Haunted Guest House Mystery 03-Old Haunts by E. J. Copperman

her, stopping to wink one more time.
    Sighing heavily, I pulled myself up onto the counter and into a sitting position. From there, I could reach Megan’s computer screen, and turn it so it could be read. It took me perhaps thirty seconds to copy down the contact information for Julia MacKenzie on a notepad I had in my tote bag, turn the screen back, and hop down off the counter.
    I left the office before Megan returned, and only on the way out did I notice the security video camera over the door.
    It appeared to be unplugged. If only the place had sold Twinkies.

Nine

     
    I tried the phone number listed for Julia MacKenzie immediately, and found that it had been disconnected. This was not terribly surprising, seeing as how it was obtained through records that were at least two years old. But the residence address in Gilford Park would take me about forty minutes to reach, so would have to be left until the next day. I had to be back at the house for the pre-lunch spook show (Paul was adding a guitar played by an invisible ghost today, in addition to the usual flying objects and “spooky” noises made by Maxie with an old hacksaw I’d found in the basement). I knew I could count on Paul to perform for the guests in my absence, but Maxie was somewhat more…mercurial in her moods.
    Besides, I had to form a plan to investigate Big Bob’s murder, and on that, at least, I could consult the other licensed (if somewhat deceased) private detective in the house.
    I got back to the guesthouse at about ten. That left roughly an hour before the next “performance,” which was enough time to talk to Paul about a Big Bob plan and perhaps visit with my daughter, whom I had not seen outside the company of her father for days now, except when she was working at her “summer job,” which was cleaning some of the guest rooms and sweeping off the front porch, for which she was paid ten dollars an hour, far too high a price. But I was the idiot who’d negotiated the deal, so I couldn’t complain.
    As if she knew my wishes, Melissa was on the front porch when I pulled up in my prehistoric Volvo wagon, cranky in the summer weather so alien to its native Sweden. That was one reason it had no air conditioner, so I was fairly well drenched in sweat by the time I stopped the car and extricated myself from the driver’s seat.
    I had hung a glider on the front porch, because that’s what you do in front of an enormous Victorian built to look especially inviting during the warm-weather months. I had never seen one of the guests so much as consider sitting on the glider, but in theory, it was a good idea. Melissa sat on it now, not exactly swinging but making sure it stayed vaguely in motion.
    “What’s up, cookie?” I said by way of greeting. Okay, so I was being more chipper than usual, but I was locked in a battle for the soul of my child, and all bets were off.
    “Hi, Mom.” A voice that could race molasses and lose. The ten-year-old version of a subtle signal she was feeling sort of down.
    “What’s the matter?” I asked, sitting next to her on the glider but keeping my feet off the floor so it could continue to glide. “Did you just remember that school is a mere seven weeks away?”
    “No, but thanks for the reminder.”
    “Come on, spill. It’s the middle of the summer, you have your friends around and time on your hands, yet you’re sitting here looking like someone ran over your pet wildebeest. So what’s the problem?”
    It was going to be something Swine-related, I knew. And I would have to take great pains to react without anger. Melissa was testing me—Steven was the magical parent who would grant all wishes and never disagree, casting me as the evil witch who forced people to eat broccoli (I would have to do something with that broccoli tonight!) and refused to make things exactly the way they used to be, mostly because I actually remembered the way things used to be.
    “Why did you marry Dad?” she asked