Bones Behind the Wheel_A Haunted Guesthouse Mystery by E. J. Copperman

Author:E. J. Copperman [Copperman, E. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 1683318870
Amazon: B07D2HHQ55
Publisher: Crooked Lane Books
Published: 2019-01-08T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 20

“Who was Herman Fitzsimmons?” I asked Maxie.

Maxie’s head was not in the room. In fact, all that was currently visible was her rear end and her legs. She was hovering on the den side of the bullet-ridden ceiling beam but hadn’t been able to resist sticking her head through the wall to get a better look at the work being done. When she heard my voice she withdrew and brought all of herself back to my side with a look of annoyance. I was getting used to seeing that look from just about everybody.

“What?”

“I said, who was Herman Fitzsimmons?”

McElone had taken her contact lens and gone, having refrained from gloating over knowing exactly what I’d known through the discovery of alternate eyewear. No doubt she thought she’d dodged a bullet in not coming into the house and vowed to herself not to come back if she didn’t have to, but I recognized the pattern of these things and figured I’d be lucky if I didn’t see the lieutenant again before lunch. Which was in roughly two hours.

Paul, flabbergasted at McElone’s ability to never not know something, recovered nicely from his disappointment and was here in the den with me and whatever percentage of Maxie was present. Lamenting that the rudimentary cell phone I’d given him for texting did not have a function that would allow him to store notes, he was going the old-fashioned way with a reporter’s notebook and a pencil. When you have a child in the sixth grade you have tons of pencils in the house because you used to have a child in the second grade.

Maxie had been summoned from the roof and had assumed I’d called her to discuss new designs for my kitchen, a subject I preferred to avoid until I was myself a ghost. She’d arrived with her sketchpad under the trench coat and not her laptop. Paul had insisted she go back and get the computer but she’d left the pad while she did. We were going to have The Conversation whether I liked it or not.

“Herman Fitzsimmons?” When she chooses to think of something else, Maxie is as easily distracted as a moth, assuming there is no flame present, in which case the moth will easily out-attention-span her.

“The man who died in the car back there,” I said, pointing vaguely toward the back of my house.

“They pretty much have the beam in place,” she reported, pointing at the kitchen door. “Another couple hours and it’ll be time to start making the place look like something.”

“Herman Fitzsimmons,” Paul reminded her.

Maxie emoted a deep sigh. Maxie can be as dramatic as Meryl Streep without the talent. “Fine,” she moaned, and floated down to the side table where her laptop had been placed before she began her reverie involving my ceiling. Her voice became a singsong drone like a second grader being asked to recite the times tables. They do that in second grade, right? “Herman Fitzsimmons was a car dealer in Matawan, but he didn’t sell Lincoln Continentals.

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