Alice clicked her tongue. “Let me think about that for a moment.” Alice chewed another piece of cobbler. Crumbs fell onto her dress. “The only person I can think of is Birda. She’s always been jealous of Ruth and me, and now that we have a successful ghost business, that makes it even worse.”
“We don’t have anything on Birda.”
“Then ask Tallulah,” Alice said. “But there’s one problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Tallulah is very eccentric and strange. She didn’t used to be so crazy, but now whenever you want to have a real one-on-one with her, you have to do it through her ghost interpreter.”
I tugged my ear, making sure I had heard correctly. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Tallulah only talks to people through a ghost interpreter. Stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of.”
I raised my hand. “I have a question.”
Alice blinked with surprise. “What is it?”
“What in the heck is a ghost interpreter?”
“Oh, that.” Alice shifted in her seat. “Sorry. My bursitis is acting up. When you meet with Tallulah, you’ll ask her a question, then Tallulah will turn her head to listen to the spirit. Then she’ll tell the spirit her answer and expect the spirit to tell you.”
My head spun. “You’re joking, right?”
Alice shook her head. “I’m not.”
“And does she do this in everyday conversation? Like when she’s out and about?”
“Oh no, people would think she’s crazy.”
“As if she isn’t already?”
Alice ignored my question. “I should be able to get you in to speak with her tomorrow. I’ll give you a call.”
“Great. Hopefully Ruth will be around by then, too.”
Alice nodded. “Now. Let’s get you home.”
I awokethe next morning to the heavenly sound of my doorbell buzzing at seven a.m. Just kidding. There was absolutely nothing heavenly about hearing my bell that early, especially since I hadn’t gone to bed until close to three.
I pulled on a sweater and pushed down a tuft of hair that wanted to stick straight up.
As I approached the door, Susan Whitby, my resident ghostly visitor from the eighties, clicked her tongue.
“Like, you are totally going to regret opening that door.”
“I doubt it. More like whoever’s here is going to regret waking me up.”
I swung the door wide. “What do you want?” I growled.
Hunched over stood Tart Walker, aka my mother. My spine straightened. Every muscle in my body tensed, and I didn’t even try to stop myself from staring a hole in her head.
Tart was a kind-looking woman with gray-streaked hair, soft eyes and a delicate mouth. She had such a nice way about her that it was almost hard to be mean.
Almost never stopped me before.
Tart lifted a box. “I brought doughnuts. The glazed and fried kind. I thought maybe we could chat.”
“At seven a.m.?”
