13 Queer Ghost Stories

The Future is Deadly-1

The Future is Deadly

Chapter One

“MY AUNT MARGARET MEANT a great deal to me,” Nancy-Ann said as she picked up her purse, ready to leave. “You’ll get the best prices possible on all her belongings?”

“Most assuredly,” Tucker told her. He was always super-formal with clients until he got to know them a little better. If he got to know them a little better.

Often their clients were surprised when two black guys in their twenties showed up at the door. Was this some kind of scam? Bait and switch? One client had gone so far as to say, “You didn’t sound black on the phone.” Of course they’d done such a top-notch job, that client had set them up with no fewer than five new leads in a single calendar year, and they were still getting phone calls from people who’d been referred by the man. So you never know.

“Everybody says you’re the best,” Nancy-Ann went on. “You and—Bobo, is it?”

“Boo-Boo,” Tucker corrected her. “Like from Yogi Bear. You remember that cartoon?”

The blond woman laughed, tossing her head back for emphasis. She had lots of crinkly lines around her eyes that made her look older when she was happy than she did when she was sad.

“I remember that cartoon,” she said. “Of course I do. I’m surprised that you remember it. Goodness, I have shoes older than you are, darling.”

Comments about his youth always got Tucker a little huffy, and Nancy-Ann must have noticed the change in his demeanour, because she quickly said, “Boo-Boo—he’s your... your partner, you mentioned?”

“Partner in business, partner in life,” Tucker replied as he walked her to her car. “Been together since we were seventeen.”

“Well, isn’t that nice?” Nancy-Ann said, though her smile seemed a little plastic. “Oh! I almost forgot: I had a spare set of keys made for you so you can come and go as you please.” As she fished them out of her purse, she asked, “You’re sure you’ll be able to organize an entire estate sale in a week? Aunt Margaret had a ton of belongings. There’s so much to sort through. Goodness, I’d be at it forever and a day.”

Tucker shrugged. “This is what we do for a living. We’re experts in our field.”

“No arguments here,” Nancy-Ann said, her smile warming as she opened her car door. “You feel free to call me with any questions you might have. Okay? I mean it, any day, any time. And if I don’t hear from you before the weekend, I’ll at least see you at the sale.”

“We’ll handle your aunt’s belongings with the greatest care and respect,” he assured her.

Nancy-Ann had just started yanking her seatbelt across her chest when that sentiment seemed to hit her head-on. She stopped, staring blankly through the windshield. She then snapped the seatbelt into the clicker and looked up at Tucker.

“Thank you,” she said, looking almost perplexed. “Thank you. I believe you will take care. The greatest care.”

He gave her a slight nod before closing her car door and stepping back. She gave a wave, he gave a wave, and when she backed out of the driveway, Tucker nearly jumped out of his Gucci Ravello derby shoes.

Why did he jump? Because of the lady hanging out by the fence.

On the other side of the fence, that is. Not standing on Aunt Margaret’s lawn. This woman was in her own front yard, both arms folded casually between the tall pickets, both hands crossed on one point, her chin settled quaintly on her knuckles. Head tilted, smiling faintly, eavesdropping shamelessly.

Tucker hadn’t noticed her there while he was chatting with Nancy-Ann. It was like she’d appeared out of thin air.

She had the kind of hair you don’t see too often these days—not on white ladies, that’s for sure. One of those styles that required sleeping with a multitude of curlers attached to one’s head. Gave her an old-fashioned air, making Tucker feel like he was communing directly with someone from the fifties.

Clutching his chest, he said, “Sorry to have jumped, ma’am. I didn’t see you there.”

“Clearing out Margaret’s place, are you?” the neighbour lady pried.

“Yes, yes I am. The name’s Tucker. My partner and I operate a business called Tea and Bee Estate Sales. We come in after a relative has died and allocate items to various markets. For instance, there are some things we know we’ll get a better price for online, and so we’ll create an online listing. On occasion, a well-respected auction is the answer. But that process is very time-consuming. That’s why we rely on a good old-fashioned—not to mention expertly marketed—estate sale to clear out the majority of the physical assets. Here, have a card. That’s my cell on there. We’re always accepting new clients.”

Waving it away, the lady said, “Oh, I don’t know anyone who’s died lately.”

“That’s the thing about death,” Tucker went on, approaching the fence with his business card in hand. “Sometimes you don’t see it coming.”

Still, the lady wouldn’t take it. “I’m sure the family would handle all the clearing out. You all probably charge an arm and a leg, anyhow.”

“Our fees are surprisingly reasonable, when you consider the expertise we bring to the table.”

The lady smiled serenely. She wouldn’t take the card. But Tucker somewhat understood. Some people felt it was inauspicious to take any steps at all that involved dealing with death. Even things like writing a will. Some people felt it was bad luck.

So he gave up the push, but he did ask the lady, “Did you know Margaret when she was alive?”

“Oh yes,” the woman said, brightening considerably. “Nice enough lady. Kept to herself toward the end, just her in that big house. But I remember, when I first moved in here, all sorts of people stopping by. In the nighttime, if you catch my drift.”

This information piqued Tucker’s interest tremendously. “Are you saying Aunt Margaret was a... fille de joie, shall we say?”

The lady behind the fence squinted. “Well, I don’t know what you mean by that, but I’m saying she had folks around for séances and such.”

“Oh!” That’s not at all where Tucker’s mind had naturally gone. Working with dead people’s earthly belongings, you’d think he’d have some experience with the supernatural, but that wasn’t the case at all. And, in truth, he wasn’t all that interested in reflected on the afterlife.

“Not that I was ever invited,” the neighbour lady went on. “I was just a young bride at the time. Wouldn’t have interested me anyway.”

Just then, a bright red hot rod came zooming down the quiet residential street, making enough noise to wake the dead. Tucker wasn’t sure what kind of car it was, only that it was from another era.

His eyebrows must have gone up, because the lady across the fence said, “There’s a man two streets over fixes ‘em up, old cars like that. He’s always racing by, all hours of the day and night.”

“I’m not what you’d call a car guy,” Tucker replied. “I think the only car I could recognize would be a pink Cadillac. But I’ve got to admit, there’s something intriguing about the older models.”

The lady didn’t respond, except with a slight “harrumph” under her breath.

“Are there any items of Margaret’s we should keep an eye out for?” Tucker asked her. “Anything you would have liked for yourself?”

“Nah, I ain’t got no use for much of anything, these days.”

“All right, then. I should see how my partner is making out. Nice meeting you...?”

“Betty,” the woman said.

He was about to extend a hand, but she’d already backed away from the fence.

“Nice to meet you, Betty.”

“I’ll be seeing you around,” she replied as she headed toward the house.

Chapter Two

Boo-Boo was hard at work in the basement. Despite his fear of spiders and other creepy-crawlies, basements were always his favourite place to begin. That’s where the treasures were stashed. In the case of Margaret Dumas, an antique roll-top desk, quite a few impressive oil paintings, and a magnificent marble urn so big you could hide a body in there.

Tucker joined him in listing and tagging items, but basements gave him the heebie-jeebies. And not just because of the spiders.

“I think I’ll try my luck in the bedrooms,” he said.

Boo-Boo raised a pierced eyebrow. “Oh you will, will you?”

With a smirk, Tucker replied, “Let me know when you get hungry. We’ll order in.”

“I’m good for a couple hours. Then I’m thinking sushi?”

Tucker took leave of his partner in work and play, climbed one staircase and then another until he found himself in Norma Desmond land.

He loved this sort of bedroom, bursting with Art Deco furnishings and design elements. Everything here was from days gone by, even the jewellery set out on the mirrored dresser. He picked up a set of pearl cluster earrings—clip-ons!—and tried them out on his fleshy lobes. Not a bad look! The rings were too small. All he could do was fit them onto his pinkies. But a string of beads fits any neck, and Tucker didn’t hesitate giving those a whirl. Same with the silk turban, something that would have been terribly chic in the thirties.

How old was Margaret Dumas when she died? She must have lived to be a hundred!

Tucker slipped a pair of sunglasses from the mirrored dresser. He’d never seen a pair as old as these: gold-rimmed, thin frames, dark round lenses. What would these babies go for on the open market? He’d have to put a call in to Frederique, their contact in the film industry. A costumier, to be exact. A former lover of Boo-Boo’s to be even more exact. But he was incredibly knowledgeable and they wound up selling him a decent amount of vintage rhinestone jewellery. The money aspect helped to keep Tucker’s jealousy in check.

He put on the glasses to complete his impressive ensemble, but they weren’t terribly comfortable—poked him behind the ears, actually. They looked a little strange, more the sort of specs you’d see on a mad scientist, and unlike anything you’d find today. But collectors loved the unusual, and these were certainly that.

Turning away from his reflection, Tucker crossed the darkened bedroom. The drapes were open and afternoon light filtered in from outside, but these sunglasses really cut it down to size, made the room feel mystic and moony.

Hadn’t the neighbour-lady, Betty, said Aunt Margaret used to conduct séances in the home? He’d have to poke around, see if he could dig up any of the accoutrements that went along with such things. Although, who knows? They might have all held hands around a table while burning candles. You didn’t really need a lot of stuff to hold a séance.

Or it could just be neighbourhood gossip.

Tucker stared out the bedroom window, feeling like he was very high up in the air. What a tall house this must be. That, or the sunglasses had altered his perspective somehow. It had certainly altered his ability to see colour. When he looked out into the street, the world seemed almost black and white, with only the slightest tint of green to the grass, the slightest tint of blue to Betty’s dress as she stepped out into the street.

Tucker waved, but she obviously didn’t see him. She was facing the other way.

And then out of nowhere, another old-fashioned car came tearing down the street. Despite the black-and-whiteness of the world, he could make out the tint of pink in its paint. A pink Cadillac... speeding down the street!

“Betty!” Tucker cried out. He banged on the bedroom window. “Betty, look out! It’s coming right at you!”

Screech, thud, crash!

The Cadillac collided with Betty hard enough to send the poor woman soaring into the air. Her legs flew at an angle, more like a crash test dummy than an actual human. Her torso smashed the windscreen before rolling off the far side of the vehicle, but that didn’t stop the driver from speeding away, leaving Betty’s body in a tangled heap at the side of the road.