As we stepped back to watch the cleanup project, McGoo asked conversationally, “Hey, Shamble, why do zombies pierce their nipples?” From the stupid grin on his face, I knew I didn’t want to hear the answer. “To have a place to hang the air fresheners.”
Instead of laughing, I decided to change the subject. “Any luck catching the big lummox that wrecked Mrs. Saldana’s mission?”
“Not yet. And there’ve been three other incidents since then, major smashup jobs, and another dozen storefront windows shattered—meant to look like the work of our big brute, but I’m not so sure.”
“Why else would somebody be smashing windows? Delinquents?” Maybe the Straight Edgers?
McGoo shrugged. “So far no suspects and no good leads. I don’t know how such a huge creature can hide. You want to go out monster hunting with me late tonight?”
“Not really,” I said.
“Suit yourself. You must have other fun things to do.”
“Just cases, McGoo. Always cases.”
Chapter 23
At Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations, we consider taking any case that involves human/unnatural relations, and sometimes we’re hired to take the human side.
Sheyenne ushered in the new clients for their intake meeting. “Dan, Robin, this is Brad and Jackie Dorset, and their children Madison and Joshua.”
Nice-looking human family: urban (or suburban) professionals, mom, dad, and the requisite two kids, probably a golden retriever at home. However, the Norman Rockwell family portrait stopped there: All of the Dorsets looked gaunt and haggard, their eyes bloodshot, as if they hadn’t gotten sleep or a decent meal in ages. Accompanying them was a freelance medium they’d hired, but I wasn’t impressed; if the medium’s efforts had been successful, they wouldn’t be here.
Brad automatically extended his hand, not seeming to realize that I was undead. My cold grip startled him.
Robin stepped up, smiling. “We’re very pleased to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Dorset.”
“And I’m here in a professional capacity,” said the medium. “Millicent Sanchez.” She was a middle-aged woman with beautiful golden skin, and she wrapped her dark hair in a colorful red-and-green scarf. Silver hoop earrings dangled from her ears, and a crucifix the size of a deck of cards hung at her throat; so many silver bracelets lined each wrist that they looked like Slinkys crawling up her arms.
I realized that I had seen her previously. How can you forget all those silver bracelets? “We met before, Ms. Sanchez, back when I was alive. The ribbon-cutting ceremony for the new wing of the Metropolitan Museum?”
She brightened. “Ah, yes, of course! I was there to summon spectral members from the guest list.”
The two Dorset children, around eight and ten years old, respectively, looked as anxious as their parents. “Could we please get on with it?” Jackie Dorset asked. “We, um, don’t have a lot of time on the parking meter.”
“We validate for the lot across the street,” Sheyenne offered. “Remember that for next time.”
We all took seats at the table in the conference room. When Joshua and Madison looked ready to burst into tears, their mother reached into her purse (which was large enough to double as a rucksack). She withdrew two handheld video games, and the children fell into contented, obsessive silence.
“Now then, what seems to be the problem?” Robin asked.
Millicent Sanchez took the lead. “The Dorsets are being haunted—and it’s not a pleasant haunting, either.”
Brad Dorset locked his fingers together and squeezed his hands, like a pumping heart. “He won’t leave us alone! We can’t get any sleep. He ruins every meal. He disrupts any gathering we have. Jackie and I can’t even go out to a restaurant.”
“We’ll never be able to get a sitter again,” the wife added.
“We don’t need a baby-sitter,” the two children said in perfect unison.
“Do you feel you’re in any physical danger from the ghost?” I interrupted.
Brad and Jackie looked at each other, surprised by the question. Jackie said, “No, of course not—it’s just Uncle Stan.”
“He was something of a pest in life,” Brad added, “and he’s worse now that he’s dead.”
Robin jotted down notes on a yellow legal pad. “Tell me about Stan.”
“We’re his only family.” Jackie sounded more sympathetic than her husband. “He sold used cars, he belonged to the Odd Fellows club. We used to have him over for dinner every Sunday because he didn’t have anyone else.”
“He was a widower, then?” Robin prompted.
“No, a lifelong bachelor,” Jackie said.
“He was gay, I think,” Brad muttered, which earned him a flash of indignation from his wife.
“He was not! He just never found the right person.”
“He certainly found us again, didn’t he?”
I could see this was an argument they’d had before.
“Stan was my mother’s only brother,” Jackie continued, looking at me. “We felt sorry for him.”
“Sunday dinner became Sunday and Wednesday,” Brad said. “Then he joined us on Friday evenings too. And then he died.”
“Was it murder?” I asked. “Anything suspicious?”
Again, Brad and Jackie Dorset blinked at each other, baffled. Brad answered, “No, he slipped on a patch of ice and split his head open on a brick planter. Just like that.”
“And he’s been haunting us ever since!” Jackie cried. “At first he thought he could go on as if nothing had changed. He popped in for Sunday dinner, then Monday and Tuesday, and all week long. After his tragic death, we were glad to see him . . . at first. But he’s, um, not a very good dinner companion.”
“Drank too much,” Brad said. “He always was a little hazy and wobbly.”
Jackie seemed embarrassed. “The coroner said his blood alcohol level was a little high when he slipped and hit his head.”
“Very high,” Brad corrected. “Uncle Stan could get insufferable when he was drunk. Then he died drunk—and now he’s a rambunctious and obnoxious drunk ghost.”
“I’ve tried to communicate,” said the medium. “I summoned his spirit. I spoke with him the last time he appeared uninvited for dinner.”
“I made lasagna,” Jackie said, “an old family recipe, one of Uncle Stan’s favorites.”
“We told him to go away,” Brad said. “But he wouldn’t listen. He insisted that we were his family and that he was going to be with us always.”
The two kids looked up from their video games and groaned. Madison was especially loud. “He’s a creepy old man. I don’t want him popping in and out of our house at night.”
“I can see how that would be very alarming,” Robin assured her. “We’ve found that in family disputes, the best way to solve things is through frank and open discussion. I’ve seen many cases of ghosts who hang on to their old lives and refuse to move on. Sometimes the families can get along well enough, but other times it’s just tragic for all concerned. The adjustment can be pretty painful.”