Excerpt

     “Ech - can you believe that woman? As if my Morty would ever be interested in a skinny kvetcher like Gladys Finch.”

     Irene and I stood in the shade of a large oak, watching as a simple pine coffin was lowered into the ground. ‘My Morty’ was a chubby, balding man in his sixties who stood at the edge of the grave and wept openly, round cheeks wet with tears. Clinging to his arm, murmuring comfort, was a thin woman who couldn’t look more like her name if cliché were the rule.

     There were no flowers, no songs. The turnout was decent, though, for at least thirty people were gathered to lay Irene Goldblatt to rest. All the mourners wore black, of course, stark figures outlined against the gray tombstones. They listened in respectful silence to a reading of Psalms, standing still as clothed statues ruffled by the breeze.

     "She’s had her eye on my Morty for years,” Irene said. “Owns the condo next door.” Another sniff and pat to her hair. “But he’s tasted her cooking - she’ll never have my Morty.”

     The Rodeph Shalom cemetery was a peaceful place, a huge mosaic of green grass, stone and marble. The serenity invited you to stay and visit, to linger on shaded benches and listen to the silence.

     "Don’t you want him to be happy again?”

     Irene gave me a look. “Of course I do, dear. That’s why you’re here, remember? I don’t want my Morty to live with guilt on his conscience. But I know my husband - he’d never be happy with a woman who can’t cook and constantly whines about how her kids never come visit.” She threw up her hands. “Why should they come visit? So they can get stomach aches?”

     Irene’s gossiping seemed out of place given the solemnity of the occasion, and besides - I didn’t care. This sweet little Jewish grandmother had been driving me crazy for two days, and I wanted my life back. “Shhhh. You dragged me all the way out here to see this. I wanna hear the Rabbi.”

     He’d lowered the Psalms and was reciting something from memory, eyes closed and face lifted to the sun. I didn’t understand the language, but the cadence of the words was beautiful.

     “Kaddish.” Irene murmured. “A mourner’s prayer.”

     We listened together in silence. Morty’s sobs, muted during the prayer, became sniffles as the Rabbi finished his prayer and stepped back, away from the grave. Then the sniffles stopped, leaving only the rustle of wind in the trees, soft as a sigh of farewell.

     Morty bent and scooped up a handful of dirt, tossing it into the yawning hole. One by one, others came forward and did the same, touching Morty sympathetically on the shoulder or murmuring a word in his ear as they filed past. They moved in knots and clusters down the hill toward their parked cars, leaving Morty to stand, obviously grief-stricken, by the grave. Gladys tried to draw him away, but he shook his head. Whatever he said to the woman sent her trailing reluctantly after the others. He then stood alone, staring woodenly down at the coffin, as two men with shovels moved in to cover it forever.

     “He doesn’t want to let you go.” I turned to Irene, expecting to see her cheeks wet with tears. Instead, I found her serene and smiling, eyes alight in a way I hadn’t noticed before.

     “We’ll be together again soon enough,” she said, as though there were no doubt. “I’ll be waiting for him.”

     Remembering the Light, it all seemed so clear, and so simple. I knew why Irene wasn’t sad. I swallowed hard, suddenly wondering who would be waiting for me when my time came.

     “What do you want me to say to Morty?” The memory of the Light beckoned, drawing me as well as Irene. For the first time, I felt Irene’s impatience as though it were my own.

     “You tell him that ‘the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain’.”

     “What?” Peaceful visions of everlasting understanding splintered.

     “You heard me, dear. He’ll understand.” Irene wasn’t looking at me. She was watching her Morty. “Then you do this.“

     To my astonishment, Irene recited in a sing-song voice, curtseying midway, “Schlemeil, schlemozzle, Hahsenfeffer Incorporated.”

     “You want me to sing the theme song from “Laverne and Shirley?” I’d watched enough weekend reruns to recognize it. What she was asking was just too much. “He’ll think I’m a lunatic!”

     She reached out to pat my hand, but stopped short. I wouldn’t have felt it anyway. I’d already learned that Irene could be seen and heard, but she had little or no influence on the physical world. “Don’t worry, dear. It’s our little code. Just do it.”

     “Oh, jeez,” I muttered.

     “And by the way - “ she smiled with such sweetness my heart clenched, “ - thank you.” Irene faded, but I knew she was still there. I knew it as surely as I knew my own name.

     Taking a deep breath, I stepped from the shadows and marched toward Morty.

     He didn’t notice me at first. The rhythmic sound of shoveling - scrape, plop, scrape, plop - had a hypnotic quality. Morty was crying again, silently this time, while the two men doing the shoveling stoically ignored him. I’m sure it wasn’t the first time they’d filled in a grave while family watched.

     “Nice day, huh?” Oh, my God. Great opener there, Nicki.

     Morty barely glanced at me before he went back to watching the hole fill with dirt. He didn’t answer, mopping at his face with a crumpled tissue.

     “What I mean is, at least it’s not raining. You know, like in Spain.”

     “Miss, I don’t know who you are, but I’m burying my wife.” Irene’s Morty had a voice like gravel, no doubt hoarse from weeping. His plump face crumpled, then steadied. “I don’t have any money, and I’d appreciate it if you moved along.”

     He thought I was a either a hooker or a vagrant! That’s what dressing funky could get you - totally typecast. Either my heavy mascara and dark red lipstick branded me a vamp, or my waifish build and vintage clothes labeled me a beggar. Which was it? Desperate to get Irene’s message over with, I blurted, “The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.”

     Morty’s eyes widened. “Are you all right, Miss?”

     Now he thought I was a lunatic hooker/bum. Great.

     “Mr. Goldblatt, your wife wants you to know that your matzo balls weren’t dry and that it wasn’t your fault she choked on one.” Morty’s mouth fell open. “And she said you’d understand if I did this - schlemeil, schlemozzle, Hahsenfeffer Incorporated.”

     The rhythm of the shovels ceased as all three men gaped, but I didn’t care. It was done, it was over, and I was free.

     “I’m sorry about your wife.” I started backing up, away from the grave. “Bye-bye.”

     Then I turned and ran like hell, ignoring Morty’s delayed shout. “Miss . . . Miss . . . come back . . .”

     I ran all the way to my car. I’d parked it at the base of the hill, far enough away that no one could easily read the license number, but not so far I couldn’t reach it pretty quick.

     I thought I was home free when I grabbed the door handle - until someone called my name.

     “Nicki!”

     “Dr. Bascombe?” I couldn’t believe the timing. “What are you doing here?”

     He was wearing a black suit. Dolce and Gabbana, unless I missed my guess. The tie was a blue patterned silk, crisply knotted. He looked well-tailored and well-off, and so unlike the two previous times we’d met that it was no wonder I hadn’t recognized him among the mourners. Just showed how eager I was to be rid of Irene that I could miss a hunk like that, even if corporate boytoy wasn’t my usual taste.

     “Call me Joe.” He smiled, and my heart did that annoying flip thing it does. At least now I knew why - not true love, just a heart defect. “Irene Goldblatt’s obituary was in the paper. I came to pay my respects.” He hesitated. “But I was really looking for you.”

     My radar went up. “As my doctor or . . . “ I let the question dangle, very curious to hear the answer. A quick glance at the mirrored surface of my car window confirmed I was looking pretty good - hardly the weak, pale creature he’d known in the hospital. I’d just run down a hill and was barely out of breath. My heart was as reliably unreliable as ever, so why was Dr. Handsome looking for me?

     “Research, actually.” I blinked at my reflection, not expecting that one. “You know the paper on near death experiences I’ve always wanted to write? I’m going to do it, and I wondered whether you’d consider being my first test subject.”

     “Your what?” The words ‘test’ and ‘subject’ were not in my vocabulary. “I really don’t like the sound of that.”

     So much for my delusions of vanity - Mr. Cute Doctor was here to do a sanity check.

     “You should see your face.” Joe laughed, looking truly amused. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I was just hoping you’d agree to an interview so I could record your experience. Your impressions, your feelings.” He leaned against my car and kept talking. “How it’s changed you.”

     I still didn’t like the sound of this, and I liked even less that he’d hit on the one thing that was bothering me. For the experience had changed me, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be changed.

     “No thanks, Doc.” I unlocked the car door and opened it, forcing him to step back a pace. “I’ve already forgotten most of it, and I’m the same old Nicki Styx I was before. No life changing revelations here.”

     “Oh, really?” The skeptical tone of his voice was unmistakable. I turned, hand on the door.

     “I suppose the old Nicki Styx was in the habit of approaching grieving widowers and singing the theme from a 70’s sitcom?”

     I was mortified. He’d seen me make a fool of myself. “Laverne and Shirley,” I said icily. “And it’s none of your business what my habits are. I do a lovely rendition of ‘Gilligan’s Island’, too - but I save it for Bar Mitzvahs.”

From the paranormal anthology, "Weddings From Hell": A missing bridesmaid, some embarrassing relatives, and a "girls night out" gone bad land Nicki Styx in the middle of a murder mystery. Can she expose the killer, put a poor girl's soul to rest, and still look calm, cool and collected while wearing the ugliest bridesmaid dress on earth?

Excerpt

     “How did I let myself get sucked into this?” I wailed into the phone. “I’m a replacement bridesmaid, and the dress is hideous! It makes me look like a giant fruit salad. With a hat.” I deliberately didn’t tell Evan that the bridesmaid I was replacing was dead. My best friend and business partner, Evan lived for fashion, and I knew it was easier for him to talk about that than my dubious “gift” of being able to see and talk to the dead.

      “What did you expect, Nicki?” Evan wasn’t the least bit surprised about the ugly dress. “You’re lucky Debbie didn’t stick you with a tube top and Daisy Duke shorts.”

      I sighed. “Yeah. At least there were no sequined flip-flops.”

      “Don’t be in the wedding if you don’t want to do it—come down with something contagious or something.”

      “I have to do it,” I said glumly, finding myself, once again, in the position of having to explain why I was doing something I didn’t want to do, for someone I didn’t want to do it for. Do unto others, Nicki, as you would have them do unto you. “Debbie needs four bridesmaids to balance out the groomsmen, and she’s only got three sisters.” Darlene, Diane and Donna. Or as I privately thought of them: Dumb, Dumber and Dumbest.

      It wasn’t their fault, really—the gene pool was obviously tainted. Debbie was okay in a clueless sort of way, but her sisters were another matter. Prickly as sandspurs, and just as irritating.

      “Those cousins of yours are walking advertisements for birth control,” Evan said, echoing my thoughts exactly. “Didn’t your aunt know that she was supposed to swallow the pill instead of trying to hold it between her knees?”

      “Well, since Uncle John never seemed to learn the alphabet past the letter ‘D’, I imagine birth control was a foreign concept. They probably think oral sex means talking about it instead of doing it.”

     Evan laughed, and I felt a little better. A girl deserved to be snarky when she was going through an ugly bridesmaid dress crisis.

     I stared out the window of my car at the parking lot of Bebe’s Bridal. There was only one other car, a dusty old Camry that obviously belonged to the saleslady.

     “I can’t wait to get home. Joe promised to be waiting with a bubble bath and a glass of wine.”

     Evan made a purring noise. “Ooo, I need to get your hunky boyfriend and my hunky boyfriend together to talk about how to treat a lady.”

     “Forget it, you fairy,” I said goodnaturedly. “If you got your greedy little hands on Joe I’d never get him back.”

     I heard the distant tinkle of the shop bell through the phone, and knew that a customer had just come into Handbags and Gladrags. Our store was the coolest vintage shop in Little Five Points, Georgia, and Evan was manning it while I was out in the boondocks fulfilling family obligations.

     “Push the Led Zeppelin tee-shirts,” I said, “we’re over-inventoried.”

     “Climbing the Stairway to Heaven as we speak,” Evan answered gaily. “Drive carefully.”

     He hung up, and I snapped the phone closed and dropped it on the passenger seat. Gripping the steering wheel in both hands, I let my head fall forward until it rested there, too. I closed my eyes and tried to think positively—I was doing it for Mom. Aunt Nadine was her only sister, which is how I’d ended up with such a dorky middle name.

     Nicholette Nadine Styx, sucker extraordinaire.

     “Don’t be such a drama queen,” my Mom would’ve said, if she’d lived past my twenty-second birthday. “It’s only one day. You can handle one day, can’t you?”

     “Yes, Mom,” I replied dutifully, though there was no one there to hear it. Then I buckled my seat belt (another lesson from Mom), and started the car. As I was backing out of my space, I happened to glance at the saleslady’s Camry again, and this time I noticed that someone had used their finger to write a message in the red clay dust that coated the passenger side door.

     “Help Me,” it said.

     “Wash Me” would be more appropriate.

     Making a mental note to run my Honda through the car wash when I got back to Little Five Points, I pulled out of the parking lot, already dreading my return visit to pick up the newly altered Carmen Miranda dress.

     “Don’t let her do it,” came a woman’s voice from the back seat.

     “Shit!” I jumped, swerved and nearly drove myself into a roadside ditch.

     “Don’t let her,” the voice repeated.

     I slammed on the brakes, heart pounding. Afraid to turn around, I checked the rear view mirror.

     Nothing.

     Gathering my nerve, I swiveled my head to look, glad there was currently no traffic in Hogansville.

     The back seat was empty, but there was a dark spot on the upholstery—it looked wet.

     “What the hell?”

     Thoroughly spooked, I sat there, engine idling. You’d think I’d be used to this sort of thing by now—the girl in the bridal shop wasn’t the first spirit I’d ever seen, and somehow I knew she wouldn’t be the last.

     “Hello?” Speak now or forever hold your peace, Spirit. “Don’t let ‘who’ do ‘what’?”

     No answer.

     “Great,” I muttered. “Just great.” Hoping the spot was just water and nothing more ominous, I headed home.

     If I checked the rear view mirror a little more frequently than I needed to, nobody knew it but me.

Excerpt

      “Oh my God, that’s hideous! What were you thinking?”

      Evan's outrage was loud and clear, despite the jingle of windchimes over the front door. Luckily, he wasn’t talking to a customer, but to himself.

      “Are those feathers in Courtney Love’s hair or is it an actual bird’s nest?” He held up the latest issue of Faboo magazine and waved it indignantly in our direction, not even bothering with a hello first.

      “You mean the ‘I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-in-a-crackhouse’ look is already over?” I pushed Kelly’s wheelchair through the doorway with no help from him, grateful for the cool rush of air conditioning. “Maybe she passed out in a chicken coop.”

      “All that great bone structure just going to waste.” Evan looked truly upset. “The woman needs to put down the lipstick and fire her stylist!”

      “Oh, wow,” Kelly said, unfazed by Evan’s fashion fit. “What a great store!” She gazed around, taking in the clothing racks, the colorful hats and beaded purses, the glassed-in jewelry counter. “Is that Audrey Hepburn? Ooo, Marilyn Monroe! What a great idea!”

      Nothing she could’ve said would’ve made Evan and me happier. The store mannequins at Handbags N' Gladrags were our pride and joy. One of Evan’s artist friends had turned bland figures into glamorous replicas of early film stars, and we kept them dressed accordingly. I tried to play it cool while Evan turned to mush.

      “Kelly, hon,” Evan put down his magazine and hurried over, giving me no attention whatsoever. “You’re looking so much better.” He leaned down and gave her a quick squeeze, which she returned. I wasn’t surprised by the spontaneous affection so much as I was by Evan’s unconcern about wrinkling his shirt. “First day out of the hospital, hm?” He beamed at her, patting her hand like she was an invalid or something.

      Which she technically was, but whatever.

      “Have you been to the house yet? Has Nicki shown you the guestroom?” He took the handles of Kelly’s wheelchair as if he’d done it a million times, and wheeled her toward the counter. “Butch and I picked out the bedding ourselves, so don’t let her tell you any different.” Evan gave me a little wink as he passed, making it impossible to be mad at him. “Egyptian cotton will feel so much better on your skin than those cardboard sheets they use in the hospital. I hope you’re not allergic to goosedown.”

      “Ahh… you’re such a sweetheart,” Kelly said. “A nice, soft bed sounds great. I’ve got bruises in places I didn’t know I had.” I was amazed at how easy these two were with each other.

      My best friend and my sister; one I’d known forever and one I’d never known.

      “We haven’t been to the house yet. Nicki and I went straight from the hospital to make the funeral arrangements for Peaches.”

      Evan’s eyes flew to mine, horrified. He’d obviously forgotten.

      Kelly’s voice sounded strained. “Then we came by here to find her an outfit to be buried in.”

      Evan’s face changed. Now it looked as if he was the one about to cry. He reached out and snagged me with one arm, pulling me close, and put his other hand on Kelly’s shoulder.

      “It would be an honor,” Evan said, “if you would allow me to help. What did you have in mind?” He gave me a reassuring squeeze, and I squeezed back, knowing I was comforting him as much as he was comforting me, the little drama queen. I was already mentally debating between a peach chiffon or a dark blue brocade. Both dresses were appropriate, and equally lovely.

      “Pink,” Kelly said. She glanced up at me over her shoulder. Then she leaned back to look at Evan and said again, very decisively. “She liked pink.”

      “Pink it is, then,” Evan said.

      I sighed, not even bothering to argue. Evan wheeled Kelly toward the better dresses while I sank into the chair behind the counter.

      “Don’t get too comfy in the cat bird seat, young lady,” Evan called over his shoulder. “You can help, too.”

      The cushion beneath me was still warm from Evan’s body heat. It had already been quite a morning, and there was a lot more of the day to get through. “You two go ahead. I’ll be right here.”

      Evan shot me a look, but I gave him a bland stare in return. Let him take this one - he was the one who insisted I be sisterly, after all. Let him play nursemaid for a while.

      “So,” Evan’s attention returned to Kelly and the clothing racks, “tell me about Peaches.”

      Kelly hesitated, then said, “She had dark hair.”

      Evan started sifting through the dresses. “Okay, dark hair, liked pink… what size do you think she wore? Eight, ten, twelve, maybe?” He held up a blush-colored suitdress with a short jacket, very Jackie O.

      “Ten or twelve, I think.” Kelly shook her head at Evan’s offering. “But that’s way too conservative. Peaches was no wallflower. She was more like Nicki.”

      Evan’s eyebrows shot up. He looked directly at me. “Oh, really?” he said to Kelly. “Do tell.”

      Kelly was looking at me, too. I was so surprised I kept my mouth shut.

      “She liked bright clothes and she wore too much makeup,” Kelly smiled, though her eyes were shiny with tears, “and she was funny - I mean, really funny - without even meaning to be.”

      Evan’s mouth dropped, and so did my heart. At least for a second… then it did that fluttery thing.

      I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear this - I’d been treating Peaches Davis like a stranger. It seemed easier that way. After all, I’d only met her briefly, in my dreams, and by then she was already dead.

      “You would’ve liked her.” Kelly was still talking. “And she would’ve liked you.”

      To my horror, I teared up. I hate to cry - absolutely hate it - and I’d done enough of it the last few months. I wasn’t about to join in a group hug, so I jumped up and went into the back office. I needed a minute.

      “Hey, are you okay?” Evan followed me right in, baby blues full of concern. The man had a sweet side a mile deep.

      “I’m okay.” I snatched a tissue off the desk and dabbed at my eyeliner, already finished with the waterworks. “I just didn’t expect to hear that, you know?”

      Evan tilted his head, and in typically blunt fashion pointed out, “But isn’t it great? Now you actually know who you take after.”

     I shot him a look. “I take after myself, remember?” I’d always made it a point of pride to be different, unique. My adoptive parents and my upbringing might be pure middle class Georgia, but not me.

      Evan waved a hand in dismissal. “Style is one thing, girlfriend, genetics is another. If I’m not mistaken, that’s your twin out there, and she just told you that you’re a lot like your mother. That’s pretty cool.”

      Trust Evan not to let me hide from myself, even when I wanted to. I changed the subject.

      “I saw another ghost today.”

      Evan blanched. He hadn’t gotten over what happened the last time. “What? I thought that was done… over with?” His eyes darted around the office.

      “Not here, silly. At the funeral home.” I lifted the coffee pot and checked the contents. Still hot. I poured myself a cup while I told Evan the rest.

      “A woman in the ladies room was looking for her married boyfriend… some local big-wig. They were both killed in a car accident.” I stirred in some sweetener. “She said if she had to go to Hell, she wasn’t going without him. They’d been having an affair for years, and she was pretty pissed about winding up dead instead of married.”

      I turned, and there was Kelly behind Evan, her wheelchair filling the open doorway.

      Evan saw where my eyes went, and attempted a graceful save. “Kelly… would you like some coffee? Nicki’s feeling better now.”

      She turned down his offer with a shake of the head, eyeing me oddly. “You were telling the truth in the car, weren’t you?”

      I couldn’t help it… I looked at Evan and he looked at me. I’d never been a very good liar, and I had no idea what to say.

      “You really do see dead people.” Kelly was very calm considering her new sister was a nutcase. “Now we absolutely have to go back for Keith Gilhooly’s funeral.”

      Hot coffee sloshed over the rim of my cup, wetting my fingers. I held it away so it didn’t drip on my shoes.

      “Oh, no, we don’t.” I had no desire to revisit Psycho Barbie’s Playhouse. She’d dissipate eventually, or something.

      “Oh yes, we do,” Kelly said. I recognized that stubborn look on her face as similar to one I’d seen in a mirror, many times. “You were right. I saw him. I talked to him.” She rolled further into the room. “We have to help him.”

      I put down my coffee mug with a groan.

      “You… you see them, too?” Evan breathed. He didn’t have to say who ‘them’ was.

      Kelly glanced at him, face serious. Her eyes begged Evan to be honest. “You’d tell me if this was all a big joke, right? ‘Cause if this is all an act to get rid of me, you guys are going to way too much trouble.” She looked at me again. “All you have to do is tell me the truth. I’m a big girl - I can take it.”

      “I did tell you the truth!” Dammit. “You were the one who lied… you said you didn’t see him!”

      Evan made an exasperated noise. “Calm down, ladies.” He stepped between us, helping himself to my rapidly cooling coffee. He took a sip, then grimaced, preferring it black. “Let me get this straight. You went the funeral home and you both saw a ghost?”

      Kelly didn’t answer, so I nodded.

      “Only not the same one?”

     I nodded again, miserable.

      “Oh my.” Evan leaned against the desk, one Prada shoe crossed casually over the other. “You girls sure know how to put the ‘fun’ back in ‘funeral’.”