Before I forgot, I asked him, “What was Ginny so worried that you’d told me?”
“Oh, that.” He licked his lips. “She’s actually not as much a peeper as a girl in love.”
I carefully set down the piece of glass I’d picked up. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Hm, yeah, Ginny’s in love.” Clarence turned his brilliant green eyes toward me. “Ever since you tried to collect her soul back in the seventies. Guess that didn’t work out so great? Since she’s here and all.”
No. No way. I’d remember her. And a failed collection? I didn’t think so. I hadn’t made those kinds of mistakes.
“That’s not right.” Then I remembered. Suicide. A twenty-four-year-old woman found hanging in the living room. It hadn’t been my assignment originally, but I’d received it last minute and arrived several minutes after her death.
That I’d forgotten a soul collection so close to my own home was more than surprising. That I’d not recognized her, even considering the changes in her appearance brought about by crossing over, was so unlikely as to be practically impossible.
Except that I had.
“Genevieve, that was her name.” I chucked the last of the large glass shards in the trash. “That’s all she would say. I couldn’t get anything else out of her. I assumed death fugue, but I arrived long enough after death that she’d already begun to leave her body.”
“That’s a nasty, big black mark for you guys. What were you doing, catching a catnap when the call went out?” He looked disappointed, as if he had any kind of expectations regarding my proficiency or lack thereof.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but it was a last-minute assignment change and couldn’t be helped.”
“Too bad, since she was probably scared out of her mind.”
I stepped away from the gooey mess and turned my full attention to Clarence. “She would have barely had long enough to realize she was dead. Questions about the great beyond and what was to come weren’t even a glimmer.”
“I know that. I’m talking about the way she died.” His attention was drifting back to the food. “Any idea if cats can eat pickles? I’m thinking yes, because they smell really good.” He licked his lips.
“I don’t know.” I stepped between him and the glass-pebbled pickles. “Clarence, pay attention. What do you mean about the way she died? She killed herself. Tragic, but—”
“No.” His head snaked around my leg but his haunches stayed firmly planted on the ground.
“No what?” When my question failed to grab his attention, I snapped my fingers in front of his face.
He flashed a little fang at me then shook his head. “Sorry. I think I’m overdue a meal. I mean, no, she didn’t kill herself. She was murdered. She told me so.”
And it hit me, my memories of the scene coming back in a rush. It had been all wrong.
A woman hanging herself should have been my first clue. It happened, but it was hardly common. And something had just felt off—still felt off. Why were my recollections so hesitant to surface?
Back then, I’d been a soul collector. Finding out the how and the who of deaths hadn’t been my responsibility. But that was then and this was now. As a retired soul collector, my time was my own.
“When Sylvie’s safe, you and I are going to have a look at Genevieve’s death.”
“We are?” Clarence asked, but he had the largest, most Cheshire-like grin plastered to his face that I’d ever seen him wear. “I think that’s an excellent idea, boss.”
Clarence was on board. No huge surprise, since he complained daily of soul-crushing boredom.
But there was something weighing heavier on me than Genevieve’s possible murder and my unnaturally faded recollections. Clarence was wrong about my competence. I had collected her soul. Collected it and delivered it.
How in the hell had she come back?
10
Tuesday morning
“Take me with you. Come on, you know you want to.” Clarence stalked in front of me as I prepared to head out the door.
Much as I tried to concentrate—on Bobby’s disreputable history, on solving Sylvie’s bombing debacle, and to a lesser degree, on the truly baffling existence of Genevieve on this plane—I couldn’t. Not while who knew what ghosts hovered around without my knowledge.
And I certainly hadn’t been able to take a bath last night. A five-minute shower this morning was the best I’d managed, and while my back was feeling better, I still would have liked a nice soak. I’d never considered myself particularly self-conscious about my body, but having been the target of a voyeur for days, if not weeks—one with a particular interest in seeing me in the buff—had made me a little more so.
I needed Lilac’s help. She was the only person besides Clarence I knew might have a connection to the other side and also might have useful contacts. And she’d been willing to bump my appointment up for a nice little bonus.
Careful not to kick Clarence—much as the fluffy perv deserved it—I walked the remaining five feet to the garage door and grabbed my keys off the peg next to the door. “I looked up that public-access thing.”
Did I hear the faint whistling tune of a guilty cat?
“Clarence.”
“What? It’s a thing, emotional support animals. I figure you used to be death, so you probably have a lot of unresolved issues. Who better to utilize an emotional support cat than the guy who’s been death?” He waggled his nonexistent eyebrows at me.
“One of the deaths, and don’t do that when other people are around. It looks really bizarre.”
“Don’t do what?” He plopped down on the stained concrete floor like it was a down bed, then sprawled out with an abandon my knees and back envied. Stretched out like that, he looked twice his size.
“Never mind. My point was
