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everyone in my family except me.
    “We’ll recap later,” Paul answered her before I could make a cutting remark, which had been my plan. “Just relax, Alison. I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”
    I let out a long breath. “You’re probably right. But I’m not going to let it alone.”
    He gave an enigmatic smile. “I wouldn’t expect you to,” he said.
    “Mom?” I heard Melissa call from the front room. A ten-year-old will never— never —come looking for you. Theyalways yell. Yes, even in a house with paying guests and two freeloading ghosts present at all times.
    “Game room,” I called back, trying to be a little less jarring with my tones. Melissa appeared a moment later with a puzzled expression on her face.
    “Hi,” she said to the gathering, then looked at me. “Did you know Grandma is here? Her car just pulled up.”
    My breath caught a little bit, and not just from a childhood reflex because I hadn’t made my bed that morning. “I just left her,” I said to no one in particular. “Is something wrong?” I headed for the front room.
    But my mother appeared in the doorway before I could get halfway there. She acknowledged the ghosts and hugged Melissa, but the expression on her face was strange, much like it had been at her house when she’d realized today was Tuesday—concerned and a little frightened.
    “Are you okay?” I asked her. Maxie leaned in a little. She really does love Mom.
    Mom’s eyebrows knitted. “Of course I’m okay.”
    I’m sure my eyebrows were now the spitting image of hers. (We do look sort of alike—she’s, you know, my mother.) “I was just at your house. What’s wrong?”
    “I’ve been keeping something from you,” she said.

Two

    “Your father?” Paul asked. “What makes you think it was your father?”
    Hovering over the pool table in my game room, Paul stroked his goatee, which I’d learned was a sign that he found what I’d said worth considering. It also made him look like a very transparent comparative lit professor from a small New England college instead of the ghost of a rather muscular Canadian PI, which is what he was.
    I’d told him about my conversation with Mom after checking in with the only two guests I was hosting this week, Nan and Morgan Henderson. The Hendersons, in their late fifties, were not part of a Senior Plus Tour, so they weren’t expecting any ghostly happenings, which meant that Paul and Maxie had a winter week off.
    “Anything you guys need?” I asked Nan, who had just come back from a walk on the beach, saying the cold weather was perfect for such things (Nan had grown up in Vermont and liked the cold; I’d grown up in New Jersey and wishedI’d grown up in Bermuda, so my sensibility was a little different).
    “Not so far,” she answered. “We’re looking forward to the snow, but I’m wondering what we’ll do about meals if we’re snowed in.” I don’t supply meals at the guesthouse—we’re not a bed and breakfast, nor a bed and any other meal. I do get my guests discounts at local restaurants in exchange for some accommodations (kickbacks) from the restaurateurs. Hey, it’s a business.
    “Usually, things don’t stay unplowed for more than a few hours,” I assured her. “But if we’re really stuck for a long time, I’ll provide meals. Don’t you worry, we won’t let you go hungry.” Knowing how well I cook, I was slightly terrified at the prospect, but it seemed really unlikely, so I moved on. “How was the walk on the beach?”
    “Oh, it was wonderful!” Nan gushed. “So bracing to be out there while the wind starts to kick up!”
    “Bracing,” Morgan echoed. He didn’t sound quite as enthusiastic.
    “I’m glad you’re having a good time,” I said.
    “A good time.” Morgan seemed incapable of forming his own words; he’d just hit highlights from whatever had just been said to him and put a sour spin on them.
    “You two should plan on getting some dinner in town tonight, and