Page 9 of Dead to Rites

“Oh, I will,” I replied. Winter wasn’t too far off in this part of the world, so I wouldn’t have a lot of days to tool around Prescott with the top down before it got too cold for that sort of thing, but I could imagine myself doing that next summer as much as possible.

I’d definitely need to invest in some scarves and really awesome vintage sunglasses, though.

“Hazel’s the gift that keeps on giving,” Celeste remarked. Then she looked down at her watch — a 1960s Timex that was still, as advertised, ticking — and added, “It’s getting kind of late. I really need to go to the store if we’re going to have that carbonara tonight.”

“We can still do takeout — ”

“No,” she said firmly. “I’m feeding you a real meal. I saw a Fry’s on our way over here from the hospital, so I’ll just backtrack and get what we need.”

I could tell from the set of her chin that she wasn’t going to put up with any more arguments from me, so I just said, “All right.”

We headed back into the house. Celeste retrieved her purse from the spot where she’d left it on the entry table, and then she went out to her Honda and started it up. I’d thought about offering her the Mercedes to drive — it wasn’t a vintage Cadillac, but it was still a much nicer ride than her ancient compact — but since her car was blocking the driveway, that wouldn’t have really worked.

I heard her back out and then head toward downtown. Now that I stopped to think about it, I was feeling a little tired. It was probably a good idea to sit down in the parlor for a while and give myself a chance to rest while she was shopping.

Chauncey had been following us from room to room, and he dutifully trotted after me when I went into the parlor and sort of collapsed on the sofa. It was very quiet in there; the street didn’t seem to get a lot of traffic, and the walls in old houses were thick.

My gaze moved from the window to Hazel’s chair, placed where it had always been, just a foot away, the green velvet slightly flattened from years of her sitting in that seat.

And then she was there.

Not glowing, not translucent, not some kind of ghost. She was sitting there the way she used to, wearing one of her purple twinsets and the amethyst drop earrings in white gold that ten-year-old me had always coveted. Her chin-length, iron-gray hair was perfectly smooth, like she’d just gotten back from the salon, and her lips were coated in her favorite Elizabeth Arden Rose Petal lipstick.

I blinked. Were hallucinations an after-effect of anaphylactic shock?

“Well,” she said, “that took long enough. I was beginning to think the bee hadn’t done the trick.”

Since I didn’t know what else to do, I blinked again. I had no idea what they’d pumped me full of at the hospital, and maybe the medication wearing off was making me see things.

Chauncey, who’d been sitting next to me on the sofa, gave a short, happy bark and leaped to the ground, then went over to Hazel’s chair and shook himself, his tags jingling faintly.

“Oh, yes, he can see me,” she said. “Animals are sensible about these things.”

She spoke in the same crisp, no-nonsense tone she’d always used, the tone that said she didn’t suffer fools gladly and would make her opinion known if necessary.

And I only sat there, not sure what in the world I was supposed to do. If it were just me, I would have chalked this vision up to trauma or too many meds or the overall shock my system had recently suffered.

But Chauncey was acting like Hazel was right there. He was looking directly at where she was sitting.

As far as I knew, dogs didn’t suffer from hallucinations.

Just what the hell was going on?

Apparently noting my confusion, Hazel said calmly, “Yes, Lorelei. I’m really here, and you can really see me. The bee sting — that was the catalyst. It triggered something I’ve been waiting for. I’ll explain more later.”

Just as she finished speaking, the sound of brakes squeaking came from the driveway, and I looked over to see Celeste’s Honda pull in.

At once, Hazel’s expression sharpened. She looked toward the window, then back at me, as if to say, Don’t tell her.

Since I really didn’t want my best friend to think I’d lost my mind, I just nodded dumbly. A second later, Celeste came through the door, holding two reusable shopping bags with bright Day of the Dead motifs printed on them.

“Well, the store could use an update,” she said breathlessly, “but I think I found everything I needed. Their wine selection sucked, though, so I only got a couple of bottles. Is there a Total Wine or a Trader Joe’s around here?”

As she was speaking, I rose from the couch. Too quickly, though, because the room wanted to spin around me.

Celeste’s gaze fixed on me with laser-beam intensity. “You look like you’re about to fall over. Sit back down.”

Since that seemed like sound advice, I sank onto the sofa and sent a surreptitious glance toward Hazel’s chair. She was still sitting there, plain as day to me, but clearly invisible to my best friend.