Death Retires

by Cate Lawley

  His whiskers practically vibrated, and then his confession came out in a rush: “Yes, in the house. And yes, she might have had a look. And yes, she finds you quite attractive. And yes, she’ll be coming by again around nine.”

  “Nine?” Nine was when I had my nightly soak. My neck heated up. “You invited a peeping . . . ah . . .”

  “Tomasina?” Clarence supplied in the most helpful of tones.

  “You’re getting two days of dry kibble for this. I am not a peep show for your little ghost girlfriends.” I shouldn’t be surprised. He was an opportunist, and he’d simply found a way to cash in on a beneficial situation. One that involved me bare and in my tub . . . but I still shouldn’t be surprised.

  Why a ghost would want to catch me in the buff was a more pertinent question. And what exactly was Clarence getting out of it by keeping his trap shut?

  A nasty thought occurred. “Is she here now?”

  “No.” Clarence took one look at my face and said with as earnest a face as a bearded cat could muster, “I swear, she’s not.”

  Because my ghost-possessed bobcat ward was the only one of the two of us who could see, hear, smell, and touch ghosts regardless of whether they wanted to be seen, I had to rely on him. That made my eye twitch more than Bobby’s intermittent visitations.

  “How do we get in touch with Ginny?”

  “Well”—his whiskers twitched—“you usually take a bath around nine, so . . .”

  An uncomfortable feeling inched up my spine. “Clarence, you’ve managed to taint one of life’s greatest pleasures and make it feel dirty.”

  “Life’s greatest pleasures are dirty, boss. You just haven’t figured that out yet.”

  I refrained from arguing, because what was the point? Clarence might be inhabiting a cat’s body, but he was a human letch under all the fur.

  “Right. Looks like I have an appointment at nine.”

  Clarence cleared his throat. “Eight fifty-five. She’s particularly fond of the disrobing part.”

  “Clarence!”

  But he was gone before I could snatch anything but a small tuft of hair from his bobtailed butt.

  8

  Monday afternoon

  With several hours to kill and the itch to find the bombing culprit seeping deeper into my skin, I decided to check in on Sylvie.

  Not that I was concerned, because I barely knew the woman.

  And if she’d been the target, the bomber would have placed the device in her home.

  And if she was still upset, she had friends to look after her. She was probably still wrapped in Mrs. Gonzalez’s motherly embrace.

  As I changed my undershirt and tossed on a clean button-down, I considered my first and then second impressions of Sylvie Baker and modified that last assumption. She was likely back home scheduling contractors to repair her shed and not upset at all.

  Either way, my appointment with Ginny the peeping ghost was hours away. I didn’t have anything more pressing to fill my time. And if Sylvie called me a lunatic for claiming to talk to dead people and slammed the door in my face, well, at least I’d know she wasn’t bawling in her bedroom and that she hadn’t been snatched by an evil bomber.

  Not that I truly was worried about either of those possibilities.

  “I thought we weren’t going to bother her,” Clarence said as I finished buttoning my shirt.

  “You’re not. And get off my bed.” I started to tuck in my shirt.

  “Leave it untucked. That kind looks better untucked.”

  I glanced in the mirror. “Really?”

  “Trust me. And roll the sleeves, like a guy who lives in Texas in this decade.”

  Shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up, but sans Clarence, I headed out the door three minutes later—after debating a shave and deciding against (on Clarence’s advice) and brushing my teeth (to the sound of Clarence’s catcalls).

  It turned out that Sylvie was neither wrapped in Mrs. Gonzalez’s ample arms nor contacting contractors. When she answered her door, she had a glass of wine in hand and a board game tucked under her arm. “I was going to call you. Well, I was going to call Cindy—you know Cindy Eckhardt from down the street?—but she has her daughter by herself this evening, and then I remembered how nice you were.”

  “I was?”

  She nodded. “So then I was going to call you.”

  “Ah. You don’t have my number, and it’s not listed.”

  She tipped her wine glass at me. “And then I realized I didn’t have your number.” Red wine sloshed precariously near the rim of her glass as she toasted me. After taking a sip, she stood very still. “I’m glad you’re here now.”

  “Sylvie?” I watched her list to one side—subtly, but still . . . “Are you tipsy?”

  She slugged the last of the wine and beckoned me inside. “I certainly hope so. I’ve had three glasses of surprisingly good boxed wine.”

  I trailed behind her as she led the way to the kitchen. And indeed, a box of red wine waited on the kitchen table, along with a second glass.

  After setting the board game on the table, she refilled her glass. She tapped the game, her finger landing on the “O” in Ouija. “Target. If you’re ever in a pinch and need help reaching the great beyond, Target is the spot. Wonderful place.”

  “I’m hoping you managed that trip before all three of those glasses of wine.”

  Her forehead crinkled. “Of course. Where do you think I got the box of wine?” She turned back to the table and pointed at the glass there with a startled look on her face. “Right. So rude of me. Would you like a glass?”

  I shook my head. “You’re expecting someone?”

  “I told you: I was expecting you, until I didn’t call you. But then I was going to fetch you. Maybe after another glass. Wine makes me brave.” Her cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink. Then she tapped the board game again and leveled me with an intent look. “You’re going to find that sorry son of a gun ex of mine.”

  Sorry. Really, really sorry. So sorry.

  That wouldn’t be difficult, because Bobby was back, recharged and hollering in my ear.

  All options considered, there really was only one answer. Maybe I was opening up Pandora’s box, maybe complicating my life, but Sylvie looked so lost. “He’s here, and he’s sorry.”

  Really, really sorry.

  Eyes closed, I repeated, “Really, really sorry.”

  “Where?” She spun around in a circle, miraculously spilling only a few drops of bright red liquid on her kitchen floor. “If this is your fault, Bobby, I will not forgive you. They blew up my shed. My shed, Bobby. My shed is really close to my h-h-home.” She swallowed. “The firemen were here for two hours.”

  Was she about to cry?

  I touched her shoulder, which startled her enough to slosh wine down the front of my shirt. And I’d put on a new shirt just for the occasion. Lesson learned: threadbare T-shirts were not only considered stylish, but were also practical, especially for drunk Sylvie visits.

  How I’d predict the drunk part, I wasn’t sure. Maybe it was just best to invest in a few more decent shirts.

  Sylvie tugged on my shirt tails, pulling me closer.

  “Wha—”

  Then she did it a second time.

  I clamped my mouth shut and stood six inches from her, not daring to move a muscle. Then she started to unbutton my shirt. From the bottom. “Whoa.”

  She stopped, the backs of her hands practically brushing my fly. “What? Don’t tell me you’re shy. It’ll stain if we don’t rinse it right away.”

  Bobby cackled with glee in the background. A shame. I’d forgotten he was here.

  I grasped her hands, squeezed them, then let go. “Thank you. I’ve got it.”

  “Okay.” She shrugged, but—was that disappointment on her face, or just wishful thinking?

  Not that I needed that kind of entanglement. I’d only been retired a few weeks and had barely acclimated to being human again. Given this situation and how
uncomfortable it made me, I probably hadn’t fully acclimated. I slid a few buttons free and yanked the shirt over my head.

  When I handed it to her, she was frowning at me. Or, rather, my chest.

  “What?” I looked down at my undershirt. “It’s fine. I’ll chuck it in the wash when I get home.”

  “Hm. My dad used to wear T-shirts like that under his work shirts.”

  I kept trying to get past World War II-era fashion, but it looked like I was still failing. “Excellent. And how old is he?”

  “Oh, no, that’s not what I meant.” She shook her head. “Not at all. Bobby never wore them, but— Ohmygosh, Bobby! Is he still here?” She pressed the back of her hand to her cheek. “Maybe I’ve had a bit too much wine.”

  I pulled out a chair for her, and she sank down into it with a sigh.

  I took a few steps to my right and looked out her kitchen window to the backyard. “Understandable.” The damp, charred remains of her shed cast a pall over the cheery, flower-filled yard surrounding it. “I’ll just . . .” I lifted my shirt, and she nodded then gestured to the kitchen sink.

  After giving the wine stain a rinse, I left the shirt to drip in the sink and poured myself a half glass of wine. After I joined Sylvie at the kitchen table, I asked, “What did the firemen tell you?”

  She’d crossed her arms on the table, making a pillow for her cheek. She didn’t lift her head when she replied, “They said it was a very small explosion. They didn’t even suspect anything unusual until I told them what was stored out there.”

  “I’m sorry, what significance does the contents of the shed have?”

  “No gas, no paint. The shed’s not even wired for electricity. I used a flashlight when I occasionally went out there.”

  “I see. No source for a spark and no accelerant. What is stored there? Sorry, was stored there?”

  “Old paperwork, some clothes, a few pieces of furniture I couldn’t use but didn’t want to get rid of. My gran's.” Her face looked pinched when she mentioned her grandmother, and that made me feel panicky. Like I should make it all better for her.

  As I watched, her lids grew heavier. Before she fell asleep, I asked, “What kind of paperwork?”

  “Mmmm.” She blinked. “I used to do some bookkeeping before I started cutting hair, when I was still married to Bobby.”

  My trouble-o-meter dinged—not off the charts, but there was a flutter. “Were all of your records in the shed?”

  The soft shush of her breathing was the only answer.

  “Sylvie,” I called softly. When she didn’t respond, I stood up and moved into the living room. “Bobby?” I whispered.

  Here!

  Clutching my head, I lowered my voice even more. “Whoa, keep it down.”

  Here.

  “Thanks. So, Bobby, do you know who’s responsible for destroying the shed?”

  Bad people.

  Right. Dealing with ghosts who’d left a good part of their cognitive function with their physical bodies wasn’t something I’d missed since retiring. Just my luck, Bobby fell in that category. It could be worse. At least he was verbal.

  Simple and direct was the key. I tried again. “Did you see anyone near the shed before it blew up?”

  Noooo.

  His ghostly voice faded off to a moan. Too bad if he wasn’t a witness. Whatever he might have done in his life, whoever he’d been when he was alive, he had cared for Sylvie. Enough that his ghostly self was compelled to help her, and he’d be willing to share what he saw. Some ghosts weren’t so accommodating.

  “Were you here, in the house, when the explosion happened?”

  Boom!

  My left eye started to twitch. I rubbed it and said, “Quiet, remember?”

  Shhhhh.

  “So you were here when the explosion happened. How long before the explosion did you come back to Sylvie’s house?”

  A moan was the only response. Which made sense. Even ghosts with sharp mental acuity could have difficulty with time.

  “Where were you when the shed exploded?”

  House. No Sylvie. Just Bobby.

  And not a single moan. Now, if I could just keep that going . . . “Where were you before the shed exploded?”

  Away.

  Probably recharging. So not a witness, and if I grilled him anymore on the time line, I was likely to stress him out or confuse him. It looked like his past was the next stop.

  “You worked with some bad people.”

  Very bad. Nasty.

  “You think those people murdered you?”

  Yes?

  A little more certainty would be nice. “Why do you think that?”

  Bad people.

  Ask a stupid question of a death-fugued, swiss-cheese-brained ghost . . . “Okay, and your ex-wife, you think these ‘bad people’ want to hurt Sylvie?”

  A quiet sob followed by silence was all I got. And after repeated attempts to get his attention failed, I gave up. Either he wasn’t talking to me anymore, or he’d gone to that mysterious place ghosts went to gather up the energy necessary to manifest on this plane.

  I’d learned nothing useful from Bobby, but I had to give Clarence credit. He had a greater talent for communication than I’d credited him with. That he’d managed to get any specific information out of Bobby was just shy of a miracle.

  Looked like it was time to do some research on Bobby’s past. I hated research. No, not research, just computers.

  A soft snuffling noise coming from the kitchen caught my attention. Sylvie wasn’t quite snoring, but her breathing was deep and heavy, not unlike a person who’d had a bit too much wine.

  If I left her propped on the kitchen table like that, her neck and back would be in terrible shape when she woke.

  Except I wasn’t entirely sure that my back was up to the task of toting women around.

  Her breath hitched and then she sighed.

  I couldn’t leave her there. Looked like I was about to find out how out of shape my newly reacquired body was in.

  9

  Monday evening

  “Hurry it up, Clarence.” Watching him tap on the keyboard with his claws was like watching ice melt. Or water boil. Whichever, it was slow, and the over-the-counter painkiller I’d taken for my back wasn’t working nearly as well as advertised.

  Sylvie had a figure to die for and was soft in all the right places. Not that I’d done anything inappropriate; she’d been asleep, for heaven’s sake. But lifting a grown woman of any size was just as difficult as I’d remembered, a fact my back continued to protest.

  Another twinge had me asking if this should be taking quite so long.

  Clarence paused with his fluffy paws hovering over the keys. “If you’d get me that voice-recognition software like I'd asked, I’d be a lot faster. And do you even know how hard this is?” He retracted and extended his claws. “These paws were not made for typing. It makes my claws ache like you wouldn’t believe.”

  When he didn’t immediately return to the task, I mentally tallied his monthly bribes then gritted my teeth. “Voice-recognition software, got it.”

  And the incredibly slow tapping started again. “Here, look, I’ve got something. You can quit with the Mr. Cranky Pants routine.”

  “If I’m cranky, it’s because in about fifteen minutes I’m going to be confronting a peeper instead of enjoying the calming soak I desperately need.”

  Clarence grunted. “Right. Let’s not dwell on past mistakes.”

  “Your past mistakes. I didn’t invite a ghost to a nightly private viewing of my relaxation ritual.”

  Clarence ignored that. “So, I’ve got Bobby’s work history, criminal convictions, and some financial information, all for the reasonable sum of nineteen ninety-nine.”

  Modern technology at work. Sometimes I felt as if life had not only passed me by but had left me in the dust to choke. Wait, nineteen ninety-nine? “How did you pay for that?”

  “Ahhh, you know that credit card you thought y
ou hid from me? You might have hidden it, but I memorized the number first. Also, taped to the back of the toilet tank? Really? You’ll have to do better.”

  “Of course, you memorized the numbers, because that’s normal behavior.” I shook my head. I knew at some point in his past Clarence had counted cards, because he’d told me so. I should have realized a handful of digits and a date wouldn’t be a problem.

  Large green eyes blinked innocently at me.

  I pointed at him. “I’ll be canceling that one, so don’t even try to use it again. And the next one will not be taped to the toilet tank.”

  “Or stashed in the freezer, taped to the bottom of a drawer, hidden in a book—”

  “That can’t be normal.” He’d covered every spot that immediately came to mind and then some. His creativity exceeded my own with the freezer. “But we don’t have a problem, do we? Because you’re not going to steal any of my credit card numbers again, are you?”

  He whistled a jaunty tune.

  “Clarence, how did someone with such a terrible poker face count cards?”

  The tune stopped. “Ah, counting them is easy. Not getting caught is the hard part.” He tapped a few keys, and my printer started to whir and spit. “Grab that printout, will you?”

  I retrieved the stack of papers, astonished by the amount of information that could be bought for the price of a large delivery pizza. “You weren’t kidding. There’s some good stuff in here. But I don’t see anything criminal. It looks like a few speeding tickets.”

  “That’s the tricky part, since we don’t have an inside man at the force. As public citizens, we only get access to convictions. No arrests or anything.”

  “How do you know this stuff?”

  Clarence snorted. “I’m not allergic to technology.” He glanced at the computer. “It’s called the internet. Give it a try, Geoff. You might like it.”

  Eh, or not. Seemed like a lot of people who weren’t really experts talking about a lot of stuff they didn’t really know that much about. Also, when I had tried it, I’d spent a total of fifteen minutes poking around before I felt the mother of all migraines looming.