by Terri Garey
"What about him?" If I didn't offer her a place to stay, my sweet Dr. Do Good would probably end up taking her in himself, and then where would I be? Uh-uh. No, thank you. "Joe told me you'd agreed to sign the divorce papers. We're all grown-ups, aren't we?" I shrugged, nonchalant on the outside but hoping I wouldn't throw up the granola bar I'd eaten on the drive over. "Joe and I are together now. I'm cool with it, and yesterday you said you were, too. Let's get past that."
Besides, I'd look awful in lavender taffeta.
"You surprise me," Kelly said. She didn't looked surprised as much as suspicious. "If I were you, I'd be a little worried."
"About what?" If I was, I wasn't gonna admit it just for her benefit.
"About your boyfriend's soon-to-be-ex-wife showing up and stealing him away from you."
This chick's self-esteem bounced up and down like a rubber ball. I leaned in, tired of playing games. "If that's your plan, Kelly, you're going to be disappointed."
She said nothing, so I added, "If, on the other hand, you're being a bitch again just to piss me off, then congratulations. That particular plan worked." I stood, ready to walk out.
"Wait." Kelly reached out, then let her hand drop, curling her fingers tight around the book. "You're right, I'm doing it again. I'm sorry."
"Yeah, you are." I let that statement stand on its own.
Kelly flushed, face reddening. She waited a couple of heartbeats, and then I saw her chin go up. It was a gesture I recognized, because it was one of mine. "You were being nice," she said, "and the least I can do is return the favor. I'd like to come stay with you after I'm discharged, at least for a little while. It'll be a good way to get to know each other."
If we don't kill each other first.
"Good. It's settled. I'll come back tomorrow and we'll talk about the arrangements for Li—" I caught myself. "—for Peaches."
"That would be nice."
I smiled at her, and she smiled back. I couldn't help but wonder which one of us was faking it more.
* * *
CHAPTER 4
Is that rigor mortis or are you just happy to see me?
Try as I might, I couldn't get the stupid funeral jokes I'd heard the night before out of my mind. The man with the clammy handshake who'd introduced himself as Mr. Bates was droning on about the benefits of mahogany caskets over oak, or perhaps we'd like to consider cremation?
He got where he is the old-fashioned way … he urned it.
"No, our mother would've preferred burial. Can you show us some casket choices? Only the high end ones, of course."
I didn't bother to ask how Kelly could've possibly known Lila's preferences in funeral arrangements. As it was, I'd been surprised when she asked to use this particular mortuary, but she'd seen an ad in the newspaper, and I had no desire to revisit the place where my parents' funeral had been held. Bad memories.
"Your mother would no doubt be pleased by your devotion to her memory." Mr. Bates could barely hide the gleam in his eye as he pulled out a thick leather book with the words Going in Style embossed on the cover. He reminded me of a cadaver himself with that pale skin and slicked-back hair. You'd think a guy who made the kind of money he probably did could afford a better suit.
I occupied myself with scanning the yellowed certificates on the wall and the dusty silk flower arrangements on the credenza behind the funeral director's desk. Forest Lawn Mortuary needed a new cleaning lady.
"The one with the pink satin lining is nice. What do you think, Nicki?" Kelly shoved the book under my nose and pointed to a particularly hideous white coffin with a Pepto-Bismol colored interior.
I wouldn't be caught dead in that thing.
"You choose, Kelly. You knew her better than I did."
Mr. Bates gave me an oily smile as Kelly flipped to the next page.
"What about these bronze or copper ones? They must last forever."
"Oh, they do." The funeral home director began to look positively cheerful. He reached across the desk and pointed to one with a white velvet interior. "We even offer vacuum sealing on this particular model."
I couldn't help myself. "Vacuum sealing? We're talking about a person here, not strawberry jam."
That comment earned me a dirty look from Kelly, and a raised eyebrow from Mr. Bates.
Kelly went back to looking at casket pictures while I contemplated a chip in my toenail polish. Time for a pedicure.
"It says the Queen Anne model is made of African mahogany," she said. "Is there a difference between that and regular mahogany?"
The funeral director opened his mouth, but I beat him to it.
"Yeah. About a thousand dollars."
Bates didn't bat an eye, but Kelly slammed the book shut, giving me a glare. "Mr. Bates, could you give us some privacy for a moment?"
"Of course." He rose from his seat, carefully avoiding looking at me. "Take all the time you need. I need to see about the lighting in the Serenity Chapel. We're hosting a rather large visitation this afternoon."
How many dead people does it take to change a lightbulb? None. They're always in the dark.
This was all Evan's fault. If he and Butch hadn't taken me out for sushi last night, I wouldn't be sitting here torn between a lingering sake headache and an urge to giggle.
The door shut behind cadaver-man, and Kelly burst out, "What's your problem? We agreed I'd pay you back for half the funeral expenses once I'm on my feet."
I stifled a grin. Considering that Kelly was sitting in a wheelchair, both ankles bandaged, that event was hardly likely anytime soon.
"This is funny to you?" Two red spots bloomed in her cheeks.
Kelly didn't know me well enough yet to realize that I'd rather laugh than cry any day.
"Our mother is dead. Show some respect," she snapped.
The sake headache took over, making me cranky.
"You mean like the respect she showed us when she put us up for adoption?" Okay, so I had some lingering resentment about being given away like an unwanted puppy. "And quit calling her 'our mother.' My mother's name was Emily Styx. She was the one who was there for me, and I loved her, and I buried both my parents according to their wishes."
Kelly's eyes filled with tears. "At least you had parents."
A stab of guilt, like a needle prick to my conscience. Just because I knew that Lila was doing just fine in the afterlife didn't mean I had to come off as such a bitch.
I closed my eyes and blew out a breath, exasperated with myself. "I'm sorry. I stayed out too late last night and I have a headache. Let's just pick something and get out of here, okay?"
"I don't understand you." Kelly obviously wasn't ready to cut me any slack. "This is really hard for me. It's like you want me to believe that you're a vain, selfish person without a heart."
Not entirely true. I had a heart, but it didn't work too well—heart failure and the residual side effects were what got me into this fix to begin with.
Do unto others, Styx.
"Look, I said I'm sorry. It's been a really weird summer."
Died, came back to life—check.
Nagging ghosts, voodoo queens, zombies, new love, old baggage—check.
A twin sister I never knew and a biological mother I never would—still working on it.
"Weird" was an understatement.
I glanced over and felt even guiltier. Kelly had just gotten out of the hospital.
"I'm not a heartless person," I said. Her face was expressionless, so I ventured a little joke. "Vain, maybe, but not heartless."
That didn't work, so I tried again. "Evan would tell me my 'bitchy slip' is showing."
"He'd be right." Kelly sounded more hurt than angry. "I was hoping that making the funeral arrangements for our mother would bring us closer, not drive us apart."
Guilt trip, anyone? And there was that "our mother" again.
"Okay, okay." I held out my hand for the casket book, secretly dreading even touching the damn thing. "I said I was sorry, didn't I? Sh
ow me the African mahogany… anything but the pink one."
"I thought you liked pink," Kelly said, eyeing the vivid streaks in my otherwise dark hair. "Peaches seemed to like it. She was wearing pink the first time I saw her."
"I do like pink," I answered. "I like lime green, too, but I wouldn't wanna be buried in it."
Kelly rolled her eyes, flipped open the book to a page near the back and handed it to me. I pretended to be fascinated at the differences between velvet and crepe bedding systems.
"What about the Angelica model? It has those beautiful guardian angel cornices."
I refrained from asking what a "cornice" was, and dutifully flipped through the book until I found the Angelica model. It was white with gaudy gold trim, but at least the interior wasn't pink.
"Great. Let's take it."
"You're not even trying, are you?"
My patience was shot. Rather than say something else I'd have to apologize for, I handed back the casket book and stood up. "I think this one's just fine, but if you wanna keep looking, feel free. In the meantime, I need to find the little girls' room."
Kelly eyed me warily. "You're coming back, aren't you?"
"I'm not going to abandon you in a funeral home." I'd meant it when I said I wasn't heartless—there was no way I was gonna leave an invalid in this dusty, depressing place.
I might strangle one, but I wouldn't leave one.
I left the office and headed down a corridor to the right. The hallway was lined with glass cases full of bronzed sculptures and marbled urns, all apparently designed to hold ashes. Like putting Grandpa's ashes above your fireplace was less creepy if you put them in something pretty. Ugh.
Thankfully, I found the ladies' room and went inside.
There was a woman leaning over the sink, touching up her mascara. She glanced at me briefly in the mirror. The black cocktail dress she was wearing fit her size four figure like a glove, the perfect foil to carefully highlighted blond hair. Big freshwater pearl necklace and bracelet. She had a glamorous look, like she was used to money, and plenty of it.
That's all I noticed before I slipped into a stall, except for a glimpse of strappy black heels. They couldn't possibly be Jimmy Choos. Georgia wasn't exactly known for high fashion.
The woman was still there when I came out. She gave me a little smile as she dabbed at her lipstick.
"I love your hair," she said. "Very Kelly Osborne."
"Thanks," I said, though I'd never cared for that particular comparison. I smiled back as I washed my hands, emboldened enough to take a second look at the shoes.
"Great stilettos," I said.
"Thanks. When I bought them, I considered them to die for, and I was right… they're killing me." The woman gave a laugh, then pulled back from the mirror. She tucked her lipstick away into a tiny black bag and turned to face me. "You've got a great look, even if it is a little 'out there.'" She tilted her head, eyeing me critically. "Ever tried modeling?"
Out there? Modeling? I didn't know whether to be flattered or insulted. Cheerleaders and beauty queens were hardly the type of girl I usually hung out with. My style was darker—a holdover from my goth days, I suppose—even though I did have a girlie side. Today, my black leather jacket was paired with a perfectly lovely yellow sundress, circa 1950s.
"I own a vintage clothing store." I snatched a paper towel to dry my hands. "Handbags and Gladrags, down in Little Five Points." Anyone who lived in the area would know the neighborhood, and if she didn't, it didn't matter. She didn't look like the type of woman who'd wear vintage anyway.
The woman smiled. She was very pretty in a Barbie doll sort of way, and looked out of place in this shabby bathroom with its faded wallpaper and its smell of cheap potpourri. I wondered who she was there to say good-bye to. Nobody would get that dressed up just to make arrangements—she was obviously there to see and be seen.
"You run your own business?" the woman asked. At my nod, she said, "Good for you. Don't be stupid enough to depend on a man to support you, like I was." Bitterness crept into her voice. "If I'd had something to fall back on, I wouldn't be here."
Whoa, She hardly looked the part of a grieving widow, even if she was wearing black. Her makeup was flawless, unsmudged by tears. She was older than I'd first thought, tiny lines around her eyes and lips that makeup didn't quite hide. I wondered how much plastic surgery she'd had.
"I'm sorry." I wasn't exactly sure what I was sorry for, but it seemed the appropriate thing to say. "Did you… did you lose someone?"
Her laugh raised the hair on my arms.
"Oh, I haven't lost him yet."
I tossed my paper towel into the trash basket and started edging for the door. The conversation was starting to get weird—why would anybody be hiding in a mortuary? "Well, I hope you find him soon," I offered lamely.
"Ask your sister where he is."
I stopped, hand on the door. I hadn't mentioned a sister.
"She needs to tell that bastard something for me."
I turned, not liking the suspicion that crept into my head, or the acid that seeped into her tone.
"She needs to tell him that if I'm going to Hell, I'm not going alone. He was the one who lied to his wife all those years, not me." The woman's face wasn't quite as pretty now, and her voice was even uglier. Her eyes had narrowed into slits.
"Maybe you should tell him yourself." No way was I gonna get in the middle of somebody else's love triangle—not with one of my own going on. Kinda. Sorta.
"Oh, I intend to." She gave an ugly chuckle. "The car accident was his fault, too—he'd been drinking at the country club before he picked me up." Her cherry-red lips curled in a sneer. "Keith Morgan never could resist a drink or a chance to schmooze. He killed us both, the drunken idiot." She stabbed a finger in my direction. "Tell your sister to ask him about that, why don't you?"
My heart sank. Another lost soul with unfinished business, and this time it was a Barbie doll with a mean streak. Why did this keep happening to me?
"That slimy weasel may have gotten out of marrying me while we were alive, but I'll be damned if he's going to make me face the afterlife alone." The woman was working herself up. "Whatever punishment I deserve, he deserves the same and more for being a low-down dirty dog who cheated on his wife. And a big fat liar."
What was that saying about "hell hath no fury"'?
She took a step closer, while I took a step back. "He's lying to your sister—enlisting her sympathy. He thinks he can save his soul in time to avoid paying for what he did."
He's a liar. Don't believe anything he says. Peaches's warning popped into my head. He'll go after Kelly first. Promise me you wont listen to him.
Oh, shit.
The blond woman's gaze turned inward, frustrated and bitter. "All those wasted years… getting older and older while I waited…" She spun back to the mirror, checking the skin around her eyes for wrinkles. Her voice hardened. "Now he wants to ditch me when I need him the most. I won't let him. I won't."
"Listen, I can't help you." I should've felt sorry for her, but I didn't. She wasn't very nice anymore, for one thing, and she'd been sleeping with another woman's husband. What kind of reward did she expect?
"Oh, yes, you can help." A sly expression came over the woman's face as she watched me in the mirror. "You can do a lot of things… more than you know."
"And just what do you expect me to do?" I stood my ground, unwilling to get involved with another pissed-off spirit. "It's not like I can order your dead boyfriend to 'go to Hell' and have him take me seriously."
She turned and looked me. "That's not what my master says."
Make that a Barbie doll with a mean streak and a taste for sadomasochism. "Um… yeah. Well, your master doesn't have any control over me."
"Are you sure?" I was so not liking that smirk. "What if he gave you everything you ever wanted, Nicki Styx?"
My blood ran cold. I'd never told her my name.
Hoping my voice sounded steadier than
I felt, I said, "I have everything I need, thanks."
There was a silence, and then—before my very eyes—the woman became someone else.
Literally.
One moment she was a blond beauty queen, two seconds later she was a dark-haired young woman, dressed in glam couture—heavy makeup, sleeked 1920s hairstyle, fabulous clothes. I recognized the chocolate silk and velvet dress as one from Marc Bouwer's fall line—I'd drooled over it in the pages of a magazine the week before. Everything matched the model in the photo, except for the woman's face, and the vivid pink streaks in her hair.
The model was me. I was staring at me.
"Money, power, eternal youth." The other Nicki's voice lowered, took on a seductive note. "Fame and fortune. Fashion designers falling at your feet while the public screams your name… wealth beyond your wildest dreams… anything your heart desires, Nicki, anything at all."
"No." I shook my head, finding it hard to believe what I was seeing. "Leave me alone."
She took a step toward me and I jerked back. The tiled wall was against my shoulders before I knew it.
The woman returned to her original form while I stared, speechless. In a few seconds I was once again looking at a bitter-eyed blond in Jimmy Choos. She tilted her head and smiled like we were best buddies.
"You know my master already," she wheedled, making me remember nights spent sitting in the dark with my girlfriends, a single candle flickering on the wall and a chalk pentagram on the floor. "Where's the bad girl with a dark side who wanted to form a coven, hmm? The girl who put a hex on her ex-boyfriend to make him shrivel every time he looked at someone else?" She gave me the sly smile of someone who shared a secret. "You could have powers like that, Nicki Styx, and more. The Master rewards his servants well when they give him what he wants, and you have something he wants."
Still in denial, I insisted, "I was a teenager. That was all just make-believe."
She stared at me, then said flatly, "It's never too late to make it real."
"You actually expect me to make some kind of deal with the Devil?"
She smiled suddenly, in a dazzling display of white teeth. The perfect smile of a perfect woman, no doubt honed over perfect dinners with her married lover. The look she gave me was one of pity.
