Haunted Guest House Mystery 03-Old Haunts (33 page)

Maxie rolled her eyes and vanished again, so Paul and I looked at each other. “You know, being in this house with the two of you isn’t always a wonderful dream,” he said. “I need a break.” And he rose up through the ceiling as if he was on a platform.

Ghosts. A bunch of ungrateful little babies, if you ask me.

Fortunately, two floors below the doorbell was ringing, and that could only mean one thing after such a short period of time—Luther was serious about getting that second kiss.

Sure enough, when I reached the front door, he was standing there, just a little spruced up from his usual out-of-the-office appearance: He was wearing the black leather vest he rode in, and had on clean jeans and a pair of boots that matched the vest. Even his mustache looked groomed and prepared. Luther was ready.

I wondered if I was, too.

“That was quick,” I said.

“Well, I was given an incentive,” he answered. “Can I come in?”

I stepped aside, and Luther walked into the foyer so I could close the door to keep in some of the cooler air. He grinned a very ingratiating grin at me. “How should we start?” he asked.

“Well, let’s talk about Big Bob and work our way up,” I suggested. “Business before—”

“Gotcha,” Luther said. “You’re still on the clock, aren’t you?”

We went into the front room and sat, alone, as the sun did its best to stay in the sky as long as possible, but for the past three weeks, it had been losing just a little bit each night.

“Did you get Rocco’s address?” I asked him.

“I did. Now, what should we do with it?”

“Here’s the thing,” I said. “I just don’t get Rocco killing Big Bob.”

“No, you’re right,” Luther said. “I’ve been thinking about it since you told me Wilson said that, and it just doesn’t add up. There’s nothing that says Rocco was even involved in the cocaine deal. So is Wilson going only on a guess?”

I considered what he’d said. “Yeah. Wilson…Well, Wilson isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, is he?” Actually, Wilson wasn’t erudite, but he was pretty good at self-preservation, if nothing else. I wanted to see if Luther agreed.

He chuckled a bit. “No, but Big Bob always liked him. He said Wilson had potential, but nobody could see it. That was exactly the kind of thing Big Bob would say.”

It was funny: I’d never met Big Bob Benicio, and hadn’t even heard of him until he’d been dead for two years. But after talking to everyone I could find who had been part of his life, I felt like I knew him a little. And it was starting to really annoy me that someone had killed him.

“He was quite a guy, wasn’t he?” I asked.

Luther’s head rolled back a little as he remembered. “He sure was. Bob and I were about the same age, but I always felt like he was sort of a little brother. I met him when we were just about twenty-two or twenty-three, and we just saw the world the same way. It hurts when someone like that gets taken away from you.”

“So, gut feeling: Who do you think killed Big Bob?”

His nostalgic smile went away. Luther looked away from me and made a face that indicated he’d been over this subject a million times in his mind and still couldn’t put it to rest. “If I had to guess right now, I’d say it was somebody we haven’t thought of yet. Someone who really needed to get that cocaine and really didn’t care what he had to do to get it.”

That was the moment my stomach dropped. I stood up and started toward the den, which is the largest room in the house. Someone must be in there.

“What’s wrong, Alison?” Luther said. He stood up behind me. “Are you okay?”

I kept walking and made it to the archway between the two rooms. “Yeah, I’m all right,” I said. “I just felt the need for some more air.”

“Alison.” There was something in his voice.

I turned around. Luther’s eyes were cold and narrow, but his grin remained friendly and flirtatious.

“What gave me away?” he asked.

Thirty

I retreated quickly into the den, where I’d expected to see Don and Lucy, if no one else, but the room was empty, probably for the first time in a week. My luck.

So I reached for the number-one source of security and access in the twenty-first century, my cell phone, before realizing I’d left it on the dresser in my bedroom before going up to see Paul in the attic.

So far, this was not turning out to be my evening.

Luther didn’t rush to follow me; he seemed preternaturally calm as he walked into the den. “Seriously, what was it that tipped you off?” he asked, his voice as casual as if asking for a glass of water.

But he was holding a tire iron in his right hand. And I wasn’t sure where that had come from.

“You mentioned the cocaine deal. Twice,” I said. “You didn’t know about that.”

He knit his brow. “Sure I did. You told me about it at least a couple of times.”

I shook my head, still backing up and hoping to make it to the French doors, or at least to stall until somebody—anybody—walked into the room. Except Melissa. “No. I said ‘drug deal.’ You went straight to cocaine. You couldn’t have known that from what I’d told you. It could have been meth; it could have been weed. What happened with that deal? Why didn’t you deliver the drugs?”

Luther’s face twisted at the mention of his former accomplice. “I wasn’t ever going to give that stuff to someone else to sell,” he sneered. “He came up with buyers for three million, and I sold the drugs—sorry, the
cocaine
—all by myself for five.”

“And that’s how you got the money for your little ‘bike shop,’ wasn’t it, Luther? You didn’t inherit any money from your mother.” Under my breath, as quietly as I could, I started saying Paul’s name. Sometimes, he responds to that. Depending on where he might be on the property and what kind of mood he’s in. Now I’d annoyed him to the point that he was probably at the far end of the backyard and unable to hear me unless I screamed. Even Paul couldn’t get back fast enough to stop Luther from getting violent at that distance.

There was, of course, no response. And all I could think was,
Even if I get out of this alive, I’ll bet Steven sues for custody of our daughter.

The Swine.

“My mother died when I was fifteen,” he said, walking forward just as slowly as I was backing up. “She left me no source of income and bills totaling thirteen hundred dollars.”

Someone had to be around to hear my cries, if I screamed. But the guests were generally not physically equipped to take on Luther—I was probably a better bet than any of them—and both ghosts appeared to have evacuated for the time being.

Wait, though: Tony was upstairs, all contractor muscle and sinew, working on his secret attic-access project. He was a floor up and all the way on the other side of the house, but if I made enough noise, it might be possible to attract his attention. Again, speed was going to be a problem. Any help was at least six rooms away, while Luther was only a few strides from tire-iron distance.

And it was so damn quiet.

“How did you become a killer?” I asked Luther. Keep him talking, and he might not remember to kill me. “Big Bob didn’t care if he got the money or not.”

“What Big Bob cared about was irrelevant,” Luther said. “
Wilson
cared. He needed the money, but Big Bob was all broody about the whole thing for days, telling me we should give back the coke—can you imagine? I come across this huge stash of cocaine from a friend who stole it, sold a big chunk of it, and skipped to Argentina. I’m sitting on dynamite, ready to change everybody’s life forever, and there’s Big Bob actually suggesting we should call the cops! Then I realized I could have all the money from the drugs for myself. Why have partners who can talk?” He hefted the tire iron and picked up his pace a little.

I froze for a moment. If only I could alert someone…

Just a few feet away, to one side of the sofa, there was a chance. But I had to distract Luther. “There were other things that gave you away, you know,” I said. That seemed to matter to him.

He looked genuinely surprised, and stopped. Good. “What?” he asked, all innocence.

“The time you came to pick me up on your bike,” I said. “When I came out of the house, you were working on those bolts with a pair of pliers.”

I inched my way toward the sofa as Luther said, “I told you those were custom bolts. That was true. No regular wrench would accommodate them.”

“No, but an
adjustable
wrench would,” I pointed out as I reached behind me in a move I hoped was subtle and unnoticeable. “And I now realize that it was weird you didn’t have one in your kit. But of course, you had already used your adjustable wrench to kill Big Bob, and now it was sitting in Kitty Malone’s basement to better frame her. You went to see Kitty just before you came to Harbor Haven and met me. Did you call the cops from a pay phone on the way to the
Chronicle
office?”

My hand found its target, and hit a switch. It would take a moment or two to warm up, but if I lasted that long, I might have a chance.

Luther sneered a little and shook his head. “This is the information age, Alison,” he said. “I sent them a text from a prepaid phone before I came here the day you and I had our picnic. And they bought it—hook, line and sinker.”

“But you went to the Seaside Heights cops and talked to Detective Ferry about nobody doing anything with the Big Bob investigation,” I pointed out. “And you bailed Kitty out of jail. That seems counterproductive.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Luther answered. “Nobody was going to suspect me after I did that, were they?” He grinned. It wasn’t that attractive anymore. “Even if I lost the hundred grand, she’d just look even guiltier, and it wouldn’t occur to the cops to look at me as the killer. A good business investment,” he said.

Oops. “Why Kitty?” I asked him. “Why frame her? What did you have against her?”

“She was convenient. Once the police ID’d the remains as Big Bob and said he was murdered, someone had to take the rap, and she’d been vocal about not liking Big Bob. I just had to move the wrench out of my toolkit and into her basement.”

“And all the time
you
were the murderer,” I said.

“You make it sound so dramatic. It’s not a profession you pick up. I hit a guy with a heavy wrench, and I killed him. I’m glad I did it, but I’d never done it before, or since. Until now.”

He made a quick move forward, and I had to take my chance whether enough time had gone by or not. With my left hand, I grabbed the microphone from a stool next to the sofa and gave full voice to the power of the karaoke machine amplifier.

As “Time in a Bottle” began to play, I substituted my own lyrics: “Help! Anybody! I’m in trouble! In the den! Help me! Luther Mason killed a man! He’s trying to kill me!” Okay, so it didn’t rhyme, but I hoped I’d gotten the point across.

And for a second, I thought it had worked: I saw the outline of a transparent face poke through the ceiling, but it pulled back as quickly as it had materialized, if it had really been there at all.

“That was stupid!” Luther growled, and he lunged forward to grab the hand that held the mic. Even as he yanked it away and turned it off, I kept shouting for help. But it didn’t seem like anyone would get there in time.

Well, he wasn’t getting me without a fight. I ducked down to avoid any blow from the tire iron (which was not yet coming), and kicked at his shins with as much power as my sandaled feet could muster, which wasn’t much. Luther stumbled, but otherwise there didn’t seem to be much effect. Still, at this point, I was all about keeping him at bay for as long as possible until someone could walk in. Anyone except Melissa.

I saw a face at the entrance to the den, and for a second held out hope again. Until I recognized the face as Francie Weston’s. Francie was in her seventies and not going to win any track meets or boxing matches anytime soon. Though she
could
dial a cell phone.

“Call nine-one-one!” I yelled.

“He’s not a ghost,” Francie sniffed. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

Some people are impossible even when you’re trying to get them to save your life.

“I’m not pretending he’s a ghost!” I yelled as Luther turned to regard Francie. I saw his eyes estimate the distance between them. He was trying to figure out if he could reach her after I was dead. “He’s a killer! He killed Big Bob! Run!”

Luther got a funny smile on his face. It wasn’t attractive.

“Who’s Big Bob?” Francie wanted to know.

Luther turned his attention back toward me, and grabbed my flailing arms and held them. I knew he’d have to let go with at least one to hit me, so I relaxed, trying to distract him from his task.

“Why did you even bother getting me involved?” I asked him.

“I dropped the wrench off in Kitty Malone’s basement when she was going to get us some lemonade and sandwiches in her kitchen. And I talked to the cops in Seaside Heights. But I needed eyes and ears. I came to Harbor Haven because Maxie used to live here. Figured she might have had a friend or two I could exploit, get someone to go to the cops so I could find out how much they knew. Kitty didn’t have any names, but she mentioned you lived in the house now. So I went to the newspaper office to see the story about her murder, see if any friends were quoted. Somebody not associated with me or the biker bar. The office wasn’t open when I got there, but then I got really lucky, heard you talking about being a PI and how you were interested in Big Bob—it was perfect,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d actually figure it out.” And for a moment, his expression softened. “I’m really sorry, Alison.”