me long to feel my way to the kitchen in the dark. Dead Guy followed me. They always follow me. I could only pray this one would keep his mouth shut long enough for the caffeine to kick in, but alas, no such luck.
I’d barely pressed the ON button when he started in.
“Um, yeah,” he said from the doorway, “it’s just that I was murdered yesterday, and I was told you were the one to see.”
“You were told that, huh?” Maybe if I hovered over the pot, it would develop an inferiority complex and brew faster just to prove it could.
“This kid told me you solve crimes.”
“He did, huh?”
“You’re Charley Davidson, right?”
“That’s me.”
“Are you a cop?”
“Not especially.”
“A sheriff’s deputy?”
“Uh-uh.”
“A meter maid?”
“Look,” I said, turning to him at last, “no offense, but you could have died thirty years ago, for all I know. Dead people have no sense of time. Zero. Zip. Nada.”
“Yesterday, October eighteenth, five thirty-two P.M., double gunshot wound to the head, resulting in traumatic brain injury and death.”
“Oh,” I said, reining in my skepticism. “Well, I’m not a cop.” I turned back to the pot, determined to break its iron will with my infamous death stare, second only to—
“So, then, what are you?”
I wondered if your worst nightmare would sound silly. “I’m a private investigator. I hunt down adulterers and lost dogs. I do not solve murder cases.” I did, actually, but he didn’t need to know that. I’d just come off a big case. I was hoping for a few days’ respite.
“But this kid—”
“Angel,” I said, disappointed that I didn’t exorcise that little devil when I had the chance.
“He was an angel?”
“No, his name is Angel.”
“His name is Angel?”
“Yes. Why?” I asked, becoming disenchanted with the Angel game.
“I just thought it might have been his occupation.”
“It’s his name. And believe you me, he is anything but.”
After a geological epoch passed in which single-celled organisms evolved into talk show hosts, Mr. Coffee was still holding out on me. I gave up and decided to pee instead.
Dead Guy followed me. They always—
“You’re very … bright,” he said.
“Um, thanks.”
“And … sparkly.”
“Uh-huh.” This was nothing new. From what I’d been told, the departed see me as something of a beacon, a brilliant entity—emphasis on the brilliant—they can see from continents away. The closer they get, the sparklier I become. If sparklier is a word. I’ve always considered the sparkles a plus of being the only grim reaper this side of Mars. And as such, my job was to lead people into the light. Aka, the portal. Aka, me. But it didn’t always go smoothly. Kind of like leading a horse to water and whatnot. “By the way,” I said, glancing over my shoulder, “if you do see an angel, a real one, run. Quickly. In the opposite direction.” Not really, but freaking people out was fun.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. Hey—” I stopped and twirled to face him. “—did you touch me?” Somebody practically molested my right ankle, somebody cold, and since he’d been the only dead guy in the room …
“What?” he said, indignant.
“Earlier, when I was in bed.”
“Pffft, no.”
I narrowed my eyes, let my gaze linger menacingly, then resumed my hobble to the bathroom.
I needed a shower. Bad. And I couldn’t dillydally all day. Uncle Bob would stroke.
But as I stepped toward the bathroom, I realized the worst part of my morning—the let there be light part—was fast approaching. I groaned and considered dillydallying despite the state of Uncle Bob’s arteries.
Just suck it up, I told myself. It had to be done.
I placed a shaky hand on the wall, held my breath, and flipped the switch.
“I’m blind!” I yelled, shielding my eyes with my arms. I tried to focus on the floor, the sink, the Clorox ToiletWand. Nothing but a bright white blur.
I totally needed to lower my wattage.
I stumbled back, caught myself, then forced one foot in front of the other, refusing to back down. I would not be stopped by a lightbulb. I had a job to do, dammit.
“Did you know you have a dead guy in your living room?” he asked.
I turned back to the dead guy, then glanced across the room to where Mr. Wong stood, his back to us, his nose buried in the corner. Looking back at dead guy number one, I asked, “Isn’t that a bit like the pot calling the kettle African-American?”
Mr. Wong was a dead guy, too. A teeny-tiny one. He couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, and he was gray—all of