“Simon!” he shouted. He grabbed a napkin from the table and beginning dabbing the area around the woman without actually reaching through her.

She stared at me and I shrugged sheepishly, and then we both looked to Connor.

“I’m sorry about what the kid did there,” Connor said, continuing to clean around her. “I know this must all come as quite a shock to you, the way things tend to phase through your semicorporeal form. Being dead and all…”

A look of absolute confusion spread across her face.

“Dead and all…?” she repeated. Her voice was quiet but refined.

She looked around quickly to see if perhaps Connor was talking to someone else. Finding no one there, she turned to me. “Who’s dead?”

“Oh crap,” I said. I felt like a deer caught in the headlights. “Connor, you want to field this one?”

I looked to Connor for help, but he was too busy scooping ice cubes off the mauve sofa back into his glass. I felt absolutely useless in the situation. I had enough trouble talking toliving women. All I could do was smile and stare. Here was this beautiful-but clearly deceased-woman sitting across from me, and she was seemingly unaware of her situation. How could she not realize she was dead, especially after a coffee cup had passed straight through her?

I had to say something, though. “Who’s dead?” I repeated. “Well…you are.”

The woman’s face scrunched up in immediate disbelief. She laughed.

“Oh, I don’t think so!” she said. Then, with total conviction, “No, absolutely not.”

“Hrmh,” Connor said. He stopped cleaning up the spill and finally turned his full attention on us. “I think we may have a problem here.”

“What sort of problem?” the woman asked, nervousness creeping into her voice. “The spill? It’s nothing, really. I’m sure a good dry cleaner will be able to get the stain out. If you’d be kind enough to pick up the dry cleaning bill, I’m sure everything will be-”

“Look at your clothes,” Connor said abruptly.

The woman looked as if she had been slapped in the face.

“Excuse me?” she said.

I found myself taken aback by his interruption, surprised by the gruffness of it. He certainly could have handled it with a gentler tone, but remembering that the deceased were his bailiwick, I held my tongue and let him work.

“Just…” Connor said, exasperated, “just take a look, okay? Humor me.”

The woman looked down at her outfit, and her eyes widened as she finally noticed what Connor was talking about. Her body was even more transparent than before and I could see the entire couch through her now. The area on the couch where Connor courteously hadn’t reached through her to wipe was still covered with ice, coffee, and whipped cream. Her outfit, however, was spotless, untouched by even a drop of the drink. She grabbed for the pile of ice sitting inside her but her ghostly hand phased straight through the mess. “Oh…my…”

Connor and I waited in silence as we watched the realization set in. Connor’s mood had changed from moments before. His early morning tedium-another day of pencil-pushing at the office-had just gotten interesting. This mysterious apparition wasn’t acting according to the book, whatever arcane text that might be…probably50 Hauntful Tips for the Helpless.

Connor turned to Mrs. Teasley nearby and chuckled. “You see, Mrs. T? Here’s the ‘unexpected visitor’ you mentioned.” He turned to me and whispered, “The old broad may not see too far in the future, kid, but at least she still keeps the ball in the park. Even a broken clock is right twice a day, huh?”

I worried that the people around us might have noticed the cup go flying through the woman and I checked the rest of the coffee shop. Normal customers who had simply stopped in for a cup of coffee, a stale muffin, and nothing paranormal had momentarily turned their attention toward us, but only because of the noise from kicking over the table. Everyone had quickly turned back to their conversations. Had I remembered my training better, it made perfect sense. The Department’s orientation pamphlet,D.E.A. or DOA: Your Choice, stated that most regular folk were ill equipped for dealing with this sort of supernatural situation. Yes, they sensed something out of the ordinary, but their minds were protective of their sanity and made them happily oblivious to things such as this woman’s unlivingness. If I polled them about what was wrong, they simply wouldn’t be able to put their finger on it. Instead, they would grumble about how crumbly the muffins were or that their coffee needed freshening up. Nothing out of the ordinary for them, thanks.

“Maybe we better take this out back?” I suggested. Connor nodded.

“Miss?” Connor asked. The woman was flustered and paid him no attention. Despite the oddness of her circumstance, she was desperately trying to keep her composure.

Admittedly, I was, too. The only thing that made sense right now was taking this situation out of the front room of the Lovecraft Cafй. It was perhaps the best idea I had come up with during the entire encounter. Things would be better once we were out back in the Department’s offices.

Being the well-meaning gentleman that I am these days, I tried to help the woman up from the couch by taking her arm. My hand passed effortlessly through it and a shock tingled through my fingers, startling her. Connor shot me a look.

“Please don’t do that,” he warned.

“Why not?”

“Because you might force me to say ‘please don’t do that’ again,” he said, agitated.

“Oh.”

I had never experienced such a sensation before. My fingers continued to tingle as if they were charged with electricity. In the reflection of the glass covering a Bogart poster on the wall, I checked my hair to make sure that I hadn’t suddenly become a member of the White Stripes. Luckily, I was fine.

I turned my attention back to the situation. Connor finally caught the woman’s eye. He smiled purse-lipped at her. “Yes, hello? Hi, could you tell me your name, please?”

My heart softened as she attempted to smile back despite the obvious stress this situation caused her.

“It’s Irene…I think.”

Connor looked at me and lowered his voice. “Not good. Memory displacement’s already set in.” He turned back to her. “Hello, Irene. My name is Connor Christos and my young colleague here is Simon Canderous.”

“I’m notthat young,” I mumbled. Connor shot me another glare and I fell silent. Now was not the time to be glib, apparently.

“If you’d just follow us back to our offices,” he said, “I think that I or one of our other ‘guidance’ counselors can help make sense out of everything you’re experiencing.”

Irene cocked her head, distrustful. She looked far from convinced, and I didn’t blame her. How would I react to being told that I was dead? Probably far worse than she was.

“We’re here to help,” Connor said with a smile. “Honest.”

He reached into his right pocket and pulled out a small vial like the one from the other night, and twisted its stopper free with a well-practiced motion. I watched as the same smoky haze rose from the vial and twisted dreamily around Irene’s head. The familiar smell of patchouli and cloves hit my nostrils, and the woman’s face went slack. She rose from the couch like smoke rising from a fire. Just like that, Connor took control of her.

Connor’s approach bordered on wrangling her like cattle, and I wanted to speak up-but what was I really prepared to say? None of the departmental seminars or brochures had covered this, and my own training had yet to cover the shaky legal gray area of spirits’ rights. Wasn’t Connor somehow violating those, coercing Irene by magical means? Before I could give it another thought, Connor turned away and led our brown-haired beauty toward the back of the coffee shop. I stumbled my way over the upturned coffee table and followed. The counter jockey scowled at me for leaving the mess, but I pointed to Connor and the ghost, shrugging as if to say,Whatcha gonna do?