Cupid's Revenge (7 page)

“Oh.” Her eyes got big.

“Let’s go for coffee. I have a little time.”

*  *  *

“So that’s it,” I said to the chief the next morning. “We could have gotten her for the graffiti but the rest wasn’t provable and she really was horrified about the fire once she saw it might spread. So I took care of it another way— a way that won’t jeopardize Books on Wheels funding or cause any bad publicity for the Sweethearts Ball. I hope you don’t mind.”

The chief nodded. “That’s the best solution all the way around.”

The chief was about justice more than about the law. It’s why he and Dad got on so well. City government had never been so harmonious.

“Yeah— and I won’t have to make another paper carnation as long as I live! Mrs. Winkler is my stand-in from now to eternity. It’s her penance,” I said, righteously.

“I’m glad it isn’t blackmail like I first thought,” he said dryly. “So, will you all be going to the ball tonight?”

“Briefly. I would give it a pass, but Bob is determined and I think it is best for everyone if we let life get back to normal.”

*  *  *

I got home before Rosemary, but not by much. Alex was working next door in the remains of his office and Bob and Dad were watching a basketball game with cats in their laps and a tremendous amount of hair on their clothing. They weren’t talking but looked utterly relaxed in each other’s company. In fact, they may have been napping.

Rosemary shut the door noisily and dropped packages on the dining table. She was wearing a patterned scarf loud enough to cause seizures. I’m sure she was trying for cheerful and had unwisely taken Mary Elizabeth’s fashion advice.

She had also bought replacement drapes for Alex’s office which she displayed proudly.

The duplex is modest in size. You have to be careful how you decorate it or you can make the rooms look even smaller than they are. I do a lot of cream on cream. The ruffled sheers in Pepto pink would make Alex’s half look like a dinky dolly dream house. But this was Alex’s mom and Alex’s problem.

I managed not to snicker until Rosemary had gone off to change clothes and share her find with Alex, but I looked over at Bob and caught him grinning and I kind of lost it.

“Alex will be very surprised with those drapes,” I said finally.

“Yes, and then some.”

I shook my head at him.

“You know, you and Alex are both entirely too nice. I have to work hard not to take advantage of that,” I scolded.

Bob grinned some more. He was looking a lot better. Dad got up and hugged me.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he said. “I’m bringing your mother.”

This wasn’t a huge surprise. Mom and Dad didn’t live together but they weren’t really separated either.

*  *  *

The band was slogging through
Melody Of Love
. They played everything at a slow waltz time and it made the songs all but indistinguishable. I did my best to tune them out and to sit up straight so I didn’t crease my dress. I was wearing the same gown I had for Althea’s wedding. I hadn’t had the time or inclination to shop for another.

The gazebo looked terrific. In previous years, when there had been only needed renovations, parts of the structure had seemed a little faded and tired. That night it stood in vibrant glory, housing a very uncomfortable Mrs. Graves, a haughty Tara Lee, a fluttery Mrs. Everett and Mr. Jackman who was doing his best to hide himself and his enormous red silk flower boutonniere behind the left pillar. I doubt he had understood what he was signing up for when he agreed to be the Queen’s consort. At least he didn’t have to wear a crown.

Shirley Winkler was ‘sick’ and couldn’t attend. I think she was sick with shame and also fear of what Mrs. Graves might say to her.

“We have a surprise to share with you all,” Rosemary said as Alex passed around the sparkling cider. In deference to Bob’s restrained menu, we were all avoiding alcohol. “Bob is retiring.”

We all started to offer congratulations but Rosemary rushed on.

“And we have decided to sell our house and get a condo and then a place up here so we can spend summers with you. That means we’ll be here to help with the wedding.”

I managed a grimace that might pass for a smile and then gulped my cider. Alex and Mary Elizabeth at least managed wan grins. Mom and Dad did a little better.

“Well. That’s just lovely,” Mom said. She did it really, really, well but I knew she was lying. Even my mother had Rosemary-fatigue.

I squeezed Alex’s hand under the table, offering comfort and support. The housing market was really slow. I consoled myself with the hope that they wouldn’t find a buyer for a good long time. Maybe years.

And if they did manage to sell the house and get up here by summer… well, there was still Las Vegas as a fallback option.

“Cheers!” I said, offering a toast. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

Excerpt from the next Chloe Boston Mystery: Viva Lost Vegas

Alex poured me a glass of wine as soon as I walked through the door.

“So,” he said nervously. “Gwen called today. She’s been talking to Mom.”

“No,” I said, refusing his request and the wine. “No. I don’t want her to be a bridesmaid.”

“But—”

“No.” I turned, picked up my purse, called Blue and then left. About two blocks later I stopped running and called the house.

“Chloe!”

“I’ve had it. I don’t want a polka band. I don’t want fruitcake. I don’t want to release a hundred white doves to poop on my guests. I don’t want to wear a dress that is bigger than the entire church and weighs more than I do. And I really, really don’t want people picking my bridesmaids!”

The last part was shouted and Blue was looking alarmed.

“I’m sorry. I—”

“The wedding is off.”

“What?” he sounded as stunned as I was at this blurted announcement. I clutched at Blue and rolled the words around my head. They were horrible, but they were right.

“Here are the options. One, we continue to live in sin. Two, it’s you, me and the courthouse— with maybe our parents. Three, we elope to Las Vegas and let Elvis marry us.” I paused, feeling faint but forcing out the next words. “Or you can leave, of course.”

“No! God, no! I’ve been driven crazy by wedding stuff, but not that crazy.”

“Okay then.” I inhaled and exhaled slowly. “So what’s it to be?”

And that was how we ended up in the car, in the dead of night, during a rainstorm, heading for border with a duffle bag, my dog, a sack of kibble and reservations at a one-star, pet friendly motel.

The only person I had called was my boss, Randy Wallace, and he had only asked me if this was vacation or sick leave.

“Do they have mental health days?” I asked.

“No. Not without a visit to a shrink.”

“Then mark me down as sick and tired. I’ll be back by the weekend.”

I should have known that it is never that easy when you are having a wedding.

Excerpt from The First Book of Dreams: Metropolis

 ‘Frae ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties and things that gae bump in the night, O Lord, deliver us.’

— 14
^th
century Scottish Prayer

I dream.

And so do you, of course. Animals too. But dreaming is my job. Or rather, the policing of dangerous sleep, being the guardian of dreamers gone awry, that is the task that has devolved upon me.

You may have met me in the Narcoscape, a silent shadow at the edge of your imaginings as I went about my business. Perhaps you saw me as an angel, if you believe in such things. You probably did not fear me when we passed, for you knew that I was not one of the creatures that go bump in the night. Chances are good we may meet again some night because I get around.

Sleep can be many things. It is the calling of the sweet daydreams of the parted lovers, or the longing of the child stuck in a classroom on a fine May day. It can be the refuge where we see to the knitting up of the raveled sleeve of care left tattered by daily life. It is the place visited by mystics and swamis, and the destination for deep meditation and prayer. It is a tapestry embroidered with our unconscious thoughts. Without it, we would die.

It is other things, too, many of them dangerous and predatory. It is the place where infants are so beguiled by visions that they do not wake in the morning. It is the shadowy realm where the coma patients live—sometimes by choice but sometimes because they have become weak in mind and soul, and other darker things have begun to prey on them. It is often the last stop for the drunks and drug-users who come one too many times to the arms of Morpheus and Hypnos seeking oblivion. This is also the kingdom of schizophrenics, paranoids and other members of the insane fraternity whose grasp on waking reality has slipped. For them
monsters abideth here
.

Most people come and go from the Narcoscape without incident, but once in a while something goes wrong on the dreamside. If it goes a little wrong and the victim’s kin are ignorant, the family will have to wait for the Dream Police—aka the NarcoNazis—to sort it out. When it goes very wrong, if loved ones are in the know, they call me. I’m the retrieval expert, the ghost hunter, the slayer of night terrors who won’t negotiate with the Dream Police.

I own and run
Hypnos Inc
. and have a scary Greek title conferred at birth (my parents said) by gods of sleep and dreams, but you can call me Nic. That’s short for Nicodemus. Yes, that’s traditionally a man’s name. I am called after my paternal grandfather. It’s one of the trials of being an only child in a family with large expectations of offspring to carry on the familial traditions. I’m a little surprised they didn’t stick me with a whole string of my aunts’ and uncles’ middle names while they were at it, but I guess my parents figured that naming a girl Nicodemus was enough of a sacrifice to generational expectations. The other relatives went begging.

My namesake, Grandpa Nic, was the great-great-something-grandson of the first Nicodemus, best know for his psuedepigrapha,
The Gospel of Nicodemus
. Only according to family legend, there is nothing
psuede
about it. His visions were real dream visitations and his descendents had been having them ever since, though most of us have escaped the curse of prophecy.

Not too surprisingly, dream consulting is a family calling, a difficult job that few can manage and stay sane, so I haven’t got a lot of competition in this field. Of course, I can’t really advertise in the yellow pages either, so it all kind of evens out. I am not like a dentist or a stylist or an accountant. For one thing, I’m not that well paid. Also, my cases are the kind you can’t schedule for in advance—though certain people keep me on retainer, just in case. When I am needed, I am needed
now
. That was why I was on my way to Mercy Hospital, driving in the pre-dawn darkness without my usual skinny café-mocha or indulging in the regular Monday morning visit with Aunt Gertrude. The hospital was one of my long-standing clients who keep me on retainer for emergencies. It is also the place where my husband and parents died. Without me. They were gone through Death’s door before I even knew to look for them and there is a hole in my heart that I have never managed to fill.

Most hospital work I can do from home, but proximity helps when it is a fast snatch-and-grab job, which this might well be. It sounded like I wouldn’t have a lot of time for hunting down one Thomas Seymour before the family arrived, so I needed to go into the dreamside close to where he was sleeping. I may have lost my own husband, but I would not lose this man.

As so often happens, the threat on the patient’s life was an impatient family, just like this one. They were already on the way to the hospital to pull the plug on the unlucky Thomas Seymour (whose insurance had run out) and the hospital administrator wanted me to have a last look at their patient, age thirty-four, minor car accident victim with no apparent physical injuries but entering month four of an expensive and unexplainable coma.

It sounded fairly routine.

The hospital contract that had me up and driving at six in the morning had been negotiated by my parents before my birth. As I said, they are dead now and the previous hospital administrator has retired, but the family business lives on anyway. Officially, I am listed as a grief consultant, but what I really do is save the hospital from possible lawsuits for wrongful death and inconvenient reviews by medical ethics boards when it is decided that it is time to turn off life-support. The hospital administrator feels better knowing for certain that there is no mind left in the body and that the soul has actually moved on before they terminate life support. As a bonus, I sometimes rescue lost souls who have just wandered off in the Narcoscape and are in danger of becoming ghosts. When all goes well, which is most of the time, I bring them back to their families with their minds intact.

When the mind isn’t intact… well, we have ghosts in the Narcoscape too, lost minds who will not go to Death but refuse to return to Life. You recall that horrible feeling when you know you’re in a nightmare but can’t wake up? That’s what this is for the lost. It is a terrible fate, leading to a rapid mental degeneration similar to Alzheimer’s, though much worse because something predatory will almost always find a confused ghost and accidentally—or deliberately— enslave or consume them. I didn’t want this to happen to Mr. Seymour. If possible, I’d bring him back to the wakeside. But if all else failed, I would help him to find Death and move on. And I had to do it before his physical body died or he’d be stuck alone on the dream-side until something stronger ate him up. I can help the dreaming, but not the dead.

Chapter 1

‘Judge of your natural character by what you do in your dreams’.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

I pushed my way out of the heavy velvet curtains and into the meadow of ruby red grass that swayed gently under the breath of a southern zephyr smelling of Coppertone suntan oil. This time I was sure I’d gotten it right. The wandering one had been located.