She winced at her reflection in the mirror. She looked as foolish as she felt. Why not try a bit of honesty? A variant on the truth?
“Mr. Jones, I run a little pop culture blog. It's nothing serious. Totally harmless. Could I interview you sometime if I promise not to ask any hard-hitting questions? It would only take a few minutes…” She groaned and hunched over the washroom's elegant marble sinks. Her pitch was terrible. Even she, a complete nobody, would turn down a request from someone who described her blog as totally harmless. Nancy Dowd was going to be so disappointed in her. What a failure.
The door to the washroom swung open. A rail-thin, middle-aged woman in black entered. She gave Piper a dirty look on her way to a bathroom stall. Piper took the scornful gaze without batting an eyelash. It wasn't the first time she'd gotten a dirty look from an older woman simply for existing in the world, and it wouldn't be the last. She'd inherited her mother's genes and would probably still look twenty-one when she was fifty-one, assuming she regularly visited the same dermatology clinic as her mother.
Behind the washroom stall door, the woman snorted loudly. Piper had been to enough wild parties to recognize that sound. Either the skinny woman had a sinus problem or she was using drugs. From the stall came more snorting, then coughs that sounded like sobs. Was the woman perhaps crying? The stall went quiet.
Piper studied her reflection again, tilting her face from left to right. Nancy Dowd had hired her for a reason. She had very little experience, but the one advantage she did have was the freshness of her face. Nobody at the funeral knew she was there undercover to get a story. What was stopping her from getting information out of Robert Jones? Not much. Maybe a blouse button or two. He was a man, after all, and Piper was twenty-one and pretty—pretty enough that the cops had mistaken her for a high-priced escort. She opened her purse and doubled the application of her makeup quickly.
The woman in the stall flushed. Piper closed her purse and left the chilly washroom before the middle-aged woman could emerge and give her more dirty looks.
Piper walked down the hallway. Absentmindedly retracing her steps, she stepped back into the kitchen again. The ladies in hairnets stayed focused on their chopping and slicing, but one person's head jerked up.
It was Otis Plummer, the adorable, twenty-something young man who ran the Roadrunner Café. By the look of things, his restaurant crew was catering the funeral. Piper froze in her tracks while her mind overflowed with questions. Had the police questioned his father, the real estate agent? Had his mother mentioned that one of her crazy therapy patients was seeing someone in town who was also named Otis? Had Otis put two and two together and figured out Piper had lied about not being able to speak English?
“It's you,” Otis said.
She smiled mutely. What else could she do?
“Fancy meeting you here,” he said, returning her smile with a grin. Was it a knowing grin, or a genuine one? She couldn't tell.
She shrugged and batted her eyelashes.
“How is your dog?” he asked. “Your dog.” He set down the spoon he'd been using to ladle something red, held his two hands up like paws, and barked. “Woof woof.”
“Woof woof,” she answered, smiling and nodding. Teddy was having the time of his life with his new ghost buddy who stayed up all night.
“Your dog's not here with you,” Otis said. “I saw you arrive in a taxi. No dog. Dog had to stay home.” He leaned over a large pot and pulled out an enormous soup bone. “Would your dog like this as a treat, or is it too big?” He held out the bone toward her. “For dog. Woof woof.”
Piper felt conflicted. As much as she found Otis charming, with his wavy brown hair that begged to be tousled by her fingers, and his bright-blue eyes that made her feel like she was dipping into a cool mountain lake whenever he looked at her, she hadn't come here looking for a soggy dog bone. Sure, Teddy would love the treat from a stranger, but it would ruin the lining of her designer purse.
Then again, there was Otis and his cool blue eyes, beseeching her to accept his gift.
She unbuckled her purse and reluctantly held it open in front of her.
Otis laughed. “You're so cute when you're squeamish.” He shook his head. “And you have no idea what I'm saying. I must seem crazy to you.” He waved the bone before twirling it like a baton. “Of course I don't expect you to take it like this. I'll wrap it up in some plastic, plus a layer of tinfoil. The inside of your purse won't get dirty at all. Just give me a minute.” He busied himself with wrapping up the soup bone.
Piper checked the clock on the wall of the kitchen. Even if the memorial had started late, it would already be underway. She'd wasted time on a pep talk in the washroom, and now she was hanging out in the kitchen, pretending to not speak English, watching a young man wrap a dog bone with the care and attention one might give a Fabergé egg.
Well, she told herself, you went to meet George Morrison exactly one week ago because you wanted to make your life more interesting, and you've certainly accomplished that. She smiled at Otis as he wrapped butcher's twine around the package.
“I hope your dog will love this enough to put in a good word for me,” Otis said. “Maybe I could hang out with you two sometime. I'd love to have a dog of my own, but I'm too busy, between running the diner and the catering jobs. Is there a park where the two of you go to walk?” He scrunched his face, his bright-blue eyes dimming with frustration. “You can't understand a word I'm saying.” He frowned for a moment, the wrapped dog bone still in one hand. “I know!” He pulled out his phone, tapped at the screen, and handed it to her.
He'd pulled up a map showing the dog parks that were scattered throughout the town of Copeland. “Woof woof,” he said softly.
“Woof,” she said, nodding to show that she understood the gist of his words. She studied the map on the screen and zoomed in on her neighborhood. She pointed to the park where she typically walked Teddy twice a day. “Dog,” she said.
He gently took the phone back, held up one finger imploring her to wait, and tapped at the screen some more.
Piper waited, surprised at how comfortable she was pretending to not speak English. As she stood next to Otis in the busy kitchen, amidst a backdrop of chopping and stirring, she became aware of the crackle of electricity between their two bodies. The energy was similar to that of the ghostly George, but hot instead of cold. She'd never noticed this phenomenon before, probably because she'd never met anyone as cute as Otis.
As the moment stretched out, the air grew even warmer. Her cheeks flushed hot. A strange thought occurred to her. Was Otis even real? He looked more solid than George, but there was all this crackling energy. Plus he seemed too good to be real.
She reached out one tentative finger to touch Otis on the upper bicep. Flesh. Yes, he was solid. Not a ghost. She pulled her hand back casually and ran her fingers through her hair. Her scalp was radiating heat. His eyes flicked to her hand briefly, but he didn't let on if he'd noticed her light touch. She breathed deeply and focused on not spontaneously bursting into flames from embarrassment.
“Here,” Otis said, showing her the screen again. “I want to ask you a question. One question.” He had the calendar pulled up, and he'd selected the next day. He'd also typed in a time: 5:00 p.m. And, just to make it abundantly clear what he was requesting, he'd added cartoon icons showing a boy, a girl, a dog, a tree, and flowers. Otis Carl Plummer wanted to meet her in the dog park by her house at five o'clock on Saturday, which was tomorrow.
“No pressure,” Otis said. “But please say yes or I'll be devastated, because there's something so mysterious about you.” His blue eyes gleamed earnestly. “I'm so glad you don't speak English, because you wouldn't believe how corny I'm sounding right now. If you knew what I was saying, I'd be dead of embarrassment, flat on this floor, my tongue hanging out of my mouth.” He glanced around. “Actually, it would be convenient, since we're already in a funeral home. They could put me on a food trolley and wheel me straight into a co
ffin.”
Piper couldn't help but giggle.
His eyes widened. “I made you laugh? You understood what I said just now?” His cheeks reddened. He was getting warmer as well, and looked as though he might combust like a piñata full of Mexican fireworks.
“No English,” she said with a head shake. She took out her own phone, pulled up the calendar, and added a cartoon boy to the Saturday night date.
He grinned. “It's a date,” he said. “Here's your bone.”
The women in hairnets, who'd been listening to the whole exchange, chortled amongst themselves.
“Oh, boss,” one of them said. “You could teach my old man a thing or two about charm.”
Piper tucked the bone in her purse, gave Otis a shy wave, and found the door leading back to the hallway. As the door swung shut, she could hear all the older women teasing their boss.
“Here's your bone,” one of them said, laughing.
Another lady sounded like she was crying. “It's a date! Here's your bone!”
The laughter grew.
Otis said, “If you gals have any dating advice, lay it on me.”
“Oh, boss. You need to buy her flowers. Or chocolates. Not a soup bone.”
He protested, “I was just working with what I had!”
The women continued to tease him, and Otis continued to take it good-naturedly.
Piper wanted to stay and listen, but she had a funeral to crash.
Chapter 7
Piper slipped into the funeral home's chapel and took a seat in the back row. Everyone had their heads bowed in prayer, so her entrance was as unobtrusive as that of the nightly appearances of her ghost. She scanned the room for the deceased author, but saw no sign of him. The casket was closed. Daylight had to be keeping the ghost away, because otherwise there was no way George Morrison would miss his own funeral!
Around her, everyone murmured Amen.
The crowd gathered there today was largely white and old—George's friends and business associates, plus a few relatives. There were no children present to draw curious gazes from people looking to spot illegitimate heirs. The seating was imbalanced, crowded at the back. Because George had never married or had children, and his parents were both deceased, the front rows for family members were sparsely filled.
While Piper was studying the family section, a thin woman in black slipped into the chapel and took a seat in the front row. It was the woman from the washroom. She was near George's age, and upon further consideration, looked like she could be closely related. She had the same nose and jawline as George, though it was hard to tell because she was so thin, as narrow as George had been wide.
Meanwhile, on stage, a new person approached the podium. It was the man she'd come there to interview, George's long-time book editor, Robert Jones.
Robert Jones looked like a man unaccustomed to crowds, public speaking, haircuts, and possibly daylight. He leaned over the microphone, his gaze flitting around the pews as though searching for a big sombrero to crawl into like a makeshift cave. He brushed his shaggy black hair from his eyes, plastering it horizontally along his forehead, where it stayed. He touched his lips to the microphone and cleared his throat. The burbling sound caused everyone on the pews to lean back reflexively.
“Sorry,” he spoke into the microphone spittily. “It's been a while.”
A while since what? Piper wondered. A while since he'd had a shower? Gone out in public? Been touched by the rays of the sun?
After a few more throat clearings, he began. “George Morrison wasn't just the greatest writer of his generation.” Robert Jones paused dramatically, and the chapel seemed to hold its breath. “He was also my dear friend.”
The crowd that had gathered—about two hundred people—let out a collective sigh of relief. This was, more or less, the speech they'd expected.
Robert said, “George Morrison was a strong believer in the power of literature. He held a vision that one day the world would be united, not through politics or climate change or war, but by something more powerful and lasting. The legacy of an imagined Utopian future. In private, he and I would discuss the possibility of brighter days for humanity.”
People shifted restlessly on their seats. Maybe this wasn't the speech they'd expected after all.
Robert was speaking with more confidence, shifting his posture upright. He was taller than he'd first appeared—six foot two or so. He swept one hand swirling up through his shaggy black hair, forming a spike reminiscent of a punk-rock mohawk. The hair stayed raised. “If I had a dollar for every time ol' George told me about his plans for world domination, I'd have enough cash to buy you all a round of drinks, and not the cheap stuff.” He smacked his lips noisily. “Speaking of drinks, did our buddy George spring for an open bar at this thing, or what?” He looked pointedly at the funeral home staff. “Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?” He addressed a worried-looking attendant with a snap of the fingers. “Vodka on the rocks, please. Make it a double and don't bruise the booze.”
Everyone waited in uncomfortable silence as the attendant ran out of the chapel and returned a few minutes later with a drink in a tumbler. Robert Jones tossed it back in four noisy gulps, the sound magnified by the microphone.
He set down the glass and hunkered over the podium like a black bear in possession of a prized salmon. He slurred and hiccupped his words. “Folksssss, can I be perfectly hon-hon-honest for a minute?” The double vodka he'd imbibed seconds earlier had not been his first drink of the day. “It's just us friendssssss here tonight. This morning? Is it morning?” He shrugged with his whole body. “Whatever. It's just us friends here. No press. Damn vultures, the press, squawking around trying to pick the bones of old George's carcass. And what a juicy carcass, am I right? That man was fat! I told him, 'George, get your damn stomach stapled. You'll have a heart attack long before you see your plans come to life.' But he didn't listen to me.”
People in the pews shifted uncomfortably. Robert Jones held up both hands in a defensive gesture, as though he was prepared to use kung fu on anyone who tried to yank him off the stage. But nobody was coming for him. Though some people were undoubtedly miffed, curiosity reigned. They wanted to see where this drunken speech might go.
Robert used his fingers to toss back ice from his glass and crunched it noisily. “You know, all his best ideas were my ideas. All of them. You know how in book two, the Scepter of Rose Petals is stolen from the Earth Fairies? That was my idea. Mine. George wanted to throw the scepter in a volcano and wrap up that plot thread, because he didn't know what to do with it.” Robert snorted. “All that power,” he intoned gravely. “All that power, and he was afraid to wield it. And that's why the greatest plot twist George Morrison ever managed was his own death. He died as a sacrifice. He died… so that the greatest story ever conceived could be told in the way it deserves.” He held up his empty glass in a toast. “To George's sacrifice!”
The sound of an orchestra flooded the chapel. The big speakers hanging in the room's upper corners pulsed visibly with sound waves. On the stage, Robert Jones continued his drunken rambling, but his microphone had been shut off. The sound of Tomaso Albinoni's Adagio in D Minor drowned his words.
Two attendants forcibly “helped” Robert Jones off the stage. They escorted him out of the chapel and, by the sound of the diminishing shouts in the adjoining atrium, right out of the building.
The classical music faded away, and someone new took center stage, tapping the microphone to check that it was back on. It was the skinny, dark-haired woman who'd scowled at Piper in the washroom. Under the bright lights, she looked like a shrunken version of George, in a dress and a wig.
“On behalf of the Morrison family, I apologize for that,” the thin woman said. “Mr. Jones is understandably distraught over the loss of his friend. I ask you to please forgive him his outburst and forget his words while remembering only the passion. We are all dealing with this tragedy as best we can.” She looked pointedly at the pastor, who appeared
frozen in shock. “And now I'll turn the microphone over to Pastor Dan for another prayer.” She nodded curtly. “Thank you all.”
Pastor Dan walked stiffly to the microphone. With a scratchy voice, he began a well-rehearsed speech about life and death and interconnectivity.
While he spoke, Piper hazarded a glance sideways at the only other person seated on the back pew. It was another Asian woman, with radiant skin like Piper's mother's. The woman was staring at Piper and smiling as though she'd been waiting to make eye contact, waiting to make friends. She slid toward Piper on the wood bench and whispered, “Quite the spectacle, don't you think?”
Piper answered honestly, also whispering. “I didn't know what to expect.” She gestured with her chin toward the dark-haired woman who'd spoken on behalf of the family. “Who's that lady?”
“George's sister, Sammy.”
Piper's mouth dropped open in genuine surprise. She considered herself a knowledgeable fan of George Morrison, but this was news to her. “He has a sister? I mean, had a sister?” If George had a sister, why wasn't he haunting her?
“He called her Sammy, but her name's actually Simone. He mentioned his dearest Sammy in his first book's dedication, but hasn't thanked her since. Most fans assumed it was an old girlfriend, or even a male schoolmate.”
Piper whispered, “I had no idea.” She shook her head. “You think you know someone, but you don't.”
The other woman smiled like a cat with a mouth full of parakeet. “There are two George Morrisons, and the world barely knew one of them.” She pursed her lips and looked Piper up and down. “And who might you be?”
“Just a friend.” As she said it, Piper regretted tarting up her makeup in the washroom. Her look was way too conspicuous for a funeral.
The woman gave her a naughty look. “Sure, honey. Just a friend. Me, too.”
Some heads in the rows in front were turning, noticing their whispered conversation. Both Piper and the woman went quiet and lifted their chins as they focused on the pastor on stage.
Witches and Ghosts Supernatural Mysteries Page 6