by Cate Lawley
Eventually, she frowned at me and then Clarence. “You could try asking your ghost what he wants.”
Clarence coughed and then started to hack as if a monstrous hairball were caught in his throat. Except that was no hairball.
I watched him laugh maniacally for a few more seconds, and when it looked like he wasn’t stopping anytime soon, I raised my voice. “I know what he wants.”
She tipped her head inquisitively as Clarence continued to cackle like a demented crow.
Clarence fell silent just as the tail end of my response boomed through the room. “He wants me to have sex with his wife.”
4
Sunday evening
Awkward. That summed up the remainder of my session with Lilac, the green-haired medium.
Things hadn’t changed that much with women over the years. Add sex to the mix and everything went topsy-turvy.
I tried to explain that it was our resident ghost who was the pervert and not me, but that hadn’t gone to plan. I finally opted to retreat when it became clear the situation had devolved beyond recovery. I scheduled a second session before I was shown the door, but I suspected it would be chaperoned by a very large friend.
If she thought I was a lunatic, so be it, so long as she didn’t try to get me committed. Four white walls would drive me nuttier than the ghostly voices. But I was willing to risk a second meeting, because I’d sniffed a whiff of real talent underneath the green hair and woo-woo façade. There weren’t that many authentic talents running around in the world. With a little cooperation from Clarence, I planned to discover how much of a medium Lilac really was.
An unexpected positive result had been the ease of the interaction, except for that part at the end. I’d found the shop, introduced myself, and even started to have a reasonable conversation about a desired service. I hadn’t done too terribly, emotional support cat aside. It had been . . . not horrible.
Lilac had voiced subtle concerns about my sanity, but that hadn’t happened until the very end. Even as badly as it had ended, I’d survived with nothing more than a few embarrassing memories. Perhaps I’d been too hasty in my attempted brush-off of the friendly Sylvie Baker.
My thoughts were interrupted by Clarence’s hacking laugh. I glanced in my rearview mirror to check on him.
This time he wasn’t laughing, and I had a nasty hairball to clean up when I got home.
“Ugh, that’s disgusting. Why my leather seats? Couldn’t you keep that mess in your seat?”
He shot me a little side-eye as he coughed one last time. “No. If you’re going to make me ride in a booster seat like a kid, then I’m puking on your leather seats. Besides”—he rubbed his jaw along the edge of the cushioned carrier—“this is mine now. Who pukes in their own bed?”
I’d learned quickly that having a loose bobcat in the car, even one possessed by a dead man, was not a good idea. After two near-miss accidents when he’d crawled over me to get a better look out my window, I’d set up some travel rules. One of those rules being that Clarence was only allowed in my car if he was buckled into the booster-seat-like carrier I’d bought for him. He claimed he found it demeaning, but it looked like it was growing on him.
“We gonna ask Bobby why he wants you getting down and dirty with his old lady?” Clarence asked in a studiously nonchalant tone.
“Bobby?” I checked my rearview mirror, but Clarence wouldn’t look me in the eye. I knew there’d been something suspicious going on. “You’ve been chatting with our ghost?”
No wonder the guy was sticking around. With my housemate egging him on, he probably thought he had a chance of catching my ear.
“Maybe.” Clarence cleared his throat. “You gonna make me eat that crap cat kibble if I say yes?”
My relationship with Clarence consisted of a series of negotiations, bribes, and compromises, with me doing most of the compromising and bribing and Clarence mostly threatening me with bobcat urine and hairballs placed in strategically unpleasant places. I only threatened to bop him on his kitty nose when I’d lost all patience.
Once he’d squirmed enough to make me feel a little less peeved about the hairball cleanup in my near future, I said, “No, not yet. But you—you’ll lose fresh-meat privileges if you don’t fess up now. And in Clarence speak, that means telling me everything, leaving nothing out that I might consider important.”
“Can it wait till we get home? The smell of cat yak is making my stomach turn.”
Teeth gritted, I cracked his window and stepped on the gas. Felicide was sadly out of the question. Death of the cat’s body was unlikely to have any effect on Clarence other than leaving him without a physical presence. The real loser in that scenario was an innocent animal.
The point was moot, because I was vehemently opposed to physical violence against helpless animals—which was exactly what that bobcat was when Clarence was removed from the equation. I tried not to think about that poor animal, trapped inside its body without any control of its own actions. That just made me angry as hell, which didn’t help the situation.
Clarence was an unanswered question on many levels. He didn’t have the same expiration problem that most ghosts had. It was known to happen in some instances. I didn’t know why, just that some ghosts—like Clarence—persisted, but most did not. An even more intriguing question was his possession of a nonhuman body. A human ghost inhabiting a nonhuman body hadn’t occurred within my experience, and possession shouldn’t be possible for extended periods of time. The bobcat was Clarence’s permanent host. Mind boggling.
Clarence was an enigma.
An odor rolled through the car, and it wasn’t hairball funk. “Ugh, what is that foul stench?” Then I realized what I’d said and clarified, “That fouler stench.”
Clarence smirked at me in the mirror. “Yesterday’s fish. Better out than in, right?”
A hairball-puking, air-polluting enigma who’d thieved a bobcat’s body. And he was all mine to care for, supervise, and prevent from harming others. Joy.
“In answer to your question, no, it is not ‘better out than in’ when it smells like that.” I cracked the remaining windows and mentally scratched fish off the grocery list. “And I will not wait till we’re home to hear about you and Bobby.”
After some grumping and growling, he relented. “He’s good company. Better than some people. We watch . . .” Clarence muttered something unintelligible.
“What was that?” But I already knew the answer. Clarence thought he was sneaky, but I’d found him out last week. When he hesitated, I said, “No liver for three days.”
“Okay! Give a guy a break. Who knew Geoffy boy was into torture? No liver, humph.” He sniffed. “We like to watch The Great British Baking Show together. There. Are you happy?”
I couldn’t help it; a chuckle slipped out. “I already knew. I just wanted to hear you admit to wanting to watch something besides pornography.”
“What? How? Oh, it was that late night binge last week, wasn’t it? I knew doing the overnight marathon was a risk, but it was too good a chance to miss.” He sniffed again, and I hoped he wasn’t about to spray cat snot on my leather seats just because he was a little embarrassed. “It’s a good show. And there are hot babes.”
“I haven’t seen it.” Not entirely true, but I wasn’t about to make him feel any better. “So, about Bobby?”
“He was a mechanic, died about three weeks ago, and has been haunting his old lady—and us—ever since.”
Sylvie Baker hadn’t looked like a recent widow in the throes of grief, but one could never tell.
“And why would a dead man want a stranger to sleep with his wife?” I asked.
“Well . . . that’s a little complicated.”
My trouble radar, finely honed after years spent interacting with the dead, the dying, and the people surrounding them, was pinging like mad. “Spill, Clarence.”
“Bobby might have been involved in some unsavory dealings before his death—perhaps dealings that
led to his death.”
“Perhaps?”
“He’s not certain. Death fugue and all that.”
It happened, usually when the deceased had died in an especially traumatic way. “Okay, so he doesn’t remember his death, probably because he was murdered. That doesn’t explain why he wants me to do the horizontal tango with his wife.”
Clarence snickered. “Watch it, Geoff. You’re dating yourself. Horizontal tango.” A snort and a chuckle later, he said, “Sylvie’s his ex. They’ve been divorced a few years, but she was his ‘one.’ You know, the one who steals your heart. The one you never get over. The one—”
“I understand, Clarence.”
“Right. Anyway, he’s worried that the people who killed him will come after her next.”
“That doesn’t explain the sex part.” I wasn’t risking another euphemism. Some parts of modern life were a piece of cake, but others . . . well, others came a little slower. But I was retired. I had time to fit in.
Who was I kidding? I hadn’t fit in back when I was human the first time. What were my chances now?
“Yeah, uh, you know, Bobby’s not quite all there.”
The singsong voice, the taunts, the childish behavior—no, he wasn’t. But Clarence was being shady, even for him, and my radar dinged and flashed neon signs of trouble. I sped up as we approached a speed bump.
Clarence lurched in his carrier as I hit it a hair too fast.
“Watch it,” Clarence called out.
“Hm. How about you get around to telling me the important parts, the ones you’re leaving out?” I glanced in the mirror and found him staring mulishly back. “Or I can take a few laps around the block and hit every bump at cat-puking speed. I’ve already got one mess to clean up . . .”
“For a straight and narrow guy, you sure do like your torture. Wait,” he said as we approached the turn to our house.
I slowed down.
“Okay, Bobby’s convinced if Sylvie rocks your world in the sack, you’ll be invested enough to make sure the bad guys don’t get her. So turn already. One upchuck session per ride is enough, thanks.”
“I wonder what gave him the idea that sex with his ex would guarantee my cooperation?” But I turned, foregoing the speed bumps. My back wouldn’t appreciate it any more than Clarence’s stomach.
One decidedly guilty-looking bobcat stared out the window the last few blocks, his nose occasionally twitching at some passing scent.
Finally, I prompted him, “Why?”
“Seriously? Can you blame me? You need to get laid. It’s unnatural going all that time without some warm p—”
“Eh-eh. No you don’t. Remember the house rules.”
A gravelly growl emerged from the backseat. “Only use the second best guest toilet, always flush, don’t scare the cleaning lady, and never talk about your sex life, especially in crass and unsavory terms.”
“That’s right. Do we need to have another discussion about what happens when you break those rules?”
More grumbling with an added hiss or two came from the backseat. “No.”
“So now that we’re clear on the rules, what exactly is Bobby expecting me to do in exchange for sexual favors with his ex-wife?”
“You know, it’s not all quid pro quo. His missus is lonely. It makes him sad to see her like that.”
“Right, and?” I pulled into the driveway.
Clarence huffed out a breath. “And he wants you to figure out who did him in and work your death magic on them so that his missus—his ex-missus—is safe.”
Good grief. “I don’t have any death magic.”
“Shh! We’re almost home. He’ll hear you.”
Not my problem. “He should hear me. You’ve been telling lies. If I remember correctly, Bobby’s not a big fan of falsehoods.” That liar, liar pants on fire chant of his had driven me bonkers since he’d shown up.
“It was more of a fib, a tiny white lie.” His voice turned whiny. “I was lonely. Bobby talks to me. And he watches TV with me. We’re even working on his corporeal form so he can rub my belly.”
“What?” I lowered my voice to a more reasonable decibel, and repeated, “What?” A kitty glare waited for me when I looked over my shoulder.
“You never rub my belly.”
There were simply no words. I was not rubbing any cat’s belly. Not a twenty-five-pound bobcat that could slice and dice my wrists, and especially not pornography-watching Clarence, who I was half convinced had been an aging letch before his death.
No.
5
Monday morning
“Just a little rub. That’s all I want. Come on,” Clarence pleaded.
Now that his secrets were out, both his predilection for British baking shows and the tummy rubs, he wouldn’t leave me alone.
At least he’d waited until after I cleaned up the backseat of the car before he started to nag. When I’d parked, he disappeared inside the house, leaving me alone in the garage with nothing but noxious odors for company.
But then he started in and hadn’t shut up until I’d locked him out of my bedroom last night. I was considering installing a key lock on my bedroom, because he could manage some surprising tasks with those oversized paws and lack of an opposable digit. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he could learn to pick the thumb lock.
First thing in the morning, he was at it again. Pet me. Scratch my chin. Rub my belly. He resembled a needy retriever more than any cat I’d met.
I had a few options. Ignore him, in which case I suspected he’d get louder. Placate him—belly rubs and paw massages? Unthinkable. Or distract him.
Bingo. But distract him with what? The only options that came to mind included messy human problems and all the complications they entailed. While I contemplated the problem, Clarence’s nagging continued.
“I promise not to bite you. I won’t even scratch—much. Come on.” He meandered back and forth in front of me as I walked to the fridge.
He’d almost tripped me three times now. I desperately needed to drink my coffee in peace, or I might overcome my distaste for violence and do him serious harm.
“Milk, Clarence. I need milk for my coffee.” I waited for him to step away from the fridge door.
He looked at me quizzically. “You don’t usually drink your coffee light.”
“It’s a milk sort of a day. Move along.” I nudged him with my foot so I could open the door.
Once I’d dosed my coffee with a solid dollop of milk, I took a drink and tried to think like a rational human being instead of a deranged lunatic.
No joy.
Either Operation Distract began now, or I was going to dropkick the perverted, needy furball across the living room. Enmeshing myself in the messiness of humanity was looking less distressing with each passing minute.
“How ’bout a scratch under the chin? Do a kitty right. Come on.”
Drop. Kick.
I sighed. I’d never forgive myself if I booted him, no matter how much Clarence deserved a hard kick to his nether regions.
“So who were these disreputable characters that Bobby had business dealings with? Because it seems as if he believes they’re the ones who offed him.”
Clarence stopped crisscrossing in front of me and pinned me with one of his sharp feline gazes. “You wanna help her, don’t you? She’s one hot babe, especially in that tight, little pink number. The way it hugs her t—”
“Stop.”
“I was just gonna say ta-tas. That’s not even a dirty word. Or directly to do with your sex life.”
One hard look and he grumbled out an apology.
“Who are these bad men that Bobby worked for? Maybe we should start there. If we can quietly solve Bobby’s murder and then give the cops a solid tip, Sylvie should be safe. Problem solved.” And Clarence couldn’t use me having sex with Sylvie as some twisted carrot to keep Bobby hanging around our house.
“He can’t remember. Death fugue.”
�
�That’s not how it works, Clarence, and you know it. A fugue doesn’t impact life memories. That’s why it’s called death fugue.” I sighed. There was another possibility. “He might have Swiss-cheese memory if he went wrong while becoming a ghost.”
Clarence shrugged, which in his cat form looked like he was ducking his head.
Which meant that I needed to talk to the ghost himself. Wonderful.
I took a breath, steeling myself for the step I was about to take. The step that dropped me off a very steep cliff. “Bobby! Hello, Bobby. It’s Geoff. It’s time you and I spoke.”
“Uh, boss, he told me before that he couldn’t remember who he was working for, just that they were bad guys,” Clarence said. “So, maybe they killed him, maybe they didn’t, he can’t remember. But he does know they were dangerous people.”
The “boss” comment threw me for a loop. So much so that when Bobby arrived, he startled me.
Geoff. Geoff’s gonna sleep with my wife?
The barely visible, faded, and flickering image of a man in his early to mid-forties appeared in the corner of my living room. But he wasn’t looking at me. He was addressing the question to a space near my left kneecap.
Following Bobby’s gaze, I found Clarence shaking his head. He caught me watching him and stopped, his eyes wide and innocent. He slowly squeezed them shut and then opened them in what I’d come to recognize as a purely feline expression of satisfaction.
Of course he was happy. He thought he’d made progress in his plan to pimp me out. He was completely incorrigible and also confused. Even if there was anything in my life of that nature to share, I most certainly wouldn’t share it with Clarence. There would be no vicarious living through me.
“No, Bobby,” I told the faded image in the corner. “I’m not going to sleep with your wife.” The ghost’s image flickered at a more rapid rate, a sure sign of some extreme emotion, so I added, “But she’s beautiful, your ex. Sylvie’s a lovely woman. Exceptionally so.” The flickering continued, so I muddled along. “I mean, I’d love to have sex with your ex, it’s just . . . it’s not necessary.”
