Doyle After Death Read Online Free

. . .”
    â€œAre those parrots up there? They seem to be talking.”
    â€œNot parrots, nah. Some local species, hoss. They kinda do talk, yeah, but Lord knows you’ll have a dull time of it you try to have a conversation with one. And I wouldn’t hear what they say quite the same way you would. It’s just a way to sing, for them. They echo in your mind, see. They’re not exactly like birds on Earth. No droppings, at least. But they’re territorial—­they get in a dust up, sometimes, and you hear ’em cuss each other out! Now, you want to have a conversation with an animal, find yourself a dog. Some of the stray dogs around Garden Rest do have something to say. Especially if you like to talk about smells.”
    I glanced through a cottage window, where a woman seemed to be making tea. I could see a teapot jetting steam. She was a handsome, red-­cheeked, buxom woman in a silken kimono, looking about forty, with a single streak of gray in her long auburn hair.
    She seemed to become aware of my gaze, and she looked out at me curiously but without any real warmth. She was holding her kimono closed with one hand—­looking right at me, she let it drop open to reveal she wore nothing beneath it.
    Then, as we strolled on, I lost sight of her. Pleasant while it lasted. Some things about me have not changed in the afterlife.
    â€œThat’s Jocelyn, in there,” Bertram said. “She’s been here about two years. She’s a bit loose. Likes to read ­people’s fortunes, believe it or not.”
    â€œShe could go with, ‘You are going to stay dead.’ Always accurate.”
    â€œHa! You brought your sense of humor with you! That’s good. But don’t let some of the older ones hear you using that term ‘dead,’ they’ll lecture the hell outta you. They don’t like it. Me, I don’t give a good goddamn what you call it. Well here’s another lady—­don’t know this one. New to town.”
    A tall, rather cadaverous woman was striding toward us; she had short, mousy brown hair, a long black dress, and gray orthopedic shoes. Her pale gray eyes were sunken, her lips pursed. She was looking at the addresses on the street—­then she stopped, quite suddenly, and gasped. She was staring up at a balcony. On the balcony, about two and a half stories up, was what appeared to be a man in early middle age—­age is only an appearance here. He wore a quilted blue dressing gown, taking his ease; a young woman with disheveled blond hair sat beside him under the eaves of the house. His peak-­roofed stone house was almost palatial compared to the others on the block.
    The man on the balcony was jolly, squat, bald, bullet headed; he had a stick of frip in one hand, a cocktail in the other—­and the young, slim blonde, in an unbuttoned red shift was snuggling close by his side. The girl, leaning forward, had an arch, mocking look about her, bright red lips smirking down at the woman in the orthopedic shoes.
    â€œClaudine!” the man exclaimed, seeing the woman on the street.
    She glowered up at him. “Brennan!” Her voice sounded crowlike with rasping fury. “I’ve searched over half the continent for you! I knew you were here somewhere!”
    Bertram and I stopped a few paces down, turning to watch the scenario play out. There was time, after all.
    â€œDammit, Claudine, I was sent here for a reason!” Brennan bellowed to her, standing; his robe opened to show a bare, hairy chest and the cocktail slopped over the balcony railing. Claudine stepped back to avoid the splash of clear fluid. “If you were supposed to be with me in the afterlife, you would be already!”
    â€œYou’re hiding from me, is all! I found out about all those affairs the same year you died! You’re a cheating scumbag!”
    â€œOh for crying out . . . Claudine, the guilt gave me a heart