Seeing the Light (A Marie Jenner Mystery Book 1) Read online

  “So, what are you doing here?” the cute guy asked. He smiled, but it didn’t quite touch his eyes.

  He was cute in that tall, dark and handsome, way that I always found too attractive. He was six foot four, at least, and his hair wasn’t just dark brown, it was nearly black. Same with his eye lashes, which were unbelievably long and thick. And his eyes. So blue, I couldn’t look away.

  See? Tall, dark, and handsome.

  I tried to smile nonchalantly, wishing Farley would shut up for a second so I could think. “I was here for an interview. Mr. Latterson hired me. I’m supposed to start tomorrow.”

  His smile disappeared. “Don Latterson?” he asked. “What are you doing for him?”

  “What are you, a cop?” I snapped. Cute’s cute, but I didn’t need the third degree.

  “No,” he said, and had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” I replied, embarrassed myself for overreacting. “I’m Mr. Latterson’s new receptionist.” I stuck out my hand. “Marie Jenner.”

  He smiled. “I’m James,” he said, and shook my hand. “James Lavall.”

  A hand shake should be perfunctory. Three shakes, no more. Ours went on a lot longer than that. And I was back staring into his blue eyes. They were mesmerizing.

  Farley picked that moment to start sobbing, his hands over his face.

  “I’m not here,” he cried. “Someone killed me, I’m not here anymore, and that son of a bitch took my job.” He looked at me, pain and grief etched into his face. “Help me prove it. Please. You’re my only hope.”

  I pulled my hand from James’, with difficulty. “I should get going,” I said. “Places to be, and all that.”

  Then I half-turned, so I was facing Farley. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said. He nodded, still sobbing, and I took a giant step sideways, so I wouldn’t have to step into him. Of course, this put me really close to James. Of course, James smelled as good as he looked.

  Once I was finally away from them, I ran around the corner to the stairs. As the exit door sighed shut, I heard both of them say, “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  Good grief.

  Marie:

  So Now What?

  I had to hurry to get to the Yellowhead Cab Company job on time. I made it with two minutes to spare, and sat down at the desk I shared with Jasmine, the day dispatcher and one of my best friends.

  “Did you get the job?” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder for our boss, Gerald the Tyrant.

  “Yes,” I sighed, and pulled the headset on.

  “Excellent.” She smiled. “So are you quitting tonight? Maybe I should stay, just to watch.”

  “I’m not going to quit.” I sighed again and sat down.

  “Why not?” Even though her three kids were already on the bus heading for home, she put her purse on the desk top and stared at me. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know if I can handle the job,” I said. “I think I should hang on to this one until I’m sure.”

  It had nothing to do with handling the job. It had to do with Farley, the ghost. However, Jasmine didn’t know about my problems with ghosts. She knew about Arnie Stillwell, my stupid stalkery ex-boyfriend, and she knew about my mother being sick. But the ghost issue—nope.

  She frowned, and I knew my weak excuse wasn’t convincing her. It wouldn’t have convinced me.

  “That’s too bad,” she finally said. What she meant was, “Tell me exactly what you mean by that.”

  For a second I wished I could, but I didn’t open my mouth. Seeing ghosts made me too weird, and I didn’t have so many friends that I could scare the good ones off with the truth.

  “You’re going to be late,” I finally said. “Say hi to the kids for me.”

  She looked at her watch, gasped, and scooped up her purse. “We are going to talk soon,” she said. “I want details.” And then she was gone.

  I sighed again, knowing I was being too dramatic and not having the strength to stop. I sat down, hitting the first lit button on the phone as I did so.

  “Yellowhead Cabs.” I rang the words out in that sing song voice every dispatcher in every office in the world affects. “How can I help you?”

  My replacement was late, of course, so I didn’t get home until nearly 4 a.m.. I made sure I opened the door to my apartment very slowly, because sometimes the difference in air pressure made Sally—the drug addict who died in my apartment a month before I rented it, and who I did NOT see before I signed the stupid lease—hysterical. I wanted no part of her histrionics. I just wanted sleep.

  I pulled my cell phone from my pocket, so I could charge it. I had to charge the stupid thing every night because it was ready to die. I knew I needed to get a new one. I couldn’t afford it. Just one more thing I couldn’t afford.

  The red light blinked as I put in the charger. A voice mail message. At first, my stomach clenched. It couldn’t be Arnie. He didn’t have my cell phone number—at least I was pretty sure he didn’t. Hoped he didn’t. Prayed quite regularly that he didn’t. It couldn’t be him.

  Maybe it was another job offer. I crossed my fingers. Maybe I could just let the receptionist job—and Farley—go. When I looked down at the number, I saw it was from my mother.

  “Oh Mom, what do you want?”

  I pressed the button and heard Mom’s breathless, “Marie, are you there, girl?” followed by the sharp hacking cough that sounded so horrible—so final—that I pulled the phone away from my ear.

  I didn’t want to listen anymore. Really, all I wanted to do was stop the message. I was sure I didn’t want to hear what she had to say.

  The coughing seemed to take forever, until finally, Mom was able to speak. I was right. I didn’t want to hear that message.

  She needed money. She didn’t want to say it, and she knew I wouldn’t want to hear it, but that was the gist of her message. Apparently, Ramona, my oldest sister, wasn’t able to help out as much as she’d said she would, and if I could help, just a little, Mom would be eternally grateful.

  The message finally ended, and I thought about the thirteen dollars in my bank account. I’d be paid in two days from my cab job, but I had to cover rent, plus some of my bills. If I was going to help Mom, I’d have to keep this new job, at least for a while.

  After that, sleep eluded me.

  It wasn’t Mom’s money problem keeping me awake, though. It was the interview. The interview, and meeting Farley. Interacting with him. Watching him go from happy as heck to crying like a baby, and begging me to help him.

  After an hour of flipping and flopping, I got out of bed and went to my front closet. I pulled the big pile of newspapers I had stacked inside it onto the floor and plunked down beside them, preparing to go through them, one by one. Usually I looked for jobs, checked the obits, and read the comics. This time I was looking for an article about Farley’s death.

  He said he’d died six or seven days before, so I started with the ones published the week prior, perusing them as quickly and thoroughly as I could.

  “He said he was killed, so it has to be in here somewhere,” I muttered, pulling out another paper from the pile and flipping through the pages. “There has to be something.”

  There was nothing about him on the front page, or even on the front page of the local section. I finally found an article, three brief paragraphs, two pages from the end and way below the fold, entitled “Local Man Accidentally Electrocutes Self”. A small photo of Farley, either a passport or booking photo, accompanied the article.

  “Dammit,” I muttered, and ripped out the article, ramming it into my purse. Why hadn’t I seen it before the interview? If I had, I never would have gone. Never in a million years.

  As I settled back into bed, Sally wandered in through the wall of the closet and sat down on the living room floor, aiming an invisible remote control at an equally invisible television set. I ignored her, because she was unaware that I was even there. She was reliving the last hours
of her life, as she did every morning. I had two more hours before she started screaming.

  The dead are everywhere, I thought as I pulled my blankets closer to my chin, and closed my eyes. Sometimes it feels like there’s no way to get away from them. No way at all.

  Sally, sitting approximately where she’d died, moaned gently, like the wind through leafless branches, lulling me to sleep.

  Farley:

  Death’s Good When You

  Have Someone to Talk to

  What a fucking relief! Cute little Marie Jenner had seen me, talked to me. I wasn’t alone, anymore.

  She seemed bright. She figured out the telephone snafu quick enough to win that job, anyhow. I bet she’ll be able to help me figure out what the hell happened to me. Because, for the life of me, I can’t remember how I died.

  I needed to remember. In fact, it was vital that I remember.

  So, as happy as I was to have someone to talk to, I really needed to have her help me figure out how I died. Just as long as it wasn’t an accident.

  That would not stand.

  And if she couldn’t do that, I hoped she’d at least be able to figure out how I could get out of the building. I mean, I love the old girl, but even a ghost needs a day off from work.

  Right?

  Marie:

  First Day of Work Exceeding Expectations. Almost.

  I called my mom first thing in the morning, and managed to pick a fight with her about Ramona and her money issues. Nice, huh? No, not really. Worse, fighting with her about money meant there was no way in the world I was talking to her about another ghost, and on top of everything else, I almost missed the last bus to work.

  I hoped this wasn’t setting the stage for the rest of the day, but when I arrived at the Palais, Farley wasn’t waiting for me at the front entrance. I was as surprised as I was pleased. I would have bet a rather large amount of money that he would have been.

  He’ll be waiting in Mr. Latterson’s office, I thought, and trudged up the stairs. He wasn’t.

  That’s when the day started to brighten appreciably. Maybe he’d moved on during the night.

  I settled my purse under my new desk, and took off my sweater, hanging it over the back of my new chair. They weren’t just new to me. Both the desk and the chair looked like they’d never been used before. I caressed the top of the desk. It felt like satin compared to the sticky plastic topped one I shared with Jasmine at Yellowhead Cab. If the ghost had actually moved on, I could get used to this.

  I jumped as Mr. Latterson’s office door swung open and he walked into the reception area. He looked pointedly at his watch and frowned, even though I was ten minutes early.

  “Good morning,” I said, and smiled. “I want to thank you again for hiring me.”

  He pointed at the coffee machine. “Coffee. Black with three sugars. First appointment in fifteen minutes. Let me know when he arrives.”

  He stared at me, as though waiting for me to say anything that would give him the opportunity to yell. I kept my mouth shut until he wheeled back into his office, slamming the door shut behind him.

  Wow. Nasty. Almost as bad as Gerald the Tyrant. I hoped the coffee was going to help.

  I opened a cupboard or two, searching for and finding the coffee and filters. It only took a moment for me to get the Bunn started and as the coffee brewed, I found the cups. The machine was fast, and in a couple of minutes I had two cups of steaming coffee sitting on the counter.

  I spooned sugar liberally into one, then picked it up and walked to Mr. Latterson’s door. I knocked, entering when he bellowed something I could not understand.

  He was on the phone. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, Mr. Carruthers, I’m all set up.”

  As I walked his coffee to him, he glowered and covered the receiver. I could still hear Mr. Carruthers, whoever he was, yakking into Mr. Latterson’s ear. I set the cup on the desk.

  “Do you need anything else?” I asked.

  He shook his head, but after he sipped the coffee, he half-smiled and mouthed thanks.

  “You’re welcome,” I whispered, and backed out of his office, quietly closing the door behind me.

  That was much nicer than Gerald had ever been to me. That I could definitely get used to.

  Mr. Latterson’s appointment showed up, fifteen minutes late. He was a guy about my age, and good looking, in that greasy snake way that can make your skin crawl if you get too close to him. He leaned over my desk, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of my breasts. His aftershave wafted over me in waves so thick I wished it was possible to open the window a crack.

  “So, what do we have here?” he asked.

  “Are you here to see Mr. Latterson?” I pulled away from his eyes and his overwhelming aftershave, trying to keep a smile on my face.

  “Yep. Tell him Raymond is here.”

  “Last name?”

  He smiled. “He knows who I am.”

  I wanted to snap, “Just tell me your last name so I don’t have to hurt you,” but I smiled, instead. “The problem is I don’t know you,” I said, voice like honey. I’m not kidding, positively like honey. “So, please, just tell me your last name.”

  “All right,” he replied, as though he was doing me the biggest favour in the world. “The name’s Raymond Jackson.”

  “Thanks, Raymond Jackson,” I said, and smiled at him, hoping it looked at least half-real. “Please have a seat.” I pointed to the far wall where three chairs and a small coffee table were nestled. “I’ll let him know.”

  “I’m good here,” he said, and parked his left butt cheek on the edge of my brand new desk. Trying to keep the smile on my face, I picked up the receiver and let Mr. Latterson know Raymond had arrived.

  It didn’t take him long to burst out of his office, looking as angry as he had before I’d given him his coffee.

  “You’re late,” he growled at Raymond, who shriveled before my eyes. “You know how important this meeting is.”

  “Sorry,” Raymond said, and hung his head.

  “Sorry’s not good enough, boy,” Latterson pointed at the door. “Let’s go.”

  “What would you like me to do while you’re out, Mr. Latterson?” I asked.

  He stared at me like he couldn’t quite remember who I was or why I was there.

  “Get the mail,” he finally said. “Don’t open it. And stay out of my office. Going in there when I’m not here is verboten. Verboten. You got that?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Verboten. Got it.”

  The door slammed shut, and I was alone. Or I thought I was, for about a second.

  “Macho Don’s a real dick, isn’t he?”

  Farley’s voice preceded him through the door of the small closet next to the front door of the office. He’d obviously been hiding in there until I was alone.

  “Hi Farley,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound as disappointed as I felt.

  He didn’t answer, he didn’t smile, and he wasn’t dancing any more. In fact, he looked kind of horrible.

  “Did you have a bad night?” I asked.

  “You know what I miss?” He walked to the front of my desk and leaned into it as though he couldn’t stand upright any more. “I really miss beer. Especially the first one of the night. And televised poker games. They’re pretty entertaining—or they were, when I had enough beer.” He sighed, deeply and melodramatically.

  Oh.

  “That sounds nice,” I said, even though it didn’t.

  “And taking a crap,” he said. “I miss that, too.”

  “Farley!” I giggled and gasped at the same time, sounding like I was twelve years old. Not the best way to handle a ghost having a crisis. Luckily he was still ignoring me.

  “It was the most satisfying bodily function I had left.” He sighed again. “I cried like a baby for two days when I realized I wasn’t going to be able to take a crap ever again.”

  “Farley—” I said again, trying to sound more adult. Then I stopped. I had no idea whether what he was doi
ng was normal or not. Maybe I needed to let him talk this kind of stuff out.

  But really? Drinking beer and going to the bathroom were the two things he missed? Really?

  He glanced at me. “Ever again sounds like a hell of a long time, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it does,” I replied.

  “When my wife took our kid and left, my life became this blur of sameness, know what I mean? I worked, I ate take out, I drank beer and watched TV. When I drank enough beer, I’d fall asleep until I could go to work the next day. Taking a crap was the high point of my day.” He grinned, without one drop of humor in it. “No wonder I miss it.”

  “Farley,” I said, determined to get control of the conversation this time, for sure. “We need to talk about how to move you—”

  “Move me out?” he said, his smile back, frantic, and a teeny bit scary. “Oh man, that would be great—”

  “Out of what?” I asked, then shook my head. He was not hijacking this conversation again. “No, I mean moving you on.”

  “On?” A frown formed between his eyebrows and leaked to his mouth, pulling the corners down so that he looked angry and bitter and old. Definitely old. “On? What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means moving you from this plane of existence to the next,” I said, my voice going high and tight. I took a breath and blew it out to calm myself. “That’s what you need to do. And I should be able to help you.”

  I hoped.

  The frown deepened. “Are you talking about heaven and hell?”

  “No. Yes.” I sighed impatiently. “Sort of. It all depends on what you believe.”

  His mouth worked. “Well, forget it. I’m not doing that.”

  “But you have to,” I said.

  “Why?”

  I stared at him, flummoxed. I couldn’t exactly tell him he needed to move on so I could enjoy my new job, now could I? No, I couldn’t. And I really didn’t have a better reason at the moment. I was pretty sure Mom had mentioned the “why” of moving on to me at some point, but mostly what I remembered were the fights.