Charlaine Harris: Day Shift

Manfred had actually met the Goldthorpe children, but briefly. His opinions about them had been largely formed from Rachel’s anecdotes. Annelle and Roseanna, the daughters (who were now in their later thirties), seemed both loving and dutiful. But Rachel’s youngest child, Lewis, was apparently batshit crazy. According to his mom, Lewis had been in and out of trouble and in and out of mental health care since he’d been fourteen. Now he was thirty-two, never married, and obsessed with his mother’s possessions. After losing his last job with a property management company, he’d moved back into her pool guesthouse. From there, Lewis watched Rachel’s every move and complained endlessly if she gave money to charity or even took her old clothes to Goodwill.

Today, Rachel wanted to consult with her husband, Morton, about the problem of Lewis. Manfred was fond of Rachel at least in part because he’d had great success with contacting Morton Goldthorpe, who urgently wanted to communicate with his wife. Since Morton had passed away, Manfred’s sessions with Rachel had been rewarding and exciting.

When he’d sent out an e-mail blast to announce he was available for private sittings again, Rachel was among the first to make an appointment.

When Manfred answered his door, he was shocked to see how wretched his client looked. “What’s wrong?” he asked, before he could think how tactless that sounded.

“I know, I know, I look bad,” she said. “I’m getting over pneumonia.” Rachel trudged past him and spotted the table, steered toward it. Her breathing was audible. Rachel was heavy, but she’d always been bouncy and vigorous. Today her flesh seemed to sag on her bones. There were circles under her eyes. “And then downstairs, somehow I dropped my purse. Everything went everywhere. They had to help me gather things up.”

“Rachel, should you even be here?” he asked, breaking one of his own rules. He never commented on a client’s appearance, pro or con.

She made an effort to smile, patting his shoulder. “I’m a lot better. This is the first time I’ve been out in three weeks. This morning I got my hair done and came to see you. Boy, does it feel good to be out of the house!” She patted her salt-and-pepper hair, which was arranged in its usual stiff curls. Her T-shirt read “World’s Best Grandma.”

“Who gave you the shirt?” Manfred said, figuring it was the kind of thing she’d like him to notice. He tried not to look as concerned as he felt.

Rachel sank into the chair with obvious relief. She pulled a refillable black bottle decorated with butterflies out of her purse and put it on the table in a handy spot. “Annelle’s kids. And Roseanna’s twins gave me the water bottle last Mother’s Day,” she said, with pride. “So much better than using a new plastic bottle every time, right? Better for the environment.”

“You sure you feel up to this?” Manfred said. He didn’t want to persist, but he was more than a little worried.

“I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks,” she said firmly. “Let’s get to it. I need some good in my life. Otherwise, Lewis will be the death of me. Did I tell you he’d moved into the pool house?” She took a big drink and sighed, recapping the bottle and extending her plump hands. “Ready.”

Manfred sat opposite her and reached across the table to take her hands in his own. Other clients had different preferences. They wanted the tarot or the mirror, or they’d brought a loved one’s possession for Manfred to hold. Rachel always wanted the touch. He wrapped her chilly fingers in his warm ones and bowed his head, his eyes closed. “Morton Goldthorpe, husband of Rachel, I’m searching for you,” he said. “Rachel needs you.”

“Oh, boy,” she breathed. “Do I ever. That Lewis! He told me he was going to take charge of my jewelry. Take charge! Like I was an Alzheimer’s person! So I had to hide my diamonds and my rubies.”

Manfred heard her words from a distance. He was busy opening himself to receive Morton. But he felt relief that Rachel had hidden her jewelry. Though she dressed and looked exactly like thousands of grandmothers who passed through the doors of any given Walmart every day, Rachel was very wealthy. The late Morton had made a lot of money in real estate and had been smart enough to get out when the getting was good. Though Manfred had no idea what Rachel’s bank statement would read, he knew she was well able to afford his fees, and evidently a lot of sparklies, too.

But all those considerations faded away as Manfred connected with the plane that housed the dead. His eyes were closed, so that he could see that world better: He was faced with the usual wall of billowing mist, out of which faces manifested with frightening rapidity.

And there was a face he knew approaching rapidly through the mist. Rachel’s fingers felt oddly slack in his grip, but he kept his focus with ferocious intensity.

“Here he is,” Manfred murmured, feeling Morton speeding through him. The spirit manifested a little differently today. Usually, Morton stopped at Manfred’s fingertips, content to touch his wife through Manfred. But today Morton ripped through Manfred with such force that he passed right into his Rachel. “You will not suffer, my dearest Rachel,” Manfred said, to his own surprise.

“Oh!” Rachel said dazedly, and to Manfred’s ears she sounded both excited and a bit startled… but not frightened. Manfred’s eyes flew open to look right into Rachel’s, and in that flash of a moment her eyes went blank. She slumped forward onto the table.

And then her fingers relaxed completely.

Morton flowed back through Manfred. Taking Rachel with him. For five seconds Manfred couldn’t see anything at all, and he felt utterly empty.

It seemed like an eternity until his vision cleared. Immediately, he noticed the limpness in Rachel’s body. He knew that she was dead. He let go of her hands to wrap his arms across his chest. He shivered all over. He wanted to cry or scream or run shouting from the room, but he did none of those things.

Sometimes, as his grandmother had often said, shit just happens.

He rose to walk unsteadily to the nearest phone. He punched a number to reach the front desk. “Is there a doctor in the hotel?” he asked, hearing his voice crack. He hadn’t sounded as uncertain since he was thirteen. “My guest is unconscious. In fact, I think she’s dead.”

So what happened then?” Fiji asked him. It was three days later, and they were sitting in her little kitchen. Fiji had invited Manfred and Bobo over to share a roast for Tuesday supper. She didn’t often buy expensive cuts of meat, but sirloin top roasts had been on sale at Kroger in nearby Davy, where the Midnighters went to shop. She’d cooked it traditionally, with new potatoes and carrots around the meat, and she’d made lots of gravy, and biscuits, too. It was so good that Manfred and Bobo had both had second helpings of everything.

“Then all the police who had been downstairs investigating a murder/suicide came up to my room,” Manfred said grimly. “It took me about an hour to explain what Rachel and I had been doing. They assumed I was some kind of gigolo. I guess they were hoping that I’d had a connection with the couple who’d died the night before, though they’d already questioned me about that.”

“Man,” said Bobo. Tall, fit, blond, and with a gorgeous white-toothed smile, Bobo was much more like someone’s idea of an ideal lover. In point of fact, Bobo was not vain and did not seem to be aware of how attractive he was. “With the lady in her sixties? That must have been embarrassing.”

“I was too scared to be embarrassed. By that time, I figured if they only thought I’d been having an affair with Rachel, I’d be glad.”