The Thrill of the Haunt by E. J. Copperman

phase.” It’s hard to describe what the Jersey Shore looks like now, and worse, it’s getting harder to remember what it used to look like. The storm ripped through this area with a malicious vengeance, destroying people’s homes, their businesses, their lives. The storm pushed sand two feet deep on city streets, and water levels reached the second floor of some buildings. The Seaside Heights roller coaster, a staple for decades, had been entirely washed out to sea. We’re still trying to figure out how to bring the tourist trade back beyond the curiosity factor—some people have to see the state of the devastation.
    People are weird.
    “That’s not really what I was getting at, dear,” Libby said. “It’s not that I’m desperate for an amusement pier. This is a darling town, and I like it, don’t get me wrong. But,” she leaned over and said confidentially, “if it wasn’t for the ghosts, it would be just like home.” She winked. “I told someone in town today where I was staying, and she referred to you as the ghost lady.” Libby made a little chuckle. “I thought that was adorable, don’t you?”
    “Adorable isn’t the word,” I said, doing my best to maintain a smile. “Thanks for passing that along.” I resisted—with some difficulty—the impulse to find out who had been bandying the ghost-lady stuff around in Harbor Haven, but quickly came to the conclusion that it didn’t matter. It could have been anyone. Except Phyllis.
    “You’re not really going to let Cybill get rid of them, are you?” Libby asked. “The ghosts?”
    Oh, brother. “Is she saying that again?” I asked. “I’ve told her specifically it’s not something I want to happen here.” Note to self: Lock Cybill in her room. Too drastic?
    “She muttered something about you not understanding the danger,” Libby told me. “There isn’t any
real
danger, is there?”
    “Absolutely not,” I said, watching Maxie float from the library into the former game room without so much as a glance at me; she was irritated, which is her natural state. “Will you excuse me, please?” The number of people annoyed with me was growing, and I didn’t want to add Libby to the list.
    I walked past the as-yet-to-be-determined-purpose room, where I’d earlier conferred with Paul, albeit briefly, before he’d had to go rattle window dressings and “fly” Melissa around the room, which was harrowing for Melissa’s mother (that’s me) to watch every time he did it.
    “It sounds like the Sandheim case has a lot of possibilities,” Paul had said, pacing a couple of feet off the floor.
    “Possibilities?” I asked. “You want to turn it into a musical? What do you mean, possibilities?”
    “I mean there are a lot of different ways the investigation can go, a number of avenues we can pursue. That’s very promising.”
    “What avenues? The only thing I can think to do is get Maxie to find out about Everett’s family,” I admitted.
    Paul stopped pacing and hovered in the center of the room, which looked disturbingly empty. I hoped Tony would have some encouraging suggestions on a use for the place. This whole just-gut-it-and-see-what-happens strategy was now seeming quite ill-advised.
    “Take out your notepad,” Paul said, so I retrieved it from my tote bag. When he saw that I had, he continued, “First, you’re going to have to go to the scene of the crime.”
    “You want me to go to the men’s room at a gas station?” I asked.
    “There’s no substitute for on-site experience,” Paul said, repeating an axiom he’d beaten me over the head with before.
    “What am I looking for?” I didn’t want to think about what I’d find, even if there was no evidence of Everett’s murder in the restroom.
    “You’ll know when you find it,” Paul said.
    “You never wrote fortune cookies professionally, did you?”
    He ignored that remark, something he’s become extremely good at doing since we met, particularly when Maxie and I