Look For Me By Moonlight by Mary Downing Hahn

haunts Underhill.” Vincent’s voice was light, almost mocking, but I sensed a deep interest underlying his words.
    Dad and Susan both shook their heads, but I surprised myself by speaking up. “The cleaning woman, Mrs. Bigelow, says a girl who used to live here was murdered. She thinks her ghost haunts the inn.”
    I’d meant to impress Vincent, but Dad was the first to react. “No one ever told me anything about a murder,” he said, frowning as if he doubted my word.
    Ignoring Dad, Susan leaned toward me, worried and tense. “A girl was killed at Underhill, Cynda?”
    I glanced at Vincent. He seemed as eager as Susan to hear what I had to say. “She wasn’t killed in the inn itself,” I began, “but outside, probably on the cliffs.”
    Without giving Dad a chance to interrupt, I repeated the details quickly. “Her killer was never caught, never punished,” I concluded. “That’s why she haunts the inn. She can’t rest in peace till her death is avenged—and it never will be because the man who murdered her is dead himself now.”
    I glanced at Vincent. He was leaning back in his chair, lost in shadows. Only his hands caught the light, graceful and long-fingered. “Very interesting,” he murmured.
    Susan shuddered. “What an awful story, Cynda. Are you sure it’s true?”
    â€œTrue or not,” Dad mused, “it gives me an idea for my next novel. Inspector Marathon could take a vacation in an historic inn. He’d hear about an old murder and use modern techniques to solve the crime. No ghosts, of course, nothing supernatural.”
    â€œDidn’t Josephine Tey do something like that in one of her mysteries?” Susan asked. “If I remember correctly, a detective tries to prove Richard III couldn’t have killed the little princes in the tower.”
    Vincent smiled at Susan. “You’re thinking of
The Daughter of Time,
one of my personal favorites. Write a mystery half as good, Jeff, and your reputation will be made.”
    Dad beamed but Susan looked doubtful. “I’ve also read an Inspector Morse novel with a similar plot,” she said.
    â€œThere are only so many plots to work with,” Dad said. “Writers recycle them endlessly.”
    Before Dad could get started on this new subject, Vincent led the conversation back to the murdered girl. “Has anyone actually seen her ghost?”
    â€œThe only evidence we have is Mrs. Bigelow’s uncanny feeling that something watches her when she’s all alone,” Dad said, making a joke of the old woman’s fears.
    Vincent turned to me. “Do you believe Mrs. Bigelow, Cynda?”
    I hesitated. Vincent seemed genuinely interested, but I dreaded making a fool of myself in front of him. Without looking at anyone, I said, “When Mrs. Bigelow was telling me about the girl, I felt a sort of sad, listening silence, just as if someone was in the room with us, someone we couldn’t see. . . .”
    I stumbled to a stop, too embarrassed to go on. It was hard to put these vague feelings into words with Dad staring at me as if I’d lost my mind.
    â€œMrs. Bigelow must be a better storyteller than I realized,” he said. “She certainly put a spell on you with her talk of murder and restless spirits.”
    His teasing voice silenced me. Vowing to say no more, I watched the fire dance and leap on the hearth.
    â€œYou don’t believe in ghosts, Jeff,” Vincent said quietly.
    â€œAbsolutely not. When you die, you die, and that’s that.”
    â€œYou sound very certain.” Vincent sat back in his chair, giving no clue to his feelings, but I was sure my father’s attitude annoyed him as much as it did me.
    â€œI
am
certain.” Dad didn’t bother to disguise the irritation creeping into his voice. “Surely you’re too intelligent to put any credence in the tales of