“Oh hello, dear,” she said. “Mrs. Hazelthorne, this is my daughter, Portia.”
Mrs. Hazelthorne was plump, but in a shapely way, with gray hair fluffed about her head like a huge cotton ball. “Two of you? Dear me, this is my lucky day. So very nice to meet you, Portia.”
Mrs. Hazelthorne sat in a chair poring over the pages that Mother turned for her. She didn’t appear to have mastered the art of floating yet.
“Mrs. Hazelthorne is newly deceased,” Mother offered. “We’re finalizing her funeral plan before her husband arrives.”
“Definitely the pewter urn,” Mrs. Hazelthorne said. “The living room is very nautical, and pewter would fit right in with all the blue tones.”
“Now about the hymns,” Mother said.
“Let me see.” Mrs. Hazelthorne tapped her chin. “I always liked Jesus, Savior, Pilot Me, and Rescue the Perishing. Those would be nice, don’t you think?”
“Oh yes,” Mother said. “I’ve always been partial to Fanny Crosby. May I suggest Blessed Assurance?”
“That sounds nice. What do you think?” Mrs. Hazelthorne looked brightly at me. “What a cute little doggy,” she exclaimed, spying Billy for the first time. The pug was sitting there with his head cocked and a bemused expression on his face.
Mother’s mouth hung open. “You did get a dog. I thought Harry was making it up.”
“I’ll explain later,” I said. The front doorbell tinkled.
Mother stood. “That will be Mr. Hazelthorne.”
“I’ll get him,” I offered. I unclipped Billy’s leash and he trotted at my heels. I hoped he didn’t think he was my dog now. He’d probably transfer his loyalty to anyone who fed him.
Mr. Hazelthorne was a phlegmatic, red-eyed man. He had obviously been crying, but was otherwise stoic. I introduced myself and took him back to see Mother.
“Nice dog,” he said. “Betty Lou always fancied little dogs.”
I assumed Betty Lou was Mrs. Hazelthorne. When she saw her red-eyed husband, she grew weepy herself. I had to leave the room. I’m so not cut out for this kind of work. I wandered off to the chapel where services are sometimes held.
The chapel is very traditional, bordering on old-fashioned. It’s what people expect. Burgundy carpeting and dark wood. Seating on both sides with a wide center aisle. The benches look like standard pews, but the pieces come apart. The size can be adjusted. It’s supposed to be easy, and taking the things apart really is, but Harry and Walter need about an hour with a rubber mallet to put them back together. Up front is a platform with machinery hidden by drapery. Coffins come in on rollers and then are raised into position. The sound system is new, too. Mother sank a bunch of money into the place before the economy tanked. Now everyone wanted funerals on the cheap. She swore they were doing okay, but I worried.
Hephzibah sat at the organ, flipping through the hymnals. “Boy, them Lutherans are a serious bunch. Give me something with a beat any day. Is Betty Lou about ready?”
“I have no idea.” I sat next to her on the bench. “Mother is doing the service arrangements with the husband right now.”
“Good. Betty Lou wanted to see her Clarence one more time.”
“Speaking of, I’m calling Corinne’s aunt tonight. I think she’s almost ready to cross over.”
Hephzibah gave me a look. “Did she you hit you up about solving her murder?”
“I promised to make sure it was being handled. That’s as far as I go.”
“Unh-huh. Sure it is, doll.”
“I don’t think Corinne expects me to solve her murder. She’ll go with you.”
“If you say so. Hey, you haven’t seen an old guy hanging around the dang train station, have you?”
“What kind of old guy?”
“A dead one. Sometimes they get away from me. Lester Jacobsen had a heart attack, and he was supposed to make it to the hospital, but he didn’t. I heard a rumor that he’s wandering the rails.”
I was pretty sure I had seen him twice. “Any idea what he looks like?”
“Little guy. Bushy mustache. Lots of white hair.”
“I saw him. He asked me about his mother, which I thought was weird.”
“Sometimes people don’t know they’re dead and they get confused. If you see Lester, try to hang on to him. I’m afraid he’s gonna be demon chow if I can’t locate him soon.”
“...and this is where we hold services, unless you have another location in mind,” Mother said, leading Clarence Hazelthorne into the chapel.
He looked around. “This will be fine. Betty Lou would like it here.”
“Oh, I do, Clarence. I do.” Mrs. Hazelthorne clasped her hands together.
“I’m not sure about the urn,” he said. “I think the brass might be nice and shiny over the mantle.”
“Trust me,” Mother said firmly. “Pewter is the only way to go. May I make some hymn suggestions?”
I stayed out of the way until Mother had safely guided Mr. Hazelthorne through the arrangements Mrs. Hazelthorne had chosen. He shuffled out the door.
After a few sniffles and some hand-wringing, Mrs. Hazelthorne went meekly with Hephzibah. They simply joined hands, took a step, and vanished. A little puff of air blew past my face. I’m not sure what I expected. Maybe smoke and a flash of light? Angels singing? Maybe a little drama? It was so mundane. Hands. Step. Gone.
Goodbye, Betty Lou.
Mother beamed at me. “We have so much to discuss,” she said. “I’ll make the French vanilla coffee.”
I followed her down to the little kitchenette in the employee section. It was very quiet, with Harry and Walter both gone. When the place is slammed, Mother brings in more part-time planners, including my Aunt Bella. There are two people who specialize in “preparing the deceased.” They’re sisters, and behind their backs Harry and I call them the weird sisters. They’re a little strange, but loyal to Mahaffey-Ringold. I know they worked for my grandparents, but they look old enough to have worked for my great-grandparents.
As the coffee percolated, Mother and I sat at one of the blue card tables that passes for an employee lunchroom. None of the renovation money had gone into improvements here. The linoleum was worn dull, and the metal chairs groaned with every shift in weight. I opened my mouth to speak, but an unseen visitor cleared his throat.
Billy growled softly.
“Show yourself, please,” Mother said. “It’s rude to listen in on other people’s conversations.”
“Rude, am I?” A young man appeared. He had slicked-back hair and a pencil-thin mustache. His eyes were so dark they looked black. His clothing was old-fashioned. Twenties? Thirties? I’m not good at that sort of thing. He checked a golden watch on a chain. “Isn’t it a wee bit tardy to be drinking coffee, what?” He smirked.
Mother sighed. “Portia, this is Boris. Boris...”
“Oh, I know who she is. Can she finally see me? How marvelous.”
So this was the infamous Boris. I knew he resided here and that he was in the habit of popping in and annoying Mother. Sometimes he played the organ.
“I see you,” I said.
“Smashing dog! Is he yours?”
“For now.”
“Hullo, poochie.” Boris hovered over Billy, who growled. “Well, aren’t you the cranky one? Hah! He’ll fit in just fine around these uptight killjoys.”
“Did you need something?” Mother asked.
“Just being social.” Boris raised an eyebrow. “I take it I’m impinging on some sort of hen party.”
“You are,” Mother said.
“Fine,” he sniffed. “TTFN.” He snapped his fingers and vanished.
Mother waited a moment. “I know you’re still here.”
“All right. All right. I’m going this time.”
Silence.
“I mean it, Boris.”
“Damn it,” he said.
She waited a moment longer. “He’s gone now. I’ve been around him so long that I’m sensitive to his presence. T
hat happens when you’re around one ghost for years and years.”
I shuddered at the thought. Then a question occurred to me. “What about Reclaimers? I thought they came for people who didn’t cross over? And what about demons? Are there other things I need to look out for?”
The coffee was done. Mother got up to pour us each a cup. The strains of Roll Out the Barrel being played on the organ drifted down the hall from the chapel.
“Reclaimers? You’ve been talking to Hephzibah. Reclaimers have only been around the last forty years or so. Things were getting cluttered with too many ghosts. In the sixties it became popular to linger and haunt members of the establishment. Too much war and too many drug overdoses. So the Reclaimers were drafted. They hunt unclaimed souls for a bounty, but older ghosts, like Boris, are pre-reclaimer. They can’t be touched.”
“But demons?”
“Demons are a real risk for ghosts. They aren’t picky. They’ll eat anyone they can catch. Mahaffey-Ringold is on sacred ground. Demons can’t come here, so it’s a popular place for some of the older spirits to hang out.”
“I know about Boris and that snooty old lady, whatshername. Lady Hildegard? How many of them live here?”
Mother studied me curiously. “How did you know about demons, anyway? Have you actually seen one?”
“Ugly and smelly.”
She set down her cup. “Honey, I’m impressed. I’ve been hoping to see one for years. Only a few days and your gift is so strong.”
“I’m being haunted,” I blurted out.
“Already?”
“Remember the girl who died in my hospital room? She was murdered, and now she won’t cross over. I promised to look after her dog.” I gestured to Billy, who had stretched out under the table, all four legs spread-eagled, snoring softly.
“Ah,” Mother said. “That explains the dog.”
“I’ve promised to call her family, but...”
“It’s difficult,” Mother said. “Some are reluctant, but persuading them to cross over is a skill that comes with time. I’m sure you can reason with her. Good Lord! What is that smell?”
I glanced under the table at Billy. “He’s been a little gassy today.”
“What are you feeding him?”
“Money. He eats money.”
“You should try something for sensitive tummies.”
“I didn’t realize you were a dog expert. Maybe you should--”
“Don’t even think about it. This was your charitable impulse. Speaking of, I suppose you need a temporary job.”
“You haven’t gone precognitive on me, have you, Mother?”
“Don’t I wish.” She took a sip of her coffee. “You’re here in the middle of the day.”
“I could have the day off.”
She smiled at me over her cup. “Cruella let you off? I doubt that. We could find you a permanent position here.”
“I’ll find a new job soon. I’m not cut out for the funeral business.”
“If you insist,” Mother said. “But I think your new skills would be handy. Be here tomorrow by noon to clean the chapel. We have an afternoon viewing. Don’t worry. She’s already crossed over. Just make sure things run smoothly.” The chorus to Ain’t We Got Fun drifted down the hall. “And keep Boris off the organ.”
“Anyway, about the girl haunting me. Her murder is unsolved.”
Mother put down her coffee. “No. Absolutely not. Do not get involved in that sort of thing. It’s a dreadful idea. You’ll end up like Eleanor.” She said my cousin’s name with great distaste.
“I know you don’t approve, but is what Ellie does so bad?”
“Bad things can happen. Do you want to be labeled as a witch or treated like some fruitcake? Do you want to be another Elizabeth? Do you?”
“It doesn’t seem to have hurt Ellie.”
Her face darkened. “Ellie isn’t even very good at what she does. So she can read things from objects. Big deal.”
“But she works with the police. She’s helped solve murders and kidnappings.”
“She’s provided tiny bits of info on cases they probably would have solved anyway. Really! The dog-and-pony show she puts on.”
When I was younger, I didn’t get Mother's obsession with secrecy. I realized that the women in my family were different. On my tenth birthday, I learned just how different. Mother said we were special, but I knew it wasn’t all roses and accolades. Mahaffey women had been hunted as witches, burned as heretics and locked up as insane. Even with the current acceptance, fad even, of all things ghostly, she fears the repercussions of public exposure.
My cousin Eleanor has broken this taboo in a very public way. She has her own TV show, PI: Psychic Investigators.
“The way Ellie carries on you’d think she could cure cancer. That stuff on TV is nothing but trouble. She gets people so stirred up.” Mother was gearing up into a full-blown Anti-Eleanor rant. I couldn’t very well tell her I meant to go ask Eleanor for help with Corinne’s murder. Mother didn’t understand my predicament.
How could she understand when her experience with the dead was little old ladies picking out pewter urns and mauve coffin linings? She didn’t see demons or residuals. God only knows what other horrors were waiting for me out there. But I did need one thing from her.
“Mother, can I borrow the hearse?”
Chapter 6
Walter had the formal white hearse and Harry the van, but I was happy to have the black hearse for transportation. Driving a hearse isn’t as bad as it sounds. The gas mileage sucks, but people are afraid to cut you off and the police never stop you.
The funeral home was already on the edges of Canterbury Park, but Billy and I headed even deeper into the wilds of suburbia to reach Eleanor’s split-level, ranch-style house with its concrete walkway. All the houses were uniformly tidy with brown brick facades and hedges stretched across the front yards like green mustaches. Suburban paradise. I’d rather die than live here. Give me the anonymity of the city over the forced chumminess of the ’burbs any day.
I parked at the curb and mentally girded my loins. At least at this time of day Ellie’s perfect hubby and perfect daughters would be gone. The front window curtains fluttered. I had been spotted.
I trotted up to the door, which opened before I could knock.
Eleanor’s hair hung in a smooth red pageboy. I could probably blow-dry mine out the same way if I spent a small fortune on curl-relaxers and round brushes and an ionic dryer. Probably.
“This is quite a surprise.” Her expression smoothed when she saw Billy at my heels. “What a precious little dog!” She squatted down. “Hello, baby.” Billy wagged all over and flopped, presenting his belly for rubbing. “Aren’t you the cutest? Come in, Portia, and I’ll get a treat for this little angel. It’s much too cold for him. Why doesn’t he have a sweater on?”
“Everyone’s a dog expert today.”
She didn’t seem to be expecting anybody, and yet Eleanor had a pot of coffee and a coffee cake on the ready. That’s how they do things in the ’burbs. We sat at the blond oak table with a tasteful winter arrangement featuring plastic berries and a cardinal so realistic I wondered if Eleanor had added taxidermy to her list of accomplishments.
“I assume this isn’t purely a social visit?” She sipped her coffee, swirling the hazelnut creamer until her coffee was an even beige. “What is it you want?”
“It could be a social visit. I’m not looking for money or anything like that.”
She arched an eyebrow. “You never visit. Don’t think I’m being rude, but the girls will be home from school soon. Julia and Trinity have violin, and Mackenzie has ballet. The dance studio is completely across town from the music studio, of course. I simply divined a need for guidance.” She took a little sip and primly set the cup on a coaster depicting an idyllic snowy scene. “So spill.”
I gave her a carefully edited version of my week, starting with the bump on my head. “And when I woke up, I saw dead people.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath.
“I can’t believe you didn’t call me right away.”
“It was...it was the bump on my head. I wasn’t thinking clearly.” I didn’t mention the extent of my ability. It would only antagonize her and I needed her help.
“Can you hear the dead? Do they speak to you?” She leaned forward.
“Hah! Try getting them to shut up.” I omitted Hephzibah and the demons and Reclaimers. I did tell her about Corinne’s murder and her reluctance to cross over.
To her credit, Eleanor listened intently, only stopping me occasionally with a question. “And you need my help solving this girl’s murder?”
“I don’t actually intend to try and play Nancy Drew. I just want to talk to the detective and...I don’t know...assure Corinne it’s being taken seriously. I don’t even know how to approach the police about this.”
Ellie sipped her coffee with great satisfaction. “So you naturally thought of my police connections.”
“That’s it exactly. I was hoping you had an in, that you could give me a name.”
“I’ll go to the station with you.”
I shifted on the seat cushions with little bows wound decoratively around the chair back. “That isn’t necessary.”
“Nonsense. You need my help. I loathe phone conversations. I always deal with the police in person. You simply can’t pick up any sort of vibe over the phone.”
This wasn’t a battle I could win. I agreed to meet her tomorrow afternoon for a trip to find the detective on Corinne’s case.
Ellie’s glance strayed to the window and the hearse parked at her curb. “I’ll drive,” she said. “You’ll also need my talents, of course.”
“I’m not looking to solve the crime myself, Ellie.”
“It’s no trouble. It’s what I do. Do you have anything that belongs to her?”
Another battle I couldn’t win. She was determined to show me what she could do. The production she creates of picking up impressions from objects makes me queasy. “I don’t think so.” Billy stirred under my feet. It was too warm in the kitchen, and he leaned against my leg panting. “Nothing but the dog.”
The First Ghost Page 6