Jeepers Reapers: There Goes My Midlife Crisis

by Marianne Morea

  “You say something?” George asked.

  I held out the yellowed card. “Emmie’s last name. It’s Praestes. It’s on her driver’s license.”

  He glanced at it, but didn’t comment.

  “It’s an unusual name, don’t you think? Straight up Latin, though I’m not sure what it means.”

  George didn’t look up, despite my prompting.

  I suppose it didn’t matter if he knew or not. At least I had the information needed for the coroner to issue a formal death certificate, though the morgue didn’t seem too concerned about next of kin. They were all too happy to release Emily’s remains to whomever.

  The rest of the day was bittersweet, and by the time I crossed onto my street, I was too tired to think. Leaving George in charge of parceling out Emily’s belongings seemed the best way to handle the rest. He knew what his park compatriots needed. Like death in the wild, nothing would go to waste.

  Of course, Alistair was livid when I finally got him on the phone, but he couldn’t argue my request for a personal day. Not when I hadn’t taken a single one in the last five years. Not that I told him my reasons.

  I closed my front door and leaned against the heavy oak. Right now, I wanted a hot bath and a cool bed. I’d make the heavy decisions about Em after a good pot of coffee in the morning.

  Trudging to the bedroom, I left a trail of clothes across the floor Hansel and Gretel style. Naked, I turned on the tap to rinse the grit from my face.

  I bit the bullet and took inventory in the mirror. At least there were no shadows this time. In fact, there were no shadows all day. No weirdness. Not since the one near the hedgerow this morning. Maybe the universe had taken pity and cut me some slack. Either way, I was grateful.

  Running a hand from my face to my collarbone, I inhaled before running them down to my still perky breasts. I was seasoned, not sagging, thanks to God and good genes. Lucky, really. Especially when too many women felt pressure to treat their bodies like autobody wrecks. Fillers and plastic repair parts. Hey, whatever made you happy, right?

  Exhaustion made my head ache, but I wasn’t tired. I hadn’t eaten all day, and the crappy cup of vending machine coffee at the hospital didn’t help matters.

  Turning off the tap, I opted for food first, then a hot bath. I slipped on a robe from the bathroom hook and then padded barefoot downstairs to the kitchen.

  My fridge was verging on Old Mother Hubbard bare, and I stood staring at the meager choices. “Note to self. Potato chips and wine does not a pantry make.”

  I’d hit the grocery store tomorrow, but right now I settled on a single sleeve of crackers, and a half-eaten package of pre-sliced cheddar.

  A couple of napkins and a wine glass in hand, I headed to the roof and my garden under the stars. It was the thing I loved best about the brownstone I inherited from my grandmother.

  Five stories in the West Village. It was unheard of in modern Manhattan for a regular person to own something of this size. Still, I wouldn’t sell it for the world, even if it wasn’t stipulated in my maternal grandmother’s will the property stay in the family.

  Family. Ha. I snorted, climbing three flights to the rooftop. Fat chance of that happening with me turning forty in less than twelve hours. I’d have to meet someone tomorrow, but would most likely end up doing an ancestry DNA search for a distant cousin, or a half-sibling love child from my father’s wandering penis.

  It was his fault I never met Mr. Right. Plenty of Mr. Wrongs, though. I even married one.

  Emmie’s reply on the subject was as matter-of-fact as the old woman herself. “It’s inevitable, Lou. Most girls marry guys just like their fathers. Good, bad, or otherwise. Even if they don’t plan to.”

  I pushed open the rooftop door, a small grin on my face at the memory. In my case, good, bad or otherwise also had a wandering penis, compounded by a huge Peter Pan Syndrome. Too bad huge didn’t apply to his other attributes. Hell, I would’ve settled for adequate.

  But you did settle...

  I frowned at the old woman’s voice in my head. “I know, Em. Stop reminding me.”

  Don’t do it again.

  Losing Emmie was hard, but aside from that, I was content. I worked in a gorgeous historic landmark, and time spent with the Jefferson Park crew made me smile. They helped me forget how lonely I was at times, and even gave my life purpose.

  Would that purpose perk up my sex life? Not unless a hottie humanitarian turned up at the park with an indecent proposal. Nope. Content was all I could hope for at this point, and that truth was as cold and hard as the battery-operated boyfriend stashed in my nightstand. When it came to romance and women of a certain age, the city-that-never-sleeps might as well be comatose.

  I settled on a chaise, stowing my goodies on a matching glass table. Pouring a full glass of wine, I downed it in one shot and then lay back to count the few stars visible in the Manhattan sky.

  A breeze picked up, and I shivered. An odd shimmer caught my peripheral vision, and I sat up with the same chill as in the park this morning.

  I wasn’t alone.

  Something moved in the shadows.

  The rooftop wasn’t huge, but there were plenty of shadows courtesy of the many potted trees and shrubs.

  I recorked the wine, and swung my legs over the edge of the chaise and stood, scanning the gloom.

  If this was what I thought it was, a broken bottle shiv wasn’t going to help. Still, there was always the chance someone was hiding on the roof. Unlikely, but not unheard of.

  Unease wrench-twisted my stomach. I had no phone, nothing. I lived alone, and as far as neighbors went, this was the West Village. Doubtless anyone would raise more than an eyebrow or a window blind if I screamed.

  The brownstone was locked up tight this morning, and was exactly as I left it when I finally got home. The windows and doors were alarmed, so unless Emmie decided to pay a visit in ghost form, there was no way anyone got to the roof from inside.

  That left outside.

  The building’s five stories made it unlikely, unless the would-be burglar was bitten by a radioactive spider or able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

  The shimmer grew, and the refracted waves resembled spirits emerging from sunbaked asphalt. Considering the crisp night, not likely.

  I swallowed, my palms sweating against the cold wine bottle. “Who are you? What do you want?!”

  Déjà vu from this morning made me blink. Stepping away from the chaise, I forced mutinous muscles to work, and backed toward the roof door. If I could get inside, I could shoot the deadbolt and hit the panic button on the alarm.

  The police would come, but it wouldn’t be immediate. Again, New York City. Still, the piercing alarm might annoy my neighbors enough for them to yell out the window and scare the intruder away. That’s assuming the intruder wasn’t the scarier of the two.

  The shimmer tightened, coalescing. Whatever this was, it definitely wasn’t weather related. In fact, its movement was too fluid, and like the shadow outside the park, it didn’t touch the ground.

  So much for the universe cutting me a break. In that same millisecond, I caught sight of a second silhouette. This one was different. Meatier, if you could use that term to describe something ethereal, and it was definitely masculine.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Seems the universe decided to double down instead.

  The male shadow seemed to position itself between me and the scary shimmer, almost in a standoff. My head screamed run, but I stood immobile staring at the shadowy showdown. Was it possible to be freaked out and intrigued at the same time? You wouldn’t think so, but here I was.

  The roof door was within reach. With my eyes still on the silhouetted man, I pivoted on my bare heel, finally bolting for the doorway.

  I turned to slam the metal door shut, catching my breath as he stepped into the half-light. Damn.

  Not stopping to speculate on his partially obscured, but rather buff physique, I shot the bolt on the ro
of door. The pigeons would eat the crackers and the cheese. Or the rats would. Gotta love the city.

  I leaned my back on the cold metal, and willed myself not to slump to the ground. “Another note to self. Eat first. Then drink problem-sized glass of wine or risk drunken-stress-induced hallucinations.”

  Feeling silly, I turned for the stairs but froze mid-step…

  Chapter Three

  NOPE NOPE NOPE.

  My name was barely a whisper, but I heard it clear as a bell. Not stopping to question, I clattered down the stairs from the roof, making a beeline for my cellphone.

  My creep-o-meter had shot past def-con ten, and I was done rationalizing. That meant Thea.

  Hands shaking, I scrolled for her number, hoping she wasn’t busy with a reading at her shoebox-sized storefront on Bleeker Street.

  Her claims of sensing vibrations and seeing spirits on the second floor of the library made her the perfect person to share my crazy tonight.

  “C’mon…c’mon.” I chewed the corner of my lip, pacing.

  “Hello?”

  “Thea! Thank God. You need to come over.”

  “Louisa? What happened? Are you okay?”

  I hesitated. I’d been a hard skeptic since Thea first claimed the library was haunted, and I wouldn’t blame the girl if she hung up. Still, sleep wasn’t happing tonight until someone gave me the all-clear.”

  “Lou?”

  “I’m here… Thea, I think I had an…occurrence.” I winced saying the word. “Either that, or someone played a very elaborate birthday prank on me.”

  Throwing the prank notion out there was total backpedaling and I knew it. Especially when my gut told me this was no prank.

  “Hmmm.”

  I cringed at my friend’s unspoken skepticism. I deserved it. Third note to self. Karma’s a bitch.

  “An occurrence,” Thea repeated, deadpan. “Now that’s something. What kind of occurrence do you mean, exactly?”

  “Okay. Okay. Give me the verbal stink eye. I deserve it. Gloat all you want. Just get over here.”

  The other side of the line was uncharacteristically silent, and I pictured the smirk on my friend’s trademark red lips.

  “Thea, I’m begging.”

  Exhaling, the girl chuckled. “Well, since you put it that way—”

  “Fifteen minutes?”

  “So you’re saying you want me to run.”

  “As fast as your sequined flats will allow.”

  “Honey, these curves were built for comfort, not speed.”

  “Thea, please. I’m afraid the walls will start oozing slime or something.”

  “Who you gonna call?” She chuckled, mimicking the classic 80s movie.

  “T!”

  “All right, all right. Open a decent bottle of wine, and you’ve got a deal. And order food. Clairvoyance as fabulous as mine requires sustenance.”

  “I’ve got frozen pizza.”

  “Pepperoni?”

  “Is there any other kind?”

  “Girl, see you in fifteen.”

  I hit end call, and puffed out a breath. So much for my quiet night. I dressed quickly, not wanting to meet Thea in a sweaty robe.

  In the kitchen, I popped a rising crust pizza into the oven and then set the timer, glad I had something decent in the freezer to offer. Opening a fresh bottle of merlot, I set it to breathe.

  Thea’s style of ghostbusting required wine, even if my earlier problem-sized glass was the root of my so-called occurrence. If wine caused it, then wine could make it go away. Silhouetted hottie included. After all, the mirror shadows were gone, so this had to be stress and alcohol induced, right?

  Nervous tension left me doing a single-footed tap dance until I heard the street door open and close on the opposite side of the vestibule door.

  Vestibule.

  It was an old timey word that made me happy. Vintage vocabulary harkening back to a different era. I suppose that was the librarian in me that appreciated the forgotten elegance of language.

  Setting two wine glasses on the counter, I hurried to open the door, smiling at Thea through the etched glass.

  “Thanks for this, T,” I stepped aside, letting her into the foyer.

  “Something’s different here. Did you paint?”

  “You ask me that every time you come over. Nothing’s different, and no, I didn’t paint. Same polished wood, same secret niches.”

  “No, girl. I feel it. Something’s different.” She handed me her shawl, the motion distracted.

  “T—”

  Thea walked the rest of the way inside, sending her long colorful skirts swinging around her ample hips. “I must’ve sensed then, what you sensed tonight.” She nodded, chewing on her lip. “My sensitivities are often tuned-in well before things manifest.”

  I rolled my eyes, hanging Thea's shawl on the coatrack by the window. “Wine’s ready, but the pizza’s got a few more minutes.”

  “Good. I need to soak up the vibes, and honey, yours are killing it. You meet someone new I don’t know about?”

  “No, but you’re the psychic, not me.”

  Feeling more foolish by the minute, I walked into the kitchen ahead of her, going straight for the wine. Was my kneejerk reaction to call Thea a mistake with a headache attached?

  “I’ve always loved your place, Lou. It’s very Downton Abbey meets Contempo Kitchen.” Thea turned with a nod. “In fact, I see myself here. I could set up shop at your kitchen table instead of my dingy storefront.”

  “Aren’t we getting a tad ahead of ourselves?”

  “No, seriously. I could do my readings while you’re at work, and in my spare time teach you a few dishes known to please paranormal palettes. Spirits respond to smells. Especially ones that remind them of home. Since it seems you’ve got a resident shade, you might as well make it feel welcome.”

  “I don’t want to make it feel welcome!” I blurted, surprising myself more than Thea. “I feel stupid, and a little crazy, and you’re not helping. Can we focus on what happened on the roof, so I’ve got a shot at sleeping with both eyes closed tonight?”

  “You’re not stupid, Lou. You’re frightened, and that’s okay. I know you don’t put much stock in what I do, or anything having to do with the paranormal for that matter, but your body knows better. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have called me.”

  I took the pizza out of the oven, setting it on the stove to cool before we made our way upstairs to the roof.

  “When I said I was built for comfort not speed, you do realize that included doubling as a Mountain Sherpa.”

  “You’ll survive.”

  “Girl, invest in an elevator.” Thea coughed, huffing and puffing.

  “My inheritance barely covers the taxes on this place. Why else would I put up with Alistair and his passive aggressive crap, if I didn’t need the money?”

  Thea didn’t hesitate. “You do it for me and Marigold. You never said, but we both know what happened at last year’s holiday party.”

  I looked over my shoulder at her.

  “Don’t worry. Marigold and I have your back. I even hexed the little turd for you.”

  “You didn’t.” I couldn’t help a smirk.

  “Haven’t you noticed his newly receding hairline?” Thea winked, holding her dark, springy hair back from her forehead.

  I laughed at that. “C’mon. That’s just coincidence.”

  “Believe what you want, but it’s like I always say. Hex me, sex me, just don’t vex me. Not when it comes to me and mine.”

  I wasn’t about to tell Thea about the guy I thought I saw on the roof. It would open a can of worms I absolutely did not want to deal with. Same reason why I didn’t tell her about two weeks of seeing shadows.

  Thea prided herself on being a matchmaker, and it wouldn’t matter if the guy was real or not. Hell, the last time I was at Thea’s place, she told me and Marigold she had regular sex with her spirit guide. Maybe that was code for battery-operated boyfriend, and who was I to
criticize?

  “An elevator would pay for itself if you rented out the top two floors. Honey, you could make bank.”

  Thea was like a dog with a bone. “Have you met me? I hate most people, or haven’t you noticed? It’s why I choose to live alone.”

  Thea coughed again, sucking in a breath. “I could fix that for you in a heartbeat. Alistair—”

  “Ugh, God, no!” I cut her off. “Don’t even give that a passing thought. The man gives me the creeps. Plus, he’s not nice.”

  “I was about to say not all men are like him.”

  I looked at Thea again. “Sorry, T. Alistair is kind of a sore subject.”

  “I don’t blame you. And you’re right about him being creepy. Especially with how he watches you. It’s like he’s waiting for something.”

  I snorted. “I think the word you’re hunting for is stalker. Pepper spray, babe. Never leave home without it. Though in Alistair’s case, I may up the ante and buy a taser. Whatever he’s waiting for, hell could freeze first.”

  We got to the last flight, and Thea stopped. Not to catch her breath, but because her whole body tensed.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  Thea lifted a hand to her throat. “Lou, did someone you know die today?”

  My jaw went slack, but I snapped it shut just as fast. Thea hadn’t been at work the past couple of days, and didn’t know about Emmie.

  “I’m right. I can tell from the look on your face.

  I blurted the Reader’s Digest version of what happened, surprised at how good it felt to get the whole thing off my chest.

  “Louisa, why the hell didn’t you call me before things got to this point?”

  I shrugged, reaching to slide back the deadbolt. “Do you really have to ask?” Hesitating, I pushed open the metal door and let Thea onto the roof first.

  She walked straight for the chaise lounge without stopping. Bits of cheese and crackers scattered the ground, evidence scavengers had a feast after I ran for the door earlier.

  Thea didn’t say a word. She stood facing the same shadows where I first saw something. Her small, sequined-clad feet were shoulder-width apart as she peered into the gloom.

  “Thea?”