Haunted Guest House Mystery 03-Old Haunts by E. J. Copperman Read Free Book Online Page A

looked at me. “You don’t believe me?” he asked.
    Snap back, Alison. The man doesn’t know Maxie’s here in the room with you. “Oh, I believe you, Luther,” I said. “But I’m still not the person you want investigating Big Bob’s murder. The police are really good at that sort of thing.”
    Luther stood up, as if being burdened by the chair was now far too limiting a condition for him. “The cops don’t care about some biker getting himself beat to death,” he said. “To them, it’s like a gang killing. One less biker to worry about. They’ll pay lip service to it, stuff it in the cold case file, and nothing will ever happen. I need someone who won’t give up on it.”
    Maxie nodded her head—yes, that was the way it would be.
    “That’s not me,” I argued to both of them, noting that Paul, standing a foot or so off the kitchen floor in one corner and stroking his goatee, wasn’t being any help. “I have to run this guesthouse. I have paying guests here.”
    “You’ve done it for people you barely knew,” Maxie said quietly.
    Luther didn’t react to her voice this time. “Just take a look,” he said. “Spend an afternoon on it. I’ll pay you.”
    Senior Plus had booked a number of rooms during the summer, and there had been some money when a low-budget reality-TV show called Down the Shore had shot its second season in the house, but my guesthouse was still far from being a gold mine. I had expenses, not the least of which was my mortgage on the house. I had to save for Melissa’s education. And The Swine’s child-support payments were, let’s say, sporadic. A paying job was not something I could turn down flat without a really good reason.
    “I’m afraid of violent people,” I told Luther (and by extension, Maxie). I thought that was a really good reason. “And I’m not interested in getting someone who has already killed a great big man mad at me. I don’t have that kind of dedication, Luther.” For some reason, Luther smiled at the words “great big man.” “You don’t want someone like me investigating a violent crime.”
    “I’m not asking you to catch them, just to find out,” he argued. “It happened two years ago. Whoever did it is probably long gone. But I need to know what happened. The man was a friend of mine. A good friend. Can you understand what it’s like to have someone like that just vanish?”
    It probably was unfair of me to think of The Swine, but I nodded.
    “Then certainly you can understand how I feel,” Luther said.
    “Maybe I do, but that doesn’t make me the right person for the job. I’m not a great investigator, Luther; I’ll tell you the truth. And if I take on this job for you, I’m more than likely to mess it up. It means too much to you to allow that. Don’t ask me.”
    Paul, who had raised his eyebrows at the phrase “not a great investigator,” shook his head and said, “You’re not being fair, Alison.”
    Luther’s voice was surprisingly gentle when he said, “But I am asking you. Please, Alison. Spend a day, an afternoon, and see what you can find out. If it’s nothing, then it’s nothing, and I’ll move on. But if there’s a chance I could know what happened to Big Bob, it’s worth taking.”
    “You have to,” Maxie said. She wasn’t looking at me. “You just have to.”
    “Do I have to say it again?” I asked. “I’m afraid, okay? I don’t want to do this. I’ve done things like it before, and I ended up terrified. I don’t want that again. Please.”
    I walked out of the kitchen and into the den—which I had converted from a dining room to discourage any thought of food being served here—where all five of my Senior Plus Tours guests were presently gathered.
    Mrs. Fischer and Mrs. Spassky were just heading out the door on their taffy expedition. Mr. and Mrs. Westen, who had insisted I call them Albert and Francie, were sitting on the sofa, reading. She had the latest Harlan Coben thriller, and he was