Ghost in the Wind by E.J. Copperman

Author:E.J. Copperman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2015-10-26T04:00:00+00:00

Fourteen

There was no more discussion that night. I did indeed break up the poker game, as it was after midnight and my daughter was in fact eleven. The rest of the guests went to bed almost immediately, as none of them was close to eleven and all were considerably more tired than Melissa. This is the logic of parenting.

Mom, realizing that I wanted no more talk about murder, music or old wounds, packed up her backpack, beckoned to my father and hit the road in her Dodge Viper. At the rate of speed she drives at night, the fifteen-minute trip to her house wouldn’t take much longer than a half hour.

I went upstairs when Melissa did and holed up in my bedroom. Vance was hopefully aware by now that barging in uninvited would be a serious problem for me, and Paul and Maxie certainly knew better.

Nobody dropped in on me and after some initial tossing and turning, fatigue won out, so I slept fairly well, except for the itching in the back of my throat. In the morning I’d definitely pick up that allergy medicine.

The next morning, I woke, got myself presentable, did some tidying for the guests and was ready for an assault-by-ghost just as Paul arrived in the kitchen; early, even for him. Maxie was a late sleeper and Vance, having been a rock star when he was alive, I figured could be counted on to stay out of circulation until noon at least.

“We should consider our position in this investigation,” Paul began.

I was getting urns of coffee and hot water for tea ready for the guests (I don’t serve meals, but I consider providing caffeine in the morning a basic nutrient), and looked up to see him tilting slightly to the left—Paul lists a little when he’s thinking hard—while floating half inside the fridge. Luckily, there was nothing in the fridge but some batteries, milk, a little cheese and assorted vegetables I’d have to assess for freshness (or the lack thereof) shortly.

“You’re not backing out on me again, are you?” I said as I braced myself to carry the coffee urn into the den and place it on the side table, the one where Paul does not attempt the tablecloth trick.

The urn was heavy, but I do this every morning and I’m used to it. I lugged it into the den, hovered it over the table and dropped it from an altitude of about an inch. It landed with a rather unsettling sound. Maybe “used to it” was overstating things.

“No, of course not. I’m saying that we need to evaluate where we are and what we should be doing.” The goatee wasn’t being stroked yet, but you knew it was only because he was holding himself back for later. One had to time one’s goatee stroking for maximum effect.

“So, where are we and what should we be doing?” There was something very soothing about letting Paul take the reins in the investigation. It would have been soothing, frankly, to let anyone other than me take the reins.

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