She nodded solemnly. “I did. Something to do with you staring at a blank space on the wall and calling it Bobby, then talking about his ex-wife, who I assume to be . . . me. Cookie?”
She pulled back the cellophane covering the pile of cookies. And that was when I got my second whiff of cookies that day.
“You like to bake?” I limited myself to one, thought better of it, and then took two more. The first bite was answer enough to my question. Cookies had the appearance of simplicity, but it was a lie. Creating the perfect cookie was an art, and Ms. Baker had mastered the perfect cookie.
“I do.” Again the dimple peeked out. “These are all for you.”
“Ah.” But that was all I could manage with a mouth full of cookie, so I nodded with what I hoped was sufficient enthusiasm to express my gratitude.
Her eyes crinkled attractively at the corners as she tucked the cellophane back around the cookies. “I’ll just set these over here.” She pointed at the kitchen table.
Still savoring the large bite I’d taken, I nodded again. Ms. Baker found me amusing, and I wasn’t certain how I felt about that.
A plaintive meow chased away my uncertainty. About that particular creature, I had no reservations. “Ignore him. He likes to complain.” I shot Clarence a warning look, which he completely ignored, emitting another meow. “About your ex, or, rather, your ex’s ghost . . . What are your feelings about ghosts?”
Disregarding my directive to ignore him, Sylvie leaned down and scratched Clarence under his chin. “Aren’t you just the handsomest cat ever. Such a big kitty.” A thunderous purr startled a chuckle out of her. “And loud.” She scratched under his chin and ran her hand down his back. Finally, she said, “I’m not sure what my feelings about ghosts are, but if you’re asking whether I believe they exist, then yes, I do.”
“You do.”
She stood and brushed her hands together. Little tufts of cat hair fell and drifted to the ground. Her firm, clear gaze met mine. “I do, and it seems you do as well. Sink?”
I gestured to the kitchen sink and considered her words.
Bobby wasn’t fully himself. He’d either gone wrong when he’d become a ghost or he’d not been the brightest bulb to begin with. Having twice now met Sylvie Baker, I suspected the former.
Then again, he was her ex-husband.
But whatever the origin of his decreased mental capacity, was he confused enough to fantasize a threat that didn’t exist?
Was Sylvie truly in some kind of danger? I’d been concentrating on ridding my life of a pest. Since cleansing my house seemed unlikely at this point, I was turning to alternatives to addressing his concerns in hopes that a happy ghost would have no need to pester me and might even move on. Immersed in my own headache-inducing, ghostly troubles, I hadn’t considered the implication that my pretty neighbor might truly be in harm’s way.
The idea that someone intended her harm, even if the idea came from a half-demented ghost, made me uncomfortable.
“While you try to decide whether I’m gullible, silly, or naive, I’ll just go ahead and tell you: my grandmother saw ghosts. Actually, she mostly heard ghosts, but every once in a great while, she could see them.” She replaced the tea towel she’d used to dry her hands on the hook next to the kitchen window and turned to look at me. Without any sign of her previous levity, she said, “My grandmother was not a silly woman. And that’s why I believe in ghosts.”
Fair enough. Not that I’d considered her silly or gullible or naive. She possessed the kind of happiness that escaped like bubbles into the air for others to admire and enjoy. But she wasn’t the least bit silly.
Before I could think twice, I said, “Bobby’s been haunting your home and popping in to see us at regular intervals.”
A frown creased her forehead. “I was afraid of that.”
“You were?” That didn’t seem like something that would occur to most people after their ex passed away. Not even a top-twenty concern, if I had to guess.
“If ever a man was going to haunt a woman from beyond the grave, Bobby was a good candidate. He tended toward obsession.” Again the wrinkle in her forehead appeared. “Not that he was possessive, nothing like that. He was generally a good man—one who made terrible decisions—but a good man.”
“Not always.” When she looked at me with a question in her eyes, I tried to clarify, “He didn’t always make terrible decisions, because…” The words “you’re amazing” didn’t exactly trip off my tongue, but I think she got the picture.
The wrinkle disappeared, replaced by the crinkle at the corners of her eyes. “Aren’t you sweet, Geoff.”
My neck warmed.
A hacking hairball cough reminded me we had an observer. That I could forget Clarence, even for a moment, meant that Sylvie Baker had me tied up in knots.
But there was business to be handled, a threat to be assessed. “Sylvie, about your husband—”
“Ex-husband.”
I scanned the room for some sign of Bobby, but he must have run out of juice while we’d been speaking. He’d be recharging now and would be back later to drive me out of my mind.
“Right, your ex-husband. He seems to think that you might be in danger.” I shrugged and gave her a sympathetic look. It sounded more than a little crazy voiced aloud. Not that I wasn’t worried, but I felt silly saying it.
Even if Bobby had been in some trouble before his death, they weren’t married anymore. And she was a hairdresser. Who could possibly want to hurt her? And yet, the thought had me twitching with unease. One moment, my rational mind was
