Clyde didn’t crack the smile she’d hoped to elicit from him.
Delaney popped her lips. “Okay, totally inappropriate. Sorry—again. I don’t know what I’ll say, but don’t sweat it. I’ll figure it out as I go along.” Hopping out of the car, she made her way with cautious steps to the double white doors of an updated farmhouse. There was only one light on inside, and peeking through the sidelight, she saw it came from the kitchen.
What was she going to say? “I’m Clyde’s medium. Got any thoughts on his ghost showing up at my store in New York?”
Clearly, that’d never work. She was almost beginning to feel a simpatico with Melinda Gordon and all those stupid tears she shed week after week. Right now, she wanted to cry, too—and it was in helplessness and frustration.
Flexing her fingers, she jabbed the doorbell and waited.
The door cracked, revealing one light brown eyeball with long eyelashes. It looked like it belonged to a woman. “Yes?”
Delaney heard the fear in that one accented word. Who could blame the poor woman? Not only was it buttfuck cold and dark here in North Dakota—it was damned lonely. When someone rang your doorbell out here, it had to be, like, an epic event. “Hi, um . . . I’m Delaney Markham—from New York, and I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions?”
“The mister and missus, they not home. I am the housekeeper. Ju come back next week.” Her accent was thick and slurred, thicker than Mrs. Ramirez’s, and a far cry from Marcella’s occasional slips.
Damn, damn, damn it all to Hell and back. Next week was too late. They were here now. “Do you work here?”
Her next reply was hesitant. “Yes, but I no alone!”
Delaney’s eyes pled with the one eyeball in the crack of the doorway. “No, it’s okay. I understand you’re afraid to talk to me, all showing up at this late hour. Look, I really need your help, and I’m only here for a short time. I’m a friend of Clyde Atwell’s. You know the guy who lives—er, lived down the road?”
Her one eye filled with sympathy. “Ack! Yes. Is bad what happen to him.”
“Yes. It was bad, but we’ve been out of touch for a while, and when I dropped by, you know, unexpectedly, well . . . his house—it’s gone.” Tears weren’t hard to summon; they formed in the corners of her eyes for Clyde’s loss.
Instantly the eye went cloudy with concern. “Oh, I sorrrry. His house—it explode. Was very, very bad.”
“Do you know what happened?”
Her tongue clucked, a sound almost deafening in the still of the night. “Boom! Big boom. I was cleaning the bathrooms and I hear. Was so bad.”
Bad. Yeah. She got that. Delaney sniffed, hoping she could contain this sudden need to bawl buckets of tears. Whether it was lack of sleep or the fact that she was more than likely going to be staring at some cold, gray headstone with Clyde’s name on it sooner than she expected, she didn’t know. With a gulp, she asked, “Was there a funeral? Somewhere I can pay my respects?”
The door popped open a bit wider, revealing a petite woman dressed in a patchwork robe and blue, fuzzy slippers. She made the sign of the cross over her chest. “Oh, no. No funeral. He’s no dead. Is a miracle. Thank Jesus.”
Delaney’s breathing stopped. “Wha-what?”
Her light brown eyes blinked. “He’s no dead. He’s in hospital.”
Delaney had to grip the door frame to keep herself upright. Clyde wasn’t dead. He’d survived that mess back there? It would be nothing short of a miracle if he’d lived through that. That couldn’t be right. How could he have been wandering around in Hell for all that time, able to do all the things demons are supposed to do, if he was still alive? If he wasn’t dead, what the fuck was he?
But hope, desperate, yearning hope, made her force her tongue to perform and ask, “Wait, he’s not dead? Clyde Atwell isn’t dead? Are you sure?”
The woman’s head, securely wrapped in a white towel, nodded. “I sure. Very sure. I’m sorry for you to come to see him like this.”
“Where is he? I mean, if he’s in the hospital, what hospital? I—I’d like to . . . visit. Yes, I’d like to visit him.”
“I don’t know nothing. I jus’ know he’s not dead. The mister and missus, they have his cat. Madre de dios, what a mess he was. His hair burned, but he’s okay. He was so hungry. The mister, he say to take the cat and feed him.”
Sweet mother. Relief so sharp it was like a knife cutting through her soul made her gasp. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I told you, I sure.”
Delaney’s head spun with a thousand questions, all of which she had to ask with care because this woman didn’t speak English very well. “Have you heard anything about Clyde’s condition?” Because it damned sure couldn’t be good after an explosion like that.
“I don’ know nothing, I told you. Now I go.” She waved a hand in the direction of the rental car with a shiver. “Is cold. I tell the mister you come, okay?”