Dolley Madison Avenue

By Kat Peacock

Raye Blake is dead. But a technical snafu bars her from entering heaven. Dolley Madison—yes, that one—accompanies Raye back to earth, where Raye dukes it out with her dead neighbor and nemesis, Tucker Treanor, in a 30-day contest to see who can save the most lives and win the coveted spot in heaven. Dolley is elated to be back in Manhattan, but can Raye keep her focused on the task at hand?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kat Peacock
• Release date: Jan 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458023902

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Dolley Madison Avenue

By Kat Peacock

Copyright 2011 by Kat Peacock

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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DOLLEY MADISON AVENUE

Chapter 1

One hot August afternoon on a dairy farm near the Wisconsin Dells, Raye Blake tried to coax her goat Onyx down from a rocky ledge. She was so focused on getting the animal back to its pen that she didn't notice the storm clouds gathering overhead. By the time the wind kicked a swirl of sandy dirt into her face, it was too late. The clouds rubbed their blackened flanks together and shot out a bolt of lightning that struck Raye's silver watch. She plummeted to the river below and died.

That was the bad news. The good news was that when she finally opened her eyes, she saw not her twisted remains in the flood waters at the bottom of a ravine, but a much more pleasant sight--the Pearly Gates. Except they weren't pearly per se, and they weren't gates. They were more like the doors to a day spa, brushed aluminum and frosted glass adorned with gold script in different languages. She made out Russian, German, Chinese, Greek, and English, right at the very bottom. HEAVEN, it said. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Her running outfit, a cotton tank top and nylon shorts, was still damp. Her wrist was adorned with a circle of charred skin and her watch was gone. She traced the dark line with her fingers; it was still hot to the touch. Without her watch, her most favorite piece of jewelry, she felt disarmed, disoriented, incomplete. Like Wonder Woman without her boots.

Good afternoon, said a well-groomed man with dark hair, pinstripe suit, and starched collar. He sat behind a reception desk of meticulously polished black lacquer. I'm Pedro, your case manager. As you might have guessed, you're dead.

She wasn't shocked. Raye Blake had been rolling with the punches since she was a cloth-bottomed baby in a Pampers world. Apparently so, she said.

You were getting ready for your jog when you saw the goat teetering on the cliff. You were trying to save her.

Onyx, she said. She'd gotten loose again.

Pedro nodded. Yes. Her prize-winning cheese put your parents' dairy farm on the map.

The man had done his homework.

The lightning, Pedro continued, didn't kill you, just so you know. You broke your neck in the fall.

Her neck was a bit sore, come to think of it.

Onyx is fine, you'll be glad to know. But your iPod is a total loss.

She held up her charred wrist. What about my watch?

Pedro tapped his keyboard. Your file doesn't mention any personal effects. But I'll keep my eyes open in case it turns up.

Thanks.

Now, I know there's never a good time to die, and you may feel this was a bit sudden--

Well, yeah.

--On the bright side, you didn't linger. No hospitals, no plug-pulling decisions, et cetera, et cetera.

True, Raye thought. But now her life story would forever consist of loose ends, unresolved conflicts, and unanswered questions. Would her jewelry business have been successful? Would she and Chad have gotten married? Would her parents be able to run the farm themselves, develop the business skills necessary to transcend their farm's reputation as a stop on the Underground Railway for Aging Hippies? Most importantly, would she be able to count on her friends and family to provide a tasteful funeral that would be touching without being maudlin?

On the other hand, Raye now had the answer to one of life's Really Big Questions, and the answer was yes.

Ms. Blake, Pedro said, his delicate fingers tapping an ergonomic keyboard. Let me get some information and then we'll be on our way.

Raye smiled. She approved of Pedro's quiet efficiency. Very comforting to discover that the universe is not total chaos.

His fingers were poised over the number pad on his keyboard. Social security number?

She blinked. Excuse me?

We like to make the intake process as familiar as possible, Pedro said. It helps with the transition, especially for our older clients.

She craned her neck toward the computer and winced in pain. Don't you already have it?

Just for confirmation purposes, I assure you.

490-58-7343. She prepared to give her mother's maiden name.

Belief in a higher power?

She looked around the room. Um, yes?

Pedro smiled. You'd be surprised how many get that one wrong. His fingers tap, tap, tapped the keyboard. Laughter erupted from behind the frosted glass doors, and Raye strained to make out an image of what was in the next room. She saw vague shadows and heard clinking sounds--champagne flutes, perhaps? Angels on high with Dom Perignon--Michelangelo left that one off the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

She cleared her throat. Anything else?

One second. A little furrow appeared on Pedro's face. Tap, tap. That's weird.

Computer freeze up? She dearly hoped heaven didn't rely on Microsoft.

Born Raye Dawn Blake, July twenty-fourth, nineteen eighty-one. Fond Du Lac, Wisconsin, she offered.

It's not that--

Raye massaged her neck. Which way to the masseuse?

From behind the magic doors, sounds of music. The tish of a cymbal, the squawk of a microphone. A band was warming up. Maybe they were going to have an awards ceremony or something. Pass out certificates of recognition for lives well-lived. And she was still in her running clothes.

There's a tiny glitch in your file, Pedro said. He reached for the phone. Let me check with my manager.

Pedro cupped his hand around his mouthpiece and swiveled his chair to face the wall. She took a seat in the waiting room and examined her running shoes. They were stained with mud, hardly a way to make a good first impression. Undoubtedly they'd seen worse around here; at least she had all her body parts.

Pedro glanced at her over his shoulder. It was a glance of red tape, of a glitch in the system, of the type that raised her hackles. Trouble in paradise? she wanted to ask, but he'd probably heard that one before.

A bell chimed. She turned around just in time to see the doors of an elevator slide open. Three blonde women in white dresses stepped out, each toting a Styrofoam carry out container. Lunch. They giggled at a joke and made their way to the frosted glass doors.

Hi, said the first one, a pretty girl of about sixteen, a faint red ring around her neck.

Hi, said the second, a thirty-something, full-bodied gal wearing high heels and lots of chunky jewelry.

The third one, supermodel tall with the sharp angles of an anorexic, nodded at her lunch. Shrimp fried rice, everyday if you want. Never gain a pound.

Wow, Raye said, even though she was more of a moo shu pork person. The three women in white disappeared behind the frosted glass doors, and Raye's hackles settled into an anticipatory feeling not unlike that of high school graduation. A new beginning. A fresh start.

No doubt she'd suffer the five stages of grief for her friends and Chad. After all, she'd left a boatload of loose ends and the lack of closure would haunt her for a while. On the other hand, now she was beyond the reach of gynecological exams, sub-zero winters, and carbohydrates. At least she hoped so.

Pedro was still on the phone. She cleared her throat. He held up an index finger. Just a sec.

She smiled. Firm but pleasant. If there's one thing she'd learned in her twenty-four years, it was that polite persistence always paid off.

That's what I thought, Pedro stage whispered to his manager. I know. . . . it's highly unusual.

Highly unusual in what sense? Raye wondered. Highly unusual that a woman from Wisconsin would get struck by lightning while saving a goat, or highly unusual that someone without a formal religious education came knock, knock, knocking on heaven's door? She prepared to argue her defense, which would highlight her well-documented tolerance of all peoples, nationalities, and cultures and her track record of volunteer work and charitable contributions to organizations dedicated to eliminating poverty in the Third World. In fact, just this morning she'd written a check to an AIDS clinic in Nairobi. She did it because it was the right thing to do, not because it would get her into heaven. But still.

Pedro hung up and cleared his throat. See, the problem is, Ms. Blake--

Raye. Please.

--We're only scheduled for one admission from your sector this afternoon, but we've got two souls waiting for it.

I don't understand. Raye looked around the room. I'm the only one here.

Just as the words sprang from her lips, the elevator chimed again and the doors slid open. A man stepped into the room, cowboy boots covered in mud, overalls sopping wet, a handlebar mustache giving him the air of a nineteenth-century barkeep. A melted blob of silver dangled from his fingers. Her watch.

Reckon that damn goat got us both killed, he said, wiping his brow with a soggy handkerchief. But here, I saved you this.

Incredulous, Raye snatched the remains of her watch from his outstretched hand. Tucker Treanor, organic produce wunderkind, neighbor, and nemesis, had found her in the one place in all the universe she should have been beyond his reach. Fat chance now of any rest in peace.

Tucker thumped a wet hand across her back. Well, praise the Lord and pass the chips and salsa, we made it, Raye. Must've passed the test, whatever the hell it was.

Pedro cleared his throat.

'Scuse my French, sir.

Raye squeezed her sacred metal blob and kept her mouth shut. Now was not the time for her well-known sense of serenity to fail her. Soon enough, they'd be checked in and she could go about her afterlife undisturbed. Heaven had to be bigger than Wisconsin, big enough for her to avoid him. She'd saunter off to the swimming pool, and he'd find a smoky bar somewhere with a classic rock jukebox and a bunch of glassy-eyed girls who'd swoon over his bloated personality. Their paths would rarely cross, if ever.

Hope you got aye-cee in the summer, a cracklin' fire in the winter, and asparagus all year 'round, Tucker said. He strode toward the black lacquer desk and held out his hand. Tucker Treanor.

Pedro slipped his demure hand into Tucker's meaty paw. Pedro San Angelo. I'll be your case manager.

Case manager? Don't tell me this is an intervention.

Pedro chuckled. Nothing of the sort, Mr. Treanor.

The metal blob cut into Raye's hand; the pain was both mental and physical. There's been a snafu Tucker, only one of us is supposed to be dead, she said.

Trevor settled himself into the chair next to her, his giant limbs folding up more easily than looked possible. That so. Which one?

Pedro tapped some more. The requisition was for Raye Blake. Collateral damage was supposed to be a goat named Onyx. Unfortunately, it looks like the goat survived, but you didn't, Mr. Treanor.

That's cuz I saved the goat.

Raye closed her eyes, then rolled them. Tucker Treanor had officially gummed up the wheels of fate.

Pedro's skinny fingers danced some more. I'll just start a new file here. Flash flood . . . saved goat . . . drowned--

Mmmmm. Tucker examined the dregs of his wet overalls.

--in an act of selfless heroism.

Raye interjected. Now hold on. I was trying to save the goat too. Doesn't that count as a selfless act of heroism?

Pedro paused, looked up at her calmly. Well, it's a lesser act because you didn't know your life was in danger from the storm, he explained. You were simply trying to usher the goat back to her pen. In Tucker's case, he saw the danger and accepted the risk to his own life as he tried to help you to safety.

Tucker leaned over, his tobacco-tinged breath taunting her. You're welcome.

What you did Raye was an act of heroism, but not of the selfless variety, Pedro said.

Raye blinked. Are you saying that if I had looked up and seen the dark clouds heading my way, I'd be in the all clear?

Pedro cocked his head. I'd hate to speculate.

Her first instinct was to argue her case for heroism, which she felt was strong, but her well-honed sense of propriety kicked in and she held her tongue. The occasion called for restrained diplomacy. As much as it pained her.

You're right. It's neither here nor there, she said. Then she turned to Tucker. Thanks for saving Onyx. It's a relief to know your rescue effort wasn't a total loss.

Pedro sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. Here's the situation. I would love to admit both of you, but there's only one opening.

No vacancy, eh? Tucker chuckled.

He was always a tad casual about matters of life and death, Raye noted. Like the time he hitchhiked to Burning Man from Wisconsin to Nevada, with nary a thought of serial killers or food. Or cops, for that matter, who might have been interested in the copious supply of home-grown herbs tucked in his backpack.

It's complicated, Pedro explained. We have quotas--a terrible term--but that's the best way to explain it. It's a delicate balance to maintain harmony in the Ever After. The Divine Will requires a certain ratio of angels and saints to general members. It's a security measure.

Raye nodded. I see. Even though she didn't.

There are dubious entities who would like to infiltrate our ranks. If our population swells past certain limits, we don't have the forces necessary to ensure the safety of our members. I hope you understand.

You got a second amendment around here? Tucker piped in. That might take care of the problem.

Raye gasped in horror.

Pedro stifled a giggle. Such a joker. Next you'll want to know why we can't just return one of you. And the answer is that we can't bring someone back to life. It's against the rules.

Normally, Raye was a big fan of rules, but right now they were proving inconvenient. Could you send one of us back as something else? You know, reincarnation?

I'll go, Tucker said. Make me an Indian and give me a cool name, like Parties with Squaw.

Raye brightened. Yes. He'd make an excellent Indian.

Pedro sighed. The problem is, you're both here now, which gives each of you a legitimate claim to the opening. What we typically do in this situation is have a contest.

Raye brushed a strand of her short ebony hair out of her eyes. Excuse me?

Tucker leaned back in his chair. This oughta be good.

Pedro shifted uncomfortably. It may seem a tad unusual, but the Lord works in mysterious ways.

Raye glanced at Tucker. His eyes were roaming around the room, taking in the muted décor and soft lighting. He had the attention span of a five-year-old; surely she would kick his ass in a contest.

Pedro continued. The way it works is this--you get thirty days. We send you back to earth and your goal is to save as many lives as possible. The person who saves the most enters the Kingdom of Heaven.

I thought you couldn't send people back down, Tucker said.

What happens to the loser? Raye asked.

You'll find the answers to all your questions in here. Pedro opened a file drawer and pulled out two spiral bound notebooks.

Raye was touched by the display of organization.

Read this through thoroughly and sign the non-disclosure agreement on the last page, Pedro said. To answer your question, Mr. Treanor, indeed, we are sending you back down, but you will have no contact with your friends and loved ones. You will be provided with accommodations and provisions. You will be monitored closely to assure adherence to the rules of competition, and, with a few notable exceptions, all lives saved during your 30 days, or lives that are saved afterward due to your actions during those 30 days count toward your total.

Tucker ran his fingers over his mustache. Sounds like a reality television show.

Raye flipped through the folder to find the dotted line. Already, the wheels were turning in her head. Not to be cocky, but she had a definite advantage over Tucker, whose plan for saving lives would probably involve passing out six-packs of Meisterbrau to starving illegal immigrants along the Rio Grande.

Laughter erupted from behind the frosted doors and distracted Raye. She looked longingly toward the source of the sound. What wonders awaited those who made the cut? An Eden of fountains and food, music and fellowship.

Pedro nodded toward the door. New member orientation. Bus went off the road in Guadalajara. Fifty-seven senior citizens from San Diego in search of cheap pharmaceuticals. Ecstatic their arthritis is gone.

Raye wanted to be on the other side of the door, laughing along with them. She imprinted the sound of their joviality on her memory, for motivation purposes. Are we supposed to save people who are dying, or prevent early deaths? she asked.

Hey, wait a minute, Tucker said. Won't this game mess everything up? Interfering with people's fate and whatnot? I tried to save Raye and this is what happened.

Raye thought this was an excellent point.

Pedro stood up, for the first time revealing his height. Tall and lithe, with great posture. He walked around the desk and perched himself on the end, like a high school teacher. I agree it seems counterintuitive, but when an event occurs that upsets the natural course of history--such as this goat incident--we need to call into question our existing assumptions, which was that Raye's death was a foregone conclusion. The contest, while it looks like a simple winner-takes-all transaction, is really a way to reestablish karmic equilibrium resulting from extenuating circumstances. I'd love to let you both in now, no questions asked, but I'm afraid heaven adheres to strict immigration quotas that are enforced in order to protect everyone's safety. Things changed after the events of the Briney Seven.

That anything like Ocean's Eleven? Tucker asked.

A few years ago, we admitted a crew from a capsized fishing boat, Pedro explained. They weren't scheduled, but their credentials checked out so we let them in. Months later--completely without warning--they launched a horrific attack on the seraphim. It was a mess. Turns out the fishermen were demons in disguise, we didn't pick it up in our system. So you can see why we need to be careful. Hence the new safety measures.

I can assure you, we aren't demons, if that's what you're concerned about, Raye said.

Pedro arched an eyebrow. You expect us to take your word for it?

Tucker jabbed his thumb in Raye's direction, This one here may have a temper, but she's no demon. If she had any supernatural powers, she'd have killed me before now. Hah!

Raye started. That's a terrible thing to say!

What about the time you left a pitchfork in the middle of my cabbage crop and waited for me to come along and step on it?

That was not intentional. I swear!

It's what they call a `Freudian slip' at that fancy school of yours. One part of your head came up with the scheme, and your conscience covered for it. I'm just lucky I stepped on the handle and not the fork. Otherwise I'd been here sooner, with a patch over one eye and a splitting headache.

Raye crossed her arms. Pedro, I want you to know that you'll have my full cooperation for the next thirty days. I'm ready to begin any time.

Pedro my friend, one more question, Tucker said. Just curious, what's your computer say about how I was supposed to die, since it wasn't supposed to be today?

Pedro returned to the other side of his desk and tapped on the computer. I'm not supposed to say, but I guess it won't do much harm. We have you down for a fatal rickshaw accident in Bangalore, India, in 2031.

Tucker laughed. Sorry I'll miss it. Sounds like a real adventure.

Pedro's glimpse into the future begged a thousand questions, Raye thought, but they were all beside the point. Her future was now contained in the glossy pages of the manual in her hand. She flipped through it, taking in the broad scope of the contest. A note on page 12 caught her eye. What's this about a chaperone?

I almost forgot, Pedro said. You'll be accompanied by a third party to make sure you obey the rules.

Raye nodded. This would definitely work in her favor. She thrived on rules; Tucker disregarded them. The Kingdom of God was practically hers.

What rules, the Ten Commandments? Tucker asked.

Pedro pointed to the manual. Those rules. In the book. Ordinary policies of forgiveness apply to violations of the Ten Commandments followed by penance.

Tucker slapped his thigh. Hot damn. You mean I can sin as long as I'm sorry?

Pedro winced.

Oh, I thought of something else, Tucker said. As usual, Raye noted, he couldn't shut up. Curious what the Bible says. I always thought that man didn't enter the kingdom of heaven on good works alone. All you needed to do was accept the Lord Jesus Christ as your personal savior, John three sixteen and all that.

And have you?

Tucker shrugged. Never dipped myself in a river, if that's what you mean.

Raye hoped Pedro wasn't going to ask her the same thing, because her answer wasn't any better. Both she and Tucker had come from rather untraditional homes, and she always figured she had plenty of time to square herself away with a higher power.

So, will this chaperone accompany us back down there, or just watch us from afar? Raye asked.

She'll be returning with you. And, to answer your next question, she'll appear as a flesh and blood human.

She. Raye was cheered by the prospect of a female chaperone. It would give her an advantage, as long as Tucker didn't pull his Casanova routine on her. When do we meet her?

How about right now? Pedro punched a button on his phone and cupped his hand over the mouthpiece of his headset. Hi. Send her right up, we're all set to go.

Raye was surprised to find herself awash in a feeling of benign anticipation. This whole episode should have been infuriating, an affront to her sense of disdain for red tape, and yet here she was, recently deceased and relatively untroubled by it. It was like all those years she spent worrying about losing her virginity, and then when it happened it was no big deal.

From behind the closed doors erupted a round of hearty applause. The bus accident victims. She wondered what they were doing, if they had clean clothes to wear, if their aging bodies were firm and lithe once more. She wanted to laugh and applaud with them, to punch the clock of time everlasting, and dip her cup in the Fountain of Youth. All that stood between her and Paradise was the simple matter of saving a few lives.

What she needed was a legal pad and a good felt tip pen. Planning was the key to winning this contest, and as soon as she could settle down and draw up a cost-benefit analysis of