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Authors: E.J. Copperman
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no. I’ve never actually seen one. But I’d love to, you know—it’s so exciting, the idea of people living on after what we call death. The idea has always fascinated me.”
“So you went to the Ocean Wharf Hotel looking for the pirate ghost?”
She waved a hand in disgust. “A pirate ghost. It was the silliest fake setup you’ve ever seen. A button on the floor to make moaning noises, can you imagine? And an empty pirate suit that they’d probably bought at a Halloween store. It was even rigged to swing a sword at me.”
“A sword!” Best to sound shocked. I didn’t want her to have any idea I’d heard the other side of the story—and that the ghost wasn’t the least bit fake (except for the pirate bit).
“Yes. It looked quite real, but it just swung over my head and went right into a wall. Knocked Tom right down, though. It didn’t touch him, but he was scared to death, the poor man. We left right after that. The thing stopped moving. Silly, really.”
Her story was even weirder than Scott’s, and he’d been dead since the nineteen thirties. “Who would have set up such an elaborate hoax?” I asked.
“Damned if I know,” Arlice said, shaking her head. “Kids, maybe. Someone with too much time on their hands. People need to spend more time trying to do good for others, if you ask me.”
The lemonade was almost gone. I stood up. “Well, thank you for your time, Arlice,” I said. “You’ve helped me quite a bit. My client will be pleased that you’re all right.”
Arlice gently lifted Marcus and put him on the floor of the porch as she stood up. “Go on home, now,” she said. “They like you up there, too, you know.” The cat did not look back as he ambled toward the larger house slightly up the hill.
“Yes, this mysterious client of yours, Alison.” She smiled, then stopped, looked more closely at me and snapped her fingers. “Alison Kerby! You’re the one who owns that new B and B everybody says is haunted!”
“It’s not a B and B. I don’t serve food,” I replied automatically. It’s practically a reflexive response at this point.
“But it is haunted?” Arlice asked. She sounded so hopeful.
“If you’re so interested in ghost stories, and you’ve heard all the nonsense they’re saying around town, how come you haven’t been by?” I asked her. All right, so it was a dodge. What’s wrong with a dodge when it’s used for the kindest of reasons?
“I’ve never been invited,” she said, looking me right in the eye with a dare.
“Well, I’ll tell you what,” I said, knowing I’d been hooked by a pro. “We’re going to have a séance tonight to see once and for all if the house is haunted.”
“Really!” Arlice waited. She knew if she was silent, I’d have to fill the space.
“Yes, but it’s only for invited guests,” I said.
She waited a while longer.
“So consider yourself invited,” I said.
Arlice clapped her hands. “I’ll be there with bells on,” she said.
“That could get awfully noisy,” I told her.
Six
“What the hell did you agree to?” Maxie’s arms were folded across her chest, obscuring her “Take a Picture, It Lasts Longer” T-shirt. “There are people crawling all over our house!”
To be fair, the cast and crew of Down the Shore did resemble an infestation of bugs at that moment. Lights were being set up in the main room. Young people in remarkably skimpy bathing suits were standing idly by, doing as much nothing as a person can do while remaining upright. And a few of my more awestruck senior citizen guests—minus Warren Balachik and Jim Bridges, who had weighed the advantages of a cold beer over their clear fascination with the production, and come down temporarily on the side of beer—were watching the nothing happen with something very closely approximating rapture.
The seniors in the house, by the way, had raved about the extra dimension to their vacation—or at least Jim and Warren had. When the two
“So you went to the Ocean Wharf Hotel looking for the pirate ghost?”
She waved a hand in disgust. “A pirate ghost. It was the silliest fake setup you’ve ever seen. A button on the floor to make moaning noises, can you imagine? And an empty pirate suit that they’d probably bought at a Halloween store. It was even rigged to swing a sword at me.”
“A sword!” Best to sound shocked. I didn’t want her to have any idea I’d heard the other side of the story—and that the ghost wasn’t the least bit fake (except for the pirate bit).
“Yes. It looked quite real, but it just swung over my head and went right into a wall. Knocked Tom right down, though. It didn’t touch him, but he was scared to death, the poor man. We left right after that. The thing stopped moving. Silly, really.”
Her story was even weirder than Scott’s, and he’d been dead since the nineteen thirties. “Who would have set up such an elaborate hoax?” I asked.
“Damned if I know,” Arlice said, shaking her head. “Kids, maybe. Someone with too much time on their hands. People need to spend more time trying to do good for others, if you ask me.”
The lemonade was almost gone. I stood up. “Well, thank you for your time, Arlice,” I said. “You’ve helped me quite a bit. My client will be pleased that you’re all right.”
Arlice gently lifted Marcus and put him on the floor of the porch as she stood up. “Go on home, now,” she said. “They like you up there, too, you know.” The cat did not look back as he ambled toward the larger house slightly up the hill.
“Yes, this mysterious client of yours, Alison.” She smiled, then stopped, looked more closely at me and snapped her fingers. “Alison Kerby! You’re the one who owns that new B and B everybody says is haunted!”
“It’s not a B and B. I don’t serve food,” I replied automatically. It’s practically a reflexive response at this point.
“But it is haunted?” Arlice asked. She sounded so hopeful.
“If you’re so interested in ghost stories, and you’ve heard all the nonsense they’re saying around town, how come you haven’t been by?” I asked her. All right, so it was a dodge. What’s wrong with a dodge when it’s used for the kindest of reasons?
“I’ve never been invited,” she said, looking me right in the eye with a dare.
“Well, I’ll tell you what,” I said, knowing I’d been hooked by a pro. “We’re going to have a séance tonight to see once and for all if the house is haunted.”
“Really!” Arlice waited. She knew if she was silent, I’d have to fill the space.
“Yes, but it’s only for invited guests,” I said.
She waited a while longer.
“So consider yourself invited,” I said.
Arlice clapped her hands. “I’ll be there with bells on,” she said.
“That could get awfully noisy,” I told her.
Six
“What the hell did you agree to?” Maxie’s arms were folded across her chest, obscuring her “Take a Picture, It Lasts Longer” T-shirt. “There are people crawling all over our house!”
To be fair, the cast and crew of Down the Shore did resemble an infestation of bugs at that moment. Lights were being set up in the main room. Young people in remarkably skimpy bathing suits were standing idly by, doing as much nothing as a person can do while remaining upright. And a few of my more awestruck senior citizen guests—minus Warren Balachik and Jim Bridges, who had weighed the advantages of a cold beer over their clear fascination with the production, and come down temporarily on the side of beer—were watching the nothing happen with something very closely approximating rapture.
The seniors in the house, by the way, had raved about the extra dimension to their vacation—or at least Jim and Warren had. When the two
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