The Dearly Departed Dating Service

By Cheryl Sterling

A Paranormal Romance

You're never too dead to fall in love.

Clare Holmes died once. No one bothered to tell her. It worked out well in the end, as the powers-that-be sent her back to Earth. No one bothered to tell her that, either. It might have come in handy when she started seeing dead people, handier yet when they demanded she set up a dating service for them.

Now she has ghosts clambering at her door looking for their soul mates, a million dollar inheritance, and a couple of wacky sisters who are after her pot of gold.

She can handle them.

It's the handsome lawyer who's administrating her bequest who keeps her up at night.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cheryl Sterling
• Release date: Aug 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536542240

Cheryl Sterling

Cheryl Sterling is an American author of several paranormal and contemporary romance novels and short stories. Cheryl is a co-founder and past president of Grand Rapids Region Writers Group in Grand Rapids, MI. She has conducted several workshops that focused on the writing craft and co-chaired their first “I’ve Always Wanted to Write a Book” regional conference. Her passion is learning and improving her craft, but mostly, she is a teacher. Cheryl currently lives in Phoenix with her husband.

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THE DEARLY DEPARTED DATING SERVICE

Copyright © 2016 by Cheryl Sterling

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For information contact:  www.cherylsterlingbooks.com

Book and Cover design by www.KrisNorris.ca

First Edition: September 2016

Disclaimer: That part up there – Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Nope. Uh-uh. Most (but not all) of the antics perpetrated by Claire’s sisters are based on true events. You can’t make this stuff up, people.

––––––––

Dedication:

To well-meaning old ladies everywhere

and their dedicated caregivers.

Chapter One

SOMETHING IS WRONG.

Claire Holmes stopped on the top step of the decrepit Victorian and drew in a sharp, icy breath. A Michigan storm pulsed into the old house through the open screen door, the snow coating it like thick, white frosting.

An open door during a storm conjured a number of frightening scenarios. Her mind blurred with what she might find inside. As a caregiver, fear accompanied every visit to her patients. She hated the cold fact that the elderly had a habit of dropping dead.

Maybe a realtor knocked, trying to get a listing, and didn’t close the door.

Maybe burglars broke in during the night and stole the fortune Amy’s father supposedly left her.

Or maybe her patient, Amy Gardner, had walked out of her house and wandered the snow-clogged streets, dementia claiming her eighty-four-year-old brain.

Claire hurried across the porch. Miss Amy!

Music blasted from the house. Adele. Over the beat, a teakettle shrilled.

Claire wound through the twisted hallway to the kitchen and grabbed an umbrella as a weapon. Brilliant white light streamed from the distant room, another warning something had gone wrong. Miss Amy never wasted a penny on unnecessary electricity.

The smart thing to do is call 911. The police would handle burglars, strokes, or missing old ladies.

Claire hefted the umbrella over her shoulder like a baseball bat. Tense with worry, assaulted by the noise, she burst into the room.

Miss Amy bustled between an ancient porcelain stove and a chipped mahogany table. She sang along with Adele.

Miss Amy never bustled. Rheumatic arthritis slowed her steps. Miss Amy didn’t sing. Her Papa had disapproved of women expressing any emotions. His word ruled forty years after his death.

Miss Amy had sprung a sprocket.

Claire’s employer, Elder Care West Michigan, of Grand Rapids, (helping the elderly age in place for two decades), preferred such terms as dementia, Alzheimer’s and mentally incapacitated. Nut job, whacko and sprung sprockets didn’t enter their vocabulary.

Claire unwrapped her red headscarf and entered the room with the care of a police negotiator trying to talk someone down from a ledge.

Miss Amy, are you all right?

The woman glanced up from pouring hot water into a red enamel pot. Her face brightened in a smile.

Claire, dear. We’ve waited hours for you.

We? Claire’s head swiveled as she searched for other occupants. Amy lived alone; her family had died out decades ago. She had no we.

Claire recalled signs of Alzheimer’s from her training. Diminished mental capacity. Changes in mood and personality.

Amy continued talking, her blue eyes bright. Rachel and Margaret and Albert and Dennis. You’ll meet the rest of us soon.

Confusion with time or space.

Claire’s mouth dried as the names clicked into place.

Rachel Reardon. Margaret Arnold. Albert B. Grier. Dennis Russell Garrett.

All past patients of Claire’s. All unknown to Amy Gardner.

All recently dead.

• • •

Claire’s hand trembled as she snapped off the radio. Silence rushed into the room, replaced by the rumble from the January storm. A loose shutter banged, and the old house creaked.

She didn’t understand how Amy knew of her patient load. Maybe the obituaries mentioned Elder Care West Michigan.

Or I met them on the other side, her patient said before sitting.

What? I didn’t say that out loud. Had she?

No, you didn’t. Amy poured a cup of tea and pushed it across the table. Please sit down before you fall.

Yes, I’d better. Claire sank onto a chair, her knees unable to support her.

What was happening? Since before she’d spotted the open front door, normal had disappeared. Before then-

Her memories froze. Before then—what?

I can’t remember. Dear heavens, what was happening? Dementia wasn’t contagious. She must have tripped on the steps and hit her head.

You’re fine. Try the tea, it’s a nice Darjeeling. Amy handed her the sugar bowl. Black and white checks had replaced the red enamel tea set.

Claire ran a hand through her hair. The conversation spilled over into uncharted territory. It was no longer a case of whether Amy had lost her mind, but if she’d dragged Claire with her. I’m going crazy.

Maybe the gas stove leaked and poisoned them, carbon monoxide hallucinations warping her senses. No other explanation existed.

I can fix this.

We need fresh air. She rose but fell back at the sight outside the kitchen window.

Yellow and white tulips bloomed through the snow.

Oh, dear, we’re bungling this. It’s new to us, you understand. Amy reached across the table and took her hand.

Claire lifted her gaze from the improbability of a horticulture miracle and stared at the woman she’d cared for during the last two years.

Amy Gardner didn’t look a day over thirty. The lines around her bright blue eyes had vanished and wrinkles no longer lined her face.

Let me explain, Amy said, unfazed. We need your help. You know many who have passed over, and they know others.

Six degrees of separation of the dead? This made no sense. I don’t know where you’re headed, but a few patients have died. It happens, Miss Amy. In the eight years she’d worked for Elder Care, dozens of her patients had died. She hated to think about losing them.

Amy leaned forward, her face intense. With your extensive knowledge, we need you to help us find mates.

She hadn’t heard right. Mates?

Amy sighed, as if trying to explain a complicated problem. Husbands and wives. We’re lonely, and we want companionship and marriage.

I don’t understand. If you’re alive and I know dead people, then how can I...

Amy’s hand tightened on hers. That’s just it, Claire, dear. I’m not alive.

Claire shot to her feet, the chair legs scraping on the vinyl floor. She couldn’t fix this. The situation was too bizarre.

Her breath came fast, and cold inched into her bones, despite her winter coat. I’ll have my office contact your doctor. It’s time you met with Dr. Stephenson again. She’d never heard of Alzheimer’s setting in so fast, and Amy spoke too well to have suffered a stroke.

I’m not sick, dear. I’m dead. Gone. Kaput. No longer living. Walked into the white light. Bought the farm. Dead.

New fears strangled Claire’s nerves. She fumbled to take her own pulse. If you’re not alive, it means you’re dead, and if I’m talking to you, then I’m dead.

No, no, no. Amy pressed her fingertips to her forehead. We’re not explaining this well. You’re very much alive.

Claire forced herself to breathe. Delusional Amy thought she’d died, which meant Claire talked to dead people, and that was insane to the Nth degree.

Then how is this working? There had to be a logical answer.

Amy sighed again. We decided to only meet in your dreams. We thought you’d be more receptive to our requests if you lacked awareness, but it hasn’t worked out the way we expected.

I’m dreaming? I’m dreaming? Claire paced from the sink to the table, where the tea set had changed to silver. Of course she was dreaming. Nothing else made sense.

We’re new at this, so please forgive us. This world has different rules, but I don’t think we’ve broken any by manipulating your dreams.

Claire reached up her coat sleeve and pinched her arm through the sweater wool. Nothing happened except the tea set reverted to red enamel.

I’m trapped at the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party.

Let me get this straight. I’m dreaming.

Yes.

And you’re dead.

Very much so.

And you and others want me to run a dearly departed dating service.

Don’t be crass. It’s not complicated. We’re asking you to act as a matchmaker. You know people who have passed on; there must be someone for each of us.

Amy’s calmness grated on her nerves. No one in heaven can do this job? The patron saint of lonely hearts? An angel earning its wings?

It’s complicated. We’ve chosen you, Claire. We took a vote.

No. She wouldn’t have her life turned upside down. If Dream Amy spoke the truth, Claire would wake up and not remember this horrid, horrid conversation.

Don’t you have dead people bored with eternity who can do this for you? I don’t want the job. I refuse.

If this was Normal Amy, Claire wouldn’t walk out, but unseasonal garden tricks and morphing teapots convinced her she was trapped in a vivid dream.

Claire picked up the red wool scarf she’d dropped earlier and wound it around her neck. She stared at Amy, expecting to see pursed lips and a disappointed expression. Instead, the woman smiled, a more deadly weapon.

Think about it.

There’s nothing more to say.

Claire walked out of the house.

Chapter Two

CLAIRE WOKE to the whomph-whomph of the Doctor Who theme screaming in her ear. Adrenaline jerked her upright, and her head pounded. Cold sweat clung to her and the dampened, twisted bed sheets.

Her Doctor Who Tardis ringtone blasted her ears. Claire located her cell and answered, praying it wasn’t bad news. She’d dreamed of Miss Amy’s death.

Claire, this is your half-sister, Wisp Reynolds.

She groaned and closed her eyes. Her sisters, Wisp and Dee Dee, never failed to remind her of their different mothers, her parent’s divorce, and their martyrdom of accepting her into their exclusive family.

I know who you are, Wisp. She eyed the alarm, the numbers half-visible in the dawn’s gloom, ticking off the minutes she’d overslept. It’s 8:11. What do you want?

No need to get snappy, Claire. You should be up and out the door, tending octogenarians.

I could spend my time marrying and divorcing rich husbands like you and Dee Dee. Claire bit her lip. The sisters’ childhood lacked harmony, and Claire’s arrival at age six disrupted it more. She’d always tried to compensate for her intrusion.

Wisp continued, her mind, as always, on one track. I bought a cooking software program and am organizing my recipes. I can’t find the one for buffalo chicken dip for the crackers. You made it countless times for family gatherings.

Claire untangled the sheets from her legs and stood. She ran a hand through her hair. She’d made her mother’s recipe exactly twice.

I’ll email it. Her gaze swept the closet for a clean uniform. George Murphy expected her at nine.

I wanted to nail this down this morning. Couldn’t you read the instructions over the phone?

I’ll email you. Cut and paste the recipe into the program. She tried to pull off her pajama top one-handed while juggling the phone.

Oh. I don’t know how to do that.

Her head half-in and half-out of her top, Claire rolled her eyes. Who didn’t know how to cut and paste?

Have Mike teach you. Listen, I have to go. I’ll send you the recipe by six tonight. Ex-husband number three owned several jewelry stores, the number one qualification for matrimony in Wisp’s eyes. He, at least, could operate a computer.

Never mind, I’ll write it by hand. I’ve always wanted to journal things. Do you have a picture I can use?

No, Wisp, I don’t, and I’m not making it so you can take a picture. Maybe you can find something online. She glanced at the alarm. I have to go.

My life would be much easier if you’d cooperate. Her half-sister let out a lusty sigh.

Another time. Before Wisp could jump into the conversation again, Claire pressed the disconnect button.

It rang thirty-seconds later as she pulled a hairbrush through her curls. She threw the brush on the unmade bed and snatched up the phone.

Wisp, I’ll be over tonight if you need help. Capitulating, she’d learned, saved time and frustration.

This isn’t Wisp, a male voice answered, and don’t go there if you know what’s good for you.

Ed Hanson. Her boss. He’d met the sisters and had advised her to perform a sister-ectomy. Ed, I know I’m running late, but I’m on my way. Did George call?

Adrian Burelli did. Ed’s voice grew serious.

Who? A new patient? She’d fit him into her crazy schedule.

Burelli. He’s Amy Gardner’s lawyer.

Cold washed over her. Details of the room crystallized—dust motes settled on the bedside table; honey-brown hair caught in the hairbrush on the white pillowcase. The alarm clock’s tick vibrated against the walls.

Claire’s throat closed. She’s dead, isn’t she?

He had an appointment with her last evening and found her at the kitchen table. She died while pouring tea.

Chapter Three

ADRIAN BURELLI DIDN’T EXPECT mourners at Amy Gardner’s funeral. As her attorney and estate executor, he’d arranged for Father Donahue to say a few words. Without a proper sendoff, the old woman wouldn’t have rested. The funeral home had set up an optimistic thirty-six chairs, but Adrian represented all the mourners.

When the woman in the red down coat brushed past the departing priest, Adrian first thought who in hell is she? Followed by she looks like a walking tomato.

He knew Amy’s circumstances—she had no living relatives or friends. Despite the illusion of genteel poverty, she’d left behind a considerable fortune that he administered. Was this woman a legitimate mourner or a con artist in the first steps of latching onto Amy’s money?

He had to find out.

Adrian limped forward. His left leg swung out from the hip in a slight arc, the result, at age eight, of a car accident. It had killed his older brother and cemented Adrian’s resolve to study law in his place.

Defender of justice and the American way.

Close. He strove to live up to his brother’s ideals every day.

The stranger stood next to the open casket, oblivious to his approach. She’d pulled off red wool mittens, and a multi-ringed hand hovered over Amy’s body, unsure whether to touch her or not.

Her last-minute appearance bothered Adrian, like an itch between his shoulder blades. He had to know her identity, and why she’d shown up at the funeral services of an obscure spinster.

He stopped beside her. A whiff of crisp, winter air and citrus teased his nostrils. Did you know Amy long?

The woman jumped, and her hand flew to her heart.

What? Yes, two years. She turned, her chocolate brown eyes distant, seeing past him. Jumbled blonde and light brown hair cascaded around her face.

Claire? Miss Holmes? He knew her. The caregiver. Every month, he wrote a check to Elder Care West Michigan to pay for her services. Two years ago, he’d picked her from a list of available caregivers. Since then, her employee photo, attached to her dossier, had haunted him.

Deep within, something stirred. Adrian squashed way down into a folder marked inappropriate things to fantasize about in a funeral home.

He cleared his throat. Miss Holmes, I’ve heard of you. I’m sorry we’re meeting under such circumstances. Amy Gardner was a unique, gracious lady.

Her gaze wandered downward, toward his feet, then swept up. Her brow wrinkled. Thank you. I’m sorry; I’m still recovering from the shock. Who are you?

He held out his hand. Adrian Burelli. Miss Amy’s attorney.

Oh, you’re the one who found her. Her fingers closed over his, the grip firm, her skin smooth. Electricity sizzled along his palm.

Or was it imagination?

Enough of that. He withdrew his hand. I did.

Adrian had known Amy’s time drew near, but hadn’t expected it to arrive so soon. He’d pushed hard and worked long hours to complete her wishes, finishing preparations for her bequests days before her death.

Mr. Burelli, thank you for coming. It’s nice someone cares about Miss Amy. Claire’s gaze swept the room, resting again at his feet.

Had he stepped in something?

Adrian sniffed, searching for traces of dog poo carried in from the street, but he only smelled orange drifting from her hair.

Keep it strictly business. Amy’s will required them to meet again, and he needed to stay clear of personal thoughts. Claire Holmes played a key role in Amy’s primary bequest. He faced his biggest challenge as a lawyer and didn’t need emotion intruding.

Adrian steered his mind to matters at hand. On Thursday, he’d speak to her about the terms of the will. He’d already dictated the letter requesting a meeting and expected no problems.

This occasion honored a woman who listened and encouraged him. Amy had cared when a boy’s dream had evaporated in a twist of tangled metal.

I like to think of her as a client and an adoptive aunt, he said, tamping down a swell of emotion.

Did you know her a long time? Claire stepped back and peeked at his shoes.

All my life. Adrian didn’t know what to think of this strange woman. What was wrong with her?

Miss Holmes, are you all right? You seem distracted. Unbalanced. A little on the weird side. He needed things to run on time and schedule, and a woman with a foot fetish would slow him down.

Claire glanced away. I’m sorry. Am I?

You keep looking at my feet. He lifted one foot to check if he’d stepped in anything.

Oh! Her hand flew to her face where a blush crept upward. Was it obvious? I’m sorry. I wanted to see if they touched the floor.

Why wouldn’t they? Adrian made a mental note to call Elder Care West Michigan and suggest an evaluation. Her dossier appeared impressive, but since he’d read it, she’d slipped downward.

He might have to adjust plans.

If you’re an angel, they wouldn’t. She clapped a hand across her mouth and stared at him for a reaction, astonishment on her face.

Not a foot fetish. An angel fetish. This woman was on meds or drugs or both. He’d mistaken her character.

Adrian gauged the distance to the nearest chair and calculated how to get her into it. Is this a regular occurrence? Seeing angels?

Well, not until recently. Claire waved a hand in dismissal. Coming here was a mistake. Forget I said anything.

"I’m not sure what you said." He