Ghost in the Wind by E.J. Copperman Page B

you used to be,” she said.
    There are small victories in life. You have to savor them.

Seven

    The sense of victory didn’t last long. One of the cops on McElone’s list had left to work in Paterson, a good hour to the north. The other told me exactly the same information that the lieutenant had. Nothing new.
    He didn’t know Lester, either. I was now asking everyone I met. The mental image of that forlorn ghost dragging an empty wagon and looking for Lester had gotten to me.
    And I sneezed again the second I walked back into the guesthouse. This was getting tedious.
    Before any of the guests could spot me (as my eyes got puffy and red), I made my way to my bathroom upstairs, opened the medicine cabinet and looked for the antihistamine.
    It wasn’t there. It had been so long since my last allergy attack that I’d forgotten to replenish my supply. Drag. Since I didn’t want to be sneezing and wheezing tonight or on Sunday, I would have to get back out to a drugstore and pickup the proper medication. But for now, a hot shower would clear out the sinuses and besides, I needed one.
    Before I did that, though, I did a quick round of the downstairs to make sure none of my guests needed anything. Just when I thought I’d gotten a free pass to the shower, I ran into Berthe Englund walking in from the beach into the den. The glass doors in the back open right into my backyard, which leads to my beach (which technically belongs to the town of Harbor Haven, which means I have to buy beach passes for myself, my daughter and my guests every summer to go out onto property right behind my house. Welcome to New Jersey).
    â€œAlison,” Berthe called as she walked in after wiping the sand off her feet. “Do you have a minute?”
    â€œSure, Berthe. How can I help?” The ancient rime of the innkeeper.
    Berthe, a larger woman with a friendly smile and a lovely island lilt to her speech, walked over and met me near the door from the den to the front room. “I missed the morning ghost show and I hear there was a wonderful musical performance. Is it going to be repeated this afternoon?”
    â€œYou’ll just have to come and see,” I said. The ancient rime of someone who really didn’t know the answer to the question.
    â€œI’m so sorry I missed it,” she said, shaking her head.
    Great. Now having Vance McTiernan play instrumental versions (as far as the guests could tell) of his greatest hits was going to become an expected feature of my spook shows. That would be amazing—if I could guarantee it would happen.
    â€œI’ll see what I can do,” I said. Maybe I’d ask Maxie to get Everett here as a backup should Paul, Vance or both decided not to play the gig.
    The gig?
Now I was talking like a musician.
    Berthe then asked me for a recommendation for a surf shop; it turned out that in her youth in Bermuda, she’d beenan accomplished surfer before relocating to Highland Park to be with her (now late) husband, a professor at Rutgers University. Berthe wanted to see if she could take up the sport again now after “an interval of some years.”
    I directed her to Cut Bait and Run, a local surf and deep sea fishing business that also sold athletic shoes. Ted Iacobuzio, who runs the place, was a few years behind me in high school, which is annoying. He’ll always be younger than me, no matter what.
    Berthe thanked me and headed to her room to change. I decided to do the same while I had the opportunity; the next spook show would be in about two hours and I had to see who would be in my lineup for the afternoon.
    I took the quickest shower in recorded history and had just managed to get myself fully clothed again when Vance McTiernan emerged through the floor and asked, “So is there any progress on finding Vanessa’s killer, love?”
    After a very deep and not necessarily voluntary breath, I gasped, “Vance! I asked you just