Home for the Haunting(87)
I was stunned at her interpretation of the “glamorous” life I had led with my now ex-husband, Daniel. Most of what I remembered about those trips was exploring on my own because Daniel was busy giving papers at conferences and meeting with publishers and giving lectures at foreign universities. Cookie and I had rarely talked during those years, so she had no way of knowing that all was not what it seemed. “So get a passport. Take a trip with Kyle. Nothing’s stopping you.”
“He won’t want to.”
“Have you asked him?”
“My marriage is none of your business, Mel.”
“Fine. My work is none of your business, Cookie.”
“What’s goin’ on in here?” Dad demanded as he walked in, and Cookie immediately turned to him for support.
“Why does Mel get to go to séances? How come she’s the only one able to talk to ghosts? Maybe I’m a ghost talker, too. I tell you one thing: I’m way cuter than that ghost whisperer on TV. I’ll bet I could have a reality series!”
“There already is one,” I grumbled.
“I’m way cuter. Seriously, Mel. I saw that show when we were at Olivier’s shop.”
“Why’d you take your sister to the wacko’s whaddayacallit? The ghost store? You gave her ideas.”
“You said I had to, remember?”
“All I want is to go to one lousy séance with my sister,” said Cookie. “I really don’t think that’s asking too much.”
“Take your sister with you, Mel. She won’t hurt anything.”
“All right, all right,” I conceded. “If you want to come so badly, fine. Just don’t come crying to me if you get scared.” With luck, maybe Cookie would get the you-know-what scared out of her. Maybe she’d be a little less snide about communicating with ghosts. “But I’m not kidding, Cookie—you have to go into the situation with an open mind and follow instructions.”
“Oh, yay, let’s do it!” cried Cookie. She wrapped one arm around me and posed for my father. “Look, Daddy, we could be the next prime time ghost-hunting sister act!”
Dad and I snorted in unison.
I was really beginning to worry about myself.
• • •
Friday was the twenty-fifth anniversary of the incident at Murder House. I awoke with that knowledge firmly lodged in my head, and the idea didn’t leave me at any point during the day. Not while I was working on a sewer-pipe issue at the Bernini B&B, not while I was trying to explain to the Neighbors Together staff that any and all resources allocated to Monty’s house for this coming weekend should be steered over to the youth center instead, not when I was canceling the Port o’ Potty and the Dumpster that Ray had financed, not while I was pondering Monty’s health and level of criminal scumminess, and not even while I was consulting with Olivier as to what to expect at a séance.
“The crimes took place a little after nine in the evening,” said Olivier. “So we should arrive no later than eight fifteen so we can arrange ourselves and be prepared.”
“Okeydokey,” I said.
“Do not be nervous, my friend. Meredith has agreed to work with us. I assure you she is an excellent medium.”
I met Meredith a long time ago, when I was working on Matt’s house—which was also where I encountered my first ghost. Or, rather, where I was first aware of seeing a ghost. It was dawning on me that I might have been seeing ghosts for a long time but not registering them as such.
It sort of weirded me out, thinking like that, and I had to force myself not to go over memories and scenes of life in my head, trying to ferret out who might have been spectral. But it was a bit like one’s tongue worrying a sore tooth; it was virtually impossible to leave it alone. The little boy who was my “imaginary friend.” The young woman in sixties garb I saw one time in the high school locker room and no one else seemed to see. A watermelon vendor in the Mission with an old-fashioned stand that I thought was so cute and retro until Luz pointed out that no one else could see him.
It was disconcerting, to say the least, but I was learning to deal. Whether they were hanging around because of trauma, or stubbornness, or habit, or unfinished business . . . sometimes I could help put them to rest.
Meredith was not what I had expected from a medium, but my expectations were fueled by Hollywood—and the people I’d met at Olivier’s shop—so I always expected scarves and gypsy earrings.
But Olivier swore she was good. As did Brittany, the Haunted Home Realtor to the Stars.
“Well, super,” I said in a high-pitched voice. I noticed that the more nervous I got when dealing with ghost business, the more I spoke like a perky cheerleader. Like, well, Cookie, in fact.