Nearly Departed (Spring Cleaning Mysteries)

by J. B. Lynn

  All the guests, a collection of family members, long-time neighbors, and friends, gathered in the dining room around a giant sheet cake that said, "Happy Birthday, Jerry."

  My father walked around with his camera recording every moment for posterity.

  No one noticed that I was there at the back of the room, which was fine by me, otherwise they'd make me stand up there with them when they started to sing "Happy Birthday."

  I hated the stupid party. The guest of honor wasn't even here. It was nothing but a big, giant—

  "A friend of mine needs a job," Mike said, interrupting my internal rant. "Are you hiring?"

  I looked up at him to see if he was kidding me. He looked serious.

  "I'm always looking to hire." The turnover rate of employees far exceeded the number of people who were willing to do the kind of work required… "But I don't think a friend of yours would be able to handle the kind of work I do."

  There were times I felt like I couldn't handle the work I did. I hated my job. Hated it. But I couldn't quit. Spring Cleaning was Jerry's dream. If I give up the business, my parents would give up hope. I knew I couldn't handle that.

  "Most wouldn't, but I think this guy can. Can I at least give him your number?"

  I shrugged. "Okay, but if he can't pass the puke test, I'm not taking him on."

  "What's the puke test?"

  I glanced over at the sheet cake. I knew the filling was strawberries and custard. It always was. I thought better of describing the gory scenes I'd subject Mike's friend to. "Something the average corporate lawyer couldn't handle."

  "Good thing he's not a lawyer."

  That surprised me. With the exception of Jerry, who he'd been friends with since they were eight, I'd never met a friend of Mike's who wasn't a lawyer.

  My cell phone beeped, alerting me that I'd received a text message. I pulled it out of the black clutch Delia had insisted I carry and glanced at the display. The number was that of the only other biohazard removal company in the tri-county area. Tom DiNunzio and I often recommended each other for jobs. He preferred to hand off dead bodies to me so that he could concentrate on cleaning up meth labs and cat lady houses.

  I read the text.

  WANT A TRIPLE HOMICIDE???

  "When do you think your friend can start?" I asked Mike.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Some people jump the gun when it comes to crime scene clean-up. That was the case with the triple homicide Tom DiNunzio sent my way. Mr. Ribisi, the owner of the house where three college students had died, wanted the place cleaned ASAP, but the police weren't ready to release the scene yet.

  This worked out well for me considering I hadn't finished Myron Blotto's motel room yet. I assured Mr. Ribisi that as soon as the cops gave the all clear, I'd be on the job. Actually I told him Spring Cleaning would get to work right away, which implied a team of people would be eliminating the evidence of his former tenants' violent demise. Unfortunately there was no team, only me. Like I'd told Mike last night, good help is hard to find, and in the biohazard removal biz, it's impossible to keep.

  Which was why, instead of finding out about Myron's unsent letter, I sat in a booth at my local diner, wolfing down an egg and cheese sandwich, watching the early morning crowd of regulars drift in and out before they headed to work. I've learned to eat a hearty breakfast since my working conditions tend to spoil my appetite for lunch. I also knew that as long as I was there before eight-thirty I could get a table in Carla's section (my favorite waitress because she didn't subject me to early-morning cheery chitchat).

  I waited for Mike's friend, Smoke, to join me.

  The night before, while the birthday party guests had gorged themselves on cake (but not before Mom had put aside the first piece for Jerry to be stored in the freezer until he returned home) I'd asked Mike, "What kind of name is Smoke?"

  He'd shrugged while pulling out his cell phone. He punched in a text message and muttered, "I'm going to have him just meet you."

  "I haven't even talked to him yet."

  "And we both know you'll never hire him until he's passed your handshake test. I'll tell him to be at the diner by you at eight."

  "But…"

  "Already done, Vicky." He'd slipped his phone into his pocket and flashed his best attorney-at-law smile at me. "Have I ever steered you wrong?"

  I was pondering that very question when a flash of gold caught my eye. A woman, in her early twenties, wearing a short gold dress and one shoe, was limping through the diner, toward a booth in the back.

  None of the other patrons saw her, but I watched her progress with curiosity. I was a regular at the diner, but this ghost wasn't.

  Either she'd died here in the last couple of days, or she was attached to the man wearing a baseball cap who'd just slid into the booth she was hovering above.

  Most ghosts were like Myron. They tended to stay where they'd died because it was familiar, but I'd met a couple, like this young woman, who'd felt they had something important to do and were able to move around. I wondered what drove this young woman who'd died wearing too much make-up and too-little clothing.

  A deep voice, that definitely didn't belong to Carla, demanded my attention.

  "Ms. Spring?"

  I looked up to find a man, about forty, with a shaved head, looking at me expectantly. I forgot all about the ghost.

  He was dressed similarly to me in worn jeans and a faded sweatshirt. He was the antithesis of Mike's metrosexual, corner office, golf course buddies. This had to be some kind of joke, but there had been no mischievous glint in Mike's eyes when he'd set up this meeting. "Yes?"

  "I'm Smoke Barclay, Mike's friend."

  I stood and shook his hand. Mike might have teased me about my test, but I was of the opinion you can tell a lot about a person from the way they shake your hand.

  Smoke Barclay's handshake was damn near perfect. He looked me in the eye with a clear, blue-eyed gaze as he clasped my palm, his grip was firm, but he didn't crush my fingers, and he held on only long enough to be polite but not a millisecond longer, which ensured that his, "Nice to meet you," didn't come across as the slightest bit flirtatious (aka creepy).

  "Thanks for meeting me," I said. "Can I buy you some breakfast?"

  "A cup of coffee would be good."

  Sliding into my seat, I motioned for him to sit opposite me. Catching Carla's eye I tapped my cup and pointed to my guest. She nodded her understanding. That's why she was my favorite waitress. She did her job, did it well, and didn't blather on while doing it. I returned my attention to Smoke, who managed to appear watchful and relaxed simultaneously. "I don't know how much Mike told you about the job…"

  "He said you're looking to hire someone full time?"

  I nodded.

  "Great. When do you want me to start?"

  "Hang on, this isn't the kind of job you can just jump right into. There are certifications you have to earn." I paused as the waitress delivered a cup of coffee to Smoke and topped off my cup. "Thanks, Carla."

  "Anything else?" she asked, looking at Smoke expectantly.

  "Not for me, thanks."

  I waited until she'd walked away to take care of another customer before I explained, "You have to learn about blood-borne pathogens."

  "What did Mike tell you about me?" He poured a creamer into his cup.

  "Your name and that you wanted a job."

  "I'm a certified biohazard removal specialist."

  "You are?" A spark of hope flickered to life within me. Maybe he could start right away. Maybe I'd have help for the triple homicide.

  "Have been for six months. I've been working for Tom DiNunzio."

  My hope was extinguished faster than the candles on Jerry's birthday cake. "Sorry, Mr. Barclay, but I don't poach clients or employees from my competition."

  He stirred his coffee, regarding me thoughtfully.

  "I'm sorry you wasted your time meeting me. If Mike had just told me…"

  He raised a hand to s
ilence me. "Do you like Tom?"

  "I don't know him well, but, yeah, he seems like a decent enough guy."

  "He is. And if you give him a call and tell him you're considering hiring me, I can pretty much guarantee he'll thank you."

  That made no sense. Finding people willing to do clean-up work wasn't easy. Unless… "You're that bad?"

  He tilted his head to one side. "Excuse me?"

  "Did you fail the puke test or something?"

  The corners of his mouth twitched.

  "Because if you did, it's okay. Nothing to be ashamed of. Not everyone is cut out for this line of work."

  Much like Mike had ignored me the night before, Smoke Barclay pulled out his cell phone and dialed. I could see how they could be friends.

  "Morning, Tom. I was wondering if you could do me a favor. Could you please tell Ms. Spring that I haven't failed the puke test and that she should give me a job?"

  He handed me his phone. I pressed it to my ear. The scent of his aftershave, something clean and citrusy, clung to it. "Hello?"

  "I'll owe you big time if you hire him!" There was no mistaking the urgency in Tom's familiar nasal voice.

  "What's wrong with him?" I asked, before I could think better of it.

  Across from me, Smoke chuckled. Leaning back, he draped an arm over the top of his chair, as though he was enjoying a show.

  His reaction unnerved me so much that I almost missed Tom's rushed assurances.

  "Smoke's the best employee I've ever had. Punctual. Diligent. Responsible."

  "I don't understand." I frowned at the man sitting across from me. He didn't seem to care.

  "Hire him! Please! I've got to go." Tom disconnected the call.

  I handed Smoke back his phone. "Maybe you should tell me why Tom is so eager to have you leave his employ."

  "I hate cats."

  It was my turn to smile. I'd take a decomposing body over a house crawling with cats any day. "That explains why you don't want to work for him, but not why he wants to get rid of you."

  "If he wanted to get rid of me, he could just fire me."

  "Despite the fact you're his best employee?"

  Frowning, he killed time by taking a sip of his coffee. "Mike said you needed help."

  I did need help, but something about this whole thing just didn't sit right.

  "You need help, Mike vouched for me, and now Tom has put in a good word. What's the hold-up?"

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Barclay, but I don't think…"

  He leaned toward me. "Do you know Shirley?"

  It took me a second to figure out who he meant. "Tom's office manager?"

  He nodded.

  "I've spoken to her a couple of times." If memory served, none of exchanges had been particularly pleasant, but I wasn't in the habit of bad-mouthing someone else's employees.

  "She…" For the first time since we met, Smoke Barclay looked unsure of himself. He stared into his coffee cup as though it could tell him the right words to say. "I know this is going to sound like I'm blowing hot air about myself, but she's…infatuated…with me."

  I actually didn't find that hard to believe. Most people in the crime scene clean-up industry were either coming off a string of bad luck or had given up hope for a bright future. As such, they weren't the most attractive bunch. Smoke Barclay was different. He appeared to be strong, determined, and far from the dimmest bulb in the chandelier.

  "She shows up at every job site I work, screws around with my paycheck just so I'll have to interact with her, and is generally disruptive."

  I bit back a grin. The idea of the no-nonsense man across from me being annoyed by a lovesick puppy was amusing. "I see."

  "I don't think you do. The worst part is she's Tom's sister."

  "Oh." Now it made sense. Tom couldn't fire his sister, but he was too decent to let go of Smoke.

  "Why crime scene clean-up?" I asked. "You don't seem the type."

  A shadow crossed his face, but when he replied his voice was neutral. "I could ask you the same."

  "But I'm the employer, and you're the potential employee."

  He sat back in his seat. "So it's me against all the other applicants beating down your door, begging for the job?"

  I waited for an answer to my question. Something about the guy and this job didn't add up.

  He watched me watching for an uncomfortable beat before he shrugged and made a show of stirring his coffee. "I'm trying to get my real job back, but I need something that pays the bills and keeps me busy until that happens."

  That actually made sense and sounded like an honest answer.

  "Tom told me he gave you the frat boy job." He looked back up at me. "Face it, lady, you need me. That's too much work for one person to do alone. I can start today."

  "I don't need you today." After all, I'd managed to keep Spring Cleaning afloat for more than two years all by myself.

  "I'll start tomorrow then?"

  He was a friend of Mike's, he'd passed the handshake test with flying colors, and his current employer had given him an outstanding recommendation. I'd have to be crazy to have let him go. Still…

  "How about a two week trial?" he suggested. "You shouldn't work the scene of a triple homicide alone, not any homicide."

  My breath caught painfully in my throat, and my eyes stung with sudden tears as the memory of the last time I'd talked to Jerry blindsided me. "Remember, Vicky," he'd said, "you promised me you wouldn't work any violent crime scenes alone. It isn't safe." I missed my brother so much it physically hurt.

  "Ms. Spring?" Smoke covered my coffee cup with his palm. "Ms. Spring, are you okay?"

  I hadn't realized I was holding it. I looked down and saw that a small puddle of coffee had sloshed onto the tabletop.

  Smoke gently took the cup from me, putting it back in its saucer and blotting up the spilled beverage.

  I clasped my hands in my lap and closed my eyes, trying to get hold of my emotions. Mortified that this stranger had witnessed my mini-breakdown, my cheeks burned.

  "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Sometimes I come across too…forcefully." He spit the last word out as though it left a bad taste in his mouth.

  I opened my eyes and saw nothing but regret etched in the lines around his.

  "I'm sorry to have wasted your time, Ms. Spring." He got to his feet.

  "Vic."

  "Excuse me?"

  Using my napkin to dash away the tears that had leaked from the corners of my eyes, I got to my feet. Extending my hand, I said, "If we're going to work together, you can't call me Ms. Spring. Call me Vic."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Some days all I wanted out of life was a long, hot shower. Most days life didn't cooperate.

  Having finished Myron Blotto's motel room and dealt with the letter he needed sent, I had just dropped off my biohazard material to be properly disposed of when Mr. Ribisi, the landlord of the college kids' place, called to tell me that the police had finished their work and it was time for me to begin mine.

  Instead of getting to go home for my aforementioned shower and a much needed nap, I drove over to meet Mr. Ribisi. Not surprisingly, he was none too eager to set foot in the house. He signed the standard Spring Cleaning contract, handed me a key to the place, and scurried off, leaving me to explore the residence on my own.

  After climbing into a disposable, impenetrable Tyvek suit, gloves, and booties, I unlocked the door and stepped inside. A chill snaked down my spine, and I couldn't help but remember the concerns of Jerry and Smoke about my going to a violent crime scene on my own. It was cold in the house, like someone had turned off the heat, but the coppery tang of spilled blood still hung in the air. I was glad I'd skipped lunch. I pulled a surgical mask over my face.

  I didn't know where the carnage had occurred, so I turned left. Ever since I'd read that the way to avoid lines at a theme park is to head left (because the crowd's natural reaction is to turn to the right) I turned left everywhere I went. This led me into a small dini
ng room. At least that's what I thought it was since there was a chandelier hanging dead center, but in truth it looked like some sort of mad scientist laboratory. Beakers, Bunsen burners, and reference books covered every surface.

  Deciding that there was an order to the chaos before me, I determined that this particular mess wasn't a result of an attack, so I moved on to the kitchen. Cereal boxes, empty beer bottles, and a stack of pizza boxes covered the counter. That reminded me that it was Thursday.

  I ventured into the living room and sucked in a shocked breath that got caught in my throat. Dried blood was spattered everywhere. The walls, furniture, and carpet looked like some deranged Jackson Pollock work. I swallowed hard. I'd seen some pretty terrible stuff in my line of work, but whatever had happened here had been more than violent, it had been madly vicious. Goosebumps rose on my arms, and I wasn't sure whether I was cold or frightened or both.

  Then again, it could have been because a ghost reached out and touched me.

  "Aaaaaahhhh!" I screamed, jumping away from the young man who was missing the upper half of his skull.

  "Aaaaaaahhh!" he shouted, stumbling away from me and falling right through the wall behind him.

  There was nothing wrong with the wall. It looked perfectly solid.

  My heartbeat pounded in my ears, and I felt sick to my stomach. Usually ghosts don't scare me like that, but this one had surprised me. He'd come out of nowhere, and now he seemed to have disappeared.

  "Hello?" I whispered.

  Nothing.

  I spun around in a circle, but he was nowhere to be seen. Part of me wanted to bolt right out of there, but obviously the ghost needed help, and from the looks of things this was going to be a multi-day job. In the long run, I'd be better off helping him now, rather than having him haunt me later.

  I cleared my throat. "Hello?"

  Again nothing.

  "I'm sorry I startled you. I hadn't realized anyone was here." Which had been poor planning on my part. I should have known that there was no way three college students could die and not have unfinished business. They'd had their whole lives ahead of them.