Author: Molly Harper

“Focus, please, Mr. Wainwright. Why are you still here? Do you have unfinished business or something?” I asked.

“No, no, I’m just not ready to cross over. There’s too much happening in the world right now. And my friendship with you, it’s so exciting. I want to see what happens next.”

“But don’t you want to see what’s, you know, on the other side?”

“I’m not afraid of crossing over,” he said. “I’m just not ready to go. As soon as I am, I will. As a wise man once said, ‘To the highly organized mind, death is just another adventure.’ “

“That’s from Harry Potter,” I said. “Dumbledore said it in the first book.”

“Trust you to know.” He smiled. “Everything’s going to be fine, Jane. Don’t you worry.”

“But what’s going to happen?”

“Who knows?” He shrugged, grinning wildly. “That’s the best part.”

“But what about—”

“Jane, I think you’d better call nine-one-one, dear, to pick up my body,” he suggested.

I nodded. “I’m going to miss you.”

“Not for a while yet,” he promised.

I thought about calling Dick, but I knew the mix of Dick and the authorities—human or otherwise—was not a good thing. Even though Mr. Wainwright’s death was natural, the 911 dispatcher apparently went to church with my mama and notified the responding paramedics that I was a vampire. And I guess they asked for a police escort. Also, when vampires cry, the tiniest bit of blood streaks through in their tears, so when the police arrived, my face was covered in red stains. Needless to say, questioning took a while.

“How long have you worked here, Miss Jameson?” Sergeant Rusty Bardwell asked as he scribbled in his little notebook. A tall, dark-haired fellow with a no nonsense set to his jaw, Rusty did not trust me. In fact, he kept a free hand on his gun for most of his visit. Pointing out that using it on me would be useless didn’t seem wise.

“Rusty, we’ve known each other since third grade. You threw up on me on the field trip to Mammoth Cave. Just call me Jane,” I said irritably as I sniffled into a tissue.

Rusty’s level gaze didn’t waver. “How long have you worked here, Miss Jameson?”

“About six months,” I said, my voice flat and annoyed.

“And how long have you known the deceased?”

“About six months,” I said.

Mr. Wainwright watched as the paramedics loaded his mortal coil into a body bag, then waved cheerfully as he was packed into the ambulance. I shook my head at him.

“And you were recently promoted to manager.”

“No.” I frowned.

“The deceased left a note on his desk,” Sergeant Rusty insisted, digging into an evidence envelope. “Note to Self: Have ‘Jane Jameson, Manager’ plaque engraved for Jane.”

“Aw, Mr. Wainwright.”

Mr. Wainwright ducked his head. “You deserve it, Jane. You’re going to be running the store now, anyway.”

Annoyed at my lack of attention, Rusty cleared his throat. “And you found the body?”

“Yes. I told the dispatcher that when I called nine-one-one.”

“And you performed CPR?”

“I did, but I think he’d been gone for a while at that point.”

“I thought vampires couldn’t breathe,” he said, narrowing his eyes at me.

“I don’t have to, but it doesn’t mean I can’t,” I told him. “Do I need to call a council representative? I’m allowed to under the Undead Civil Rights Act of 2002.”

“We’ll let you know,” Rusty said. “For right now, let’s just say that you’ll probably be hearing from us again.”

Rusty cleared out of the shop as if his polyester pants were on fire. The ambulance crew drove away with the body—I couldn’t think of it as Mr. Wainwright. I was alone. And it was suddenly so quiet. Numb, I sank into a chair behind the counter and stared at a ledger next to the register. I could make out Mr. Wainwright’s chicken scratch, a reminder for me to reorder a book called Life on Loch Ness. I ran my fingers over his indented scrawl, leaned my head against the counter, and cried.

I’m not sure how long I sat there. The next thing I remembered was Gabriel striding through the shop door, calling for me. I couldn’t seem to look up, to put together the words to respond. The smallest movement took too much effort.

“I’ve been calling you all evening,” he said, coming behind the counter to check me over for obvious contusions and stab wounds. “Normally, there’s a reason for your ignoring me. What’s going on?”

“Mr. Wainwright’s dead,” I said, tongue slow and heavy. I held myself together for a total of two seconds before bursting into hysterical tears again. Gabriel wrapped his long arms around me, and I suddenly didn’t care where he’d been or what he’d done. The important thing was that he was there, at that moment, when I needed him.

“Was it one of us?” he asked.

“Oh, no, completely natural. It was a heart attack,” I said, my eyes welling up again. “He was an old man. He said he lived a good life …”

Gabriel pressed me to his chest and let me sob there, until the front of his shirt was soaked. “Better?” he asked.

“No,” I said, wiping at my nose. “I must look a mess, which is really the least of my concerns right now. I’m not one of those women who are beautiful when they cry.”

“No, you’re not,” Gabriel agreed.

“So rude.” I smacked him.

“See, you feel better now that you’ve hit something.”

“I don’t know why I’m crying so much.” I sniffled. “It’s not as if I lost him. I mean, he’s happy as a clam, staring through his hands. He’s thrilled that he’s dead. Why do I feel this way?”

“If I suggest a theory, will you get angry?”

“Well, you’ve pretty much guaranteed that I will now.” I blew my nose.

“So much about your life has been unstable. You lost your aunt Jettie, your job, your life as you knew it. Mr. Wainwright and his shop became a touchstone of normalcy. It was somewhere you could go and know what to expect when you walked through the door. Now you can’t hold on to even the smallest shred of your former life or the shaky sense of security you’ve developed.”

I stared at him. Having someone inside your head is offputting.

“No, that’s not it,” I said. “Not it at all. I hereby revoke your license to play armchair psychologist.”

“What can I do to make you feel better?” he asked. I shrugged. “Happy Naked Fun Time?”

I laughed, a rusty sound that made my throat hurt. “You know, sometimes I forget that at the heart of things, you’re still a guy.”

“Well, let me remind you.”

“We need to call Dick.”

“I think we should leave Dick out of this.”

“Because—oh, God, it hardly matters now. Dick is Mr. Wainwright’s great-grandfather.”

Gabriel sank onto the couch. “Dick had children?”

“A son, that we know of. His name was Albert. He was Mr. Wainwright’s grandfather.”

“Dick had a child?”

I stared at him. “Did I break your brain?”

“It’s just, I gave up the idea of being able to have children long ago, for obvious reasons. I mourned, but I made my peace with it. I’d never even considered that Dick could … though it makes sense that he did. He always sort of played fast and loose with his, er, companions. How long have you known?”

“A month or so. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. Dick asked me not to say anything.”

“Jane?” Dick came rushing through the door with Zeb on his heels. He skidded to a halt as he saw my tear tracked face, then whirled on Gabriel. “Why is she crying? If you made her cry, I’m going to kick your—”

“Why are you here?” Gabriel asked Dick.

“The clerk at the video store next door saw an ambulance over here and called me,” Dick said.

Zeb made a face. “The porn-store guy has your home number?”

I ignored this disturbing tidbit and wrapped my arms around Dick’s neck. “Dick, I’m so sorry. It’s Mr. Wainwright. He’s gone.”

Dick’s bravado melted away. “From where?”

“The earthly plane,” I said. “He died earlier tonight.”

His face contorted in pain. “I’ve been spending time at the shop—”

“No, no,” I said, clutching Dick’s hands. “Nobody ‘got to him.’ It was just a plain old heart attack.”

“I didn’t get to tell him,” Dick said. “I didn’t get to say good-bye.”

“Actually, he plans on sticking around for a while, so you could tell him right now.”

“Tell him what, exactly?” Mr. Wainwright asked, his transparent form sliding through the door.

It’s embarrassing to be surprised when you have vampire senses, particularly when the person who snuck up behind you is older than dirt. Also dead.

“What?” Mr. Wainwright asked, the gray tufts of his brows rising on his transparent forehead. “What’s wrong?”

“This seems like a private conversation. We should probably leave,” Gabriel whispered to Zeb, though both of them stayed rooted to their spots.

“OK, you two, out,” I told them.

“But, but, but—” Zeb spluttered pitifully as I shoved the pair of them into the office and closed the door behind us.

I waited while I heard Dick quietly explaining the situation. When Mr. Wainright didn’t respond, I poked my head into the room to make sure he was still there. There was an expression of relief around Dick’s eyes as Mr. Wainwright stumbled forward and hugged Dick in an insubstantial manner.

This was so strange, an ancient man calling this thirty-something fellow Grandpa; in a world where logic lived, the roles would be reversed. But years melted off Mr. Wainwright’s face as he studied Dick’s features.

“You have my nose,” Dick said sheepishly. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s a good nose,” Mr. Wainwright said. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Thought you’d be better off,” Dick said.

“But I wasn’t,” Mr. Wainwright said. “If you’d been around, if I’d known that vampires were real, I wouldn’t have felt so lonely. It’s no wonder my mother hated my interest in the paranormal. Every time I picked up a book on vampires, she was afraid I was going to turn out like you.”

Dick seemed ashamed, which was something I’d never seen before. “I never told your mother. I think she guessed, but she never asked, and I always figured it was better left unsaid. I’m sorry.”

“I have so much I want to ask you. About your life, about my father, and his father, and your son.”

“I can give you some answers,” Dick said. “The rest you may not want to know.”

“I’m not frightened,” Mr. Wainwright promised.

“This reunion is really touching,” I said, backing toward the office door. “But if I see one of you cry, I may actually implode. So I’m going to go elsewhere.”

How did I end up going to so many funerals in one year?

There was no one else to plan Mr. Wainwright’s service, which I found very sad. His nephew, Emery, sent a telegram from Guatemala saying that he wouldn’t be able to make it to town for weeks. Emery advised us to proceed without him. Seriously, he used those words. Real sentimental guy.