After my mother’s untimely death, I entered the foster system at the age of eleven and never had a pet of my own. Sure, I got to watch my foster siblings care for various animals over the years, but strictly as an outsider. So, inheriting a fairly dangerous, semi-wild tan caracal with black tufts on his ears, scars over his left eye, and an addiction to sugary children’s cereal is almost more of an adjustment than living with a ghost.
But, in the end, I have to say Ghost-ma wins the award for most difficult. Let’s take tonight’s event for example. The recently deceased Liliané Barnes is the only woman in town who rivals my grandmother in both wealth and ex-husbands. So when we received the extravagant hand-delivered invitation to her memorial service, Myrtle Isadora Johnson Linder Duncan Willamet Rogers insisted I attend.
Of course, her demands included my father’s participation. Regardless of his tireless work at the Duncan Restorative Justice Foundation, she implored him to procure the appropriate costume and escort me to the event.
Cut to—
* * *
“Mitzy, are you in there?” My dad gently taps my knee as he eases his vehicle to a stop.
The film-school dropout in me is hesitant to tear my gaze away from the three decks of glittering lights floating on the great lake. “Hey, sorry. I guess I drifted off. Are you ready for this?”
Jacob chuckles. “I don’t think your grandmother much cares whether or not we’re ready. She expects a full report. If there are any socialites in attendance that weren’t at her memorial service, I shudder to think . . .”
“You’re not wrong.”
My father parks his 1955 Ford F100, pleads with me to remain seated, and circles around to help me out of the truck.
Despite my fierce independent woman insides, my elaborate flapper getup needs all the assistance it can get. Trust me when I tell you, Grams went all out! I had to flee my own apartment to stop the ceaseless addition of accoutrements.
I’ll start at the top and work my way down. I have a diamond-encrusted headband displaying a large ruby pendant festooned with red and black ostrich feathers. Draped over my left shoulder is a beautiful, black faux-mink stole. Around my neck hangs an enormous strand of pearls knotted in front so they don’t slip off my shoulders, and underneath it all—an amazing hand-beaded, red-fringed flapper dress. I look like an Anita Page publicity photo!
The lines of the dress magically disguise my slightly bottom-heavy build. There are two or three layers involved. I can’t even keep track. One of the under-layers is creamy white silk, and the outer layer is a filmy sheath embellished with hundreds and hundreds of Swarovski crystals. The red-and-silver theme catches the lights of the casino boat, and I sparkle like a Vegas marquee. My feet are encased in vintage 1920s red-satin T-straps.
My father opted to steer clear of the traditional pinstripe gangster suit, in an effort to avoid any comparison to his youthful indiscretions. I mean, he was involved in an armed robbery and served time in the state penitentiary, so he chose a classy, above-reproach 1920s tuxedo.
Not to brag, but we make a striking pair. Our matching snow-white hair, his slicked back under a top hat and mine in dramatic finger waves, turns a number of heads as we approach the gangplank. A young man in costume at the bottom checks the guest list and announces us as we board. Any heads that weren’t already turned certainly whip-pan in our direction as our names echo over the loudspeaker.
I may not have been able to afford to finish film school, but I learned enough to know that this is definitely what we call in the business “making an entrance.”
Thankfully, my father walks directly to the bar.
“I will absolutely have a glass of champagne, Dad.”
He grins. “And I’ll have whatever the signature cocktail is. I’m not sure how much longer I can take all these eyes turned in our direction.”
And before we can suffer any additional discomfort, the next guest is announced and all eyes are redirected toward the gangplank.
Now that we’re no longer the center of attention, I take a minute to scan the crowd. A few faces are familiar from this morning’s viewing, but there are at least three times more people in attendance at this celebration of life. Apparently, we somehow qualified as part of her private viewing inner circle, even though, to the best of my knowledge, she and my grandmother seemed more like arch-rivals than friends.
I down my coupe of champagne and tap the bar for another while my father elegantly sips his “Bee’s Knees.”
The flirtatious boy-toy-turned-widower that Liliané collected on her Eat, Pray, Love tour of Greece approaches the microphone—as smoldering as ever.
I can’t wait to hear if this announcement will ring as hollow as his endless words of sorrow from this morning.
“Welcome, friends. Liliané wanted all of us to celebrate her life. Please eat, drink, and gamble. She will certainly be looking down on us from heaven. Let’s not disappoint my beautiful angel.” His full red lips pucker and he blows a kiss heavenward, before signaling the band. A lively, upbeat, jazzy version of the Charleston song bursts to life.
Leaning toward my dad, I whisper, “Is it just me, or does he sound as fake as a three-dollar bill?”
My father chokes a little on his cocktail. “I was thinking the same thing.” He leans closer and lowers his voice. “Are you getting any, you know, messages?”
My psychic gifts have been evolving ever since I arrived in this remote northern community. It all started the day I put on my grandmother’s 1970s mood ring and had a gripping clairsentient experience. Now I regularly receive visions, auditory messages, feelings, and inexplicable knowings. But at this moment, the mood ring on my left hand is offering no information about the superficial widower. “The one thing I can say, is that I think a brooch was missing from Liliané’s lapel and something felt weird about the body this morning. Well, that was two things. But I can’t explain it, her body felt hollow.”
To Jacob’s credit he makes no mockery of my strange revelation. “Well, it was a corpse. They are kind of hollow by definition, right?”
I nod. “Yeah, but in my experience there’s a heaviness to the finality. Something felt off about her—corpse. Is that weird?”
He smiles down at me and shrugs his broad shoulders. “You get psychic messages from some dimension I don’t even understand. I had to move weird to the back burner when you came into my life.”
I roll my eyes and snicker. “Rude, but accurate.”
Jacob nudges me with his elbow, and I gaze up at him questioningly. “What?”
He nods toward the stage. “I think you’re gonna want to see this.”
As my eyes struggle to take in the scene, a mixture of fear and anger swirls in my belly.
A commanding Native American woman in an exquisite white flapper dress, white ostrich feather boa, and pearl tiara, takes center stage. She’s flanked by two intimidatingly large Native American bodyguards, clad in, all too appropriate, mobster pinstripes.
I grip my father’s arm and hiss, “Shouldn’t she be in jail?”
His head swivels back and forth in disdain, but his eyes never leave the stage. “Shhh, we’ll talk about that later.”
My moody mood ring offers no clue to explain the apparent freedom of the woman who set my dad up to take the fall for her illegal deeds.