The Morbid and Sultry Tales of Genevieve Clare (7 page)

I had a busy day ahead of me. I washed away the night club sweat from the previous evening then changed into crop jeans, red Chuck’s, and a red hoodie. My messenger bag secured over my shoulder, I walked into The Elms Assisted Living and greeted Ruby at the front desk.

“Hey, girl,” she said with her signature hair flip. All I knew about Ruby was that she hailed from “the South” originally and left it at that. Her accent was strong, her boobs were fake, and the oldies loved her.

In the words of my Granny Clare, she was a real kick in the pants.

“Hey Ruby. I have a meeting with a Mr. Oskin,” I said pulling out the folder from my bag.

She led me into the staff break room, calling behind her, “Cheryl, I’m just going to give Ms. Clare a copy of our new procedures manual.”

When we were behind the safety of the door, she said, “Damn, that woman is doin’ my head in. I swear to all that is holy, she is a paid employee of Satan himself.” She opened her locker, and Ruby’s personal life was on display in front of me. There were postcards from here and there, a photo of two older people I assumed were her parents, and an autographed picture of a country singer.

“Who’s that?” I inquired.

“That there is Loretta Lynn. I got to meet her at this autograph signing. You know her music?” she asked as she pulled a large canvas shopping bag from her locker.

“I…don’t think I do.”

“She sang that song ‘Coal Miner’s Daughter.’ And there was a movie made about her life, too.”

“Oh God, yeah, of course!” I had a double CD called Women of Country. I knew Loretta. Of course I knew Loretta.

She handed me the bag from her locker which had some weight to it. I peeked inside as she explained quietly, “All of that is for Mr. Oskin. I got Cheryl breathin’ down my neck. That woman has it out for me. Now, Bryce Oskin is a type 2 diabetic, and when he has his treats, I keep a close eye on him. We have a deal, so he knows not to overdo it. Last thing I need is him goin’ into a diabetic coma and me gettin’ the blame.”

There was more than just a bag of Snickers miniatures in the bag. I grinned up at her as she explained.

“He likes the girly magazines. My momma told me it’s okay for a man to have pornography as long as he doesn’t step out on you. The magazines keep him sweet, and when you meet him, you’ll understand what I mean. I’ve been working on him for a long time.”

The door to the break room opened, and I casually, but carefully, slipped the magazines back into the bag.

“Excuse me, Ruby, what is taking so long in here?”

“Oh,” I chimed in. “That’s my fault, Cheryl. I’m so sorry, but you know, you start talking about the city council and one thing leads to another.”

I knew why Ruby’s boss was being a bitch. Cheryl had been married to a man named Frank Geist, one of the council members. He left her for someone younger and, sad to say, prettier. Probably nicer, too. This only served to make Cheryl more determined in her personal quest to spread her misery far and wide.

“They really are letting this town become a shit-hole,” she commented and left the room.

“Bitter words from a bitter heart,” Ruby said sadly. “My ex-husband, may he be rotting in the hallways of Hell, he tried to make me into that. It was tempting to turn that hurt and hate onto my fellow man, but my daddy said, when that man tried to take my sweetness and turn it sour, my ex needed to watch his back.”

I listened to Ruby talk. Her southern twang transported me to the porch of a rotting shack, Ruby in a rocking chair with a double barrel shotgun, me riveted to every word she said. Then she surprised me with, “Daddy assured me they ain’t never gonna find his body.”

Right. Okay then.

“Well, I better get back and kiss some flabby white middle-aged ass. Tell Mr. Oskin I’ll try to get him some new magazines next week.”

I walked out next to her and said, “No need. I always visit my clients. I’d hate to see you get caught and fired. Tell me if you ever need a favor like this. You have my card with my cell.”

“Thanks, Ms. Clare. He’s over by the window. And go easy, he bites.”

“Gen. You can call me Gen, Ruby.”

I approached Bryce Oskin, with caution, and when I reached his side, he demanded, “Who the fuck are you?”

Charm and disarm. Charm and disarm.

“I’m Genevieve Clare, Mr. Oskin,” I said with a grin. “I believe you hired me to come to your funeral? Mind if I join you?” I brought my own bag of goodies and opened a white baker’s box from Brewster’s.

“You some kind of spooky chick?” he asked, his eyes squinting as he studied me.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was… sweet on me already. “Kinda, yeah. If by spooky you mean I get paid to go to funerals, give people a nudge, and check for a heartbeat. Oh, and I live at Eden Hills. Then yeah, I’m spooky.” I grabbed a plastic fork and took a bite of amazing cake. It was always amazing, but today it seemed more amazing than usual.

“There,” I nodded toward the folder I’d set down on a little table to his side. “I just need you to sign on the dotted line. And the bag there is from Ruby. But I’m taking over the goody-bag duties, so tell me what you like and I’ll get it for you.” I licked my lips and did it seductively because I knew this was a man who appreciated a woman. Also known as a dirty old man. “Want a bite?”

“You gonna tell that Nazi Nurse Ratchet on me?” He jerked his head toward Cheryl.

“Are you gonna drop dead from half a slice of cake?” I countered.

“Nope.”

“Then I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship, Mr. Oskin. I visit once a week, unless I have a funeral, usually on Tuesday or Wednesday. I always bring cake for my clients. If there’s something you don’t like, just tell me. But I usually bring a selection.”

“You do this every week?” he asked, disbelief in his voice.

“What do you mean?”

“You eat like that every week? When you see other clients?” His eyes slid up and down the length of my body.

“I have a high metabolism.” I smiled. It really was a miracle I wasn’t as big as a house. But my sweet tooth was limited to sharing with clients. I had to give myself some sort of boundaries.

He grabbed the plastic fork I’d handed him and stabbed the slice of Meyer lemon cake with vanilla bean cream cheese frosting. His eyes closed, and when they opened, he said, “God bless you.” After a few more bites, he asked, “So, you’re gonna open up my box and poke me before they burn me, right?”

“Yes, sir, I’ll make sure you’re good and dead.”

“Spooky chick.” His tone was gruff, but his lip tipped up in the corner.

I saw it with pride. Disarmament, accomplished.

Bryce Oskin had ordered the Shake N Bake. I had permission from most of the mortuaries and crematories to open the casket and check the body. I mean, you could just tell when someone was dead. By the time I had my turn with the deceased, they were most likely already embalmed. But some of them chose not to be, or if they were, they hired me to come to their place of death and make damn sure there was no chance in hell they were coming back to life.

A while back, there was a highly publicized case in Southern California. A woman had been pronounced dead and taken to the hospital morgue. But when they opened the fridge for her to be transported to the funeral home, they saw obvious signs of a struggle. She’d been put in there alive.

Yikes.

I’d never been afraid of death, and, after my family died and the man I loved almost had, I embraced death in my own strange way. I made it my life’s work, I guess. While it took a lot to creep me out, that story gave me the heebie-jeebies something fierce. It was all over the news. Every staff member from the hospital to the morgue was investigated then sued or fired or both. And, of course, old people sitting in the common room of a rest home from the wee a.m. hours to beddy-bye time, saw that story six times in one day, minimum. I ended up receiving so many requests to make sure they weren’t breathing, I added the Shake N Bake to my website.

My contract with Bryce Oskin signed and my belly filled with sugary goodness, I stopped back at Brewster’s Bakery before going to see a long-time client, Delilah Von Kesteren.

Her house was situated down a long winding road that followed the Russian River. I parked under the canopy of a giant redwood and walked across the wooden bridge that led to her house. It was a periwinkle cottage with white accents and a shaker roof. The front door had cut glass that cast a myriad of shades of turquoise across the polished wood floors. I never needed to knock. They could hear my car and opened the door as I approached.

“Hi there, Gen. She’s just getting some sun.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Smith.” Delilah’s caretaker had been with her for five years now. She’d never married, nor did she have kids. For reasons I did not know, she fled the hot state of Arizona and moved to Northern California. I was hired to attend her funeral, check to make sure she wasn’t breathing, and complete an errand after her funeral. This was a new request for me, and I still wasn’t sure what it entailed. But the barely five-foot Delilah didn’t appear to be an evil old lady, and I didn’t even hesitate for whatever task I’d been hired to do.

I made my way through the beautiful home. Creamy white walls in the entry hall led me down a short flight of stairs. The first floor was all open plan, a nice country kitchen to the right, a warm and inviting living room with a huge fireplace to the left. And smack dab in the middle were two chairs and a small end table. These looked onto her great deck which overflowed with white and yellow flowers of all shades. She always had fresh flowers blooming, much to my amazement since I was a stone-cold killer of plants in any weather.

It was a spring day, about three years ago, when Delilah asked Mrs. Smith to show me the rest of the garden. There were steps at the bottom of the deck that lead to a winding path. It was lined with a neatly trimmed hedge, and at the end of the path was an archway created by a climbing rose. Beyond that was another garden, a secret one with perfectly arranged stepping stones. There were raised beds of full of vegetables, flowers and a greenhouse in the corner.

“Does she still come down here?” I asked Mrs. Smith. As far as I could tell, Delilah wasn’t exactly mobile.

“A man comes once a week. His partner designed it, but he died some years ago now. It was even featured in Sunny Settler. I’ll show you some time. Now this guy comes and looks after it. But you know, he’s so sweet with Delilah. He helps her from that chair, carries her down the stairs, and lets her boss him around for a few hours.”

I could just imagine Delilah doing that. A teensy thing, but when she wanted something done, you obeyed. Her bony pointer finger gave no indication that she had crippling arthritis.

And now, I looked toward her deck and took up residence in the chair beside hers. In the last year, she’d been diagnosed with macular degeneration and though nothing else was wrong with her that I knew, she was getting weaker by the day. She wanted to keep her brain active, even if the rest of her body didn’t agree. Without fail, I brought two slices of whatever Mr. Brewster had created that day and the Sunday paper crossword. It might take us an entire month to get through one crossword, but we always did. Together.

“What did you bring me today, Gen?”

“Well, in honor of Halloween, we have a salted caramel apple cake. I think the frosting has some sort of nutmeg-cinnamon thing going on.” I stuck my pinkie in to give it a try. “Delicious.”

“Mrs. Smith?” Delilah bellowed.

“Yes, D?” The rotund woman made her way to us, dressed in her uniform of slacks, floral shirt, coordinating sweater, and watch necklace.

“You know what we talked about?”

The woman nodded and left the room only to return a minute later with a gift box, black, tied with a purple satin ribbon. This was placed on my lap as Mrs. Smith set my individual box of cake on the small table beside me.

“Why?” I asked in a small voice.

“You’ve been in my life for a few years now, Genevieve. I thought today I might tell you a story.”

I was focused on the fact she somehow knew it was my birthday. I didn’t celebrate any holidays, not anymore, and not once had I spoken about my birthday.

“About ten years ago, I went to the funeral of a dear friend…” My skin began to prickle as she continued. “She loved gardening as much as I did, and the nice man who designed my garden introduced us. We met for lunch twice a month, without fail. Walking was becoming harder and harder for me, so she always came here. We’d sit on my deck or right here in this room. I made lunch, and she always brought cake from a bakery called Brewster’s. And do you know what she said about cake?”

“Not eating cake was sinful,” I managed to say.

“And she felt pretty strongly about pie, too,” she added.

I decided I couldn’t speak without bursting into tears, so I didn’t.

“Open the box now,” she instructed.

I did what she asked, and inside laid a black, shining brooch. I didn’t know what kind of black bird it was meant to be, but I decided it was a raven, and I loved it.

“I’ll wear it on my suit for every funeral I attend,” I promised.

She smiled, but it quickly faded. “She loved you, Gen. They all did. And even if you only celebrate with me, I hope one day you’ll start living again. After Queen Victoria lost Albert, she wore black and insisted the entire court mourn right along with her. Eventually though, she did begin to live again. Imagine, losing the love of your life and still having a country to run.” She grinned, then said softly, “If Queen Victoria could do it, so can you, Genevieve.”

I thanked Delilah profusely, after which she made an excuse she wasn’t feeling the best. I knew it was to give me the time alone I needed. This was a day I always tried to fill with tasks. I kept myself busy until the bitter end, until I had just one more thing to do.

****

Ahren

It had been years since he’d made that journey. The walk from his parents’ old house to hers was covered in a blanket of oak leaves and pine needles. The path along the river was long gone, buried beneath the shedding of seasons. But, every now and then, he’d come upon a mobile dangling from a tree branch. They hung with trinkets his dad had found in the river: a fork, the jaw bone of an animal, a license plate. He’d fasten them to a branch of driftwood, working intricate knots around stones and broken glass. Finally, he tied it to a tree along that path. Everything his father touched became art. He worked with the discarded waste left by man and integrated it with the elements to create something of beauty.