The Dirt on Ninth Grave

by Darynda Jones

  I strolled up to Cookie, pulling Reyes’s jacket tighter around me. The same jacket that kept me from freezing to death. Also, Satana put out a lot of body heat.

  “Did Bobert find out anything?” I asked Cookie.

  She took one glance at me, then headed for the coffeepot. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I’d already had quite a bit of the dark elixir. When I couldn’t sleep, I’d driven to a local convenience store and bought coffee to keep warm. Twelve times. So I was pretty psyched about the day. Other than the fact that I’d developed a tick in my left eye and slurred my S’s ever so little, all was good. I would find the Vandenbergs and then go to the police.

  But the scent of freshly brewed java acted like one of those magnets that pick up cars at junkyards. It attached itself to my face and pulled me closer. Unable to resist, I followed Cookie to the pot before peeling off the jacket, the warm one that smelled like Reyes, that felt like him, that embraced me when he couldn’t. After breathing in as much of him as I could, I draped it over my arm and took the cup Cookie offered me.

  “Did you try to use the espresso machine again?” I asked her, noting the lovely brown splotches on her blouse.

  “Yes. It hates me.”

  “I told you, it’s like an Uzi. Short, controlled bursts. Otherwise it gets fussy.”

  “I know. I know. Did you get any sleep at all last night?” she asked.

  “What makes you ask?” When she only lifted a pretty brow, I caved. “No. But I did get a lot of thinking done. And I burned a lot of calories.” Shivering did that.

  “That’s a plus. What did you come up with?” She picked up her own cup as Dixie—after giving me a quick once-over—went to unlock the front doors. I must’ve looked worse than I thought. I’d tried to tame my hair, then decided to go with my inner rock star.

  “I’ve figured out how to cure world hunger and to travel through time.”

  “Good to know.”

  “The only hitch is we’ll need to find a space freighter, a tiny bit of plutonium, and a wormhole.”

  “For the time travel?”

  “Oh, no, that’s for the world hunger. The time-travel thing is way easier. I just need a billionaire investor with loose morals.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  “You know the family I told you about?”

  “The one that might be held hostage?”

  “Yes. Well, they aren’t at their house. And I have no idea where else to look.”

  She gaped at me. “You went to their house?”

  “Duh.”

  “Alone?”

  “Duh.” I took another sip. “So, Bobert?”

  “Nothing yet. The guy he was supposed to meet with got another call last night.”

  Damn it. Maybe I should just call the FBI and leave an anonymous tip. I was hoping to explain the situation, but if anyone would know what I was going through, Cookie would.

  I scooted in closer and lowered my voice. “What do you do when the police won’t, you know, take you seriously?”

  She blinked, confused.

  “You know, when you see something and report it.” I added an air quote for emphasis. Only one, ’cause of the cup and all, but I think she got my point.

  Dixie clapped her hands to spur us to life. The sharp sound rushed over my nerve endings—the same nerve endings that had been marinated in caffeine—and I had to close my eyes.

  “Look alive, ladies. This is going to be a very good day.”

  “Is she smiling?” Cookie asked.

  I looked over at her. “I think she is.”

  “She never smiles this early.”

  “Nobody smiles this early. It’s illegal in seventeen states.”

  Dixie hurried up to us then, her grin way too wide and way too bright for her to be completely human. Damn it. She was an alien. It was the only logical explanation.

  “I have some good news.” She blinked. Waited for us to bite. When we took another sip instead, our movements completely in sync, she waved her hands, dismissing our impudence. “We have a new cook. He’s going to be joining Sumi this morning.”

  “Didn’t you tell us this yesterday and Sumi was a little less than thrilled?” I asked, but before she could answer, the man I least expected to see that early strolled into the café, his gait as predator-like as ever.

  I gaped, watched him a few stunning seconds in which time slowed like it had been dipped in syrup. I hugged his jacket to me. He probably wanted it back. I wondered how odd it would look if I fought him for it. I wasn’t afraid to pull hair.

  “Reyes,” Dixie said with a little too much glee. Did she know about the jacket? “I’ve told the girls, and everyone is so excited.”

  “Wait,” I said, my jaw gaping. “He’s the cook?”

  Dixie nodded as Reyes strolled ever closer, his gaze locked on to me like a guided missile.

  I noticed Cookie out of the corner of my eye. But it wasn’t her behavior that captured my attention. It was her absolute lack of surprise. She knew!

  I wanted to gape at her as well but decided not to take my eyes off the supernatural being standing far too close for my peace of mind.

  “I’m not sure if you know everyone,” Dixie continued. “This is Cookie and Janey. And in the kitchen we have Sumi and Kevin, our first-shift busboy.” She elbowed me. “Reyes is an excellent cook. I think you’ll be impressed.”

  When a silence as awkward as eighties hair fell over the place, I realized Dixie was waiting for a response.

  I stammered and said, “I’m sure I will be.”

  “Nice jacket,” Reyes said before making his way back to the kitchen.

  “Can you believe it?” Dixie asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Half the town is in love with him. He’ll be great for business.”

  I looked through the pass-out window. Sumi, the tough-as-nails chef who could kill me with a toothpick, was just as smitten with Reyes as the rest of us. What the hell?

  I looked at Dixie. “Are you sure about this?”

  She graced me with a Grand Canyon grin. “Most definitely.” Then she winked and leaned in. “Dude can cook.”

  “This just seems wrong,” I said to Cookie when Dixie left. “On all kinds of levels. I mean, what do we really know about him? He could be a serial killer or a drug dealer or a—”

  “Supermodel?” Cookie asked.

  She had a point.

  “But,” I said, lowering a brow on her, “is there anything you want to tell me?”

  Her lids widened, and her gaze darted to the left as though she were trying to come up with something. “I don’t think so.”

  “You knew about this,” I accused, my voice … accusing.

  “What?” she asked, dropping her jaw. When I pursed my lips like the Church Lady, she caved. The Church Lady had that effect on people.

  “All right, I did.” She wilted under my harsh scrutiny, tried to look apologetic. It didn’t work.

  I was flabbergasted. “How? When? How?”

  “Dixie told me yesterday while you were passed out on the cot.”

  She was lying. Partially, anyway. But I couldn’t tell which parts she was lying about.

  “Oh.”

  Pretty soon, however, it didn’t matter. We turned back to watch the show. Reyes hooked an apron over his head, wrapped the ties around his waist, and folded them into a neat knot. The muscles in his forearms flexed with each movement. His biceps contracted and retracted with the minuscule effort. How could any man look as good putting on clothes as he did taking them off?

  We leaned our heads together and admired the view until he turned toward us. At which point we jumped on the task at hand. That task consisted of Cookie grabbing a towel and polishing the lid of a saltshaker and me straightening napkins. Gawd, we sucked at improv. But suddenly I didn’t care so much about how Cookie knew as about how it all came to be. I mean, Reyes? Here? At the café? All morning every morning?

  This would be either my great
est fantasy come true or my worst nightmare.

  We went about our day doing the usual. We also worked a little. Mr. P came in with stripper in tow and demon in gut like an evil embryo. I usually tried to ignore the thing inside him, but it had moved. It had turned. Just a little. Just enough to make me worry what would happen after it finished its gestation period. Would it hurt Mr. P? Was there anything I could do to help him?

  One thing I did do last night while I was shivering off that fifth cup of coffee was come up with a plan about Erin. I was the only one who could see Creepy Decomposing Lady in her daughter’s image, so maybe I could find out if the woman was a real threat or if she just liked photobombing. It could have been a total coincidence. But the fact that both of Erin’s previous babies died suddenly put a kernel of doubt in my mind. No, more like a brigadier general of doubt.

  First, I needed to get Erin’s phone and check all of her images, so that was on my to-do list for the day. But I couldn’t do that until she came in at eleven. My second plan was to get a message to Mr. V if he showed up for work.

  A departed man, the same one that had been showing up every morning around that time, appeared in a booth in Cookie’s section. He always sat at that same booth at the same time. I’d wondered about him. He had graying blond hair and a kind face, but he never spoke to me. He never even looked my way. I figured he was working shit out. I could understand that.

  “Cookie, we have a breakfast order for Mr. Vandenberg next door,” Dixie said. “Want to take it over?”

  Already? That was awfully early for Mr. V to be ordering anything. He didn’t even open until ten o’clock.

  I lunged forward with my hand raised. “I’ll take it!” I said. I’d panicked and shouted way more enthusiastically than I’d planned.

  Reyes paused what he was doing—namely flipping the sexiest eggs I’d ever seen—and leveled a curious stare on me.

  I cleared my throat. “Sorry. I can take it. I need to ask Mr. V about … a lamp.”

  Dixie took note of how many customers I had.

  “I’ll take care of your section,” Cookie said. “I know how much that lamp means to you.”

  I could have kissed her, could’ve gone full girl-on-girl, I was so in love with her at that moment. But I held my desire in check. “Thanks, Cook. I won’t be a minute.”

  After sliding into Reyes’s jacket, I took the to-go order, then headed out, vowing to only look back once. I did. I glanced over my shoulder. Reyes was still watching me from beneath his lashes, all mysterious-like. A shudder of excitement rushed down my spine.

  I hadn’t walked halfway to Mr. V’s store when I felt it. The stress. The anxiety. The unmitigated fear. This sucked, and I didn’t know what to do.

  I stood at the front entrance, working up the courage to follow through with my plan. After a moment, I pasted on my best smile, then stormed in as if I owned the place.

  The man who’d sat watch on Mr. V yesterday was pulling the morning shift again today. He eyed me, and I could feel a wave of utter contempt radiate out of him. Either my hair was way worse than I’d thought or he considered me an infidel. Probably a little of both.

  “Hey, Mr. V,” I said, while beaming my best I-have-no-idea-that-you’re-being-held-against-your-will smile.

  He adjusted his glasses. “G’morning, Janey.”

  “Got your order. If you’ll just sign this.” I pushed the receipt over to him.

  “Sign it?” he asked, seeming confused. Which was understandable, because he always paid in cash.

  I was confused as well, because I heard a growl. A low, gravelly rumble coming from the other side of the desk.

  Mr. V’s hesitation drew the attention of the infidel hater. I was pretty sure he was president of the Infidel Haters and Knitting Club. He stood and walked over to us, feigning interest in the bag of food I’d brought to get a look at the receipt. Which was just a receipt. I wasn’t a complete noob. My every move had to seem perfectly legit. People’s lives were at stake.

  But the minute he got close to Mr. V, the growling exploded into vicious barks and blood-curdling snarls. Yet both men seemed oblivious.

  “Oh,” I said, talking louder to be heard over the barks, “sorry, were you not going to charge today?”

  When both men looked at me as if I had two heads, I became fascinated with a little antique inkwell that would look great on my mantel. If I had one.

  Mr. V played along, probably to avoid any more unwanted attention. “Not today.”

  “Oh, alrighty then. It’ll be twenty-four fifty.”

  As casually as I could, I let my gaze wander toward the back of the store. They must have had another man working. They’d ordered four meals this time, but none of them came to the front.

  The dog calmed a bit when the president took the bag of food over to Mr. V’s small desk and started going through it. I took the opportunity to do what I’d really come for.

  I slipped a note from under my left palm—the one that read ‘Is everything okay?’—while keeping my right one, complete with fingernails tapping in impatience, visible to the intruder.

  Mr. V paused. Fear spiked within him so fast it made me dizzy. He spared a furtive glance over his shoulder, then refocused on counting out the money. After a moment, he gave me a beseeching look accompanied by a quick shake of his head. He wasn’t saying no to my question. He was pleading with me to leave it alone.

  But I couldn’t. Not just yet. I flipped the note over and held my breath. I had to give Mr. V kudos on not losing his composure completely. And, in the process, possibly getting us both killed.

  The second note asked him if they had his family. I thought he was going to break down, his emotions were so fragile. Like eggshells in an elephant’s cage.

  “Twenty-three, twenty-four, and fifty cents,” he said. “Oh, and four dollars for you, hon.”

  When he looked back up at me, he nodded, the movement so quick and subtle, I almost missed it.

  I stood crestfallen, even more unsure of what to do. How to help him. They had his family. If he had been the only one in danger, I felt for certain he’d allow me to call in the troops. Sadly, that was not the case. Keeping my movements out of his captor’s sight, I gave his hand a quick squeeze. Before I could release him, he squeezed back to get my attention and then shook his head again, beseeching me, once more, not to do anything.

  Pressing my lips together, I offered him the same quick, curt nod that he’d given me, telling him I understood. The dog whimpered behind the counter, and then I felt a cool, wet tongue test my fingers. I didn’t respond. By that point, I realized the dog must’ve been departed like Artemis.

  “Have a good day,” I said, practically bouncing out of the shop. But I’d taken a peek at the dog, now sitting in front of the desk, and a sad sense of elation washed over me. It was the German shepherd. The one from last night. If all dogs, or all animals for that matter, had spirits that could stay behind when they died, why weren’t the streets filled with the ghosts of animals? I saw at least five departed everyday, but besides Artemis, the German shepherd was the only other animal I’d seen. Maybe it was because the dog had died trying to protect his owners. Maybe he stayed behind of his own accord, unwilling to shirk his duty because of a little thing like death.

  And if he had crossed to the other side, was there a heaven just for them? And what would a dog heaven look like?

  Too many unanswered questions. My brain overflowed with them. I left the shop with a bittersweet taste in my mouth, even more confused about how to proceed. Did I dare talk to the man Bobert was setting up a meeting with? I’d already told Ian. I’d set off the Vandenbergs’s house alarm. Had I put them in even more danger?

  Bottom line: I had to find his family, and I had a plan. Unfortunately, it would have to wait until that evening. Mr. V had several family photos, and they were all taken at the same cabin no matter how old his kids were when they were taken. Either he had a cabin or he knew someone with one. Maybe his c
aptors found out and were holding them hostage there. It made perfect sense. No neighbors. Isolated spot. Well camouflaged with a plethora of trees and brush around. And easily guarded. They’d see anyone coming up the road for miles. Most of the leaves had already fallen, and though it wasn’t officially winter, it sure as heck felt like it.

  After that, the day progressed rather normally. If a buttload of women with love in their eyes was any indication of normal. We were swamped. Had been swamped since we’d opened. Reyes might be good for business, but he was bad for my bunions. Or he would have been if I’d had bunions. He was damned lucky I didn’t.

  “Sumi,” I said, trying to get her attention.

  I needed the orders for booth seven pronto. It was full of giggling preteens, and I needed them out. Every time they’d look in the rock star’s direction, they’d burst into a fit of giggles and discuss his expression right down to the position of his brows. The tilt of his mouth. The implication of his glances. Did he like movies? Did he play video games? Did he like them?

  Uh, he would if he were a child molester.

  I wanted to say it but couldn’t bring myself to break their fluttering little hearts. Especially since I’d been doing the same thing all morning. Chancing quick glances. Analyzing every movement. Wondering if he liked me.

  I needed to nip a sticky situation in the bud. Reyes didn’t need to be investigated because a kid declaring her love was taken the wrong way by an eavesdropper. If anything could go downhill fast, it was suspicion of pedophilia. It never ended well.

  After Sumi snapped out of her latest fantasy and tore her gaze off Reyes, she nodded and got me the plates I needed.

  I rushed them over, filled a few drinks, then went to the storeroom for more ketchup, where I came face-to-face with a departed woman. An agitated departed woman.

  “Where have you been?” she asked, walking toward me, her strides angry and aggressive.