by J. B. Lynn
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NEARLY DEPARTED
by
JB LYNN
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ebook Edition
Copyright © 2013 by JB Lynn
Cover design by Lyndsey Lewellen
Gemma Halliday Publishing
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to your online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
To my parents: who brought me into this wacky world; to those who helped me bring this wacky story into the world: Cyndi and Jen, my friends and critique partners; and to my editor, Gemma Halliday, for helping to make the "impossible" possible.
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NEARLY DEPARTED
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CHAPTER ONE
A dead guy was checking out my ass.
Not that there was much to see. While a disposable biohazard suit protects against blood-borne pathogens, it's not exactly the most flattering of fashions.
I turned around and glared at the dead guy through my protective goggles. "Didn't your mother ever teach you that it's not polite to stare?" My indignation was muffled by the respirator mask covering my mouth and nose.
Ever since I'd met my first one in a burning meth house, two and a half years earlier, encountering ghosts had become fairly common place. Most of the time I met them while working a job, since they were connected to the place they died. The easy fix would have been to get into another line of work, but right after the meth house incident, my brother Jerry's National Guard reserve unit had been called up to active duty, and off he'd gone to serve his country while I'd been left to serve the needs of Spring Cleaning.
I no longer freaked out when I saw a ghost. They were really more of a nuisance than anything, despite what books and movies would have us believe. In close to three years, I'd never had reason to fear one. They weren't malevolent spirits out to do me harm. They were just pathetic souls, stuck looking through a window at a world they could never be a part of again.
Nearly naked Myron Blotto, all three hundred hairy pounds of him, leered at me from where he hovered in the middle of the room. Thankfully he'd died wearing red silk boxer shorts, so at least I was spared the trauma of witnessing him in all his nude glory. In this job it's the little things that count.
"I don't get paid enough for this," I muttered, turning my attention back to cutting up the butt-ugly carpet of the cheap motel room that had absorbed some of the fluids from Myron's decomposing body. Crime scene clean up actually pays pretty well considering you don't need a college degree or the most sterling job history to get the gig, but my paycheck didn't compensate me for dealing with lecherous ghosts.
"How'd a nice girl like you end up with a job like this?" Myron asked.
I jabbed a little harder at the carpet with my blade. One of the reasons I'd agreed to take this job when Jerry offered it was that I thought I'd be spared having to make inane small talk with strangers. That was back when I didn't believe in ghosts, back before I could see and talk to them.
Myron had been talking to me for over three hours now. I was tired and sweaty and not in the mood to chat. "Really? You're going to trot out the nice girl line? Is that what you used on the hooker? Maybe that's why she left you to rot after you croaked."
His body hadn't been discovered for almost a week, which was why the floor covering had to be trashed.
"You don't have to be so mean." The big guy actually sounded hurt.
My back and conscience twinged simultaneously as I ripped up the piece of rug I'd carved out. I tossed it in a plastic biohazard bin before turning back to Myron. He was no longer leering. Now he looked to be on the verge of tears. I felt kind of sorry for him. According to Ned, the motel manager and one of my regular customers, Myron had rented this hellhole by the month. The guy obviously hadn't had an easy life.
"Look," I told him more gently. "There's nothing here for you. You have to move on."
"Move on?" Myron asked plaintively.
"Do you see a bright light?"
He shook his head.
I sighed. They never did. That would be too easy. To be honest, I didn't even know whether the stupid bright light thing was even real, but, at heart, I'm a pretty lazy person, and that light, if it does exist, seemed like the easiest way to rid myself of ghosts, so I always ask.
"Something is keeping you here. If we can figure out what your unfinished business is, we can get you out of my hair…uh…I mean… help you move on."
Myron squinted at me dubiously. "Unfinished business?"
I turned back to the floor where Myron's body had been discovered. "Yeah. Unfinished business. Maybe it's some message you want to get to somebody. Or some task you need completed."
"I would have liked what I paid Cherry for."
Grabbing my blade, I began gouging out the carpet pad. "Assuming that Cherry is the hooker, I'm gonna make a wild guess and say that is not what's keeping you here. Usually it's something important."
"It was important to me," Myron groused.
"You hired a hooker, had a heart attack, and died in this crappy motel room, Myron. Surely there was something in your life more important than Cherry's job skills."
"Well there was one thing," he said slowly.
I put down my blade and peered at him through my plastic goggles. "What?"
"It's going to sound stupid."
"Stupider than being tethered to this wo
rld just because your favorite prostitute didn't deliver your happy ending?"
He considered that for a moment, scratching his hairy belly like it was a good luck Buddha. "I forgot to mail a letter."
"A letter?"
He nodded somberly, his fleshy jowls jiggling like gelatin.
"What's so important about this letter?"
"I—"
The ridiculously upbeat notes of "Living La Vida Loca" suddenly echoed in the room, startling me. Usually I couldn't get a signal on my cell phone when a ghost lurked nearby.
"Oh crap! The birthday party!" My cell phone only played that song when one person called, and the only reason my mother would be calling would be to remind me of the birthday party. I made no move to answer the phone, knowing that the presence of the ghost would mess with my reception. If I did, I'd have to tell her where I was. She wouldn't have been pleased. "I've got to go," I told Myron, snapping the lid of the biohazard bin shut. "I'll come back tomorrow, and you can tell me all about this letter of yours."
"But…"
"You've hung out here for a week, and you're already dead, so one more night won't kill you."
I stumbled out of the room and almost collided with a woman pushing a cleaning cart. "Sorry."
Abandoning the cart, she backed away from me, making no effort to disguise her utter revulsion. Yup, even someone who scrubs toilets and changes the dirty sheets where prostitutes have plied their trade thinks my job is disgusting. Ignoring her, I ripped off my protective suit, stuffed it in a trash bag which I tossed atop the biohazard bin, and closed the door, double-checking to make sure it was locked. "Don't go in there," I told the cleaning woman who hadn't yet reclaimed her cart.
"Si."
For good measure I stuck a piece of "Crime Scene Do Not Cross" tape across the doorway. It wasn't actually a crime scene, but the tape is the equivalent of putting out a "Beware of Dog" sign, enough to deter the merely curious. Nothing would be enough to keep out those who were truly determined.
"I'll be back tomorrow," I said a tad too loudly since I wanted to be sure that Myron could hear me through the door.
The cleaning woman crossed herself as though I'd just spit a gypsy curse at her.
I jumped into the company van and raced to the dilapidated house I've called home for over three years. I took a long, hot shower (A quick shower would have been more efficient, but when I've spent hours cleaning up decomp, it can be a challenge to wash that death right outta my hair.) until I felt like I could pass in the land of the living.
Wrapped in a towel, I frowned at the contents of my closet.
Clothes hung haphazardly from hangers, and piles of footwear littered the floor. Even though I was thirty-two years old, my housekeeping skills were the same as they'd been when I was fifteen. Some people thought this was a character defect, but I liked to think it was one of my many unrecognized strengths. I never minded going into a messy house.
"Wear the red dress." My roommate, Delia, dressed in her usual uniform of a black turtleneck and jeans, lounged in the doorway of my bedroom.
"If I wear a dress I have to wear nice shoes. I'm tired, my back hurts, and I want to wear sneakers."
"Wear the dress. You look like death."
"You're one to talk."
"You should at least dress in a cheerful color." She walked over to my dust-covered dresser and pointed at my jewelry box. "Wear the dangly earrings. They look festive."
I rolled my eyes. My best friend, Venus, had brought them back from one of her trips abroad, which no doubt meant they cost a small fortune. I'd been saving them for a special occasion…like a date, but I hadn't been in one of those in years.
"They're going to kill you if you're late," Delia said.
"Yeah, yeah, don't remind me." I wiggled into the red dress as we talked. I self-consciously smoothed it over my hips. It fit a little more snugly than I remembered. I turned in front of the full-length mirror, worried it was too tight to wear in public.
"You live on jelly beans and pizza. If you didn't spend all day sweating in that stupid suit you'd be twice your size," Delia remarked pointedly.
"When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it," I muttered, grabbing the earrings.
"You've got the gift?"
"It's been in the van since the saleswoman wrapped it."
"Speaking of the van…"
"I know. I know. Park a block away. Except last time I did that, people got upset because they thought one of their neighbors had died. Which means I have to park farther away tonight, which means I'm wearing flats."
"The black ones."
"I really could have figured that out myself, you know."
"Is Mike going to be there?" For as long as I've known her, Delia has nursed a crush on my big brother Jerry's best friend.
"Probably," I muttered, putting on the disgustingly cheerful earrings that tinkled like wind chimes every time I took a step.
As promised, I parked the van a block and a half away before hoofing it to the party. Arriving at the party, Mike was the first person I saw as I arrived. The fallen leaves crunched beneath my hurried footsteps as I hustled toward the front door of my parents' house. He was peering outside, and I wondered whether he'd been looking longingly to escape, or if he'd been watching for me
"You're late," he whispered as he opened the door and helped me out of my coat the moment I walked in the door.
"Did I miss the cake?" I asked hopefully.
He shook his head. "I'm surprised Venus isn't here."
"She's out of town," I explained. For more than a decade, ever since she'd asked him to be her date for the senior prom, Mike and my best friend had dated on and off. They were perfect for each other…except for the little detail that neither was willing to compromise their career for the sake of their relationship.
"Maureen?? There you are." My Grandmother Werther stumbled up and planted a damp kiss on my cheek. I wasn't sure if she was stumbling because of the empty wine glass she carried or because she wasn't wearing her eyeglasses. "You look beautiful, Maureen."
"This is Vicky, Mrs. Werther," Mike corrected gently.
Grandma squinted suspiciously, first at him and then at me.
"Hi, Grandma. Why aren't you wearing your glasses?" I asked quickly, not wanting to get into the whole "Maureen" thing on a night that was already stressful.
"I can't find them," she wailed. "I looked and looked, but they're nowhere to be found. You don't think Maureen took them, do you? Maybe she pawned them."
"Nobody took them." I reached out and plucked her spectacles from where they rested on top of her head. "Here they are."
"Thank you, dear. I like those earrings. They make you look like you're going to a party."
I made a mental note to thank Delia for her fashion advice. "Thanks, Grandma. You look nice too."
Grandma had a penchant for velour jogging suits in bright colors that sparkled in places a seventy-year-old shouldn't sparkle. Tonight's ensemble was neon green and featured silver beading around the zipper which drew attention to her wrinkly, sun-damaged cleavage.
"Someone needs a refill!" She showed me her empty wine glass and toddled off toward the kitchen.
As though he sensed I was ready to turn right around and leave the party, Mike draped an arm around my shoulders.
"Thank you," I whispered. There are times when I completely understand Delia's crush on Mike. He's kind, charming, and not too hard to look at if you were the kind of woman who liked corporate attorneys who spend more on grooming products than golf green fees. I'm not that type of girl. Anymore.
"No problemo, Squirt," he said, ruffling my hair and reminding me that the second reason I'd never been infatuated with him was because he still treated me like his kid sister, even though we weren't related, and I hadn't been riding a bike with training wheels for a couple of decades. Plus, I was still holding a grudge for the time he'd pushed me into a lake when I was ten, though to be fair, he hadn't known about my deathly fear of
water.
"Hi, Sweetheart." My dad walked up and gave me a peck on the cheek. I caught a whiff of the familiar combination of Old Spice aftershave and the cinnamon candies he'd taken to sucking incessantly ever since he'd quit smoking. "Hi, Mike."
"Hi, Mr. Spring. I was thinking I'd come over next weekend and give you a hand with the leaves now that the trees are almost bare."
"You don't have to do that," my father said.
"I miss getting the chance to do my own," Mike said easily.
I knew that was a lie. More than once he'd bragged that the best thing about living in his condominium complex was that he never had to pick up a rake or snow shovel again.
"That's awfully kind of you, awfully kind." My father clapped Mike on the shoulder. "You're a good boy."
I wished that I could offer to come over and help, but ever since my last assistant had quit a month earlier, I'd been working seven day weeks.
"You're the only one who hasn't opened their present yet, Vicky." Dad waved a hand holding a camera indicating I should do the honors. "And we're rolling!"
I swallowed hard and stretched my mouth into a semblance of a smile. Holding up the box I'd brought, I ripped desperately at the silver wrapping paper, eager to be done with this macabre part of the celebration. "Happy Birthday, Jerry. I got you all seven seasons of Tom Baker as Dr. Who on dvd."
I did my best to smile for the camera even though I wanted to cry. Jerry had been Missing in Action in Afghanistan for two and a half years. The Army hadn't declared him dead, so my parents clung to the hope he'd come home. Every year we celebrated Jerry's birthday so that he'd know we hadn't forgotten him while he was gone.
"Cake time!" my mother trilled from the dining room.
"He's going to love that, really love it," Dad assured me before hurrying away with his camera.
I took my time putting the dvd set on a table in the living room that held all of the gifts from the other partygoers. The pile was smaller than the year before. Hope was dwindling.
