Chapter 1. From ghosties and ghoulies and long leggity beasties Something evil stalks Commercial Street on a festive Halloween night

From ghosties and ghoulies and long leggity beasties…Something evil stalks Commercial Street on a festive Halloween night. Private investigator Alex Peres, however, has her mind focused on fun and perhaps romance. Only in the cold light of morning does word spread of a gay man’s murder. Worse yet, the guilty perpetrators could be one of their own. …And things that go boomp in the night…Beset with her own worries, Alex trusts local law enforcement to investigate. They are, after all, the professionals. But when the detective-in-charge turns his attention to Alex’s friends, she agrees, reluctantly, to do a little poking around of her own. It doesn’t take her long to find more questions than answers. …Mae the guid Lord protect us! Greed, passion, hatred, fear: which human failing explains the crime? Just as matters begin to make sense, a second killing in the night sends Alex spinning in unexpected directions. Her own topsy-turvy affairs don’t help. If she doesn’t think fast, she may not be able to save a third victim: herself.

Chapter 1

“From ghosties and ghoulies,

And long leggity beasties,

And things that go boomp

In the night..

Mae the guid Lord protect us.”

I recited the medieval prayer with great feeling and gestures, watching my partner out of the corner of my eye. “You’d better pay attention to that prayer, partner. Halloween is only two days away. Times are getting parlous.”

He stirred slightly and blinked one expressive brown eye, just to let me know he was awake and listening but unimpressed by my warning of supernatural activities.

“There could be witches and black cats riding on broomsticks, ” I added. He grinned to show strong white teeth and closed his eyes again. Nothing much frightened my partner.

I continued my dressing routine as he lay on the bed. Getting dressed involved more than the usual thought today. I had an appointment with the senior vice-president of the bank and thought it might be wise to look the part of a solid citizen, especially since I didn’t know what the meeting was about. Yesterday the vice-president’s secretary had called and asked if I could make a two o’clock appointment with her boss, Mr. Ellis. I said Sure, why? She said she didn’t know, she had merely been asked to make the date. I was curious. I didn’t think I had an overdraft and doubted Ellis would know or really care if I did.

I had, however, applied for a home improvement loan the week prior. My roof had molted a bunch of shingles in the last storm and I knew the time was nigh for repairs. I figured while they had the roof off, it might be time to add that “master suite” the contractor had been suggesting. While no work would be done till spring, I had approached the bank to find out what I could spend and had not yet heard from them.

Still, I saw no reason why someone of Ellis’s exalted rank should be involved in that either. But I would visit those august halls and find out.

Even as a child I had been fascinated by the big old bank, and my mother had sometimes entertained me with stories of its history. It had been established in Provincetown, Massachusetts, in the early 1800s and called itself the jaw-breaking Fishermen’s, Widows’ and Orphans’ Savings and Loan Association Bank and Trust. An enterprising Boston businessman had secured a banking charter, and sent his younger son across the bay to set up the bank and run it.

Jericho Ellis had proven perfect for his assigned mission. A plump, friendly young man, he loved to stroll Provincetown’s streets and waterfront and engage in pleasant conversation. He never forgot a name or a face, he was honest and he was shrewd. He soon discovered that the Portuguese baker’s daughter was as sweet and warm as the rolls she sold, and he got her into bed the only way he could—he married her, although I don’t believe my mom had phrased it quite that way. Thus cementing Provincetown’s English and Portuguese populations, he could but prosper. The young Ellises’ mutual pleasures produced enough heirs and spares to guarantee a succession of officers at the bank, and a series of sons and sons-in-law and nephews appeared on schedule over the years to run it. It remained a private family business up to the present, with no attempt to open a lot of branches and snappy refusals for offers to merge. Even in these days of 800 numbers and fax numbers and electronic requests to Press 1 now —the Bank still knew its customers well enough for loans and mortgages to be issued more on personal information than collateral and credit ratings.

As time passed, the name reduced itself to a more easily handled Fishermen’s Bank. Now that the fishermen themselves, thanks to various quotas and shortages, were an endangered species, I wondered if the name would be reduced to a minimalist’s delight: Bank. I hoped not.

The current building for Fishermen’s Bank had been erected in the late 19th century and was probably the most impressive edifice Provincetown could boast, if you didn’t count the rococo phallic symbol of the Pilgrim’s Monument. The bank was located in the East End, in what had been suburbs when it was erected. In addition to the imposing building itself, there had been world enough and time in those days to include a pocket park with a couple of now-large oaks and a small fountain with pond, with nearby benches for those who wished to rejoice over or recover from their recent banking activities. Much of the park had later been paved to accommodate those newfangled motor cars, but the fountain and trees and a patch of grass remained to give the illusion of space and serenity, although the benches were now usually occupied by footsore tourists.

I loved the bank with its massive granite exterior and heavy doors, its polished marble floors and interior supports, the gleaming real brass tellers’ grilles, the thick vault door that stood open all day—reassuring you that the bank was well and truly solvent.

Somewhere in there, I was sure, lay bags of old English shillings and Portuguese escudos.

I liked the way that voices seemed hushed in the high expanse, as if only important business was to be discussed, and soberly so, in those noble environs. After all, the business of a bank, whether yours or theirs, was money. I liked the fact that it took itself seriously and required that you do, also—unlike most of today’s banks, where you feel you could be in the waiting room of an upscale car wash. Finally, I was ready to keep my appointment. I added a raincoat to my nifty ensemble—the morning mist had lifted, but it was still cloudy. While the forecast had not called for rain, I decided to drive, just in case. I didn’t want to arrive looking like a misplaced muskrat.

When I picked up the car keys, my partner jumped off the bed and went into his act. My partner is Fargo, my best friend and the absolute love of my life: a large black Labrador retriever with a heart the size of New Jersey, a beautiful deep bell of a bark and a talent for acting that would put him up there with Olivier and Branagh in any match.

He began by nudging my hand that held the keys and wagging his tail in a frantic sweep, then he moved to stand between me and the door. Finally, he lay down in front of it, head between paws, eyes rolled sadly back, whimpering. My “Oh, come on, ” as I opened the door brought him scrambling to his feet and running for the car.

Traffic was light as I circled to go down Bradford Street, partly due to the weather, but also the month. October was transitional in Provincetown. Most stores were still open, but merchandise was thin. Restaurants were cutting back on hours and help. The larger motels were closing off rooms or wings. Some cottage units would stay open, hoping for winter rentals, and B& Bs were open for as long as it paid to heat the guest rooms. Tourists, our collective raison d’ê tre, were thinning out.

They weren’t yet gone. Weekends still saw considerable influx. Two weeks ago had been Women’s Week, when what appeared to be the entire lesbian populace of the East Coast had arrived on Ptown’s welcoming doorstep. There were daytime seminars on subjects ranging from how to handle male advances to adoption procedures to portfolio diversification. There were special nightclub acts, and various parties, culminating in the Saturday night prom, when all the locals came out to cheer the lesbians as they entered the Town Hall in their fancy dress or tuxedos or ubiquitous jeans. We’ve come a long way, baby.

Usually I prefer groups of six or less, and I don’t tend to be a parade marcher or sign carrier, but I must admit, I loved this weekend. There was a feeling of sisterhood, a focus on the positive side of lesbianism and a united activism that moved me more than I cared to admit. Of course, there were some women who drank too much, some who became publicly obnoxious, a few who got into fights and doubtless many who found their way into beds where they didn’t belong. But all in all it was a very satisfying time.

The last big weekend of the season would be Halloween, which conveniently occurred this Saturday. The costumes for the parade rivaled Greenwich Village in originality, if not in quantity, and both the private parties and the bar scenes had the raucous intensity of “live tonight for tomorrow we leave the trenches.” But it was a great season finale.

After Halloween, Provincetown pretty much cleared itself out and cleaned itself up and shut itself down. People either went away or settled into a winter siege mentality—which was actually kind of cozy. There were more year-round people than there used to be, but after the seasonal throngs one still felt a very welcome sense of space and quiet.

Like other businesses, mine slowed in the off-season months. My business? I’m a private investigator. My name is Alexandra Peres, but if you have any instinct for survival, you’ll call me Alex. Like most PI’s, I deal with life’s less blissful side. Most of my business involves insurance fraud. An amazing number of tourists decide to finance their vacations by falsely claiming to have gotten food poisoning or been injured in some motel or store, or clipped by a “speeding” car in Commercial Street’s endless stream of turtle-paced traffic.
Several insurance companies keep me on retainer to sort out these claims, separating the possible from the merely frivolous. I also track down heirs named in wills, people who have used creative pseudonyms on checks and teenagers who have run away from home. These last assignments are usually sad. Most times the kids are never located. Once in a while there is the joyful, tearful reunion, where all involved promise to do better—a promise unlikely to last past next Tuesday. And finally—occasionally—as my least favorite part of my occupation, I snoop around some spouse whose affections would seem to have wandered afield.

Anyway, private investigation, that’s my main occupation. My secondary one, which gives me great satisfaction, pleasure and surprising income, is nature photography. Nothing spectacular, just things that happen to catch my eye... like a dog curled up, safe from the wind inside a coil of rope on a trawler’s deck. Or a rain-wet starling on a fence, scowling mad at the world. Maybe a cat looking pleased under a sign saying, “Bait for Sale.” I shoot them in black and white mostly, blow them up, mat them and put a simple frame around them and voila! Several local art galleries take them on consignment and sell them for absurdly high prices. But I don’t complain.

I reached the bank and left Fargo sitting importantly in the driver’s seat, while I headed for the side entrance. Inside, I made my way to a secretary perched behind a desk on the main floor. “Hi, Florence, I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Ellis. Is he in? ” The question was unnecessary. I could see him through the glass door of his office, going over papers with the head teller.

“Sure, Alex. He’s expecting you. Let me just tell him you’re here.”

She returned a moment later, followed by a teller, who sloped off to his cage with a preoccupied nod, and Ellis himself, who greeted me with a paternal pat on the shoulder and led me to his office. “Alexandra! How good to see you! Come in, come in. You don’t mind if I call you Alexandra, not Ms. Peres, do you, dear? ”

Actually, I minded Alexandra a lot less than I did dear, but I merely smiled. I still didn’t know why I was here. I sat down, then realized he was still standing, looking down at his desk, and I started to get up again. Hesat down, looked up to see me standing, and started to rise. By then I had sat down again. It reminded me of those films where Americans meet Japanese and nobody can quit bowing. Finally, we both managed to stay in a chair.

“Well now, Alexandra, how are you? I can’t remember the last time we were together, though of course I’ve known you since you were a baby. Your brother, too. How is Sonny? ”

What the hell was this trip down memory lane? “I’m fine, sir, and so is Sonny. Mom, too, ” I threw in for good measure. The only family members left were my Aunt Mae and Fargo.

“Good, good. Of course I see your mother frequently at church and other functions. A lovely lady, dear to my heart, a truly lovely lady. I cannot tell you how I admire her.”

What was he babbling about? I remembered Ellis was a widower and for one insane moment wondered if he were going to ask me for my mother’s hand in marriage. Fortunately, before I could make a total ass of myself, I realized I was about two hundred years out of date (this bank did that to you) and the wrong gender for him to be asking my permission anyway. I managed to mutter some sort of thank-you and finally he got down to business.

“I understand you’re planning some additions to your house and have asked us for a little help.”

So it was about the loan. All that blabber about my mother. Had he just been leading up to wanting her to put her house up for collateral? I had a good bit of equity in my own and didn’t like the idea of involving her. What was going on here? “Uh, yes, I did. I brought in the application last week with all the details.”

He nodded and gestured toward a stack of papers. “I have it right here—somewhere. Anyway, there’s no problem with the loan. We can handle that for you. You’ll hear from the loan department at some point. You’re not in a rush, are you? You know how they are.” He gave me a rather wicked grin. “Now, another reason I asked you to stop by. We are going to be doing some redecorating ourselves here. I believe the last time we did that was in 1948.” He flashed that grin again. Who said bankers have no humor? “In the big conference room we’re going to purchase and display paintings by several local artists. In the small one, we figure to use some of your more sizable photographs, probably five or six of them.”

I took a deep swallow. What luck! Not only a nice chunk of money, but the exposure—you should pardon the expression. I had visions of writeups in the local papers, other decorators using my photos, visitors asking, “Who did the photos? ” and “Are others available? ”

“Thank you! ” I breathed. “That’s extremely kind... thrilled to be selected...” I murmured on.

“Just telling you now, my dear, so when our decorator calls to look at what you have available, you’ll know what it’s about. And now—heh, heh—we always like to make sure we get at least a few payments back on our home loans, so I have a little assignment for you.”

He shuffled some papers meaninglessly around his desk. “We bill ourselves as a full service bank, and nowadays that can mean anything, including a self-serve gas pump out by the ATM. But the one place I have always thought us to be remiss was in financial planning, and I have finally convinced the board to change that. We are going to have a Financial Planning Service, wherein we can offer expert advice on retirement needs, estate planning, savings for college expenses, etc. We’ll be able to suggest securities, mutual funds, annuities, et al. And the customer will be able to purchase them right here through the bank.”

“That sounds great, ” I said, and meant it. “My financial planning right now is a couple of CDs, some low-interest savings and a mutual fund recommended by one of the local bartenders.”

“Exactly. And I’m sure many of our customers haven’t even had the benefit of Joe’s financial acumen.” How the hell did he know I was talking about Joe at the Wharf Rat? Talk about knowing your customers!

He looked at me with a small, astute smile and continued. “To begin with, our new department will have a couple of clerks, a secretary and a young man with a broker’s license to handle actual purchases. We’ve got them lined up already. What we don’t have yet, to head up the department, is a Financial Planner. We’ve narrowed the applicants down to one man and two women. We’d like you to check them out for us. One’s in Boston, one in Providence and one in Norwalk, Connecticut, so you’ll be running around a bit, I guess. And, of course, now that we’re finally going to do this, everyone is in a hurry. What’s your schedule? ”
I thought for a moment. “Well, tomorrow’s Friday. I can’t get very far in one day, and I doubt if I’d find people I need to see over the weekend. If I leave Monday I can probably have a report to you by the next Friday. Would that be all right? ”

He nodded and handed me a folder. “I can’t see how you could do it any faster. That’s about what I had figured. Here’s the pertinent information on the three of them. Take a look at it and call me at home this weekend if you foresee a problem. Otherwise, we’ll hear from you in about a week.” He stood and I followed suit. “Oh, ” he added, “don’t bother getting deep into their personal finances. I do believe we may be slightly better equipped for that than you, heh-heh.”

Obviously he expected a return laugh, so I lobbed one over his desk and said good-bye. “Thank you again, Mr. Ellis, for everything. I’ll be in touch.”

Fargo woke up and yawned as I approached the car. I let him out to stretch his legs, and he stood a moment, undecided. Then he trotted to a nearby tree and took care of fluid output. Next he walked over to the fountain’s pool for a gulp of fluid input. I called him back to the car and put him in.

I tousled his marvelous big wide head. “Fargo, my angel dog, we may not be among the rich and famous, but we are definitely among the solvent and may even become locally renown! If you will let me have a beer at that classy spa, the Wharf Rat Bar, I promise you your very own hamburger for dinner! ”

He sealed the pact with a great slurp of my face and we drove away. If there were clouds in the sky you couldn’t prove it by me. I couldn’t stop grinning. And I had totally forgotten any medieval Halloween warnings. As it would turn out, neither Fargo nor I would encounter a single ghostie or ghoulie over Halloween weekend. As for long leggity beasties, my good friend Cassie was definitely long-legged, and God knows she was in a beastly mood by Saturday night’s end, if that counts. Not a single thing, however, would go boomp in the night within my hearing.
On the other hand, we would have a few unusual occurrences. Peter Pan would fly into a rosebush. A good-looking blonde would have me using the guid Lord’s name in resounding tones. Judy Garland would sing again. I would receive a witch’s curse. And the entire town, especially the gay community, would wince over a particularly brutal murder that looked as if it had been committed by one of our own.