Dying on Second

by E. C. Bell

In reality, I listened to three voicemail messages while James handled emails. It looked like we’d have a couple more cases, if we decided to take them.

  “What’s our time like, James?” I called from my little receptionist desk at the front of the office. “Got room for another divorce case?”

  Divorce cases were nasty things, generally speaking. Mostly it was one soon-to-be-ex-spouse trying to get the goods on another soon-to-be ex-spouse. Interestingly enough, though, they usually paid. Once I’d learned how to write up an air tight contract, that is.

  “I think so,” James said. “Let me look at the big book.”

  James’s big book was an actual, physical book. A day timer—the biggest one he could find—that sat on the edge of his desk. Everything we had to accomplish was written down in it. First, in pencil, while we made certain we could do it. And then, in pen. From it, I filled my electronic calendar.

  Seemed like a waste of a tree to me but he was the boss. What could I say?

  “When do they want us to start?” he called.

  “Looks like yesterday would have been good.”

  “Hmm.” He was silent for a few moments more. “All right,” he finally called. “We should be able to do it.”

  I made the phone call to confirm and set up a meeting with Lorraine Calloway, the extremely ticked off soon-to-be-ex of Randolph Calloway of Calloway Rentals.

  Then I poured two cups of coffee and walked them both into James’s office, so I could tell him all about the evening before. I wasn’t certain how he’d respond to the ghost stuff, so I started with the game itself. He grilled me so hard about every aspect of it, I finally snapped.

  “Next time come to the stupid game! I can’t remember all that stuff, for heaven’s sake.”

  All right, so he’d been working the night before but still, he sure knew how to get on my nerves. All he did was laugh and reach for my coffee cup.

  “I’ll get you a refill,” he said. “Will that make things better?”

  “Maybe,” I said. He handed me the refilled cup—perfect, as always—and I was mollified. “Thank you.”

  “You are more than welcome,” he said. “Now, tell me how it went with the ghost. Did she agree to stay away while you played?”

  I flinched and put the cup on the edge of his desk. How to explain what had gone on after my game? I decided to ease into it.

  “We didn’t actually get to talk about that,” I said. “But she did stay out of the way, more or less.”

  “That’s good,” he said. Then he stopped and stared at me. “What do you mean, more or less? What else happened?”

  I looked up at him. “Well, she wasn’t the only spirit there.”

  “What?” He sat straight in his chair and stared at me with all humour slapped from his face. “How many ghosts did you see?”

  “I’m—I’m not sure,” I said. My voice started to shake, so I picked up my coffee and took a quick sip to calm myself. “Lots.”

  “Lots?” He sat even straighter, if that was possible. “What does that mean?”

  “It means lots,” I said. I could hear my voice tighten up. That meant I was either going to yell or cry. At that point, I honestly couldn’t tell which. “More than ten—probably twenty. Or so.”

  In all honesty, there had been more than forty ghosts hanging around that softball diamond if I included the dead in the stands, but the look on James’s face kept me from saying that number out loud.

  “Twenty?” he gasped. “Why—why would there be twenty ghosts at the ball diamond?”

  “They were waiting to play,” I mumbled.

  “What?”

  “They—they play softball. After the living games.” I was mumbling so badly I could barely understand my own words, and took another big swig of my coffee just to get myself under some kind of control. “They’ve been doing it for years. Since the diamond was built, I think.” I tried to smile. “Karen plays, too. Second base, of course.”

  “Of course,” James said softly. “So what happened?”

  “They—they swarmed me.”

  “They what?” James leaped from his chair and looked around frantically, as though he was certain that the ghosts were going to swarm him, too. Right at that very moment. “They swarmed you? My God, are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, trying to smile, trying to show that everything was absolutely okey dokey even though my heart was beating trip hammer hard at the memory. “There were only a couple of them who tried anything. The rest mostly—watched.”

  “But why?” he asked. He was still standing. “Why would they do that?”

  “They were afraid that I was going to make them leave. Or something.”

  “Aww Marie, I’m so sorry,” he said. He came to me and pulled me into his arms. I barely had time to put my coffee cup down, otherwise we both would have been covered in the hot liquid. “That must have been horrible for you.”

  “It was a bit scary, at first,” I said into his shoulder. “But there was only one who could actually touch me, so—”

  “A poltergeist!” He practically shrieked out the word. “You met a poltergeist?”

  “Well yeah,” I said. “But she couldn’t do much. Not really.”

  “Good God,” he said again. “Well, it’s a cinch you can’t go back there. We’ll have to find you something else to do for exercise. Maybe yoga—”

  “I’m not quitting softball.”

  Now, up to that second, I hadn’t decided how I was going to handle the softball spirits. I had promised Jasmine I’d stick it out for a little while longer—but she didn’t know about all the ghosts. But I wasn’t about to let James make that decision for me.

  “They aren’t going to do anything to me,” I said. I really wasn’t certain about crazy Joanne, but there was no way in the world I was telling James that. “And besides, my team is depending on me. At least until three of their players come back from college ball. You know?”

  “I know,” he said. “But still—”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, and the smile on my face felt a lot more genuine. “I’ve got this handled. Really. I even Googled some of them to find out how they died. You know, to see if maybe I can help some of them move on.”

  “Oh?” James still didn’t look convinced but at least he’d returned to his seat. “What did you find out?”

  “There were two who are on the cop’s Missing Persons website,” I said. “So, I guess I’ll talk to them. Find out what happened. You know, and offer them my services.”

  “You think you’ll be safe?”

  “Yeah!” I clicked my tongue at him like I’d been dealing with forty ghosts at a time forever. “No problem. No problem at all.”

  Luckily, Lorraine Calloway called at that moment, explaining why she couldn’t possibly come to our office at two p.m.—the time she’d agreed to not a half hour before. James wandered out of his office as I tried to figure out when Lorraine actually was available, and when I was finally able to hang up the receiver, I saw that both he and Millie were gone.

  He’d taken Millie for a walk without asking me if I wanted to go.

  I was a bit hurt, but decided to get work done while they were gone. So, I Googled Karen’s name again, and this time I went past the Missing Persons page.

  I found out that Karen’s family lived on the South side, close to Ninety-Ninth Street, when she disappeared. It looked like they still lived there. I even found a “She’s been gone 40 years” article in the local rag from the year before. I stared at the photographs they’d used for the article for a long time. A close-up shot of Karen—looked like another school photo—her long hair wild around her face and over her shoulders. The second photo was of the front of Karen’s parents’ house.

  The article gave me the names of Karen’s mom and dad—Ethel and Rupert Dubinsky. It didn’t take me long to get their phone number. I stared at it for a long time, trying to decide whether I should call and set up a meeting.


  The anniversary article convinced me. They’d been looking for their daughter for a long time. They deserved to know what happened to her . . . as soon as I figured it out.

  I looked at James’s schedule. He had nothing for the rest of the day, so I decided what the heck, and picked up the receiver. If he had a problem with the meeting he could skip it. All he needed to do was lend me his keys. And the car, of course.

  It didn’t take James long to walk Millie. I’d just hung up the phone when they came in.

  “Glad you’re back,” I said. “I phoned Karen’s folks and set up a meet. Today.”

  “Karen?” James cocked his head—hilariously looking much like Millie, who’d done the same thing. “Karen who?”

  “Karen Dubinsky,” I said. “The dead girl on second base.”

  “Ah,” he said. He bent down and unclipped Millie’s leash from her collar. She stood on her hind legs and licked his chin, then walked over to her bed, ignoring me completely. “I thought you were going to leave her alone,” he said. “What are you doing?”

  I blinked. Talking to her parents had seemed like the logical next step, to me.

  “Didn’t Karen tell you she doesn’t want to move on?” he continued.

  “Yes, but I don’t think she knows what it means.” I snorted. “She thought that I was going to exorcise her.”

  James frowned. I couldn’t tell if he was going to continue arguing with me or explain, in horrible detail, what an exorcism really was.

  “I just want more information,” I said. “Before I tell her the options. Her real options. That’s all.”

  “Hmm,” James said. “So you’re not just being snoopy?”

  I stared at him, then laughed. “Well,” I said. “There’s a bit of that going on, too. Here’s the deal. Lorraine Calloway needed to change her meeting. She’s coming in tomorrow morning. It’s in your day timer, but not in pen yet. Since you’re now free this afternoon, I thought you’d want to come with me. Help me figure out this little mystery.” I shrugged, theatrically. “Hey, I can go alone, if—”

  “No,” he said. “I’ll come with you. And maybe we can go to the batting cages after Mrs. Calloway finally comes in for her meeting.”

  “Fine,” I said, though I didn’t know if it was fine or not. I wrote the address on a scrap of paper and tucked it into my pocket. “We taking the dog?”

  “No,” James said. “She needs a nap.” He reached down and patted Millie on the head. She licked his fingers, and settled back into her bed in a tight ball, the tip of her nose tucked into her tail. She glared at me as I walked by, as though daring me to pet her. I didn’t. Just closed the door and locked it, then ran down the stairs after James.

  My heart pounded a little harder as I got into the passenger seat. This was my first real case if I didn’t count the dog park girl. “I’m going to ask the questions, right?” I asked.

  James backed out of the parking stall and pulled onto the street. “Absolutely,” he said. “Unless I think you need help. You know?”

  “I know,” I replied. “Just don’t jump in unless I really, actually need help. All right?”

  “All right,” he said.

  He headed south. Karen’s parents lived just off Ninety-Ninth Street, and it was only a few minutes before we were parked in front of their nondescript bungalow with two dying birch trees out front.

  “How did you convince them to let you come and talk to them?” James asked.

  “They still don’t know what happened to their daughter,” I said. “I think they’d like to think that someone still gives a crap after all this time.”

  “Hmm,” James replied. “You’re not going to tell them she’s dead, are you?”

  “Not without proof,” I said. “Without the body, I have no proof. I need real information, and I’m going to start here.”

  He didn’t look convinced, but I didn’t care. I threw the car door open and walked up to the front door without waiting for him. I needed some information about Karen and her life. Not the bits and pieces I could find online.

  I knocked, and the door opened almost instantly, like the person on the other side of the door had been waiting for me. I was certain it was Rupert Dubinsky, Karen’s father. He looked ancient. Beaten to a grey shrivelled pulp by too much grief.

  “You Marie Jenner?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, and tried to smile. My heart was hammering so hard against my rib cage I was certain he’d be able to hear it. “And this is—”

  I turned, preparing to introduce James, but he was still by the car, locking up. “Hurry up!” I hissed, then turned back to Karen’s father and smiled. “That’s my partner,” I said. “James Lavall.”

  Rupert watched James run up the walk to the front steps with no change of expression. “What is it you want?” he asked. “We haven’t heard from the police about Karen for years. Years.” A faint twitch shuddered around his eyes, as though he was thinking about crying but couldn’t muster the energy. Then he frowned. “Who are you with? You’re not reporters, are you? Because we don’t talk to reporters anymore.”

  He hooked his hand on the door, preparing to close it. I stared at him, wanting desperately to say, “No, we’re not reporters and we’re not cops,” but it was like my tongue was frozen.

  Luckily, James sprang into action. “We aren’t reporters, Mr. Dubinsky,” he said. “The police have asked us to look into some of their cold cases and Karen’s on our list. We just have a few questions, to confirm the information in her file.”

  Rupert’s face whitened at James’s words. “Why are the cops looking at her file—” His lips twisted around the word as though it tasted poisonous in his mouth. “Have they found her?”

  “No sir,” James said. “As I said, the police have asked us for help with cold cases, including your daughter’s.”

  “Oh,” Rupert said. He clutched the door jamb like he was about to fall down.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, afraid that he was having a heart attack or something. “Do you need to sit?”

  “I’m fine,” he said gruffly. He took in a deep breath, and let it out. “What do the cops need from us?”

  “Just confirmation on the facts of the case, sir,” James said. “Can we come in and talk to you?”

  He turned away from the open door. He hadn’t invited us in exactly, but the door was still ajar, so we silently followed him into the house.

  “Working with the police?” I mouthed at him. “Are you crazy?”

  “Just go with it,” he whispered.

  The kitchen was spotless and sun soaked. I almost felt like I needed sunglasses, everything shone so brightly.

  “I suppose you want coffee,” Rupert said.

  “That would be great,” James said. “Marie?”

  “Yes,” I said, and managed to plaster a smile on my face.

  A door clattered open somewhere down the hall behind us, and Rupert jerked to attention, looking like he’d been caught in some sort of indiscretion. “That’s the wife,” he muttered. “She can’t know why you’re here. Say you’re insurance people, will you? She can’t know—”

  He fell silent when his wife—who looked remarkably like an old, worn-out Karen—walked through the door. She did not smile. “Who are these people, Rue?” she asked, without looking at either James or me. “And why are they in my house?”

  “They’re—they’re—” Rupert started speaking, but his voice suddenly failed him. I guess he found it a little harder to lie to his wife than we did to him. Luckily, James jumped into the breech.

  “Mrs. Dubinsky, my name is James Lavall,” he said, leaning past me, and holding his hand out to the woman. “And this is my associate, Marie Jenner. We are with Whitehall Insurance, and we’re here to talk to you about your insurance needs.”

  “Oh God,” Ethel Dubinsky said. “Are you kidding me?” She turned on her husband and snarled. “You let these leeches into our house. Our house?”

  “It’s j
ust to insure the stuff in the garage,” Rupert said weakly. “I have to get it covered, Ethel. You know that. They’ll only be here for a moment. Just a quick cup of coffee and a talk and then they’ll be gone. Promise.”

  “You know how I feel about insurance agents,” she said, and her mouth quivered. “In my house.”

  “It’s only for a minute,” Rupert said again. He took her gently by the arm and led her out of the kitchen. “I promise.”

  We heard him get her settled in another room and then shut the door. He walked back into the kitchen looking years older than he had when he left, if that was possible.

  “I thought she’d sleep through your visit,” he said. “Sorry about that.” He walked over to the cupboard and pulled out a jar of coffee. “I only got instant,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Would it be better if we came back at another time?” I asked.

  The real reason I suggested rescheduling our meeting was that I wanted to get the heck out. I could feel Ethel’s crazy oozing from every pore of that house and was having trouble dealing. But Rupert shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “You’re here. We might as well get this over with.” His eyes grew cold. “But you are not talking to my wife. Understand?”

  “Yes,” I said. “We understand.”

  James gave me the “what the hell are you saying” look, but I ignored him. I wasn’t going to do anything to alienate Karen’s father. Not when we were so close to getting some actual information about her and her life.

  The house was so silent, I could hear a clock tick-tocking in another room. I jumped when Rupert turned on the faucet to run water into the kettle. He set the kettle on the stove and turned on the burner. The gas hissed and the ignitor click-clicked until the gas finally lit with a small whomp. He opened the old-fashioned cupboards and pulled out three cups. Two had Santa Claus embossed on them, and the third was covered in a photograph of Rupert, “Looking good at sixty” embossed in black beneath.

  I glanced at James, hoping he’d be able to telepathically give me some good opening questions, but he was staring intently through the door into the next room. I tried to see what he was looking at, but couldn’t tell what had caught his attention so completely.