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you were a ghost.”
    “Did you see that?” Quinn was out of his seat faster than should have been possible for a guy who’d been mortal y wounded just a few short months before. His groan was echoed by those of the other fans seated around us. He dropped back into his seat. “An error. The guy hit the bal and it went right through the third baseman’s glove. A frickin’ error.”
    “You mean another error.” The fan in the row behind us threw his scorecard on the ground in frustration. “That’s the second one this game and the second time the White Sox have scored thanks to the fact that our guys can’t catch a bal .”
    “Or a break,” Quinn growled.
    The guy behind us agreed. “Hel , that’s no surprise. We haven’t won a World Series since 1948. And it’s al because of that damned curse.”
    Not my problem, though from the way he nodded in agreement, Quinn apparently thought it was his.
    “That Indian,” he said, and since he glanced at me when he said this, I figured he wasn’t talking about one of the players on the field, “the one who put the curse on Cleveland. He’s buried in your cemetery, isn’t he?”
    This time, I had no reservations about showing my ticked-off-ness. Quinn should have known better than to bring up a subject that was stil plenty sore. I narrowed my eyes and shot him a look, my teeth clenched.
    “It’s not my cemetery anymore.”

    “Of course. I know that.” This was his way of apologizing, and it wasn’t good enough. “I keep forgetting you got laid off.”
    “Dumped, you mean.” I crossed my arms over my chest. It was the perfect way to display my displeasure, and besides, it helped keep me a tad warmer. “When you get laid off, there’s some expectation of getting cal ed back to work. Garden View Cemetery—”
    “Don’t take is so personal y. You know what El a says—”
    “That the cemetery is cutting costs. Sure.” I knew this like I knew my own name, because in the two months I’d been out of work, I’d heard El a, my former boss, tel me al about it with tears in her voice every time she cal ed me. Which was every day.
    Sure, I understood the party line. Times were tough. Budgets were tight. Costs had to be kept in line, and around Garden View, that meant getting rid of staff.
    Me.
    That didn’t make the sting of losing my job any less painful. Not that I’m a geek like El a and actual y less painful. Not that I’m a geek like El a and actual y like working in a cemetery. But there is the whole paycheck thing. Getting by on my unemployment check and the monthly payment I stil got from helping out a ghost’s granddaughter a couple years back wasn’t easy. It was putting a cramp on my lifestyle, not to mention my ability to stay fashion-forward.
    “Besides, Goodshot Gomez isn’t buried at Garden View, he’s interred.”
    Quinn finished watching the next play before he asked, “Who?”
    “The Indian.” I sounded as exasperated as al the basebal fans around me. For al different reasons.
    “You’re the one who brought it up.”
    “The curse. The Indian.” Quinn nodded. “The one in your cemetery. The legend says that with his dying breath, he said he had to be taken back to New Mexico, and if he was buried anywhere else, that place would be cursed.”
    “Only he’s not…” I control ed a screech, but just barely, and used my best tour-guide voice. I congratulated myself—two months and I could stil fake my way through sounding like I knew what I was talking about. “Technical y, Goodshot Gomez isn’t buried. His casket is kept in a mausoleum. That means his body isn’t in the ground. It’s inside this fancy-dancy little marble building. He was in town as part of some Wild West show, you know. And he died here. And his friends left money at Garden View so the cemetery would keep his body until they came back for him and took him to New Mexico.”
    Even when I had a tour group in front of me, this was always an Ew! moment for me,