In Good Spirits (Violetta Graves Mysteries) Read online

  Still feeling dazed by the encounter, I shifted my gaze to the homeless man. He waved and then faded, sign and all. I wheeled back to my car. After I unlocked the door, it took three tries to open it. Goddamnedpieceoffuckin’shit. I wrenched it so hard, the top part of handle came off in my hand, and the door groaned open. I tossed the metal piece onto the passenger seat, smack dab in the middle of yesterday’s fast food debris.

  I heard a car start up, and I looked out my cracked windshield to see a purple convertible. Enrique slid into the passenger seat. The driver was the overweight woman with spiky black hair from the courthouse. The one wearing my freaking necklace! From the front, I had another jolt of recognition, but before I could get a better look, she revved up the engine and sped off.

  I slid into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and cranked the engine until it turned over. My car was held together by string and tape and sheer will. It was old, decrepit, and almost useless. It wouldn’t go above forty miles an hour, so I couldn’t take the freeways. I’d gotten used to going everywhere the slow and long way and it was okay, because it gave me time to think, to plan, to daydream. Right now, I didn’t want to think about the stuff I wanted and couldn’t have. I didn’t want to think about the turn my life had taken or what to do about it, either. I had three options:

  A. Move to California and live with Mom and hope a hamburger joint will hire a thirty-year-old smart ass to flip burgers.

  B. Hit my sister up for money.

  C. Take myself to Pahrump and apply to the cathouses.

  I liked sex, but I’m not sure I would be a good prostitute. Being a sex worker is like being an entrée at a buffet. It’s not like baked salmon can leap off your plate if it decides it doesn’t like your mouth. Still, I was jobless, damned near homeless, and sure as fuck hopeless. The $3,500 judgment ensured I’d be broke as shit for Christmas, and would be sitting in jail after the new year.

  I had to figure out a way to get my loser-ex paid off. But how? Mom? I’d rather go to prison. It was less dangerous. Sis? What would Deirdre say if I showed up and asked for a loan?

  Hmmm. When was the last time I’d asked her for some moola? I couldn’t remember. Good. That’s real good. Must’ve been a while since I’d begged from her.

  Deirdre married a lawyer, the aforementioned lecturing assistant district attorney, and moved to Summerlin. She lived in a fancy house, wore fancy clothes, and did fancy things. She had a little boy, a minivan, and a schedule that involved dinner parties and play dates. I suspected she penciled in sex with her husband once or twice a week. Every time I had to enter her world, I got the jitters.

  Deirdre, who was two years younger than me, was the favored child. After all, she gave my mother the thing she wanted most: bragging rights. A lawyer for a son-in-law. A grandson. A house in Summerlin. Darren and Deirdre. The double D’s.

  By the way, when people ask, Mom tells them I’m transitioning. Finding myself. In Alaska. It is easier than admitting to her friends I’m a complete disappointment. I didn’t have a college education. I wasn’t married. I didn’t have kids. Then again, I’m not sure she looked forward to what kind of grandkids I might unleash on the world. My sister endured so many where’s-the-baby queries that I suspected Deirdre got pregnant just so my mother would shut up.

  I motored down the street and began the circuitous route to Summerlin. I really needed to get my shit together. No more crappy jobs, no more living out of hotels, no more dickhead boyfriends. I needed to think about having a goal or something. I’d never had any aspirations. Not like my sister. She’d always charted her course. Hell, at the age of thirteen, she created a Life Spreadsheet that detailed what she wanted, when she intended to achieve it, and each step needed to get it. She’d followed that spreadsheet with grim determination. I, on the other hand, barely passed enough classes to get my high school diploma, choosing to excel in Partying 101. A+ for me!

  Still, I’d take desperation over using the “gift.” A curse was more like it. No, no, nope. I’d rather beg Deirdre for some cash than open the gates to that personal hell. Hmph.

  The gift, my ass.

  2

  While Deirdre poured us glasses of tea, I sat at the kitchen table and watched my nephew Justin, age four, whoosh around. He wore a pair of blue-and-red underwear, a towel cape, and black cowboy boots. His blond hair stuck straight up. As he zoomed by, I detected a whiff of peanut butter. Note to self: Peanut butter works better than mousse.

  “How much sugar has he had today?” I asked when my sister joined me at the table. She slid me a tall glass of iced tea and glanced at her rampaging son.

  “Go play super hero upstairs,” she said in a thin, weary voice.

  Justin ignored this pathetic attempt to direct his activities. He did another vigorous and loud fly-by. He grinned at me, his blue eyes flashing with mischief.

  “Hey, kid.” I grabbed his cape and yanked him to sudden halt. He stared at me, his lips curving into a mutinous frown. “Get your ass upstairs.” I leaned down into his face. “Capiché?”

  “You’re mean.”

  “Aw, now you’ve hurt my feelings.” I tapped his nose. “Upstairs before I get out the kryptonite.”

  He crossed his arms and stomped across the dining room floor, into the foyer, and up the stairs. He proceeded to stomp around the upper level, but apparently got bored because he stopped. Nice thing about Justin—he never stayed pissed for long.

  “Okay. Enough already. It is the beginning of December. You always have your decorations and tree up by Thanksgiving. There’s not even a wreath on your door. Also, you have a stack of unopened Christmas cards on your mantle. If that wasn’t tell-tale enough, your house is always pristine, your kid is never half-clothed, much less dirty, and you’re usually in pearls and high heels by now.” I looked around the messy, undecorated house, then back at my sister who still wore a robe and hadn’t brushed her teeth. “You want to tell me what’s wrong? Because I feel like I’m in an alternate reality here.”

  “This is the new me,” she muttered darkly.

  “The new you sucks. I’m sorry, but the role of ‘loser sister’ is played by me, and I don’t need an understudy.” I took a big sip of the tea and choked as alcohol stung my throat. “Christ Almighty! What is this?”

  “Grandma’s gut punch tea,” said Deirdre. “You arrived in time for round two.”

  “You’ve already had one? It’s only ten in the morning.” I frowned down into the glass. My grandma’s gut punch tea was made of vodka, tequila, rum, gin, a squirt of tea, and lemons that had been marinated in grenadine.

  “How many times have you served alcoholic drinks to gamblers at seven a.m.?” asked my sister.

  “I was a cocktail waitress,” I said as my eyes watered. Whew. I’d forgotten how potent this shit was. “You are a housewife with a tiny human being who depends on you.”

  “I’ve always envied you,” she said suddenly. “Never let things like responsibility and integrity and … and duty … get in your way. Nope. You enjoy life. You don’t care about anything or anyone. You do what you want when you want and fuck what anyone else thinks.”

  When she put it like that, I sounded downright selfish. It made me think of Matthew Stone and his grand ideas for dinner with me. I’d kinda blown him off, but not because I wasn’t interested. He was a nice guy, apparently. A cop. So probably a good guy as well. In my heart, I didn’t think I deserved that kind of man, at least not more than a night. Or maybe that kind of man didn’t deserve me, and my fun curse. I sometimes wondered if Grandma saddled me with her gift because she knew my life was going to suck any way. No sense burdening someone like Deirdre, who at least had a shot at a happy, normal life.

  I sighed. “Okay. Now, you’re cursing. So not you.” Did she really believe I didn’t care about anyone? I wish that were true. It would make asking her for the money a whole lot easier. “Who are you, and what’ve you done to my sister?”

  “This is the real me. Get used to i
t. The old me was in a coma. Asleep for way too long. But I’m awake now. Oh yeah. I. Am. Awake.” She slugged back the liver-damaging tea. “He got new underwear!”

  “Justin’s only four,” I pointed out. “To him, super hero underwear is really sexy.”

  “Not him.” My sister glared at me. “Have you recently had a lobotomy?”

  “No.” Like I could afford a lobotomy. “Does it cost more than a boob job?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m talking about Darren, you putz. My husband bought boxers. Boxers!”

  I wasn’t sure what to do with this information, so I waited for her to finish her rant. Obviously Darren had done something very, very bad.

  “Maybe his old one had holes in the crotch. That happens. Men have sweaty balls. It’s like acid that eats away at the fragile fabric.”

  “No!” She slammed her fist down on he counter. I nearly jumped out of my skin. Grandma’s gut punch tea danced around in the glasses. Dee was seriously starting to scare me.

  “Okay.” I held up my hands in surrender. “The fucking bastard. How could he buy new underpants? Let’s murder him. You get the hacksaw. I’ll get the plastic bags.”

  She looked at me as if I were nuts, but at least she calmed down. “Briefs,” she finally muttered. “He always wears briefs. I bought him boxers twice and he never, ever put them on. Granted, one had glow-in-the-dark Christmas trees, but the other pair was red silk. Said he didn’t like ’em. The silk unmanned him.” She snorted. “I’ll unman him. Cut his dick off, that’s what I’ll do.”

  Whoa. If she kept talking like this, I wouldn’t be the only one in prison for the New Year. I hoped Darren didn’t come home early. Given my sister’s homicidal state, she might very well yank off his penis and frappe it. “Uh … what am I missing here? Can you tell me what boxers have to do with Darren’s spending habits?”

  “According to the relationship experts, it’s one of the top ten signs of adultery. I’ve read three self-help books on how to detect an adulterous spouse, so I know that motherfucker is cheating on me!”

  I had never seen Deirdre lose her emotional center ... or her mind. Like I said, she was goal oriented. She determined the course of her life and stuck to the plan with dogged persistence. If blindly and enthusiastically marching through obstacles didn’t work then Dee just ignored the situations until they’d resolved themselves.

  I might not like Darren, and believe me the feeling was mutual, but I’d always believed he was totally in love with Dee. The man was an attorney—of course, he was an asshole. But I was surprised as hell that he would cheat on her.

  “What are the other signs?” I gulped some tea. Its alcoholic fire raced all the way to my stomach.

  “Late nights at the office, going out with friends I’ve never met, and a dwindling interest in sex.” She sighed. “There are only three weeks left until Christmas. I can’t believe he’d pick this time of year to do this to me. To us. How can I get through the holidays knowing he’s a Cheater McCheaterPants?”

  Yikes. My sister had too much time on her hands. She needed a hobby. Or maybe some therapy. I had to admit Darren, who had always adored Deirdre, was acting totally out-of-character. “Maybe it has something to do with his cases. He prosecutes really creepy people. Could be he’s trying to protect you.”

  “Yeah, that crossed my mind, too.” She slid back the chair, shuffled to the sideboard, and jerked open a drawer. She grabbed a book and tossed it across the table. As she got resettled in her chair, I stared at the cover.

  “This is a cookbook.”

  “Yep. Our six-year anniversary was last month. That was my present. Oh, and a gift certificate for cooking classes.”

  I grimaced. Was Darren really that stupid? “And you haven’t killed him yet?”

  “Still plotting,” she murmured. She slung back more tea. “You never liked him.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t like anybody.” Except maybe Matthew Stone. I couldn’t seem to get the blue-eyed cop off my mind. Or our night of hanky-panky. He really curled my toes. I looked down at my worn flats. Those tootsies could use another good curling. I fought against the impulse to dig his card out of my pocket. My sister was in complete distress—a real hot mess, which meant it was opposite day, and I had to be the adult in our relationship. Ugh. Adulting sucked.

  “You have a good instinct about people,” she said.

  I blinked. “Are you crazy? I just got sued by my ex-boyfriend for nearly gouging out his eye with the only designer heels I owned.”

  Her mouth dropped open, and she pointed an accusing finger. “You tried to murder him with your six-hundred-dollar stilettos?” She shook her head, and I could read the disappointment in her tone. “You should only use cheap shoes for weapons. If the blood doesn’t come out, you’ve only lost twenty bucks.”

  I stared at her, and she stared at me.

  We both burst out laughing.

  My sister stopped first and her face became serious. “You didn’t come here because of my problems with Darren. Court went badly, right? Tell me the whole story.”

  I told her everything, from threatening Enrique in court, the judge’s order to give up the necklace, and the horrible woman he’d hung my talisman around.

  “He has your necklace?” She looked around. “Are you seeing ghosts?”

  “Just one at the courthouse. But you know what’s coming. More and more will start to show up and then bad things will start happening again.”

  My sister lifted a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “You got the gift because Grandma picked you to take it, Vie. She was sure you could handle it. I think she was right. You can’t keep blaming it for your bad luck.”

  “Yes, I can.” I lifted my hand and began to tick off reasons using my fingers. “One. I was sixteen when the gift was bestowed upon me. That was year we lost Grandma and Daddy.”

  “That had nothing to do with—”

  “Two,” I practically yelled. “I used it at eighteen, and you nearly died in a car wreck.”

  “Because I was stupid enough to get into the car with my drunk-assed boyfriend.”

  “Three. Twenty-one years old. Mom moves to California.”

  “I thought you called that one a win.”

  “Totally. But that was also the year I broke my vagina.”

  “You shouldn’t have done the splits. You were never that flexible.” She reached across the table and grabbed my free hand. “None of those things were your fault. And they didn’t happen because you talked to ghosts.”

  “No. I asked ghosts to do things for me.” I squeezed her hand, amazed at her gesture of comfort. Dee and I hadn’t been close—not since she married Darren. It was nice to connect with her again. “There’s a price, Dee. If I use the ghost juju for gain, the ledger gets balanced by creating loss.”

  “That’s all in your head. Grandma used the gift all the time and no one died.”

  “She was a better person than I am. All this is irrelevant. Enrique has my talisman and I can’t afford to get another one. It’s gonna be ghost central soon.”

  She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “You need money, don’t you, Vie?”

  “Nope. Just wanted to see you and the squirt.”

  “Liar.”

  “Well, I don’t want anything now,” I corrected.

  She frowned, her eyes lifting to the ceiling. “Justin’s quiet. It’s never good when he’s quiet.”

  “I’ll get him.” Before she could protest, I was outta my chair and on my way to the second floor. I was breathing hard when I reach the top of the stairs. Jesus. It was like climbing Mount Everest.

  I found my nephew in his room passed out on the floor. I’d woken up on the floor a time or two, but never in a cape and cowboy boots. I didn’t know the etiquette for putting a sleeping child to bed, and I sure as hell didn’t want to wake him. I grabbed a blanket from the closet and covered him. Then I shut the door and returned to the dining room.

  “Justin’s asleep.” I
slid back into the chair.

  “Oh, good. He should nap for a while.”

  Dee’s phone rang, and she left the dining room to answer it. A minute later, she came back seething. She plopped down, dumped a pad and pen onto the table, and then eyed her sweating glass of gut punch tea. “My darling husband is going to be late tonight. Suggested Justin and I order in pizza.”

  “Generous of him.”

  “Isn’t it?” She flashed her teeth the way a predator did right before it ripped out the throat of its prey. Then her gaze changed from murderous to thoughtful. Dee straightened her shoulders, and her expression held absolute resolve. Uh-oh. My sister had shifted into planning mode.

  She tapped her forefinger against her chin. I saw her eyes light up as she looked at me, a smile curving her lips. She picked up the pen and started to write.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m creating a to-do list for getting your necklace back. Do you still have a key to Enrique’s condo?”

  “No. Even if I did, the necklace wouldn’t be there. He knows how much I value that pendant. He wouldn’t put it anywhere I could get to it.”

  “What about pawn shops?”

  “I doubt it. He’s a vengeful prick. He wants me to suffer.”

  “Do you think he gave the necklace to that chick, or did he let her wear it just to piss you off?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. She still had it on when they left together. If she’s not, he’s probably carrying it around like some kind of war trophy.” Her convertible had been as fancy as her jumpsuit, which meant she had money. Enrique was a user, and if the woman had any brains, she’d run before he conned her out of all her wealth. “Whatever he’s done with it, I have to get it back.”

  She nodded. “Okay. We’re going to investigate.”

  “We’re going to… Wait. What?”

  “I’ve watched forensic and crime-solving shows for years. I know some shit.” She pointed the pen at me. “And you have street smarts. Do you have any CIs?”

  “What’s a CI?”

  “A confidential informant. You know, drug dealers, hookers, and homeless people. They keep their eyes and ears open on the streets. Cops recruit them. Sometimes, the law pays the lowlifes to get the dirt on bigger crooks.”