I suppose I should mention, in addition to an amazing bookshop, a vast financial estate, and a spoiled rotten caracal who eats children’s cereal, I also inherited some inexplicable psychic gifts from my late grandmother.
Another name is murmured, and a darkly handsome man, also in his early thirties, approaches the podium. He’s not much taller than me, but his swagger commands attention. He has the kind of “bad boy” vibe that would’ve had me tripping over my own tongue to buy him a drink, back in the desperate days before I met the local sheriff.
His black hair hangs in loose waves and he’s dressed in a tailored Armani suit that screams money. As he spins the tale of his magical meeting with Liliané in Greece, the message from my ring becomes clear.
This man, thirty-some years younger than the deceased, is the latest in her long line of former husbands.
His voice is thick with emotion and he encourages us all to remember Liliané as the generous philanthropist she was. “Thank you all for coming, and I look forward to seeing more of our special guests this evening aboard the Jewel of the Harbor.”
My eyes dart to my dad. “You’re still going to that? Right?”
He chuckles. “After your grandmother spent weeks designing your custom dress? I wouldn’t dare miss it.”
I put a hand over my mouth to hide my snickering. It seems rude to giggle at a funeral, even if it is for someone no one really likes. One thing you should know about my late grandmother is that she’s not as dead as everyone thinks. Her ghost happily haunts the three-story Bell, Book & Candle Bookshop she left me in her will, and she also filled an enormous closet with a nearly limitless supply of couture clothing in preparation for her afterlife meeting with me.
The advance invitation to Liliané’s exclusive 1920s-themed wake, aboard a riverboat casino, served as the perfect fuel for Grams’ insatiable fashion fetish. We have a notorious flapper in our family tree, and my grandmother insisted that we re-create the vintage dress that’s on display in my apartment.
“You’re right. There’s no escaping the noose.”
Jacob chuckles. “Let’s get out of here. I think we’ve fulfilled our civic duty.”
No need to tell me twice.
After wolfing down my breakfast at Myrtle’s Diner, named after Grams and run by her first husband, I return to Bell, Book & Candle to perform wardrobe penance for a ghost.
Having learned the important lesson that patience prevents rumors about crazy ladies who talk to ghosts, I calmly walk through the stacks on the first floor of my bookshop without shouting for my grandmother. I unhook the “No Admittance” chain at the bottom of the wrought-iron circular staircase that leads to my Rare Books Loft, and before the sign even clangs against the railing—
“You better hook that up behind you, Your Highness.”
And that would be the un-melodious tones of my one and only employee, Twiggy. Who doesn’t actually let me pay her but instead works purely for what she calls “the entertainment.” As near as I’ve been able to tell, during the few months of our arrangement, her amusement comes solely at my expense.
Regardless, I hook the chain behind me and proceed to the loft. Neat rows of oak tables span the mezzanine. Each one has a vintage brass lamp with a green-glass shade. The arms of the balcony stretch around in equal distance, encircling the volumes for sale on the first floor. This building once housed a historic brewery, and Grams kept this cool platform that surrounded the huge brew tanks. The smell of hops and barley is long gone—replaced by the exotic must of rare tomes spilling forth their arcane knowledge.
Currently, this special loft area is for serious research, strictly by appointment. Twiggy handles all of it, and I only get involved if something goes missing. As I reach up to pull down the candle sconce on the wall, which serves as the Scooby-Doo-style handle that opens the sliding bookcase door to my secret apartment, I smile, remembering how Silas and I recovered one such missing volume—Saducismus Triumphatus. But that’s a whole different story.
The door slides open, and before I can set one foot in the apartment, a frantic apparition hurtles toward me.
“Where have you been? The viewing should’ve been over an hour ago! I can’t find a girdle and I’m certain they’ve made your dress too small! You’d think my carefully written letters, sketches, and instructions would’ve been clear! Good help is so hard to find.”
Welcome to my world. This is Myrtle Isadora, ghost in residence and grandmother to one Mitzy Moon. I love her to death and beyond, quite literally. And she claims to love me in return, but most days it seems her affection manifests itself best in my Sex and the City meets Confessions of a Shopaholic closet.
“Look here, young lady, I’ll have you know I spent a fortune stocking that closet with clothes, in spite of your father’s proclamation that no one in the family should have any contact with you, because, and I quote, ‘she’s better off without a convict for a father.’”
Bursting into laughter so boisterous that tears leak from the corners of my eyes, I have to lean over and put a hand on my thigh to catch my breath. I can’t remember her ever doing an impression of my father before, but I’m definitely hoping there’ll be an encore.
She frowns indignantly. “I wasn’t trying to be funny.”
“All right, that’s two.” I hold up two fingers and shake my head in warning.
She crosses her bejeweled limbs over her Marchesa silk-and-tulle burial gown and frowns. “Two what?”
“Two violations of the no-thought-dropping policy. I get that your whole other dimension is made up of a bunch of swirling energy and you can’t keep straight if it’s my thoughts or your thoughts, but we have a deal.” I point meaningfully to my lips. “If these aren’t moving, you’re not allowed to comment. Now get out of my head and show me this dress you’ve been working on for two weeks.” For a moment her ghostly eyes flare with mischief, but before I can utter a warning, she swirls away toward the closet.
When I walk into the space, which is larger than my former apartment in Sedona, I’m slightly disoriented and can’t quite figure out what she’s been up to. However, as my eyes drift over the neat racks and shelves, I’m starting to understand the method to her madness.
“Divine, right? I moved all the summer dresses here, all the business suits over here, all the fancy gowns down there—”
“Isadora! What did I just say? If you promise to stay out of my thoughts, I will admit I like the reorganization.”
She spins around and her energy glows with happiness. “I knew you’d love it. Now get out of whatever that department store nonsense is, and let’s see if we can work with this wardrobe.”
Never one to purposefully draw a ghost’s anger, I do as I’m told.
I have to put on special 1920s undergarments, some kind of silk slip operation, and finally an immaculately beaded, Great Gatsby eat-your-heart-out, flapper dress. Wiggling my hips to help the dress fall into place, I grin as the beaded fringe swings to its own beat below my knees.
Tears spring to Ghost-ma’s eyes. “You look like the bee’s knees!”
“Oh, brother. One of these days, Grams, I’m going to put Silas’s skills to the test and we’ll find a way to send a handkerchief into the afterlife.”