The Dearly Departed Dating Service

by Rae Renzi

  Large vases of white lilies (fake) stood on the mahogany credenza behind the casket, augmenting the vases of fragrant white lilies (real, therefore expensive) on the matching credenza that held the guest book. The lighting was low, meant to be soothing to red-rimmed eyes, but also as a matter of psychology—if a corpse was to be viewed, it was best to suggest the notion of sleep, not decomposition. It was quiet and restrained. Given the cause of Ronnie Denton’s death (driving drunk after a wild party), I was pretty sure it didn’t reflect his preference.

  Undoubtedly, his preference, as for all the Departed, would be a joyful noise, reflecting their happiness with their new state. But my conviction was based on observation—a luxury most people didn’t have. The average person had to rely on faith, which seemed to be strongly influenced, one way or the other, by emotion.

  “Is anyone here?” Marybob asked.

  “No, as you can see—”

  “No one? Not even… ?” Marybob peered around the room as if she were in a densely treed forest.

  “No one, living or otherwise. Here, help me open this.” The top of the casket was a little awkward, but we got it open. I was relieved to see the body of Ronnie just as I’d left him a couple of hours ago. Not a given, considering the antics of the Departed these days. The number of practical jokes around the place had doubled, a reflection of their heightened anticipation of ending their earthly sojourn, I guessed. I scrutinized Ronnie’s tie. “Does that knot look right to you?”

  She narrowed her eyes at the boy, tipping her head this way and that. “It’s a little lopsided, isn’t it?”

  “Right.” I glanced around the room. Still no one. “Let me see if I can just…” I bent over Ronnie and tugged on the knot.

  “He’s cute.” She brushed a bit of lint from his suit jacket and delicately smoothed his sandy hair. She looked up at me speculatively. “Does he have a girlfriend? She might be a good target for Madam Myst—ohmigod!” Her eyes popped open. She darted a glance down at Ronnie and then past me.

  My back was to the door. “What?” I asked her in a whisper, as I covertly yanked the knot sideways. That made it worse. Damn. Now he looked drunk. Not the best idea, given the circumstance of his demise. I wiggled my finger under the knot to loosen it. “Is someone here?”

  “No. I mean yes. Not really. I can see him!”

  I peeked over my shoulder in hopes of a little enlightenment. A single figure hesitated in the aisle, a tall handsome youth, obviously Ronnie’s brother. Departed Ronnie, looking slightly unsubstantial, even for a Departed, materialized beside him. “Marybob, can you show them—er, him—to his seat? Tell him we’re almost ready?”

  I hoped he wouldn’t notice me wrestling with the tie if Marybob ushered him to a seat. He was a young man, after all.

  “Yes! Yes, I can. Ohmigod!” This was a little more enthusiasm than I had expected, but I was grateful for her help. The stupid tie had me flustered. Maybe if I tightened it here… and poked this in here. Yes, that was better.

  “Ow! What is wrong with you?”

  I spun around to see Marybob bending over and peering into the face of Ronnie’s brother, a finger poking at his eye. He slapped one hand over his eye and batted at Marybob’s outstretched finger with the other.

  Departed Ronnie, hovering next to his brother, was grinning.

  “Marybob, what are you doing?” I hissed.

  She put her hands on her hips. “You’re alive.”

  “Yeah?” The brother peered at her balefully with one eye. “And here I thought this was my funeral.”

  “Duh,” added Departed Ronnie. I shot him a quelling look, but he just snickered.

  I intervened. “You’re Ronnie’s twin, I presume?”

  “Yeah,” the living boy said. The uninjured eye roved over to Marybob. “I’m Don. What is wrong with her?”

  “She was confused.”

  “She thought you were me,” Ronnie explained. “Which in a way—”

  “—is right,” Don said. “She can see you?”

  “I don’t… know.” Ronnie had lost his grin, and now examined Marybob closely. “Actually, maybe she can, sort of?”

  “Of course I can see her—nothing wrong with my eyesight,” Marybob said.

  “Wait. What?” It was my turn to be confused. I replayed the conversation in my mind. Ah. Marybob was responding to Don, not Ronnie.

  “I said, there’s nothing wrong with my—”

  “Not you, Marybob. I’m talking to Don.” I turned to the twin in question. “You can see Ronnie? I mean, not his body, but his spirit?”

  “Yep. No one else can, though.” Don sounded disappointed. “They think I’m crazy.”

  “She can,” Ronnie said, nodding at me. “I told you.” He looked up at me. “He can’t see the other Departed. Just me.”

  This was odd. Perhaps not as odd as seeing Departed in the first place, but still…

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Probably because there’s only one of us,” Don said. “In spirit form, anyway. Two bodies, one soul. Twins.”

  “Identical twins,” I mused. “Does it feel strange? To be half-Departed?”

  “Nah. No different from usual,” Don said. “Except I don’t have to worry about him stealing my clean underwear.”

  “Because I don’t have to wear any.” They deteriorated into snickers. Don glanced at Marybob again.

  “You didn’t tell me about her friend,” he said to Ronnie, eyeing Marybob up and down much as his brother had—curious, but not impertinent. “What’s up with that? Can she see us?”

  “One of you, definitely. The other… ?” I shrugged.

  The three of us turned to Marybob, now staring directly at Departed Ronnie, a look of intense concentration on her face.

  “So,” Marybob said to Don, as if a light were slowly coming on in her brain, “you can talk to dead Ronnie? We could use another translator. How would you like to be a part of an up-and-coming business venture?”

  Chapter 16

  “Some serious type-A stuff going on here.” Marybob stared at the house of our first candidate, Catherine’s widowed husband. The large brick Georgian in West University Place had a miter-edged lawn and a sidewalk that appeared to be vacuum-cleaned—a good sign, I thought. A passing breezed ruffled the sycamore tree in the front yard and freed a few leaves, which drifted down to settle on the immaculate lawn, breaking up the unrelieved expanse of green.

  Marybob hitched her handbag over her shoulder. In a last-minute decision to be businesslike, she had toned down the honeypot effect by changing from her skirt into black tailored pants. Given her dimensions, it was conceivable that shutting it down altogether was not even a possibility, and I didn’t want her to. In this situation her personal attributes might possibly translate into business assets. If old Kenneth needed a little jump-start, Marybob was just the thing.

  “Grief affects people differently. This kind of compulsion might be his way of coping.” I flipped open the DDDS ledger and made a note on Kenneth’s page.

  Catherine surveyed the yard thoughtfully. “The lawn service started after I passed. He just dropped everything in those first few days. Grieving, no doubt. But, as I said, he needs to get over this nonsense and move on with his life. In a meaningful way.”

  A tiny little note of warning sounded in my head, but Marybob was already strolling toward the door. “Don’t forget to mention the fee, Joy,” she said over her shoulder. “Or I will.”

  When it came to business, Marybob definitely had a sharpish side, I’d noticed, though somehow not as offensive as that of Realtor Loretta Hammer. It had taken everything I had on that day she showed up at my house to civilly thank her and decline her offer to sell my house. Nevertheless, she had managed to insinuate one of her cards into my hand before leaving.

  As Catherine and I followed Marybob up the sidewalk, the boom-boom-boom of too much bass and too little thought reverberated though the mild evening air, practically flattening the flowers to
the ground.

  I’m not unsympathetic to youth. Kids stuck in school all day have to find their own method of release, which, different from adults, is more like opening a shaken can of soda than pulling the plug on a drain. All that repressed energy has to go somewhere.

  Still, it would be nearly impossible for an older adult to find a modicum of solace in this setting. No wonder poor Kenneth was having a hard time. Obviously teenagers lived next door. At just the time of day when a hardworking person wanted to relax and enjoy the evening, the primitive, bone-rattling noise would begin.

  As Marybob knocked on the door, my sympathy for Kenneth notched up even higher.

  Until the front door was thrown open.

  The loud music came rolling out like a tidal wave, practically knocking us down. The older man who opened the door grinned like a maniac and yelled something over his shoulder as he hitched up his artfully faded jeans and slurped the martini in his hand. The noise dropped to mere thunder-in-the-distance, and he turned back to us.

  “Well, well, well. What have we here? A couple more little darlings. Come in. Come in. Party’s just gettin’ started.”

  “Umm… we’re not here for the party, sir. We came to…” I stumbled over the realization that the standard script offering our condolences might not be the right opener in this situation.

  “We came to offer our services.” Marybob handily stepped into the void, unfettered by second thoughts, or possibly any thoughts at all.

  Kenneth looked her up and down, and said with a leer, “What are your services?”

  “We offer a matchmaking service. For the recently Bereaved,” Marybob said, brushing off his innuendo.

  A slender arm snaked around Kenneth’s waist and another around his neck. The arms didn’t match. I glanced at the tile floor and saw two pairs of bare feet, one milky-white, one sprayed-on tan.

  A pouty blonde peeked around Kenneth. “C’mon, sugar, we’re getting cold.” She rubbed like a cat against Kenneth’s back. He reached around and grabbed her… whatever… with an idiotic grin.

  “We need warming up, for sure,” said another voice, this one belonging to a red-haired vixen hanging over his shoulder. I couldn’t view the entirety of the two girls, but what I did see didn’t lead me to think climate control was the issue here.

  Kenneth swaggered a bit as his focus returned to us. “Ladies, as you can see, I’m in no need of your services. No, indeed. I’m doing just fine.”

  “What do they cost?” Marybob asked, ever diplomatic.

  Kenneth frowned at her. “I’m not seeing how it’s any of your beeswax, young lady. I’ve been waitin’ on this for years. I’ll spend whatever I damn well please.”

  “You see?” Catherine piped in from behind me. “He needs to move past his grief into a more fulfilling situation. This preoccupation with sex is unhealthy. Tell him you’ll find him someone more appropriate for his station in life.”

  Marybob, not hearing Catherine’s directive, eyed Kenneth right back. “Well, sir, I’d have to say you’re right. You don’t seem like you need our help getting started. Tell you what,” she said, as she pulled one of our business cards out of her purse, “if you find you need help keeping going, or if you get tired of the hired bimbo scene, you all give us a call, y’hear?”

  I smiled. I don’t believe I could have handled it better myself.

  As we turned away from the closing door, Kenneth spoke again. “You know, Catherine was a good wife, and I loved her in my way, but I don’t think she ever saw me. I think she saw what she wanted to see.” His face was somber. The party animal was caged for the moment and a more thoughtful person looked out of his eyes. He hitched his fingers in his belt. “You spend half your lifetime trying to match up to someone’s idea of you and then that person dies—well, some adjustment is in order. And it’s not always about loss.”

  He gazed into the distance for a moment, then slid his gaze back to me. “That’s what I’m doing here. I figure I’ll start at the lowest common denominator and eventually I’ll get there.” Then he grinned, rattling the cage bars. “When I do, I’ll give you a call.”

  I liked him better for that, but it still left us with a Departed who wouldn’t.

  Marybob and I stared at the door for a minute after Kenneth shut it. Marybob turned abruptly. “We’re done here. Catherine, wherever you are, you are, too. Vamoose.”

  I glanced at Catherine, a little concerned about the effect of this unexpected turn of events.

  Catherine rotated toward us, a considering look on her face. “I believe you’re right, my dears.” A moment later she faded from view, altogether more content than she had been when we’d arrived.

  I opened the book and crossed out Catherine’s name. On Kenneth’s page I wrote $0.00 in the Credits column, and next to that, my own reminder: 53.

  I gnawed my lip as a pinch of worry centered in my mind. This might not be as easy as I had thought. Fifty-three days before the bank took my house.

  I dropped Marybob off at her apartment and started home but suddenly had the urge to get a cup of coffee. And a piece of pie. Some Smudge & Fudge, or maybe a wedge of Contraryberry. The experience of meeting Catherine’s husband and witnessing his celebration of life was an inspiring, if somewhat tasteless, testimony to the power of social connection—a connection that had been somewhat sporadic in my life in recent years. Craig had been gone a lot in the past few days, and his absence was like an itch I couldn’t scratch.

  A cup of coffee at Pie Sigh seemed just the thing. It was lively, noisy, and filled with all kinds of interesting people who I didn’t actually have to talk to. Yes, a warm, fragrant piece of pie and a nice hot cup of coffee were what I needed to get my mind on track. I had some work to do. Namely, reassessing the action plan for the dating service. Time was dwindling, and with it, my hope of saving my home. I needed this to work.

  I toodled around the corner and zipped down Dunlavy Street to the coffeehouse. There weren’t any parking places in front and none in the miniscule parking lot on the side. Undeterred, I turned the corner to park on an adjacent residential street. It was crowded here as well, but I noticed a pair of taillights wink out halfway up the block and guessed that the first possible parking places were down there. As I headed that way, the driver got out of the just-parked car. I stood on my brakes, making a little squeal.

  It was him. The doctor who had smacked into my car the other day. The surgeon. The surgeon.

  He rubbed his face tiredly and pulled a computer bag out of his car. The sun had set, and the soft light from the streetlights provided a halo effect as he walked toward Pie Sigh. I was as still as a hunted quail in my little car as it putt-putted quietly in the middle of the street.

  My first instinct was to run, but why should I? Our dispute was resolved, more or less. The arrogant doctor wouldn’t want to speak to me, and I certainly didn’t want to talk to him. I only wanted a cup of coffee and a Departed-free place to consider business options. And I would have it, by gosh. I parked my car and marched down the sidewalk to the cafe.

  It was crowded, as usual, but at this later hour, the fragrance in the air was more complex, with the scent of wine and beer overlaying the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. The crowd was slightly noisier than usual, but not unpleasant—the sound didn’t rise above a constant rumble of voices punctuated with the clinks and clunks of food service. I stood in line to place my order, and while I waited, I scanned the room for a free table.

  I didn’t see one, but I did happen to notice the doctor sitting in the open room next to a window. He leaned forward in his chair and stared at the screen of his computer, chewing his lip. After a moment he tapped some keys and tilted his head at the screen, as if trying to figure something out.

  The door to the outside opened with the jingle of little bells, and someone brushed by me. The tap of heels and a strong floral scent suggested a female. I moved forward in the line and glanced over my shoulder to idly follow the clicking progress of a
tall, lanky woman with long, dark hair curling around her shoulders. She was dressed more for a nightclub than a coffeehouse, with a slinky red dress and an abundance of jewelry.

  I wasn’t shocked to see the doctor stand up as she sashayed up to his table. She placed a hand on his (overdeveloped) chest and a kiss on his cheek.

  “What can I get you?” the barista asked.

  I swung around to face him, my face unaccountably warm. “A cup of coffee and a piece of Contraryberry Pie.” I glanced back into the dining room. “To go.”

  Chapter 17

  “So, it looks like the Departed aren’t necessarily objective about the state of their particular Bereaved.” This hard-won bit of intelligence was difficult for me to swallow—it would make our goals a lot harder to achieve. It also rendered the Departed less helpful than I’d hoped.

  “Hell, no, they aren’t. We saw that in Katherine. I guess if you’re freakin’ clueless, you’re freakin’ clueless, dead or alive.” Marybob said.

  “Yeah, the trick is figuring out if you’re clueless, I guess,” Luke said. “Which, if you’re clueless, could be hard.”

  We decided that in the future, we’d get a second Departed opinion.

  Mr. Botts returned the next day, finally, so I was a little closer to getting caught up on my work, although business at Tranquility Park was picking up. For the first time since I’d arrived, we actually had to schedule funerals according to our openings rather than strictly at the convenience of the family. Maybe, against all odds, Mr. Botts’s tactics were working.

  It didn’t change my plight, though, since before I would realize any corresponding increase in pay, I had to be licensed. My immediate salvation depended on the dating service.

  Ruby’s Bereaved, Clydesdale, was our next option for recruitment, but I needed to be sure that he’d come through. There wasn’t time to waste.

  I put the question to Ruby when she and Luke appeared as I was closing up for the evening to go get some dinner with Marybob. “You said he was having a hard time?”