Linda Miller - Deadly Gamble

Her lower lip wobbled. It looked cracked and dry, as though she’d bitten it a lot. I felt a twinge of pity, but it passed quickly when her cart clanged against mine and one of the wheels ran over my toe.

“Bitch!” she screeched. “Homewrecker! Tramp!”

That did it.

I went after her. Right for her throat. I probably would have strangled her if two box boys and one of the old ladies hadn’t intervened. She must have been up on her Fosomax, that ancient shopper, because she dived straight into the fray, with no evident concern for broken bones.

“Somebody get security!” one of the box boys yelled.

A rent-a-cop appeared, overweight, his uniform shirt speckled with white powder, most likely doughnut residue.

“Did anybody see what happened?” he huffed.

“I did,” said the old lady, stepping between Heather and me.

I shook free of box boy #1.

Heather struggled in the grasp of #2.

“What?” asked the security guard—Marvin, according to his name tag—dusting off his shirt with one hand.

“This one,” answered the geriatric she-hero, pointing to Heather, “was harassing that one.” The arthritic finger moved to me.

“You’ve got that right,” I said huffily, tugging at the hem of my Be a Bad-Ass at Bert’s T-shirt. “It’s a fine thing when a person can’t even shop for frozen dinners without being attacked by some maniac. I’ve got a good mind to take my business elsewhere after this.”

Marvin and the box boys looked hopeful.

Heather started to cry. “She stole my husband,” she said, with more lip wobbling.

Marvin, the box boys and the old lady studied me thoughtfully.

“She’s nuts,” I said. “Certifiable. Over the edge. And furthermore, her husband is a jerk.”

“One of these days,” Heather said, “I am going to kill you.”

Public opinion swung in my direction.

“I rest my case,” I said.

“Did you steal her husband?” the old lady wanted to know.

“No,” I replied, ready to wheel into the sunset with my frozen dinners and what was left of my dignity. “And if I had, I’d have given him back.”

With that, I pushed my shopping cart between them and headed for the checkout stand. I didn’t start shaking until I was safe in my secondhand Volvo, with the windows rolled up and the doors locked.

Back at Bad-Ass Bert’s, I carried my groceries inside. Eight frozen dinners, a litter box and a bag of absorbent pellets.

“I wasn’t sure,” I told Chester, who was waiting for me when I lugged the stuff through the door. “About the litter, I mean.”

Chester sniffed the bag curiously.

“Of course,” I reasoned, because I needed to hear a voice, even if it was my own, “if you don’t eat, it follows that you don’t poop, either.”

“Meow,” Chester said.

“Thanks for hanging out,” I answered.

“I wish you felt that way about me,” Nick said.

I swung around to see him standing next to my bookshelf, which was beside the computer, where I kept my sizeable collection of Damn Fool’s Guides. Unfortunately, there wasn’t one dealing with dead people—trust me, I’d looked the day before, when I stopped to get the Tarot tome, but Near Death Experiences was the closest thing—or crazy female stalkers, either.

“Now what?” I demanded, letting the kitty litter and the plastic box topple to the floor. I clutched the bag full of Lean Cuisines to my chest, like a shield.

Nick was perusing titles. “The Damn Fool’s Guide to Dating,” he mused, running a finger along the spines. “Tantric Sex. Raising Ferrets.” He paused, looked me over closely, and with compassionate concern. “Ferrets?”

“It was a passing fancy,” I said, and started for the kitchen.

He followed, of course, and so did the cat.

“Tantric Sex?” Nick pressed.

“I’m single and over twenty-one,” I reminded him, jerking open the freezer section of the refrigerator and tossing in the week’s meals, bag and all. “And what are you doing here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Just a friendly visit,” he said. Then he opened the cupboard, took out the Oreos and sniffed them. A look of pathetic longing crossed his face.

“Here’s an idea,” I said, whacking the freezer door shut with the flat of one hand. “Go ‘visit’ your mother.”

“Your attitude is very unbecoming, you know,” Nick said. With a sigh, he put the Oreos back in the cupboard. “What did my mother ever do to deserve this…rancor?”

“Well, first of all,” I replied, ticking number one off on my finger, “she gave birth to you. Second, she stuck her nose into our business every chance she got. And third, she saw to it that I got bupkis in the divorce.” I paused. “Oh, and then there’s the way her head sprouts snakes at the most unexpected moments.”

“You don’t like her,” Nick said, sad and surprised.

“Don’t take it too hard, but I don’t like you very much, either.”

“If you knew the trouble I have to go to, to keep a charge,” he replied, quietly stricken, “you wouldn’t be so rude.”

I grabbed the coffee carafe, poured out the stale stuff I’d never gotten around to drinking earlier and cranked on the faucet. The pipes rattled. “If that little illusion gives you consolation, Nick,” I said, “you just go with it. And while you’re at it, why don’t you tell me what the hell you want? As long as it isn’t sex, I’ll give it to you, and you can move on to the next plane of existence, or whatever it is you dead people do.”

Any self-respecting spook would have been insulted enough to vanish, but not Nick. He grinned, pulled back a chair at the table and sat down. “No sex, huh?”

“Not on your—life,” I said.

“Bummer,” he sighed.

“Don’t you have something to do? In the train station or whatever it is?”

Another sigh. “I’m stuck in the depot until I deal with you,” Nick said, and he looked just earnest enough to be telling the truth.

A clear indication that he was lying through his perfect teeth.

“Are you sleeping with that biker?” he asked.

“That comes under the heading of None of Your Damn Business.” I sloshed the water into the top of the coffeemaker, spooned some Starbucks into the basket and jammed the carafe onto the burner.

“A biker, for Christ’s sake?”

“Tucker’s not a biker. He’s a cop. Narcotics division.”

“At least his name rhymes with my opinion of him.”

“Gee, and your opinion matters so much.”

“You didn’t used to be so hard.”

“Well, you haven’t changed at all.” I leaned against the counter, folding my arms. Chester wound his silky way around my ankles. “You’re still an arrogant, self-centered ass.”

“I have changed, Mojo.”

“Right,” I agreed tartly. “You’re dead.”

“That was a low blow.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“How? By scaring me out of my wits? By undermining my sanity?”

“I brought back your cat.”

I looked down at Chester and, on impulse, scooped him up. He felt so real, and pretty chunky. Whatever they were feeding him on the other side, it was sticking to his ribs.

Suddenly, I wanted to cry. I knew I’d loved Chester once, and I was dangerously close to loving him again.

“You never got to say goodbye to him,” Nick said.

I buried my face in white, warm fur. “He can’t stay,” I mourned.

“No,” Nick agreed gently. “It’s a frequency thing. These appearances are pretty tough to sustain. But he’s not dead, Mojo. He’s alive, but in a whole different way. That’s the point.”

Chester’s fur was damp, where I’d cried on him. “It’s the same with you.” Statement, but it had the tone of a question.