A Spirited Defense (Violetta Graves Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  A Spirited Defense

  Violetta Graves Mystery #2

  Michele Bardsley

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Getting in the Spirit

  Violetta Graves Mysteries

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  I woke up to the sound of slamming doors and the muted voices of my sister and brother-in-law in the midst of yet another argument.

  Ugh.

  I opened one eye, grabbed my cell phone from the nightstand and looked at the display. I groaned. It was only 11 a.m. I’d gone to bed at 8 a.m. Ah, the glamorous life of a cocktail waitress. A couple weeks ago, I got hired for the night shift at an off- Strip joint called The Mansion. Like a lot of Vegas casino-resorts, it had a theme—a billionaire’s haunted manse. Think Halloween meets Richie Rich.

  I’d lived with my sister and her husband for more than a month now, a better alternative to living in a motel, but just barely. Getting sued by a deadbeat, cheating ex then being accused of his murder can take a toll on a bank account, especially since I’d been jobless at the time. The only positive thing to come out that fiasco was meeting gorgeous homicide detective, Matt Stone. Or rather, re-meeting him. We sorta had a one-night stand before he’d found me at a murder scene and I became a prime suspect. Romantic, right?

  After the actual killer was caught, Matt wanted to see me again (in a non-arresting kind of way). I hadn’t talked to him since then, and I was 99.7% sure it was due to my own idiocy. See, we’d exchanged numbers, but my cell phone had been turned off at the time. When I finally got service again, I didn’t call him because I was a chicken.

  Bawk. Bawk.

  I closed my eyes, hoping for few more hours of sleep, but a series of bangs followed by stomping feet across wood floors put an end to that fantasy.

  Deirdre and her lawyer husband Darren spent most of their time either giving each other the silent treatment or arguing. My sister had suspicions that her hubby had been having an affair. I didn’t blame Deirdre for her reaction. Hell, I’d injured my cheating ex with my high heel and we hadn’t even been engaged. Of course, since my sister and my asshole-in-law had an adorable four-year-old son, attempted homicide was probably not the best option. I’d probably end up with custody, which didn’t bode well for the kid or me since I could barely take care of myself. Evidence: I was living with my sister.

  Darren denied doing the dirty, of course, with another woman, but honestly? He acted guilty as hell. Thus, all the arguing. He’d become a surly, mean, self-centered prick. Dee might see his metamorphosis as sudden and surprising, but to me, Darren had finally dropped the nice-guy act and was finally showing his true colors. He’d gotten everything he’d wanted—pretty wife, cute kid, nice house, expensive car, and an upwardly mobile career. I think he’d added “mistress” to his list of “what makes me successful.” Either that, or he was sick of his perfect life and decided to cram it down the garbage disposal and flip the switch.

  Slam. Bang. Yell. I groaned. Today was Saturday, so I imagined the strained silences, occasional outbursts of name calling, and hissed insults between Deirdre and Darren would be going on all day.

  Oh, joy.

  “Aunt Vie?”

  I leaned up on my elbows. My nephew Justin stood in the doorway. He clutched his red blanket, and sometime hero cape, in one hand and a squished juice box in the other.

  “C’mere squirt.” I made room on the bed, and Justin hopped under the covers with me. “Did you bring me breakfast?”

  He handed me the juice box, and I pretended to sip on the straw. “Hey, this thing is empty.”

  He offered an impish grin. “Sorry.”

  “Are not.” I tossed the box onto the floor and brought Justin in for a good ole Auntie Vie snuggle. I may suck at a lot of things, but snuggling ain’t one of ‘em.

  “Where’s Ben?” asked Justin.

  Okay. So here’s the thing. I can see and talk to ghosts. They look like real people to me, and sometimes I can’t distinguish them from the living right away. I had unofficially adopted a spirit named Ben. In life, Ben had been a homeless man. In death, he maintained an appearance of unwashed hair, dirty skin, wearing every piece of clothing he ever owned, and carrying a sign that said, “Need Money for Bear.” He wasn’t a great speller, but he saved my ass and I owed him. Plus, he was a sweet guy.

  “I’m sure he’s around,” I said.

  My grandma, our family’s last ghost whisperer, gifted her abilities to me. Justin could see ghosts, too. Not all of them, just the ones around me. I was pretty sure he didn’t have my curse. It’s just that kids didn’t have many fears or prejudices and took everything at face value. I figured Justin seeing ghosts was something he’d grow out of—like thumb sucking or whatever. My sister knew I was in touch with the spirits, but she didn’t know her son could see ghosts too. I wasn’t going to share that news if I could avoid it. She didn’t need anything else to freak out about.

  “Why are mommy and daddy mad at each other?” He looked at me, and I saw tears glistening in his baby blues.

  Because your father is a cheating douchebag, kid.

  “We can talk about that,” I said. “Or we could talk about walking to that fancy schmancy park down the block.” I beeped his nose. “Dealer’s choice.”

  “Park,” he said without hesitation. “Can I bring my cape?”

  “Well, we can’t go without it,” I said. “Right?”

  His cape, AKA the red blanket, was his woobie—the carry-around comfort some kids had. I remember Deirdre had a particular stuffed bear she took with her everywhere. Because I was the older sister, and it was my duty to toughen up my sibling by driving her crazy on a regular basis, I sometimes hid the bear. Looking back at fourteen-year-old me tormenting ten-year-old Dee made me realize what a total jerkface I’d been. To be fair, though, she gave as good as she got. Like dumping all my make-up into the toilet, for instance.

  “I need my shoes,” said Justin.

  “And pants,” I added.

  He looked at me as if I were the wisest person ever. With the craptastic year I’d had, the vote of confidence from a four-year-old made me feel better than it should have.

  “I’ll go put on my clothes.”

  “Uh, nope. The last time I let you dress yourself, you wore my work shirt, your cowboy boots, and nothing else. Your mamma was not pleased.”

  “I like your shirts.”

  “Well, you don’t have the boobs for them.”

  Justin considered that criticism. “Okay.”

  “I’ll meet you in your room. I gotta potty and get dressed, too.”

  “Don’t forget to wipe,” said Justin, who’d only recently learned the wonders of cleaning his own butt. It wasn’t always successful, but at least he tried. On a related note: Four-year-olds were gross.

  “Wiping. Got it.”

  Justin rolled out of bed, and because he was his mother’s child, he picked up the juice box and placed it in the trashcan near my bedroom door. He wiggled his fingers at me, his grin wide.

  I returned the finger wiggles and watched him leave. His room was down the hall to the left, closer to the stairs, and therefore, closer to the domestic ruckus.

  Poor kid.

  January in Las Vegas isn’t too bad. Daytime temps are in the low-to-mid-sixties, but for a native, that’s winte
r, which meant buttoned-up coats and cozy hats. Justin wore his red cape over his coat. His hat was orange with bright green spikes mimicking a dinosaur character from his favorite show. The creepy creature sang everything in rhyme. Every time I was forced to watch, I was one scream away from losing my shit. How in the hell had my sister managed to keep her sanity? Jesus. Raising kids wasn’t for the faint-hearted.

  The upper class neighborhood where my sister lived had a lot of perks such as an Olympic-sized swimming pool, a fully decked out gym, a club house that sported a wet bar, and three resident-only parks. Each park had walking paths, lakes (with boats, thank you), workout sites, and a playground built for all the prince and princesses who lived in this little kingdom.

  “Swings!” yelled Prince Justin. He let go of my hand and bolted for the swings, but immediately got distracted by the multi-colored tubular maze and its slides. He popped onto the platform and scooted into one of the tubes.

  I sat down on a park bench, and wished for cigarettes and coffee to appear. If only ghosts were more like genies. I hadn’t smoked since I moved in with Dee, and I was still bare-knuckling through withdrawal symptoms. I worked in a casino for fuck’s sake. The temptation to light up was a thousand times worse when I was at work. So far, so good. But hell, I’m not exactly known for my fantastic self-restraint.

  Justin could entertain himself for long periods of time. I guess that was part of being an only child. You didn’t have siblings to annoy, so you figured out other ways to keep yourself occupied.

  Justin continued slithering in and out of the tubes, and I scanned the area. You’d think Saturday, even in January, would be a good day for people to be out and about, but yeah, not so much. I kinda liked that it was only Justin and I right now. I’d barely slept three hours so being social—sans caffeine—was not for me.

  Across the street, I saw an older gentlemen standing on the sidewalk. He wore black loafers, khaki pants, a striped shirt, and a long brown sweater. His gray hair stuck up in tufts, and he wore thick glasses. He was staring at Justin, and then his gaze switched to me. He scowled. I expected him to yell, “Stay off my lawn.” But instead, he curled a finger in a “c’mere” gesture. Right. Let me jog on over to Creepy Guy and see how that turns out. It took a monumental effort to not flip him off. Instead, I gave him a little wave and returned my attention to the playground.

  Bing. I took my cell from my coat pocket and looked at the display. The text was from my sister.

  At the park?

  Yes. U OK?

  Not even close. Thanks for taking care of Justin.

  R U kidding? He’s taking care of me. U know old dude across from park?

  Mr. Withers. Harmless. Stay off his lawn.

  Hah.

  Making lunch. See you in 15? K.

  “Aunt Vie?” yelled Justin from one of the cutout windows in the tunnel. “Who’s that man next to Ben?”

  I turned around. My adopted spirit Ben and a man dressed in pajamas and a bathrobe stood behind me. The man held a steaming cup of coffee and a confused smile. I wanted so badly to steal his coffee. I didn’t even care that it wasn’t real.

  “I found a friend,” said Ben, smiling widely.

  “Hi, friend. What’s your name?”

  “Carson Malloy. I live three blocks over. 615 March Street.”

  “You live? As in you haunt it?”

  He shook his head. “I’m pretty sure I was alive a few minutes ago.”

  Spirits weren’t exactly great timekeepers. A few minutes in ghost time might be a few years. “Did you have an accident?”

  “I don’t know. Made coffee. Went outside to get the newspaper.”

  “An actual newspaper?”

  “Yeah. I kinda like it. Anyway, next thing I know, I woke up in the front yard. Only I was looking down at myself.” He nodded toward Ben. “He found me, and brought me to you. You a doctor?”

  “Do I look like a doctor?”

  He considered my appearance. “No. You look like a stripper.”

  In this sexy get-up of sweats and cheap shoes? I didn’t know if I should be insulted or flattered. I called my sister and told her that I had a ghost emergency, and for her to get down to the park ASAP.

  “Hi.” Justin jumped onto the bench and stared at the new guy. “I’m Justin.”

  “Carson. Nice to meet you.” He glanced at me. “Are you sure I’m dead?”

  “Do I look lit up like the Fremont Street Experience?”

  He nodded.

  “Then yeah, you’re dead,” I said. Ghosts saw a light around me, which attracted them to me like bugs to a zapper. “Ben, take Carson back to his house. I’ll meet you over there.”

  “Okay, shiny lady.” Ben took Carson by the arm, and they popped out of sight.

  Dee arrived a couple minutes later, and Justin ran straight for her. “Mommy!”

  She swung Justin into her arms and gave him a hug. “Hi, baby. You being good for Auntie Vie?”

  “Very good,” he said. “Ice cream good.”

  Dee laughed. “After you eat lunch, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Dee looked at me. “Where’s the g-h-o-s-t?”

  “At his house.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “In this neighborhood?”

  “March Street.”

  “Oh, that’s just great,” she said, frowning. “You’re not going over there, are you?”

  “I’m trying to,” I said. “But you’re still here with the squirt.”

  “It’s that way, Vie.” She pointed behind me. “Be careful,” she said, her eyes framed with worry. “Call me the second you figure out what’s going on.” She turned away, still holding Justin, and started back toward the house. Justin peeked over his mother’s shoulder.

  I exchanged finger wiggles with him, again, and then turned in the opposite direction.

  Dread bloomed in my stomach as I hurried down the clean-swept sidewalk toward March Street, which ended in a cul-de-sac. Only seven McMansions occupied this block and Carson’s house was the first one on the left side. Since it sat on a corner lot, it had the largest lawn. Most Las Vegas homes didn’t have much space between them, especially those in newer divisions. However, that was not the case for this particular neighborhood. There was plenty of space between homes—one of the selling points for couples with children. And let’s not talk about the amount of water and landscape acuity it took to keep a lawn looking good in a desert climate. Suburbanites were nuts.

  Ben and Carson stood on the driveway. Carson pointed past a large rosebush, one of three, that hid the walkway to the porch. There, in a rectangle of beautiful emerald green grass, lay his corpse. He was splayed on his back, bathrobe opened to reveal blue silk pajamas. An honest-to-God newspaper was near his hand—and the coffee mug had shattered on the concrete. His eyes were open and he looked gray.

  Yeesh.

  I saw blood in the grass near his skull. “Well, you’re definitely dead. And my expertise ends at the corporeal form. Time to call the cops.”

  I took out my cell phone, and instead of dialing 9-1-1, I scrolled to Matt Stone’s number. My finger hovered over the call button. I looked at Carson again. This could be a murder. Stone was a homicide cop. It made sense to call him, right? This wasn’t just a desperate attempt to reconnect with him. It was business. Ghosts were my domain and dead bodies were his. I tapped the green button and resisted the urge to hit the red right after.

  “Violetta?”

  I dropped the phone like a hot potato then scrambled to pick it up. Oh, yeah. We’d exchanged numbers. He knew it was me as soon as I called. “Hi, Matt.”

  “It’s about time.” I heard the smile in his voice. “We had a pool going you know. I said it would be a month, and Monetti said it would be never before you called me. Looks like I win the single-malt scotch. And dinner with you.”

  I felt like an asshole because I was an asshole. Why hadn’t I called him? Was I that cowardly? I cleared my throat. “Yeah. About that. Dinner s
ounds great. But, uh, I called you for another reason.”

  “What happened? Are you okay?” He paused. “Are you in jail?”

  “No,” I said, only slightly offended. “But I want you to know, right now, that I didn’t kill the guy.”

  Chapter 2

  “You’re like the corpse whisperer,” said Detective Joseph Monetti, his dark eyes drilling holes into me.

  If you only knew, buddy.

  “You kill this guy?”

  “Nope.”

  “How’d you find him?” Monetti wore his dark hair slicked back, and a thick gold ring on his pinky finger. He held a tiny notepad and a pen. He wrote in a chicken scratch that didn’t look like any words I knew. I was good at reading things upside-down—another skill of the lowly cocktail waitress. Matt’s stoic partner seemed immune to the cold. His tailored suit and his fancy black shoes were not exactly made for winter weather.

  “Miss Graves. The body?”

  “I live a few blocks over, and I decided to take a morning stroll.”

  Monetti eyed me, taking in my no-brand shoes, my ragged (but warm) sweats, and my size-too-small coat. He finished his assessment by noting my unwashed hair wrapped haphazardly in a clip. He made a point to look at the surrounding houses. “You live in this swank neighborhood?”

  “You saying I don’t belong here?” I put my hands on my hips and gave him the stink eye.

  “I figured it’s about the same as someone putting a giraffe at the North Pole.”

  “A giraffe!”

  Monetti’s lips threatened to curve upward, and I saw a distant twinkle in those black eyes. He was enjoying my outrage. “Tell me, do your strolls often include going into neighbor’s yards?

  “Yeah. ‘Cause I’m nosy.”

  “You know that’s trespassing, right?”

  “What? Is the dead guy pressing charges against me?” I threw my hands up. “That’s the last time I help the living challenged.”

  He chuckled. “Here comes lover boy.” He turned and pounded Matt on the shoulder. “She’s all yours.”