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concerned if Mari had held an umbrella during the operation instead of the ladder.
    At the end of a typical day, a succession of curious problems had been dealt with until the antechambers were finally empty.
    "You have one more patient to see," Mari announced, one afternoon.
    "I thought we were finished. I didn't hear anyone else come in," Agatha said.
    "We communicated with sign language."
    "So, what's out there?"
    "A banshee with a sore throat."
    Agatha stuffed her ears full of cotton. "Send her in," she said.
    ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
    John H. Dromey was born in northeast Missouri. He’s had short fiction published in  Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Gumshoe Review, Liquid Imagination, two previous issues of Plasma Frequency Magazine, Sorcerous Signals, and elsewhere, as well as in a number of anthologies, including Plan B Volume III (in potentia press, 2014).

Cake and Necromancy
    By Rebecca Roland
    The bell chimed over the door as Madilyn's last customers of the day left. The smells of chocolate, cake, cream, and coffee clung to her nostrils and clothes. She wore black, as she'd come straight to work in the morning from her mother's funeral.
    Madilyn tidied her brochure display. The front read, "Suggestions to Maximize One's Experience when Contacting the Dead." She'd memorized the contents long ago and hardly gave them much thought any more, but tonight they rattled around in her head like dancing bones.
    Unless you want a yes or no answer, you should ask an open ended question. Remember, you only get one, so consider carefully.
    She bagged the leftovers to donate to the food pantry, trying not to dwell on her own unanswered questions.
    The deceased cannot predict the future, so questions about winning lottery numbers, who will win a sporting event, or your future happiness will be wasted.
    She counted the money three times, then carefully wrote out the deposit slip and tucked it all in the bank bag. Madilyn had made it a point long ago not to dwell on the past, but think only about today. Yet here she was, examining events from long ago. Funerals had a way of doing that to a person.
    You can only speak with family, either biological or adopted, so efforts to summon Jesus, Ghandi, Lincoln, JFK, Hitler, or any other historical figures will probably not work.
    She prepped for the next day, just as Gram had taught her, cleaning equipment and work surfaces. It kept her hands busy, but let her thoughts go unchecked.
    Madilyn had heard all sorts of questions since she'd taken over her gr andmother's bakery years before: Where did you keep the life insurance policy? Did you ever really love me? Were you ever proud of me? Was so-and-so my biological kid? What's the combination to the safe? That one hadn't gone so well when the deceased husband couldn't recall.
    There was usually a reason some of these questions didn't get asked when folks were alive. And it was why Madilyn had never seen fit to ask a question herself.
    Oh, she had plenty for her mother: Why did you leave us?
    Madilyn already knew it was because her mother thought she'd found something—and someone—better. Gram had waited for her prodigal daughter's return, but with each passing year it grew more unlikely, and she soon took Madilyn on as apprentice.
    Was the guy worth leaving your infant daughter and husband ?
    Well, she'd never come back and never contacted them, so Madilyn supposed it was.
    Did you ever love me, even for an instant ?
    A thousand hooks seemed to grasp her heart and pull it in all directions. She was afraid of the answer to that one. No, I'll never ask that one . What if her mother left because Madilyn was unlovable?
    With her work done, she sank into the couch in the back room where she summoned the dead, a slice of her special chocolate cake before her, and three candles on the coffee table providing light. It was a tableau she set several times a week for customers. Tonight would be different. She had to ask a question, whether she