Getting in the Spirit (Violetta Graves Mysteries) Page 5

“Maybe he has help.”

  “Dee, Justin and I have adopted him. We’re the only living people he sees. He doesn’t have family. Most of his friends are dead. Unless you think we’re killing in his stead, mark him off your suspect list.”

  Matt studied my expression. “You really like the old guy, huh?”

  “Well, he asked me to marry him today, so we are newly engaged.”

  “Does he mind that you already have a boyfriend?”

  “No, but after Jack and I get hitched, you can only have me on Tuesdays and every other Sunday.”

  “Noted.” Matt took my hands into his. “Do you think he might remember the disappearance of LaFarge?”

  “I think he was retired by then,” I said. “I could ask him, I guess.”

  “Nope. If I need to, I’ll ask him.” He turned my hands over and kissed my palms. Electric shivers assaulted me. “I also need to negotiate my visitation schedule. Tuesdays and Sundays don’t work for me.”

  I laughed. Matt pulled me in for a helluva kiss and after he released me, I melted into a puddle of goo.

  I said good-bye and practically floated back to the casino.

  7

  Later, when I was ass-deep in the slots area, handing out free booze while avoiding butt pinchers and cranky housewives as I handed out free booze, I remembered that I hadn’t told Matt about the visit from Monetti’s mother. I felt bad that Monetti believed his mom might wake up. Had the doctors told him that machines were keeping Angela alive? Had he interpreted that as hope that his mom still had a chance? Life support wasn’t really the correct term. Death avoidance was more accurate, especially when someone’s soul has exited the body and was currently standing three feet away talking to Laverna’s spirit.

  Wait.

  What?

  Angela caught my eye and waved at me.

  Oh, sweet baby Jesus. I could only imagine what those two were talking about, and if I knew Laverna, at some point she’d start yammering about her stripper days and her mega boobs.

  I parked my tray behind the bar and hurried to the two dead ladies.

  “It’s the boobs,” Laverna said, nodding sagely as she puffed on her cigarette. “Those are the moneymakers. Men can’t look away.” She pointed to her chest. “These tits have emptied more wallets than a mugger on Fremont Street.”

  See? Always with the boobs.

  “Hey, Vie,” said Laverna. “You taking another break?” She waggled her eyebrows.

  “Shut up,” I said in a low voice. In public, I tried not to look like a crazy person answering the voices in her head. I was not always successful. I turned to Angela. “Everything okay?”

  “My sweet boy is at home drinking his sorrows away. He needs to be strong—not drowning himself in Scotch.”

  “Scotch smells like sheep’s butt,” said Laverna. “Everyone knows that tequila is the mourning man’s drink.”

  “Why don’t you go scare some tourists?” I asked.

  “You are no fun,” said Laverna.

  I glared at her.

  She rolled her eyes. “Fine, Peggy Party Pooper.”

  “If you’re taking requests, I recommend the overweight dude wearing the red shirt and bothering every female in the vicinity.” I rubbed my rear end. “He pinches really hard.”

  Laverna’s eyes narrowed. “That son-of-a-bitch. Nobody touches the girls without consent.” She disappeared in a swirl of smoke.

  “She’s very interesting,” said Angela. “I like her.”

  “Yeah, she’s all right.” I nodded toward a door that led into a hallway, one of many that employees used to maneuver around the first floor. Luckily, it was empty.

  “Today the doctors told Joseph that I was brain dead,” said Angela. “But he’s not ready to let go. He’s my only son, and his father died when he was just a little boy. My husband didn’t have any siblings. My only sister died a few years back in Italy. Joseph’s never met Cecilia’s two sons—his cousins. Our parents have been gone for a while.” She looked at me, sadness filling her brown eyes. “Joseph needs family. He’s all alone right now.”

  “I’ll call Matt,” I said. “And I’ll send him to Monetti’s house.”

  “Thank you. I need to talk to my Joseph,” she reminded me. “Soon. Before the machines are shut off.”

  “We’ll do it tomorrow.”

  “Yes. Okay.” She squeezed my shoulder. “You are a good person, Violetta.”

  “Tell that to the rest of the world,” I said, only half-joking.

  “You will show them,” she said. “You have a calling. You just need to answer it.”

  On that mysterious note, Angela disappeared.

  I took my cell out of my skirt’s front pocket and dialed Matt. When he picked up, I could tell that I’d woken him.

  “You all right?” he asked, his voice craggy with sleep.

  “Yeah, I’m good. Monetti is the one who needs you,” I said. “He was told his mom is brain dead, and now he’s at home drowning his sorrows in Scotch.”

  I listened to the silence. “Matt?”

  “His mom’s spirit talked to you, didn’t she?”

  “Yeah. She needs me to convey a message to Monetti before he turns off life support.”

  “Christ.” I heard bedsprings creak as Matt moved around.

  “I don’t know how Monetti’s gonna take the whole ghost whispering girlfriend issue.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s going to hate it. But I can’t ignore his mother’s last wish. She’s really sweet.”

  “I know. I’ve had a lot of Sunday meals at her house,” said Matt. “Let’s meet for lunch tomorrow. I’ll bring Monetti, and you can talk to him then.”

  “Okay,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

  I hung up and return to the floor, stopping at the bar long enough to retrieve my tray. Okay dokay. Back to sashaying through the slot machines and plying poor souls with alcohol.

  After taking orders for two gin and tonics and a Cosmo, I’d reached the end of one aisle and noticed a familiar looking brunette. It took me a sec to place her. She was the CSI I’d seen at Blaine’s crime scene. Except a lot more drunk.

  “Ish you,” she slurred. Her eyes were glazed over and she held onto the end slot machine like it was her prom date. “You’re … you’re the lady.”

  “Some would disagree.” She blinked at me, too inebriated to appreciate my charming wit. I peered at her. She looked both ways and then put a finger to her lips. “Sssshhhh. Want to know a secret?”

  “Not really. I suck at keeping secrets.”

  She waved me closer. “C’mere. C’mere.”

  Well, shitballs. I leaned in. “What is it, Sunshine?”

  “Sara,” she corrected. “Saaaaaara.”

  “Sara. Got it.”

  She did another exaggerated pass over the room. No one was paying attention to us. A drunk twenty-something woman wobbling around a casino was pretty much a daily thing.

  She shared a conspiratorial look. “You know that body?” She pointed up. “The hang-y one?”

  “Yeah. Hard to forget.”

  “He was waxed!”

  “Ew. I don’t want to know about the dead guy’s grooming habits.”

  She blinked at me, absorbing my reaction. Then she made a face. “Yuck! No, no, noooo. He was … uh, waxed.” She nodded sagely. “Wax on. Wax off.” She giggled at her own reference to the Karate Kid.

  “Blaine’s body was dipped in wax? Like a candle wick?”

  “Guess so.” Her eyes went wide. “Weird, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s weird—even for Vegas.” I looked her over. “Honey, let me get you a ride home, okay?”

  “Nah. I’m good. You know what’s really strange?”

  “Other than this conversation?”

  “Yeah. That. Um … oh. Right. What was the other place—the one before Black Dragon?”

  “Starlight,” I said. That hotel casino had been destroyed and razed to make room for the bigger and better Black Dragon R
esort & Casino. Las Vegas was like the aging woman who tried to hang on to her youth: Facelifts and tummy tucks and breast enhancements. But at the end of the day, it’s still the same old broad.

  “Yeah. Starbright. Did y’know there was a magician who disappeared like, ten years ago, from there?”

  “Are you talking about Adam LaFarge?” Her face lit up. “Yeah. Him.” She squinted at me. “How’d you know? That boyfriend of yours?” She leaned in. “Who are his suspects?” she asked in a loud whisper.

  “How the hell should I know? I’m not a cop.”

  “I saw you there,” she crooned. “I saw yooooooooooou.”

  “Waitress!”

  I looked over my shoulder and smiled at the man with a crooked finger in the air. “I’ll be right over, sir.” I turned back, but Sara was wobbling away. “Hey!” I called out. She ignored me and made her way down the opposite bank of slot machines. I watched her turn the corner and then she was out of sight.

  “Waitress?”

  I turned around, smiling widely, even though I wanted to take my tray to the guy’s face. Instead, I flirted outrageously while I took his beer order.

  The glam life, right?

  Hey, at least Beer Man didn’t pinch me on the butt.

  8

  The diner on Charleston Boulevard was not a tourist destination. Sometimes, Las Vegans, you know, people from Vegas, not actual vegans, because meat is yum, kept the good stuff to themselves—and Big Al’s Burgers was one of those secrets we don’t share. Crammed between a used car lot and a check cashing/bails bonds place, the location wasn’t ideal. The décor was dedicated to all things Elvis and the sport of bowling. The owner, Al Branish, was once an Elvis impersonator and a national bowling champ. After he turned sixty, he gave up being the King and opened the small diner. Big Al had the best Vegas stories and burgers so good you’d kill your mother to have one.

  It was just after the lunch rush, and I’d taken the booth in the back corner. When Matt and Monetti arrived, I waved them over. Matt scooted in next to me and Monetti took the seat across from us.

  Poor guy emitted the vibes of the forlorn. Even though he wore his usual nice threads and had styled his hair, there was no denying the gaunt look of his face and the haunted expression in his eyes. Beside him was the spirit of his anxious mother, her hand on his shoulder, her expression one of worry.

  “How you holding up?” I asked Monetti.

  “I’ve been better,” he admitted. “Matt says you need to talk to me?”

  I huffed out a breath and glanced at Angela. No use stalling. He’d think I was crazy not matter how I told him. “Your mom wants to communicate with you.” I cleared my throat. “I see spirits. Ghosts. They look alive to me. I can interact with them the same way I do with the living. Your mom’s been following you around since yesterday morning.”

  Monetti clenched a fist and slammed it on the tableware, rattling the sugar container and condiments. “What the fuck? Are you kidding me right now?” He stared at me with eyes like shiny obsidian—cold and unmovable. “You don’t know shit. My mother is in critical condition in the fucking hospital.” He looked at Matt. “You don’t believe in this psychic crap anymore than I do.”

  “You know I’m not new-age-mumbo-jumbo kind of guy, but Joe, I believe her. Please, just give her a couple minutes.”

  “You can step in anytime, Angela,” I said to the spirit.

  “Tell him I’ll wash his mouth with the soap if he doesn’t stop cursing.”

  “That’s not going to help.”

  “Tell him.”

  “She says if you don’t stop saying bad words, she’ll wash your mouth out with soap.”

  “Really? You can talk to my mom and that’s what she says? You are so full of shit.” Monetti moved as though to leave the booth.

  “Ask me questions. If I’m wrong, I’ll let you punch me in the face.”

  “I don’t hit girls,” he said. Still, he relaxed back into his seat. “Fine. Ask her for her Bolognese recipe.”

  “Over my dead body,” said Angela.

  “You are dead.”

  “Oh. Right. The recipe is part of his inheritance, and he must never share it with anyone—except his future spouse.”

  “She says you’ll inherit the recipe, and you can’t share it with anyone except your future spouse.”

  Monetti lifted an eyebrow. “Lucky guess.”

  “Ask her something else,” suggested Matt. “What’s a memory or secret only you and Angie would know?”

  I cast a grateful glance at Matt, and he reached down to squeeze my thigh. The gesture was meant as comfort, but my hoo-ha tingled in response to his touch. This man really made me melt. Oof-ta.

  “My dad died when I was six. What did Mom tell me before the funeral?”

  Angela’s smile was bittersweet. “His father was a beat cop who died on the job. A domestic squabble. Joe stepped in front a pregnant woman right before her husband fired a revolver.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I get to see him again,” she said, eyes shining with tears. “I told Joseph that his father was a hero. That being brave meant doing the right thing even when you’re scared. I told him to be brave at the funeral—and to stand tall and proud in front of everyone.” She straightened her back. “We Monetti’s are strong. Like steel. We don’t crumble like cookies dipped in milk.”

  I repeated everything Angela said word-for-word. I watched the suspicious look in Monetti’s eye fade at the same time his face leached color. When I was done, he’d been stunned into silence.

  Silverware clanked.

  Voices murmured.

  Shoes squeaked on linoleum.

  And Monetti looked ready to faint.

  “This isn’t possible,” he said softly. He blanched. “They told me she was brain dead. I didn’t want to believe it.”

  Angela stroked his hair and kissed his brow. “Tell him I’m okay. And tell him he’ll be okay, too. We Monettis aren’t wallowers.”

  “Spines of steel,” I said, feeling my own eyes well up.

  She gave a single, fierce nod. “That’s right. Steel spines. Marshmallow hearts.”

  I repeated what Angela said then I added, “She’s okay. She says you will be, too.”

  “Don’t feel that way.”

  “And it won’t for a long time,” I said, remembering the suffocating grief I suffered after Grandma passed. She’d been everything to me that my mother wasn’t—couldn’t—be. I reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “You get through it, Monetti. But you never get over it.”

  “That’s not great news.”

  “I know.”

  Monetti leaned forward and put his hand over mine. “Look, it’s hard for me to believe that my mother’s ghost is sitting next to me. That’s crazy. But if I suspend my disbelief for a moment—what does she want?”

  Worry creased Angela’s brow. “I need to tell him about—”

  Two cell phones rang—Matt’s and Monetti’s.

  Angela looked almost relieved. In fact, she seemed to take the interruption as some kind of reprieve.

  She popped out of sight without so much as a good-bye. Sheesh. What was her deal?

  The men answered their phones, and ten seconds later we were all scooting out of the booth.

  “So?” asked Monetti. “What does Mom want?”

  “I don’t know. She left.”

  “Yeah, okay.” He went from believer to cynic in 3.2 seconds. “Look, I don’t know how you know the shit you do, but I don’t want to talk to you about my mother. Capiche?” He turned on his heel and strode out of the restaurant.

  Matt put his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t worry. He’ll come around.”

  “Really? Because what he just said was the opposite of ‘hey, let me think about this.’”

  “He’s under a lot of stress. He’s trying to process that his mom will never wake up.” Matt kissed my forehead. “Duty calls,” he said. “We got a murder off Bell S
treet.”

  I stared at him. “Bell Street? That’s near The Mansion.”

  “Unfortunately, most of our cases are usually near casinos. Don’t sweat it. I’ll call you later, babe.”

  “Okay.” I socked him on the shoulder. “Go solve crime, you caped crusader.”

  His grin flashed and I got the tingles. Whew. I really needed to get ahold of myself around Matt. I was turning into mush every time he smiled or touched or even looked at me.

  I watched him leave the diner, mostly so I could stare at his perfect ass, and then I paid for our coffees. What was up with Angela? I was starting to worry she was going to drop a bombshell on Monetti, and who knew what the blowback would be?

  Gah!

  I was still hungry and knew I should eat, but I didn’t want a hamburger anymore. Restless, I decided to go home and raid the fridge for anything sweet and/or alcoholic.

  As I walked out to my car, I realized I’d forgotten to tell Matt about my weird encounter with CSI Sara the Drunk.

  Whatever.

  I’d call him later.

  9

  Darren’s Mercedes was parked at the curb. Terrific. I couldn’t believe his sorry ass was here again. The only reason he came over was torture my sister and piss me off.

  Asshat.

  When I entered the house, I didn’t hear screaming or the thud of a meat tenderizer against a certain cheater’s temple. Well, that was something at least.

  I found Dee in the kitchen.

  “His Highness is upstairs packing a bigger suitcase,” she said. “I think he needs room to take my pride with him. God, I feel like such an idiot.” She looked at me. The pain in her gaze made my own heart ache for her. “What happened to us?”

  “Darren made a decision. A shitty, selfish decision—one that he’s not taking back.”

  “I haven’t told him about the pictures. There’s this sliver of hope that he could walk away from her. That he’d choose me.”

  “He doesn’t deserve you.”

  We heard thuds on the stairs indicating the imminent arrival of King Jackass. He wheeled his suitcase into the kitchen and stopped. He didn’t spare me a glance, which was fine by me.