Three-Zee in the Mountains

By John A. Miller, Jr.

Spring is springing in the Pocono Mountains of eastern Pennsylvania, and Three-Zee Zook (Zelanie Zephora Zook, to be exact) and her best friend, Bambi Bamberger, are enjoying the emerging wildflowers and budding branches as they begin their new jobs at the luxurious Mountain Woods resort. That is, they’re enjoying it until Three-Zee stumbles upon the ghost and dead body of a handsome young man, a budding Hollywood star and stepson of the resort’s manager. Things become more complicated when a grumpy old man who owns a neighboring property bordering the resort’s private lake decides to use Three-Zee, Bambi, and Three-Zee’s mother and aunt as targets for his double-barrel shotgun. Three-Zee barely escapes death when a lightning strike misses her by feet and then when a shelf-load of kitchen utensils falls on her inside a darkened storeroom, except that nothing about either incident is exactly as it seems. Add to that a head chef with the personality of a pit bull with hemorrhoids and a couple of equally pleasant guests, and Three-Zee and Bambi are left wondering why they ever took this idyllic job.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John A. Miller, Jr.
• Release date: Jul 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463855638

John A. Miller, Jr.

John Miller, writing under his full name of John A. Miller, Jr., started writing novels back in late 1991 after working for many years in the mainframe computer and telecommunication fields. He had lived in southern Arizona so he knew the area well and set his first novel, Pima, in that area. Shortly after writing that novel he moved back to southern Arizona where he wrote five more novels in the Pima Series. He returned to his home area near Allentown, Pennsylvania in 1999 and continued to write, launching the Victorian Mansion Series with its nine novels.Since retiring from their day jobs John and his wife have enjoyed visiting Cape Cod and The Bayside Resort in West Yarmouth, Massachusetts at least once every year, so with their permission he partially set there a standalone novel, The Bayside Murders.Recently, after reading a number of cozy mysteries, John decided to launch a new series in that genre and named it Three-Zee for its main character, Zelanie Zephora Zook.

Book preview

Buds and Birdsong

Spring was happening all around me as I trudged down the gravel road through the thick woods. Besides the rich dark green of hemlock groves and thick stands of rhododendron that retain their color all year round, most of the branch tips of surrounding trees and bushes were studded with deep red or pale green buds, some of them already unfolding into delicate flowers and tiny leaves. Visibility between the trees was good at the moment except where the view was blocked by green walls of hemlocks. In a few more days, a couple of weeks at most, the buds would erupt into thick foliage that would turn this forest walk into a private paradise.

On my left a creek rippled along its stony bed, bordered by a narrow floodplain of purplish-green skunk cabbage intermingled with early wildflowers—tiny blossoms of pale blue, yellow, and white. On my right a stony embankment ascended quickly to endless forest, or at least it seemed endless from my perspective.

A chilly breeze wafted between the tree trunks, but the robins and sparrows were keeping up an incessant chatter as if their singing could hasten the arrival of warmer weather. Fortunately, I had dressed for the chill with a thick navy-blue sweater under a gray hoodie that proclaimed Mountain Woods on the front. The rest of my attire consisted of the ubiquitous dark blue jeans and multicolored sneakers that constitute the typical uniform of most unmarried young women who’ve just celebrated their twenty-seventh birthdays. Okay, no holes in the knees, but otherwise typical.

I stopped to sniff the breeze, which carried a smell of moist earth and, possibly, a few additional odors from the skunk cabbage and wildflowers although I hadn’t stooped to sniff those more closely. Walking through the woods had always been one of my favorite pastimes at home, so I was glad I still had the opportunity here at my new job.

The creek riffled over a tiny waterfall, and I stopped to admire the tinkling sound of falling water punctuated by birdsong. I looked around to try to find the source of an unusual cry, a cry unlike that I’d ever heard coming from a bird’s throat, but except for some sparrows fluttering through the branches, a couple of squirrels bounding along their aerial superhighways, and a few blue jays, several robins, and at least one cardinal, bright red in his mating plumage, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. The embankment next to me was devoid of anything except loose shale and soil held more-or-less together by some tufts of coarse grass and other weedy growth; nothing that could make a cry.

I resumed walking and soon rounded a bend in the road where the embankment that bordered the road on my right now ended and a large meadow appeared between the trees, a vast field of brightly colored wildflowers. I stopped to listen but didn’t hear the mysterious cry a second time, so I put it out of my mind and walked on. The stream on my left emptied into a substantial lake, and the road I was walking threaded its way between that and the meadow. I had reached the far end of the meadow at a thicket of hemlocks when I noticed something lying amid the flowers only a few feet from the trees. I still haven’t learned not to investigate unusual objects, so I made my way into the field to see what it was.

He was dead. Nobody can lie motionless with his eyes wide open and not blinking for the minute or two I stood there staring. Except for morticians, police officers, and pathologists most people probably would not stand and stare at a dead body for more than a few seconds before they either got sick or panicked and ran away, but I’ve seen enough bodies not to be spooked. No, I’ve never worked in a funeral parlor or morgue, but the darned things just seem to keep cropping up wherever I happen to be. To make things more interesting or complicated or whatever, he was one of the best-looking guys I’d ever seen. My first thought was that it was a complete waste of good man-flesh.

Although it was pretty obvious the man was dead, I knelt down on one knee and pressed a finger against his jugular. His skin was still warm, but there was no sign of a pulse. The small hole in the front of his jacket didn’t look good, either, especially because of the small, dark stain surrounding it. Blood, probably, and I was sure if I unzipped the jacket, I’d find a much larger stain on his shirt.

I stood and turned completely around, but there were no other people in sight, living or dead. When I looked down again at the body it had disappeared and the wildflowers and grass on which it had been lying were uncrushed. Not this again, I thought. Then a male voice said calmly, I guess I’m dead.

Peeping Pete

As a young man faded into view dressed the same as the corpse I’d just seen but without that bullet hole in his jacket I nearly wept at the waste of a guy that good-looking because what I was now looking at was his ghost, and living people don’t have ghosts (or if they do, they’re not detached from their bodies). I have a mostly annoying ability to see and hear the ghosts of the recently deceased, an ability I’ve known about ever since my father’s ghost appeared to me right after he’d had a fatal heart attack when I had just turned eight. At that time, we’d lived near the Oregon coast, but after Dad’s death Mom, my younger brother, Joe, and I had moved to Pennsylvania to live with Aunt Gladys on Mom’s family’s farm. Oh yes, my name is Zelanie Zephora Zook, Three-Zee to my family and friends.

Now I was here, working at this resort in the Pocono Mountains of northeastern Pennsylvania, an area that for many years has been a hotbed of hideaways for honeymooners and families. Recently, however, with the expansion of cheap air travel, many of the resorts have taken a hit, but this has little to do with this story. It was early in the season, but Mountain Woods prided itself upon being a year-round facility, depending upon several nearby ski areas and one nearby casino to attract clientele in the winter and extensive wooded grounds and a moderate-size private lake for summer activities. We don’t run to champagne-glass-shaped Jacuzzis in the rooms or in-room swimming pools and we aren’t couples-only, but our rooms are quite luxurious and the included meals in the dining room are definitely gourmet.

For those of you who’ve read about my earlier adventures in Three-Zee and Three-Zee at the Beach, you may be wondering what I’m doing living and working so far from home. I had been employed for several years as an evening restaurant hostess at a hotel near my home in the Amish country near Lancaster, Pennsylvania, but just before Christmas I was given notice that the hotel had been purchased by another chain and was being closed for several months for major renovations. That affected me and my best friend and neighbor, Bambi Bamberger, who worked at the hotel as an evening desk clerk, as well as Joe, who was a lifeguard at the hotel pool. Joe, who had just turned twenty, decided to enroll in the local community college, but Bambi and I started job hunting and surprisingly quickly landed jobs here at the resort. Although at least eighty miles from Lancaster it was still close enough that we could manage an occasional trip home on a day off, which varied from week to week but could be negotiated in such a way that both of us could sometimes get the same day. Another benefit that more or less clinched the deal was the fact that Bambi and I were provided with our own furnished cottage to share on the grounds, tiny and not luxurious, but our own home after a fashion. Our employment package also included our meals, maybe not the same gourmet fare as served to the guests, but reasonably good and certainly satisfying, and we could use the tiny kitchen in the cottage to prepare our own if we so desired. We weren’t going to get rich on the pay, but the housing and meals more than made up the difference.

To get back to my latest ghost friend I guess I stared rather impolitely at him for a good minute, but if he was offended, he didn’t show it. He probably was still too caught up in trying to decide what had happened to him rather than being concerned with the social mores. His ghost didn’t show the injury or wound that had killed him, but then all the ghosts I’ve ever seen looked perfectly healthy. Okay, they were dead, but you get the idea. The other really annoying part of my ability is that I frequently see the ghost’s dead body complete with wounds except it’s not really there, and I often find I can actually touch it and feel its temperature and lack of pulse as I had just done with this latest one.

Do you have a name? I asked, a stupid question because of course he’d have had a name, but I was pretty much as flabbergasted as he was.

Peter Gardenko, he said. Do you have any idea how I got to be dead?

No, not really. Oh, I guess I do know how because you had a bullet wound in your chest, but from whose gun or why I haven’t the foggiest.

I don’t seem to have that bullet wound now.

No, all the ghosts I’ve seen and talked with seem to be in good physical condition. It’s just that I also see them as they looked right after they’d died, and that’s how I saw your bullet wound. Don’t ask me to explain it because I simply don’t understand any of it.

I’m assuming from what you just said that I’m not the first ghost you’ve ever seen.

Several, actually.

Will a lot of people be able to see and talk to me?

Not as far as I know. I met one girl last fall who could see ghosts although faintly, but she couldn’t hear them. They could hear her, though. In fact, you’ll probably be able to see and hear everybody including other ghosts even though the living folks can’t see or hear you.

The man turned to look over his shoulder. Then he turned back, grinned, and said, I almost forgot; you must have a name, too.

Zelanie Zook.

That’s an odd name.

It gets worse. My full name is Zelanie Zephora Zook, but I don’t know exactly why. My parents never explained it to me. Mom’s not weird, and I don’t recall my dad as being that way although he did die when I was eight so maybe I didn’t really understand his personality at the time. Aunt Gladys can be weird, but I don’t think she had anything to do with naming me.

Surely your friends don’t call you Zelanie Zephora.

No, they call me Three-Zee.

Okay, that sort of makes sense. Do you mind if I call you that?

No, I don’t mind.

Do you work here at Mountain Woods?

Yes, but it’s Sunday afternoon so I have some free time while old guests check out and new ones check in.

So, what else do you do here besides wait for old guests to check out and new ones to check in?

I’m a dining room hostess at dinnertime plus I help out with guest activities most mornings and afternoons. May I ask what you were doing here on the property?

Of course. Like you I was taking a walk in the woods. Actually, my dad is, or I guess I should say was, the manager. Let’s see, he’s still the manager so I guess the word is ‘is,’ and I suppose he’s still my dad even though I’m dead. This could get very confusing.

I don’t remember seeing you around here, and I’ve been working here for nearly two months.

No, I just arrived this afternoon, so our paths haven’t crossed yet. I was away on the West Coast trying out for a part in a movie.

Did you get it?

I don’t know. I was waiting for a call-back. If I did get the part, I guess the folks running the auditions won’t be pleased.

No, I’m sure they won’t. Oh well, at least they hadn’t gotten through half the filming before you died.

So, my death came at an appropriate time. Nobody is fussed and nobody is out a lot of bucks.

Leaving out the Hollywood types and leaving out any competitors for the role because I’m sure none of them would have followed you all the way here to kill you, can you think of anybody else who might have had it in for you?

Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about leaving out the other folks at that audition. They seemed to be a pretty ruthless bunch. However, I agree that most of them wouldn’t have wasted the money to kill me, at least not until after I’d gotten the part. As far as around here, I really don’t know. I’ve lived here off and on ever since my dad got the job, which is six or seven years ago at least. My mom passed away five years ago, and since then dad’s been a bit of a workaholic.

Didn’t you say your name was Peter Gardenko?

Yeah, why?

The manager’s name is George Wylie.

You’re right, but he’s not really my father. Benjamin Gardenko was my mom’s first husband, but he died when I was nine or ten. After Mom married George, they decided to let me keep my real father’s name although as far as I’m concerned George became my father in every way except blood.

Mm. I think that’s nice of him. I guess some fathers would want to make their adopted sons take their surnames if only to perpetuate the line, even though genetically it’s not the same line.

Yeah, I guess. I’m not really into psychology and all that crap.

Are you heading back to the resort? I doubt anybody else will be able to see you, but you might get lucky.

I don’t know if I’d consider that lucky. I could get to like this invisibility stuff. You know, check out the good-looking babes in their showers and all that. I could see that this particular ghost probably wasn’t planning to be as well behaved as all the others I’d met. However, there wasn’t much I could do about it.

That’s a bit voyeuristic although I suppose you could get away with it.

Well, I won’t check out your shower because you’d be able to see me although you’re a pretty good-looking babe yourself so maybe you’d be worth checking out.

Thanks for the compliment, but I’d prefer it if you stayed out of my shower. After all, I wouldn’t be able to see or hear you, either, if you decided to fade out. As soon I said it, I wanted to kick myself. Maybe otherwise he wouldn’t have known about fading out and my bedroom and bathroom would have remained off-limits. A living guy who looked as good as he did might have made me reconsider, but a relationship with a dead one would be pretty much impossible.

Well, I’ll see, he said. Are there any more like you around?

My best friend, Bambi, shares a cottage with me, but I’m sure she wouldn’t appreciate a Peeping Tom checking her out, either.

Hey, I wouldn’t be a Peeping Tom. Peeping Pete, maybe, but not Peeping Tom.

I’ll keep that in mind. However, I don’t think she’d like it regardless of your name.

Surely you girls haven’t been in seclusion all your lives. I mean, you’re not nuns or anything like that, are you?

No, we’ve both had boyfriends although not at the moment, but a relationship with a ghost would be, well, just plain weird. Besides, Bambi wouldn’t even be able to see or hear you.

But she could feel my hand caressing her hair, right?

No, just a chill. I think you’ll find that your physical contact with the real world is extremely limited. You won’t be able to pick stuff up or hold things or anything like that, and people won’t be able to feel it when you try to touch them. I don’t pretend to understand it, but except for being able to stand and sit on stuff you can’t affect it in any way.

So, no things that go bump in the night.

No, or at least not for people who can’t hear you, which means nearly everybody.

Hm. That kind of sucks. Oh well, I can always come to your room and sing you to sleep.

Please don’t. I can fall asleep just fine without your help. And then Peeping Pete faded out, so I guess he’d already mastered that skill. I wondered where and when he’d pop up next—probably in some good-looking babe’s bathroom, but I really had no way of controlling that. I’d warn Bambi although I’m not sure what either one of us could do about it.

** ** **

When I got back to the main lodge, I headed for the lobby to see whether Bambi was able to talk with me. My Sundays from late morning until dinnertime were pretty much free, but it was one of her busiest times. However, when I got there nobody was waiting to check in. Bambi was standing behind the counter looking down at some papers.

You’ll never guess what just happened, I said after looking around to make sure nobody else was within hearing range.

You saw a ghost. I guess I must have stared at her in shock because she quickly added, Okay, I’m guessing, but from the way you reacted I think I’m probably right.

Yeah, you’re right.

I suppose it’s not a farmhand or a surfer girl or her snotty friend.

No, none of the above.

So, are you going to tell me more, or are we going to continue with Twenty Questions?

Bam, I didn’t think you’d ever heard of that show. It was way before our time. Heck, it was probably way before Mom’s and Aunt Gladys’ time, too?

But you heard of it, so why wouldn’t I?

Yeah, I guess you’re right. Anyway, apparently it’s George’s kid.

George Wylie, the manager?

Yeah.

I’m assuming the ghost isn’t a little tyke. George has to be at least sixty.

No, he looks to be about our age, maybe a bit older, but I didn’t think to ask. He’s really good-looking—said he was just in Hollywood auditioning for a part—but the bullet hole in his chest doesn’t do much for him.

So, if he was in Hollywood, what’s he doing here, or did he come back just to haunt his old man?

Well, it turns out George isn’t really his old man, because he was adopted. I guess George’s late wife was his mother, but after her first husband died, she married George. Also, he said he’s waiting for the results of the audition, so he came back here, but it seems like it was here he was shot.

Which means he won’t get the part.

Not unless it’s a ghost story, but I’m not sure how they’d get him on film. If you remember, that time I tried to snap a shot of Gretel she didn’t show up in the picture.

Did you see and touch his body, too?

Yeah, and this time the body was warm to the touch, so I’d say he had just been shot. I thought for a moment. Come to think of it, I remember hearing a strange sort of cry a few minutes before I found his body, so maybe that was when he was shot.

But you didn’t actually hear the gunshot.

No, or I’d have remembered that. However, the body was lying in a flower-covered meadow across from the lake about a quarter mile from where I heard the cry, so the shooter could have used some sort of silencer.

Or was far away in the other direction, maybe on the far side of the lake, and too far for the sound to carry. Some bullets can kill up to a mile away. Bambi was the one who knew all that scientific crap.

Yeah, I guess it could have been an accident.

But you don’t think so.

No, I don’t. I saw Bambi’s eyes focus on something behind me, so I turned and watched a couple pulling a couple of rolling suitcases approach from the front entrance. I’ll see you later at the cottage if you get free before dinnertime, I said and turned to leave.

Cat o’ One Tail

Snickers, so named because his coloring resembles the inside of a Snickers candy bar, was waiting for me when I opened the door into the cottage. He meowed loudly, probably complaining because I hadn’t fed him for at least three or four hours. I’ve tried time and again to explain to him that overfeeding isn’t good for pussycats, but he pays no attention. I tossed him a treat to shut him up