Where’d that come from?
Delaney looked up at him, setting aside her sudden stab of jealousy. “She’s damned fine, Clyde. überhot.” Good on you. Clyde’d hit it big with Tia. She was Hawaiian Tropic model hot. Long lean legs, toned calves, a belly so flat it was almost concave, wide blue eyes, and pouty lips. Definitely fantastical. But then, so was Clyde, in his own college professor way. The only person who didn’t seem to know that was Clyde. He’d made mention several times of his lack of finesse with the ladies—which made her wonder why someone like Tia had hooked up with him, and if he’d looked like he did now before his death. She definitely didn’t look like she’d spent more time in a classroom than she had being spray tanned in some pricey salon.
Ooooh, Delaney—judgmental much? Looks were sometimes deceiving, and maybe Tia had an IQ to rival a Mensa member.
Maybe. Or maybe it was only her bowling scores that could rival a genius IQ.
Me-ow.
“Yeaaaah,” Clyde agreed on a sigh that, to her ears, sounded wistful and faraway, thus jabbing the tip of the jealousy stick right in her left eyeball.
“Okay, so established. Tia’s sickly hot,” she acknowledged.
Good gravy. So Tia was spectacular on the eye. There were lots of women in the world who could hold that title. Marcella was one of them, and Delaney wasn’t jealous of her at all. Well, okay, so she did feel some envy when Marcella wore all those tight jeans. But that was it. Really . . .
What Tia looked like shouldn’t make a difference to her. What should was grilling the shit out of her bleached blondeness until she got some answers about Clyde and his life and now death. “Hey, stud muffin, want some advice? You’d better hit the bricks. I think she’d shit the aerobics instructor she got that rockin’ ass from if she saw you. You’re dead, remember? For three months now. If that won’t freak her out, she’s got bigger balls than most, but I get the feeling that’s not the case.”
Her words snapped him back to attention. “Damn. You’re right.” He instantly ducked down, hanging his dark head to his chest to push his way through the crowd, then latched onto the side of the brick building.
Delaney followed right behind. Tia might be the key to what had happened to Clyde the day he died. Maybe they shouldn’t let this chance meeting pass them by. “Do you think Tia knows what happened the day you died, Clyde? Maybe I could talk to her.”
His face went blank in thought. “Couldn’t say for sure. I imagine she got the gory details from the coroners. I’m sure there had to have been at least an investigation into my death because the chemicals I was working with were my demise, but she wasn’t there, if that’s what you mean. I sent her home hours before it happened. I’m grateful for at least that much. And even if she did, what would you say to her anyway, Delaney? Hey, I talk to dead people—got a minute for your iced squeeze Clyde?”
Yeah, early on, when this thing had been thrust upon her, she’d innocently enough believed she could approach people and just tell them what their loved one wanted to share from the great beyond. But she kept running into roadblocks like, “You’re nuttier than squirrel shit, hack,” and her all-time favorite, “freak,” no matter how much proof she had that she really could talk to ghosts.
She’d learned a few hard lessons that way. That no matter how dead-on you were, no matter how secretive the information was that you shared with a grieving relative, the skeptical, the fearful, just weren’t going to buy it. She only shared with those who were open to the possibility of the other side, and those who weren’t, she tread ever so lightly with.
So he had a point. Which brought up another point. “You know, I did a Google search on your name the other day and found next to nothing. I searched obituaries for the last three months all over the country for a dead Clyde Atwell and came up dry—why is that?” There was no keeping the suspicion out of her question. “It’s like you said, wouldn’t there be a coroner’s report? Unless they haven’t released your body because the circumstances surrounding your death were suspicious . . .”
“I have no answers for you. I’ve already told you what I know—what I remember. I screwed up. It was late, I was tired, and what I was working on exploded. I only remember seeing the flames and hearing the explosion for a split second—after that, I was in Hell.”