The Other Side - J. D. Robb [151]
“How old are you?”
“What?” Adeline lifted her head off the bed.
“Why aren’t you an old ghost? You know, the age you were when you died? Why are you young? How old are you as a ghost?”
Her mother sat up easily. “We wondered about that, too. We don’t know. Poor Odelia looks older than Imogene and me put together, but she’s only the middle child. I’m hoping this is how we look or feel or . . . whatever when we get to the Other Side.” Her smile was anxious. “I want your father to recognize me.”
“So you were this age when he died?”
“This or close to it, yes, I believe so.”
“And Imogene?”
She nodded. “Has to be after Rufus died, she’s still so young and weepy.”
She tsked in disgust. “Rufus?”
“It’s from the Latin for redheaded. And he had the darkest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.” Half her mouth curved up in remembrance, then fell again. “After a few years, Imogene stopped crying and became very bitter and sharp-tongued. Her husband left her finally, and she came back here to live for years and years. I don’t know how Odelia stood her. She was a very unhappy woman. Thank God her ghost isn’t so bad. She sheds a good many tears, but she’s far from mean-spirited . . . no pun intended. She’s just very sad, you know?”
“And Odelia? Does she cry?”
“She cooks. Incessantly.”
“She was never married.”
“As far as I know, she’s never loved anyone or anything but her stove.”
“How old do you think her ghost looks?”
“Maybe midfifties.”
“Did anything significant happen to her during those years?”
“Not that I recall.”
Rats. M.J. thought she was going somewhere with the ghost’s ages and corresponding events in their lives, but Odelia didn’t fit that pattern. It had to be something else. Something they all experienced. Something they all lost. The death of a loved one worked for Imogene and Adeline except, one, it was too obvious, and, again, it didn’t include Odelia.
Six
“Maybe we should put off the deconstruction for the time being, Mr. Brown,” she said bright and early Monday morning—admitting nothing. “I hadn’t been in the house since the day of my mother’s funeral, but now that I have, and I’ve had time to think”—and to realize what an adolescent snit I’ve been in most of my life, she thought to herself—“well, I think there might be a few things from the house that I’d like to keep after all.”
“Oh.” He sounded disappointed.
“There will still be plenty to recycle and for the consignment shops and all that. I’m thinking mostly family pictures, things no one else would have any interest in.”
“You take what you want, Ms. Biderman. I’m glad you’re having second thoughts. Do you have boxes, or can I drop a few off at the house for you?”
“Thank you. That would be great. I won’t be out again until Saturday. Will they be okay on the porch?”
“Sure thing. I’ll fold ’em flat and set a rock on top of them.” He paused. “Just, ah, let me know when you’d like me to take another run at the house.”
“You know I will, and it won’t be long. We have a deadline for the Smoothie Hut deal, and I intend to meet it.” Call waiting beeped in her ear and the light on her second line began to blink—she spoke a little faster. “You’re still with me on that, right?”
“Absolutely. You tell me when, and I’ll clean it out and tear it down in a matter of days . . . five, tops.”
She glanced at her computer calendar and noted the narrow time frame. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Brown. Thank you.”
She touched her earpiece to disconnect and answer her second line. “Biderman. How can I help you?”
“You can agree to go out with me Saturday night.” She recognized his voice immediately—his topic was a big clue, too. She tittered a little inside and, without thinking twice, tossed her pen down on the Longwire file that lay open in front of her. “Are you busy? I can call back and ask again later.”