Gina Grant - Esprit de Corpse

“Oh, Kirsty. Thank you.” Shannon gave me a quick squeeze, not quite the hug I’d wanted earlier, but better than nothing. At least she let go of Dante for a few seconds. “And thank you, Dante.” She draped herself around my boyfriend like a snake. And snakes were something we knew a thing or two about in Hell.

When she finally let go, Dante looked dazed. “Only too happy to help, Shannon.” He cleared his throat and straightened his robe. Was it my imagination or was it slightly tented? Burning with anger, I spun on my boot heel and strode back into Shannon’s office. Dante and Shannon followed me, and I rounded on them, about to give Dante a piece of my mind.

Before I could say or do anything to reveal my inner green-eyed monster, Willa, Shannon’s administrative assistant, rushed in.

“Oh, Shannon,” she addressed Conrad. “I’m so sorry. I tried to stop him, but . . .”

“Move aside, ma’am. This is a police matter.” Detective Leo strode into the room, hand resting on the gold shield clipped to his belt the same way mine rested on my scythe. “Ms. Iver, you’re going to have to come with me down to the station.”

“That’s preposterous,” Conrad huffed in Shannon’s voice. Before she’d been dispossessed, she’d sounded self-assured, now Conrad just sounded self-important. “I’ve far too much to do here. I can’t possibly get away. If you need a public relations specialist, I can send one of my junior account execs.”

“No, Ms. Iver, I’m afraid it has to be you. Will you come along quietly or do I need to use cuffs?”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He turned to Willa. “Joanne. Wendy. Whatever your name is, call my lawyer.”

Willa pressed her lips together and dashed from the room, although whether to call the company’s lawyer or pack up her desk, I didn’t know. If he’d spoken to me that way, I’d probably quit.

“I see we’re going to do this the hard way.” The detective held out a white plastic coil, like a garbage bag tie on steroids. Boring. Our manacles had a lot more panache. Plus they made the appropriate ghostly clinking sound, not to mention the artfully applied rust.

“Shannon Iver. I’m charging you with the murder of Kirsty d’Arc. You have the right to remain silent . . .”

SILENT WAS THEone thing Conrad couldn’t remain. He argued and protested through the entire arrest process.

Just like in the movies, Detective Leo cuffed Conrad’s stolen hands behind his back and marched him out of the big corner office. Conrad wobbled a little on Shannon’s high heels, but soon muscle memory took over and he managed to walk down the hall, although not exactly gracefully.

Detective Leo kept a firm grip on Shannon’s bicep, moving Conrad along at a respectable clip.

With each office they passed, the resident executive stuck their head out, demanding to know what was going on. By the time the detective had marched Conrad into the lobby, the entire place looked like whack-a-mole—the corporate version.

Once they reached the elevator, I jogged to catch up. Snaking around Iver PR employees slowed me down a bit. Much as I liked being able to walk through walls and doors, I hadn’t yet come to appreciate my ability to walk through people.

Behind me, Dante guided Shannon’s soul along, although his hand on her arm seemed a lot friendlier than the way the detective gripped her father.

The elevator pinged its arrival. Leo, Conrad and I stepped on. The door began to slide closed. “Hold the elevator!” I yelled, sticking a foot in the doorway to block it.

Of course it closed right through my hiking boot and began its descent.

A moment later I stepped to one side as Dante, dragging Shannon with him, fell through the roof. Shannon shrieked. What was her problem? It had only dropped about ten feet and Dante had managed to keep her upright when they’d landed. She struggled in his grip, finally pulling away.

She bumped against her father. Instead of slipping right through him, she bounced off. Oh, right. I remembered doing that, too, when I’d tried to repossess my own body.

And that made me wonder. Had Conrad managed to get Shannon’s signature on the Hellish contract amendment?

“Shannon, you know that document Conrad was trying to get you to sign when I woke up?” I asked.

She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “Oh, Kirsty. I’m so grateful you saved my life. But it looks like your sacrifice was all for nothing.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, ignoring the unpleasant reminder and keeping us on track. “What happened to the document? It was parchment and . . .”

“I never signed it, but I hung onto it because he seemed to think it was important. I keep it in a locked drawer at the office. Only Willa and I have keys. I didn’t want anyone to find it and think my dad wasn’t in his right mind.”

“Wasn’t in his . . . He tried to get you to take his place in Hell. You watched him bash my brains in. Of course he wasn’t—Why are you looking at my hair? Is it all frizzy again?” Old insecurities die hard. When my hair had turned white, it had lost its frizziness. But I still worried. “Does it look okay?”

She glanced down, looking embarrassed. I smoothed my hair.

“It turned white when I . . . Oh, you weren’t looking at my hair, were you?”

She shook her head, her own elegant, manageable coif swaying with the motion. She wore it in a loose bun and the side tendrils fell around her reddened cheeks. “Did the, you know, damage my dad did, uh, transfer?” She reached out a hand toward me, but stopped short. Instead, she ran her hand over her own skull.

Dante jumped into the conversation. “The means of one’s death does not necessarily affect one’s soul-shape.”

“Huh?” I said.

“I’m sorry?” Shannon added.

Dante pursed his lips, probably trying to figure out where he’d lost us.

“So in Kirsty’s case, her head is not any more lumpy than it was when she was alive.” He smiled at me.

“Gee, thanks, Dante. Are you’re saying I have a lumpy head? And by the way, sometimes the method of one’s demise does affect one’s soul-shape. I met this guy in the appeals line who kept losing his head. Told us all about it. He’d been decaptivating.”

Still staring at my head, Shannon whispered, “Sorry.”

“’S okay. You didn’t know.”

The elevator reached the ground and spewed us all into the lobby. We followed the detective and Conrad toward the exit, Conrad’s high heels clicking loudly in the marble foyer.

I had tuned Conrad’s voice out while I’d been grilling Shannon about the document, confident Dante would draw my attention to anything important. We may have been fighting and he may have been acting like a jerk, but when it came to reaping, he put the “dead” in “dedication.”

Now I tuned back in, hearing exactly what I’d expected.

Conrad, in low, conspiratorial tones, was trying to manipulate Detective Leo into letting him go. Having reached the end of his excuses and promises, he moved on to threats. He knew the mayor. He knew the police chief. He knew the dogcatcher. Whatever it took to make the charges go away. I wasn’t looking forward to the ride downtown. I didn’t need Claire Voyant or Sue Sayer to foresee that begging and bribing were in the unlucky detective’s future.

And I’d be stuck listening to it all.

The detective placed a hand on Conrad’s head and guided him into the backseat of a dark blue sedan. Conrad practically fell into the car, unpracticed at maneuvering in a tight skirt.

I couldn’t help laughing. Conrad struggling to be calm and manipulative while dealing with a tight skirt and high heels only whetted my appetite for justice. I nearly asked Shannon about her monthly cycle; wouldn’t it be fitting to have Conrad bent double with cramps? Not to mention having to deal with the ins and outs of feminine protection. Literally!