by Cate Lawley
“It’s getting close to date time. You better go get ready.” Clarence snickered.
“You have a strange understanding of what constitutes a date. And I’m not taking my clothes off, you old letch. Not till you can guarantee that she’s gone.”
“Hmmm.”
His noncommittal response didn’t reassure me, which meant I had to find a way to detect ghosts without the help of my self-interested housemate.
I was placing my faith in Lilac, the green-haired medium. Good thing I had an appointment with her tomorrow. My strategy was to ease into the problem by starting with ghost detecting. Then, once we tackled detection, I’d hit her with my second request: repelling ghosts. A charm, a cleansing ritual, a spell, there had to be some magical recourse for people who didn’t want to interact with the dead.
Also, repelling didn’t sound nearly so bad as exterminating, so maybe she’d give it a whirl. Lilac might not have thought she had an answer, but if she put her mind to it and tapped her contacts, I hoped she’d be able to help me.
What had she said? Something about visitors from another plane not being pests. Well, I might also attempt to disabuse her of that naïve notion to see if that improved her motivation to help out a poor haunted man.
“Hey, Geoff.” Clarence smacked me with a paw, claws sheathed, thankfully, but it felt like getting hit by a billy club. “Anyone home in there? You gotta get a move on, buddy.”
Right. My appointment with the peeper. I rubbed my arm.
“And I really think you should consider stripping down to at least your skivvies before saying anything.” He shouted at my retreating back, “I think she’s more likely to stick around if she has something to ogle.”
A few minutes of running water, and the bathroom mirror was steaming up. I’d tried to keep to the same routine, but most of my nightly ritual occurred without actual thought or planning, so I couldn’t be certain I’d mimicked it.
Now was probably about when I was taking off my clothes. I didn’t know how those guys in the clubs did it with throngs of screaming women watching. Even with only one silent observer, pulling off my T-shirt felt sleazy.
As I shucked my jeans, I tried to convince myself that being almost naked—in nothing but my boxer briefs—wasn’t much worse than going to the pool or the lake. But it just wasn’t the same.
Time to speak up or I’d lose the opportunity, because it certainly wasn’t normal for me to give myself silent pep talks in the bathroom. Except I had no idea how to begin a polite conversation with this woman. A shame Clarence and I hadn’t rehearsed the “what to say” part of this plan.
“Ah, Ginny?”
The still, humid air in the bathroom rippled with what felt like a breeze. That had to be her.
“Ginny, I just had a few questions for you.” I heard a feminine gasp and quickly said, “It won’t take long, I promise, but it’s important.”
The silence in the small room felt heavy. Then a second stirring of air, and I suspected, though couldn’t be certain, that I was alone.
“Wait a second,” I called out.
“She’s doing a runner,” Clarence said from the other side of the door.
My only hope now was that she hadn’t immediately left the house. I paused long enough to pull on my jeans before joining Clarence in my bedroom. I knew this was a terrible plan. Why had I listened to that deranged feline?
The deranged feline who was lounging on my pillow while cleaning his nether regions.
The book I was currently reading, the one I’d picked up in an attempt to moderate my emotions when dealing with Clarence, mentioned the creation of boundaries and clearly communicating those boundaries. I don’t believe the author could possibly have imagined someone like Clarence, and I was beginning to doubt her advice. Violence seemed more appealing with each passing day I spent in his proximity.
One look at my face, and he jumped off and trotted down the hall. He called over his shoulder, “This way, Romeo.”
I jogged to catch up.
“What did you say to her?” he asked. “She booked it out of there like her wispy butt was on fire.”
Trotting after him, I said, “Nothing offensive. Maybe it was just a terrible idea. Maybe you should have asked for her help, since you know her.”
“Here’s the thing. She’s a little temperamental, and—”
The sound of glass breaking in the kitchen cut Clarence off and had me stopping in my tracks. It looked like our ghostly visitor had stuck around inside the house after all.
“Uh-oh.” Clarence’s fluffy rear disappeared around the corner to the living room. “You might have pissed her off, boss.”
“How? I said maybe a dozen words to her.”
Another loud crash preceded Clarence’s disembodied response. “Seems that was enough.”
When I rounded the corner and got a good look into the kitchen, I couldn’t believe it. She was smashing my condiments on the concrete floor. The refrigerator door hung open and a jar of pickles floated in the air.
The crashing of glass followed by the spray of pickle juice had me backing quietly out of the kitchen. “Clarence, is she saying anything?”
Clarence was frozen near the entry to the kitchen and didn’t respond.
“Ginny, I’m very sorry for any misunderstanding.” Though I wasn’t. She was a crazy woman. But an apology seemed a sensible sentiment to voice.
A small jar of mayo floated into the air, but this time she didn’t smash it on the floor.
Clarence’s girly squeal at the near miss when it shattered against the wall behind him would have been entertaining under other circumstances, but my kitchen was starting to look like a food fight gone horribly wrong.
“You don’t want to hurt Clarence, Ginny.”
Don’t I?
Finally, a response . . . except my brain was scrambling to find a reasonable reply. A difficult task, since I frequently wanted to clock Clarence myself. “I know he’s a pain—”
A jar of jam landed a few inches closer to Clarence. The bright red goo that splattered on his fur looked a little too like blood.
“Ginny, wait just a second. He’s a pain, but he has good intentions.” Probably. Maybe.
The rat, he snitched. You wanna squeal, little rat? How about this?
A glass pint of my favorite local milk—un-homogenized and only sold at one farmers market in town—smashed into the wall behind Clarence. Man, I liked that milk.
A glass jar of Dijon mustard floated out of the fridge.
“Ah, Clarence, it’s probably a good time to retreat, don’t you think?”
“Can’t.” He still hadn’t moved a muscle.
He moves, and I’ll smash his little rat brains into the wall.
This was going too far. Ginny had serious anger issues in addition to her unsavory peeping predilections. Either she’d been a nut job as a human, or she was going off as a ghost. Becoming a ghost didn’t make you angry or violent. Maybe frustrated if you lost some functionality, and that could definitely happen. Case in point, Bobby. But this much anger was either there to begin with, or Ginny wasn’t a particularly fresh specimen and she was losing it.
Just what we needed, two violent crazies in the neighborhood.
There was no subtle way to ask, so I dropped the bomb. “How long have you been a ghost, Ginny?”
The French mustard that she’d pulled from the fridge fell to the ground. I flinched then relaxed slightly when the plastic container bounced.
I’m not crazy.
A quick look around my kitchen said otherwise. “Okay, then tell me how long.”
A while . . . but I’m still all here. You know, as much as I ever was.
“Yeah?” Definite pre-death anger issues. “That’s good news. So what’s got you so upset?”
Ginny flickered into a semi-solid state in front of the open fridge. Semi-solid, several steps up from transparent, meant she was a powerful ghost. And if her clothes, makeup, and hair were anything
to go by, she was original to the neighborhood, circa late seventies.
Her long, blonde hair fluttered as if moved by a breeze, and she pointed a finger at Clarence. “He promised me.”
“Ginny, sweetheart, I didn’t have a choice.” Clarence was feeling braver. Maybe it was the lack of a hovering projectile. “We needed to talk to you. And I didn’t say anything about . . . you know, just where and when to find you.”
Ginny glanced nervously at me, her image flickering. Not a good sign when dealing with an unstable ghost, because that usually meant emotions were running high.
Clarence cleared his throat, and I caught the hint. “I have no idea what he’s talking about,” I said.
The flickering stopped. “Really?”
“Not a clue. I was looking for a witness, and Clarence said he knew another ghost in the area. I had a few questions, so Clarence told me where to find you.”
The fluttering curls settled into a cloud around her oval face. She’d had a gorgeous head of thick, curly hair—back when she was alive. She was actually quite pretty when she wasn’t being psychotic.
She turned her full attention to me, waiting.
“Ah, there was an explosion across the street this morning. Bobby, the ghost haunting the house, was away before it happened and didn’t see who might have caused it.”
She rolled her eyes. “He’s not exactly all there. And he has to recharge all the time. I don’t think he’ll be around for long.”
“He might be gone faster if we could put his mind at ease.”
“Oh?” That perked her up. “How can I help?”
Wild mood swings in addition to the anger, violence, and voyeurism issues—and she liked to hang out at my house. Just great. “Did you see anyone or anything that might lead us to the person responsible for the explosion?”
“I didn’t see who set it. I was on the other end of the street.”
That was disappointing. “I see. Perhaps you have some information that might help us find the person?”
She twirled a long curl around her finger. “You have a time frame? You know, when it might have been set?”
Clarence had crept closer while she’d been distracted. He was eyeing the mess on the floor with wide eyes, so I nudged him with my toe. “Clarence thinks three days.”
He licked his lips, so I nudged him again. Finally, he grunted. “What?”
“Quit eyeing the condiments. You can’t eat any of that.” My nose couldn’t handle the resulting stomach distress that Clarence would be putting his poor bobcat body through.
He let out a disgruntled growl.
“Three days, huh?” At Clarence’s nod, she whistled. “Well, boys, it’s a neighbor.”
Clarence and I shared a look. Austin suburbia housed a bomber? Not likely. And a bomber who had Sylvie’s ex in their sights and happened to live in Sylvie’s neighborhood. What were the odds?
My skepticism must have leaked through, because Ginny crossed her arms and cocked her hip. At least the flickering had stopped. “Look, it’s like this. This is my neighborhood. I keep an eye out, and unlike loony Bobby, I don’t have to disappear every five seconds to recharge. I’m grounded in this plane and to this neighborhood. I see who comes and who goes. And except for a few delivery people”—she stabbed the air with her pointing finger—“the only people who’ve come and gone on this street for the last three days are people who live here.”
“That explains it. It must have been a delivery person.”
Arms still crossed, Ginny shook her head. “I watch the postman and the regular delivery men. I like to keep up-to-date. You’d be surprised by what some people around here get up to with their mail orders.” She shot me a knowing look.
Since she was a voyeur who enjoyed spying on me in my most private moments, I didn’t think she had much room to judge. Especially since my deliveries couldn’t be more mundane. But I was all about keeping this conversation civil—and my grocery bill from growing any larger—so I bit my tongue.
“You didn’t step away for a little while, maybe long enough for a bomb to be planted?” My question brought back the ghostly breeze.
At least still she wasn’t flickering or picking up condiment missiles.
“Geoff, she’s grounded to this plane and, like she said, to this neighborhood,” Clarence said. “That means she doesn’t disappear in the ether to charge up her ghost battery, but it also means she’s limited in her ability to travel.” His whiskers twitched—with sympathy? “What’s your limit, Gin?”
Her curls fluttered against her pale cheek. “Three blocks. My house is gone, replaced by a generic monster house, the kind that brushes up against the property lines.” Her expression turned sad. “They bulldozed my garden.”
Ouch. And I knew the house she meant. It was at the very end of the street.
“I apologize, Ginny,” I said. “I’m sure you’re right; I’m just having a hard time envisioning a scenario that involves one neighbor bombing another.” Even saying the word “bombing” in combination with neighbor made me uncomfortable.
The breeze stilled, and her hair settled around her face again. “Why? Almost half your neighbors have moved in within the last eighteen months, and then half of those within the last year. And the kind of people that land on this street . . .” She raised her eyebrows.
“Now that, Ginny, is very interesting. Can you give me a list of the most recent people, counting back, say, six months?”
She smiled warmly. “Of course.”
Now didn’t seem the ideal moment to ask her to please stop ogling me in the buff, so I just expressed my thanks.
Five minutes later, Clarence and I had a list of ten names. Sylvie was absent, because she’d moved in just over six months ago, but Mrs. Gonzalez was included, as were some other familiar names. And I’d thought Mrs. G was a fixture in the neighborhood.
Once Clarence had declared the room Ginny-free, I turned a hand to tidying. I didn’t want to give my cleaning lady any reason to think something untoward was happening in the house, even if there was. She cleaned, she washed and ironed, and she even cooked a bit. The woman was a gem, and I wasn’t losing her over some ghostly contretemps.
Clarence’s eyes were huge as he watched me sweep up glass and goo. This hardly qualified as food and still he was eyeballing it like it was a feast. That really seemed more doglike than cat, but Clarence was a man unto himself.
Before I forgot, I asked him, “What was Ginny so worried that you’d told me?”
“Oh, that.” He licked his lips. “She’s actually not as much a peeper as a girl in love.”
I carefully set down the piece of glass I’d picked up. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Hm, yeah, Ginny’s in love.” Clarence turned his brilliant green eyes toward me. “Ever since you tried to collect her soul back in the seventies. Guess that didn’t work out so great? Since she’s here and all.”
No. No way. I’d remember her. And a failed collection? I didn’t think so. I hadn’t made those kinds of mistakes.
“That’s not right.” Then I remembered. Suicide. A twenty-four-year-old woman found hanging in the living room. It hadn’t been my assignment originally, but I’d received it last minute and arrived several minutes after her death.
That I’d forgotten a soul collection so close to my own home was more than surprising. That I’d not recognized her, even considering the changes in her appearance brought about by crossing over, was so unlikely as to be practically impossible.
Except that I had.
“Genevieve, that was her name.” I chucked the last of the large glass shards in the trash. “That’s all she would say. I couldn’t get anything else out of her. I assumed death fugue, but I arrived long enough after death that she’d already begun to leave her body.”
“That’s a nasty, big black mark for you guys. What were you doing, catching a catnap when the call went out?” He looked disappointed, as if he had any kind of expectations regarding my pro
ficiency or lack thereof.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but it was a last-minute assignment change and couldn’t be helped.”
“Too bad, since she was probably scared out of her mind.”
I stepped away from the gooey mess and turned my full attention to Clarence. “She would have barely had long enough to realize she was dead. Questions about the great beyond and what was to come weren’t even a glimmer.”
“I know that. I’m talking about the way she died.” His attention was drifting back to the food. “Any idea if cats can eat pickles? I’m thinking yes, because they smell really good.” He licked his lips.
“I don’t know.” I stepped between him and the glass-pebbled pickles. “Clarence, pay attention. What do you mean about the way she died? She killed herself. Tragic, but—”
“No.” His head snaked around my leg but his haunches stayed firmly planted on the ground.
“No what?” When my question failed to grab his attention, I snapped my fingers in front of his face.
He flashed a little fang at me then shook his head. “Sorry. I think I’m overdue a meal. I mean, no, she didn’t kill herself. She was murdered. She told me so.”
And it hit me, my memories of the scene coming back in a rush. It had been all wrong.
A woman hanging herself should have been my first clue. It happened, but it was hardly common. And something had just felt off—still felt off. Why were my recollections so hesitant to surface?
Back then, I’d been a soul collector. Finding out the how and the who of deaths hadn’t been my responsibility. But that was then and this was now. As a retired soul collector, my time was my own.
“When Sylvie’s safe, you and I are going to have a look at Genevieve’s death.”
“We are?” Clarence asked, but he had the largest, most Cheshire-like grin plastered to his face that I’d ever seen him wear. “I think that’s an excellent idea, boss.”
Clarence was on board. No huge surprise, since he complained daily of soul-crushing boredom.
But there was something weighing heavier on me than Genevieve’s possible murder and my unnaturally faded recollections. Clarence was wrong about my competence. I had collected her soul. Collected it and delivered it.
