Nothing to Ghost About

by Morgana Best

  “If only you would learn to cook,” Mom said to me. “Then you might be able to find a nice man like John Jones. The two of you would be a good match. Don’t you think so, Ian?”

  Ian looked torn. “Well, only if Laurel attends our church first, Thelma,” he said.

  Mom looked horror-stricken. “Of course, Ian! That’s what I meant. And Laurel would have to learn to cook first, or what else would she have to offer a good man like John Jones?”

  I got through the rest of dinner by imagining myself alone on a deserted island. And then I imagined that Ian was a bartender who had to wait on me and bring me drinks, and I liked that even better. Of course, in my imagination he had a sock in his mouth so he couldn’t speak.

  After dinner, I offered to brew coffee for everyone, and I hurried into the kitchen to escape.

  Ernie was waiting for me. “How do you put up with your mother?” he asked me.

  “No idea,” I said. “Really. None. It’s horrible, isn’t it?”

  He nodded.

  “How’s the new guy holding up?” I asked.

  “Not too well,” he said. “He’s nice enough guy, but he’s still in that first stage.”

  “First stage?” I asked.

  “He’s still in shock. He can’t believe he’s dead.” With that, he floated up and away, through the ceiling and wall.

  I edged toward the door as the coffee brewed so I could hear what Ian and my mother were talking about.

  “Thelma,” Ian said, “I don’t know what to do with my girlfriend.”

  “Are you still having problems?” my mom asked. “Does she still want candles in the room when you know one another?”

  “Yes, and something new, too,” Ian said tersely. “It’s much worse than the candles now.”

  “What is it? Not something else New Age, surely?” Mom’s voice was horrified.

  “Even worse,” Ian said. “She wants to be more adventurous.”

  I thought I would pass out. Imagine Ian saying such a thing to my mother!

  “That’s not for a woman to decide,” my mother said firmly.

  I knew that Mom had absolutely no idea what Ian was talking about. He was still speaking in the world of ‘knowing’ one another, which to my overly religious mother meant lying with someone in the Biblical sense, to put it in another nice term no one uses these days besides those two. I was pretty sure that, to my mother, being adventurous meant that Ian’s girlfriend wanted to climb a mountain or run with the bulls.

  “I know!” Ian exclaimed in a self-righteous tone.

  “That’s for a man to decide,” Mom continued. “If he wants to take on adventures, and wishes for her to do the same, then it’s one thing.”

  “I tried explaining that to her,” Ian said. “In all things, a woman is supposed to support a man and submit to him. I don’t know what’s wrong with being normal. I don’t need adventure.”

  “Certainly not,” my mother said. “A good man like you. Who knows what she even has in mind? You don’t need things like animals being involved. That could be dangerous.”

  “Animals?” Ian said in horror.

  I jammed my hands over my mouth so they wouldn’t hear me laughing. I was still standing behind the door between the kitchen and the dining room. I didn’t want them to find out I was listening in.

  “Sure. Animals. Why not?” my mother said.

  “I don’t think she would go that far,” Ian protested.

  “Something with a bear,” Mom said. “That would be adventurous.”

  “A bear?” Ian’s voice was barely a squeak.

  “Who knows? Adventurous. I don’t even like the word. In the water, in the air, who knows?”

  “I didn’t even think of all of this,” Ian said weakly.

  “You had better consider it,” Mom said. I heard her chair scrape on the hardwood floor as she pushed it back and stood. “I better check and see what’s going on with my lazy daughter. Coffee isn’t that hard to make.”

  I hurried to the machine and pulled the full pot out from under it. I was pouring the first cup when Mom came in.

  “Laurel, what’s taking you so long?” she asked.

  “Sorry,” I said, still giggling.

  We filled three cups together and went back out.

  “Now here’s an adventurous one,” my mother said to Ian.

  I snorted a quick bark of laughter.

  Ian’s face went white. “She is?”

  “Oh yes,” Mom said. “Very. She knows I don’t approve at all, but that’s never stopped her.”

  “What? You know that she is?” Ian asked.

  “Of course. When she was younger, and had her friends over, she was up late at night, being adventurous. I don’t think she knows this, but I could hear it from my bedroom. This and that, all over the room. On the bed, and then off the bed, trying to climb the wall. It never ended.”

  Ian stared at me in shock. “I didn’t know.”

  “Oh yes, I’m quite adventurous, Ian,” I said. “No boring stuff for me.” Of course, I knew that Mom was referring to the time I had friends over and we rehearsed for a school play, but Ian had an entirely different idea.

  “One time she went out into the bush to be adventurous,” Mom said.

  Ian’s mouth fell open. “In the bush? You don’t mean outside?”

  “Well, of course,” my mother said.

  “I got leaves everywhere,” I told Ian.

  Ian jumped to his feet. “Thank you for dinner,” he said suddenly. “I have to go.”

  My mother and I watched as Ian hurried toward the front door.

  “What has gotten into him?” my mother asked.

  “I think he heard the call for adventure,” I said.

  Chapter 5

  I sat staring at the Sydney paper, at the article by Bob Hendry to be precise. He had mentioned the celebrity funerals only in passing. The whole piece was a sensationalist thriller exposé about the fact that there had been two murders at the funeral home.

  As Sydney was a good six hours away and had several major newspapers, I thought that the story would not filter down to Witch Woods. I was wrong.

  The phone rang.

  “Witch Wood Funeral Home?” a voice snapped.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “This is Henrietta McCourt. We had a wake booked for Thursday.”

  “Yes, Mrs. McCourt,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to cancel. I’ve decided to go elsewhere.”

  I took a deep breath. “Could you tell me why?”

  There was a lengthy silence on the other end of the phone, and I thought for a minute she had hung up. After an interval, she spoke. “People get murdered at your funeral home, so I didn’t want the wake to be at such an unsavory place.”

  I sighed. “I understand,” I said. She hung up before I finished speaking. I reached forward to open my email. There was an email from the reporter, Bob Hendry.

  ‘Here’s the piece we’re running today,’ was all it said, along with a link to a word document.

  I slammed the laptop shut in anger, right as another phone call came through. This time, it was Mr. Holland calling to cancel his Great Aunt Harriet’s funeral. That one was set for the following day.

  I closed my eyes and leaned back in the old chair.

  When I opened my eyes, I saw my mother standing in the doorway of the office. She didn’t look happy. “So you’ve heard?” I asked.

  She stormed forward and stood on the other side of the desk, her hands on her hips. “How embarrassing! How could you do this?”

  “Me?” I shrieked. “It’s hardly my fault! Two people have died here. There’s not much I can do about the story.”

  “No one died here until you came back home,” she said. “Has anyone canceled yet?”

  “Two people have already canceled,” I said just as the phone rang. “And there’s the third.” I took a deep breath and answered the phone. My mother stood and watched and listened as Rebecca
Chambers canceled her father’s service later in the week. I hung up.

  “What are you going to do to fix this?” my mother snapped at me.

  “I don’t know. It’s just one story. It will die down.”

  My mother rolled her eyes and shook her head. “That’s not what I meant,” she said. “What are you going to do about your life?”

  “Is this really what you want to talk about right now?” I asked.

  “Yes!” she said. “Laurel, you need to come to my church and think and pray about it.”

  “No,” I said. “I have work to do.”

  My mother huffed. She took a deep breath and then basically spat it out. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll go and think and pray for you, since you won’t think and pray for yourself.”

  I watched her go and then pinched the top of my nose, my eyes tightly closed. When I opened my eyes, I gasped to see an apparition in front of me. It was Preston Kerr, still smoky and hard to see.

  He looked sad. “I kept thinking it was all a dream or something, but I don’t think it is. I don’t think there’s any waking up from this.”

  I shook my head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Ernie says I will move on when I’m happy.”

  “I don’t know if happy is the right word for it,” I said, “but people only stay here if they have unfinished business.”

  “That makes sense,” Preston said. “Sometimes I feel something pulling at me.”

  I nodded. “But you don’t go because you need to know what happened to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to know, too,” I said. “I don’t want to sound selfish, or self-serving, but I can’t let people think that the funeral home is a dangerous place. People need to know that what happened to you has nothing to do with the funeral home, as such.”

  “I understand,” Preston said.

  “So you don’t think it was anyone you know?”

  “No, I don’t think so. It was whoever killed that other man, the man the funeral was for, the man in the coffin.” Preston vanished, and then at once materialized again. “How come you can hear me and see me? No one else can. I’ve tried to speak to people, but they don’t know I’m there.”

  “The daughters in every second generation in my mother’s family can see and speak to ghosts,” I said. “I don’t have a clue how or why.”

  Preston nodded and then floated through the office wall.

  As soon as he left, the phone rang. I almost threw it to see if it would go through the wall, too.

  Chapter 6

  I hate clowns.

  In fact, I am terrified of them—their oversized shoes, their red noses and crazy hair, and worst of all, their painted faces with the fake smiles.

  The town morgue had brought over the corpse. Janet arrived shortly after that. Janet, the funeral home’s cosmetician, made the bodies presentable, and she was about as cheery as you would expect a woman like that to be. She was nice enough, although she was maxed out as far as social awkwardness went.

  “It’s going to be a late night, boss,” Janet said, as I let her into my office. She held up her large cup of coffee. “I would have brought you one, but I don’t think of you often.”

  “It’s fine,” I said, hiding a smile at Janet’s words. “This will be our first clown funeral.” I shuddered and rubbed my arms. “The deceased is Lynette Smith, and the client is her daughter, Daisy. Daisy and her mother were in business together as professional clowns.” I shuddered again. “Daisy has supplied some photos so you can see how the clown makeup is supposed to look. Anyway, they’re all in the folder.”

  Janet nodded.

  I handed her the paperwork. “I’m wrapping up for the day. Will you lock up when you leave?”

  “Sure.” She headed to the door, and then looked back at me with a wide smile. “I’m looking forward to seeing my finished work, a corpse in full clown face paint!” Her tone was gleeful.

  I stared after the departing Janet. The very last thing I wanted to see was, in fact, a corpse in full clown face paint. I was sure I’d have nightmares all night.

  I locked up and went outside to see the sheep, Arthur and Martha. I had a five-acre paddock next to the funeral home, and Basil boarded his two pet sheep there. That suited me fine, for two reasons. One, I didn’t have to pay to have the whole thing mowed, an expensive proposition given the area, and two, Basil frequently dropped by to visit his sheep.

  “Hi there, Arthur and Martha,” I said to the sheep.

  The sheep looked up from their grazing and bounded over to me, baaing loudly. They expected to be fed every time they saw me. The reason for that was likely because I did feed them every time they saw me. “Here you go,” I said, holding out two pieces of apple.

  “Thank you,” a voice said.

  I shrieked, and then realized the voice was Basil’s, not a sheep speaking to me.

  I spun around.

  Basil’s amusement over my reaction was brief, and he wasted no time coming to the point. “I saw the article,” he said. “It was a disaster.”

  I grimaced. “That’s for sure.”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about Anna Stiles,” he said.

  My heart sank. “Oh, her,” I said, unable to keep the obvious distaste from peppering my voice.

  Basil did not appear to notice my attitude as he leaned over the fence to pat Arthur, who butted Martha out of the way and nuzzled Basil’s hand, looking for apples. “Did anyone cancel?”

  I nodded. “Yes, sadly, all but one.”

  “Please tell me the clown funeral is the one still on.”

  I sighed. “You’re in luck.”

  “That’s perfect!” Basil said. “I’m guessing you’re the only funeral home that’s willing to do a clown funeral. Others frown upon that sort of stuff.”

  He had a point. I wondered if Daisy had tried to book her mother’s funeral somewhere else, but couldn’t find anyone willing to paint her face as a clown before they buried her.

  “So I have one funeral, and a whole bunch of cancelations. What’s that have to do with Anna Stiles?” I asked.

  Basil stopped patting the sheep and turned to face me. “You need her on your side. A good local article would help you.”

  I bit my lip. “I don’t think she’s going to write anything good. She was more interested in the murders than Bob Hendry was.”

  “Well, give her a reason to write something good. Invite her to the clown funeral. People leave this place loving you and your mother.”

  “Basil, I don’t think they leave this place loving my mother,” I said with a laugh.

  “Okay, so that’s a bit of a stretch,” Basil admitted. “I was trying to be nice. But people do come away loving you.”

  I wondered if Basil ever came away loving me. What sort of effect did I have on the man who had such a strong effect on me?

  Basil was still speaking. “It couldn’t hurt.”

  “It could hurt if she writes a bad article, though,” I pointed out.

  Basil looked thoughtful. “I could call her for you if you want.”

  I was taken aback. “You have her number?”

  “She called me after she left here last week. She wanted to make sure I couldn’t give her any more information for her story. Don’t worry—I was tight-lipped.”

  I sighed. “No, I can call her. I’ll do it now.”

  “All right, then,” Basil said. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  I left Basil with his sheep and walked over to the rose garden at the front of the funeral home. I bent over and inhaled the heavenly fragrance of a beautiful butter-gold rose with a licorice spice scent. I loved old-fashioned blooms. I liked to spend my spare time tending to the rose garden, not that it had many weeds. After Dad died, Mom paid a man from her church to weed the garden every Saturday. He was expensive, and he was hopeless. The gardener, and I use the term loosely, could not tell the difference between flowers and weeds. As a result, he had
pulled out all the irises, daisies, peonies, and goodness knows what else from the garden. Only the roses remained. I figured that was because they had thorns. Of course, there was no point saying anything to my mother. It would only make her mad, and there was no way she would fire the man.

  I had missed being close to flowers and trees when I lived in my apartment in Melbourne. Sure, there were parks everywhere, but there were no flowerbeds on the inner city streets.

  My eyes fell on the yellow rose’s tag, ‘Soul Mate’. I thought of Basil, and that reminded me to call the journalist. I pulled my phone out of my jeans pocket.

  “Anna Stiles,” she snapped.

  “Hi. It’s Laurel Bay from Witch Woods Funeral Home.”

  “Bob Hendry beat me to the punch, didn’t he?” Anna said smugly.

  “Well, I don’t want any more punches,” I said. “I wanted to invite you over tomorrow. We have a clown funeral, so you could see one of our unusual funerals.”

  “Your place, during a funeral?” Anna said with a chuckle. “I had better bring my bulletproof vest.”

  “It’s been a stabbing and a strangling,” I said grimly. “I don’t think a bulletproof vest would help you.”

  Anna laughed. “I’ll be there,” she said. “What time?”

  “One,” I said. I had a bad feeling. I knew something would go wrong.

  Chapter 7

  “That’s not funny, Tara.” I recoiled from the object in my best friend’s hand. It was an iced sugar cookie wrapped in shiny clear cellophane and tied with a tangle of tightly curled blue and yellow ribbons. It would have been cute but for the fact that it was a grinning clown head.

  Tara offered the sugary disembodied head to me. “Come on! It was right there at the coffee shop, begging to be bought.”

  “Why do people like clowns?” I wailed. “They’re the stuff of nightmares!” Like the one I had last night, I added silently, where the clown jumped out of his coffin and dragged me away, all the while laughing with that awful clown cackle.

  “They really freak you out, don’t they?”

  I nodded. “Yes, and now I have to do a funeral for one. And did you ever see It, the movie? I couldn’t sleep for a month after that.” Nevertheless, to avoid hurting Tara’s feelings, I took the thing and quickly shoved it into my purse, to be buried with the countless receipts and enough change to sink a battleship.