Grim and Bear It

by Paula Lester

  “Hey, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you. Being a reaper, why didn’t you teach me anything about that kind of stuff when I was younger?”

  Cheryl shrugged. “I didn’t see the need. People believe what they want to, really, and it doesn’t matter in the long run. A reaper will come for everyone, whether they know about such things or not.” She set her fork down and grabbed the wine bottle to fill both their glasses.

  “I guess.” Tessa bit her lip, wondering whether to ask the next question. It had been on her mind since she learned her mother’s true profession, but the time had never seemed right to ask. “Were you there? You know—for Dad. When he . . . when he died?”

  Silence stretched for so long that Tessa thought her mother wasn’t going to answer. She was surprised when Cheryl whispered, “I was there.”

  “So, you knew ahead of time it was going to happen?” Tessa tried to keep the accusation out of her words, but her stomach clenched in anger. Michael had died suddenly—the coroner said it was most likely some kind of congenital heart condition, even though he couldn’t find any structural defect in the organ.

  Tessa had woken up one morning with a dad and gone to sleep without one. There’d never been a satisfactory answer about why.

  “A few hours, yes.” Cheryl drank some wine, more of a gulp than a dignified sip. She set down the glass. “There was nothing I could do. There are rules, you know.” She stared at the wine, not making eye contact with Tessa.

  Though there was a lot more she was dying to say about the subject, Tessa swallowed the words. Her father was gone, and whether or not Cheryl could have intervened was a moot point.

  Nothing could bring her dad back. She cleared her throat and changed the subject. “So, does our agency actually function as a real life insurance company? Like, do we cut checks to beneficiaries?”

  Cheryl straightened, her normal cool expression settling over the pain that had been evident there for the past few minutes. “We do,” she said. “And that reminds me—Mark Sanborn has a check coming. You can deliver it to him tomorrow. Just stop by the office and ask Catherine for it. She’ll have it ready by nine.”

  Cheryl got up and started clearing dishes. “Remember to keep your eyes and ears open for anything that could lead you to Chet Sanborn’s spirit. You’re running out of time to catch him before there are horrible repercussions. Now, grab that roast, and I’ll package some up for you to take home.”

  MARK SANBORN LIVED in a bungalow at the edge of town. Pride of ownership was evident in the way the place was cared for—the lawn looked like it had been trimmed on hands and knees with scissors. Not one weed dared poke its head through the cracks in the walk leading to the front stoop.

  It was a pity the police officers were smashing the lovely impatiens lining it.

  Tessa dove behind the neighbor’s picket fence to hear what was going on.

  To her credit, Mark’s wife wasn’t crying about the broken flowers. She wailed about her husband being taken away in handcuffs. “But he didn’t kill my father-in-law!”

  The distraught woman pulled on the sleeve of the closest cop, and Tessa recognized Officer Stewart. “What am I going to tell the kids when they get home?”

  Stewart shrugged off her hand. “Not my problem, lady. Your husband’s been charged with murder. He’ll have to explain himself to the judge, not to me. I advise you to call your lawyer and tell your kids he went for a business trip.”

  The officer shrugged again and hurried after his comrades, who guided Mark toward a police cruiser.

  The cops pulled away, leaving Mark’s wife wiping her eyes on the stoop. Tessa straightened and approached cautiously. “Um. I’m sorry to bother you at a time like this.”

  The woman turned red-rimmed eyes toward her and sniffed. “Who are you?”

  “I’m, uh, I’m Tessa Randolph. I’m from Chet Sanborn’s life insurance agency. Are you Mary Sanborn?” When the woman nodded shakily, Tessa held out the check. “Your husband was Chet Sanborn’s beneficiary.”

  Mary took the check, glanced at it, and widened her eyes before looking back at Tessa. “It’s not much, but it’s still a shock that he paid for life insurance at all.”

  Tessa nodded. Her picture of Chet Sanborn was already painted. At this point, she wasn’t in need of more details unless they led to catching his spirit.

  “At least this will cover the costs for his wake tonight.” Mary winced and glanced the direction the police cars had gone. “Mark is going to miss it, I guess.”

  “That’s terrible,” Tessa said. “Maybe he’ll get processed quickly and released in time . . . when is it? Is it close by?” She tried to couch the prying in an empathetic tone, already planning ways to crash the wake. Perhaps Chet Sanborn’s spirit would be there. Gloria had said some of them run from their reaper because they want to attend their funeral.

  Mary sniffed and rubbed her eyes one last time. She turned toward the house. “It’s at six tonight in the big room you can rent at Frank’s Bar and Grill.” She shrugged. “Not fancy, but neither was Chet. And it’s affordable.” She waved the check. “Thanks for this. I need to get inside and call our lawyer.”

  As Tessa watched Mary disappear into the house, she fought off the groan that wanted to tear out of her throat. Of course Chet’s wake had to be at the very last place Tessa wanted to go.

  As she spun around to head back toward Linda, she bolstered herself with the thought that Frank probably wouldn’t even be there. Her ex liked to be home by five to watch movies and eat snacks in his underwear. He usually had staff handle any parties that rented out the big room in the back of the bar in the evenings.

  She felt better at that thought.

  Yeah. It’ll be fine. Frank won’t even be there.

  Chapter 11

  Wearing a knee-length navy blue A-line dress covered with white flowers and one-inch beige pumps, Tessa drove to Frank’s Bar and Grill. The drive still felt familiar—the muscle memory of the daily routine, driving there, sometimes twice a day for double shifts, took over. She was able to let her mind wander while her brain automatically handled Linda, whose stubborn phase seemed to be over—at least for a little while.

  She stared out at the sun setting on the horizon, thinking about Chet Sanborn and how tragic his life had ended. Had he really been killed by his own son? But that line of thought, paired with the fact that she was going to a wake, quickly led to other thoughts. She couldn’t help but think about her dad.

  Michael Randolph had been a kind man—the kindest. Tessa remembered him giving his services as a lawyer pro bono for those who found themselves in need of a defense attorney but without the means to get a good one. And he was a good one. He’d spread his books and papers out over the kitchen table in the evening and pore over old cases, searching for the best way to help his clients. Sure, he had paying ones too. Usually, they were rich people from the city. Essentially, they paid for Tessa’s dad to help the others.

  As a result, the Randolphs never had the fancy summer house down south that most of Michael’s lawyer friends had. And sometimes, Cheryl would raise an eyebrow when Michael took on another case for free. At times like those, Michael would grab Cheryl by the waist, swing her around the living room to imaginary music, and make her laugh. He’d make all three of them laugh.

  He’d been a great dad and husband.

  Tessa remembered going to his funeral but only barely. The whole thing had been a blur. People gave her their condolences. There were lots of hugs. And everyone had a story about her father. Many of them were the people he had helped. Those he’d stood up for in a system that seemed designed to beat them.

  Pulling into the parking lot at the bar, Tessa shook off those memories. She needed to stay sharp and have her full concentration on the task at hand. If Chet Sanborn’s spirit showed up, she needed to reel him in. She had to get him to the other side so they could both move on—and she could collect her paycheck.

  It felt strange go
ing in the front door of the establishment after years through the back door. But instead of nostalgia, a wave of relief wafted over her. She’d always hated walking past that stinky dumpster and feeling the wave of dry kitchen heat smack her in the face. Going through the front was much nicer. More human.

  Frank’s Bar and Grill was the quintessential neighborhood spot. Its log construction and hand-carved wooden bar were both rugged and quaint. Frank had inherited the place from his father, which made it easier for him to turn a profit—he didn’t have a mortgage, so the overhead was limited to payroll, maintenance, and supplies.

  Still, Frank was a decent businessman. The place was always bustling. There were pool tables and dart boards. Big flatscreen TVs lined the walls beside the bar. And he served both domestic and craft brews on draught, so the place drew in crowds of all variety.

  Tessa stopped in the doorway to look around and get her bearings. A large folding sign in the small lobby proclaimed the place to be closed for a special event. At the bottom, it said RIP Chet Sanborn. She peeked through the doorway. Several people were bunched around the bar, but it wasn’t nearly as busy as a normal Friday night. Plus, it was quieter, more subdued, than the weekend crowd would be.

  Mary Sanborn stood near the back of the room, near a long table loaded with food, talking to an older couple. She held two elementary-age kids to her sides, but the children’s eyes darted around as though they wanted to run off and get into some mischief.

  “Well, well. Look who’s here.”

  Tessa winced and turned to face Frank.

  Crud!

  She’d really thought he wouldn’t be there. But there he was—all six feet and four inches of him, looking as handsome as ever. He wore black pants and a shirt that looked tailored for him, but Tessa knew he bought them off the rack at Maverick’s Big & Tall on Main Street. He was lucky to be proportioned just right for non-tailored clothes, even if he did have to go to the ritzy shop.

  Frank’s grandparents had come over from Sicily, and he had distinctly Italian features, including thick, curly black hair and olive skin. He grinned, and her heart did a strange little dance. Traitor!

  “Yeah,” she said meekly. “I came for Mr. Sanborn’s wake. He was my neighbor. Remember?”

  She purposely removed her gaze from Frank’s appealing physique and placed it back on the wake-goers. She cursed herself for ending with a question, as if she wanted to talk to Frank—as if she wanted him to remember anything about their relationship.

  “I, uh, yeah. I remember.”

  Tessa didn’t see Chet’s spirit anywhere. If he did show, she thought he’d be hanging around near Mary or the children.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” Frank didn’t sound sorry. “But I’m glad to see you.” He stepped closer.

  Alarm bells started going off in Tessa’s mind. What’s he doing? He was within what most Americans would consider their personal space bubble. She stepped back an equivalent amount of space and narrowed her eyes at him. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “You know, it’s been weird around here without you.” Another step forward. “Weird not having you hang out at my apartment too. I miss you.”

  Tessa stepped back again but jumped as her spine hit the maitre d’s lectern.

  Trapped.

  For a second, she wavered. Maybe being pursued by a handsome man who missed her wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe Frank had learned his lesson and would treat her more like Tessa’s dad had treated her mom if she took him back and less like a king treats the chamber maid.

  “I miss you, baby.”

  That word. It snapped her wholeheartedly back to reality. Tessa shook her head to clear it out. No way. Frank had missed his chance. He might be feeling nostalgic and acting charming now, but she knew from experience he’d be back to his old ways in no time flat.

  She considered using some of the skills she’d learned in the jujitsu class she took the previous summer to get Frank out of her space. But it was one class, and she barely remembered it. She decided to take a more civilized approach. “Aw, that’s a nice thing to say, Frankie. Hey, does that mean you’ve got that check ready—you know, the one you owe me with all that back pay?”

  Irritation flitted across his face.

  Bingo. She’d been right. Frank hadn’t changed, and he wasn’t going to. He was the same old user he’d always been.

  He stepped back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t owe you a red cent.” He turned and nodded toward the expediting window. “It looks like Louie needs me at the kitchen. Gotta run.”

  As Tessa watched him hightail it to the kitchen, she sighed in relief. It felt like she’d dodged a major bad choice. There was no doubt in her mind she was better off without Frank.

  After taking a minute to gather herself, Tessa stepped into the restaurant’s main room. Mary and the kids were getting food at the buffet.

  Another scan of the room for Chet’s spirit turned up nothing. But her gaze did land on someone she knew. Ricardo Vidale. He sat on a barstool, back to the bar as he drank a beer and surveyed the room. His toupee looked the best she’d ever seen it, as though he’d washed and combed it for the wake. He spotted Tessa before she could dart into the crowd and waved her over.

  Reluctantly, Tessa approached him, forcing a smile onto her face. “Hey, there. How are you?”

  He lifted the beer. “Just fine now that I have this in my hand.”

  Tessa thought she might need something too—if this conversation wasn’t quick.

  He looked her up and down, creepy as always. “It’s good to see you in here again, even if you aren’t serving my burger.”

  “With an extra pickle!”

  He smiled, and she thought he really shouldn’t.

  “It does feel kind of weird to be in here and not rushing around taking orders.”

  “How about I buy you a beer?” Ricardo suggested. “You know, for old time’s sake. Or, how about for Chet. That jerk can’t drink anymore, so we might as well have one or two for him.”

  Tessa opened her mouth to agree—why not have a beer she didn’t have to pay for? But before she could say the word, a movement near the ceiling a few feet away caught her attention. She whipped her head around to focus on it. Sure enough, Chet Sanborn’s spirit hovered there. When he saw her looking at him, he flew toward the kitchen. “I, uh, I gotta go!”

  “Rain check,” Ricardo called after her.

  She dashed after Chet.

  While he had the benefit of flying over everyone’s heads—he even went right through a woman’s hat—Tessa had to go around people.

  When Chet’s semi-transparent form disappeared into the kitchen, Tessa hesitated, then groaned. She plowed through the swinging door after him. The ghost headed straight toward the back door with Tessa barreling along behind him. She dodged one of the cooks, who swore at her.

  “Wash out your mouth, Louie,” she said out of habit.

  She caught a glimpse of Frank’s shocked face looking at her from his tiny office tucked off the corner of the big kitchen, but she didn’t slow down. Tessa hit the easy-push bar handle of the back door and burst out into the alley. The irony wasn’t lost on her. She’d been so happy to avoid the stinky back entrance, and there she was anyway, trying to breathe through her mouth to avoid the horrible odor. It smelled like week-old buffet, a bit sweet and a lot sour.

  Dusk had fallen, and Tessa stumbled to a halt so she didn’t run into something as her eyes adjusted to the dimness. She looked around wildly, heart pounding as she worried that she’d lost her mark again. But she caught a glimpse of him heading out of the short alley into the employee parking lot and raced after him, cursing the fact that she was wearing heels.

  When she hit the parking lot’s asphalt, Tessa considered removing the shoes and running in bare feet, but she knew that would risk cutting herself on glass or worse. Keeping a neat employee parking lot wasn’t Frank’s strong suit. He preferred to focus on the front of the restaurant and e
ven that was iffy at times.

  Chet’s spirit slowed and spun around as though checking to see if the reaper was still after him.

  “Stop!” Tessa couldn’t shout as loudly as normal because she was already out of breath. “I just want to talk to you for a minute.”

  Chet shook his head. He looked almost solid for a second, but when he turned and the light from a nearby street lamp hit him, his form was semi-transparent again. “You want to send me to the great beyond. I can’t go. Not yet.”

  “Why?” she crowed after him. “It’s the next stage in your journey. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “I’m not afraid. I just need to tell my son I’m sorry.”

  Tessa took a few steps forward, but the spirit flitted backward an equal distance. “Your son? Mark?”

  The ghost nodded.

  “But he killed you. Didn’t he? He was arrested this afternoon.”

  “No,” Chet argued. “That isn’t right. My boy would never do that.”

  Tessa used the moment of distraction to edge forward again. “When I talked to Mark, he seemed pretty angry with you.”

  Sanborn reached up and scratched a spot in the ring of hair, just like he’d done routinely when he was alive. Tessa wondered if ghosts had itches or if they just retained the habits from their living days. “I didn’t say he didn’t have a right to do it. I just said he didn’t.”

  “Then who did?”

  Sanborn’s spirit made eye contact with Tessa. It caused a chilly feeling to run up her back. He shrugged. “I don’t know. I had a lot of enemies. I owed a lot of people money and didn’t play by the rules. Even the rules of criminals.

  “But my boy is innocent. And I’m just not ready to go.” In the blink of an eye, Sanborn dove into the street light’s pole and was gone.

  Tessa growled and clenched her fists. She hung around for ten minutes watching the orange glow of the light, figuring Chet would have to come out eventually. But her stomach started grumbling, and with another groan of frustration, she turned back toward the restaurant.