An Uninvited Ghost by E.J. Copperman Read Free Book Online Page B

jokes. I don’t anymore.
    Jeannie managed to gather herself to the point that she could ask, “How did they pick your house?”
    “Well, the producer said there were two factors,” I told her. “First, I, um, had the space available for the next three weeks. They only need one room. And even that is just for show—the ‘boys and girls,’ as he calls them, will really be living in trailers parked behind my house.”
    “What was the other factor?” Jeannie asked.
    “Well, Trent said he’d asked around town, and people were talking about my house because of . . . you know . . .”
    Jeannie looked puzzled. “Because of what?”
    “Because of the ghosts.”
    Jeannie grinned and punched me on the shoulder. “So you put one over on them, too, huh?” Jeannie, despite the most obvious evidence a person could see, still absolutely refuses to believe in Paul and Maxie. Her husband, Tony Mandorisi, however, has interacted with the ghosts, and is now a true believer, even if he can’t see or hear them.
    “Mmm-hmm.” I punted. After a while, there’s no point in arguing with Jeannie—she’s a force of nature.
    “How’s it going to work?” she asked. It took me a moment to remember what she was talking about.
    “Once the papers are signed, the four ‘cast members’ show up about six tonight. With the full complement of guests from Senior Plus, I had just the one room open, and they’re setting up their operations in there, pretending the kids are living in it all together. The four of them move in after equipment is installed in the room—which the production company insists will cause no damage that they can’t repair when they move out. Then I guess this Trent guy figures out stuff for them to do and films it.”
    “And they can shoot it all in three weeks? That seems fast.” Jeannie wasn’t asking any questions I hadn’t asked Trent the night before, but when he gave the answers, they seemed more reasonable.
    “He says they want to air the show during the summer, when people would really be here on vacation. So they film hours and hours and hours of stuff, and then they edit it down.”
    “Why didn’t they start sooner?” Jeannie asked.
    “What temperature was it here two weeks ago?” I reminded her.
    “About fifty-five.”
    “A little chilly for the bikini scenes they so desperately need on the beach,” I explained.
    “These people need to show a little gumption if they want to make it in show business,” Jeannie said.
    “Gumption is not what they’ll be showing.”
    We walked up the steps to the police station and went inside. At the dispatcher’s station, I asked for Detective Anita McElone (that’s Mac-el-OAN-ee) and was asked to wait. Jeannie lowered herself into one of the molded plastic chairs (orange) in the waiting area, but I chose to stand. McElone was already considerably taller than me, and I didn’t want to give her an added advantage.
    Let’s just say our relationship, while not hostile, had hardly been friendly.
    After a few minutes she appeared in the doorway, straight and rigid, took a look at Jeannie and me waiting for her and let out an audible groan.
    “Whatever it is,” she said, “I don’t want any.”
    I reached into the canvas tote bag I substitute for a purse (I carry a lot of stuff, and support my local public radio station) and produced my wallet, which I opened. The private investigator license that had been issued to me by the state of New Jersey was prominently displayed therein.
    “I just have a couple of questions,” I said.
    “The Dunkin’ Donuts was out of Old Fashioned Cake this morning, so I knew it was going to be a bad day,” McElone deadpanned.
    “May we come in?” I asked, all professional and everything.
    “We?” the detective asked. “Is your pal a PI, too?”
    “I’m an expectant mother,” Jeannie piped up, standing. “You can’t expect me to stay out here with hardened criminals.”
    “There’s no one else here,” McElone