Dead for the Money

by Peg Herring

  “I’m game for that.” The other woman pointed to a spot on the sheet. “How about bowling? Have you ever tried it?”

  “Years ago, but I recall that I kind of liked it. Just never seemed to have the time.”

  Her companion smiled. “That’s all we’ve got now, time.”

  “It’s weird, isn’t it?” the first one said. “My impression of the afterlife was all wrong. I thought—” She paused, searching for a way to put it into words. “I thought all the choices would be gone. Instead, for the first time, every choice seems open to me.”

  Every choice but the most important one, Seamus thought. He waited until the women moved on, headed for bowling or singing or whatever. He returned to what was available to him, the chance to return to life, even if it was someone else’s.

  “Is this place in Canada worth a lot?”

  Dunbar grunted negatively. “A hundred rocky acres in northern Ontario. My father built several small cabins and called it a hunting lodge. I remember a collection of shacks.” He shrugged. “It’s peaceful there, I suppose, if one likes solitude.”

  “And the others? Did anyone seem impatient to get his or her inheritance?”

  “No.” The answer came too quickly. “I cannot believe any of them would do anything—”

  “Why don’t you tell me why you think your grandson pushed you off that cliff?”

  The question brought Dunbar up short. His spine stiffened, his mouth opened, apparently to object. Then he seemed to wilt. “I don’t. But I am concerned that the police will.”

  “Why?”

  “Bud and I had disagreed recently. We had a chance to sell the company, and he wanted to take it. Said he wanted to go in another direction. I was reluctant. I started that business. I made it a success. I...I wanted to keep it in the family.”

  Dunbar stopped, unable to put into words the desire of an old man to hold onto his young man’s dream. “I might have been unreasonable,” he admitted, more to himself than to Seamus. “A man’s dream should not be forced on his children.”

  “So you two disagreed about the business, he was the only one up there with you, and you distinctly recall being pushed.” Seamus turned to Dunbar. “Are you sure you want to know what happened?”

  A long sigh indicated that Dunbar understood the implied warning. “I need to know. If Bud is in trouble, and if he didn’t—if he is innocent, I hope you will do what you can to see he is not unjustly accused.”

  “You know we don’t have the power to make changes back there.”

  “I was told that. But my advisor—Nancy, is it?—indicated that you can sometimes apply slight pressure in a direction.”

  “Very slight. A host can reject our efforts pretty easily if what we ask is contrary to his own thoughts.”

  “Host?”

  Seamus waved a hand as if wiping away a wrong impression. “We have no existence there anymore. We depend on a living person for movement.”

  “I see. So you might...host with a policeman?”

  “I often do. They interview people, learn the facts.”

  “Then if they suspect Buddy, you could point them in another direction.”

  “I could try. If the host will listen. And if I am certain your grandson is innocent.”

  Dunbar tapped a finger against his chin. “Couldn’t you host with Bud and read his thoughts?”

  “It isn’t like mind reading. We only hear conscious thoughts, and in spurts, the way people think.”

  “Fragments.”

  “Right. And guilty people are often good at not thinking about their crimes.”

  “Then it will be more difficult than I imagined.” Dunbar sounded defeated.

  “We have our tricks.” Seamus took a step away from the railing. “Try to relax and enjoy the Passage. I’ll be back before you know it.” He paused. “As long as you’re sure this is what you want.”

  The man’s jaw set, and he turned to face Seamus, holding out a hand. “It is,” he said firmly. “And I will appreciate your efforts, whatever the result.”

  THE SUN GREW HOT on Brodie’s neck. Arlis was probably complaining even now about what the humidity did to her hair. Brodie looked down at the railing, noting signatures carved or inked into its surface over the years. Buddy appeared several times with a year added after each. Hers was there too, etched into the soft pine with Gramps’ pocket knife: Brodie, May, 2011. It seemed a long time ago now. She sat down on a patch of grass near one of the fence posts, leaning her back against it. She stared at the trees, fat with their summer growth and so uniformly green that they melted together, one jagged horizontal line against the blue sky.

  It’s okay, she told herself. You can cry now, and no one will see.

  The tears did not come, although her throat got so tight it felt like something was growing down there. No tears, but from somewhere, a phrase came: A grief too deep for tears. Was that what it was? Or did she lack normal human emotions?

  Brodie tried to feel normal, but it never worked. Right now, a normal kid would be sobbing in grief at Gramps’ passing, but she could not. And although she should be feeling nothing but sadness, she could not ignore the place he had loved. She tried to shut out the beauty of it but failed.

  The view was spectacular: the lake, spreading one hundred-eighty degrees over the fence rail. Although she had turned her back to it, she could hear the water far below, always moving, always the same. In her mind, she heard Gramps pointing out landmarks.

  “Up there, to the north, is Sleeping Bear.” He insisted that she get directions into her mind. “Michigan’s western border runs like the side of person’s hand, and we live a little above the knuckles.” North of them was Traverse City, and to the south was Muskegon, her place of birth. Not that she ever wanted to see that town again.

  “This area has lots of high and low spots because of glacial activity.” Gramps would go on, naming islands, cities, and rivers until she lost track. To him they were vividly real; for years he had sailed these waters, both for pleasure and as a participant in the race to Mackinac. The course ran diagonally from Chicago’s Navy Pier to Point Betsie, a few miles from where she now sat. It meandered a bit through the islands off the coast and then made a beeline for Mackinac Island, one hundred fifty miles northeast, known world-wide for its beauty, Victorian charm, and prohibition of motorized vehicles. Brodie had been to the island twice, and she loved its mix of history, old money, and touristy junk.

  No more of that now. Nobody cared what she loved. Someday, perhaps, she would be able to go by herself, because Gramps had arranged something called a trust fund for her. “You will have the means to do what you like when you reach eighteen,” he told her, adding, “You will need to find out for yourself what that is.” To help with that, Gramps had insisted on a good education, lots of experiences, and a lot of time spent with him, discussing whatever interested them at the time. Gramps advocated what he called informed decisions. “Opinions will always vary because people are different,” he would say. “But if you make informed decisions, your view is as good as anyone else’s.”

  Brodie doubted she could become as wise as Gramps or Scarlet, though both insisted she was smart. Brodie did not believe them, although it pleased her that they said it.

  Her legs started to prick with numbness, and she shifted them to a new position. Around her, the birds in the woods had started making noise again, lulled into security by her stillness. The bluff was thick with tightly-spaced pine, cedar, and aspen with a white-barked birch here and there for contrast. She had thoroughly explored the property, wooded and otherwise, at the expense of her skin if she did not stop to put on long sleeves and pants.

  At dinner one evening Arlis asked with a horrified gasp, “Brodie! What happened to your arms?”

  She did not answer. She never answered Arlis; in fact, she rarely acknowledged the woman’s existence. Scarlet stepped in, trying to protect Brodie from her own surliness. “She was looking for a bird’s nest,” she to
ld the older woman. “We are studying birds, and I told her that this was the time of year when the nests will have eggs in them.”

  “She shouldn’t disturb the nests.” Arlis raised her voice, as if Brodie were deaf instead of unresponsive. “Brodie, you shouldn’t disturb the birds’ nests. They are procreating.”

  Her expression must have betrayed her disgust. Did Aunt Stupid think she was she four years old?

  “She was only going to look,” Scarlet said, keeping her voice light and non-argumentative. “She keeps a journal so we can talk about things she finds in nature.”

  “Well, she looks like she had a fight with a grizzly bear.” Arlis’ nose twitched in distaste. “You should watch her more closely.”

  Brodie had felt terrible then. Her activities—and her surly behavior—had resulted in a reprimand for Scarlet, who had done nothing wrong. Brodie lowered her head almost to her plate, despite the fact that it would probably bring another reprimand. Under the table, a foot nudged hers gently, and she glanced up. Arlis had turned to complain about something Shelley had forgotten, and Scarlet rolled her eyes comically. Brodie felt a little better. Arlis was an ass, but at least she didn’t scare Scarlet. Brodie was tempted to replace Arlis’ denture cream with some of Briggs’ caulking, but she’d promised Scarlet no more pranks. Who knew it would be such a hard promise to keep?

  Chapter Three

  SEAMUS LEFT DUNBAR at the ship’s rail, anxious to be on his way. The start of a case was always exciting: the mystery to be solved, the information to be learned, and—he admitted to himself—the chance to return to life. He was not sure why it was so important to him, but going back to Earth was all he really wanted of Heaven.

  As he passed the dining room, Mike stepped out of the doorway. “Did things go well with Mr. Dunbar?”

  “Yeah. I’m ready to take off.”

  Mike looked as uncomfortable as Seamus had ever seen him. “Uh, Gabe would like to see you before you go.”

  “Gabe?”

  “He—I’ll let him explain it.” Mike led the way to Gabriel’s office.

  It was beautiful creation: every surface polished, every noise muted. Even the smell of the place was hauntingly lovely, like each visitor’s favorite memory of home.

  In contrast to the inviting physical atmosphere, the current receptionist, Paul, was one of those people who must be appreciated but not necessarily liked. Efficiency was his hallmark; personality was his lack. To Seamus, he seemed about as warm as a dental instrument.

  “Gabe wants to see Seamus.”

  “It’s nice to see you, Michael.” Paul’s mouth moved minimally, both lips and jaw. “Gabriel is busy at the moment, but if you will wait, I’m sure he won’t be long.”

  Mike turned to Seamus. “I’ll leave you here, if you don’t mind. When you finish with Gabe, I’ll be in the dining hall.”

  Seamus realized Mike was sending a message. If he needed to talk about whatever Gabe proposed, Mike would be available.

  “Thanks.” Seamus took a seat at an angle from Paul to discourage conversation. Facing the tasteful artwork on the wall, Seamus could still see the young man behind the desk peripherally. Every movement was efficient, every task completed in a businesslike fashion, a regular assembly line approach to paperwork.

  After a minute Paul surprised Seamus by asking, “Who does he look like to you?”

  “Who?”

  “Gabriel.”

  “Oh.” It was a common topic for those who had been on board for any length of time. Each person saw someone they trusted when they interacted with the angels. Everyone’s experience was different. “Errol Flynn, I guess.”

  “Really.” The tone was ever-so-slightly disapproving.

  “Who do you see?”

  “Bob Fosse. They could be twins.”

  Seamus didn’t know who that was but decided it didn’t matter. To each his own.

  After a few minutes, Gabe came to the door to invite Seamus into his office. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I know you are anxious to get started.”

  “Yeah, well, you never ask for much.”

  There it was again, that uncomfortable look. Gabe was going to ask for something, and it was not something Seamus would like.

  Gabe closed the office door and the muted noises ceased as if they had entered a sealed vault. Indicating that Seamus should sit, he took the high-backed leather chair behind the desk. “How long have you been with us now, Seamus?”

  It was a subject that made him uncomfortable. “A while, I guess.”

  “Do you ever think of going on?”

  “Sure. I’m just not ready yet.”

  “Of course. Totally your choice.” Gabe pressed his fingertips together. “You enjoy working as a cross-back?”

  “Yeah.”

  Gabe waited, but Seamus did not think there was anything to add. He liked it. That was all.

  “Did you ever think of taking someone along, a trainee?”

  Of all the things he had imagined Gabe might want to talk to him about, a trainee had not occurred to him. Seamus had worked alone his whole career. Well, except once. The crossing with a girl named Tori had worked out pretty well. Dunbar had shown no sign of wanting to cross-back with him, though. And Gabe had said trainee.

  “I do all right by myself.”

  Gabe nodded. “You certainly do. No one has a better record of helping our guests than you do. It isn’t that we think you need help. But a candidate needs guidance on his or her first cross-back.”

  “Oh.” He had almost forgotten Barnes, the guy who had taken him on his first return to life. He had been patient, explaining everything, even stuff Seamus couldn’t bring himself to ask. “You’ll feel funny,” Barnes had said before they left the ship. “Going back lets a guy see everything he left unfinished. It’s kind of depressing, but you get over it.”

  Barnes had been right. Seamus learned to ignore the whispers of his own life and concentrate on the needs of his clients. Could he show some new kid the finer points of the cross-back?

  “—candidate is somewhat troubling,” Gabe was saying. “While the desire to help others is admirable, we must be certain our detectives see the difference between help and interference.”

  “You think this guy is gonna try to change things if he goes back?”

  “Mildred is intelligent,” Gabe said, watching Seamus’ reaction to a female name. “We hope she will pick up the idea of non-interference quickly. But she needs someone who can be firm if she happens to forget.”

  “Firm?”

  “We paired her with Tellson first. When she began telling him her concept of crossing-back, he became nervous and asked to be excused from the job. I think she needs someone a little less...”

  He paused, and Seamus supplied, “Tactful?”

  Gabe smiled. “Tellson is a good man.” He picked up a folder from his desk and set it on a different pile, as if temporarily setting Tellson aside. “I believe you can lay things out for Mildred and make sure she understands her role.”

  “Not a problem.” Seamus had never been shy about telling the truth, and he was proud of it. If this woman wanted to be a cross-back detective, she would have to learn the limits. Still, he hesitated. “I need to think about this.”

  “Fine,” Gabe said quickly, and Seamus realized he had not expected to get that far. “You can let me know in the morning.”

  As he left the office, Seamus was deep in thought, but Paul stopped him. “Um, Seamus?”

  Seamus grunted, his mind still on Gabe’s proposal.

  “What’s it like to go back?”

  It was something many long-time Portalists wanted to know. Seamus avoided the question by speaking to very few people and never inviting confidences. Part of his reluctance was a desire to keep it to himself, a sort of secret pride in being strong enough to make the trip over and over, despite the pain and the hardships. Another part was his natural tendency to be, if not anti-social, at least asocial. Seamus did not dislike othe
r people; he just didn’t like most of them very much. And part of it was the inability to describe the experience. How did a guy explain existence without existence?

  He regarded Paul, so cool on the outside yet eager for news of life. “It’s like love,” Seamus told him. “Frustrating, but mostly worth the effort.”

  BRODIE SPENT MOST of the day on the bluff, thinking about Gramps and dying and what Gramps’ dying meant to her. A few times she rose to stretch her legs. Other times she sat chewing on stalks of grass, watching the bugs do what bugs do.

  Sometimes she turned, challenging herself with the view of the lake and the drop below her, leaning against the fence. She’d always loved the feeling of being up here, where it seemed the whole earth was below. Now her joy was diminished. Who could have predicted that such a beautiful place could turn deadly?

  When the sun was directly overheard, an angry little growl from her stomach told her it was lunchtime. Leaving the house, she’d stopped in the kitchen to grab an orange and some crackers. “Where you going?” Shelley had called from the pantry. “Breakfast is almost ready.”

  “Not hungry,” she answered without pausing.

  Now she peeled the orange with her teeth, staring at the lake. She ate the segments slowly then munched on a cracker, ignoring the crumbs that fell into her lap.

  When the first cracker was gone, she spoke aloud. “Cry.”

  After a long pause, she said it again. “Cry, damn you!”

  Another pause, and then she said, “Sorry, Gramps. I meant ‘darn.’” She ate another cracker. “I miss you, Gramps. I really, really need you.”

  MIKE WAS NEAR the dining hall doorway and Seamus guessed he had been waiting for him to return from his meeting with Gabriel.

  “You here to twist my arm?”

  “You know better.” Mike’s gaze swept the room, always alert. “What do you think?”

  Of all of them, Seamus liked Mike best, perhaps because, as the angel explained, he spent so much time around people that he’d become like them. Since everyone on board was his responsibility, Mike had little of the other angels’ distance. He mingled with the guests all the time, unlike Gabe and Nancy, who spent their time in an office and dealt with people one at a time. It was Mike who watched over them, who tried to help them adjust to the biggest news of their lives—death. Mike was able to judge which guests struggled with questions of eternity, and he was always nearby, to talk, to listen, and to intercede when someone was unable to accept what had happened.