by Rae Renzi
In my few waking moments, I fretted about Sam’s condition. He’d taken the worst of the fiery blast, protecting me with his body, an action that touched my heart. The idiot.
I knew he was in pain, which upset me. I hoped he wasn’t in danger for infection or some other deadly sequelae of his heroics. I was less worried about the concussion. From what I knew of him, he had a pretty hard head.
When I wasn’t agitated about Sam’s physical health, I brooded about a variety of things that had happened in the crematorium. Amazing, how much had happened in those few seconds. But how much of it was real? I was all too aware that in the heat of the moment—quite literally—the words he’d spoken might have reflected the acute situation rather than actual emotion. One didn’t really want to make the grand departure in the throes of indifference. It just wasn’t done. So I had to face the fact that Sam’s affection was very likely transient in the extreme. So there was that.
And there were the words he’d uttered when he briefly regained consciousness in the crematorium: “Contract stands.” If it meant what I thought it did, I had been wrong about at least one aspect of Marybob’s personality. She could keep a secret.
The police came to visit the next day. It was a case of attempted murder, a fact Marybob milked for every speck of drama.
I told the police that Marshall was the likely culprit, but I stalled when asked for evidence. I couldn’t very well tell them the eyewitness had been dead at the time. It occurred to me that even if the police were inclined to admit evidence from a Departed individual, Christie might not be the ideal witness, being a felon herself for bigamy.
Marybob had her own solution to the problem, which she enthusiastically spouted while she helped me through the process of getting out of the hospital. “Hey, I’ll be the witness. I’ll tell ‘em I saw the whole thing. I saw that Marshall creep chloroform you and conk Sam over the head and stuff the both of you into a coffin.”
“And you didn’t call the police because… ?” I felt obligated to point out the flaw in her cheerful offer to commit perjury.
“Ah… well, shoot. Okay. The cops will have to figure it out themselves, then. Darn shame, ‘cause I’d be dynamite in court.”
“I’m sure you would.”
In the end it didn’t matter. In a fit of nerves, Mr. Botts caved in. He agreed to reveal all in exchange for protection. Mr. Botts claimed Marshall had terrorized him into, as he put it, cutting corners to make a profit. Marshall had bribed one of the hospital staff into sending bodies “by accident” to Tranquility Park. Once there, it was easy to convince the grief-ridden family to let the body remain. This explained both Sam’s missing bodies and the sudden increase in Tranquility Park business.
I had unwittingly taken part in their scheme, which bothered me. I hated being unwitted.
When they caught up with Marshall, he was calm but unrepentant. He hadn’t actually planned to hurt us, he told the police, but when Mr. Botts told him that Sam had figured out the scam, he knew the two of us had to go. The only life he’d ever known was working in the mortuary. If Tranquility Park failed, there was little chance of anyone hiring him. He frightened people. So, he’d only done what he had to. His emotionless testimony gave me the chills. He seemed more dead than the Departed.
All in all, that particular mystery had been satisfactorily cleared up, but I still had unfinished business.
Sam had been in fairly bad shape. He had protected me from the furnace, but as a result, his burns were extensive. The doctors assured me, though, that they were not severe, and he would heal without scars. According to the gossip Marybob gathered at the nurses’ station, the big question was whether the hospital staff assigned to him would survive without scarring.
When I was released to drive, I made the trip to the hospital to visit him. There were things that needed to be said.
He was awake and in a bearish mood, probably due to pain, which manifested in a series of snapped directives and growls at an unfortunate nurse who was attempting to inject medication into his IV. Observing their interaction gave me a moment of déjà vu—this was the Sam Kendall I had first encountered, those two years ago, in the trauma surgery room. Arrogant and controlling. It made my task easier.
“I see you’re up to your old tricks.”
He stopped criticizing the young nurse and shot a stormy glance in my direction.
When he saw me, his expression changed from that of a charging bull into one of a boy with his hand in the cookie jar, an impression enhanced by his wayward sprigs of hair. The nurse took advantage of the distraction to quickly finish her task and slip out of the room.
“Joy.” His happy tone made my stomach flutter. “Just keeping in practice. Wouldn’t want to get rusty.” He grinned sheepishly, popping his dimple.
“I’m actually relieved you feel up to excoriating the hospital staff. You must be on the mend.”
He chuckled ruefully. “Yeah, judging from the pain, all my neurons are in working order. Trying to get out of here tomorrow. I guess you’re feeling better, too, since you’re back in your role of my guardian angel.”
This comment pinged on a question that had long bothered me. “You’ve said that a couple of times. I don’t know what you mean.”
“You have a knack for reminding me of my flaws.”
“Ah. I see.” Well, he did have flaws—but not enough of them for my comfort. I started to get down to business, but Sam, possibly under the blossoming influence of the medication in his drip, drifted into reminiscence.
“I remember the first time, in the emergency room two years ago, you called me on my greatest flaw, the sin of pride. You were right about why I wanted to save that patient… Craig, and I knew it. That moment’s never left me, and it reminds me daily of the real reason why I went into medicine—to help people. The rock-star stuff came later, when people started treating me like I was a god. I got sucked into the role, lapped it up, but you saved me. I came to think of you as one of those beautiful and terrible biblical angels descending for good purpose, but with sword flashing.”
I liked that image. “So that’s why you remembered my name.”
“Oh, yeah. I learned your name at the moment you stuck the metaphorical sword into my gut. Not likely to forget.”
I had no comment. I didn’t want to get drawn into a long conversation with Sam. Talking with him, watching his face, his meteorological eyes, waiting to see what odd and interesting thing would come out of him next—these were all activities dangerous to my well-being. I jumped straight to my mission.
“Then you’ll be happy to know I’m removing myself from your case. I don’t think you need me anymore.”
More to the point, I couldn’t afford him. He did strange things to my mind, and I simply couldn’t allow that. I had responsibilities.
He nodded as if expecting it. “Yes, I understand. It must be terrifying.” His eyelids drooped and he gave me a sweet smile.
This remark was so tangential as to be incomprehensible. “Terrifying?”
“Yes. Actually living. Getting involved with a mortal. Someone who could love you. Someone who could die. Terrifying.” His eyes were half-closed, and his words came out as a mumble. “Bu’ you’ll ge’ there…” His eyes slid closed as the medication kicked in.
“Wait—you mentioned a contract right after we were rescued. What contract?”
He didn’t open his eyes, but he mumbled, “Marybob. Good idea. Need help.”
“What kind of help? Help dating? Sam?” His earlier words—one phrase in particular—started a rattling commotion in my mind. I poked at him. “Sam!”
He didn’t rouse. The cheater.
Needless to say, I didn’t get any more out of Sam. His words stuck with me, though, raising more questions than were answered.
One question, though, I didn’t need Sam to answer.
The minute I left the hospital, I rushed over to the beauty salon, full of resolve. To my surprise, although confirming my wo
rst fears, Marybob was utterly unfazed and seemed to have every bit as much resolve as did I.
“I’m not going to cancel the contract. Sam knows what he’s doing,” she said as she applied a coat of nail polish to her toenails.
“I have no doubts about that. I do have serious doubts that he knows what you’re doing.”
This accusation didn’t bother her one bit. “He doesn’t need to. We make some recommendations, he follows through. I don’t see what you’re so upset about.” She held out her toes for scrutiny. “He’s a client, like everyone else. Is this color too bright for fall?”
“He’s not Bereaved.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Marybob. Of course he’s not. In any case, I’m the head of DDDS, and I was not consulted about whether we should take him as a client.”
“Conflict of interest. Anyway, you’re obviously not objective.” She complacently recapped the polish and set it in its place among a rainbow of tiny bottles. “‘Cause if you were, you’d be happy about us getting an honest-to-God contract. His money’s good as anyone’s.”
She had a point, which I hated. I hated worse the leaden feeling in my stomach when I mentally backed up and suddenly realized Marybob had mentioned some recommendations. Plural.
I lifted my chin and made as if to leave. “Fine. Add his damn name to the book, for accounting purposes. Keep in mind we don’t need any bad press, so you have to be honest with the candidates. They should be warned the man is arrogant.”
“Confident.”
“He’s obsessed.”
“Dedicated.”
“He’s overly large.”
“Built like a god.”
“Extravagant with money.”
“Rich.”
“Do you have someone in mind?”
“Yep, a handful of someones. But I’m not telling you.”
Chapter 45
I got nothing further from Marybob, no matter how I wheedled, so I turned my attention—or as much of it as I could wrestle away from the whole Sam situation—to other concerns, namely DDDS and my impeding foreclosure. I hadn’t yet given up on either of them, and, in fact, was somewhat heartened—business was picking up for the dating service, so maybe, maybe there might be a way to leverage it to save my house.
“You’re sure about this?” Donnie asked from the front seat of my car. He smoothed one hand down the front of his shirt, and his other hand held a rose. Ronnie was in the back with Alice. So was Luke, but Donnie didn’t know that. The only Departed he could see was his brother.
“I’m sure she’s gorgeous, smart, and lonely. What else do you want?” Ronnie said.
“It seems promising, Donnie, but only time will tell.” I patted his arm.
“What if she doesn’t like me?”
Ronnie pointed to himself. “What’s not to like?”
“Go on, Donnie. It’s time,” I gently nudged him. “We’ll be conspicuous if we stay here much longer.”
With one last glance in the mirror, Donnie took a deep breath and got out of the car. Ronnie went with him.
“Dude. Uh, what about Luke? He’s not here, is he? That’d feel too weird.”
Ronnie glanced at Luke, who popped out of existence long enough for them to reach the front porch. Their voices carried in the evening stillness.
“Except for Joy, there’s no one here but you and me. And I don’t count. Anyway, Luke’s the one who set it up, dumbass. He wants to move on. You’re helping him.”
Ronnie poked his head through the door and quickly pulled back. “She’s coming down the stairs. Get your shit together, man.”
“Okay. Okay. I can do this.” Donnie cleared his throat, patted his hair, and checked his zipper. “All set.”
The door opened and Ashley looked out at him curiously. Donnie cleared his throat again. “Hi, Ashley. You don’t really know me, but we have something in common—we’ve both lost someone… and I, uh, thought…” The words dried up, but he held out the rose. “I wanted to give this to you, ‘cause I know you’re hurtin’, too.”
Luke listened carefully to Donnie’s overture and nodded. “Good start.” He quirked an eyebrow at me—seeking endorsement, I assumed.
“Yes. Establishing what they have in common. Donnie is a nice boy.” I nodded toward Donnie and Ashley, and Ronnie, who was loitering around on the porch with them. “Do you think they’ll be a good match?”
Luke watched the two for a long moment. “He’ll be easy for her parents to like—he’s got that preppie thing going, and he’s kinda shy. Parents go for that kind of thing.”
“I guess getting the parents’ approval is important.”
“Makes it easier.”
Ashley came out onto the porch, and the two of them sat on the front steps.
Luke watched them like a hawk for a while. Eventually he leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “It’s gonna be fine. Maybe not love at first sight or anything, but I’m not sure it matters at this point. I think Ashley just needs a hand out of the hole she’s dug for herself, and he’s got what it takes to do that—he totally gets the grief thing. Once she’s back on her feet, she’ll be okay.”
He sounded so much wiser than when we first met. Maybe being dead did that to you. “So you’ll be on your way?”
“Already there.” He winked at me and twinkled out.
I sat staring at his empty seat, allowing myself a few moments. I’d miss him, the little scamp, but I told myself that life—and Hereafter—went on. I opened the book and put a check by his name.
Chapter 46
Marybob invited herself to dinner the next week when she signed on two more clients, both young women from the beauty shop. “Let’s celebrate. I feel like having some of that pasta you make, you know, with the tomatoes and capers. I’ll bring the wine.”
She also brought our bankable income to date.
As I prepared our meal, Marybob sat at my minuscule table, one leg crossed over the other, dangling a peep-toe sandal from her foot, munching tortilla chips and holding a glass of wine while she perused the Dating Book. Alice crouched under the table, her ears up, ever alert to the possibility of accidental food.
“Let’s see now. Here’s fifty dollars each from Tammy and Liza—down payment for being on our available list, with fifty dollars due when we fix them up on their first date. I made them each a page. Here’s Miz Heckenkamp’s hundred bucks, and the hundred dollars from Cherry Belle.” She slapped a check down on the table.
“You think it will work out with her and Clydesdale?”
“Oh, yeah. You shoulda seen the look on Clydes’s face when I introduced them. He was hooked from the git-go. Last I saw, Cherry Belle was teaching him how to yee-haw and laughing her head off.”
“Oh, I’m so glad. I had hoped, because I haven’t seen Ruby around in the last few days.” I had another reason to be glad, but not one I’d admit to Marybob.
“And here’s twenty… forty… sixty… eighty… one hundred from Clydes. Plus three dollars and fifty cents from Danny. And twenty-three from Luke. Still not sure it was quite right for you to comp him the balance.”
“For helping save my life?”
“Well, there is that.” She tidied up the little stack, a satisfied smile on her face. “What about Christie’s husband—er, husbands. Either of them go for it yet?”
“One of them is definitely not ready. He hasn’t recovered from discovering that she was a bigamist and is a little reluctant to get involved again.” Personally, I thought he might be the murderer, but so far, no evidence had implicated him. “The other one sounds interested, but he has a stipulation. He’s also having trouble with the fact that Christie had another husband, but his reaction is different.”
“Let me guess—he wants us to guarantee that whoever we fix him up with isn’t already married?”
“Only that we tell him if she is. He doesn’t mind dating a married woman—he just doesn’t want to marry one. I explained
we couldn’t guarantee anyone’s status, but it was against our policies to allow known married persons to enroll in the dating service.”
I had mixed feelings about the subject of marriage and the Departed. Was the contract dissolved just because the Bereaved could (usually) no longer see or hear or feel their spouse? If Craig and I had been married, would his death have automatically canceled it? I mean, marriage vows usually have that “until death do us part” phrase stuck in, but if all Bereaved were like me, I’m guessing there’d be more general ambiguity with the situation. As it was, most people lived in ignorance of their hovering Departed. It was probably for the best. If the Bereaved could see or hear their beloved Departed, they might end up like… me.
“We could start a black-market dating—”
“Marybob.”
“Right. We’ll stay aboveboard. Okay, so we have… four hundred and—oh, wait. Almost forgot.” She reached down into the handbag at her feet and withdrew an envelope. Opening it, she pulled out a check and plunked it on the table next to Cherry Belle’s. “Here’s two hundred dollars from Sam. That makes six hundred and twenty-eight dollars and fifty cents. Not bad, if I do say so myself.”
I had to agree with her, in principle. It felt like our little venture was well on its way. However, a call earlier in the day to the mortgage lender to try to extend my terms had made it painfully clear how far we had yet to go to accomplish my goal. Too far, in fact. The (rude) person I had spoken with hadn’t actually laughed as I explained our situation with DDDS and mine with the mortgage, but I had detected a snicker in her dismissive tone. Apparently a thriving business of three weeks didn’t even register on the scale of credit-worthiness. In fact, she informed me, it might be considered a liability.
“Hold on. Why does Sam have to pay more than Clydes and Cherry Belle and the girls?”
Marybob bent over to scratch Alice’s head. “Because Sam is pickier. He has definite ideas. Clydes didn’t, other than getting over Ruby. Neither do the girls.”
