Proposal (4 page)

“You can't keep stayin' with that old dude when you're here, man,” was how Jake put it. By “old dude,” he meant Father Dominic. “No one should live in a monastery, unless they're a priest. And you're no priest, man. I've seen the way you look at my sister. No offense.”

I hadn't expected Jesse to accept, especially after an invitation couched quite like that.

But either living with Father Dominic really had become more than even a believer as faithful as Jesse could stand, or he was finally ready to step into the twenty-­first century, because Jesse does stay with Jake every time he's in town.

Between Jake's marijuana business venture and Brad's teenage parenthood, I would have become my parents' golden child if my youngest stepbrother, David, hadn't gotten accepted early decision to Harvard and been assigned to live in (where else?) Kirkland House.

Keeping my “gift” a secret is really hard sometimes, but the alternative—­having a cheesy reality show on the Lifetime Network where I go around telling ­people that their dead relative is in heaven now, smiling down at them—­seems way worse.

Jesse dropped his hand and frowned at me. “Susannah, I would think our getting engaged would be
good
news, something everyone in your family would appreciate, and even celebrate. What is it that's so upsetting you about my trying to propose?”

“Nothing,” I said, and grabbed my coat. “I told you. I just can't deal with it right now. Did you find the address of the probably already dead boy?”

He put the ring away and swiftly typed into his phone. For someone who despised modern technology, he was extremely good at using it. “No. It says their number and address is unlisted. These things are hopeless.”

“Nothing is hopeless,” I said. “You of all ­people should know that by now.” Then I flung open the door to my dorm room.

I probably shouldn't have been surprised that all six of my suite mates were crouched outside it.

 

Siete

“T
HE
F
ARHATS ARE
Persian,” said my suite mate Parisa. She was the one who was dating a guy in a motorcycle gang. If her parents found out, they'd kill her, she cheerfully informed us.

“Not literally,” she explained to Jesse, who looked a little alarmed. “I'm Persian, too, you see. My mom wants me to find a nice medical student like you.” She batted her thick eyelash extensions at him. “And if I could find one as cute as you, I would. But he'd have to be Persian, of course.”

“I'm Spanish,” Jesse said hastily. I think he was a little anxious about being surrounded by so many gorgeous women—­at least, I think they're gorgeous. I know
I
am—­one of whom was Persian, and all of whom had overheard our argument in my room.

He didn't have anything to be concerned about, however. My girls had his back. And mine.

“That's okay,” Parisa assured him. “With hair and eyebrows like that, you could pass.”

“He's taken, Par,” I reminded her.

“Yeah, but maybe I could just borrow him to take home for the holidays,” Parisa purred. “My mom would be so happy.”

“Or you could just quit dating a gangbanger who sexually abuses women, deals drugs, and traffics stolen goods,” suggested Valentina, the lesbian women's studies major. “Or would that interfere with your plan to get back at your dad for not buying you that BMW you wanted for high school graduation?”

Parisa smiled and shrugged her slinky shoulders. “It was a Porsche. And Ray's not as bad as his friends. Besides, he's got a really big”—­she glanced at Jesse, saw my warning glance, and smiled harder—­“
motorcycle
.”

Valentina rolled her eyes and poured herself another V and C. We'd all agreed this is the best cocktail, because it not only tastes good, but the cranberry juice allegedly helps ward off urinary tract infections.

“Getting back to the subject at hand,” I said, with a cough. “You say the Farhats live over in Carmel?”

“Right. There's a really big Persian community there.” Parisa handed me the address on a piece of her Pomeranian puppy–shaped notepad paper. “Well, not as big as in Los Angeles, but, like, big enough.” She explained to Jesse, as if he were a child, “Most ­people think of carpets or kittens when they hear the word Persian, but we're actually an ethnic group from north of the Persian Gulf.”

Jesse smiled at her politely. “Yes, I know. Thank you for clarifying that, though.”

“Oh,” she gushed. “Not a problem.”

I tapped her on the shoulder. “So do you know what the deal is with this Zack kid?”

“Yeah, totally. It's Zakaria, not Zack. I mean, his Westernized name is Zack, but in Persian it's Zakaria. His parents are friends with my parents, and I've been to their house a few times. That kid is so spoiled—­I mean, that's true of a lot Persian kids, but he's even more spoiled than most because he's the youngest, and his family is, like,
mega
rich. His dad's a heart surgeon. And they're super good friends with the Ahmadis, the parents of that girl who died last month. I think they were even distantly related—­second cousins, or something. I was at the funeral, and Zakaria's mom was bawling her eyes out. Well, we all were, because it was so sad. Jasmin was just a kid, and some guy killed her. How does that even happen?”

“Ask your boyfriend,” Valentina suggested.

Parisa ignored her. “But Mrs. Farhat was especially upset. And Zakaria, too. He kept his sunglasses on the whole time so no one could see how red his eyes were.”

“Aw,” said Melodia. She was the girl whose family didn't allow her to speak to men outside of her religion. Obviously, this was not a rule she actually followed when her family was not around. “That's so sad.”

Jesse and I exchanged glances. I knew what he was thinking. Zack had kept his glasses on to hide the fact that his eyes were red from crying . . . or something else.

“So do you know what kind of car this Zack kid owns?” I asked Parisa.

“What kind
doesn't
he own? Last time I was there, he had, like, three cars . . . a Jeep for the beach, a Beamer for school, and a pickup truck for whatever the hell kids like that do with pickup trucks.”

Kill girls who aren't interested in them, apparently.

“Thanks, Par,” I said, stuffing the address in the pocket of my jacket. “This is a huge help.”

“I don't understand why you guys are going over there
now
,” Lauren, the witch, said. “Not that I'm ungrateful to the mother goddess, because we need the rain, but there are flash flood warnings everywhere, and they're advising ­people to stay off the roads.”

“Yeah,” Melodia said. “This is a good night to stay
in
, not go out.”

I couldn't tell how much of this was genuine concern on their parts, or a desire for us to stick around so they could listen some more through the door, and hear the drama through to the end. I wasn't sure how much they'd already learned. Not enough, evidently, to know that I could speak to the dead, but enough to know that Jesse and I were on the outs for some reason.

I understood—­and could even sympathize with and appreciate—­their interest. Real-­life drama is infinitely preferable to most of what we see on TV. That stuff is so unbelievable.

I wasn't going to give them the satisfaction, however, for a variety of reasons. We had a soul to save, not to mention a life.

“Sorry, girls,” I said. “Jesse's really worried about this kid. What disease was it that you think he might have come into contact with in your ER? Ebola?”

Jesse rolled his eyes heavenward. He was always getting on my back about my alleged inability to lie convincingly, but my sociology prof says that studies show, the bigger the lie, the harder ­people will fall for it, because most human beings believe no one would ever tell an enormous whopper to their face (which is why they fall so easily into the clutches of corrupt politicians, kitchen contractors, and sleazy boyfriends).

“It's probably only a mild case of salmonella, Susannah,” Jesse says. “And it was from the hospital cafeteria, not the ER. Still, it's important we question him and the rest of his family immediately. These things have a way of spreading if proper precautions aren't taken.”

“I thought you were here to take Susannah out for dinner for Valentine's Day,” Ashley asked, suspiciously. Being a thief, she had sharper hearing than the others. She needed it for her trade. And since she was a criminal justice major, she was going to need it for her future career, as well.

“Well, I thought I'd combine work with pleasure,” Jesse said, assuming a properly shameful expression. “I suppose you caught me, Ashley.”

She grinned and patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry about that, Jess. Didn't mean to put you on the spot there.”

That's when I noticed an unfamiliar flash of green on her wrist. Looking more closely, I saw that she was wearing an emerald and diamond tennis bracelet with white gold links. It looked expensive.

An emerald and diamond tennis bracelet? Where had Ashley—­who'd had to pawn all her jewelry to pay off the criminal fines she'd accrued during the height of her disorder—­gotten hold of such an expensive piece of jewelry?

Then I remembered the bulky envelope I'd stuffed into my messenger bag.

Swiftly, I opened the bag and pulled out the envelope. It had been opened and re-­sealed—­cleverly, so that it would have been difficult to tell if I hadn't already been suspicious. But I probably would have observed it earlier if I'd taken half a second to look.

Now I slid open the envelope and found inside it only an empty jewelry box—­one of those beautifully wrapped ones that come from the high-­end jewelry stores, with the wide silk ribbon and certificate of authenticity—­and a card.

The card was tacky, a mass-­produced Valentine's Day card, the kind Jesse had said I was too good for, in the shape of a heart, with a cupid on it, aiming an arrow at the viewer.
You Slay Me
, it said, in a goofy font.

When I opened it, Paul had written, in his atrocious handwriting (he was used to typing, texting, and gaming, not writing with a pen, like Jesse):

I know you'
ll hate this, but I saw them (both the card and bracelet), and thought of you. The emeralds match your eyes (I know, I'm getting sentimental in my old age, aren't I?) and you slayed me long ago.

I know your first impulse is going to be to send the bracelet back, but why? That undead cholo boyfriend of yours can't afford to get you anything nice for Valentine's Day, so just pretend it's from him. It can be our little secret, like the other little secrets we have from him ;-­)

Love always,

Paul

I lifted my gaze—­not to look at anything in particular, only because I couldn't stare for a second longer at those words anymore—­and found Ashley looking in my direction, her face bright red. She must have seen what I was doing, noticed my expression, and thought my anger was targeted at her as the only likely suspect for filching the gift that should have been inside the package.

She thrust the wrist encircled by the bracelet behind her back, then, looking even more sheepish, brought it out again, and pointed to it.

Sorry
, she mouthed guiltily, looking anguished.
I'll give it back.

I nearly laughed out loud.
Yes
, I mouthed back.
You will.

But only so I could mail the bracelet back to Paul, with a note advising him that he could take both it and his Valentine and stuff it up his—­

“Are you ready to go?” Jesse asked. Then he noticed the card in my hand. “What's that?”

“Oh,” I said, and shoved everything—­the card, envelope, and empty jewelry box—­into a nearby pedal bin. “Nothing.”

Jesse seemed bemused as he watched me try to close the lid of the trash bin. I might have been hitting it a little more violently than necessary. “It doesn't look like nothing.”

“Trust me, it is.” The lid finally went down and stayed down. I straightened. “And yes, I'm ready. Let's go.”

 

Ocho

“I
T LOOKS LIKE
the Farhats are having a party.”

“What?”

Jesse's voice startled me. I'd become hypnotized by the sound of the wipers against the windshield as we'd navigated our way through the flooded streets of Carmel-­by-­the-­Sea, ruminating on how in the course of one evening, I'd had funerary planters thrown at me, ruined a perfectly good marriage proposal, been stalked by an ex, and caused a catastrophic weather event in Northern California.

Surprisingly, this wasn't the worst Valentine's Day of my life.

“I said, it looks like the Farhats are having a party.”

It did, actually. The house at the address Parisa had given us was on a seaside road so exclusive, the homes there listed in the high seven figures (when they went on sale at all, which was rarely). The Farhats' sprawling place was lit up as brightly as a toy store on Christmas Eve, and bouquets of heart-­shaped, helium-­filled balloons—­now looking a bit bedraggled in the rain—­dotted the fence, punctuating the line of cars all down the long driveway, stretching out onto the street.

Evidently the Farhats weren't going to let the weather—­or the death of a beloved teenage cousin—­spoil their good time.

“Good,” I said. “We can go in like we were invited. Too bad we didn't bring that bottle of sparkling wine. It would have been a nice hostess gift, to throw them off.”

Jesse pulled into a space as close as he could get to the house, though we were still going to be soaked as we made our way in.

“That's one of the many things I love about you, Susannah,” he said. “You're always so polite to the parents of the kids you've unintentionally set up to be murdered.”

“It's just the way I was raised.”

I checked my reflection in the sun visor's vanity mirror, and saw that my eyeliner, lip gloss, and hair were in order, though they'd soon be ruined by the rain, despite the fact that there was an umbrella in the backseat, and I had every intention of using it. This wasn't that kind of rain. It was the mean, sideways-­slanting kind.

“Shall we?” I asked.

“Let's.”

Bursting into parties to which I wasn't invited—­but acting as if I had every right in the world to be there—­is another one of my many gifts. It's basically all about confidence—­and having the right shoes, of course. If you have the right shoes, you can do anything.

And I had on my favorite shoes, a pair of black leather platform boots with a steel-­reinforced toe and chunky heel that basically screamed,
This girl is not to be messed with
. I don't know why Mark Rodgers hadn't been intimidated.

It helped also that I walked into the Farhats party with Jesse at my side. He's so tall and handsome and—­it must be admitted—­
otherworldly looking
, despite living in this world now, ­people can't help staring and wondering if they've seen him before. (They have. He looks just like every mid-­nineteenth century romantic Spanish poet or soldier or ship captain who died tragically just after having his portrait painted by some artist who was besotted with him. Everyone's seen pictures like these hanging in museums or in some mansion on a show on PBS or something).

Tonight was no different. A dark-­haired lady wearing a flowy pantsuit and a lot of heavy gold jewelry came hurrying over to us when we blew through the door—­literally, we were blown through the door by the gusting wind—­and cried, “Why, hello! You made it!”

“Yes, we made it,” I said, shrugging out of my leather jacket and handing it to the person who was hovering nearby in black pants, white shirt, and a black vest and bow tie . . . the ubiquitous uniform in Carmel for hired party waitstaff.

I was relieved to see that, beyond the foyer, the party was in full swing. The aggressively modern home was crowded with well-­dressed middle-­aged ­people all holding wineglasses and chattering as loudly as possible so that they could hear one another over the sound of the pounding rain on the roof, the roar of the surf beyond the sliding glass doors leading to the pool, and the overloud tinkling of the baby grand in the corner, at which a hired professional was crooning how “s'wonderful” and “s'marvelous” it was that we should care for him.

In one swift glance, I recognized Carmel's mayor, police chief, and chief prosecutor, all schmoozing it up with their spouses.

If a crazed, murderous spirit had burst in and attempted to kill the Farhats' son any time in the past hour, I doubted any of them would still be there, let alone be in such a party mood—­if they'd even noticed, of course. Non-­Compliant Deceased Persons don't always make their presence known as obviously as Mark had at the cemetery.

Then again, I was fairly certain he hadn't gotten the sweet revenge he was seeking, or the storm outside would have already abated.

And it seemed as if Zack might be home, since Jesse and I had spotted the “Beamer” and Jeep that Parisa had described, along with an F150 pickup that looked like it might belong to a teenager—­the bed was jacked up away from the enormous wheels, and there was a large sticker of a snorting bull (the mascot of one of area's high school football teams) in the back windshield—­parked close to the home.

A close examination of the truck (as close as we could make in the dark during a violent rainstorm) revealed nothing to show that it might have been involved in a vehicular manslaughter near Big Sur last month . . . unless the kid was friends with an extremely talented (and quick) auto repair person.

True, he could have called a friend to come pick him up for the night. It was possible he and his “friend group”—­that's what they called them now, instead of cliques—­had gone to the movies or something.

But would his parents really have let him go out in weather like this?

“It was touch and go there for a while,” I rattled on with the hostess, scanning the high-­ceilinged room for any sign of someone who might be Zack's age. But all I could see were more heart-­shaped, helium-­filled balloons, along with a banner that said T
HANK
Y
OU
D
ONO
RS!
with red hearts all over it. I had no idea what that was about, and didn't care. “Especially on Scenic Road—­you would not believe the waves—­I don't blame those ­people for sandbagging their driveways. But we're here!”

The lady—­she was older, with such gorgeous highlights that I envied her—­had to be Mrs. Farhat. She radiated prideful home ownership.

“Wonderful!” she said. “The more the merrier. You know, we give this party every year, and every year, we never fail to be pleased with the turnout, despite it being Valentine's Day. Some ­people think it's a bit morbid, but heart disease, is, after all—­”

“—­the number one cause of death in the world,” Jesse finished for her, handing his own coat and our dripping umbrella to the waitperson. “Actually, I think it's very clever of you to hold a fund-­raiser for coronary disease on Valentine's Day, Mrs. Farhat. More women die annually of cardiovascular diseases than from all forms of cancer combined. But heart disease is so easily preventable with proper diet and exercise.”

“Why, yes,” Mrs. Farhat said, instantly charmed as Jesse took the hand she'd extended and shook it. “Yes, I know. My mother died of heart disease. By the time we found out how sick she was, it was too late for even my husband to help her. I've been trying to raise awareness ever since. Thank you. And who might you be?”

“Hector de Silva,” he said, gazing deeply into her eyes. “Dr. Hector de Silva.”

Her expression couldn't have lit up more if he'd said his name was Bond. James Bond.

“A doctor?” she said, taking his arm. “Why haven't we met before? Surely you're not with the hospital here, or I'd know you—­”

“No, not here,” he said. “Not yet, anyway. But I hope to be, someday.”

“Someday!” Mrs. Farhat was already steering him away from me, into the sunken living room. “With hands like yours, young man, you could work anywhere, trust me. I can tell, I know doctors. My husband is a cardiac surgeon. Let me introduce you to him. Rashid. Rashid!”

Jesse was soon sucked up into a crowd of admirers, just as I'd hoped he would be. He was a big boy, and would be able to handle himself. In the meantime, I had some snooping to do.

“Crudité?” a waitperson asked as she passed me while holding a tray of decoratively carved raw vegetables. “They're heart healthy.”

“Uh,” I said. “Sure.” I lifted a heart-­shaped radish and shoved it into my mouth. I'm not the biggest fan of raw vegetables—­except when shredded onto a taco—­but this one was surprisingly good. “Thanks. Can you tell me where the bathroom is?”

“Of course.” The girl pointed down the hall. “To the left. You can't miss it.”

“Thanks. Oh, hey, do you know if the Farhats' son, Zack, is here tonight? A friend of his asked me to say hello.”

The girl smiled in a friendly way, anxious to be helpful. “Yes, he's here. He was hanging out in the kitchen a while ago. I think he took some food up to his room.” Her gaze went toward the showy curved staircase across the foyer from the front door, signaling to me where I could find Zack's room, though I doubt she'd done it on purpose. “Well, not this food. He microwaved a pizza.”

“Thank you so much,” I said, and took another radish. “Yum. These are just so delicious.”

“Consuming fruits and vegetables, combined with regular physical activity, and avoiding harmful use of alcohol and tobacco products, has been shown to reduce the risk of cardiovascular disease,” she said, clearly because she'd been asked to by the hostess.

“Wow,” I said. “Great. Thanks.”

“You're welcome!” She moved on to her next victim, I mean guest, and I moved toward the staircase, acting like I had every right to be heading to the second floor. The only way you're going to get caught snooping is if your performance while doing it lacks confidence. If anyone walks in on you while you're somewhere you shouldn't be, just act angry. It's
their
fault you're in the wrong place, because you were told (by someone else) that that's where you were supposed to be. How were you supposed to know that person was wrong?

Seriously. It works (almost) every time.

It only took me four rooms (two more than usual) before I found Zack. He hadn't even bothered to lock the door, the idiot.

“Really?” I said, when I walked in and discovered him sitting up in bed in front of a large plasma-­screen television, playing video games and vaping. “I could have been anyone—­your mother, your father, the police chief. He's downstairs, you know. Is it really wise of you to be partaking at the current time?”

Zack peered at me through weed-­reddened eyes. “This is e-­juice. Who the hell are you, and what do you want?”

“That is not e-­juice, and as a minor, you better have a prescription for it
and
your parents' permission. Otherwise you're in violation of California health and safety code and could lose the right to operate your vehicle.
All
your vehicles.”

This information caused him to lower the e-­cigarette and swallow, hard.

“My name is Suze Simon,” I went on. “And as much as I can't believe I'm saying this, I'm here to rescue you. Now get up, before Mark Rodgers comes in here and kills you.”