Page 16 of Mourner for Hire

TWELVE

VADA

Dominic tears out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell—going at least ten over on Main Street until he disappears from view.

“What a douchebag,” I mutter before slinging open the door to Sullivan Law Offices.

The door chimes like church bells on Sunday morning, and I’m greeted by a receptionist who hasn’t changed her style and makeup in so long that it came back in style.

“Hi, I’m Vada Daughtry, here to see Mr. Sullivan,” I say, doing my best to seem professional. I’m sure Dominic just wrecked my entire reputation based on how he ran out of the parking lot like a tortured man-child.

“Oh, yes. Mr. Sullivan has been expecting you. He’ll be right out.” She purses her mauve-colored lips, and I stay standing, glancing around the room, noting the evergreen wallpaper and dark wood paneling. “You can sit, if you want.”

“Oh, sure.”

As soon as I crouch to sit in a waiting room chair, Mr. Sullivan appears in the doorway.

“If it’s not the Vada Daughtry!” He splays out his hands and grins through his rosy cheeks while eyeing me in a way that tells me I have, in fact, been a major topic of conversation in the last several minutes… months… years, maybe.

Jesus.

There’s nothing like knowing a person knows my name, my profession, what the deceased promised me in her will, and what her surviving child thinks of me before ever seeing my face. It is a grotesque feeling. The kind that sits in my gut like wet cement and leaves a dry, bitter taste on my tongue.

“You sound like a country singer!” he comments then turns to Lynnette. “Doesn’t her name sound like a country singer, Lynnette?”

She nods curtly yet politely, and I’m fairly certain the wet cement in my gut just hardened into a humiliating brick.

“Thanks,” I say with a breath.

“Well, come on back now.”

For being a small town in Oregon just two hours outside of Portland, this moment is feeling surprisingly Bible Belt, and I’m worried they burn the witches in this town.

“Relax, you’ll be fine,” Annabelle whispers in my ear as I enter the office.

I shiver and shoot her a glare. She promised she wouldn’t do this.

“Are you cold?” Sully asks, noticing the shake of my spine.

“No, sorry. Just got a chill.” I take a seat and avoid eye contact with Annabelle even as she slips into the chair next to me.

“Well, first order of business…” He slips a sheet of paper with Courier writing on it. “Your duties. Though Annabelle said she already sent you a copy.”

I take the paper from him with timid hands. “Yes, she did. She was very?—”

“Thorough? You’re telling me, kid.” He leans over the desk and weaves his fingers together one by one. “She was a feisty minx of a woman, but we sure loved her.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. This whole town must have really loved her,” I remark .

“Best baker in town… Don’t tell Marylou,” he comments with a thoughtful smile while Annabelle lets out a whoop! Then he adds with a low voice, “And the biggest pot stirrer.”

“I was not!” she yells and crosses her arms, completely aghast.

“I can tell,” I respond. Her antics don’t faze me this time… as much. “So her son?—”

Sully waves a hand. “Don’t you worry about Dominic. I’ve got him handled.”

“Handled?” I clarify hesitantly.

“Handled,” he adds with a nod.

“I still can’t believe he said I’m a pot stirrer.” Annabelle continues her pity party in the spirit realm, and I ignore her.

“By the way he tore out of the parking lot, he doesn’t necessarily seem handled, but rather furious.”

“Don’t worry about him. He is not a violent kid. He’s just hurting, and his mother pulled a fast one on him,” Sully answers.

“I see that.” I give Annabelle a side-long glance, and her cheeks are red with fury.

“Like I said: pot stirrer,” he adds, to which Annabelle shouts, “I am not!”

And I muse with a smirk that thankfully fits his statement as well as dear, sweet, manipulative Annabelle’s outburst. “Ahh, well, hopefully, my time at the cottage will go quickly, and I’ll be in and out of this town before I’m the one to cause a stir.”

“Oh, honey, you already have.”

My smirk morphs into a wince. “It is rather unfortunate, isn’t it?”

He hums in agreement, shifting the pages of the will in front of him. “Anyhoo, I want you to know Dominic won’t be bugging you, and if he does, you be sure to call me on my personal cell.”

He slides a gold-inscribed, cream-colored business card over to me with a thick index finger. I take it and slip it into my bag.

“Thank you,” I say softly, twisting my lips with my thoughts. I clear my throat before gathering the courage to ask, “And why is it that you’re certain Dominic won’t have an issue with me? ”

He barks out a laugh. “Oh, he’ll always have an issue with you, but it won’t interfere with all the things you need to do for Mrs. Dunne.”

My brow furrows, the question implied in the etch marks on my forehead.

He leans back, pulling a page from the will and rotating it so it’s right side up for me and tapping his knuckles against it twice. I lean forward. Annabelle does, too, and lets out a righteous giggle. I shoot her a sharp glare before reading the text on the page.

Contest

If any beneficiary or would-be beneficiary under this Will shall in any manner contest or attack this Will or any of its provision, then in such event I hereby give, devise and bequeath such contestant the sum of One Dollar ($1.

00) only and specially revoke all other provisions hereof in favor of such contestant.

Therein all provisions revoked by the contestant will be split evenly among the other beneficiary.

My breath stays caught in my throat.

“You tricked him!” I gasp, and Annabelle laughs.

“Well, Ms. Dunne insisted?—”

I clench my jaw and glare at her to my right. For Sully, I’m in a staredown with his bookshelf, but Annabelle receives the glare with a triumphant smile.

I sigh and return my gaze to Sully. “You know, Annabelle never told me exactly why she wanted me to do this…”

“Really? She told me she told you about knowing your mother. God rest her soul.”

I swallow hard. “My mother died when I was very young. That’s hardly reason to link us to each other beyond a lifetime. ”

“Well, maybe she just really wanted your renovations on the cottage.”

“Maybe. But that’s rather extensive, isn’t it?”

“I thought it was a part of your job.”

“Attending funerals is my job. I complete the tasks. No questions asked. But I’ll admit this is the most extensive request I’ve ever had?—”

“And the most money,” Annabelle fits in.

“And the most money,” I repeat because, in truth, the money is the driving factor. That is, until she decided to haunt me.

“I’ll bet,” Sully huffs and leans back in his leather chair.

My mouth dries, and I attempt to swallow anyway. “I’m not a bad person.”

“I don’t think you are, especially if Annabelle vouched for you.”

Vouched for me? I met her once. She found my ad on social media.

She hardly has any inkling of who I am, and yet, she is ready to bulldoze her son when he’s grieving and alone, sifting through her things and life, trying to savor every last piece of his mother.

She’s actually a pretty awful person if you think about it.

She should be ashamed of herself. Forget resting in peace.

I hope she rests in shame—whenever she finally leaves the purgatory of haunting me.

I clear my throat, feeling petty. “Was Annabelle really all that great of a person? It seems a little inconsiderate, to say the least, that she died and left such a confusing will for her son to execute. I mean, what did Dominic do to deserve this?”

Sully leans back, the leather squeaking in a way that lets me know it’s fake. “Now, Ms. Daughtry, I don’t like to speak ill of the dead.”

“Exactly,” Annabelle snorts. I ignore her.

“Well, no one likes to, but sometimes, we need to be honest.”

His eyes shift around the room, a visible flush creeping up his neck.

“Oh, come on, everyone has a secret. Was she a dealer? Is this her way of washing the money? Was she a serial bride?” I pause and lean forward for dramatic effect. “Did she hurt Dominic?”

“I would never!” she shouts and stands with enough force that the chair next to me shifts half an inch. Sully’s gaze snaps to it.

“Did you see that?” he asks, suddenly curious but no less concerned.

Annabelle sits back down, her eyes wide with fear.

“What did you see?” I ask.

“The chair—it moved.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” He steps around and touches what he thinks is the seat of the chair but what I know is Annabelle’s knee. “Cold as ice.”

I make eye contact with Annabelle.

“I’m new to the spirit realm. I didn’t know I could do that … ”

“Could have been the wind,” I suggest.

Sully looks at the closed window.

Point taken.

He paces over to the window and back to the chair. “Do you smell that?”

I make a point of looking like I’m inhaling, but shrug. It smells like an office.

“Lilacs,” he says softly—almost a whisper. A look of whimsy pulls over his eyes. Empathy settles over me as I glance between him and Annabelle, now with tears in her eyes. “She smelled like lilacs.”

Realization washes over me. “You loved her.”

“Vada, don’t—” Annabelle says just as Sully says, “There are some words we don’t get to say before we run out of time.”

I nod, preparing to stand. “Well, I should get going?—”

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

I clear my throat, wagering my response. “Do you?”

He thinks for a moment, his eyes moving with his memories. “ Sometimes, I—” he begins and seems to think better of it. “No, of course not,” he corrects, shaking his head.

“Me neither,” I agree. He doesn’t pick up on the sarcasm. Annabelle does and laughs uncomfortably. “Anyway, I won’t keep you any longer. Thanks for your time and clarification.”

He still seems a little dazed as I leave the office, nodding a goodbye to Lynnette at the front desk.

In the freedom of the parking lot, I turn to Annabelle. “You were sleeping with your lawyer.”

Her jaw drops, and an embarrassed yet shocked squeak escapes her mouth. “That is not an appropriate question.”

I step closer. “Oh, I think it is. Wouldn’t that be a conflict of interest?”

“It is not a crime to sleep with your lawyer, number one. And number two, the will is still the will, and you need to get over it.”

I let out a loud groan of frustration. “You are determined to make me the butt of the joke in this stupid town, aren’t you?”

“You are not the butt of the joke.”

She attempts to touch my shoulder, but all I feel is a cool breeze that makes goosebumps rise on my left arm.

“Just the crazy lady that moved into the beloved dead woman’s beach cottage to ruin her son’s life.”

She pulls back and crosses her arms. “That’s preemptive and rather dramatic.”

I’m too stunned to speak until my anger boils up in my chest. “A dead person is haunting me! That is not dramatic!”

“What else would you be haunted by?” she questions like I’m the one being ridiculous.

“Um, how about my past choices? My mistakes. The man I fell in love with harder than he fell in love with me. Or that one time I thought the drunk guy was assaulting a woman and I screamed at him from across the room only to find out he wasn’t,” I huff and cross my arms.

“Well, what was he doing?” she asks.

“Kissing his wife.” I shrug. “They kissed weird. ”

She cocks her head to the side. “Are you in therapy?”

“Jesus! Do you have no filter?”

“I don’t have to, I’m dead.”

“Ma’am, the snark in your tone is not appreciated.”

“I don’t care.”

I turn and walk toward my car. “I’m leaving. Don’t follow.” As I open the door, I turn to face her. “Haunt your lover, Annabelle. I’m sure he’ll be happier to see you.”

I slam the door and peel out of the parking lot, similarly to Dominic a half-hour earlier. Maybe that’s what everyone does when they leave Sully’s office.