A Ghost of a Chance

by Morgana Best

  “Hi, Laurel. Are you having lunch here?”

  I bit back the remark on the end of my tongue, and took a deep breath before answering. “Yes,” I said evenly, willing him to go away.

  John leaned forward and looked me up and down, leering at me. “Laurel, if you don’t mind me saying so, I think you need to dress in more modest apparel.”

  “I do mind you saying so!” I snapped. “Would you please leave?”

  He produced some flowers from behind his back. They were wilted, perhaps even dead, yellow daisies. I thought I had seen a man hunched over the flowers in the tubs on the sidewalk only moments before. “These are for you!” he said with a flourish.

  I recoiled. “Thank you for your thought, John, but I cannot accept gifts from strange men.” I tried to smile. I figured it was like writing a cutting comment on Facebook and following it with a LOL.

  “I’m not strange,” he said in an offended tone. “I am a veritable pillar of society. Pastor Green said he will put me in charge of the coffee after church from now on.”

  “Congratulations,” I said. I thought of my options. I couldn’t leave, as my meal was on its way. Before I could tell him to leave again, I was distracted by a rather strange smell, something like a mixture of embalming fluid and cheap stale perfume. I sneezed violently. “What on earth is that smell?” I said, after I had excused myself for sneezing.

  John beamed. “It’s my men’s cologne,” he said. “Do you like it?”

  There was no polite way to answer that. As I was deciding what to say, John continued. “I haven’t seen you at church, Laurel. Will we see you there next week?”

  “No,” I said forcefully. “You won’t.”

  To my dismay, John did not appear to be discouraged. “I cannot date a woman who does not attend the church, Laurel…” he began, but I cut him off.

  “John, I don’t mean to be rude, but I am never going to date you. Never. Do you understand?”

  John smiled thinly. “Your mother said you would play hard to get. Laurel, I must tell you that I am typical of a good Christian man. I am in the world, but I am not of this world. I do not play the games that the unchurched women of the world with their worldly ways do.”

  Okay, time to take off the gloves. I was about to say something immensely rude when John edged himself toward the chair opposite me. I watched with horror as he made to lower himself onto it.

  “No!” I said, holding up a hand.

  “Sorry I’m late,” a male voice said.

  I looked up with great relief to see Basil Sandalwood. He whisked the chair out from under John Jones. John almost fell, and had to clutch the table to support himself.

  Basil looked at John. “And you are?” he said.

  John cowered. “John Jones,” he stammered in a weak voice.

  “John is my mother’s friend from her church,” I said.

  “I’m Basil Sandalwood,” Basil said to John.

  John nodded and then scurried away to a nearby table, and sat facing me.

  “Thanks for rescuing me,” I whispered to Basil. As our eyes met, a weird feeling came over me. It was like a minor electric shock, or a moment of precognition. It passed within a nanosecond.

  Basil smiled. “No problem. I could hear what he was saying to you, so I figured you needed some help.”

  “That’s for sure!” I said loudly, glaring at John, who was fixated on staring at me and seemed to be straining to overhear the conversation. “Thanks again. I didn’t even see you there.”

  Basil chuckled. “Well, you were somewhat distracted.” He broke off to order coffee, and then turned his attention back to me. “So, do you like being back in Witch Woods? Or do you miss the city?”

  I shrugged. “I do miss the city, and I thought I’d hate being back here, but I’m beginning to like it now. Everyone’s so friendly.” I stopped speaking and shot a look at John Jones. “Well, some are too friendly.”

  The waitress returned with our orders, my meal and Basil’s coffee. She looked appraisingly at Basil, and my stomach clenched with a pang of jealousy. The café was not far from his office, so I figured he’d be in there often. Anyway, what was wrong with me? It wasn’t as if we were dating.

  At any rate, Basil appeared to be unaware of the waitress’s scrutiny. “What’s the story with that guy?” he said, nodding in John’s direction.

  I groaned. “Mom tried to set me up with him. She invited him over to dinner and tried to push me onto him.”

  Basil nodded. “Your mom can be quite persistent, if you don’t mind me saying so. I’m surprised she allowed your father to use Dad’s accounting firm for all those years.”

  “Me, too,” I said with a laugh. “She doesn’t approve of anyone who doesn’t go to her church.”

  “By the way,” Basil said, “I have a new business card.” He reached in his wallet, and as he did so, a little piece of crystal fell out. He grabbed it like lightning and shoved it back in his wallet, and then handed me his business card.

  “What was that crystal?” I asked, even though I knew it was none of my business.

  A slow red flush traveled up Basil’s face. For a moment I thought he was going to deny having it, but after a lengthy pause, he finally said, “It’s citrine.”

  “Citrine?” I parroted.

  “Yes,” he said.

  It was clear to me that Basil wasn’t going to tell me why the citrine was in his wallet, but I already had a good idea. “I’ve heard something about keeping a piece of citrine near your money to increase wealth,” I said.

  Basil turned a deeper shade of red. “Err, yes,” he said. “I suppose you think that’s a silly idea.”

  I laughed. “Not at all. You’d be surprised what I believe in. I think it’s a good idea. I should get myself a piece of the stuff.”

  Basil appeared taken aback by my remark. “Not many people in Witch Woods would approve of me being into crystals. Most people go to your mother’s church.”

  I grimaced. “Yes, Mom hates crystals, and candles, too. She had a fit that I have candles in my room. I must say, it’s funny to hear an accountant come out with such a statement about crystals.”

  Basil simply shrugged. “I’m quite open-minded about spiritual matters.” He fixed me with a gaze at that point, as if he wanted me to respond in a certain way.

  “Me, too,” I said lamely, not knowing what else to say. After all, I was indeed open-minded about spiritual matters, but I could hardly tell him that I could see and speak to ghosts.

  For some reason, my words seemed to upset Basil. He stood up abruptly. “That’s what they all say,” he said tersely, “but when crunch comes to crunch, it’s another thing entirely.” With that, he left the café abruptly.

  Chapter 19

  I awoke with a smile on my face. As I climbed out of bed and brushed the tangles from my hair, I couldn’t help but be happy. Today we had a funeral booked. That meant a world of weight was lifted from my shoulders.

  I was also happy because of my mother. The reason I was happy was because I took some delight in knowing that Mom was going to hate it. Just as she had hated our last celebrity funeral, which was KISS themed, this one was going to drive her even more nuts. The man who had died, a ninety year old named Melvin, had been an Elvis fan. I was excited to have an Elvis funeral, as that had been my spur of a moment idea back in Basil’s office.

  Melvin’s wife had died some years ago, and his son, Aaron, was the one who had requested the Elvis funeral. Aaron Jennings was Melvin’s youngest son, a spry sixty-nine year old with wiry gray hair and a pot belly. He had come into the office a few days before.

  “I saw the article about that KISS wedding you did,” the man had said to me as he fidgeted with heavy gold rings he wore on some of his fingers. His polo shirt was unbuttoned, showing off a tuft of chest hair which greatly resembled the hair on his head. He looked as though he had stepped out of a caricature skit on a comedy TV show and into real life.

  “Oh, your
father liked KISS?” I had asked.

  “Not quite,” the man said, shaking his head. “Elvis, the King. We both loved him. In fact, the whole family does. I know Dad would want something special.”

  And today was the day. The Elvis funeral was going to drive my mother crazy. She hated Elvis and always had. I had no idea why. I practically skipped down the steps and into the kitchen. My mother was there, sitting at the table.

  “How could you do this to me?” she asked, from over a bowl of cereal.

  I poured myself one. “I’m sorry, but we need the money. These celebrity funerals are bringing in the cash. We make more money from one of them than we do with three normal ones. I’m perfectly okay with you sitting this one out,” I added, hopefully.

  “No, of course not. You need me there,” she snapped at me. “Don’t be such a brat.”

  We ate in chilly silence, and I headed to the funeral home as soon as I could.

  As soon as I walked in, Janet set upon me. “I think you need to see this,” she said. She turned and headed for the corridor that led to the morgue and her work station.

  “I’ll set up some tables,” Mom said, “and the decorations, although I’m the only one who seems to know that this is a funeral, not a party.”

  It was cold in the morgue, and I shivered, but Janet seemed right at home.

  “I’m trying to do his hair,” Janet said, leaning over the dead man. “He has experienced hair loss, but up to forty percent of women will lose a significant amount of hair in their lifetime. You could be bald by the time you’re this guy’s age.”

  “What great news,” I said. “Thanks for sharing.”

  My sarcasm was lost on Janet, so she beamed at me. “You’re welcome. Anyway, I can skip the Elvis hairdo, or staple his hair down.”

  “Will the staples show?”

  “Maybe a little,” Janet said with a shrug.

  “Try it,” I said.

  Janet beamed again. I was pretty sure she was excited to use the staple gun on someone, so I hurried away as quickly as I could.

  When I reached the front hall, I could hear my mom speaking to someone in the kitchen. I walked through the swinging doors and was both surprised and annoyed to see Ian there.

  “Laurel, how great it is to see you, kiddo,” Ian said.

  “Ian, please don’t call me ‘kiddo’,” I said. “You can’t be more than five years older than I am.”

  My mother clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, clearly unimpressed by my lack of manners. Ian was like a younger male version of my mother. The two of them together could probably make me jump off a bridge if I wasn’t careful.

  “Why are you here?” I asked the annoying man. “We aren’t open.”

  “I asked him over,” my mother said. “He brought the most delicious little tuna salad sandwiches over to a church potluck last week, and I wanted him to come help me make some for today.”

  “For what?”

  “The wake, silly,” Ian said.

  “Mom, the family has ordered the food they want.”

  “Well, this can be a little extra,” my mother said.

  “Who is paying for it?” I asked.

  “I am. It’s just tuna fish.”

  I forced myself to swallow my anger. “Mom, there will be over fifty people here today. That’s not just a couple of cans of tuna.”

  “I’ll tell you my secret,” Ian said, leaning over to me and speaking in an exaggerated whisper. “I don’t drain the tuna.”

  With some difficulty, I resisted the urge to strangle Ian, and addressed Mom. “Mom, you will have to use your own money for this, not the funeral home’s money.”

  My mother crossed her arms over her chest. “You think you can speak to me however you like. How hurtful is that? I’m your mother, and you choose to disrespect me this?”

  Ian crossed his arms over his chest, too. “A child should always heed their parent’s advice. You should obey your mother. It is set down that a woman must obey her husband and her parents. If you followed a Godly life, you would know that already.”

  I took a deep breath, and then another. I did not trust myself to speak. Instead, I went out into the hall and opened a small closet there. I pulled out a vacuum and got to work.

  By eleven thirty, we were ready to receive guests. Janet had brought in Melvin. He was lying in an all white casket. His hair was in full Elvis mode, and the only reason I could see the staples holding it there was because I knew they were there. As strange as Janet could be, she was certainly good at her job. Janet had already left, as she rarely hung around for anything other than what I paid her to do, and that suited me just fine.

  I went to open the front door, and found Aaron, the deceased’s son, walking up the steps to the porch.

  “I’m a little early. Is that all right?” he asked. He actually looked pretty dapper in a black suit, although he still wore the gaudy rings on his fingers.

  “Of course. This is your party so to speak, though ‘party’ probably isn’t the best word,” I said.

  “Party is fine,” Aaron said with a smile. “It’s what Dad would have wanted.”

  I nodded and held the door open for him. “Did you bring that CD?” I asked.

  He pulled the Elvis album from his jacket pocket and handed it to me.

  “I’ll be right back, but please help yourself to anything in the dining room.” I motioned to the room to our right.

  Aaron nodded and I walked away. Within a minute, Elvis was crooning over a gentle guitar through the speakers. The speakers could be heard in every room, including the restrooms. My mother was in the small kitchen, brewing some coffee with Ian. I imagined her scowling as she heard Elvis come on, and it made me smile.

  Aaron was in the viewing room, standing over his father. “He named me after Elvis,” he said. When I shot him a confused look, he laughed. “Elvis Aaron Presley.”

  I nodded. “Oh, I see.”

  “Elvis had a swagger to him, I suppose,” Aaron said. “My father had the same swagger. In fact, he’s missing something.” He looked down at his deceased father. “He’s missing a bit of his swagger.”

  Aaron reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He took one from the pack and tried to set it between his father’s lips. When he was unable to insert it, he simply rested on it top of his lips. Aaron didn’t light it, of course, but I knew that when my mother saw it she was going to have a fit. I smiled again.

  “He smoked the same brand that Elvis smoked. He was truly a fan,” Aaron said.

  Behind me, back toward the front hall, the doorbell rang. “Excuse me.” I turned and headed for the hall, but my mother beat me to the door. I could tell because she screamed her next words.

  “That’s going too far!” she yelled.

  I hurried forward to see who she was yelling at. I burst into the hall and my mouth fell open. My mother was standing by the open door, wagging her finger in the face of Elvis himself.

  Of course, it was an impersonator, but the man looked uncannily like the King of Rock and Roll in his later years: high black hair, white jumpsuit, round belly, and large aviator sunglasses. I hurried forward, took my mother by the arm, and tried to pull her back. Ian stood nearby, his hand over his open mouth in a completely cheesy and fake pantomime of shock.

  “Please, come in,” I said to the man.

  “Thank you. Thank you very much,” Elvis said in a poor attempt at a Southern accent. He came through the door, and then another ten Elvis impersonators came through after him.

  Chapter 20

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. Eleven Elvis impersonators were standing in the front hall of the funeral home. Some were dressed as old Elvis, some as young Elvis, and others somewhere in between.

  Aaron walked into the hall and clapped his beefy hands together. “All right!” he said with a grin.

  “What is this?” my mother said, her voice high pitched and bordering on hysterical. “This can’t happen!” />
  Aaron looked at her. “My dad was a member of the group. You’re looking at the best Elvis impersonators in the state.”

  “They need to leave,” Ian said, stepping forward. “This is a man’s funeral.”

  “No, Ian, you need to leave,” I said firmly, glaring at him. “This is what Melvin would have wanted.”

  “This is exactly what Melvin would have wanted,” one Elvis said. He was wearing a black jumpsuit with a rhinestone dragon. Every time he moved even slightly, the rhinestones caught the light and gleamed and glittered.

  “I’ve got to see him,” another Elvis said, “and pay my respects.”

  The other Elvises all nodded in agreement. They all filed into the viewing room, followed by Aaron.

  As soon as they were out of sight, my mother rounded on me. “You’re making a mockery of your father’s hard work,” she snapped. Then she looked at Ian, who was nodding his head hard again and again. “Come on, Ian, they will not be eating our tuna fish!” They hurried into the dining room.

  I walked through the dining room and into the kitchen. Mom and Ian were muttering to each other, and snatching up the silver platters they had loaded with tiny tuna sandwiches.

  I had just finished brewing a large pot of coffee when I heard the bell ring again. I knew I had better beat my mother to it—who knew who was coming in now? Once the viewing started the door would be propped open, but since it was still a little early, I hadn’t done that yet.

  Mom rushed to the door, and I wondered why she was so eager to open it, considering how appalled she was. If there was one thing she hated more than tacky themed funerals, it was Elvis. Then I remembered how much my mother loved to be offended, and I understood why she was hurrying. There was a good chance she was about to open the door and have something to complain about, and she wanted to make the most out of the opportunity.

  I slipped around her and grabbed the doorknob, and then threw my mom a look that a normal person would have understood to mean to be quiet and not to yell at anyone, but with my mother, you never could be quite sure if she understood normal societal cues.