Inspector Specter Read Free Page A

spooks. So after a while I’d caved and sat for the private investigator’s exam, Maxie reluctantly signed up for the “spook shows,” the guests started coming and I forgot all about my PI license until Paul started insisting that I keep my end of the bargain and actually take cases.
    He can communicate with other spirits—I call it the Ghosternet—and he let it be known that “we” were open for business. So once in a while a ghost will ask him for help, and I have to go along for the ride if I want to keep my real business running. Which is also how I know Lieutenant McElone (who doesn’t respect my detecting skills much, and she’s right).
    Now I looked at Paul carefully. “You know, there are times when you overestimate the draw of your imaginary detective agency,” I told him. He frowned at the word
imaginary
, but I didn’t give him time to answer. “McElone is a detective herself, and a good one. She doesn’t need me—and as far as she knows, the whole ‘agency’ is me—to help her on an investigation. She has the Harbor Haven Police Department.”
    I opened a cupboard and took out two glasses. Melissa would have been impressed that I used the actual glass ones. When it’s just the two of us, we drink out of plastic cups I buy at the Acme. We’re a classy family.
    â€œNo, she doesn’t,” Paul countered. “Keep in mind, Detective Ferry was a member of the Seaside Heights department. Unless he was killed here in Harbor Haven, his case is not within the lieutenant’s jurisdiction.”
    I went to the fridge and got out the pitcher of lemonade (which, in the interest of full disclosure, Melissa had made, following a recipe her grandmother had given her; I’m either the world’s worst or the least-inspired cook, depending on whether you ask me or the my mother, who’s diplomatic to a fault) and walked to the counter.
    â€œI guarantee the cops in Seaside would be all over the murder of one of their own,” I told Paul. “Even if McElone wants to look into it herself, she has to trust them to handle it. There’s no reason to ask me.” I got a tray from the cabinet under the microwave oven.
    Paul raised an eyebrow and put his hands into the pockets of his jeans, a sign that he was getting stubborn about something. This was different from when he’s thinking, when he’ll feverishly stroke his goatee. You get to know someone when they inhabit your house, even if they died before you got there.
    â€œI’ll bet you that the lieutenant asks you for help when you go back out to the porch,” he said. “I’ll bet you I’m right.”
    I put the glasses and the pitcher on the tray and lifted it, heading for the kitchen door. (Perhaps it should be noted that this was a special favor for the lieutenant—the guesthouse is not a bed-and-breakfast, so even my guests don’t get more than a morning cup of coffee or tea out of me.) “Fine for you,” I said. “But it’s not like you can pay off when I win. What are you betting?”
    â€œIf I win the bet, we take the case for Lieutenant McElone,” he said.
    â€œAnd when
I
win?” We were almost to the front door.
    â€œ
If
you were to win, we turn down the next investigation we’re offered, and I won’t complain about it. How’s that?”
    â€œDouble or nothing,” I said.
    He looked puzzled. “Double or nothing?”
    â€œWhen I win the bet, I get to turn down the next
two
cases you cook up on the Ghosternet. Deal?”
    Paul didn’t even stop to think. “Deal.”
    I tilted my head toward the knob on the front door. “Do you mind?”
    Paul reached over and opened the door for me, which was a vast improvement over what he could do when I first met him (at the time, picking up a quarter was a chore requiring intense concentration). I thanked him quietly