Getting in the Spirit (Violetta Graves Mysteries) Page 2

  “’Fraid so.” She reached out with her fingers just inches away from me and acted as if she were tickling a kitten’s fat tummy. “You are so bright. Like a lighthouse.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” I said. Apparently, I looked like a lit up Christmas tree to spirits. My ghost buddy Ben called me ‘shiny lady.’ I didn’t see him as much as I used to because he’d attached himself to my nephew. I didn’t mind. I liked that Justin had someone looking out for him. “What’s your story?”

  She struck an elegant pose. “I used to be a magician’s assistant.” She straightened and put her hands on her hips. “I died during a rehearsal because David Criss is a fucking idiot. He’s supposed to check out the equipment before putting me in it. Asshole.”

  “Sorry. That sucks. Um … If he’s dead, why are you still here?”

  She waved toward the body parts. “Oh, he’s not David,” she said. “That used to be Blaine Angel, David’s rival for the last decade. They hated each other. David’s still alive, probably hung over and face deep in a showgirl’s tits.”

  “He sounds charming.”

  “If by charming you mean narcissist douchebag, then yeah. Blaine was just as bad, but at least he’s never killed any of his assistants.”

  “Any idea where the douchebag might be?”

  “You got me. I have an afterlife, you know. Haunting David is just a hobby.” She twisted her lips. “He’s not home, I know that much. He doesn’t like it there because spooky stuff happens.” She laughed. “I’m pretty good at freaking him out.”

  I couldn’t blame her for taking delight in messing with the dude who took her life. I wanted to high-five her, but I looked crazy enough having a conversation with someone only I could see.

  “If you … uh, run into him or whatever will you let me know?”

  “Maybe.” She offered a brilliant smile before she faded out of sight.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. Maybe? A ghost could be such pain-in-the ass. ’“She’s gone,” I said. I faced Matt and took in his baffled countenance. He looked pale, too. I peered at him. “What’s wrong?”

  “Watching you talk to thin air is disturbing,” he said. At least some color was coming back into his cheeks. “Who was that?”

  “Annette, who used to be David Criss’s assistant. He accidentally killed her. I think. Turns out that—“ I pointed to the twirling limbs, “—is Blaine Angel.”

  “Christ. This is getting worse by the minute. Does she know where David is?”

  “No. Sorry. And she was the only ghost around here. She said Blaine and David had a rivalry going back at least ten years.”

  “Fuck.” He gestured for me to follow him back through the curtain. We took off our overshoes, and he tossed them into a nearby wastebasket. “Thanks, Vie.”

  “I don’t think I helped all that much.”

  “You did. My supposed victim has now become a person of interest. I’ll have to wait for forensics to confirm the identity of the body first, though. And I’ll look into the death of—who again?”

  “Annette. She only gave me her first name.”

  “I’ll figure it out.” He gave me a kiss on the forehead and a pat on the butt. “I’ll see you later,” he said.

  “You will?”

  “Yes. You working?”

  “My shift starts at midnight.” I’d been battling exhaustion, and now I felt the tired creeping into my limbs. It was going on ten a.m. I needed some sleep. Hardcore.

  “I’ll drop by The Mansion, okay?” He flashed a wicked grin. “We can suck face in the parking lot. Maybe I’ll get to second base.”

  “Only if you’re good.”

  “Oh, I’m good,” he said, teeth flashing. “Very, very good.”

  Whew. He wasn’t kidding. The man had moves like you wouldn’t believe. Now, I was feeling weak-kneed, again, because he was making me all tingly with his sexy talk.

  “Is it bring your girlfriend to work day?” asked a familiar voice.

  I spun around and saw a very tired Monetti trudging toward us. His eyes were red, his face sallow, and his hair in disarray. His suit was rumpled and he wasn’t even wearing a tie. But his gaze was as sharp as always and despite the weight of grief he carried, he still managed to swagger in his usual style.

  “What the hell are you doing here, man?” asked Matt.

  “I need to work. Gotta keep my mind occupied.” He rubbed the left side of his chest as though massaging there would alleviate his heartbreak. “Mama’s still in a coma. But she’s a fighter.” He made the sign of the cross. “God and me have been having a talk. I think I’ve made my point about not taking Mama from us.”

  “He keeps the faith,” said a gravelly female voice. “He’s such a good boy.”

  Next to Monetti appeared a short, pear-shaped woman with graying black hair wrapped in a bun. Her sparkling brown eyes dimmed briefly as she patted Monetti on the shoulder.

  The men kept talking to each other, but I focused on the spirit.

  She wore a knee-length flowered dress, black hose, and a pair of black flats. She had well-worn face obviously shaped by laughter and affection. Her brown eyes twinkled with humor, and she smiled easily.

  Oh, no.

  Nonononono!

  Please, please, please don’t be Monetti’s mother.

  She looked in my direction, her lovely smile widening. “You can see me. Good.” She took in my appearance, her gaze one of approval. “Such a beautiful light. You will succeed in your mission to help others.”

  Her unexpected declaration stalled me for a second. Mission? What?

  “I’m Angela Martina Monetti.”

  Aw, damn.

  “There is much I must tell my son before I go,” she said. “Will you help me?”

  3

  “Why are you doing that thing with your eye?” asked Monetti. “Are you having a stroke?”

  Not yet. I pushed a finger near my twitching eye and tried to still its pulse. Angela continued to smile at me, and Monetti aimed his suspicious gaze in my direction. Panic started to well. What should I do? Ack!

  “Violetta?” Matt sounded concerned as he wheeled me around and peered at my face. “Are you okay?”

  “What? Me? No. I mean yes.” I pulled back and gave him an awkward thumbs-up. His gaze telegraphed all kinds of questions that I couldn’t answer. I gave a slight shake of my head.

  “Do you need to lie down, dear? You look ready to pass out.” Angela floated toward me and put her hand against my forehead in typical mother fashion. Well, not my mother. Mom wouldn’t know empathy if it hugged her.

  I needed to get the hell out of here. No freaking way would I tell Monetti that his mother was dead, much less that her spirit was attached to him.

  “Excuse me, detectives.” A blonde woman, probably about her forties, on the short side and plump, paused next to Matt and Monetti. She carried a big black toolbox. “The body’s on the stage?”

  “Above it,” corrected Matt. “You got a barf bag?”

  “Better. I have an iron stomach.” Her gaze flicked over me, obviously curious about who I was, and then she walked away. Monetta and Matt re-started their conversation. I watched the woman following behind the blonde. She was taller and had a runner’s lithe shape. She had a heart-shaped face, serious blue eyes, and her straight brown hair was pulled into a ponytail. Like the blonde, she wore a protective cover-all. Her gaze flicked to mine, and she offered a shy smile. Huh. I’d never seen her before, but there was something familiar about her. She didn’t go through the curtains, but instead walked to the other end of the stage and disappeared.

  “So, Violetta,” said Monetti in a very investigator-y way. “What are—”

  To avoid answering questions, I dragged Monetti forward and threw my arms around him. His mom looked at me with raised brows. “Follow me,” I mouthed. I moved my head in the direction of the exit. She nodded.

  “I’m so sorry about your mother,” I said. And I really was. I squeezed him harder. �
�Is there anything I can do?” Besides convey messages from your mom’s ghost?

  “I’m good.” To my surprise he squeezed me back, and then we parted. He had a strange look on his face. “Thanks.”

  “Sure.” I gave Matt a peck on the cheek, waved at Monetti, and walked as fast as I could toward the exit. Angela kept up right beside me.

  I was so focused on getting the hell out of there, I rammed into a wall.

  A wall with arms.

  I wobbled backwards, but massive hands clasped my elbows and kept me from going ass over teakettle. I looked up into the concerned face of Mountain Man.

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “No,” he answered. “Edison.”

  “Is that a first or last name?”

  “First.”

  “I sympathize. My name is Violetta.”

  “That’s a great name.”

  “For a chick in the 1800s.”

  He let me go. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” I rubbed my nose, which hurt from ramming into the guy’s hard muscles. He wasn’t bad-looking. Nice hair, square chin, white teeth. “What are you? A body builder?”

  “I work out,” he admitted. “But most of this is genetics.”

  “I don’t know if I should offer congratulations or condolences.”

  “A bit of both, probably.” He peered at me. “Are you with the police?”

  “Wow, really? Do I look like someone who enforces the law?”

  He looked me over and nodded. “Sure.”

  “I’m so sorry about your mental condition. I’m sure God had to give you a deficit to make up for all those muscles.”

  He laughed. “I’ve never been accused of being dumb.”

  “I’m often the bearer of bad news.”

  “Hmmm.” He nodded toward the stage. “You saw, huh?”

  “Unfortunately.” I stepped around Edison. “You’re not with the police.”

  “I work for the casino. I wish it was my day off.”

  “That sucks, dude.” I patted his shoulder. Or I tried. I managed to reach just past his elbow. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  I smiled my good-bye, and then took off, Angela’s spirit still next to me.

  When I got outside, I sucked in several deep breaths. Wow. Today was so fucking awesome.

  “What now?” asked Angela.

  “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “Monetti doesn’t know I can see spirits. He already thinks I’m nutballs.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Joseph is a practical man, but he’s also a godly man. He believes in the afterlife.” She studied me. “You look tired, Violetta.”

  “I haven’t slept in eighteen hours.”

  “Get some rest,” said Angela. “I’ll find you later, and we will figure out how to get through to my son.” She sighed. “I thought I had more time.”

  “Everyone does,” I said.

  Angela straightened, her expression one of determination. “Regrets are for the living. I will see you soon, dear.”

  I watched her fade from sight, and then I trudged to my car.

  Just another manic Monday.

  On Thursday.

  I pulled my squealing bucket of bolts into the driveway, noting that my sister’s car was gone. I hope she was using her minivan to run over Darren. A lot. I’d have to sell myself on a corner to pay for her bail, but it would be worth it. Besides, I’d like to believe Deirdre would get off on all charges because it was justifiable homicide. He’s an asshole, my sister would say, and the judge would say, He deserved being flattened under your Firestones. The jury, all wronged women, would jump to their feet and give a standing ovation. I’m pretty sure Deirdre would get a parade and all the ice cream she could eat.

  Damn. I just became a resident in Loopyville. No more thinking about murdering Darren. Besides, he’d probably use his afterlife to haunt the shit out of me, the vengeful bastard. What a nightmare. Right now, all I wanted was some sleep, glorious sleep. I couldn’t wait to snuggle into my bed. My eyelids drooped. I was so tired even the decrepit steering wheel looked like a soft pillow. I wrapped my arms around it and laid my head down.

  Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep!

  I screamed and jerked back, my heart jamming into my throat. Sonofafuckingbitch! I glared at my steering wheel as if it had turned into a cobra and bitten me.

  After a few seconds, my heart rate slowed and once again, exhaustion poured through me. Go to bed, Violetta, before you pass out on the lawn. I reached down for my purse and when I turned to open the door, I screamed for the second time in the same minute. That was a record for me. Well, if you didn’t count sex.

  A dude with a huge beard, 1970s shades, and a black fedora grinned at me. He was dressed in skinny jeans, Superman T-shirt, and green military jacket. A red scarf bunched around his neck. Christ. Attack of the hipster.

  “Who the fuck are you?” I asked through the inch gap of my window. The damned thing hadn’t rolled up all the way since the 1990s.

  “You Deidre Hamilton?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but didn’t get a chance. He tucked a 9 x 12 manila envelope through the window crack. It landed on my lap with a crisp slap. Frank-Sinatra-on-acid said, “You’ve been served. Have a nice day!”

  He took off, running away as though I might insist he shave his beard, stop wearing penny loafers, and get a real job.

  I stared at the bad news sitting on my lap. Well, shit.

  “Violetta!”

  The indignant screech of my sister’s voice yanked me out of deep sleep. Groggy, I opened my eyes to see Dee two inches from my face.

  “What the fuck!” I yelled.

  She straightened and stepped back. “You sleep like you’re dead.”

  “That’s what my English teacher always said.” I sat up and rubbed my eyes. My fingers came away black and gold. Mascara and eyeshadow. I hadn’t bothered to remove my make-up before falling into bed. I was lucky I managed to get my shoes off.

  “You look like a drowned raccoon.”

  “Thanks, sis,” I replied. “You really know how to make a girl feel good.”

  Dee lifted a single eyebrow. She wasn’t going to apologize for her comment, and I didn’t expect her to. It was our job as sisters to regularly insult each other. Sarcasm must be practiced to remain effective.

  “I made coffee,” she said. “Get dressed and meet me downstairs in fifteen.”

  “Why?”

  “We have a mission.” She spun on her heel and left the room.

  I looked at my phone’s display. It was just after two o’clock. I’d gotten a whole four hours of sleep.

  As per my sister’s demand, I got my ass out of bed. Since I didn’t have time to take a shower, I opted to override the scents of gambler desperation, cheap booze, and tourist sweat. I slathered on deodorant and put on way too much perfume. I pulled on jeans, a T-shirt that proclaimed me the World’s Greatest Aunt, and worn sneakers. I scrubbed my face, brushed my teeth, and put my hair into a ponytail.

  Go, me.

  When I got downstairs and into the kitchen, I found a freshly poured cup of coffee and the vanilla creamer. I doctored my java then joined my sister at the dining room table.

  In front of Dee were a 9 x 12 manila envelope and a neat stack of papers. Oh. Right.

  “Dude shoved that through my car window,” I said, apologetic.

  Dee pushed the papers toward me. The first page looked scarily official and as if the huge “SUMMONS” wasn’t terrifying enough, the first paragraph was in all caps:

  NOTICE! YOU HAVE BEEN SUED. THE COURT MAY DECIDE AGAINST YOU WITHOUT YOU BEING HEARD UNLESS YOU RESPOND IN THE NEXT 20 DAYS. READ THE INFORMATION BELOW.

  I scanned it. Basically, Dee had to respond within the specified time, and if she didn’t, Darren Dickhead would get a divorce and everything he asked for by default. No worries there. He’d get an answer, all right. Minivan murder, anyone?

  The next page said: COMPLAINT FOR D
IVORCE. I read through the document, my heart stalling when I came to the paragraph about child custody. The Plaintiff is a fit and proper person to be awarded primary physical custody of the minor child(ren). Defendant should have visitation as follows: Every second and fourth weekend of the month from Friday at 3 p.m. until Sunday 5 p.m. Every Easter, July 4th, and Thanksgiving from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m.

  Two weekends a month and all the lame holidays?

  Defendant should pay child support in the amount of $500 a month.

  “Child support?” I flicked a glance at Dee. “Is he serious?”

  “Oh, he’s serious.” Her voice sounded like she’d been chewing on rocks.

  I returned my attention to the divorce papers. The more I read, the more pissed off I got. Nevada was a community property state. What was Dee’s going into the marriage and what was Darren’s going into the marriage was theirs. I knew they hadn’t had a damn thing when they got married. Dee, fresh out of college with a useless degree in art history, got a job with the Bellagio Gallery of Fine Art, and met Darren, newly minted assistant district attorney, during one of the gallery’s fancy shindigs.

  “Did you see his interpretation of community-property?” seethed Dee. “Debts and assets are supposed to be divided equally. Hah!”

  I scanned Darren’s idea of “equal.” He wanted to sell the house, Dee’s car, Dee’s jewelry, all the furniture in the house, camping equipment, and the condominium in Florida.

  “You guys have a condo in Florida?”

  “Apparently.”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “Nope.” She tapped the table. “You notice he forgot to mention the Mercedes? Or his Rolex? Asshole. He wants seventy-percent of money made from the sales. But I still get half the debt.”

  “Generous of him.”

  “Isn’t it?” Around the edges of Dee’s anger, I could see the jagged protrusions of disbelief and fear. The fact that Darren had hurt my sister so deeply made me want to use him as a piñata, only I wouldn’t use a bat to crack open his carcass.

  I’d used an ax.