3
“Isn’t it
fabulous? I mean, just look around. It’s...it’s
breathtaking!â€
Didn’t it figure?
I was three-hundred-and-some miles from home and still, I’d
managed to hook up with an Ella clone. The middle-aged,
middle-sized woman had introduced herself earlier as Doris from
Detroit. Now, I watched as she twirled like a ballerina in her
sensible, low-heeled boots so she could take a good look all around
the frozen landscape where we stood. “It’s the most beautiful
cemetery I’ve ever seen,†she said, her words choked with
emotion and her breath forming a cloud as it escaped from behind
the red scarf she had wound all the way up to her chin. “Aren’t
you feeling like the luckiest girl alive to be here in Ella’s
place, Penelope?â€
I glanced down at
the conference name badge that hung around my neck and groaned,
vowing that I would make the necessary adjustments to it as soon as
I got ahold of a thick black Sharpie.
If I didn’t freeze
to death first.
Unlike the groups of
people who had just gotten off the tour bus with us and whose
conversations I could hear, I had little (more like nothing) to say
about the concept of Victorian cemeteries, nineteenth-century
funerary traditions, or the benefits of granite over marble for the
building of monuments. All I could manage through my chattering
teeth was, “It reminds me a lot of Garden View.â€
“Aren’t you the
fortunate one, to be working in a cemetery like that!†A man
named Grant stepped close and muscled in on the small talk. Or
maybe he was just trying to keep warm. “I’ll tell you what . .
.†He was either distracted by my name badge or my chest. Either
way, when he finally looked up and into my eyes, his cheeks were
pink. So were the tips of his ears where they showed below his
stocking cap. “I’ll tell you what, Penelope, back in Peoria,
we’re plenty jealous of that cemetery where you work. It’s that
famous.â€
I didn’t so much
smile in response to this announcement as I did grit my teeth. When
my face froze in the expression, Grant took it as a good sign. He
stepped closer. I stood my ground. Although it was only the first
stop on our tour of Graceland Cemetery in the heart of Chicago, I
was quickly learning that, leopard-print lining aside, my Dolce
& Gabbana tall patent boots didn’t provide much in the way of
warmth. There was no use trying to move when I couldn’t feel my
feet.
“We’ll have a
lot to talk about at the conference dinner tonight.†Grant
winked. Or maybe the twitch was simply a reaction to the icy wind
that howled through the cemetery. “Just imagine how exciting the
week is going to be. Discussing cemetery business and nothing else!
Like dying and going to heaven, huh?†Funny guy that he was,
Grant emphasized this by poking an elbow into my ribs.
“And Penelope’s
even giving a talk.†Although this tour was the first item on the
week’s agenda, Doris, it seemed, had already been through the
conference program with a fine-tooth comb. “Reactions to the Resurrectionists in the Planning and
Design of the Urban Cemetery. Isn’t that right,
Penelope?â€
“It’s Ella’s
talk. I’m just going to read it.†I thought it wise to make
this distinction before anyone actually thought I knew who—or
what—these Resurrectionists were or why they cared how cemeteries
were designed. “She couldn’t be here.
She’s—â€
“Sick. Yes, I
know. I talked to her before I left home.†Doris patted my arm.
Her mittens were pink and thick and wooly. They looked warmer—but
not nearly as pretty—as the black cashmere gloves that matched my
black three-quarter-length wool jacket. “Ella and I are old
friends. We see each other at conferences like this every year.
I’m sorry she’s not going to be here. We’ve had some good
times, I’ll tell you that.†Doris chuckled. “Someday, you
have to ask her about the time we got locked in the cemetery in
Sheboygan. That story will make you howl!â€
Fortunately, before
I had any hope of responding, our tour guide called us to order.
Her name was Stephanie and she was young, squat, and perky. She
obviously loved her job. I had no doubt that someday, she would
grow up to be just like Ella and Doris. “I promised a little
history, so here goes,†she said. “Graceland, as many of you
probably already know, was established in 1860. It was originally
outside the Chicago city limits in a town called Lake View. The old
city cemetery was in what’s now Lincoln Park. Bodies were removed
from there when it was determined that cemetery was a health hazard
because of overcrowding and waterborne diseases.â€
Doris leaned closer.
“Such fascinating stuff!â€
More politically
correct than the “Ew!†I
whispered.
“Those bodies were
brought here and reburied, and eventually, the city swallowed Lake
View and Graceland, too,†Stephanie went on. “The cemetery now
covers one hundred and nineteen acres and includes many famous
monuments. We’re going to see a lot of them this afternoon, but I
thought we should start here, with the largest and one of the most
famous—the burial site of Potter and Bertha Palmer.†She waved
a hand over her shoulder, directing our attention to what looked
like a Greek temple.
I’d never been to
Greece, and believe me, I don’t remember much of what I learned
as an art history major back at college. I’d never been to
Chicago before, either, and even if I had, I sure wouldn’t have
hung around this place. There was no explanation for why I took one
gander at the Palmer memorial and was smack in the middle of a
déjà -vu experience.
The pillars that
surrounded the open-sided platform . . .
The two huge
sarcophagus (sarcophagi?) inside...
Even the way the
anemic afternoon sunshine filtered through a layer of leaden clouds
and outlined the bony branches of trees...
I could have sworn
I’d seen it all before.
Or maybe my brain
was playing tricks on me, shutting down right before I froze up
like a margarita.
The shiver that
snaked over my shoulders had less to do with the cold than it did
with me coming to my senses. Just because I was flash-frozen
didn’t mean I had to look it, I reminded myself. Before the cold
could wreak any more havoc and chap my lips, I opened my purse and
felt around inside for my lip gloss.
What I pulled out
instead was a postcard. One I’d forgotten I had.
My mind blinked back
to the night the autumn before when I left my former fiancé’s
most recent engagement party and found the postcard on the street.
Sure, I glanced at it then, but I had better things to think about,
and the postcard wasn’t important; I could have sworn I’d
tossed it. Not so. It looked as if I’d transferred it out of my
Jimmy Choo evening bag (a sweet little satin clutch with a short
leather shoulder strap) to my everyday purse along with my lipstick
and my mascara and such. Apparently, it had been hiding at the
bottom of my purse ever since.
Now, I looked at the
picture on the postcard, then over at the imposing Palmer
monument.
Oh yeah, they were
one and the same.
That’s when I
remembered the single word scrawled across the back of the card,
“Help.â€
I may have groaned.
I don’t remember. I do know that a couple people turned away from
Stephanie to glare at me for interrupting. I also remember that
before I stuffed the postcard in my pocket, I looked over at the
Palmer memorial one more time, and that when I did, I saw something
I hadn’t seen before. Or I should say, someone.
There was a woman
standing just beyond the memorial, looking down at one of the
gravestones near her feet. She wasn’t wearing a
coat.
I’ve been known to
be slow on the uptake about any number of things (as I have proved
with my engagement to Joel and perhaps even by taking so long to
realize my night with Quinn was one of those
maybe-it-never-should-have-happened events), but when it comes to
my Gift, believe me, I was starting to get the message loud and
clear: the woman at the grave was a ghost.
I groaned again. And
grumbled, too. I actually thought about getting back on the tour
bus where it was nice and warm and telling the driver I was sick
and needed to return to the hotel, pronto.
I didn’t. And
here’s why:
1. By this time in my career as investigator for the dead, I knew I couldn’t just walk away. Believe me, I’d tried this before and it never worked. If I left now, I’d only find myself back here again. I wasn’t going to take the chance that next time, it might actually be colder.
2. I’d already investigated three cases for those who rested but not in peace, and I knew the score. If I ignored them, they would bug me.
3. Ghosts mean trouble. Always. But even dealing with a ghost is better than facing the inevitability of a boring conference, and this conference had all the makings of being as dull as watching paint dry. I didn’t want to be threatened, shot at, beat up, or followed by menacing hit-man types (all of which happens when I’m on a case), but at least being threatened and shot at and blah, blah, blah keeps me awake and interested. Reactions to the Resurrectionists in the Planning and Design of the Urban Cemetery definitely does not.
4. Well . . . this one is the hardest to explain. It had to do with Damon Curtis, my most recent client, who, in addition to teaching me that love between the dead and the living is not the most feasible of arrangements, had made me realize that life was to be lived. Even among the dead. Sure, it sounded like some weird version of a Hallmark card, but what Damon said was true, and I had finally come to accept it: I had to take every opportunity and pursue every adventure (hence the encounter with Quinn). I had to grab the proverbial bull by the horns, and in my case, that meant accepting my Gift and making the most of it.
Â
Did I like the
conclusion I came to? Not one bit. But like it or not, the ability
to talk to the dead was as much a part of me as my red hair and my
unerring fashion sense. I had a skill no one else had. The flip
side, of course, was the responsibility that came along with
it.
Before I could
convince myself otherwise, I slipped away from Doris and the rest
of the cemeteries-are-great crowd, skirted the back of the group,
arced around, and make a wide swing behind the Palmer memorial. I
was nearly to the other side of it and closing in on my newest
close encounter of the woo-woo kind when I hit a pocket of air so
cold, it made the frosty Chicago weather feel like a summer
day.
I stopped, frozen by
the chill and strangely ill at ease. Fear prickled up my spine. It
settled on my shoulders. I’d faced bad guys who were out to kill
me, and rock-and-rollers with mayhem in their hearts. I’d once
nearly gotten myself thrown off a very high bridge. And I’m not
going to lie: every one of those times, I was scared
shit-less.
But not like
this.
This was the kind of
fear that lives in nightmares. It was gnawing and inescapable and
even if I turned my back on it and ran for the tour bus, I knew it
would follow me. I had no choice but to wait it out, and for what
seemed like a long time, I stood stock-still and listened to the
silence press against my ears while my heart slammed against my
ribs. A creepy sensation crawled along my skin, leaving a trail of
goose bumps behind. If it wasn’t frozen solid, the hair on the
back of my neck would have stood on end.
Too afraid to look
and too afraid not to, I swallowed around the lump in my throat and
dared a glance over my shoulder. I was just in time to see
something slink behind a tree twenty feet away.
Man or woman, human
or animal, I couldn’t say. I did know it was big and black and it
wasn’t solid. It looked hazy, like a shadow, and like a shadow,
it was gone in an instant.
Once it was gone,
the air warmed to just below freezing, and before it could get
colder again—and before that shadow could come back and totally
freak me out—I hurried over to where the woman
waited.
Maybe she didn’t
see the shadow. Or maybe, being ectoplasm and all, she simply
didn’t get frightened. She never flinched. She didn’t say a
word, either. All she did was watch me as I got
nearer.
I saw right away
that with a little fashion advice, a complete makeover from the
cosmetics counter at Saks, and a visit to a reputable aesthetician
for some serious moisturizing, she actually might be pretty. She
had fine porcelain skin, pale hair, and eyes that were blue and
misty. The effect, sadly, was lost thanks to the fact that her hair
was pulled back severely from her face. The shapeless black skirt
did nothing for her slim figure and the white button-down shirt
didn’t help. Neither did the white lab coat that hung from her
shoulders. The chunky black loafers were so eighties. And the
Coke-bottle glasses . . . well, maybe not everyone can afford
Lasik, but, really, is there any excuse for pretending to be back
in the Dark Ages before contacts were invented?
She looked me up and
down, studying me as closely as I was watching her. I’m pretty
sure I wasn’t imagining it when her top lip curled.
“You’re not what
I expected,†she said.
Not the best way to
begin a conversation. Especially when I was already cold and bored.
It was no wonder I snapped back. “What, you don’t have some
kind of ghostly Internet over on the Other Side? You weren’t told
to look for the best-dressed woman in the cemetery?â€
She didn’t smile.
“I thought you would be older and . . . you know . .
.â€
“Not as
pretty?â€
A serious plucking
would have done her eyebrows a world of good. They did a slow slide
up her forehead. “I didn’t want to be rude, but since you
insist. I was going to say that I thought you’d look
smarter.â€
“I’m plenty
smart.â€
“Sure you
are.â€
She said this in the
same tone of voice I’d once heard a clerk at Nordstrom use when a
woman who shouldn’t have been caught dead in a tankini sauntered
out of the dressing room and asked how she looked.
Unlike that shopper,
I was good at picking up on subtleties. I stepped back, shifting my
weight to one foot. “You’re the one who wanted to see me. At
least I’m guessing you had something to do with the postcard
and—hey!†An idea struck, and though I don’t like exposing my
ignorance or my weaknesses—not to anybody—I’d never been good
at hiding my curiosity. I pulled the postcard out of my pocket and
waved it in the air. “How’d you do that, anyway? Ghosts can’t
touch things. How did you write on this postcard? And how did you
get it to me?â€
“Ghosts can’t
touch things, is that what you think?†A smile touched her lips.
Since she was already as cold as anybody can get, I doubt if she
did it for warmth, but she tucked her hands into the pockets of her
lab coat. “Looks like you don’t know everything after
all.â€
Like I said, I
don’t like admitting I’m not at the top of my game. Naturally,
I prickled, and honestly, it wasn’t such a bad thing. A little
healthy anger went a long way toward warming me up. “I do know
there’s a reason you brought me here. And I’m pretty sure . .
.†I pretended to think about this before I said, “No, I’m
very sure I’m the only one who can
see you and the only one who can help you. I suggest you cut the
sarcasm.â€
“Oh, you are a
feisty one! I hear that goes along with the red hair.†She leaned
nearer to give me a closer look. “If it’s
natural.â€
My smile was as
brittle as the chill wind. “It’s natural, all right. So’s the
curl. Which means I don’t have to handle bad hair days by pulling
my hair away from my face and tying it up in an old-lady
bun.â€
“How clever of you
to notice.â€
Two minutes with
this spook and already she was getting on my nerves. I didn’t
walk away, though, not even when I saw out of the corner of my eye
that the cemetery conference group had already moved on to another
nearby monument. Remember what I said earlier. I knew that even if
I left, this ghostly pain in the ass would find me again. I might
as well get it over with. Though it was unlike me, I decided it was
time to find some common middle ground. If I was going to get
anywhere, a change of subject was in order.
I glanced toward
where I’d last seen the hulking shadow and breathed a sigh of
relief when I saw it was nowhere in sight. “What’s with the
spooky shadow?†I asked the woman.
Her shrug was barely
noticeable. “I don’t know what you’re talking
about.â€
“All rightee.â€
Like I said, I was all about being nonconfrontational. And smart
enough to know arguing with this ghost would get me nowhere. I
stepped closer and looked down at the gravestone nearest to where
she stood. “Madeline Tremayne. Is that you?â€
She didn’t look at
the gravestone but kept her head up. Her jaw was rigid. “It used
to be.â€
I checked the dates
carved into the rose granite. “You’ve only been dead for three
years. And you didn’t live all that long. Thirty? You don’t
look—â€
“That old?†Her
eyes flared.
“I was going to
say that young. It’s the lab coat. Sorry, but you must have
realized the lab coat and the glasses and the shoes . . .†I
couldn’t make myself look at her black loafers again. “If you
had any sense of style—â€
“Women with brains
don’t need a sense of style. And women who are psychologically
healthy aren’t fixated on looks and fashion.â€
“Fixated? Think
so?†I glared at her. “Well, come to think of it, you must
believe it. And you must have some pretty heavy psychological
issues, too. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be trying to prove how
psychologically healthy you are by going out of your way to look so
frumpy.â€
Madeline simply
stared at me, her chin steady and her lips pulled into a thin line.
Easy for her to do; she wasn’t wearing any lipstick so she
didn’t have to worry about smudging it or biting it off.
“It’s far too early for a diagnosis, of course,†she said,
“but if push came to shove and I had to guess, I’d go with NPD.
In case you don’t know, and I’m certain you don’t since I
think it’s clear you’ve never read the research of Heinz Kohut
or the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of
Mental Disorders, that’s narcissistic personality
disorder. It’s as clear as clear can be. You’re preoccupied
with your own physical and social image. You’re wrapped up in
your own thoughts and feelings without any concern for others at
all. With your defensive attitude and your overblown sense of
self-importance . . .Yes, I think we’re looking at a classic case
here. I do hope you’re seeing a therapist, if not for yourself
then out of consideration for all the people around
you.â€
She wasn’t funny
and I wasn’t laughing. “I don’t need a therapist,†I told
her, even though I shouldn’t have had to. “What I do need is to
be left alone. What you need is to remember that if you’re going
to ask a living person for help, you need to show a little respect
in return.â€
“Yes, yes, of
course.†I might have taken this as a form of apology if she
wasn’t nodding and mumbling and talking to herself. And if she
didn’t continue with her half-baked diagnosis. “Concern for
your own affairs to the exclusion of all others, the inability to
empathize with others who have clearly—being dead—gone through
far more than you, interpersonal inflexibility, an insistence that
you’re the only one who’s right and to take things far too
personally . . .†Her mind apparently made up, she looked at me
again. “You shouldn’t be ashamed of it, you know. It’s like
any mental illness, and fortunately for you, I’m able to
understand the root cause. You feel rejected. Humiliated.
Threatened when you’re criticized.â€
“And out of
patience when I have to deal with stupid people, dead or alive.â€
To prove it, I turned around and stalked away. “Sorry, lady, but
you’ve offended the wrong Gifted person. Oh, wait!†I whirled
back around; I didn’t want to miss her expression when I
delivered my parting shot. “I’m the only one with the Gift,
aren’t I? I guess that would sound narcissistic. Except that
it’s true. Just like it’s true that I can choose to help
whichever ghosts I want. News flash, the ones that piss me off
don’t get the time of day. Whatever you wanted my help with, you
can just forget it.â€
“Fine.†She
folded her arms over her chest. “Go back to your cemetery
conference and forget this ever happened. It doesn’t make one bit
of difference to me. After all, I wasn’t going to ask for your
help for myself. And if you don’t want to help
Dan—â€
“Dan? Dan
Callahan?†Without hesitating, I turned right back around and
marched over to where Madeline waited. “You know Dan
Callahan?â€
Her slow smile was
the only answer I needed, and I cursed myself and this Gift of
mine, which had a way of getting me in over my head every
time.
While I was at it, I
cursed Madeline, too. She had me at the first mention of Dan’s
name. And damn it, she knew it, too.