Read Online Haunted Guest House Mystery 03-Old Haunts by E. J. Copperman - Free Book Online

enough arrangement, but it has had some hairy moments. We don’t talk about those much. In fact, we don’t talk about anything much if we can help it. But my private-investigator’s license had gotten me in the door, and I figured if I was going to look into Big Bob’s death, talking to an actual cop might not be a bad place to start.
    “You have a client on this, or is that little B and B of yours not keeping you busy enough?” McElone likes to prod me, because she knows my guesthouse is not a bed and breakfast. I don’t serve breakfast, though I do provide coffee and directions to a local diner that gives my guests a discount. It’s win-win, really. No one wants to eat my cooking. Even the broccoli I bought yesterday and then totally ignored was well on its way to becoming compost.
    I was ready with a true answer, for once. “I have a client. Luther Mason, a friend of the deceased, wants me to find out what happened to Big Bob.” I’d called Luther and told him I’d changed my mind about the investigation, and he had agreed to (hell, he’d practically rejoiced over) paying me my “usual fee.” As if I had a usual fee. My first official client had been a ghost.
    McElone raised an eyebrow. “Big Bob?”
    “The victim, Robert Benicio. He and Luther used to ride together.”
    The eyebrow came down, and the eyelids dropped to half mast. “They used to ride together,” she repeated slowly.
    “On their hogs,” I said.
    I think the detective actually chuckled a bit. “So, out of the entire world of private detectives, an old biker pal of the victim decided to come to the owner of an adorable Victorian on the beach to find out who murdered his pal?”
    Well, that wasn’t very nice. “Yeah,” I said defiantly, or at least petulantly, pushing aside my own doubts. “You got a problem with that?”
    McElone ignored the question. “So how come ol’ Luther decided you’re the PI for him?”
    “How come you’re the one asking all the questions?”
    “Hey, I get paid whether I talk to you or not. I’ve got a B and E right here on my desk I could be looking into right now.” McElone was such a ham that she actually leaned back and laced her fingers behind her head. “So are you going to explain yourself, or am I going to try to find out who busted into an expensive house during tourist season and stole only a DVD player? Not even Blu-Ray?”
    I groaned, more inwardly than audibly, I like to think. “What was the question?”
    “What made Big Bob’s biker buddy decide to pick your name out of the Yellow Pages?”
    “He said he overheard a conversation between me and Phyllis Coates about my investigator’s license, and thought I’d be the right person for the job,” I told her. “He said it was kismet.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “What do you mean, ‘uh-huh’?”
    “Let’s say a friend of yours disappeared one day, and then resurfaced, literally, in Seaside Heights two years later with a great big bash in the back of the head. You hear some ladies on the street talking, and one of them says she has a PI license. Is that how you’d pick a person to discover the culprit and lay your friend’s memory to rest?” McElone’s point was not lost on me; I’d been asking myself the same question since Luther had approached me at the greengrocer. Which reminded me to make a mental note to do something with that broccoli tonight.
    “All right, there’s more, but you’re not going to like it,” I told her. I was being completely honest with the lieutenant. The next part of the story was not going to be her favorite.
    McElone could see it coming; her eyes took on a feral quality, and she sat back in her chair as if pushed. “This isn’t going to be another one of your ghost stories, is it?” she asked quietly.
    I nodded. “I’m afraid so. See, Big Bob was married—very briefly—to Maxie Malone. Now you’ll remember—”
    She cut me off. “Maxine Malone was the woman who owned the Victorian