by Cate Lawley
How in the hell had she come back?
10
Tuesday morning
“Take me with you. Come on, you know you want to.” Clarence stalked in front of me as I prepared to head out the door.
Much as I tried to concentrate—on Bobby’s disreputable history, on solving Sylvie’s bombing debacle, and to a lesser degree, on the truly baffling existence of Genevieve on this plane—I couldn’t. Not while who knew what ghosts hovered around without my knowledge.
And I certainly hadn’t been able to take a bath last night. A five-minute shower this morning was the best I’d managed, and while my back was feeling better, I still would have liked a nice soak. I’d never considered myself particularly self-conscious about my body, but having been the target of a voyeur for days, if not weeks—one with a particular interest in seeing me in the buff—had made me a little more so.
I needed Lilac’s help. She was the only person besides Clarence I knew might have a connection to the other side and also might have useful contacts. And she’d been willing to bump my appointment up for a nice little bonus.
Careful not to kick Clarence—much as the fluffy perv deserved it—I walked the remaining five feet to the garage door and grabbed my keys off the peg next to the door. “I looked up that public-access thing.”
Did I hear the faint whistling tune of a guilty cat?
“Clarence.”
“What? It’s a thing, emotional support animals. I figure you used to be death, so you probably have a lot of unresolved issues. Who better to utilize an emotional support cat than the guy who’s been death?” He waggled his nonexistent eyebrows at me.
“One of the deaths, and don’t do that when other people are around. It looks really bizarre.”
“Don’t do what?” He plopped down on the stained concrete floor like it was a down bed, then sprawled out with an abandon my knees and back envied. Stretched out like that, he looked twice his size.
“Never mind. My point was that there’s no such thing as a public-access cat.” I stepped over him, refusing to touch on the topic of my post-soul-collector psychological needs. “A little research revealed some startling facts. For one, claiming that you’re an emotional support animal is probably some kind of federal crime.”
His voice took on a whiny pitch. “But I wanna go with you. I hate staying at the house all day long. It’s bo-ring. So boring. Dullsville.” He rolled onto his side, displaying his fluffy underbelly as he clenched and unclenched his claws, kneading the air.
“And the cardinals in the backyard?” I eyed him critically. He knew I knew about those birds.
His whiskers twitched.
I’d seen him staring for half an hour or more the other day. “Hm?”
“Okay, except for Mr. and Mrs. Red, your place is the worst sort of dull. There’s not even any porn since you blocked all the good channels. No pay-per-view. No instant-watch rentals of any kind. You suck.”
“I pay the bills. And since you have no money . . .” I paused, waiting to see if he denied it. I had my suspicions about Clarence, and one of them was that he had a stash of cash socked away. “Right. Since you have no money, you’re stuck with me paying the bills and that includes making the call on which programs we have in the house.”
A grumbling/growling combo emerged from Clarence’s throat.
Was he becoming more catlike, or was that just my imagination?
“So, take me with, and if Lilac won’t let me come in, you can leave me in the car.” He gave me his sad cat face.
“Ugh. Just stop that. I told you before: you don’t look sad when you do that, just demented.”
His features resumed their more natural, smug expression. “So I’m in?”
“You’re in.” I met his gaze and gave him a hard look. “But if you end up in the car, and someone calls animal control, you’re never leaving the house again.”
His eyes widened.
“I mean it.”
He growled again, but it was distinctly human this time. “Fine. I’ll keep a low profile.”
Clarence convinced me to take him inside when we arrived, swearing he’d be on his best behavior until we got the okay for him to stay for the session.
So I brought him in with me to ask if he might stay, even though he wasn’t actually my emotional support cat. My second mistake.
The first had been threatening him with house arrest if he got caught in the car and got me in trouble.
To give Clarence credit, he was exceptionally polite when he broke all the rules, opened his yap, and (very sweetly) begged Lilac’s understanding. He mentioned hot cars, uncomfortable seat cushions, and his general desire to be entertained and not bored out of his mind in the car. Then he went on to detail his exact level of boredom in my home, including the lack of porn, and explained that he couldn’t risk house arrest by staying in the car outside.
He’d have blathered on indefinitely if I hadn’t shut him up with a nudge (kick) to his furry posterior. In my defense, he’d ignored my other, less physical attempts to interrupt him.
Once he grunted then shut his trap, Lilac backed up several feet and stared.
For a while.
Eventually, she said, “Are you a ventriloquist or something?”
“Or something,” Clarence said with a chuckle, his amusement a clear indication he was oblivious to the repercussions of his actions. Nothing but dry kibble stretched into his future, and any minute now he was going to figure that out.
Regret was only one of the many emotions I experienced as I considered dropkicking Clarence across the room. Regret that I hadn’t left the furry idiot in the car, or better yet, at home. Anger that I’d been stupid enough to fall for his best-behavior act.
He’d outed himself, never once considering that it was my rear on the line if anything went awry. Anything like, say, a giant leak of supernatural info into the mundane world. Dry kibble was just the beginning of what I had planned for his meddling, furry hind end.
“Do it again.” Lilac’s request yanked me out of my torture-leaning musings—and just when I was getting to the good parts.
“Okay,” Clarence said in the most agreeable tone I’d ever heard come out of his fanged mouth. “Finally, a discerning ear. You have no idea how hard it’s been, being the silent companion to Mr. Straight and Narrow here. This guy, he’s a complete dud in the conversation arena. You should have seen him try to make small talk with our neighbor. She is one fine piece of—”
“Tsch. That’s enough.” She held up her hand, her gaze flitting between Clarence and me.
“I know. It’s unsettling.” I shot Clarence a nasty look that couldn’t come close to expressing how completely screwed he was. “Hearing the words but having no visual cues is unnerving, but trust me, it would be worse if his mouth moved.”
“Uh-huh.” She seemed to be taking it really well. No fainting, praying, nor exorcising of demons. Not yet. Her gaze zeroed in on Clarence’s mouth. “And how exactly is he talking? Since his mouth isn’t moving.”
“Ah. It’s not actually the cat who’s talking. Cats don’t have the requisite anatomy for speech.” She gave me an exasperated, you’re-an-idiot look, so I hurried up the explanation. “The cat’s possessed by a talking ghost.”
Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared—but she didn’t say a word.
In a stage whisper that the neighbors could probably hear, Clarence said, “I think she might be having a meltdown.”
One warning glance had him whistling away.
Lilac shook her head. “He whistles, too?”
“Yeah. It’s incredibly annoying. But yes. If you can think of him as deceased, as a ghost and not a cat, then it’s easier.”
“A powerful and exceptionally talented ghost.” Clarence stretched then collapsed in a heap of fur, looking far too pleased with himself.
She made a strangled sound.
The man’s ego knew no bounds, and the cat knew no place he couldn’t make himself
comfortable. The combination of human and feline traits was normally jarring, but right now it was making my left eye twitch with the hint of a looming migraine.
“I’m usually an open-minded person.” Lilac paused as if her next thought had slipped away. I was guessing there was a “but” waiting in the wings.
“And we’ll just wait while the green-haired, positive-energy medium lady states the obvious.” Clarence snickered until I shot him a warning look.
Lilac shifted to face me more squarely, thereby excluding Clarence from the conversation. “So, let’s say, in my open-mindedness, that I might just believe you. What’s your deal? Why do you need me if you’re hanging out with a possessed cat?” She squinted, examining me like I was a nasty bug she might squish, then took another step back. “Wait, are you possessed, too?”
“Oh, no. He’s death.”
“Clarence, will you stop it with the death talk?” I said. “It’s creepy.”
Lilac snatched a crystal off the shelf next to her—not a particularly useful one, in my opinion—and clutched it tightly in her fist. “So . . . you are death or you’re not death?”
“One of the deaths. And no, not anymore.”
“One of . . . Wait, what do you mean, ‘not anymore’? What does that mean? How can you not be death anymore?” She was inching toward the side table where her cell phone was stashed.
She was probably rethinking her decision to meet us alone again. I sighed. She seemed like such a nice lady. She had good energy.
“I’m retired.”
Hysterical laughter gurgled from her throat. “Retired?” she asked, her voice pitched much higher than before.
How was having a retired death in your store worse than having a working death in your store? I really was out of touch. “Retired, as in, I don’t do that kind of work anymore. Retired, as in, with a pension and healthcare. My prescription plan could use a little work and my dental isn’t the best, but otherwise, it’s a pretty nice package.”
She broke out in belly-deep laughter. Wiping at the tears in her eyes, she said, “You’re kidding.” But the look on my face must have said otherwise, because she stilled, tilted her head, and blew out a harsh breath. “You’re not kidding.”
“Yes! Score one for Team Death.” If he’d had a fist to pump, I was sure Clarence would have been pumping away. As it was, he had a creepy Cheshire grin plastered to his face.
“Retired,” I reminded him. He really liked to forget that part.
“Team Retired Death?” His grin faded a little. “No, that doesn’t work.”
Lilac tucked her hair behind her ear. “If you were death—”
“One of the deaths. There’s a bunch of us.” I shrugged. “It’s a big job.”
“Okay. That’s what you used to be, but you’re a normal guy now?”
That was sticky, so while I stuck to the truth, I omitted some information. “I’m human.”
“Uh-huh. You’re human, but you used to be death.”
“I get that it’s confusing, surprising, disturbing—but if you’re good with Clarence being possessed and me being retired, can we talk about my problem?” I wasn’t insensitive—at least, I didn’t think so. It was just that sometimes people dealt with stressful situations better if they had a specific task to focus on.
“Out.” She said it quietly at first, so I might not have moved as quickly as I ought. “Out. Out, out, out, out! Get out of my shop right now!”
Perhaps I’d miscalculated in requesting her help. I rubbed my ears after she hit a particularly high note. Her response didn’t seem in alignment with the new age feel of her shop.
“Out!”
Definitely miscalculated.
11
Tuesday late morning
Lilac hadn’t been in the proper state of mind for a consult—her shrill demands that we leave might have tipped me off—but I’d managed to leave my card with a scribbled note on the back before making a hasty exit. Waiting around until she’d calmed down hadn’t been an option in case she decided to call the police.
Leaving her in that unsettled state had been a gamble. She might talk, she might not, and if she did, there was always the possibility of someone believing her. But I was wagering she’d keep it to herself. That she’d consider the possibilities. Lilac seemed like a lady who was open to the possibilities.
And if she did tattle to the world, there was always the looney bin. Denial was my friend, and I’d deny, deny, deny till the cows came home, in the hopes that she would be the one who'd end up in a room with padded walls and not me.
Each of those scenarios involved risk, which resulted in a corresponding amount of stress. Added to that, I still didn’t feel comfortable in my own home. The failure of my appointment with Lilac to produce even the hint of a viable ghost repellant or warning system meant that I hadn’t a clue how pest-ridden my place was. Exactly how many ghosts had Clarence not told me about? And were they hovering around in the corners of my home right now?
Which was how I ended up at the library.
I liked libraries.
They were quiet, peaceful places. They also weren’t likely to be the scenes of murder or suicide, and highly unlikely to have had any event transpire within their walls that would make a ghost more likely to reside there.
My neighborhood library was set apart from the residential area slightly, so I had hopes that it didn’t get short-range ghostly travelers.
Without the threat of a ghostly pest peering invisibly over my shoulder, I could think. And with Clarence absent, I could think without interruption.
Even Clarence yielded when I mentioned my destination. He’d finally caved on the emotional support cat issue, since landing me in federal prison—an unlikely end, but one I nonetheless had played up as a possibility—would result in my replacement. A known evil was better than an unknown in Clarence’s eyes, or so it seemed.
It was frustrating that I’d landed amid so many ghosts with the purchase of my new home.
Ghosts weren’t actually all that common, since they usually involved a failed soul collection. I’d have said always involved a failed collection, but it seemed I’d never understood those rules, or they’d changed at some point, because now there was Ginny.
A young woman saw me waiting at the help desk and waved.
She looked like she was in her twenties, though age was difficult for me to gauge since my return to the human fold. Jeans, a T-shirt, a beautiful porcelain complexion, and an open, friendly expression made this particular librarian unlike any I’d seen when I’d been human the first time around.
Then I landed on a reasonable explanation. “Are you a volunteer here?”
She grinned. “I’m a librarian.”
Ah. Somewhat awkward. I flashed her an apologetic and slightly embarrassed smile. “Sorry about that.”
“No problem,” she said, her cheerful demeanor intact. “How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for information about a death that occurred in the mid-to-late seventies. I have a first name and an address, but that’s it.”
“Did you start your research online?” She motioned for me to step to the side of the help desk, where her computer was located.
And I was, once again, revealed to be an archaic outsider.
“I’m not very comfortable with computers.” I gave her an embarrassed, apologetic smile. “I came here first.”
Her grin reappeared, so I’d either salvaged a little charm from the old days or she was that glad to have the library be a first port of call. Since the parking lot had contained a total of three cars, I suspected the latter.
“If there’s information available, I can certainly help you find it.” She held out her hand. “I’m Avery.”
First names on initial introduction—yet another sign of the changing times. I grasped her hand. “Geoff. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Avery pulled a pad of paper closer and picked up a pen, her demeanor becoming bus
inesslike. “Let’s see what we can find.”
After jotting down what little I knew—first name, age at death, home address, and suspected cause of death—she sat down in front of her computer and pulled up a newspaper clearinghouse. “It contains articles and citations, so with a little luck . . .” Her voice drifted away as her attention was consumed by the screen.
Several minutes later, Avery had a potential name. “Genevieve isn’t that common of a first name in the obituaries, so I’m only finding a few in the Austin area, and only one who died at age twenty-four. Genevieve Weber. Cause of death isn’t listed, but it wouldn’t be in the case of suicide.”
“Are there any other details?”
Avery nodded. “Just a second, and I’ll print it out for you. If this is the person you’re looking for, there’s a second citation, but you’ll have to go to the Austin History Center to find it. That’s the local history division of the library,” she added when I gave her a blank look. “The local paper is archived there.”
“Ah, I see. Thank you.” I had visions of dusty stacks of newspapers, but that probably wasn’t how it worked at all. Another adventure for another day.
When she returned with the printout, I discovered the article had a picture—a picture of Ginny. I had a name: Genevieve Weber. Nothing I couldn’t get from Ginny herself, considering she didn’t suffer from Bobby’s Swiss-cheese brain, but she also wasn’t as predictably accommodating as Bobby. It was a good start: a name, an obit, and another article that would hopefully shed more light on her death.
Next on my list was a browse of the nonfiction section. I gave up on a computer book about two seconds after I started looking, realizing that perhaps a book wasn’t the best avenue to further my education. Better to ask my helpful librarian about that one.
That left the fiction section. I spent a pleasant hour losing myself in the rows and rows of stories. When I was done, I had two books and a much clearer head. I was once again ready to head to my house and face the ghosts, or not face them if they were lurking. Except my eye was drawn to the nonfiction section again—perhaps there was something here that could help my ghost problem.
