The Loveliest Dead

by Ray Garton

  Lily is falling again, spinning as she drops through the black nothingness in blind silence.

  “Is she all right?”

  “Shouldn’t you call an ambulance or something?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Claudia said, but she sounded uncertain.

  Lily slowly rolled onto her side.

  Claudia was kneeling beside her. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” She looked up to see the two middle-aged tourist women peering over the counter at her. Each held a book to her chest. “Hi,” she said with a halfhearted smile. She turned to Claudia. “Wait on our customers, Claudia. I’ll be fine.”

  Sighing with frustration, Claudia stood and went to the register, rang up the women’s purchases. By the time she was done, Lily was standing again, leaning heavily on the counter.

  As soon as the women left the store, Claudia said, “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong? Have you seen a doctor?”

  “I don’t need a doctor.” Lily was preoccupied. She was remembering the faces, particularly the last two before that flaming face. She had seen them before—the woman with her impossibly outdated bouffant of hair, the man with his big ears and stern eyes. Their names hovered just out of her reach. “Claudia, those two demon-busters—you know, the married couple.” She closed her eyes and put a palm to her forehead. “Dammit, what are their names? They investigated that famous haunted house, the one they made the movie about, that turned out to be a hoax.”

  “You mean the Binghams?”

  Lily snapped her fingers loudly and stomped a foot. “That’s it! Bingham, Arthur and Mavis Bingham, right?”

  “Yes. But what... Lily, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Claudia.”

  “You were just lying unconscious on the floor—that’s not fine.”

  “I wasn’t unconscious. I was having a vision.”

  Claudia’s expression softened. “Really?”

  “Really. And I’ll be having more.”

  “For how long? How often?”

  “Depends on how long it takes me to figure out what they mean.”

  “What?”

  “Do we have any books on the Binghams?”

  Claudia shook her head. “No, you refused to carry them, remember? You said they were frauds.”

  “Of course they are. So are the authors of at least three-quarters of our inventory. We don’t have anything on them?”

  “No. But I saw a story about them in the Inquisitor recently.”

  “Would you do me a favor?” Lily said.

  “Wait, hold it. Before I do anything, would you please sit down.”

  Lily sat on the stool, propped an elbow on the countertop.

  “Now,” Claudia said, “I want you to tell me, seriously ... are you okay?”

  Lily closed her eyes and rubbed them with thumb and finger. “Well, right now, I have a nasty headache. I need to take something for it. But other than that, I’m fine.”

  “So you really had ... a vision?”

  “I swear. Look, I’ll explain it all when you get back.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “To the grocery store to grab a copy of the Inquisitor for me. Then hit the other bookstores in town and get every book you can find on the Binghams.”

  The freckles on Claudia’s pale forehead huddled in a frown. “Why?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get back. Use my credit card.”

  “Can I get you something for your head before I go?”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful. In my bathroom medicine cabinet there’s a bottle of Vicodin. I need one of those and a glass of water.”

  “Be right back.”

  Lily looked down at her sandwich with disappointment. The headache had destroyed her appetite. She wrapped it up again and put it back in the bag, replaced the lid on the cup of soup.

  Claudia returned with the pill and a glass of water. Lily swallowed it, put the glass on the countertop. “I’m going to need a little extra help from you for a while.”

  “What do you mean?” Claudia said.

  “These visions ... I’m going to be having more of them. I never know when they’ll hit, so I can’t drive my car or do anything that would put myself or others in danger if I should black out suddenly.”

  “Has this happened before?”

  “Yes, but it’s been a while. The last time it happened was a couple years before I met you.”

  “Does it mean something ... bad is going to happen?”

  “I don’t know. Whatever it means, somehow the Binghams are involved. They were screaming. There were other people, too, but I don’t know who they are yet. I strongly suspect they live in a gray two-story house by the ocean with playground equipment in the backyard. Somewhere in the house, I think there’s a teddy bear that plays music.”

  “They were screaming?”

  “Bloody murder. Except I couldn’t hear it.”

  “What are you looking for, exactly?” Claudia asked.

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t have to look.”

  “Will you be okay here by yourself while I’m out?”

  She patted Claudia’s arm. “Sure. It won’t happen again this soon. But hurry back. I’m anxious to start digging.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sunday, 7:12 A.M.

  On Sunday morning, Jenna got out of bed without disturbing David and put on some sweats. Halfway down the stairs, she smelled coffee brewing. She found Martha sitting in the breakfast nook with a cup of coffee reading an old Sidney Sheldon paperback. Her radio was on the windowsill quietly playing big-band music.

  “Morning,” Martha said. “I made coffee.”

  “How long have you been up?” Jenna asked as she took a mug from the cupboard and filled it.

  Martha shrugged. “A while.”

  Jenna sat opposite her. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Oh, sure, I’m fine. Just couldn’t sleep. Looks like Miles couldn’t, either. He’s in the living room.”

  Frowning, Jenna got up and left the kitchen, went through the dining room to the living room. The television was on, tuned to The Cartoon Network with the volume low. Miles had pulled the afghan off the back of the couch and was curled up beneath it, his head on a throw pillow, sound asleep. Jenna wondered if he’d had another nightmare. She decided to let him sleep and returned to the kitchen.

  “He hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep since he watched that damned horror movie with you and David the other night,” Jenna said.

  “You sure that’s all it is?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe something’s bothering him.”

  Jenna hoped nothing was wrong at school. She got up and started breakfast—scrambled eggs and cinnamon toast. Once the smell of the cooking eggs wafted through the house, she knew Miles and David would make their way to the kitchen.

  Sure enough, Miles shuffled in wearing his pajamas about five minutes later.

  “Why were you sleeping on the couch?” Jenna asked.

  Miles’s eyes were puffy with sleep as he scratched his head. He said nothing.

  “Did you have another nightmare?”

  He looked up at her and seemed to consider his answer. Finally, he nodded.

  “Honey, you can’t sleep on the couch with the TV on.”

  “Oh, why not,” Martha said. It wasn’t a question. She got up and shuffled over to Miles and gave him a hug. “You want some juice?”

  He nodded again.

  Martha got a glass from the cupboard, a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator, and poured. She handed him the glass and said, “Come sit with Grandma.” They went to the breakfast nook together and sat at the table. Martha turned to Jenna, who stood cooking at the stove. “If he’s having nightmares, it’ll pass. Maybe he sleeps better on the couch than he would in his bedroom.”

  “You’re not helping, Mom.”

  “Oh, come on. You used to have nightmares when you were a littl
e girl. I had to leave the lamp on in your bedroom. Sometimes you came in and slept with me, remember?”

  A corner of Miles’s mouth curled up as he turned to Jenna. “You did, Mom?”

  Jenna sighed as she turned back to the eggs. “Yes, I did.”

  Miles grinned as Martha put an arm around him and said, “So don’t feel bad, honey. Everybody goes through it.”

  David shuffled in wearing his robe, yawning. “Something smells good,” he said as he poured a cup of coffee. He went to the table and sat across from Miles. “You ready to go back to work on the garage today, Tiger?”

  Miles nodded.

  Jenna said, “Don’t forget, we’re going over to see the Gimbles today.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right. A Dodge Durango, huh?”

  “Yep. It’s idling fast or something.”

  “Well. A job’s a job.”

  It was a gray, smoky day, but the rain had stopped. After breakfast, David and Miles worked a couple hours in the garage, which was now only half filled with junk. The day before, they had made two trips to a stinking landfill, and there was more to be hauled away: a couple rusted old bicycle frames, an old car battery, a broken trampoline, a rusted-out Weber Kettle barbecue, several garbage bags filled with empty Michelob beer cans that David planned to take to a recycling station, and more. They were ready to haul off another load when Jenna came out.

  “Why don’t you do that when we get back?” she said.

  “You want to go now?” David said.

  “Yeah, let’s go before you hit the dump.”

  “Okay.”

  Jenna turned to Miles and said, “Stay here with Grandma, okay? Keep an eye on her for us?”

  “Sure,” Miles said.

  David said, “First, I’ve got to clean up.”

  Kimberly and Harry Gimble lived in a gated community called Seacrest Estates, in a ranch-style house with an immaculately tended front yard. Harry Gimble was raking leaves in the yard when they arrived, and he put his rake down as they got out of the car. He stood a couple inches short of David’s six feet, soft and doughy with a wreath of rust-colored hair surrounding his bald head. He wore a burgundy sweater over a yellow shirt, khaki pants, and sneakers.

  “You must be the Kellars,” he said with a wide smile. He pumped David’s hand and said, “Harry Gimble, Sand Dollar Realty. I hear you’re new in town.”

  David nodded, returning the smile. “We’ve been here a week.”

  Kimberly came out the front door and joined them. After a few minutes of small talk, she said, “Come on inside, Jenna, while these guys lift the hood on the Dodge.”

  She took Jenna through the living room, down the hall to the cheerful master bedroom decorated in cream and pale green. Kimberly knocked a pile of underwear and socks off a straight-back chair against the wall. “Look at this,” she said. “It’s bad enough I’ve got to clean up after three boys.” She carried the chair over to the computer, set it next to the low, wheeled chair already positioned there.

  Jenna sat in the straight-back. “I know what you mean,” she said. “Miles cleans his room about every fourth or fifth time I tell him to. David’s a little sloppy, but I let it pass because he’s so good about taking the garbage out and helping me in the kitchen.”

  Kimberly said, “That’s why I can only work part-time at the store. Harry does very well at real estate—we’d be okay if I didn’t work. But the extra money is nice, you know? Full-time money would be even nicer, but I don’t have time. This house would totally fall apart if I worked full-time. Nobody here would survive a week— they wouldn’t know how. They would all die. It would be all over the news, and Rush Limbaugh and Dr. Laura would blame me because I wasn’t home wiping their butts for them.”

  Jenna’s laughter was quiet at first, but got louder as Kimberly went on. It felt good to laugh so hard, and she enjoyed the feeling while it lasted.

  “I’m not kidding—they wouldn’t survive their morning rituals without me,” Kimberly said. She moved the mouse slightly over the pad on the desktop and opened her Internet browser, nodded her head toward the computer monitor. “There are a lot of local psychics on the Internet, a lot more than I expected to find. Mediums aren’t as plentiful, but there are several. Some mediums call themselves ‘channels,’ and there are quite a few of those, too. But in the Humboldt County area, the most common are psychics. I did a little reading up on all of them, and I don’t think a psychic is what you need. There are psychics who read the future, psychics who advise, and psychics who can help you find your lost dog. Some claim to have spirit guides—the spirits of dead people who give them information from the other side—but they don’t talk to the dead, not the way you want to. For that, you need a physical medium. Or a channel. But the ones who call themselves channels tend to give off a New Agey vibe that really turns me off. Unless you’re into that. Are you?”

  Jenna frowned. “Into what?”

  “All that New Age stuff. You know, crystals, aromatherapy, Shirley MacLaine, unicorn art.”

  “Definitely not.”

  “I’m not too sure about the mediums, either, but at least they don’t give the impression they genuinely believe Yanni to be good music, you know what I mean?”

  “I think so.”

  “So I bookmarked all the local mediums who have Web sites, and here—” She picked up a white sheet of paper off the desk and handed it over to Jenna. Printed on the page was a list of names, telephone numbers, and street addresses. “From the Yellow Pages, I made a list of the ones who don’t.” Kimberly clicked on the top of the list of bookmarks. “I’ve already looked at all these. Let’s go through them, and I’ll show you the ones I think smell bad. Like this first one.”

  A little animated naked man wearing a turban and sitting in the lotus position floated in the center of the screen, bobbing lightly in the virtual air, grinning. Above him arced the name ANTHONY WALL-COLE, and beneath him, MEDIUM TO THE STARS.

  “First of all,” Kimberly said, “if he’s the medium to the stars, what the hell’s he doing here? Secondly, look at his picture.” She tapped her fingernail on the screen over the man’s photograph in the corner. “If he really talked to dead people, they’d tell him how ridiculous he looks with that toupee on his head. And the stars— Michael Landon, Princess Di, Bette Davis, Dudley Moore, Bill Bixby. It took me a minute to figure out they’re all dead. He never worked for these people before they died—he claims to talk to them now that they’re dead. That’s what he means by ‘Medium to the Stars.’ Well, who’s to say he doesn’t talk to them, but what difference does that make? You don’t need to talk to John Ritter, right? I think we can skip this guy.”

  Jenna said, “I agree. Who’s next?”

  “I’m gonna get some coffee first. You want some?” Kimberly stood.

  “That sounds good. I’ll come with you.” As they went back through the house, she said, “How do you know so much about psychics and mediums?”

  Kimberly laughed. “Are you kidding? I know less than nothing. Everything I told you I just picked up on the Internet last night. In fact, when I was growing up, I was taught to steer way clear of this stuff. My brother and I were both taught that it’s all evil. We were raised Seventh-Day Adventists.”

  “Then why did you offer to help me?”

  In the kitchen, Kimberly took her mug from the counter and got another from the cupboard, poured coffee into both, added cream to hers. “I said I was raised an Adventist, not that I still am one. Those stories scared me when I was a little girl, but I haven’t been one of those in a long time. You take your coffee black, right?”

  “Yes. If that’s the way you were taught when you were young, then you must have been frightened when you realized it couldn’t have been your grandmother who had come to your room—that it was something... evil?”

  “Oh, no, not at all. I was already starting to think for myself by then. Before then, really. Some people have to learn to think outside the box; I had to lear
n to think outside the church, but I started early. When I learned that Grandma had died that night, I knew in my heart, without even having to debate it in my mind, that she had come to kiss me good-bye, in spite of all the things I’d been taught. Like I said, I smelled her breath. I could smell her perfume in the room after she left. She might not have been there there, but she was there.”

  Kimberly handed her the steaming mug, then they headed back to the bedroom.

  “So this stuff doesn’t bother you now?” Jenna said.

  “No, I’m intrigued. I got the impression something was bothering you the first time I saw you, but I had no idea it would be so interesting. You seem much better today, by the way.”

  Jenna nodded. “I think it’s because I’m doing something about it. I’m still blown away by the fact that I’m doing this. I mean, I’ve always laughed at those guys on TV who talk to people’s dead relatives. And I’ve always thought the people who go to them are pathetic. But now I’m one of those pathetic people. If anyone who knows me ever finds out about this, I’ll be so embarassed.”

  As they entered the bedroom, Kimberly said, “You’re not pathetic and you shouldn’t be embarassed. Spiritual paths take people in all kinds of directions, and if other people can’t understand that, it’s their problem, not yours. You want to talk embarrassing spiritual paths? Think of those Heaven’s Gate guys who had themselves castrated, then ate poison so they could board the star-ship Enterprise in the tail of some comet—wherever they are, they still must be embarrassed about that.”

  Jenna nodded toward the monitor. “Could you e-mail all this information to me?”

  “Sure, no problem. Look them over and decide who you want to try. I don’t go back to work till Wednesday, so that gives us a couple afternoons to check some out.”