Undead and Unemployed (2 page)

END INTERVIEW

03:45:32
a.m.

When I'd been dead for about three months, I decided it was past time to get a job.

I couldn't go back to my old one, of course. For one thing, I'd been laid off the day I died, and for another, they all still thought I was six feet under. Plus, a job during daylight hours just wasn't going to work anymore.

I wasn't starving or homeless, at least. My best friend, Jessica, owned my house and wouldn't let me pay rent, and she had her team of super accountants pay the other bills despite my strenuous objections. I sure didn't need to grocery shop for much except teabags and milk and stuff. Plus, my car was paid off. So my monthly expenses were actually pretty low. Even so, I couldn't live off Jessica's charity forever.

So here I was, on the steps of the Minnesota Re-Employment Center. They had evening hours every Thursday—thank goodness!

I walked through the doors, shivering as I was greeted by a blast of air-conditioning. Another thing about being dead that nobody warned me about was that I was cold pretty much all the time. Minneapolis was having a severe heat wave, and I was the only one not hating it.

"Hi," I said to the receptionist. She was wearing a stiff gray suit and needed her roots done. I couldn't see her shoes, which was probably just as well. "I came to the unemployment center to—"

"I'm sorry, miss, that's RE-Employment. Unemployment centers are an anachronism. We're a responsive twenty-first-century re-employment one-stop center."

"Right. Um, anyway, I'm here to see one of the counselors."

For my audacity, I spent the next twenty minutes filling out paperwork. Finally, my name was called, and I was sitting in front of a counselor.

He was a pleasant-looking older fellow with dark hair, a gray-flecked beard, and chocolate brown eyes, and I was relieved to see the wedding ring as well as the photo of his pretty wife and
de rigeur
adorable kids. I fervently hoped he had a happy marriage, so he wouldn't make a fool of himself once my undead charisma smacked him in the face.

"Hi, I'm Dan Mitchell." We shook hands, and I saw his eyebrows go up in surprise when he clasped my clammy palm. "Elizabeth Taylor, right?"

"That's me."

"Are your eyes all right?"

I was wearing my sunglasses for two reasons. One, the fluorescent light hurt like a bitch. Two, men didn't fall under my spell if they couldn't see my eyes. The last thing I needed was a slobbering state employee humping my leg.

"I was at the eye doctor's earlier," I lied. "He put those drop things in."

"Yeah, been there. Elizabeth Taylor—just like the movie star!" he enthused, obviously having no idea people had been drawing that conclusion since the day I'd been born.

"Betsy."

"Betsy, then." He was flipping through the reams of paperwork I'd handed him. "Everything looks right…"

"I hope so. I'm here for Unemployment—"

"We're the RE-Employment Center," Mitchell said absently, still flipping.

"Right, right. Anyway, I need a new job, and while I'm looking, I'd like Unemployment Insurance. In fact, I have a quest—"

Mitchell looked vaguely alarmed. "Um… I need to stop you right there. We can't do that here."

I blinked. Not that he could tell behind the Foster Grants I was wearing. "Come again?"

"We're a re-employment office. That's what we do."

"Sure, okay, I get it, but don't you…?"

"If you want unemployment benefits, you need to call the hotline. Or use the Internet. I'm sorry, but we can't answer your question here."

"Let me get this straight. This is the place I go to when I'm unemployed…"

"Yes…"

"And you have unemployment benefit applications here—"

"Absolutely!"

"But you don't have any staff here who can help me get unemployment benefits."

"Yes, that's correct."

"Oh, okay." This was weird, but I could be cooperative. Probably. I leaned back in the uncomfortable plastic chair. "Okay, so, can I use your phone to call one of these hotlines?"

Mitchell spread his hands apologetically. "Ah, jeez, you know, we used to let people do that, but some folks abused the phones, and so—"

"So you're telling me I can't call an Unemployment Hotline using a telephone in the Unemployment Office?"

"Well, technically, remember, we're not an Unemployment Office anymore"—I suddenly wondered if a vampire could get drunk. I decided to find out as soon as I got out of this bureaucratic hellhole—"and that's why we can't let you do that." He shrugged. "Sorry."

I whipped off my sunglasses and leaned forward, spearing him with my sinister undead gaze. It was a rotten thing to do, but I was desperate. "I need. To use. Your phone."

"No!" He hunched over and clutched the phone protectively to his chest. "It's against policy!"

Amazing. I was sure my vampire mojo would leave him putty in my hands, but apparently his bureaucratic training was stronger than ancient evil.

"You'll just have to go home and contact them on your own dime," he snapped.

I stomped back to the waiting area. Outrageous! I wasn't just any undead tart, I was the queen of the vampires!

"Don't forget to fill out a customer satisfaction survey on your way out!" Mitchell yelled after me.

God, kill me now. Again, I mean.

The flashing red lights in my rearview mirror produced their usual result: a surge of adrenaline, then annoyance. I hadn't been going
that
fast. And it wasn't even a patrol car pulling me over. It was a Chrysler, for God's sake.

One of the many people dedicated to ruining my day got out of the car and started toward me. He didn't have that slow, arrogant strut that staties have. In fact, he was jogging. I recognized him at once and groaned.

Nick Berry. Detective Nick Berry, to be exact, and absolutely the last person I wanted to see. We had an embarrassing episode last spring, and I lived in fear that, one of these days, he'd remember I was dead. Or at least, remember he'd been at my funeral.

He slipped into the passenger seat. "Hey, Betsy. How's it going?"

"You're abusing your authority as a sworn officer of the law," I informed him. "I wasn't even barely speeding."

"Yeah, yeah. Listen, where were you the other night?"

"Which one?"

"Saturday?"

Uh-oh
. "Home," I said, putting plenty of fake curiosity in my tone. "Why?"

"I don't suppose anybody could back you up on that one?"

I shook my head. "Marc was at the hospital, and Jessica was probably at home—I didn't see her that night. Why? What's going on?"

Nick leaned back, easing his feet through the garbage on my passenger side floor. He didn't know how lucky he was. It had been a lot worse when I'd been eating solid food. "Cripes, don't you ever clean out your car? How many shakes do you drink in a week?"

"None of your business. Now go away and catch bad guys."

"I'm going to need a tetanus shot when I get out of here," he complained, kicking an empty 7-Up cup off the end of his boot.

"Seriously, Nick, what's up? I mean, if you're not giving me a ticket—"

He shook his head. "It's stupid."

"Well, I figured."

"No, really stupid." While he babbled, I let my gaze roam over his blond hair, his swimmer's build, his chiseled features—then jerked my gaze back to the road where it belonged. That's how we'd gotten into trouble the last time. I'd been newly undead and unbelievably thirsty, he'd been handy, I'd drank his blood, and he'd been lost. For a long time. Sinclair had to step in and fix it. I still had no idea what—if anything—Nick remembered.

"… and this nutty old cab driver described you. I mean, not that there aren't about a zillion blondes in Minneapolis, but still. The description fit you pretty well. It was the shoe thing, actually, that caught my—"

"Well, obviously it wasn't me," I lied. "Doy."

"Doy? Haven't heard
that
in about fifteen years. But anyway, I think you might be right. The whole story was just… I think the guy was… I don't know. Maybe some of it was real, and some of it he imagined, or made up to get attention. He seemed like a lonely guy." Nick was rubbing his temples in a way that made me distinctly nervous. "I… sometimes I have dreams and they
seem
real…"

"That happens to everybody." Should I zap him with my vamp mojo? Would it interfere with whatever Sinclair had done, or would it make things better? "Maybe you need a vacation."

"That was a funny thing that happened to you last spring," he said, changing the subject. At least, he
thought
he was changing the subject. "I mean, not everybody has a mix-up like you do."

"I still say it was my stepmother playing a joke. It's not like she wouldn't want to see me dead."

"Yeah, but going to the extent of a fake funeral—or was there a funeral?" He was rubbing his temples so hard, they were getting pink. "I dreamed about it, but mostly I… I…"

"Nick, for crying out loud!" I said loudly, hoping to snap him out of it. "I've got stuff to do. So are you going to get out of here or what?"

His hands fell to his lap at once, and he seemed to shake off the trance-like state he'd fallen in. "So sorry, Betsy," he said sarcastically. "What, there's a shoe sale somewhere?"

"As a matter of fact, there is. Look, I hope you catch the bad guy—"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure you're on pins and needles. Never mind. Saw your car and couldn't resist. But, I gotta get back to it."

"Okay. Nice to see you again."

"You, too. Stay out of trouble." He smiled at me and climbed out of the car, unaware of the straw sticking to his heel. "Have a good one."

"Bye!" I called, and waited until he pulled out in front of me before I got my car moving. It was just as well; I was shaking like a leaf. Poor Nick was crawling all over the truth, and didn't have a clue. I wished I could confide in him, but enough people knew my dirty little undead secret as it was.

Besides, once I
had
confided in him. And it had been an utter disaster. I wasn't making the same mistake twice.

An hour later I was at the finest, most glorious place on the planet: The Mall of America. Or, if you're a shopper, Heaven on Earth.

I decided to trudge through the first level of Macy's to cheer myself up, and then drown my sorrows in two or ten daiquiris on the fourth floor.

Like any great idea, the Mall (never "the mall") is something familiar, made bigger. A lot bigger. Everyone has parked in a lot and walked into a store. Here you had to walk a long, long time to get to the store, is all. It helped to memorize the state you were parked in. You know how most parking lots can name their sections after two or three animals? "Oh, honey, don't forget we parked in the marmoset lot." The Mall was so big, they couldn't use animals. Animals are puny. They used states. And not little states like Rhode Island, but big honking states like California and Texas.

I parked in Texas and crossed the small side street to Macy's. As always, I was struck by the beauty of the building. The red brick and soaring windows reminded me of—don't laugh—a church. And the star they used instead of the apostrophe in Macy's seemed so heavenly.

Once inside, I inhaled the sweet smell of perfume, leather, cotton, and floor cleaner. Before I'd been laid off I was a secretary. Now I was jobless, unless you counted the whole queen of the vampires gig, which I certainly did not, not least because it didn't pay for shit. Besides, most days I doubted I was the queen. Certainly the other vampires I'd been crossing paths with lately didn't think so. And Sinclair… Never mind about Sinclair. I wasn't going to think about that jerk.

I zoomed in on the shoe department like a blonde homing pigeon. Shoes, shoes everywhere! Ah, sweet shoes. I truly think you can take the measure of a civilization by looking at its footwear.

Because I was in a department store, I was enveloped in its time warp. So although the fourth of July was less than a week away, the shoe department had all their fall colors and styles on display. That was all right. I already had twenty-two pairs of sandals.

I eyed the row of Kenneth Cole boots, finally taking down a vibrant red pair and feeling the leather. They'd look terrific with my black duster, but I already had a pair of red boots. Hmm… should that make a difference?

I also checked out the Burn footwear. They were supposedly all made by hand—and for two hundred dollars a pair, they'd better be—but I'd never tried a pair. Maybe when I got a job, I'd treat myself, give them a try.

Typical of Macy's, the saleswomen were all ignoring me because I wasn't waving fifty dollar bills at them. I tapped the nearest one on the shoulder. "Excuse me, could I see the new Etienne Aigners?"

She looked at me over the tops of her black cat's eye glasses. A much too harsh a color for her face, by the way. They made her pale skin look even paler, and her brown eyes kind of muddy. "I'm sorry, miss, we don't have any."

"Oh, sure you do. I understand if you haven't had time to go through them and put them on display, but I'd just like to see them."

I could see another saleswoman and a balding man in a gorgeous Armani suit watching us from a distance. He was holding a clipboard and wearing a Macy's name tag. The woman beside him was staring at her coworker, who'd obviously woken up that morning with a need to be unhelpful.

"We really don't have any—"

"Who do you think you're talking to?" I asked impatiently. "The Aigners have been out for six days. You probably got them four days ago. I just want to see if he put out a lavender pump like he was supposed to."

"Listen, you—"

"Brigid."

The saleswoman cut herself off and looked over at the guy who'd been watching. I'd heard them coming, but she hadn't, because she jumped and looked terribly guilty. "Yes, Mr. Mason?"

"Please come to my office. I need to talk to you. And Renee"—he turned to the other saleswoman—"please take our customer in the back and show her the Aigners."

"Ha! I mean, thanks."

"This way, miss," Renee said, smiling. She was shorter than me by a good four inches, with brown hair and red highlights, and hazel eyes that looked at the world through classic wire rims. She had lots of freckles and natural, high color. She was wearing a red-and-black plaid suit, black tights, and Nine West black flats. Pretty, in a "brainy girl who grew up to be classy" kind of way.

She walked me through a door in the back of the shoe section and then let loose with a stream of giggles. "Holy cow! You really told Brigid. She's toast. She was supposed to have that display up the day before yesterday."

"Don't ever get between me and a new line of shoes," I said. "Others have found that out to their sorrow. I guess I should follow that up with an evil laugh, because it sounds sort of ominous."

Renee snorted and escorted me past the discount racks. The Aigners were scattered all over the floor, mixed in with Nine West's crap from last season.

"Oh, the humanity!" I gasped when I saw the mess.

"
Big
trouble," Renee muttered.

"Help me straighten this out!"

"Uh… okay. I mean, you don't have to. They're just shoes."

I swayed on my feet, and didn't trust myself to reply. Instead, I got to work, and Renee helped.

Within ten minutes, we had all the Aigners lined up like dead soldiers, close to the door. They were a little dusty, but no major damage. The Nine Wests I'd kicked into the far corner. Alas, no lavender pumps.

Just as well; I couldn't afford to buy shoes today, anyway.

"That's better," I said, dusting off my hands. I heard the door open behind us but, since Renee didn't react, I didn't turn. Jeez, how in the heck did I get along before, without vampire hearing? "It won't take long to get these to the floor."

"You know a lot about shoes," Renee said, staring. "I didn't even notice the Jude pumps had gotten mixed in with the others, and I've been here four months."

I tried not to shudder at her ignorance; it wouldn't be nice. Luckily, the dude rescued me. "Excuse me, ladies. Find everything you needed?"

"Unfortunately, no. Maybe he'll do it next season."

"Mmmm." His name tag read John Mason, Store Manager. He looked like my dad's accountant… balding, glasses, good suit, great shoes. He smelled like Calvin Klein's One and baked potatoes. "We are now short a sales associate for the shoe floor," he announced. Renee pursed her red lips in a silent whistle and rolled her eyes at me, where Mason couldn't see. "Are you by any chance looking for work?"

I stared. John Mason, Store Manager, was a genius or a telepath. "Yes, I am! What a coincidence, I mean, that you would ask me!"

"Not really." He pointed to my purse, where the paperwork I'd gotten from the Re-Employment Center was sticking out. "Would you like to work here? Not on commission," he added sternly. "I can pay you nine dollars an hour."

"Wh—sure! When can I start?"

"I'll need you here every evening, Wednesday through Saturday," he warned.

"You bet! I can only work nights, anyway."

"Well, then."

Before I could kiss him on the mouth, Mr. Mason had walked me over to Human Resources and gotten me my paperwork. I was a little worried at first—I had died three months ago, after all. Would my social security number work?

It did. Thank you, government backlog!

The paperwork finished, Mr. Mason handed me my name tag and bid me good night.

Betsy Taylor, it said.

Macy's, it said.

BetsyTaylorMacy's. Wow. Oh, just… wow. Really totally wow.

Outside the store, I did a little skip step of joy… and nearly sailed over a car by mistake. I probably could have pulled that off even if I hadn't been dead.

Wow! Me, working for Macy's! That was like a fox working for a chicken farm. It just didn't get any better.