The Dearly Departed Dating Service

by Rae Renzi

  “Which one?” I didn’t intend to be snippy, but I had a few curious, mysterious or otherwise provocative looks and comments by Sam Kendall tucked away in my memory, although I’d only seen the man a few times.

  Kismet, he’d said. Fate. But I didn’t believe in such things.

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. “The one where I basically implied you were setting me up for a personal injury lawsuit—”

  “Implied? You didn’t imply it—you out-and-out said it.”

  Sam smiled ruefully. “You’re right. I’d had a frustrating couple of days. I took it out on you because—”

  “—I was in the right place at the right time? I’m afraid you didn’t catch me at my best, either. I was horribly irritable.” I offered an apologetic smile.

  “And I was offensive. You were right, though. I was tired and my reactions were off.”

  “Yes. You looked exhausted. Were you doing double shifts?”

  “No, no. Not in the sense you mean. I was working on something else—probably inappropriately—a mystery at the hospital. I sometimes forget I don’t have to solve every little problem that crops up. In any case, my involvement in this mystery got in the way of good sense. I hadn’t taken care of myself. I’m glad now you slapped some sense into me.”

  “I didn’t actually slap you, but it was a near thing.”

  He chuckled at this. “You’ll be happy to know I took your comment seriously. About being unfit to wield a scalpel in my condition. I took myself off the case.”

  This shocked me for some reason. “I… look, I’m… I had no right to…” I started, but didn’t know where to go with it.

  Sam rubbed his face and turned his deep gaze on me. “Yeah. Me, either. That’s the point.” He gazed at me appraisingly. “I ended up wondering if you were a guardian angel. This is the second time you’ve saved me from myself.”

  “Second time? I don’t remember—”

  He abruptly leaned forward. “I never understood why you tried to stop the surgery. Why did you do that? I mean, you were right about my motivation—all ego there, and that was wrong—but why try to stop the surgery?” He spoke with a kind of urgency, as if this were a long-festering question.

  He could only be referring to Craig. I was barely aware of the murmured conversations around us, the scrape of chairs and clink of dishes. The smell of newly baked pies and freshly brewed coffee. All those incidental markers of life.

  “Because he was dead.”

  “He came back. We brought him back. At least for a while.”

  “Yes, but sometimes the dead want to stay dead.”

  He sat back, a quizzical expression on face. “I don’t understand.”

  I opened my mouth to clarify the situation but then closed it. I couldn’t very well explain that the patient himself had requested that he be allowed to die thoroughly, now could I?

  I opted for avoidance. “You know, that whole episode was traumatic for me. It changed my life, and actually, I’d rather not talk about it.” This was absolutely truthful to the letter. I didn’t feel obligated to explain the exact nature of my trauma, or its complexity.

  He winced and looked at me from beneath long, dark lashes. “Yeah, I can see how it would be. I hope I didn’t… I mean, I hope you didn’t… ?”

  “No. I didn’t.” I wasn’t precisely certain what I hadn’t, but my words seemed to relieve the doctor. We both relaxed.

  My attention was suddenly diverted away from Sam by a person waving at me by the door.

  Craig!

  I started to wave back—I was so happy to see him after his recent unexplained absences—but jerked my hand back into my lap as the reality of the situation hit me.

  This was exactly why I avoided public places. Should I talk to Craig? Ignore him? I couldn’t introduce him to Sam—one simply didn’t introduce ghosts to bare acquaintances, especially in public. On the other hand, the idea of acting like Craig wasn’t here felt horribly rude and disloyal. I was stumped.

  Fortunately, Sam solved the problem. He folded his napkin and pushed his plate aside, then picked up his computer case as he stood to leave. “Well, it was nice to talk to you, Joy Abercrombie. So nice that I’ll be late for work if I’m not careful. I’ve got to get going.”

  I tore my deer-in-the headlights stare from Craig and managed to smile at Sam. “Thank you for your table and the conversation. It was… enlightening.”

  He gazed at me for a long, warm moment. His eyes drifted to my mouth and back up to my eyes. “I don’t suppose you’re free for dinner tomorrow?”

  My heart skipped a beat. But my attention slid past him to my dear, sweet Craig, now moving this way. “No. No, I’m sorry. I’m not.”

  Sam shrugged. “Some other time, then.” He paused to add, “You never answered my question that day, you know.”

  I did know. The question—”What do you want?“—had circled around in my mind like a buzzard since the day our cars bumped. I was no closer to answering it now than I had been then.

  As I watched Sam leave, aware of both warm relief and sharp disappointment, I let myself be distracted by the effect of his passage through the room. He had a physical presence greater than even his muscular build could account for—people moved out of his way automatically, though there was nothing threatening, other than sheer size, about him.

  He and Craig brushed shoulders in passing. Of course, Sam didn’t feel it. Craig did, though. I saw it on his face. A kind of sly, teasing look. I had no idea what had crossed Craig’s impish Departed mind, nor how to interpret this particular message.

  “Sorry I’m late.” Marybob slid into the chair just vacated by Sam. It was probably still warm from his body, an idea that sparked in me a completely unexpected, not to mention inappropriate, feeling of jealousy. A waiter scurried over to clear the table within milliseconds of her arrival and lingered, puppy-like, near Marybob until I shooed him off. Craig slid into the chair next to me, looking pleased.

  I frowned at him, trying to get an explanation for his teasing look without actually speaking aloud to what appeared to be an empty chair. He returned a bland expression.

  I spoke to Marybob instead. “Where were you? And what’s the emergency?”

  “Oh.” She waved a hand airily. “A work thing. It’s okay now.”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. It was not like her to behave histrionically. “Where were you?”

  She glanced around and leaned forward to whisper. “Started my peri—”

  I shook my head quickly. “Marybob. We’re not alone.”

  “It’s okay,” Craig said equably. “It’s not like I’ll be embarrassed.”

  “I know you won’t, but she might,” I pointed out without looking at him.

  “Only if she knows I’m here.”

  “She—you mean me?—might what?” Marybob asked. “Start my period?”

  Honestly, sometimes I felt like giving up. These two-way conversations with three or more people were wearing me out.

  “Be embarrassed to talk about personal things in front of Craig,” I said wearily.

  Marybob considered for a moment. But only a moment. “So it’s Craig, is it? Thing is, it’s kind of hard to get embarrassed by thin air, if you get my meaning, so I’m not embarrassed. Probably it’s you who’s embarrassed.”

  “It is not.”

  “Uh-huh. Now, let’s get down to it.” Marybob leaned toward me and practically smacked her lips. “I saw that cute doctor sitting here. Did he ask you out?”

  My mouth dropped open. How could she even bring up such a thing with Craig sitting right here? That she couldn’t see him was no excuse. She knew he was there—I’d told her.

  She read my face. “He doesn’t mind, do you, Craig?” She aimed a smile roughly in his direction and dinged a teenager sitting at the table behind Craig instead. The boy smiled shyly back. Marybob winked at him, and he blushed. He must have been all of sixteen years old. Painful.

  Like my situation.
<
br />   Not because I felt guilty. I had nothing to feel guilty about. But it was just plain rude for Marybob to act like Craig was a nonentity.

  “Marybob, don’t put your lustful longings on me. You’re the one who thinks he’s hot.”

  “Well, he is. Don’t you think?”

  Craig looked at me curiously, as if he were truly interested in my opinion of the young surgeon’s sex appeal. My face grew warm under his candid gaze.

  “From a purely objective viewpoint, he’s somewhat attractive, but nothing like Craig.”

  Of course, with sex not a possibility—physically or metaphysically—the notion of sexy didn’t seem to apply to Craig, any more than it would to an angel, but like an angel, he was beautiful. I reached for Craig’s hand, folded on the table, and mid-reach realized what I was doing. I looked at my hand and dropped into my lap.

  Marybob rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but he’s alive. Craig’s dead.”

  Chapter 21

  Craig watched Joy sitting on the edge of her seat, toying with her cup of coffee. For the first time in the two years since he’d died, she had actually sparked in the presence of a man. Although he had to admit he felt a little wistful, Craig had been more than pleased to see Joy sitting with that doctor after the car ding debacle.

  Their attraction to one another had been obvious when they’d first met at Pie Sigh. Had they been indifferent, they would have ignored each other. But just as his hopes had started to rise, disaster had hit. The doctor seemed cognizant of his attraction to Joy, but she had taken a grudge against the man when he’d hit her car and had all but hissed in his face.

  Craig sighed. Not the best way to start a relationship.

  On the other hand, fate—or whatever power had driven the whole crazy situation with Clydesdale, the vase, the hearse, and the ER—had intervened. The doctor had seen her in the ER and had introduced himself.

  He wouldn’t have done that if he weren’t interested—and what man wouldn’t be? Even the murky light dribbling through the rain-pattered windows in Pie Sigh couldn’t hide her sunshine-and-roses beauty. He watched her cheeks turn pink with her effort to negotiate her feelings for him, square them with her attraction to Sam Kendall, and defend her position against Marybob’s two-by-four approach to the truth.

  The truth alone wouldn’t do it, though. Joy had her own version and her own fears, and, however sweet she was, she was also well defended against the helpful suggestions of others. Sleight of hand was called for—or, rather, seduction. Seduction of reason, unveiling of the truth.

  That was how she’d be won over.

  He had to get Marybob on his side.

  Chapter 22

  A day later I was stretched out on my back with my hair in a sink, staring at glittery ceiling tiles, and trying to let my mind go all droopy and slack, hoping that in a zen-like state, the solution to my problems would appear in a flash of insight. Right.

  “So, did he call?” Marybob rinsed the last foamy fluffs of shampoo from my hair. Failing inspiration for more direct means of stemming the tide of my looming financial catastrophe, I’d made an emergency appointment with her at the salon. As a representative of the Dearly Departed Dating Service, my professional image needed some sparking up. A decent haircut was a good first (or second or fourth) step to prod our fledgling business into flight, and Marybob was a skilled stylist. And for me, cheap.

  “Did who call?”

  She gave my hair a little yank. “Don’t play dumb. That cute doctor.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Listen, Marybob, we have more important things to talk about.” Forty-six days left, and I had zero toward my goal. Zero! The long, menacing fingers of the bank were plucking at my sleeve. I stifled a shiver. “Money, for one.”

  “I’ve been saying…” She turned off the rinsing hose, sat me up with a little more oomph than I expected and wrapped a towel around my head.

  “I know. I know. You were right.” This admission placated her. Unfortunately, it also opened the door to an idea she had nurtured too long.

  “Madam Mystique.”

  “What?”

  “Madam Mystique. She could ask for money upfront—say, for acting as a go-between for communicating with the Departed. That’s traditional.”

  “Marybob. There is nothing traditional about communicating with the dead, except as a hoax. Anyway, we agreed the Bereaved shouldn’t pay unless they’re satisfied.”

  This last was muffled by the towel suddenly draped over my head. Marybob massaged my hair dry. Vigorously.

  “Hello? And just how is that working out for us? Hold still.” She whipped off the towel and spun the chair around, giving me a pointed look in the mirror as she applied a comb to my hair. I had learned that when Marybob applied her art it was best to remain not only still but quiet. She was talented but distractible.

  Minutes later, the dull and uneven ends of my hair lay clumped on the floor. My hair swung in a lustrous golden fall over my shoulders and caught the light as I turned my head. Exactly the effect I had hoped for.

  She picked up the conversation as she dusted the snips of hair off my neck with a towel. “Let’s see… we’ve done three—er, two cases and have diddlysquat to show for it. Except your hospital bills. Which would put us in the R-E-D. I don’t know about the Bereaved, but I’m sure as shootin’ not satisfied. Madam Mystique could turn it around.”

  “Marybob, I’m not sure—” I started to explain the error in her thinking but was interrupted by my cell phone.

  “Joy! Need you here. Immediately! A, ah, client. I have to go right this minute to do… something else… something important. Critical! An emergency, in fact.”

  The nature of Mr. Botts’s emergency became clear when I arrived at Tranquility Park. Three muscular motorcycles were parked in front, rumbling in deep-throated unison. Their chrome fittings bulged over sleek, black bodies embellished with stylized depictions of glittering blue-and-red flames, except one, which displayed a rose—Clydesdale’s, of course. They were beautiful, in a somewhat apocalyptic way, and reminded me of Ruby’s funeral this evening. I suppose I should have been thankful Mr. Botts had managed to call me before he flew the coop. Exactly why he felt threatened wasn’t clear. After all, I had been the injured party the last time these particular vehicles—at least one of them—had been parked in the driveway, not him.

  Taking a deep breath and blowing it out, I straightened my shoulders and pulled open the door to the waiting room. I didn’t quail or quiver but marched straight in. I was proud of myself.

  The clatter and clink of rattling hardware greeted me as three leather-and-metal-clad men surged to their feet. One of them held flowers. A fourth person materialized, looking bemused.

  “Afternoon, gentlemen,” I said, giving them the benefit of the (considerable) doubt. I ignored Ruby.

  “Miss Joy, I came to apologize.” Clydesdale held out a beautiful bouquet of daisies. His eyes were red-rimmed and filled with heartache, but he was fully aware and, unlike at our last meeting, seemed to have some control over his emotions. “No hard feelings?”

  “Awww, look at that. Ain’t he somethin’?” Ruby said. “Maybe he’s come to his senses. You think he’s ready to move on now?”

  “Not at all,” I said, as I took the flowers. “The grieving process has to run its course. No harm done.”

  “Other than thirty-five hundred dollars in medical bills,” Ruby said. “I feel bad about that. Gotta take care of it. It’s not right. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Clydes asked, “I guess we’ll see you this evening at the service?”

  I shot a glance at Ruby, imagining some of the things she could do. “No!”

  “No? You ain’t gonna come?” Clydes’s eyes narrowed and his fists started to curl.

  “Yes! Yes, I’ll be there. Of course I’ll be there, but I try not to intrude, so you might not see me right away, depending on the arrangements at…”

  “That’ll be at the Biker’s Church in Manvel,” Ruby sa
id, coming to my rescue. “It’s the only place that feels homey to everyone. You’ll like it.”

  “… the church,” I finished.

  “Good.” Clydes rolled his neck, cracked his knuckles, and jerked his head at his companions.

  Ruby eyed him speculatively. “Seems a little wound up still. Maybe we should wait ‘til after the service to ask him about dating. You know, give him a little time?”

  One of his beefy friends stepped forward. “Biker’s Church is a little hard to find. Here’s a map. We told folks seven o’clock—gives everyone a chance to get there after work. That okay?”

  “Good idea,” I said. “We won’t do anything before everyone’s ready.”

  I’ve always believed that expanding one’s experience adds to the richness of life (I can’t speak to the Afterlife, beyond Craig’s claim that it has to be experienced to be understood). Ruby’s funeral at the Temple of the Righteous Riders definitely expanded my experience, specifically of funerals, churches, and personal grooming.

  Marybob had insisted on sharing the experience, and I was grateful for that. Mr. Botts had not returned. Fortunately, he (or, more likely, our secretary, Linda) had completed the arrangements, so all was in order, if in an unorthodox way.

  We arrived early, in spite of my last-minute crisis about appropriate attire for a biker funeral. Ruby convinced me that my usual plain black pantsuit would be fine. Marybob dressed to fit the crowd, although with a slight Seventh Avenue slant. Her boots were leather, knee-high, and jangled with hardware, but they also had four-inch heels that balanced out the plunging neckline of her dark gray sweater. A black scarf looped around her neck completed the ensemble. Not traditional funeral attire, but, given the circumstance, it worked.

  When we pulled up to the church half an hour before the service, daylight was waning and a light fog had oozed up from the damp ground, shrouding everything in a pearly haze. A dozen motorcycles sat in the parking lot thrumming quietly as their riders murmured and clinked among themselves. Many of the machines were illuminated by tubular fluorescent lighting attached to the wheels and underneath the bodies. The light drew glints from the riders’ attire, and the wet pavement under the bikes glowed red and blue and occasionally purple, an eerie effect enhanced by the fog but somehow in keeping with the occasion. Each motorcycle flew a pair of black flags emblazoned with a sequined red rose mounted on twin masts at the back.