Page 19 of Mourner for Hire

FIFTEEN

DOMINIC

Connor returns to the restaurant with a shit-eating grin.

“Wipe that smile off your face,” I demand with a pointed finger.

“Nope. I got myself a date,” he says, flopping down in a chair at the table next to my booth. “Well, kind of. She might come to the festival tomorrow night. She said she has to work, though, and I’m sure her day will be unpredictable.”

“Work?” I cock an eyebrow. My brain simply cannot wrap around the notion of her job being legit. This thing where she has to show up to celebrate and mourn people she does not know for the sake of money.

The greedy little witch—makes my neck itch.

“Some guy named Benjamin Bright died.” Connor shrugs.

“I wonder what that’s like,” Eli muses aloud.

“What what’s like?”

“Her job. It’d be crazy to see her in action,” he adds.

My jaw tightens, and I lean forward, the weight of my upper half tipping this old booth toward me. His iced tea sloshes over the rim. “You did see her in action. At my mother’s funeral, if I recall. Then she ran off with her tail between her pretty legs.”

Eli glides his tongue on his teeth and grins. “So you admit that you’re still attracted to her?”

My focus snaps out of anger and flips to shock. “No way.”

Eli stares at me pointedly. I may or may not have told him about that night.

“What do you mean, still?” Connor asks.

“Nothing,” I say, my gaze trained on Eli. He reads my demand to remain sworn to secrecy and nods. “Connor, what did you say the name of the man whose funeral she’s going to is?”

“Benjamin Bright. Why?”

“No reason,” I answer, standing from the booth and turning toward Connor. “Stay away from Vada, Connor.”

I leave without waiting for his response. I have a bar to open and a funeral to attend on Friday.

It doesn’t take long to find Benjamin’s funeral. It’s located in Tigard, a suburb of Portland. When I pull up to the cemetery the next day, an unwelcome sense of déjà vu hit me like a punch to the face.

I look at each car and wonder why they’re here. Is Benjamin their father? Brother? Friend? A co-worker they don’t like but had to come to save face? Or perhaps he was loved—a saint among gargoyles.

Then I see Dr. Death’s—I mean, Vada’s car. She’s parked next to the exit, probably for an easy escape like the coward she is.

I put on my baseball cap before exiting, which is a stupid touch, but I don’t want her to see me. I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m just here to see. To understand. How the fuck does this woman make a living of ripping dead people off?

Forty-five minutes later, the funeral must be close to finished. I still haven’t spotted her. Not in the crowd and not inside the funeral parlor.

“Can I help you?” the funeral home receptionist with blue hair and a black pantsuit asks as I pretend to peruse the pamphlets about coffin styles.

I clear my throat. “I’m thinking of buying a plot,” I answer quickly.

“Ahh, yes. Well, that might require an appointment with the cemetery sales counselor. She’s not in. I can get you a card with her info.”

“That’d be great. Thank you.”

Moments later, I’m leaving the funeral home with a card and a feeling of defeat.

Then I spot her. She’s dressed in a black dress, black tights, heels, and a pearl necklace.

She looks like Audrey Hepburn with a funeral veil covering the side of her face, her dimple showing beneath the mesh of the veil.

What a drama queen.

She isn’t at the funeral. At least, not completely. She’s standing under an old oak tree to the left. In the line of sight of all the guests, but far enough away that her presence is confusing.

I watch the heads turn in her direction, and I realize, her presence isn’t confusing. It’s mysterious.

I put myself in the shoes of every person attending the funeral of Benjamin Bright.

Who is she?

Why is she here?

Does she know Benjamin?

She appears to be crying, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

Did she love him?

Why did she love him?

How did she know him?

It plays out like a movie. An archaic depiction of how love and grief and mystery play out.

The woman in the front row—clearly the wife—finally spots her. Her shoulders cinch back, spine stiffening. Her eyes are covered in glasses, but even I can spot the question in her expression .

Why is she here?

Who is she? Who is she? Who is she?

Then, I’m surprised. She doesn’t storm over. She doesn’t even seem emotional. She seems defeated—a checkmate of sorts.

The wife pulls down her sunglasses, and Vada does the same.

They hold their stare, communicating something in that glance. What? I don’t know. Then Vada nods, slides on her sunglasses, and turns toward me.

I slip away before she even knows I was here.

But there’s one thing I continue to confirm: she’s fucking crazy.