Inspector Specter Read Free

the stories about the place, and I had recently installed a prominent sign, just to the left of the front door, that read proudly, “Haunted Guesthouse,” replacing a temporary one Melissa had made on poster board.
    But occasionally the odd—and some of them are
very
odd—tourist or a townsperson with an especially prickly nature makes a complaint at the police station about “weird goings-on” or “strange noises” emanating from the house. None of which is actually true, since the ghosts can’t be heard at all if you don’t have the ear for it.
    â€œDo you remember Martin Ferry?” McElone asked, out of nowhere.
    â€œDetective Ferry?” I asked. I remembered him as a sour-natured detective in Seaside Heights, who had once reluctantly shared some information with me. We hadn’t hit it off so much as we’d tolerated each other. “Wasn’t he your partner before you came here to Harbor Haven?”
    McElone nodded. Then she shuddered a little, bit her lip and looked like she was fighting tears. “He’s dead,” she said finally, forcing the words out.
    â€œOh, Lieutenant,” I said. I’ve never called McElone by her name, only her rank. We don’t have that kind of relationship. “I’m so sorry to hear it. Was it sudden?” I recalled Ferry as a middle-aged man with a prodigious belly; I wondered if his heart had given out.
    â€œVery sudden,” McElone answered. “Somebody shot him.”

Two

    â€œCome inside,” I said again to McElone. I was getting really hot out on the porch. “I promise nothing strange will happen.” I might have said that last part a little louder than was necessary; I wanted to emphasize it to Paul. I had to admit, the heat and the news of Ferry had me just a little off balance.
    â€œNo,” the lieutenant answered. “Really.”
    â€œAt least sit down,” I suggested. I have a glider on the front porch, and gestured toward it. McElone surveyed it up and down, as if trying to determine what these puny humans do on such things, but eventually sat down and let out a breath.
    â€œI’m going to get myself a glass of lemonade,” I told her. “Would you like one, Lieutenant?”
    McElone turned her head suddenly, as if she’d just realized I was there. “Yeah. Sure. Thank you.” This
was
serious; she wasn’t even being snide. Snide is McElone’s baseline attitude when I’m around.
    I opened the door again and let the cool, dry air envelop me as I walked into my supposedly terrifying house. Paul slipped through the door (and when I say
through the door
 . . .) and followed me, as I’d hoped he would.
    â€œWhy do you think she came here?” I asked him quietly. “She seems really shaken by what happened to him.”
    â€œI think it’s obvious,” the spook to my right answered. “She wants our help in finding Detective Ferry’s killer.”
    Paul, who’d been a fledgling private investigator when his life was cut short on his first solo case—guarding Maxie—and I had an arrangement: He and Maxie would help me guarantee an interactive experience for some of my guests (those who booked through Senior Plus Tours, looking for the “value-added” aspect of staying in a haunted house) if I helped him. As it turns out, eternity is a long time, and being a ghost stuck within my property lines was a little dull. Paul wanted to keep his hand in the investigation biz. He’d need “legs” outside the house on occasion. And since Melissa was (at the time) nine years old and Mom was not exactly as spry as she used to be, Paul chose me.
    Suffice it to say that while I was not completely thrilled at the prospect of working PI cases, I
was
thrilled with the idea of guaranteed guests for my business, which is what Senior Plus assured me they’d send if I could deliver the