Free Chance of a Ghost by E.J. Copperman Page B

lettuce and an apple.
    It was, as I said, better than usual. Yeah. I know. Would Sun Star Chinese Noodle deliver once the snow started falling?
    “I really didn’t think we were going to talk about this now, Paul,” I told him. “I’ve got to plan for my first major snowstorm with guests in the house. I have to deal with possible meals cooked here and activities for them if we can’t go outside tomorrow.” (Actually, I wasn’t that worried because I know how quickly this area digs out from even heavy snow and was fairly sure I wouldn’t have to do more than maybe cook breakfast, turning the place into a B and B for all of one morning.) “Can’t the crazy ghost who thinks he got fried by a toaster wait?”
    I wasn’t looking directly at Paul, but I got the impression—don’t ask me how; sometimes it’s an intuitive thing with the ghosts—that he stopped in what would be, for a living person, his tracks. “You don’t want to investigate this case?” he asked. “Your mother is concerned. She thinks your father is being held somewhere against his will.”
    “And I think she’s being a nut,” I countered, walking into the kitchen and heading directly for the refrigerator. “My father doesn’t show up to one of their clandestine little rendezvous and right away she buys the story of some mentally disturbed spirit—no offense—who tells her a goofystory. Give my dad a few days to come back, and you’ll see there’s nothing wrong.”
    “I don’t understand your attitude,” Paul said. “You don’t seem concerned about your father at all.”
    “I’m not,” I answered. “I’m sure he’s fine, wherever he is.”
    I walked to the silverware drawer, where we keep the take-out menus. I pulled out the one for Harbor Pizza, deciding that Chinese food wasn’t good blizzard fare. Calzones. Now that’s what you eat during a blizzard. I’d have to check the freezer for ice cream, too. You’re supposed to be cold in a blizzard, right?
    “This is about his not visiting you, isn’t it?” Paul asked.
    I slammed the drawer closed. “ No ,” I said with a little too much emphasis. “It’s not about my father’s not visiting me.” Definitely ice cream. With hot fudge. But no cherries. Maraschino cherries are an abomination.
    “I think it is. I think you’re angry at him for coming to see your mother once a week but never coming to see you. And I think that’s why you don’t want to discuss this case we’ve been hired to—”
    I pivoted to face Paul directly but had to crane my neck upward to do it. “We haven’t been hired to do anything!” I shouted. “ We can’t be hired to do anything! You’re dead, and I’m an innkeeper, not a private eye! This is a ridiculous pretend game we’re playing, and it’s almost gotten me killed more than once. I’m not doing it again; is that understood?”
    Paul’s eyes had widened at my first howl. “Alison,” he began.
    I cut him off. “Is. That. Understood?” I repeated.
    He pointed his finger at a spot behind me and then vanished. I spun to see where he’d been pointing, which, as it turned out, was the kitchen door.
    There stood Nan and Morgan Henderson. And they were not looking like they had complete confidence in the woman whose house they’d be sharing for the next several days,possibly with a great deal of snow prohibiting travel in the area.
    In fact, they looked downright alarmed. Nan had her hands gripping Morgan’s left arm, and her knuckles were a little whiter than I would have preferred. Morgan, for his part, had involuntarily bared his upper teeth in a snarl meant, I think, to keep the crazy lady at bay until reinforcements could be summoned.
    “I’m so sorry,” was the only thing I could think to say. The three of us stood there for a long moment. No doubt they were expecting a more detailed explanation for my behavior. I would have been happy to provide one. But let’s face it—I had nothing. I thanked my good luck I