“It's you,” Otis said.
She smiled mutely. What else could she do?
“Fancy meeting you here,” he said, returning her smile with a grin. Was it a knowing grin, or a genuine one? She couldn't tell.
She shrugged and batted her eyelashes.
“How is your dog?” he asked. “Your dog.” He set down the spoon he'd been using to ladle something red, held his two hands up like paws, and barked. “Woof woof.”
“Woof woof,” she answered, smiling and nodding. Teddy was having the time of his life with his new ghost buddy who stayed up all night.
“Your dog's not here with you,” Otis said. “I saw you arrive in a taxi. No dog. Dog had to stay home.” He leaned over a large pot and pulled out an enormous soup bone. “Would your dog like this as a treat, or is it too big?” He held out the bone toward her. “For dog. Woof woof.”
Piper felt conflicted. As much as she found Otis charming, with his wavy brown hair that begged to be tousled by her fingers, and his bright-blue eyes that made her feel like she was dipping into a cool mountain lake whenever he looked at her, she hadn't come here looking for a soggy dog bone. Sure, Teddy would love the treat from a stranger, but it would ruin the lining of her designer purse.
Then again, there was Otis and his cool blue eyes, beseeching her to accept his gift.
She unbuckled her purse and reluctantly held it open in front of her.
Otis laughed. “You're so cute when you're squeamish.” He shook his head. “And you have no idea what I'm saying. I must seem crazy to you.” He waved the bone before twirling it like a baton. “Of course I don't expect you to take it like this. I'll wrap it up in some plastic, plus a layer of tinfoil. The inside of your purse won't get dirty at all. Just give me a minute.” He busied himself with wrapping up the soup bone.
Piper checked the clock on the wall of the kitchen. Even if the memorial had started late, it would already be underway. She'd wasted time on a pep talk in the washroom, and now she was hanging out in the kitchen, pretending to not speak English, watching a young man wrap a dog bone with the care and attention one might give a Fabergé egg.
Well, she told herself, you went to meet George Morrison exactly one week ago because you wanted to make your life more interesting, and you've certainly accomplished that. She smiled at Otis as he wrapped butcher's twine around the package.
“I hope your dog will love this enough to put in a good word for me,” Otis said. “Maybe I could hang out with you two sometime. I'd love to have a dog of my own, but I'm too busy, between running the diner and the catering jobs. Is there a park where the two of you go to walk?” He scrunched his face, his bright-blue eyes dimming with frustration. “You can't understand a word I'm saying.” He frowned for a moment, the wrapped dog bone still in one hand. “I know!” He pulled out his phone, tapped at the screen, and handed it to her.
He'd pulled up a map showing the dog parks that were scattered throughout the town of Copeland. “Woof woof,” he said softly.
“Woof,” she said, nodding to show that she understood the gist of his words. She studied the map on the screen and zoomed in on her neighborhood. She pointed to the park where she typically walked Teddy twice a day. “Dog,” she said.
He gently took the phone back, held up one finger imploring her to wait, and tapped at the screen some more.
Piper waited, surprised at how comfortable she was pretending to not speak English. As she stood next to Otis in the busy kitchen, amidst a backdrop of chopping and stirring, she became aware of the crackle of electricity between their two bodies. The energy was similar to that of the ghostly George, but hot instead of cold. She'd never noticed this phenomenon before, probably because she'd never met anyone as cute as Otis.
As the moment stretched out, the air grew even warmer. Her cheeks flushed hot. A strange thought occurred to her. Was Otis even real? He looked more solid than George, but there was all this crackling energy. Plus he seemed too good to be real.
She reached out one tentative finger to touch Otis on the upper bicep. Flesh. Yes, he was solid. Not a ghost. She pulled her hand back casually and ran her fingers through her hair. Her scalp was radiating heat. His eyes flicked to her hand briefly, but he didn't let on if he'd noticed her light touch. She breathed deeply and focused on not spontaneously bursting into flames from embarrassment.
“Here,” Otis said, showing her the screen again. “I want to ask you a question. One question.” He had the calendar pulled up, and he'd selected the next day. He'd also typed in a time: 5:00 p.m. And, just to make it abundantly clear what he was requesting, he'd added cartoon icons showing a boy, a girl, a dog, a tree, and flowers. Otis Carl Plummer wanted to meet her in the dog park by her house at five o'clock on Saturday, which was tomorrow.
“No pressure,” Otis said. “But please say yes or I'll be devastated, because there's something so mysterious about you.” His blue eyes gleamed earnestly. “I'm so glad you don't speak English, because you wouldn't believe how corny I'm sounding right now. If you knew what I was saying, I'd be dead of embarrassment, flat on this floor, my tongue hanging out of my mouth.” He glanced around. “Actually, it would be convenient, since we're already in a funeral home. They could put me on a food trolley and wheel me straight into a coffin.”
Piper couldn't help but giggle.
His eyes widened. “I made you laugh? You understood what I said just now?” His cheeks reddened. He was getting warmer as well, and looked as though he might combust like a piñata full of Mexican fireworks.
“No English,” she said with a head shake. She took out her own phone, pulled up the calendar, and added a cartoon boy to the Saturday night date.
He grinned. “It's a date,” he said. “Here's your bone.”
The women in hairnets, who'd been listening to the whole exchange, chortled amongst themselves.
“Oh, boss,” one of them said. “You could teach my old man a thing or two about charm.”
Piper tucked the bone in her purse, gave Otis a shy wave, and found the door leading back to the hallway. As the door swung shut, she could hear all the older women teasing their boss.
“Here's your bone,” one of them said, laughing.
Another lady sounded like she was crying. “It's a date! Here's your bone!”
The laughter grew.
Otis said, “If you gals have any dating advice, lay it on me.”
“Oh, boss. You need to buy her flowers. Or chocolates. Not a soup bone.”
He protested, “I was just working with what I had!”
The women continued to tease him, and Otis continued to take it good-naturedly.
Piper wanted to stay and listen, but she had a funeral to crash.
Chapter 7
Piper slipped into the funeral home's chapel and took a seat in the back row. Everyone had their heads bowed in prayer, so her entrance was as unobtrusive as that of the nightly appearances of her ghost. She scanned the room for the deceased author, but saw no sign of him. The casket was closed. Daylight had to be keeping the ghost away, because otherwise there was no way George Morrison would miss his own funeral!
Around her, everyone murmured Amen.
The crowd gathered there today was largely white and old—George's friends and business associates, plus a few relatives. There were no children present to draw curious gazes from people looking to spot illegitimate heirs. The seating was imbalanced, crowded at the back. Because George had never married or had children, and his parents were both deceased, the front rows for family members were sparsely filled.
While Piper was studying the family section, a thin woman in black slipped into the chapel and took a seat in the front row. It was the woman from the washroom. She was near George's age, and upon further consideration, looked like she could be closely related. She had the same nose and jawline as George, though it was hard to tell because she was so thin, as narrow as George had been wide.
Meanwhile, on stage, a new person approached
the podium. It was the man she'd come there to interview, George's long-time book editor, Robert Jones.
Robert Jones looked like a man unaccustomed to crowds, public speaking, haircuts, and possibly daylight. He leaned over the microphone, his gaze flitting around the pews as though searching for a big sombrero to crawl into like a makeshift cave. He brushed his shaggy black hair from his eyes, plastering it horizontally along his forehead, where it stayed. He touched his lips to the microphone and cleared his throat. The burbling sound caused everyone on the pews to lean back reflexively.
“Sorry,” he spoke into the microphone spittily. “It's been a while.”
A while since what? Piper wondered. A while since he'd had a shower? Gone out in public? Been touched by the rays of the sun?
After a few more throat clearings, he began. “George Morrison wasn't just the greatest writer of his generation.” Robert Jones paused dramatically, and the chapel seemed to hold its breath. “He was also my dear friend.”
The crowd that had gathered—about two hundred people—let out a collective sigh of relief. This was, more or less, the speech they'd expected.
Robert said, “George Morrison was a strong believer in the power of literature. He held a vision that one day the world would be united, not through politics or climate change or war, but by something more powerful and lasting. The legacy of an imagined Utopian future. In private, he and I would discuss the possibility of brighter days for humanity.”
People shifted restlessly on their seats. Maybe this wasn't the speech they'd expected after all.
Robert was speaking with more confidence, shifting his posture upright. He was taller than he'd first appeared—six foot two or so. He swept one hand swirling up through his shaggy black hair, forming a spike reminiscent of a punk-rock mohawk. The hair stayed raised. “If I had a dollar for every time ol' George told me about his plans for world domination, I'd have enough cash to buy you all a round of drinks, and not the cheap stuff.” He smacked his lips noisily. “Speaking of drinks, did our buddy George spring for an open bar at this thing, or what?” He looked pointedly at the funeral home staff. “Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?” He addressed a worried-looking attendant with a snap of the fingers. “Vodka on the rocks, please. Make it a double and don't bruise the booze.”
Everyone waited in uncomfortable silence as the attendant ran out of the chapel and returned a few minutes later with a drink in a tumbler. Robert Jones tossed it back in four noisy gulps, the sound magnified by the microphone.
He set down the glass and hunkered over the podium like a black bear in possession of a prized salmon. He slurred and hiccupped his words. “Folksssss, can I be perfectly hon-hon-honest for a minute?” The double vodka he'd imbibed seconds earlier had not been his first drink of the day. “It's just us friendssssss here tonight. This morning? Is it morning?” He shrugged with his whole body. “Whatever. It's just us friends here. No press. Damn vultures, the press, squawking around trying to pick the bones of old George's carcass. And what a juicy carcass, am I right? That man was fat! I told him, 'George, get your damn stomach stapled. You'll have a heart attack long before you see your plans come to life.' But he didn't listen to me.”
People in the pews shifted uncomfortably. Robert Jones held up both hands in a defensive gesture, as though he was prepared to use kung fu on anyone who tried to yank him off the stage. But nobody was coming for him. Though some people were undoubtedly miffed, curiosity reigned. They wanted to see where this drunken speech might go.
Robert used his fingers to toss back ice from his glass and crunched it noisily. “You know, all his best ideas were my ideas. All of them. You know how in book two, the Scepter of Rose Petals is stolen from the Earth Fairies? That was my idea. Mine. George wanted to throw the scepter in a volcano and wrap up that plot thread, because he didn't know what to do with it.” Robert snorted. “All that power,” he intoned gravely. “All that power, and he was afraid to wield it. And that's why the greatest plot twist George Morrison ever managed was his own death. He died as a sacrifice. He died… so that the greatest story ever conceived could be told in the way it deserves.” He held up his empty glass in a toast. “To George's sacrifice!”
The sound of an orchestra flooded the chapel. The big speakers hanging in the room's upper corners pulsed visibly with sound waves. On the stage, Robert Jones continued his drunken rambling, but his microphone had been shut off. The sound of Tomaso Albinoni's Adagio in D Minor drowned his words.
Two attendants forcibly “helped” Robert Jones off the stage. They escorted him out of the chapel and, by the sound of the diminishing shouts in the adjoining atrium, right out of the building.
The classical music faded away, and someone new took center stage, tapping the microphone to check that it was back on. It was the skinny, dark-haired woman who'd scowled at Piper in the washroom. Under the bright lights, she looked like a shrunken version of George, in a dress and a wig.
“On behalf of the Morrison family, I apologize for that,” the thin woman said. “Mr. Jones is understandably distraught over the loss of his friend. I ask you to please forgive him his outburst and forget his words while remembering only the passion. We are all dealing with this tragedy as best we can.” She looked pointedly at the pastor, who appeared frozen in shock. “And now I'll turn the microphone over to Pastor Dan for another prayer.” She nodded curtly. “Thank you all.”
Pastor Dan walked stiffly to the microphone. With a scratchy voice, he began a well-rehearsed speech about life and death and interconnectivity.
While he spoke, Piper hazarded a glance sideways at the only other person seated on the back pew. It was another Asian woman, with radiant skin like Piper's mother's. The woman was staring at Piper and smiling as though she'd been waiting to make eye contact, waiting to make friends. She slid toward Piper on the wood bench and whispered, “Quite the spectacle, don't you think?”
Piper answered honestly, also whispering. “I didn't know what to expect.” She gestured with her chin toward the dark-haired woman who'd spoken on behalf of the family. “Who's that lady?”
“George's sister, Sammy.”
Piper's mouth dropped open in genuine surprise. She considered herself a knowledgeable fan of George Morrison, but this was news to her. “He has a sister? I mean, had a sister?” If George had a sister, why wasn't he haunting her?
“He called her Sammy, but her name's actually Simone. He mentioned his dearest Sammy in his first book's dedication, but hasn't thanked her since. Most fans assumed it was an old girlfriend, or even a male schoolmate.”
Piper whispered, “I had no idea.” She shook her head. “You think you know someone, but you don't.”
The other woman smiled like a cat with a mouth full of parakeet. “There are two George Morrisons, and the world barely knew one of them.” She pursed her lips and looked Piper up and down. “And who might you be?”
“Just a friend.” As she said it, Piper regretted tarting up her makeup in the washroom. Her look was way too conspicuous for a funeral.
The woman gave her a naughty look. “Sure, honey. Just a friend. Me, too.”
Some heads in the rows in front were turning, noticing their whispered conversation. Both Piper and the woman went quiet and lifted their chins as they focused on the pastor on stage.
The service was going smoothly, and there'd been no more booze-fueled drama since the editor's removal.
Pastor Dan introduced Simone Morrison, George's sister.
Simone returned to the stage and narrated a prepared speech about George's childhood growing up in Copeland, Arizona. She described a family trip to the Grand Canyon, and young George being too chubby to ride a pony with the other kids. According to his sister, George stayed in his cabin pouting rather than having to ride on the big horse behind the tour guide. When the Morrison family returned after a dusty day of sightseeing, George had written his first short story. In the tale, a heroic young man named Geoff had to rescue his bumbling family o
f nincompoops from a flash flood in a canyon. The fictional sister was so jealous of brother Geoff that she ran off in a huff, slipped on some loose rocks, fell into the canyon, and impaled herself on a sharp-needled cactus.
The crowd in the funeral home's chapel, which had been chuckling throughout the story, went quiet. They didn't know how to react. A few people whispered to seatmates in private discussion.
The tale had a special resonance for Piper, as it would to anyone who'd been a fan of George's published books. Death by cactus was the fate suffered by a particularly nasty and conniving female character in House of Hallows. Was the character of Simaude also based on Simone Morrison? Simaude the Fraud was always going around claiming credit for things she didn't do. She was a fallen aristocrat who'd become a spy, and she was always hiding in dark corridors or listening outside of windows, gathering secrets and selling them to the highest bidder. Her very thin frame was all the better for hiding in dark crevices where no one would think to search. In the fourth book of the series, she'd fallen to her death upon a cactus. Or so readers thought. Simaude the Fraud reappeared in the fifth book, horribly scarred and more wicked and bitter than ever.
Simone Morrison nodded at the commotion she'd caused, and lifted her chin higher. She walked over to the closed casket and rapped on the lid with her knuckles. “Who's laughing now, George? You wrote and rewrote my death dozens of times, and you still couldn't get it right, but look who gets the last word!”
There was a chorus of feet shuffling and bodies shifting on the pews as two hundred people looked at each other and made faces. Should someone do something?
Piper could barely keep breathing. George wrote some tense scenarios in his books, but this was real life, and it was shocking.
Interview with a Ghost in Arizona (Humorous Cozy Mystery) (Ghost Mysteries of the Southwest Book 2) Page 6
