There was a dead man sitting in my living room. Since it was way too early for anything resembling civilized conversation, I ignored him and padded the five steps to my kitchen, yawning and scratching my butt. My apartment was on the small side, a boho broom closet would have been a more apt description so the journey from bed to coffee nirvana was a small one. My name is Audrey Fitzgerald. Fitz to some. And recently I've gained the ability to see and talk to ghosts. And a cat. Other than that I’m perfectly normal, I swear.
Moving on auto pilot I opened the overhead cupboard, blindly felt around for a pod, shoved it into my Keurig and hit the magical button, then raided my fridge for anything remotely edible. Pickings were slim. There were some suspect green and fuzzy items at the back, then I spotted a leftover slice of meat lover’s pizza—how had I missed that? With a little yip of joy, I tossed it in the microwave. Today was going to be a good day, I could feel it in my bones. Any day that started with leftover pizza was a winner in my book. The microwave beeped, and I immediately shoved the pizza slice into my mouth, ignoring the searing temperature and the very real possibility I’d just removed one hundred layers of flesh from the roof of my mouth. It was worth it.
Through watering eyes I fixed my coffee, carried the rest of the pizza slice over to the sofa and sank into it, looking at the dead man who was waiting patiently for me to acknowledge him.
“You know, I’m not really fond of mornings.” I said.
“Pizza too hot?” he drawled. If he was trying not to smile, he failed.
“Not at all.” I lied, poking the roof of my mouth with my tongue, schooling my features to not give away the horror at discovering the flap of loose skin I’d scorched off.
His smirk gave way to a full-blown laugh. “Give it up Fitz, if your glassy eyes weren’t proof enough, the way you’re sucking your cheeks in and out is a dead giveaway.”
I glared at him, refusing to admit he was right. My stubborn streak kicked in and with my eyes locked on his I defiantly stuffed the rest of the pizza into my mouth, worked my jaw to chew and sent a stern message to my eyeballs to stop watering.
“You know if you choke, I can’t save you?” he said conversationally. I held up one finger, signaling him to hold that thought, while I chewed. And chewed. And chewed. After swallowing, I took a sip of coffee which only intensified the scalding in my mouth—nothing builds character like nerves of steel—then calmly lowered the mug, resting it on one thigh, ignoring the heat searing through my pj’s. A coffee ring burn would look cool, right?
“What can I do for you this fine morning, Ben?” Ben Delaney was my best friend. And he’d died. Correction, he’d been murdered and now instead of live Ben, I had ghost Ben. And his cat, Thor, who was not a ghost, but for some unholy reason I could now understand and speak to. I told you, totally normal.
“Why don’t you move into my house?” Ben shook his head, his eyes traveling around my shoebox of a home, “It would be so much easier for you. The office is there. Thor is there. He misses you, you know.”
“Pft, he’s a furry little jerk who doesn’t give a damn as long as his food bowl is full.” Ben’s cat aside, he had a point. Ben had left me everything in his will. And I mean everything. His house. His car. His PI business. Audrey Fitzgerald, temp extraordinaire, was now Audrey Fitz, PI in training. And I worked out of Ben’s home office.
But for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to move into Ben’s house. His car, on the other hand? Who could turn down a metallic gray Nissan Rogue SUV with charcoal leather seats? Not this girl, certainly not when my set of wheels was a 1970 blue Chrysler. As it was, I commuted backwards and forwards between Ben’s house and mine and it worked fine. As long as I pushed down the guilt that I left Thor to his own devices for such lengthy periods. Despite my protests to the contrary, I was secretly fond of the big gray cat that resembled a teddy bear.
“Did you want something?” I deflected. We’d been over this ad nauseam and if I knew what was holding me back from moving, I’d have done something about it because yes, Ben’s house was ten times better than my apartment. I knew it. He knew it. Thor definitely knew it. But each time the subject came up, I baulked, like a filly at its first hurdle, so much so I refused to discuss it anymore.
“How’s the case going?” He asked. I acknowledged his change of subject with a nod. Smart ghost. “It’s done.” I beamed, proud of myself. As a PI in training, I had to clock fifteen hundred hours with supervision before I could sit my exam and get my official private investigator license. Lucky for me, Captain Cowboy Hot Pants, or as he likes to be called Detective Kade Galloway, agreed to be my supervisor. He pretty much lets me do my own thing and signs off on my weekly reports. Since Ben’s death I’d not only solved his murder, I’d recovered a missing prized chihuahua, and solved the great gnome mystery of Firefly Bay. Someone had been stealing gnomes from gardens and leaving them on rooftops along the main strip. Turns out it wasn’t someone, it was several someones and was a practical joke started by some high school kids. Still, I broke the case, and that’s what counts.
I regaled Ben with an extra lengthy description of the great gnome mystery of Firefly Bay, watched as his eyes became glassy, could pinpoint the exact moment when he stopped listening. It wasn’t difficult, he literally disappeared. It was a quirk I’d noticed recently. Whenever Ben was disinterested, he’d slowly become more and more incorporeal until poof, he wasn’t there anymore. I’d quizzed him on where ghosts went when they weren’t haunting someone and he’d taken great exception to the term haunting and we’d spent over an hour debating the term and I’d never gotten an answer. From what I knew he didn’t sleep, he wasn’t restricted in where he went—which came in handy during investigations, Ben could slip inside and scout around undetected, whereas I, on the other hand, could get arrested for breaking and entering.
Therefore, when my phone rang, and I wasted precious minutes searching for it—I eventually located it under my bed—he wasn’t around to hear the details of my next case. As much as I loved Ben, and I did dearly, he could be a little... smothering. Just because he used to be a police officer and then a private investigator didn’t mean he got to tell me what to do. And yes, I know, he calls it guidance and training since it is technically his PI business I’ve taken over, but sometimes a girl needs a little elbow room, a little space to get things done herself.
I pushed down the little twang of pique that emerged when I applied the same principles to Captain Cowboy Hot Pants. Because, contrary to what I wanted from Ben, I did not want from Kade Galloway. A little attention would be... nice. But after the rather unfortunate incident when I’d been dosed with Crimson Bark, which FYI has the unpleasant side effect of explosive diarrhea, and said Detective had witnessed said aftermath—much to my utter mortification. Lets not even mention the fact that I’d been dressed in nothing but panties and a T-shirt at the time, I’d been expecting... something. Flowers? Chocolates? A date? Color me surprised when none of that happened. And color me even more surprised that I’m sitting here wishing it had. Me? Date a cop? Madness.
Shaking myself out of that particular daydream, I got dressed, snatched up my bag, tripped over the rug I’ve tripped over a million times before but refuse to move, and headed out the door to meet my new client.
