“I died, Loretta. It tends to change a man,” Jack reminded me now. “Are you heading over to Alison’s?”
I nodded. “Melissa wants to learn how to cook lasagna, and there’s something Alison wants to talk about,” I said. “She asked for you to come. I think she’s got a home improvement question. Josh is coming, too.” Josh Kaplan is Alison’s new boyfriend. She likes to ask them both about renovations to her house because Jack was a handyman when he was alive and Josh co-owns a paint store. But since Josh can’t see or hear Jack, it was best to get there early if Jack was going to be of any help. It saves so much explanation.
A hat appeared on Jack’s head; he never went outdoors without one. “Let’s go, then. You can tell me the story about that on the way.” He was outside before me, but then, I have to use doors and such. He can go through walls. Still, he’d meet me at the car, I knew, and want to open the door for me. Jack has always been a gentleman.
I went to the kitchen and packed up the fixings for lasagna—Alison wouldn’t have the ingredients in the house, I knew—and headed for the door, backpack over my right shoulder (the left has bursitis, and has been giving me a little trouble).
The idea—that Jack didn’t remember the search for the bracelet! I marveled. It was quite a story. How my husband could have forgotten it . . . well, but then, he wasn’t there when it happened.
Chapter 1
I knew something was wrong when the roast chicken started to walk out of the kitchen.
It was a Monday evening in late October, and my daughter, Alison, was outside the dining room nailing plywood over the windows of the old Victorian home that she’d turned into a guesthouse in Harbor Haven, a Jersey Shore town.
“They say it’s going to be a bad one,” she said from outside. It wasn’t a cold night, but the wind was already picking up. News 12 New Jersey had been going on about “FrankenStorm” all day, and their predictions had indeed been dire.
“I know,” I assured her. I had to shout a little through the kitchen door so Alison could hear me through the open dining room window. It wasn’t a terribly convenient system, but it was working so far. “You’re smart for preparing in advance.”
“That’s the only way you can prepare,” she assured me. That girl keeps me on my toes. “Preparing afterward doesn’t really work that well.”
I heard the hammering get nearer; Alison was working her way toward the kitchen, which she’d already boarded up because it is the closest to the backyard and therefore the beach, and that would be where the storm—if there was one—would no doubt hit the hardest.
Alison and my granddaughter, Melissa, (currently upstairs doing homework after an argument about how “there won’t be school tomorrow anyway,” Alison had told me) live in the guesthouse year-round. Because of the coming storm, all but one of her guests for this week had cancelled, which was understandable but unfortunate for her financially. I knew she was worried, but she wasn’t letting on.
The first ghosts that Alison was ever able to see were Paul Harrison and Maxine Malone. Maxine was actually the house’s previous owner, and Paul was the private investigator she’d hired to look into what unfortunately turned out to be very legitimate threats against her. After recovering from the shock of discovering their existence, my savvy daughter turned it into a marketing ploy when a tour company catering to senior citizens asked for a “haunted” destination for tourists who want more than a time at the beach. It’s a brilliant idea that Alison claims just fell into her lap, but she really doesn’t give herself enough credit.
However, Mr. McNamara—the lone guest who hadn’t cancelled—wasn’t there as part of a paranormal tour. He was what Alison called a “civilian guest,” one who was not sent by Senior Plus Tours and did not have a desire to see ghostly activity. I hadn’t met him yet, but everyone else in the house had told me he stayed in his room most of the time and in the two days he’d been there had barely spoken to either of the residents he was capable of seeing. He was, as much as anything in the house, a mystery.
“Mom, you should go home while you still have the chance,” Alison said. “It’s going to get dangerous to drive.” I live in Manalapan, about a half hour from Alison’s house, and I could certainly understand her concern. But I knew better.
“I thought I’d stay here until it’s over,” I said in as casual a tone as I could muster. If I kept my manner calm, I felt the response would be equally placid.
No such luck: The kitchen door flew open and Alison, wearing her tool apron and holding a hammer, appeared in the room. I hadn’t realized she could move that fast.
“You thought what?” she said. “Mom, you live farther inland. It’s going to be safer at your house. If I thought I could talk Liss into it, I’d ask you to take her to your place, but she’d just worry about me being back here.”
I went on with what I was doing, which was making a salad to go with the roast chicken that was in the oven as we spoke. Alison doesn’t cook very much, so when I come to visit, I like to bring some good home-cooked food. She’s so busy.
“I can be more help here,” I said, again with a very soft and natural tone. “At home, I’d just worry about you. This way, I can see that you and Melissa are all right.”
Before Alison could protest further, we both noticed a form descending from the ceiling. Maxine, a lovely young woman who passed away far too soon at the age of twenty-eight, was joining us, no doubt to see what all the noise was about.
Alison’s expression was less than pleased. She and Maxine pretend not to get along very well, but it’s probably because they’re very much alike: strong-willed and interested in home design. The chief difference, of course, is that Maxine is a ghost.
Maxine floated down from the ceiling, looking at Alison with a puzzled expression. “How come it’s so dark in here?” she asked.
Alison let out a breath through her teeth. “I’m boarding up the windows.”
Maxine wrinkled her brow. “Why?”
That seemed too much for Alison. “Maxie!” she shouted. “There’s a hurricane on the way!”
“So?” Maxine asked.
Alison rolled her eyes and headed back outside, hefting the hammer. The banging against the outside wall resumed a few seconds later.
“Thank you,” I told Maxine.
She smiled. “What for?”
“You interrupted an argument I was having with Alison, and so I win,” I informed her. The kitchen timer rang, and I checked on the chicken in the oven, which appeared to be done. I got a meat thermometer from the backpack I carry with me—Alison owns some cooking equipment, but I like to be prepared—and went back to check the temperature in the thigh.
“Cool,” Maxine said. “What was the argument about?” Maxine is a sweet girl, but she does think of herself as my favorite over Alison, and that’s simply not going to happen.
The thigh temperature was perfect at 160 degrees, so I turned the oven off and moved the chicken to an empty burner on the stove. Meat has to rest after cooking. “I told Alison I intended to stay to help out during the storm, and she wanted me to go home.”
Maxine pursed her lips. “I’m not sure you should stay,” she said after a moment. “You’d be safer at your place. I could come with you, if you want.” Maxie, who had developed the ability to leave the grounds of Alison’s house recently, loved to ride in the car.
“I’m not lonely,” I said. “I want to be helpful.”