It was a good question, and one that I hadn't been able to plan for in advance. But Maxie knew what to do: She flew to the small secretary I'd put in one corner, took out a pen and a pad of paper, and brought it back to the sofa.

Kitty looked with fascination as the pen, seemingly suspended in midair, wrote, "I'm here, Mommy." She ran her hand around the pen a couple of times, looking for hidden wires.

"That's Maxie's handwriting," she said. "She never could write very well in cursive." And she started to cry, but the tears were those of restoration rather than of sorrow.

Maxie ran her hand over her mother's cheek, and Kitty put her hand up to her face, having felt her daughter's presence. "Oh Maxie," she said. "My God, I've missed you."

"Me, too," came the reply, a little slower as Maxie worked on her penmanship.

"Are you okay?" Kitty asked, and I watched the pen move over the paper again.

I didn't stay to see the reply, but I heard some laughter from both of them as I walked out of the living room. I was going to head for the library, where I was still sorting some books for the shelves (I'd made sure they looked good for Spud, but they weren't properly categorized), but the doorbell rang again, and this time I was the one startled, because I wasn't expecting anyone else.

A little man of about seventy, dressed very nattily in an overcoat and a hat, stood on my doorstep and presented a business card identifying himself as Edmund Rance, representative of Senior Plus Tours.

"My company helps to provide its clients with special and unique accommodations, particularly on the New Jersey coast." (That was classy-everybody in New Jersey says "down the shore.") "We schedule as many as ten tours per season." Holy mackerel! That could put me on the map! "I have seen some online mentions of this house as a tourist accommodation during the spring and summer months, but I couldn't find your Web site," he said.

"Year-round accommodation," I corrected. "We're ready to accommodate people immediately, but the Web site is still under construction." After all, the photographs had just been taken today. I hadn't expected guests until April at the earliest, but I could certainly be flexible.

Rance's stern expression did not change. "May I come in and inspect the facility?" he asked. He took off his hat, an indication that a gentleman was entering the "facility."

I stood aside and gestured him in, and then I remembered the paranormal family reunion going on in my living room. How could I steer him away from such a central location?

"Would you prefer to tour the bedrooms first, Mr. Rance?" I asked, leading him away from the living room and toward the stairs.

"Any order is fine. But I do have one question, Ms. Kerby."

"Please, ask away." I'd given up the expression shoot on Halloween night.

"There have been rumors, both online and in the town of Harbor Haven, that undead spirits walk the halls of this house."

Oh, brother. I knew I shouldn't have let Maxie loose on those kids, and then let them all in to tear the place apart. They'd mouthed off to their tight-assed parents on Halloween. There went my ten tours a season.

"Oh, that's just silly, Mr. Rance," I told him. "People like to make up stories. There are no such things happening here."

But he looked disappointed. "There aren't?"

Now I didn't know what to say. "Um . . . no."

Rance put his hat back on. "Then I'm sorry to have wasted your time, Ms. Kerby," he said. "Thank you for your hospitality."

"Wait. I don't understand. You want a house with ghosts in it?"

He looked back at me, assessing. "Of course. Without some spectral experience, this is just a house by the beach, isn't it? If you don't mind my saying so."

"I don't mind at all." I turned away from Rance, considered the personal experience going on in the living room, and shouted, "Paul!"

After an experience (including a game of "keep the hat away from the distinguished old gentleman" that Paul wouldn't have been able to pull off even a week earlier) that convinced Rance there were, indeed, spirits on the premises, I got a promise of at least five tours of four people or more each for the spring season, and more if there were "paranormal encounters" that could be verified among the guests to bolster word of mouth. Paul nodded in my direction, and I told Rance I could guarantee such visits. Then Rance, given his hat back, smiled a very distinguished smile, almost bowed a little in the direction he imagined Paul to be, and got into a black sedan for his trip back to wherever he'd come from.

Paul and I decided to give Maxie and Kitty, who were still hooting it up with laughter on a regular basis in the living room, some privacy, and took a walk in the backyard. Taking a quick peek, I could see that Kitty looked fifteen years younger, and I was thrilled to have played a part in that.

Paul, a bemused smile on his face, kept looking at me as if trying to decide on the proper time for something.

"What?" I finally said to break the tension.

"I liked being a detective with you," he blurted out.

"Well, aside from the threats to my life and my daughter, I sort of liked it, too," I said. "You're good at what you do."

"I know," Paul said, and then smiled at his audacity. "I was thinking maybe we could continue doing it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Just every once in a while," he said, putting up his hands to slow things down, it seemed. "I'd like to take on the occasional case. To keep my mind occupied. You have no idea how dull being dead can become."

I thought about that. "I suppose not, but I'm not crazy about the danger."

"We'll only take safe cases, and only when you're not too busy. You would have to sit for an exam and get a private investigator's license, since we obviously can't use mine. But I can certainly help you with the test, and you don't have to investigate anything you don't want to. Okay?"

"Well . . ." I had to play this right.

"Well, what?" Paul was already wary.

"You need me to become a private investigator."

"Yes." He looked at me, waiting for the shoe to drop.

"I need you to supply *paranormal experiences' to tourists."

Paul smiled. "I don't know if I can convince Maxie."

"I think it's possible the problem with Maxie will be holding her back."

Paul smiled, and we walked a bit farther. Soon, we'd have to turn around, as Paul was about to reach his border.

"Meeting you has been an interesting experience," I told him. "Don't ever tell Maxie, but I'm almost glad she dropped a bucket on my head."

"I won't tell." A pause. "I was thinking our first . . . well, second investigation . . ."

"Another day, Paul," I said. "Another day."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

E. J. Copperman is a native New Jerseyan and an award-nominated screenwriter, mystery author, and freelance journalist who has written for the New York Times, Hollywood Scriptwriter, Writer's Digest, Entertainment Weekly and many other publications.

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