A Ghost of a Chance

by Morgana Best

  “Wait, what do you mean? And why can’t anyone else seem to hear or see me?” the girl asked, clearly unconcerned that I did not want to talk to her. “Is this all some sort of joke against me? And why are the police here? I saw a commotion over near the casket, but there were too many heads in my way to see exactly what was going on. What happened?”

  It was becoming obvious that she was not going to let up until she got some answers, but how could I explain to her that she was dead without earning awkward stares from my mother and everyone else, including the cops? It certainly wouldn’t be an easy task.

  “Laurel, what are you doing standing around uselessly like that, you lazy girl? I’m sure there are more important things that you’re needed for right now,” my mother said, glaring at me the same way she always did when she was disappointed.

  “That’s okay, Mrs. Bay, I actually have a few more questions for Laurel before we wrap up our investigation. The coroner just arrived, so you folks should be able to get back to business soon enough,” Duncan said, offering me a reprieve.

  “Oh no, what does he want now?” Tiffany said, combing through her hair with her fingers. I looked at her curiously, but it seemed to offend her more than anything else. “What? I just like to make sure I look decent, that’s all. Can’t blame a girl for caring about her appearance, can you?”

  If only she knew that her hair mattered very little now that she was in the afterlife. “Tree, up the hill,” I whispered to Tiffany and again pretended I was sneezing. There was a large, shady tree just up the hill near the funeral home. I figured we’d be alone there long enough to talk privately.

  “Laurel, could I have that word with you now?” Duncan said.

  “Of course,” I replied. Tiffany stood beside me, sighing loudly as he approached us.

  “I’m sorry to bother you again, but after comparing notes with Bryan and talking to your mother and a couple others, I just had to ask a few more questions.”

  “That’s fine. I want to help in any way I can,” I said.

  “You still haven’t told me what the investigation is about! Did someone die?” Tiffany asked, her presence beginning to grate on my nerves. The last thing I wanted was for Duncan to suspect that I was communicating with an “imaginary friend”, so I did my best to ignore her, but it grew more difficult as time passed.

  “Janet mentioned that you signed off on the preparation and checked the casket yourself last night,” he said. “That corroborates your story, but it’s difficult to believe that nobody saw Tiffany this morning. I’m not placing blame on anyone as such, but there’s got to be something that we’re missing.”

  Before I had a chance to think, Tiffany flew into a panic. Her words made little sense, but it was clear that she was finally putting the pieces of the puzzle together. “I’m dead?” she yelled, standing right in front of me as Duncan continued his speech.

  She put her hands to her head and then ran around the room aimlessly. I couldn’t blame her, but Duncan’s voice was completely drowned out by hers. After the initial shock seemed to wear off, Tiffany grew quiet and then vanished. I looked around the best I could without making it obvious to Duncan, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  Duncan was still speaking. “Well, when the coroner puts in the official determination and we get our notes in order, I’ll probably stop by sometime to update you on the case. Again, we can’t go into any details, but since it happened here, I’ll keep you guys updated the best I can.”

  I smiled and nodded, thanking him for not making things even harder than they already were. As I watched him walk off toward his partner, my mind drifted back to Tiffany. I hoped she’d gone out to the tree.

  When I approached the lonely tree that stood like a sentinel over the funeral home, I saw that Tiffany was there. “Hey, got room for one more?” I asked, sitting next to her.

  Tiffany’s face looked blank as she stared off into the distance. It was like everything that she had known had been taken from her. She slowly turned to me, her lips barely parting. “Did someone kill me? Is that why nobody else would talk to me? Am I… dead?” Her voice broke.

  Swallowing hard, I nodded. “Yes, someone did, and that’s why the police are here.” I tried to pat her on the shoulder, but my hand went right through her.

  There was no reaction from her, so I pushed on. “Do you have any idea who did it? Did you see anyone?”

  Tiffany shook her head and closed her eyes. After what seemed an age, she leaned back against the tree and spoke softly. “Why would someone kill me?”

  Chapter 5

  I hate paperwork. In fact, apart from accountants, I doubt there is anyone who does particularly like paperwork. When I met an accountant for my old job, he asked me which accounting system I used. He reeled off a few well-known accounting software programs, and then looked at me expectantly. My answer was “cardboard box.” That did not go over well.

  Paperwork is one of the reasons I had never been tempted to go into business for myself. Self employment is the holy grail of all the misery that paperwork entails. Everywhere you turn, there is a new form to fill, document to sign, or letter to certify. I could very much do without that.

  Now that I had inherited the funeral home, paperwork was a necessary evil, an evil I was forced to face. I could hardly leave the work to Mom. Mom has always ignored paperwork, and the consequence of that would be late fees, audits, and the possible embarrassment of having our electricity cut off in the middle of a wake. Even if she hadn’t been eternally busy with outreach programs and Bible studies, I wouldn’t be able to trust her to balance a budget if our lives depended on it.

  And at the moment, our lives did depend on it. At least the life of Dad’s business. My business. I was still trying to process that part.

  I looked forlornly at the stack of unsorted papers on the table in front of me. I was already arranging wakes, consoling the living, and playing twenty questions with a ghost whose death had occurred on my watch. There was yet another ghost telling me how to do my job and making puns about funerals. Adding paperwork to the pile was just plain cruel.

  “Don’t you have a secretary or something for this?” Tiffany sighed as she studied her nails for flaws. I needed at least one more cup of coffee before I had the energy to point out that ghosts don’t chip their nails.

  “I’ll be happy to hire you.” I rubbed my temples, trying to ignore the warning signs of an upcoming headache.

  “As if.” Tiffany gave a short, sharp laugh and rolled her eyes. “Let me know when you decide to hire a personal shopper. Your fashion is deader than I am.”

  “Ha, ha. Last time I checked, there wasn’t a dress code for working at home.”

  “If only it were limited to here.” The young woman gave me a long suffering stare. “You won’t explode if you buy something nice. That bargain bin knockoff of a closet is a nightmare. The sequin tank top? You should have it burned and then buried in a shallow grave.”

  “I like that top.”

  “You poor thing.”

  Just what I needed. A ghost who was chief commissioner of the fashion police. I opened my mouth, but Mom hurried into the room, carrying a stack of file folders.

  Tiffany glanced at me and then floated toward the door. The ghosts generally avoided Mom. There was only so much of her they could take.

  “What are you looking at?” Mom’s voice snapped me to attention. I turned my eyes back to her, realizing too late that I had been following Tiffany’s movement out the door.

  “What are those?” I asked in an attempt to distract her.

  “Some invoices and stuff from the past few months.” Mom looked unconcerned as she plopped the box unceremoniously on the table. “I need you to take these to Mr. Sandalwood, the accountant. We haven’t filed anything in the last few months.” Mom turned and rummaged through a drawer. “His address is on the fridge.”

  “Months?” I asked numbly. I grabbed the binder and flipped through the files to check the da
te on the most recent form. It was dated two months ago. I looked in horror at the stack of files with papers sticking haphazardly out of the sides. There was a Bible study flier in with the sales tax forms. I paused for a moment to look at the heading in bold, ‘Will you burn to a crisp in hell?’

  “Mom, what happened? Why didn’t these papers get to the accountant?”

  Mom shrugged. “Your father kept asking me to take them for him as he had so much going on, but I just can’t stand the accountant.” She wrinkled up her nose in distaste. “He’s so strange. I think he works for the Illuminati.”

  I clutched at my head. “Where are we? What’s been paid? Please say the bills are current.”

  “There’s no need to be dramatic, Laurel. You always were a drama queen, right from the moment you were born.” Mom put her hands on her hips. “I don’t have anything to do with the business. You’ll have to ask Mr. Sandalwood.”

  And that is how I found myself, only hours later, waiting in the foyer of the accountant’s office. I remembered Mr. Sandalwood from years ago. He seemed old then, and so I figured he’d be pretty much ancient now. I hoped he was still as friendly as I remembered him, although I doubted he’d be any happier than I was to see a big mess of backlogged paperwork. If I wasn’t absolutely terrified that we were about to be slapped with a flood of delinquent notices, I would have taken a day or two to sort them out before making the emergency appointment.

  Back in the day, Dad hired the services of Mr. Sandalwood’s accounting firm, much to Mom’s disgust, as Mr. Sandalwood did not attend her church. It had been a source of ongoing conflict between Mom and Dad for years. Mom did not like to trust the funeral home’s money to heathens, as she put it.

  The elderly lady receptionist had probably been there for years, too. She was reading a magazine, and only stopped to take a sip of her tea now and then. I assumed it was tea. It could well have been brandy.

  I yawned and stretched. I was the only one in the waiting room. I was early, so I reached out to the small table in front of me to sort through the magazines. There was nothing of interest: two financial news magazines, some car magazines, and some children’s books. All in all, nothing to distract me from my boredom.

  I turned to study the towering indoor potted plant. It looked healthy, to my surprise. That was the first office indoor plant I had ever seen that looked thriving. I reached out and touched it to see if it was real.

  “Stop!” the elderly receptionist said. “Don’t touch the plants.”

  I jumped back. “Sorry.”

  “What was your name again?”

  “Laurel Bay. We spoke on the phone earlier.”

  The receptionist nodded absently and then took another sip from her cup. “You can go in now.” Her head was already back in her magazine.

  I shrugged. “Thanks.” I wondered how she knew. Old Mr. Sandalwood hadn’t called through to let her know I could go in, and I was still a good five minutes early.

  I walked over to the heavy oak door and reached for the brass door handle. As I touched it, I was jolted by something, a crackle perhaps. It was like a low level jolt of electricity. I opened the door and prepared to greet old Mr. Sandalwood.

  The man who swung around, clearly startled by my entrance, was not the elderly, balding Mr. Sandalwood from my memories. This man was maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. He looked as if he had come straight off a magazine cover for a young businessman’s magazine. In fact, he was drop-dead gorgeous. I looked him up and down before I could stop myself. He was the best looking man I had ever seen, tall, muscular, with piercing green eyes and black hair. He had a great tan—a real tan, not a sprayed-on one. I shut my jaw and averted my eyes as fast as humanly possible. “You’re not Mr. Sandalwood,” I said, stating the obvious.

  “I am,” the hottie said, as he opened a drawer and shoved something inside. “I took over the firm when my father retired.”

  I thought his move rather furtive and did my best to catch a glimpse of the object, but only noticed that the sunlight briefly reflected from whatever it was. “Your father retired?” I parroted. I was somewhat in shock to be faced with a male model in a business suit rather than the ancient man in bifocals.

  “Yes, I’m his son, Basil.” The man walked over to me and extended his hand.

  As I shook his hand, an electric jolt ran up my arm. I gasped and let go of his hand, none too subtly, but what surprised me was that he seemed to feel it as well. He turned from me and crossed hurriedly to his chair. “Please have a seat,” he said over his shoulder. “You must be Laurel Bay?” he asked when we were both seated.

  I nodded, and then frowned as a heavy scent wafted past me. It wasn’t men’s cologne. What was it? It seemed familiar in some way.

  “You’re early,” Basil said, with a note of accusation in his tone.

  “Your receptionist told me to come in,” I said defensively.

  Basil leaned back in his seat and smiled. “Oh yes, Mrs. Anise.” He chuckled. “She was my father’s receptionist for years.”

  I nodded, and then fidgeted as an uneasy silence fell between us. I focused on the strange smell. What was it? Was it weed? It sure smelled like it. Some of the girls at college had taken to smoking a lot of the stuff, and their grades had fallen like a rock as a consequence. I was now more than a little concerned. Was this guy competent to continue as the funeral home’s accountant if he was a dopehead?

  Basil was the first to break the silence. His eyes trailed down to the stack of haphazard folders I was clutching to my chest with one hand. “Are those the files for your account?”

  I nodded.

  “How is your mother?”

  “Fine, thank you,” I said automatically.

  “Do you go to her church?” He fixed me with an intent look and twiddled his pen through his fingers.

  I frowned, thinking that a strange question to ask. “No,” I said.

  Basil nodded. “So you haven’t come here to tell me that you won’t be needing my services any longer?”

  I rushed to reassure him. “Oh no, certainly not, nothing like that. As I said to your secretary, Dad left the funeral home to me. I’ve never run a business before, so I wanted to touch base and see where things are at.” I mentally scolded myself then. This would’ve been a good opportunity to tell him that I was looking for a new accountant, given that I was fairly certain the strange smell was marijuana. I never think on my feet.

  Basil did not appear to notice my hesitation. “Excellent. Well, I’ll look through your accounts and then come to the funeral home in a few days to discuss matters with you. I’ll have Mrs. Anise call and set up a time that suits you. Don’t worry, Ms. Bay; everything will be all right.”

  As I left his office, I wondered if things would, in fact, be all right. How could I trust a doped up stranger with complex amounts of number crunching? Perhaps the smell wasn’t dope, I thought hopefully. Perhaps he has really weird aftershave. Nevertheless, Basil Sandalwood left me with a strange, uneasy feeling. Something was up with him, and I had not the vaguest idea what it was.

  Chapter 6

  I was sitting in my bedroom, dreading hearing the knock on the door. It was strange to think of the room as my bedroom, since it was the room I’d had when I was a girl. Now I was an adult and I shouldn’t be at home, but sometimes life throws you curve balls, and there’s not much you can do about it.

  Still, I had been thinking about looking into apartments. If I intended to stay here and run the funeral home, I couldn’t live with my mother. One of us wouldn’t survive the experience.

  I could also move into the funeral home itself. The upstairs wasn’t used for much more than random storage space, but there was a kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom. I could renovate it and make it work, but I would still be a bit too close to my mother. The same town was too close to my mother. There was also the fact that living above a funeral home made me a bit uncomfortable, which was strange, given that I could speak with the d
ead. Or perhaps that was the reason.

  The knock I was dreading came just before six. That’s when John was due, according to my mother. John Jones had maybe the most boring name I had ever heard. Surely he did; there was no maybe about it. He went to my mother’s church, which wasn’t a surprise, because I was pretty sure I was the only person who had ever been in her house who hadn’t gone to her church. She liked her churchgoers, and that was that.

  Mom had told me of the impromptu dinner date that afternoon. I knew she was trying to set me up and I had complained bitterly, but it didn’t have any effect. I shuddered to think of the type of guy she’d try to set me up with, so it was with growing dread that I stood from my spot on the end of the bed and made my way downstairs, just as my mother was opening the door.

  The man who stood there was as forgettable as his name. Plain face, plain brown hair. His beige clothes were plain, and his beige shoes were plain. He wore a smug, sanctimonious, insipid expression on his pasty face, and he had the worst combover I had ever seen. I knew I was probably being hard on him because he was the kind of guy my mother thought I should date, but I didn’t care. I had agreed to stay for dinner, even though when my mother had told me about it, my instincts were screaming at me to run for the hills. I had a pretty good idea how it would all play out.

  “Hello,” John Jones said when he saw me, and he put out his hand. I shook it. His handshake was limp. A couple up and downs, a very soft grip. I think I threw up in my mouth, just from all of the plainness.

  I liked pizzazz and spice. That was me. I liked to live dangerously—well, somewhere between normally and dangerously. John looked like the kind of guy who ironed his sheets every night before he slept in them, whereas I didn’t even own an iron, or make a list before I went to the grocery store. Yes, I lived dangerously.