An Open Spook (A Haunted Guesthouse Mystery) by E.J. Copperman Read Free Book Online Page A

Melissa. “Do you know what that means? ‘Nostalgia’?”
    Melissa didn’t look for signals from Alison that time and nodded. “It means thinking about something that happened in the past and how you miss that time,” she said.
    “That’s very good,” Mac responded. “You’re a smart girl.”
    Well, that was obvious, of course. But I held my breath a bit when my granddaughter pushed the question a little further, even as Paul hovered down to look more closely at Mac’s face. Paul says facial expression is important when interviewing subjects. “You’re not thinking about a war, are you, Mac? That’s not the kind of time you’d have nostalgia for, is it?”
    Alison looked a little concerned, and Paul said, “Easy, Melissa,” but Mac just smiled.
    “No, you’re right,” he answered. “A war is a very bad thing, and that’s why I spent years protesting it. I burned my draft card and refused to go fight a war I thought was immoral. Spent a few nights in jail for what they called illegal assembly and incitement to riot.” He seemed proud of that.
    “Did you go to Canada?” I asked, trying to buy time for Paul and Alison to think. “A lot of the war protestors ended up there to avoid being drafted.”
    Mac smiled strangely, like he was remembering something both funny and sad at the same time. “No. The fact is, I had a high draft lottery number, and they never actually called me up. The whole thing was crazy; just a product of the military industrial complex.” I knew that was true of my husband, Jack, too—the Selective Service System had set up a “lottery” based on birth date, and if you got a high number, you probably weren’t going to get drafted. He’d been lucky.
    Paul, Alison and I all looked at one another. There
had
to be a connection to Sergeant Elliot! But how to ask Mac?
    But then the guest looked a little concerned, and made eye contact with Alison. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Should I be more careful?” he asked, and his eyes darted toward Melissa.
    “Don’t worry about it. We’re open to all points of view here,” Alison answered, then looked at me. “Mom, I just realized the drip coffeemaker won’t be working and I’ll have to make coffee on the stove. Could you come into the kitchen and help me with that?”
    “Of course.” I stood and followed her into the kitchen, carrying a lit candle. I knew this was a ploy to get me away so we could talk about what was going on.
    Once inside the kitchen, though, Alison looked desperately at me. “How do you make coffee on the stove?” she asked.
    It was worse than I thought. My daughter actually didn’t know how to boil water. “When the power comes back on, I’m giving you cooking lessons,” I told her.
    “Not now, Mom . . .”
    “No, when the power comes back on. You need to learn.” I knew what she meant, but I wanted her to know I was serious.
    “Teach Liss, not me. There’s still hope for her.”
    I filled a teapot with water and put it on the stove, which I lit with a match from the top drawer next to the sink. “I’m teaching both of you,” I said firmly. Then I told her about the measuring cup, but neither of us could come up with a plausible explanation for its migration to Mac’s room. “We’ll ask Paul when we can,” I said.
    “What do you think the POW bracelet on Mac means?” I asked Alison just as Maxine was emerging through the wall from the den.
    “No clue,” Alison said. “That’s Paul’s department.”
    “Did anybody get a close look at the POW bracelet on Mac’s wrist?” I asked Maxine. “Whose name is on it? Was it Sergeant Elliot’s?”
    “I don’t think Melissa was able to see it, or at least she hasn’t said so yet,” Maxine reported. “And he’s been moving his hand around too much for me to see. I can ask Paul if you want.” Maxine is always so eager to help; it’s a wonder that Alison sometimes says she’s difficult.
    “It doesn’t make sense,” Alison said.