Three-Zee at a Wedding

By John A. Miller, Jr.

What could be more fun than a destination wedding, especially on scenic Cape Cod? Three-Zee Zook and her best friend, Bambi Bamberger, along with other friends and relatives visit the cape for the wedding of Three-Zee’s aunt, looking forward to a week in the sun and surf, and wind up trying to solve the murder of an elderly couple after their ghosts show up near an iconic lighthouse. Complicating the issue even more is the mysterious appearance of the ghosts of passengers from a shipwreck, especially because the shipwreck occurred in November of 1898.

Has Three-Zee finally found love in the person of a Chatham policeman? Are they doomed to drown during a ferocious hurricane? Does Bambi’s relationship with her ghost boyfriend continue, much to Three-Zee’s chagrin? Are modern-day smugglers using a forgotten tunnel to transport stolen goods? With all the chaos around them, do Aunt Gladys and her fiancé ever tie the knot? Finally, who killed the elderly couple and why?

• Language: English
• Publisher: John A. Miller, Jr.
• Release date: Sep 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005586010

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.

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Three-Zee at a Wedding

John A. Miller, Jr.

Copyright 2021 by John A. Miller, Jr.

Smashwords edition

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between any character in this story, except for actual historical figures, and any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

The Storm

View from the Tower

A Wedding Is Coming

Ghost Hosting

Family and Friends

Tragedy at Sea

P’town Follies

Gone Beaching

Hello, Young Lovers

Potential Catastrophe

Aunt-cestors

A New Friend

Pondering Ghosts

Stormy Weather

Looking for the Lost

Questionable Shelter

After the Storm

Back to Reality

A New Home

Under the Sea?

LunaticsRUs

Safety, or Maybe Not

The Stakeout

Rescue

The Morning After

Catastrophe, Almost

The Not-So-Bitter End

Author’s Note

About the Author

Sample of Three-Zee

The Storm

Captain, we’re taking on water.

What? I can barely hear you above this wind. Did you say we’ve sprung a leak?

Either that, sir, or it’s just waves breaking over the bow and the water getting in through the hatches. However, I was just down in the engine room, and there’s at least six inches of water sloshing around down there.

Hell, if that gets much deeper and hits the boiler, who knows what will happen.

The captain peered through the rain-streaked glass on the front of the wheelhouse, but the combination of fog and heavy, sweeping rain filling the night sky had lowered visibility to absolute zero. I can’t tell where we are now, but I’m pretty sure we’re nowhere near where we should be. I only hope we can stay far enough away from Cape Ann. Hitting those rocks would tear a hole in our side and we’d sink like a stone. There’s no way we can hear a bell buoy or see a lighthouse in this weather.

Sir, would it be much better if we went aground on one of the beaches in Cape Cod Bay?

At least then we’d have a chance of staying above the waves. The ship might be lost, but after the storm subsided, we’d probably be able to wade ashore.

Yes, I hope you’re right, sir. Still, I’m worried about that water in the engine room. I’ll go down and see whether it’s gotten deeper. If it’s coming in too fast, we may have to abandon ship.

In this storm I doubt any of our lifeboats could stay afloat, but that may be our only chance.

While his first mate struggled to open the door at the back of the wheelhouse, using all his strength to push against the howling wind whipping around the protruding structure, the captain concentrated on his hopeless task of trying to fathom their location. The compass in the binnacle showed their heading to be due north, which meant they probably would avoid Cape Cod unless the wind, which didn’t seem to be coming from a constant direction had blown them much farther off course than he reckoned. However, Cape Ann was still to the north and, if the wind had blown them too far west, could be dead ahead instead of well off to their port side.

They had set off from Boston on time at seven in the evening on a regularly scheduled overnight voyage to Portland, Maine. His ship, a modern coastal side-wheel steamer of nearly three hundred feet in length, had weathered several storms in its nearly four years of service, but he couldn’t recall one of this intensity. Although its capacity was eight hundred passengers, on this particular voyage the ship was carrying considerably fewer than two hundred. The howling gale had sprung up suddenly and now he feared for the safety of his vessel, its passengers, and crew.

If only I hadn’t stayed for dinner at Marabel’s, he thought. Getting to the pier so close to sailing left me no time to check the weather forecasts, although if the storm approached from out to sea there probably was no notice of it anyway. As he stared at the darkness ahead, he noticed a trickle of water beginning to seep along the edge of one of the large panes of glass where it nestled into its wooden frame. He’d have to remember to notify headquarters after they reached their home berth in Portland.

View from the Tower

Bam, I’m sure you can’t see England from here, I said as I leaned against the sturdy iron railing and peered out over the ocean. I don’t care how high we are, but I’m pretty sure it’s impossible to get that high.

Only on drugs, Bambi said with a laugh. No, you’re right. I was just pulling your chain. It would be impossible to see that far because of the curvature of the earth. Also, England has to be more than three thousand miles away. Just the air alone would be enough to block your view even if the Earth was flat.

Which it isn’t, regardless of what some crackpots say. Still, they’re in a different time zone, so maybe it’s dark in England anyway.

No, not at this time of year. There’s a five-hour time difference—at least I think it’s five hours—so, let’s see…—Bambi looked at her phone—it’s three p.m. here, so that would make it eight p.m. in London, and the days in late June are the longest of the year here in the northern hemisphere.

I’m not sure I care. By the way, you seem to know all this stuff, so how high are we actually?

I asked downstairs in the museum.

You would, I muttered.

Bambi ignored me and continued. The tower is sixty-six feet high, so we’re about fifty feet above the ground—our eyes maybe around fifty-five feet or so. Then the cliff is about one hundred twenty-five feet high, so I’d say our eyes are about one hundred eighty feet above sea level.

Okay, maybe that’s too much information, I said. Bambi Bamberger, my best friend, is the scientific one. My geographic skills run to remembering that the sun rises more or less in the east and sets in the west; at least I think it does.

Did you see the sign that says they moved the lighthouse a few years ago?

Yeah, but I can’t imagine how they could move something this tall. Didn’t it say it was about to fall into the ocean as the cliff under it collapsed, so they had to move it inland a bit?

Yeah, something like that. Erosion is a problem when a lighthouse is near the ocean, and a lighthouse not near the ocean wouldn’t make a whole lot of sense.

No, there aren’t a lot of them in Lancaster County, at least not functional ones. I guess I should explain that Bambi and I hail from Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, the heart of Amish country although neither of us espouses that particular religion. I’m sure they wouldn’t approve of either one of us.

That cliff is pretty scary, I said. We had taken a short walk up a trail to a railed deck near the top of the cliff, an incredibly steep sandy embankment above a fairly narrow sandy beach upon which the surf was pounding relentlessly, helped by a stiff breeze from offshore. I wonder if you could survive a fall down to the beach?

Maybe, but I wouldn’t like to try it.

Neither would I. I suppose there’s access to the beach from somewhere.

I’m sure there is, I think at the end of that road we drove in here on from the highway.

As Bambi spoke, I watched an older couple walk hand-in-hand along the broad path to the overlook. They moved well for people of their obviously advanced years, and I wondered whether I’d be able to find a true love with whom I could walk and hold hands at that age. Sometimes this being unattached at the ripe old age of twenty-nine really sucks. That old couple looks happy, I said.

What old couple?

The one that just walked up on the overlook platform and is now standing at the rail looking out over the ocean.

Three-Zee, I don’t see anybody on the platform.

Oh? Are you sure?

Yes. The platform is completely empty. In fact, there’s nobody between here and the edge of the cliff. Do you still see them?

Yes, I’m afraid I do.

You do know what that means, don’t you?

Yeah, they’re ghosts, said a male voice from the other side of Bambi. Then the owner of that voice faded into view, a disgustingly good-looking male member of the human species. Pete Gardenko has only one problem. He’s a ghost; killed by a bullet more than a year ago. Bambi and he have a thing going between them—have had for more than a year—even though she can neither hear nor see him. Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, I can.

A Wedding Is Coming

My name is Zelanie Zephora Zook, Three-Zee to my family, friends, and probably some of my enemies, too, although I don’t really care about the latter. I have no idea why my parents saddled me with that horrendous moniker. Mom won’t explain, and Dad passed away when I was seven, before I knew enough to ask him, so I live with it.

Bambi and I had taken a week off from our jobs at the Mountain Woods Resort in the Pocono Mountains of eastern Pennsylvania to attend a destination wedding of sorts—a wedding between my mom’s sister and never-before-married aunt, Gladys Snyder, and a neighboring farmer, Terry Baxter. Mom and I, along with my younger brother, Joe, had moved in with my aunt on the family farm in Lancaster County after my father died while our family lived in Oregon. Now that Aunt Gladys was marrying Terry, he was going to buy out Mom’s share of the farm, but she and Joe would be able to live there as long as they wanted. There’d also be room for me if I decided to move back home.

Terry has money, and, fortunately, he’s not tight with it, which is how Bambi and I came to be able to afford this trip to Cape Cod in Massachusetts where we were now standing on the balcony surrounding the Highland or Cape Cod Light. Heck, Terry even paid for us to rent a car because neither my old clunker nor Bambi’s equally elderly pickup probably would have survived the trip. Pete had hitched a ride with the two of us. Today was Sunday—we’d made the three-hundred-plus-mile drive this morning—so we had nearly a whole week to relax and enjoy ourselves before the wedding, which wasn’t until Saturday. Terry had even paid for our lodging in a bed and breakfast in Chatham, which is more-or-less on the elbow of the Cape. (For those of you who don’t know it, Cape Cod is shaped like an enormous, flexed arm, connected to the mainland south of Boston. Provincetown, where the pilgrims actually first landed, is located on a finger, and North Truro, where we were enjoying the view from the lighthouse is on the wrist.)

I suppose I must also explain that I can see and talk with ghosts although why I can do so I haven’t the foggiest idea. Bambi isn’t so gifted. Actually, to date I’ve met only two other people who can or at least who admit they can. My cat, Snickers, also can see and hear them, but I have no idea whether he can talk to them. He can’t talk to me—merely meows, purrs at times, and complains bitterly if his dinner isn’t ready on time. Fortunately, the B&B allows pussycats, so we brought him with us. He’s now taking a nap there, not really being into the whole sightseeing, lighthouse-climbing thing.

Bambi didn’t need Pete’s comment to realize the elderly couple on the viewing platform was a pair of ghosts—she’s well used to my seeing them. However, I’ve never been able to understand her relationship with Pete when the only way she knows he’s there is by the chill he generates when he touches her. In order to keep this story family friendly, I won’t go into any more detail.

I guess we’d better head downstairs, I said, glancing at the time on my phone. That tour guide who led us up here and then had to hurry down to take a phone call said we should come down in about fifteen minutes to make room for the next tour. We made our way down the narrow spiral iron staircase to the ground level and then walked through the gift shop where about six people were waiting to ascend. We went outside and then turned right toward the viewing platform where I planned to engage the elderly couple in conversation, assuming they didn’t decide to fade out before we got there.

As we walked toward the viewing platform, I noticed a large rock next to the path that had a bronze plaque mounted on it. The plaque said something about a shipwreck, but then surely a place like Cape Cod has seen its share of shipwrecks through the years. I snapped a picture for future reference and then hurried to join Bambi who was already a good ten yards or so ahead.

Hello there, I called as we mounted the short ramp from the path onto the platform.

The woman turned and gave me an odd look. Hello, she said. Er, you can see me and hear me?

Yes, I can, but my friend here can’t, I’m afraid.

I can, too, Pete said. I thought I was her friend, too, but I guess not. I gave him a dirty look.

You do realize we’re, well, passed on, the woman said as her companion, probably her husband, turned to look at us. I’m not sure why people avoid using the word dead. Maybe they’re afraid that by saying it they’ll bring it on. However, in this case the couple was already dead, so bringing it on wasn’t an issue.

Yes, I know, I said, and, of course, Pete here is also deceased. There. I did it myself. Have you been, well, you know, for a while?

Not too long. What would you say, Henry? A week, maybe.

No, not that long, Henry replied. I’d say only about three days. Measuring time gets a bit confusing.

Yes, I’ve heard that, I said.

You are still living, dear, aren’t you? the woman asked.

Yes, I’m still alive, and so is Bambi. Do you mind if I ask how you, er, came to be the way you are? Notice, I’m still avoiding saying the dead word.

No, not at all, except we’re not exactly sure what happened. I know we were standing next to our car, and it was an awful wreck and wrapped around a pole, but exactly how it got that way neither of us can remember.

Yes, that’s a common problem for ghosts. Where did it happen?

Along Route 28, just this side of the turnoff to the Chatham municipal buildings. (Route 28 is the southern route along the lower part—let’s say the upper arm—of the Cape.)

I explained this to Bambi, who said, Our bed and breakfast is in Chatham, and I think we were on Route 28 for part of the way getting there.

Mm, you probably were, especially if you left Route 6 at the Orleans rotary. (In Massachusetts-speak, a rotary is a traffic circle or roundabout.) We live in Chatham, too. You don’t sound like Massachusetts folks, though. Are you visiting? the woman said.

We’re from Pennsylvania, here for my aunt’s wedding next Saturday, I explained. Oh, and my name’s Zelanie Zook, but you can call me Three-Zee. The woman looked confused. It’s complicated, I added, "and my friends here—I emphasized the plural—are Bambi Bamberger and Pete Gardenko."

Yes, well, I hope you have a wonderful time, the woman said. Oh yes, where are my manners? My name is Edith Dalrymple, and this is my husband, Henry.

I repeated the names for Bambi’s benefit and then said, Pleased to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Dalrymple.

Oh, there’s no need to be so formal. Edie and Henry will do just fine.

So, do you have any idea what might have caused the accident, Mrs. Dalrymple—er, Edie?

No. I’m not even sure why we were on the road. We don’t usually go to P’town in the summer because of the positive herds of tourists. It’s nearly impossible to find a place to park.

P’town?

Oh yes, I keep forgetting you’re not from here. It’s short for Provincetown.

Ah, I see. Bambi gave me a curious look, so I explained to her. This having to repeat conversations with ghosts can get annoying at times.

You said you’re staying in Chatham. May I ask where exactly?

It’s a bed and breakfast called Seal Shoals although I’m not sure why.

Oh, there are some big sandbars just offshore by the Chatham Light where the seals like to hang out. You can see them from the parking area by the lighthouse. Anyway, that’s quite a coincidence because we live, or I guess I should say lived, just two doors away from Seal Shoals. That’s the bed and breakfast; not the sandbars.

So maybe Mrs. McGillicuddy, the woman who owns Seal Shoals, would know why you were on your way to P’town.

I don’t know. We know Esther, it’s true, but we were never very close. Anyway, I suppose it’s worth a try to ask her.

Have you seen her since the accident?

Well, yes, in a way. After we, er, died—there, she said it—and realized nobody could see or hear us, we decided to walk home. It’s a couple of miles, but we found we didn’t get tired or hot or cold or hungry or thirsty, so we just kept going. Esther was on her front porch talking to a police officer when we got there, but she didn’t know we were there, and she told the policeman she didn’t know anything. I suppose she was telling the truth.

Did she look upset?

Now that you mention it, no, not really. Of course, like I told you, we never were very close.

Mm. How did you wind up here, if I may ask?

Oh, we decided to take a last walking tour of the Cape just in case we can’t remain here. I rather thought we’d go directly to Heaven or Hell, but so far we’re merely here.

I’m afraid I can’t help you much about where you’ll be going next. I think that’s something a higher authority than me has to handle. However, in my experience I’ve discovered that ghosts tend to stick around the area where they died until they find out how and why.

Oh. Well, we kind of know how, I guess. I mean, from what I saw of the remains of our car I doubt anybody could have survived the crash. Why is a different story. I suppose it could have been an accident. It’s easy enough to become distracted or merely lose control, and I guess it’s possible somebody coming from the other direction moved over into our lane and Henry had to swerve. I’m pretty sure Henry was driving because I mostly gave it up a couple of years ago. Bad eyesight. Come to think of it, my vision has been much better since I died.

Yes, other ghosts I’ve met seem to be quite healthy, too. Okay, you get what I mean, I hope. Dead, but with all faculties fully restored.

I don’t remember driving that day, Henry said, but then I don’t remember anything that happened that day until we were standing beside the wreck.

No, that also seems to be normal.

While I was carrying on this conversation, I noticed Bambi and Pete had walked down the slight grade to the lighthouse. While Pete could have participated, Bambi would have had no clue as to what was going on, being able to hear only what I was saying. Usually, I try to repeat at least the gist of what the ghosts are saying, but in a longer discussion such as this one had become, repeating everything would be annoying to say the least. I could sum things up later if Bambi was interested.

I assume you haven’t gone to the police headquarters to see whether they’ve come up with more details, I said.

No, I guess I never thought of that, Henry said. It might be a good idea, though. I suppose the Chatham Police would handle the whole thing.

One of my problems when dealing with ghosts—Bambi tells me I have a lot of problems, but I’m trying to be specific here—is that I can’t seem to let Mother Nature or God or whoever handle things, so I tend to get involved. This has caused several ancillary problems, such as nearly getting both Bambi and me killed a couple of times. However, I never seem to learn. Consequently, I opened my big mouth.

I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you both ride along with us? We’re heading back to Seal Shoals now because it’s getting too late in the afternoon to check out Provincetown, and anyway, we have most of the week to do it. We can drop you off at the police station, or you can go back to your house for the night.

That’s very kind of you, dear, but do you think we can ride in a car? Edie asked. I mean, we seem to be able to walk through walls and things, but I’m not sure about a car.

Pete does it all the time—he actually rode up here with us from Pennsylvania—and other ghosts I knew could do it, too. You don’t have to open the car doors or anything like that—merely walk in through the side of the car and take a seat. Bambi and I aren’t using the back seat, so you’ll be able to sit there with Pete.

If you’re sure it’s okay.

Oh, it’s okay. Did I ask Bambi? Did I ask Pete? Of course not. Why ask their opinions, especially Pete’s, who could see and talk to the Dalrymples and would have to share the back seat with them? Of course, Pete could merely move to the front seat and share the same space with Bambi or me, but that would cause a chill for the person sharing. Hm. Maybe Bambi would like that. I’d have to ask her. If that happened, though, it would be better if I were driving at the time. Also, I wasn’t sure how straitlaced the Dalrymples might be. They did hail from a different and probably less permissive era.

Ghost Hosting

Pete said he didn’t mind sharing the back seat with the elderly couple, but when I suggested he might want to share Bambi’s portion of the front seat with her he did get a leer on his face. Bambi, while also grinning when I made that suggestion, said she had no problem with the Dalrymples using the back seat considering