse, and handed it over to the clerk. She looked at it very closely.

“Are you Ms. MacKenzie?” she asked. The woman was wearing a name tag that read “Miss Sharp,” which I could only assume was an ironic comment. I momentarily considered telling her I was in fact Julia MacKenzie, but I couldn’t imagine she’d believe I changed my name to Alison Kerby for professional reasons.

“No, I’m not. I’m conducting an investigation, and I need to contact Ms. MacKenzie. She’s not in any trouble, or anything; I promise.” I widened my eyes just a bit to look more innocent and trustworthy.

Miss Sharp did her best to look sad. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m not allowed to give out that kind of information except to the person herself.”

I couldn’t think of anything to do, so I didn’t do anything. I just stood there. It was sad, to tell the truth. I’d had the whole trip over here to come up with a strategy, and I had nothing.

“I really need that address,” I said. Yeah, that was going to work.

“I’m so sorry,” Miss Sharp repeated.

I stood there for a while longer.

“Really,” I urged.

“Sorry,” she answered.

I had to think of something before we got down to the single syllables “re” and “sor,” but nothing was coming to mind. Finally, I considered what Phyllis had said—make this about Miss Sharp, not about me. Hey, at this point, I’d have given bribery some serious thought if I had any money.

“Miss Sharp,” I began.

“Megan,” she offered. That was good. It personalized the exchange.

“Megan,” I said. “How long have you been out of college?”

“Me? Six years.” Wow. She looked younger.

“Did you go to Monmouth?” I asked her.

Megan smiled and shook her head. “No. I went to Brookdale.” The community college of Monmouth County.

“No kidding! So did I!” Okay, so that was an out-and-out lie, but this wasn’t about me—it was about
Megan
. “I know what that’s like,” I said.

“Yeah, but you were probably, like, twenty years ahead of me,” she said. More like ten, but I wasn’t in a position to press the point right now.

“Can I ask you a question?” I said, ignoring the fact that what I had just said was in fact a question itself. I leaned a little over the counter in an attempt to make Megan feel I was sharing something confidential. “Have you ever done something stupid because of a guy?”

Her lips sputtered. “
Have
I!” she said. “There was this one time I shoplifted a pack of Twinkies just because my boyfriend forgot his wallet in the car. Then I look up, and there’s this
security
video camera
right over my head! I almost had a heart attack!”

“Oh, I know that one,” I concurred, despite the fact that I had never so much as considered stealing anything in my life. “I smuggled a Swiss Army knife onto a plane once for my husband, just so he could open a can of beer with the opener.” Okay, so that was a complete fabrication, but The Swine had once asked me to sneak an extra large bottle of conditioner in my carry-on, and it had been confiscated by TSA guards.

“Wow. Guys can be real jerks.” I was pretty sure I had Megan where I wanted her.

“So, listen,” I said, practically whispering, despite there being no one else in the room. “I took this job just because my husband—ex-husband now—got himself into trouble and needs to find this Julia MacKenzie because she’s a perfect match for his bone marrow. And if I don’t find her right away…”

“No kidding!” Megan, despite the holes in that story through which one could fly the starship
Enterprise
, seemed genuinely concerned. “You’re doing this even though he’s not your husband anymore?”

“I wouldn’t want my little son to lose his daddy,” I said, changing Melissa’s gender out of a strong sense of superstition. “What happened between us wasn’t Timmy’s fault, was it?”

“Of
course
not!” Megan gushed. “But the rules say I can’t give you that information.”

Bureaucratic functionaries are exasperating, but predictable because they always tell you the rules have to be followed, no matter how stupid those rules might be. Luckily, they are generally so bound to the letter of the law that you can get around them with just a quick flick of civil disobedience so long as it appears to fall inside the lines. Or did that metaphor just get tangled up?

Observe: “Well, suppose you
don’t
give me the information,” I suggested. “Suppose you call up the information on your screen, and then you take, let’s say, a two-minute break.”