Haunted Guest House Mystery 03-Old Haunts by E. J. Copperman

talk when Luther walked over to me and looked seriously down at my face. “You sure I can’t change your mind?” he asked.
    Steven’s eyes widened a bit. He was getting the wrong idea. Good.
    “Find someone better for you,” I answered. “I’m not the right one.”
    “I think you are,” Luther said. “And I don’t plan on giving up.”
    The Swine’s mouth dropped open.
    Luther, his point made, nodded at me, turned, and left, walking right past Steven and Melissa as he did. My daughter watched him go with a strange look on her face, then looked me in the eye and asked, “Who was that ?”
    “I’ll talk to you later,” I told her. “Steven, can I see you in the kitchen for a moment?”
    Before The Swine could respond, however, Paul rose up through the floorboards to stand directly in front of me. “We need to talk,” he said. That wasn’t ever a good thing. Both his look and his tone communicated some urgency, and that was even worse. Paul wasn’t going to be dissuaded.
    “Certainly,” my ex-husband said, and started to head for the kitchen.
    “Not now ,” I told him. “I meant later, at dinner tonight.”
    A conspiratorial twinkle appeared in my ex-husband’s eyes. “You’re inviting me to dinner?” he asked.
    “Strictly business,” I told him.
    Melissa had heard Paul, and knew her father shouldn’t find out about our two less-than-alive tenants, so she jumped in, a sneaky trait she did not get from my DNA. “Come on, Daddy,” she reiterated. “I want you to see how the tiger looks in my room.” She took Steven by the hand and led him, looking bewildered, toward the stairs.
    A little late, but a small increase in allowance would be a possibility.
    “Now,” Paul said, as if I hadn’t gotten the message the first time.
    I looked at the assembled guests, whose level of intrigue ranged from rapt attention with an expression of salacious anticipation (Francie) to complete and utter disinterest (Albert). The two sisters, in their eighties and self-assured, were watching, but discreetly, as they quietly began discussing their taffy-shopping plans. Mrs. Fischer and Mrs. Spassky had class. Don Petrone merely looked dapper and said nothing.
    “I’ll be in the attic if anyone needs me,” I said to the room.
    “Where will you be if we don’t need you?” Albert asked. The man was a laff riot.
    I chuckled. “That’s very funny, Albert.” Yeah, I’m a businesswoman.
    Paul rose through the room and vanished into the ceiling. This was his subtle signal that I should get my butt up to the attic pronto. Seeing little choice, I did exactly that.
    Once I made it all the way upstairs, thinking all the way that moving my daughter up this many flights might not be a great idea after all, I found both Paul and Maxie waiting to ambush me in my own attic. So I decided, having anticipated this gambit, to do a little work on the construction site at the same time. I think better when I’m doing something with my hands.
    “Let’s cut to the chase,” I said. “I know what you’re going to say, and you know what I’m going to say.”
    “I doubt it,” Paul said.
    Maxie was hovering near the window, where the light coming in made her harder to see, and she sounded uncharacteristically soft and airy, to go with her appearance. “Is there something I can get you, Alison?” she asked.
    I had to squint to make sure it was really Maxie over there; she almost never called me by name.
    I turned from the wall I was sizing up and looked at her. “Yeah, a house with no ghosts in it,” I suggested.
    Maxie didn’t even pick up on the comment, which had sounded more harsh than I’d meant it. “I mean, like a bottle of water, or some sandpaper, or something?”
    “Okay, what exactly is the scam you’re trying to pull, Maxie?”
    Her voice took on a slight edge, but it was obvious she was trying to control it. “I’m just trying to be accommodating ,” she said.
    So that was it—Maxie wanted to show off