Page 7 of Ashes and Lilies
“They think you killed yourself,” I reminded him. “Some girl named Michelle found you hanging from your loft.”
“Oh no. Not Michelle.” Mr. Weaver sighed sadly. “She’s so frail. I do hope she hasn’t been traumatized. Some women have such delicate sensibilities. You need to be gentle with them.”
I wanted to point out the hypocrisy of his words—he’d been rather hostile with me. But arguing seemed more trouble than it was worth.
It might be best to get this ghost business sorted.
Yet, I wasn’t sure what to do. The words had come to me unbidden when I’d held Rosalie. Weren’t ghosts supposed to travel toward a light or something?
“All right.” I rubbed my temples, trying to ignore the pounding that had begun to radiate from the base of my skull. “Mr. Weaver, I’m still new at this, so please work with me. Do you think you can move on now?”
“No, I don’t want to,” Mr. Weaver replied, not missing a beat. “You see, I have unfinished business. I—”
“I’ll eat your ice cream for you. It is a sacrifice that I am willing to endure.” My eyes were still closed. I needed a coffee. Caffeine migraines were the worst. “Don’t worry. Your dairy will not go to waste.”
“This isn’t about the ice cream, you daft girl,” Mr. Weaver snapped. “You’re going to get yourself into trouble you can’t handle.”
Alarmed at his hostility, I jerked my gaze back to him.
“Stop doing that right this instant.” Mr. Weaver began to distance us more as he watched me suspiciously. “I’m staying regardless of what you say.”
Stop what? “What are you—”
“You need to either do it correctly or don’t do it at all. But I won’t have some untrained novice ruining my afterlife.” He pointed toward the door. “You have a job. A certain thing that only you can do. To start, you need to go back into the kitchen.”
Well!
I touched my chest, barely noting that the pounding in my head quieted into a more tolerable state. I was too offended to focus on much else. “Hey now—”
“I was so hungry, I couldn’t wait. But some of the pulled pork might still be left.” Mr. Weaver ignored my protest. “I was experimenting with a different flavor combination and marinade. Honey mustard instead of my usual barbecue. It was the strangest thing. Nothing tasted right.”
“Did you forget to turn off your oven?” I asked, unsure where he was going with this. He seemed absent-minded.
“No, you idiot. And you don’t bake pulled pork in the oven anyway. Where did you learn to cook?” Mr. Weaver rolled his eyes.
“Um…” I knew how to cook very well, thank you.
“I’m telling you, it had to be in the honey mustard.” He appeared to be deep in thought. “I was wondering what kind of dunderhead would prefer this to barbecue. And then, nothing.”
I frowned at him, suddenly hungry. “That’s not very nice. I like honey mustard.”
Besides, what was he saying—that the honey mustard was poisoned?
He glanced at me, and responded drily, “My point stands.”
Why in the world did he dislike me so much?
“What happened after that?” I asked. “It couldn’t have been poisoned; it would have taken some time to work. You wouldn’t have just died right there at the dinner table.”
Plus, how would his body have been moved to the loft? He wasn’t a small man.
“What do you know?” he snapped. “You don’t even know how to make pulled pork.”
My head hurt again.
Would it be ethical to let him stew out here by himself? The thought was tempting. Maybe Damen had some insight on the topic.
This conversation was extremely frustrating. And it didn’t help that it was difficult to differentiate between my feelings and Mr. Weaver’s—as sometimes happened when dealing with an especially emotional spirit. “Why—”
