Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 57, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2012

Ghost Negligence by John Shepphird

“This isn’t your run-of-the-mill slip and fall,” Oscar said before sampling his Canadian Club on the rocks. He licked his lips and added, “It’s more like... a spook and fall.”

I asked the obvious, “And this woman is suing the hotel?”

“For gross negligence. It’s a case built on disclosure. Management distributed a memo directing staff not to talk about ghosts and strange occurrences to the guests. And the plaintiff is submitting this memo as evidence.”

“Interesting,” I said, and chewed on that thought while sipping my draft beer. Even though it was raining, we met at Gulliver’s in the Marina overlooking yachts docked outside. Oscar defends insurance companies against fraud and, on occasion, he relies on my investigative services. For that I am grateful. Oscar got me into this racket. His old-school style means I usually get a few cold ones along with my retainer.

“Ghost negligence, so where does that come in?” I said, trying to lighten the mood with a joke.

“Gross negligence, Jack, not ghost,” he said firmly, clearly not appreciative of my humor. Or maybe he didn’t get it. “Not only did the Hotel Winfield knowingly cover up, but they also allowed a séance the evening that the, um—” He scratched the back of his head. “—phantom threw her out of bed, as she claims.”

“A séance?”

“A spiritualist meeting, in one of their banquet rooms. The Monarch Room, I think.”

“Injuries?”

“She’s claiming the neck-and-back routine,” he said, familiar to me as slang in slip-and-fall legalese circles. “She suffered a bump on the head the size of a walnut. It’s all on a medical report provided from the emergency room. And she retained Michael Niles, or more likely Niles got her to sign under anesthesia.”

Oscar hates Michael Niles. He claims Michael’s shady law firm has an uncanny ability to know the threshold, the exact dollar amount for which insurance companies will settle. Oscar is convinced Michael pays informants within the insurance company’s employ for this coveted information. He also claims Niles pays emergency room techs and paramedics for promising leads.

“Think she’s a grifter?” I asked.

“Either that, or she’s crazy.”

“I’m no lawyer,” I said, “but wouldn’t a judge throw this out? I mean... ghosts?”

“You’d think, but California law requires full disclosure of stigmatized properties. Homeowners and landlords can’t hide a haunted past, or a murder or suicide. What’s interesting about this case is applying this law to a hotel.”

Stigmatized property — that wasn’t completely foreign to me. I had read somewhere that real estate contracts have clauses demanding full disclosure of a listing’s unpleasant history. I always figured those were cases of buyer’s remorse — people who felt they overpaid and needed an excuse to back out. But haunting? I didn’t believe in ghosts. Not then, anyway.

“Check this woman out,” Oscar said, handing me a snapshot. “See if you can dig up a little dirt. Something I can counter Michael with.”

From the photo she appeared to be a light-skinned brunette, mid twenties. I sensed something melancholy about her — in her eyes.

“Name’s Paula Deluca,” he said, “no priors.” He gave me the retainer check and on the flap of the envelope her San Diego street address and phone number. “If she’s a pro you’ll spot it,” he said. “If she’s nuts, well, nobody can spot deception better than a criminal, right?”

“Reformed criminal,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s what I meant,” he said, and motioned to the bartender for another round.

“I’m on it,” I assured him.

Years ago I was in the game. I made my living as a con man and ran an assortment of scams. I claimed to be a financial advisor and worked a couple of Ponzi schemes, paying old clients with new investors’ money. I took rental deposits on high-end properties without actually owning them. I even claimed to have found people’s lost dogs and had them wire me money to, supposedly, ship their pet home. That was before the car accident that broke me up and disfigured my face. It’s not like I’m a circus freak, but it did permanently erase any trace of handsome good looks. The plastic surgeons made me presentable but my confidence never recovered. A con man without confidence — that’s when I changed my ways.

In recovery I wrote a book outing popular scams. I went on the speaker circuit. Oscar hired me as an expert witness and then afterward encouraged me to hang my own shingle. I figured what the hell and got my private-eye license. There’s enough insurance fraud out there to keep the lights on. jack o’shea, deception specialist is what it says on my card.

“Didn’t Houdini,” Oscar asked, “debunk charlatans who claimed they could stir up ghosts and communicate with the dead?”

“After his mother died, that’s right,” I said.

In my book I often referred to the magician’s craft and explained how deception through a performer’s misdirection is similar to many scams. Oscar must have remembered that.

I drove out to Pasadena to check out the Hotel Winfield. It was a Victorian era-style inn covered in dried, gnarled vines. I avoided the valet, self-parked, and went inside.

Antiques dominated the lobby: a massive grandfather clock, a grand piano. I asked the girl at the counter for the manager. Louis Sandoval appeared — over six feet tall with plenty of belly stuffed into an ill-fitting sports jacket.

“What can I do for you?” he asked. I could see he was examining the scars on my face, he and most everyone else I meet, probably not sure why one of my eyes drooped.

I introduced myself, explained I was working on the behalf of the hotel, and gave him my card.

“Mr. O’Shea, how can I help you?”

I asked to see the room. He confessed they had not rented it, “since the incident.”

“Were you on duty that night?” I asked as we made our way through the narrow hallway.

“Yes, on the second leg of a double shift,” he said.

I sensed a hint of resentment in his tone. “You work a lot of double shifts?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Did you notice anything strange about the woman?” I asked.

“Not really,” he said. “It was late. She came to the front desk saying something pushed her out of bed, all disoriented, a gash on her head. We called the paramedics.”

“Ever have an occurrence like this before?”

“Some crazies say this place is haunted, and once in a while someone claims something weird happened, but I’ve never seen anything.” We arrived and he pulled a roll of Tums from his pocket and ate two at a time.

“So you don’t believe in ghosts?” I asked.

“UFOs definitely, but not ghosts.”

We entered the room. It had newly upholstered furniture and vintage-patterned wallpaper. A few knock-off Audubon nature prints decorated the walls and doilies gave it a homey bed-and-breakfast feel. There was a new flat-screen television, minibar, and remodeled bathroom. The single window looked out onto a courtyard with the view of deep red bougainvillea shrouding a white gazebo.

“She claims she was in bed when all of a sudden something unseen threw her out of bed,” he said, then pointed to the wall. “She hit her head on the chair rail.”

“I understand it’s policy for the hotel staff to not talk about the hotel being haunted.”

“That’s right. They don’t want us to scare guests.”

“Can you remember anything about the séance that evening?” I asked.

“The Spiritualist Society schedules a meeting every other month or so.”

“Some kind of club?”

“Seems to be but mostly new people show up every month. I wouldn’t call it a séance like, um, sitting around a table or something, like you’d see on TV. They do a PowerPoint presentation and sell books and DVDs afterwards.”

“Did you get the impression she might be involved with this group?” I asked, wondering if she might be an insider.

“I don’t know. They were gone by then. Like I said, it was late.”

“Can you provide me with contact information for this organization?”

“That would be Dr. Kendall. He pays for the Monarch Room and their amenities with a corporate credit card, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Amenities?”

“We provide water and coffee service, yes.”

We returned to the front desk and he printed out an invoice with Dr. Kendall’s billing address. Sandoval also gave me a pamphlet from the Spiritualist Society. It had their schedule on the back and, as luck would have it, there was a seminar that evening at the Riverside Sheraton. I estimated it was probably a two-hour drive, probably more in rush-hour traffic.

“Can you think of anything else that may be relevant?” I asked him.

“That’s the whole ball of wax,” he said while reaching into his breast pocket for his roll of Tums.

I fought rush-hour traffic heading east on Interstate 10 toward the city of Riverside, the heart of Southern California’s Inland Empire. Among a cluster of hotels just off the freeway, in between an Applebee’s and a Chili’s, I found the Sheraton. The event sign in the hotel lobby directed me to one of the smaller conference rooms. There were people already there, middle-aged women mostly. Even though I was a good twenty-five minutes late, the seminar had not started. I paid the twenty-dollar fee and was given the evening’s printed program plus the same pamphlet Sandoval gave me.

I took a seat in the back row near a black lady knitting a shawl and tried to blend in.

Small-framed and intense, Dr. Richard Kendall welcomed everyone. I estimated he was in his mid forties. He began by spending a considerable amount of time touting his academic accomplishments and numerous publications in parapsychology, anomalies, and paranormal phenomena. I noted he made sure to associate himself with legitimate institutions including the University of Edinburgh and Princeton. He spoke just enough psychobabble to sound legitimate, but not too much to lose his layman audience. He promised later in the evening, after the break, that all assembled would have the rare opportunity to hear actual audio recordings from souls communicating from “the other side.”

Then he began his lecture. Projected images of assorted photos, colorful graphs, and dynamic buzzwords emphasized each point. He expressed just the right amount of emotion to appear sincere and kept steady eye contact with his audience. From the way he studied the crowd, including me, I could see the predator instinct in him searching for the suckers in this room. Who will take the bait and open their checkbooks?

My impression is that many in the audience really wanted to believe him. They asked questions and seemed engaged by his colorful rhetoric. The common thread was clear — most of these people were looking for a way to communicate with lost loved ones. The doctor’s message: It’s possible if you try.

Then there was a break and I got up to stretch my legs. Dr. Kendall was speaking to a few people from the front row. A young woman was putting out books and DVDs on a table in the back. I avoided them and was helping myself to a cup of coffee when the knitting lady made conversation beside me.

“Lose someone?” she asked.

“Excuse me?” I said even though I’d heard her loud and clear.

“Have you lost someone close to you?”

“No,” I said, but I had. I immediately thought of Mona. I felt my knees go weak. How did she know?

“I lost my husband. Aneurism,” she said looking away.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said as she added packs of Splenda to her coffee.

Mona was with me that night — the car accident. She didn’t survive. I don’t think I’ll ever get over the guilt. They say it was sudden. That makes sense, since I have come to learn she was, technically, decapitated. I blew through a red light. My Audi convertible went under the truck’s wheels and my life in the fast lane came to an end.

I found her picking pockets on Fremont Street in Vegas and talked a pair of Clark County deputies out of arresting her. She was a stray so I took her in. She was great in bed, the best, and one night she whispered in my ear, “teach me what you know.” Mona became my protégé. She would have been brilliant. If I could, if this presumed doctor could somehow send Mona a message I’d say, “Please forgive me.”

I’d seen enough and made a fast exit. If Dr. Kendall was involved in this lawsuit I wouldn’t get it out of him, not tonight.

I couldn’t approach Paula Deluca as part of the defense team working on behalf of the Hotel Winfield. She wouldn’t give me the time of day. I needed an angle, a stealthy way to make her acquaintance. Dr. Kendall’s presentation had given me an idea.

It’s about a two-hour drive south to San Diego State University. I put together a satchel with a couple notebooks to disguise myself as a professor and scouted the campus. I needed a meeting place that gave me credibility. There was a Starbucks in the student center that looked good. Then I drove east and checked out her residence.

She lived in a neighborhood spotted with tiny clapboard houses. A Volkswagen bus was parked in the driveway. There was a garden out front and an assortment of art supplies scattered on the side of the house. I could see a weight-lifting bench and wondered if she lived with a guy. Then she emerged from the house with what appeared to be a plastic restaurant bus tub and carried it around back. She was slight, her hair tied back, and she wore a red cotton sundress.

There was a pottery kiln and I could see heat waves drifting from the smokestack. She placed a few items inside. I waited until she went back in her house, then pulled over down the street and gave her a call.

“Is this Miss Deluca?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m Dr. Bill Petree. You don’t know me, but please hear me out. I’m here at the University of San Diego, a professor in the parapsychology department.” The university didn’t have a parapsychology department. I gambled she didn’t know that. “I understand,” I continued, “that you had a recent experience which caused some bodily harm. Is that right?”

“My lawyer won’t allow me to talk about it,” she said.

“Please let me finish. My specialty is paranormal phenomena, and I’ve recently received a substantial grant from the Carnegie Foundation.” Anything Carnegie sounds legitimate. Sometimes I surprise myself. “This allows me to pay for select interviews, people like yourself who’ve had encounters. What makes your experience unique is that there was physical harm, and that’s quite rare. If you’ll allow me just a half an hour of your time I can pay three hundred dollars and keep you completely anonymous.”

There was a moment of silence on the phone. I waited for a response and was half expecting her to hang up when she said: “How did you find me?”

“Yours is a civil case, it’s public record.”

More silence, then, “How anonymous?”

“I can guarantee it. We can make up a name, or call you Jane Doe if you’d like.”

“It wasn’t the first time,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not the first time I’ve been hurt.”

That gave me pause. “There have been others?”

“Yes.”

“Miss Deluca, it would be incredibly helpful to speak with you about these encounters. We can meet here at the university. There’s a place we can talk, a Starbucks at the student center.”

She agreed. We set a time for two o’clock. I gave her a brief description of what I was wearing. Then I turned my car around, got cash at an ATM, and headed back to San Diego State.

Paula got there early and I pretended not to recognize her. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her scan the outdoor courtyard before cautiously approaching.

“Mr. Petree?” she said.

“Dr. Petree. Call me Bill,” I said, standing and shaking her hand. “Please, have a seat.” She settled in and we made introductory small talk. I regurgitated some of the same rhetoric Kendall spewed the night before, building up my supposed credentials. Then I mentioned his name in hopes she would display some kind of recognition. She gave me no signal. I brought his name up again looking for what poker players call a “tell.” It seemed to mean nothing to her. When I asked what she did for a living she explained she was an artist working in ceramics. She sold her work at crafts fairs throughout Southern California.

“Is that why you were up in Pasadena, for a crafts fair?”

“The Mission West Arts Fair. I go every year, but this was the first time I stayed at the Winfield. I booked it on Priceline for seventy bucks.”

With the mention of money I handed her the cash, pulled out a notebook, then began my questioning. She explained she was in bed reading when she got a chill and felt a pair of large hands shove her out of bed.

“But really hard,” she said.

“So you think it was a he, this ghost?”

“Because of the strength.” She went on to tell me what I already knew, her neck and back trauma plus the bump on her head. I’ve made a career out of reading people and my impression was that she wasn’t lying, and not necessarily crazy, at least not on the surface.

“Do you have any idea why?” I asked.

“A woman I know, Terry, she’s gifted. She’s got heightened awareness. Terry suspects I’m probably a vessel,” she said. “Entities are drawn to me, for some reason.”

“And why is that?”

“I wish I knew.”

“You said there have been other times.”

She pulled back her collar to show me a bruise on her neck, “Terry thinks that certain entities choose to manifest their anger through me.”

“And you’re always alone?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever seen one?”

“No,” she said, then added in a whisper, “I feel their presence.”

“Interesting.” I scribbled in my notebook, having no idea what to ask next. I reminded myself that I needed dirt, something Oscar could use against Michael Niles.

“Have you ever been treated for depression or anxiety, or are you currently taking any medication?”

“No.”

How about over-the-counter medicines, do you take anything for allergies, or pain relievers?”

“Midol when I have a headache.”

“How often do you have headaches?”

“I don’t know. Maybe four or five times a year.”

“Migraines?”

“Just headaches, when I’m sick with the flu or something.”

“Are you a recreational. ”

“Drug user?” she said, finishing my sentence, clearly not liking this cross-examination. “No. I hardly even drink. Wine and beer once in a while, weekends. I’m a vegan, if that matters.”

“Have you experienced any previous emotional trauma?”

She shook her head and studied me. There was an awkward silence and I looked away embarrassed for having asked.

“You’re wounded, aren’t you?” she asked, reaching out and touching my hand.

“What do you mean?”

“I sense there’s something hanging over you,” she said. “Unfinished business.”

How did she know? I was supposed to be reading her. She was reading me. “What makes you think that?” I said with bravado.

“I just feel it,” she said, and returned her hand to under the table.

“Let’s stay on track, please,” I said trying to steer the conversation away from myself. “How long, do you estimate, have you been a vessel?” I asked.

“It started when I was a teenager.” She went on to tell me the various injuries she had suffered over the years, scrapes and bruises mostly, cuts, and how the incidents were becoming increasingly more destructive. “If I had known that hotel was haunted I would have never stayed there,” she said. “And since I don’t have health insurance...”

I was at a loss. She seemed entirely sane, other than believing in ghosts. I had nothing for Oscar, no dirt to report back to him.

“Can you help me?” she asked me, her dark eyes pleading.

I stammered.

“Can you get them to stop?”

Again I didn’t know what to say so I pretended to take notes.

It wasn’t until after we wrapped up our interview and she left that I came up with the theory. It was the weight-lifting bench on the side of her house and the realization that selling ceramics on weekends could not possibly generate enough revenue to cover rent, even in her neighborhood. There had to be a boyfriend. And maybe this boyfriend is physically abusive. Blaming her injuries on ghosts is her scapegoat.

I drove back to her neighborhood and spied her house from afar. She wasn’t back yet. I got out and peeked in the windows for signs of a man living there. I checked out the weight bench and scanned the backyard. There were a few beer cans, but those could have been hers. The next-door neighbor’s dog barked at me, rousing suspicion, so I returned to my car.

About an hour or so later the Volkswagen pulled into the driveway. She carried Trader Joe’s bags into the house, groceries purchased with the cash I gave her, no doubt. I called Sandoval at the Hotel Winfield and asked if he could review the hotel lobby security tape to see if Paula checked in with someone, a man. He said they had already done that and the tape shows very clearly that she checked in alone.

“Is there any way to determine if someone joined her?” I asked.

“Unless we know what that person looks like, I wouldn’t know where to start. Hundreds of guests come and go every day.”

I thanked him, hung up, and waited. Darkness fell and nobody joined her. After another hour or so I decided to e-mail Oscar with a status report. I pulled out my BlackBerry and gave him a brief rundown plus filled him in with my new boyfriend theory. Oscar e-mailed back.

“Halt work on Deluca case.” Oscar responded. “Client has agreed to settle.”

I cursed out loud. All I needed was the violent boyfriend, the smoking gun, and the mystery would be solved. Then it occurred to me that this is San Diego. He could be in the Navy, a sailor out at sea. I drove past the house once more. The lights were on and I could see her in the window watching television alone.

I called Oscar. He said Michael Niles had “done it again,” gotten the insurance company to settle.

“Can they wait a couple more days?” I asked. “I bet I can produce this bastard who’s been hurting her.”

“The Hotel Winfield doesn’t want the negative publicity. Just send me an invoice for your hours and expenses beyond the retainer.”

On the drive home that night I caught a glimpse of a woman wandering the shoulder on Interstate 5, just north of Oceanside. It looked like Mona. I slowed and craned my neck, searching. Whoever it was disappeared. Was my mind playing tricks on me?

About a month later Oscar e-mailed me Paula’s obituary from the San Diego Tribune. I was floored. The write-up didn’t mention her cause of death, so I dug out my black suit and drove down for the funeral, all the time wondering if the abusive boyfriend would be there. I got to the service late and slipped in unnoticed. I scanned the folks assembled and saw no one who seemed like her boyfriend. From the pastor’s eulogy I concluded that she had committed suicide. I wondered if it was a cover-up for something much more sinister.

Afterward I hung around for the reception. Near the punch bowl I made conversation with a tall, bespectacled woman I guessed to be in her late fifties. She introduced herself as Dr. Roan and asked me how I knew her.

“I was a friend,” I lied.

“That’s nice. She didn’t have many friends.”

“She was so creative,” I said, mentioning what little I knew about her to keep the conversation going.

“It’s really nice they brought some of her work,” she said pointing to a few ceramic masks on a nearby table beside an assortment of remembrance photos. “Her art meant so much to her.”

I checked it out. Hardened glaze represented skin on the mask faces. There was something disturbing about them. Not the kind of thing I’d put on my wall.

“She had a unique sensibility,” Dr. Roan continued.

“I can’t believe she killed herself,” I said.

“It came as a surprise. She once confided—” she started to say, then cut herself short.

“What?”

“She once said to me that when she bled, the warmth of her blood reminded her she was alive.”

I didn’t quite understand what she meant. “Why would she say that?” I asked.

“She confided a great deal. I was helping her through a number of issues.”

“Oh,” I said.

“I, uh...” she paused and in a hushed tone said, “treated Paula.”

“For what?”

“Self-inflicted injury. She tried to keep that, and her eating disorder, a secret.”

I stood dumbfounded.

She must have picked up on my reaction and took my elbow to comfort me. “Cutting and burning herself,” she said, “or purging as she did, served as a way of relieving negative emotions, a release.” She sighed and added, “I’m afraid it went too far.”

Could Paula have slammed her head against the wall that evening and then, because she was bleeding and needed help, claimed it was a ghost? Something did not set right with me.

“In your sessions,” I asked, “did she mention her boyfriend?”

“On occasion.”

“Would you know him by sight?”

“I met him once.”

“Do you see him here?”

“No.”

“Did you ever get a sense he may have been violent?”

“It is not uncommon for women who have low self-esteem to engage in abusive relationships,” she said sounding cold and clinical.

“Could these self-inflicted injuries have come from him?” I asked.

She didn’t answer and I could see she was getting uncomfortable. I continued. “What was the method Paula used to kill herself?” I asked.

“You don’t know? She hung herself,” she said, saddened.

I remembered Paula showing me the bruise on her neck. Another mourner approached Dr. Roan and she excused herself. They moved off and spoke aside.

A young girl as attractive as Paula would have a boyfriend. But why is he not here? Maybe he strangled her. Then he covered it up by staging suicide by hanging. I considered going to the police and telling them my theory, but I thought I’d go by the house first to see if he was there.

It was dark by the time I reached her neighborhood. There were no lights on in the house, but the Volkswagen was still in the driveway. Trash cans were out, and it looked like they hadn’t been emptied. I thought their contents might be able to tell me if a man lived in the house. I got out and examined them. I was opening a white plastic kitchen bag when I saw the flickering light coming from the backyard.

The kiln was on.

I made my way up the driveway. The next door neighbor’s dog was absent, not barking at me like before: It was incredibly quiet. I could see the kiln more clearly now, its door slightly open. There was a fire burning within, the only source of light. A warm wind kicked up and it smelled like it was going to rain.

Then I saw the many faces. Her ceramic masks were hung around the backyard fence, characters staring at me with dead expressions, eyes black. Each mask was entirely different. At that moment the thought came to me — maybe these masks represent the souls who tried to manifest themselves through Paula. Even though I was sweating, I felt a chill.

I stepped closer to the kiln.

I was close enough to feel the heat from the furnace but couldn’t see what was inside. I swung the heavy door open.

Mona’s face stared back at me cast as a ceramic mask.

My heart clinched and I couldn’t breathe.

Then someone, or something, pushed me. I fell to my knees and raised my arms defensively, but there was nobody. I remember yelling, getting up, and scrambling to the car. Seconds later, completely out of breath, I sped away.

I haven’t been to San Diego since.

If it was her boyfriend who pushed me in the darkness, or some kind of malicious phantom, I’ll never truly know.

But my skeptic days are over.

I looked it up on an online dictionary. “Gross Negligence” is defined as “the conscious and voluntary disregard of the need to use reasonable care, which is likely to cause foreseeable grave injury or harm to persons, property, or both.”

Grave injury.

Exactly.

That frames it. I’ve led the negligent life. I’m the haunted one — ghost negligence. Consider this is my full disclosure.

I am stigmatized property.

Copyright © 2012 John Shepphird