Jeepers Reapers: There Goes My Midlife Crisis

by Marianne Morea

  “Not good enough. I let yesterday’s unscheduled absence go, but not today.”

  I was in no mood. “I’m usually the first one here, and I leave late more often than not, and let’s not forget the unused personal days I have accrued. Still, you pick today of all days to be an even bigger jerk than usual. A friend passed away unexpectedly yesterday. If you need more explanation than that, you can bite me.”

  The man’s face puckered, and I didn’t have to see it to know his ass did so as well.

  “Be that as it may,” he sniffed. “I would appreciate a week’s notice next time. This library runs on a tight schedule. No exceptions.”

  My fingers circled my temples. “Alistair, even you can’t expect death to follow a schedule.”

  “No, but seeing as this was a friend, and not a family member,” he paused with a snide look, “we all know you have no family—”

  At Marigold’s sharp breath, I scraped my chair back. The jarring sound sent Alistair’s smug smirk into retreat, leaving embarrassment in its wake.

  Maybe Alistair didn’t mean it as a dig.

  Yeah, and pigs fly.

  I stalked around the end of the reference desk until I stood toe-to-toe with the little putz. “I think it’s time I hand in my resignation. How’s that for written notice?”

  Alistair’s lips thinned, and Marigold’s eyes went wide behind him. “Bubbaleh, you don’t mean that.”

  “If that’s what you want, Ms. Jericho, then so be it. Though, without a letter of recommendation from me, no other library will hire you.” He sniffed, and the self-satisfied curl was back on his upper lip.

  “A letter from you? Saying what, exactly? That I was uncooperative? The subtext isn’t hard to decode. It says you made an untoward advance, and I refused, and you reacted by creating a hostile work environment. I don’t need your letter, Alistair, or anything else from you. I have an offer on my desk right now for a Rare Books Curator. An unsolicited offer. A university library where I won’t have to deal with a butthurt jerk who can’t take no for an answer.”

  “You think you’ll fair better there? You’re a frigid, man-hating bitch, so I wouldn’t count on it. Universities have donors who like to be stroked, and you don’t have the goods.” He snorted at his own play on words.

  I froze at his inuendo. Instead of heading for my seat, I pivoted for the reference desk’s computer. Not bothering with a chair, I tapped away on the keyboard.

  “Taking the job, then?” he asked.

  “No,” I replied, without looking up. “I’m getting the direct email for the president of the New York Public Library to lodge a formal complaint.”

  “Against whom?”

  My eyes flicked up, catching the anxious glint in his eyes. “Against you. Since you’re so fond of advanced notice, consider this my two weeks.”

  I scribbled the email address on a pad, and the sound of the paper ripping from its gummed stack punctuated the moment. “Oh, and I’m taking my two weeks in accrued personal time,” I added, walking to my chair for my sweater. “I’ll be back for my personal effects after lunch. The air in here is a little stale.”

  Walking past Alistair, an involuntary shiver goose-pimpled my arms. He was no doubt a creeper, but I’d never had a visceral reaction to him like this.

  It was as though his disdain was suddenly palpable, and an odd adversarial feeling crept over my shoulder. It was more than his usual antagonism. This was stronger. Hateful, almost.

  The scrawny man had a definite Napoleon complex, but I was no threat, and Alistair knew it. Even the promise of a formal complaint had no teeth now that I quit. Sad as that was, it was the truth of city government.

  “You can stop with the death stare, Alistair. Next time pick on someone your own size. Or better yet, be professional, and don’t pick on anyone.”

  It was sad. Not that I’d throw him a bone. Alistair was the one who crossed the line and changed our work dynamic. If he hadn’t, I could’ve rolled my eyes at his snotty elitism, and not wasted a second of brain space on him. Thea was right. The only reason I stuck around was for her and Marigold.

  Keeping my chin high and my shoulders straight, I let my hand brush Marigold’s arm as I passed. “You and Thea are awesome sauce. You made every day better. Promise you won’t be a stranger.”

  The woman sniffled, bobbing her head in reply. I winked as I turned for the library’s front door but froze for a millisecond.

  You’ll see me again, too…Lou.

  The hair went up on the back of my neck, but I didn’t turn around. I didn’t have to. The voice was neither Alistair’s nor Marigold’s. Neither was the ethereal murmur Emmie’s.

  Great. More weirdness to pile on the rest. Well, screw that and the spooky horse it rode in on. Cold laughter answered my bravado, and I swallowed, double-timing it out the library’s front door.

  I FLEXED THE BLOOD BACK INTO MY FINGERS, switching the shopping bags from one hand to the other. My wheeled tote only held so much, so I had no choice but to carry the extra.

  “Immense culture and attitude! One teeny, tiny supermarket, half a city away.” I mimicked the genie from Disney’s Aladdin, wincing at the pins and needles in my hand.

  Living in Manhattan had its perks: food, fashion, culture. Grocery shopping, not so much. Not when prime real estate was measured in inches rather than square feet. It was the one thing the suburbs had on the city. That and parking.

  Of course, every neighborhood had a corner store that doubled as a newsstand, a deli, and a stop for quick stuff…but candy, cigarettes, and tired produce didn’t help when your pantry needed stocking. That meant an expedition into the wilds for a real supermarket. Even if all I wanted was chocolate and salt.

  Thanks a lot, Mother Nature.

  Eighth Avenue was at a standstill both ways, so I bailed on my taxi. If I hadn’t, the meter would have ticked into the stratosphere. In hindsight, I should’ve taken the subway, but I was only a block or so from home at this point.

  My cellphone rang, and I didn’t need psychic powers to know it was Thea. No doubt Marigold had filled her in on what happened.

  “I love you, T, but I’m not in the mood.” I let the call go to voicemail.

  The only call I wanted right now was one from the head of the university library. They had offered me the curator’s position. That much was true. What I didn’t say was the offer came a month ago, and I’d turned it down. So the likelihood the position was still unfilled was practically nil.

  I was forty years old and jobless. No unemployment insurance either because I wasn’t fired. Still, I had no regrets. It was time to move on. I loved working in that historic building, but staying in a miserable job just to shield my friends wasn’t a good enough reason.

  Much like staying in a bad marriage for the sake of the children. I had no children, but I did have a bad marriage. Finding the courage to leave Marcus after ten years forged steel in my proverbial balls.

  He wasn’t a bad guy, but his Peter Pan charm got old fast. Especially when he pushed me on the daily to sell the brownstone so we could backpack the world.

  That, and the fact he dangled the promise of kids someday, but never anted up. Suffice it to say, Wendy hit a wall and sent Peter Pan packing.

  Turning the corner onto my street, I looked up at the brownstone with its aged patina. The building had withstood nearly a hundred years. If those bricks could talk, what a story they’d tell.

  If push came to shove, I could rent out rooms as Thea suggested, or I could sell the place. Alistair was a dick, but he was correct. I had no living family. No blood relative to leave the place to, so why not?

  The question was moot. The brownstone was my legacy. The root of my family history. The idea wasn’t just nostalgia. It warmed me. Proof that I could endure as well. Moneywise, I was okay for now, as long as I stopped spending bank on cabs to supermarkets halfway to Timbuktu.

  Something on the front stoop caught my eye. I wasn’t expecting a delivery, but
a package waited at the top of the stairs alongside the front door.

  Crossing the street, I picked up my pace, with my wheeled tote clacking in metronomic rhythm along the sidewalk. I had planned to stop at the dry cleaner, and then the liquor store for a couple of bottles of wine, but porch pirates were a thing in Manhattan, and I wasn’t taking a chance.

  The box was plain cardboard with no distinct logo. It didn’t have a mailing label either, so it had to be hand-delivered.

  Curiosity piqued, I parked the grocery tote and bags to one side and then bent to turn the box frontways around. The slim edge of a delivery label peeked out from under the packing tape with my name printed clearly on the front.

  I unlocked the front door and pushed the box inside with my foot. Standing half inside the vestibule, I reached for my phone to scroll for Thea’s number, but then thought better of it.

  A mysterious package on my porch didn’t necessarily mean something weird. It could very well be my belongings from the library, and it would be just like Alistair to have my stuff messengered so he could have the last word.

  “Fat chance.”

  Alistair would’ve offloaded his dirty work to Marigold, and she would’ve texted a heads-up for sure, so there went that idea.

  “Groceries first. Mystery box later.”

  Pulling the wheeled cart inside, I closed the front door with my hip and then brought the bags to the kitchen, leaving the mystery box just inside the hall.

  I unpacked my groceries while anxiety and excitement bloomed, but after divebombing ravens and last night’s dream, I wasn’t even going to speculate.

  Holding a boxcutter from the utility drawer, I sat on the bottom step with the box at my feet. It felt like Christmas morning, if Christmas was an episode of American Horror Story.

  I slit the packing tape wide, and then lifted the carboard flaps. Blinking, I stared at the polished wood staring back at me, and the symbol carved on its lid.

  “No way.” My gaze was glued to the sigil.

  The wooden box wasn’t exact, but its carved symbol was the precise one from my dream.

  But how?

  Packing peanuts spilled over the edge of the cardboard as I lifted the box out and onto the foyer floor.

  The wood felt cold to the touch. Icy even, and I hesitated, curling my fingers into my palm.

  “Don’t be a coward. Just open the damn box. Emmie showed you this for a reason. It’ll be okay.” Except nothing about the last twenty-four hours was okay.

  Slipping my fingers around the top edge, I felt for a lock or spring mechanism. Nope. I checked the delivery label next, looking for instructions. Nothing. Just my first name and address.

  I sat back with an exhale, chewing my lip. “C’mon, Em. I need a little help here. A heads-up from the hereafter or something.”

  As if the universe heard my complaint, the sigil on the box shimmered. “Pretty, but that’s as helpful as saying open sesame.”

  A hidden lock snicked open somewhere, and my brows shot up. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  I raised the lid, half expecting to find items from my dream. Instead, the lid opened to an interior compartment. It was flat and not very deep, but there was a letter addressed to me sitting inside.

  “Expensive.” I admired the thick, buff stationery before sliding one finger under the flap edge. Inside was a formal business letter referencing Emily.

  “M.M.A, Inc. Auditors, re: Emily Praestes.” I scanned the letter again, sparing a glance for the embossed emblem at the top of the stationery. Mirrored capital letter M’s entwined with a raven.

  Coincidence? Not a chance.

  Still, the letter made no sense. Emmie was homeless. Assets were needed to incur an audit, and Em had nothing outside the contents of her shopping cart. And why the wooden box?

  I read the letter again.

  Ms. Jericho,

  Your presence is required at our offices at the above address. It is in reference to Emily Praestes and her estate. Please call the number provided to schedule an appointment. The matter is time-sensitive, so we ask you do so expeditiously.

  Regards,

  A.D. Mori

  My gaze moved to the embossed insignia and the address across the top of the letterhead. Midtown Manhattan. Madison Avenue to be exact.

  I pulled my cellphone from my back pocket and did a quick Google search, but nothing came up other than the company name and address. No website, either.

  Frowning, I double-checked my spelling in the search bar, but nope. Nada.

  It was after five p.m., but my curiosity and anxiety were both piqued. I dialed the number listed on the letterhead. Worst case, I’d leave a message for this A.D. Mori person.

  The number barely rang once. “Good evening. Memento Mori Auditors, may I help you?”

  I blinked, not expecting anyone to answer. “Uhm, yes. I received a letter today—”

  “Your name, ma’am?” the receptionist asked, cutting her off.

  “Louisa Jericho, and I—”

  “One moment, please.”

  Jeez. Rude much? Canned music played as I drummed my fingers waiting for the receptionist again.

  “Ms. Jericho?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you come to our offices tomorrow at one p.m.? Ms. Mori can see you then.”

  “Do you mind telling me what this is all about? Or if you can’t, perhaps you can ask Ms. Mori. I received a package and a letter from her, and it’s unsettling to say the least. It came in an antique wooden box. Should I bring it with me?”

  “Bring what with you?” the receptionist asked.

  I exhaled, annoyed. “Never mind. I’ll discuss it with Ms. Mori tomorrow.”

  I pressed end on my cellphone, chewing my lip again. It wasn’t odd the receptionist didn’t know why Ms. Mori sent the package, but it was odd she wasn’t given instructions regarding it and the meeting.

  Stowing my phone, I carried the mystery box from the foyer to the kitchen table. “I guess I’ll find out what you’re about tomorrow.” And why the box was featuring in my dreams. I hoped.

  Chapter Six

  I STOOD ON THE CURB looking up at the building. I was fifteen minutes early for my appointment with this mystery auditor.

  The idea still irked. Emmie had nothing to audit, but I was here regardless, and ready to pick up the gauntlet if necessary. In fact, I spent the better part of the uptown commute planning counter arguments to whatever scam this might be.

  The building wasn’t as nondescript as I expected. In fact, the architecture was beautiful, skewing toward the gothic, with pairs of gargoyles sitting sentinel along its ornate façade.

  It even had a small murder of crows perched along its top ridge. I loved the Edgar Allen Poe feel, imagining the crows and the gargoyles watching me, even as I watched them.

  “Creepy and cool.” I wrapped the last of my bagel into its wax paper, stowing it in my purse.

  Holy crow!

  Did the gargoyles just move?

  I peered at the roof line. It had to be a trick of light, but for a split second it looked as though the carved statues inclined their heads.

  A large clock in the building’s façade showed it was nearly time, so I darted across the street, sprinting against the don’t walk sign to the curb.

  The brass revolving door opened into a large lobby, and I stopped just inside, surprised at the inviting feel, with its plush seating areas and wide, semi-circular reception desk. The company’s logo sat just above in brass lettering. Memento Mori Auditors.

  “May I help you?” one of the receptionists asked from behind the semi-circle.

  “Yes, uhm…I have a one p.m. appointment with Ms. Mori,” I replied, hiking my purse higher onto my shoulder. “

  “Are you Ms. Jericho?”

  I nodded.

  “You’re a little early. Please take a seat, and Ms. Mori’s assistant will call down when she’s ready for you.” The receptionist held out a small bottle of water, and
then gestured toward the couches.”

  I took the water and a seat near the windows. From this vantage point, the lobby’s initial welcoming feel faded a bit. The artwork was tasteful, but subtly macabre. Spent hourglasses, extinguished candles, and such. Not Disney’s Haunted Mansion, but definitely the same vibe.

  Getting up from my seat, I walked around for a better look, passing a directory board. “Corporeal Procurement Administration?” I shook my head. “They’ve got to be joking.”

  High heels clacked behind me, and I turned.

  “Ms. Jericho?”

  “Yes.” I recapped my water.

  “I’m Marjory Praestes. Ms. Mori’s assistant. I can take you up for your meeting.”

  I didn’t say anything, but made a mental note. Praestes was Emmie’s surname. Ordinarily, I’d chalk it up to extreme coincidence, but not this time. Perhaps the company was family run, and Em was somehow related. At this point, anything was possible.

  We took the second elevator bank to the ninth floor, and when the doors opened the woman led me toward the farthest corner office.

  Marjory knocked, waiting for acknowledgment. “You can go in. When you’re done, I’ll be at the desk by the elevators if you need anything.”

  Thanking the girl, I watched her walk back at a brisk clip. There was no reason to be nervous, but for some reason, my palms sweat. I rubbed them one at a time on my slacks and then turned the knob.

  “Ms. Jericho. Thank you for coming. I’m Angelica di Mori, CEO of this madhouse.”

  The woman greeted me from behind a contemporary glass desk. She was a dead ringer for the elegant stranger in my dream. Down to the slingback patent leather stilettos. It was so uncanny, it startled.

  “Come in. I promise I won’t bite.”

  I nodded, feeling a little stupid for standing at the door like an idiot. “I’m sorry, I’m a little confused as to why I’m here.”

  The door closed softly, and I walked to take a seat in one of the chairs facing her desk, but before I could sit, the woman walked around the other end and offered her hand.