He held up his hand, examining the way the light filtered through it. “Look at that.”
“What happened to you?” I asked.
“Well, you were right about my not moving boxes by myself. I knew there was something wrong the moment I picked it up. I had all of the classic signs—shooting pains in the left arm, crushing sensation in the chest, shortness of breath. I just keeled over.”
“I’m so sorry. I should have been here.”
“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t blame yourself. I was an old man, and I lived a good, long life.
And you made me very happy during my last months. You’ve become very dear to me, Jane. I hope you know that. I was never meant to have children. But I like to think that if I had a daughter, or a granddaughter, she would be like you. Good Lord, is that really what my hair looks like?”
“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.