by Sonia Singh
“Personally, I prefer a bigger shirt when I go shoplifting,” Scott murmured. “That way I can get in at least a week’s worth of groceries.”
Anjali almost laughed as she pushed the cart forward. She was trying to thaw out from the frozen food section when she noticed Scott was nowhere to be seen. Good riddance, she thought, and finished the rest of her shopping.
Standing in line to pay, Anjali was hopelessly eavesdropping on the squabbling couple in front of her, when Scott showed up lugging a full basket. Her surprise must have shown on her face because he grinned.
“I really did need a few things.”
Anjali found some of her annoyance toward him dissipating. She turned a curious eye to his basket. Alfalfa sprouts, celery hearts, whole grain bread, and of course the cantaloupe. A health nut. Her sister, Zarina, would love him. Well, except for the whole “investigating the supernatural” thing.
“I know you don’t really care,” Scott said. “But it was Mill University.”
So that was how he’d found her. Anjali shook her head in disgust. “Jesus, you take one ESP test and you’re on their list forever.”
“The file mentioned the Bradford House and the…incident. You were on a class field trip?”
“Social studies. The house wasn’t supposed to be haunted—not like the Winchester. It wasn’t even that historic. The descendants had made a bunch of changes—installing indoor plumbing and fixing a broken sewage line—and that upset the local historical society.”
The corner of Scott’s mouth quirked up in a smile. “Naturally. The preservation of history supersedes sanitation.”
“That’s always been my motto,” Anjali said and then looked at him, narrowing her eyes. “You do realize that just because I’m talking to you, doesn’t mean I want anything to do with you.”
Scott put the basket down and flexed his hands. “Of course. I just assumed you’d already scanned the headlines of the Star and the Globe and had nothing else to do.”
“Now that we understand each other…” Anjali pushed her groceries together, making room for Scott to lay his on the checkout counter. “Anyway,” she continued, keeping a close eye that his sprouts didn’t touch her Cheetos, “I didn’t have a sense, not even a clue that anything was wrong until I walked into the house. Then it was like being…invaded. Emotions and thoughts that weren’t mine filled me up. I felt overshadowed. I could smell death.”
“What does death smell like?” Scott asked.
She shrugged. “Atlantic City.”
His dark eyes flashed with amusement.
Anjali looked away. She could joke about it now. Had to joke about it. If it wasn’t for her sense of humor, she would have killed herself…twice.
“I must have blacked out,” she continued. “When I woke up I was in the hospital and somebody from the university was there to talk to me.”
“According to the file, the attending doctor in the ER arranged that.”
“My parents were furious when they found out. My mother cursed the doctor out in Hindi. Although I’m still not sure why calling someone ‘a dirty owl’ is bad.”
Anjali often thanked God that she wasn’t an only child. If all her parents’ hopes and dreams had depended on her they would have committed suicide…twice.
“I’d really like your input on this case,” Scott said in a cautious voice. “You’re older now and—”
“Don’t you get it? I’m afraid of ghosts! Nothing you can say or do will ever convince me otherwise. Why don’t you call John Edward? He loves talking to the dead. Apparently he’s got them on speed dial.”
Scott’s upper lip curled. “John Edward? Don’t get me started.”
At the scent of scandal, Anjali’s ears perked. “What? Have you met him?”
“I’ll tell you another time,” Scott said. “Oh right…we won’t be working together.”
The register next to them opened up. Scott grabbed his basket and neatly maneuvered to the head of the line.
Meanwhile, Anjali’s line continued to move like a clogged artery, and the couple in front of her continued to argue.
“God, you’re cheap,” the woman snapped.
The man glared. “I’m nothing but a prick and a paycheck. Is that it?”
Anjali watched as Scott grabbed his bags and sailed out the exit.
She hated ghost hunters.
Even if they did call themselves paranormal investigators.
8
Coulter was at a diner called Lenny’s off Mission Street in San Francisco.
The lighting was fluorescent, the booths plastic, and the servers unmotivated.
But it was nearly two A.M., and the sign outside claimed the place served a steak and eggs breakfast all day. He was starving.
He’d spent most of the day wandering around the city and nearly freezing his ass off even though it was July. He’d avoided all the touristy places after being mowed down by a baby carriage…several baby carriages, in fact, wielded by parents who had the same crazy look in their eyes soldiers probably had as they drove a tank straight through enemy lines.
The enemy in this case being people who were fortunate enough not to have a brat swinging from their arm or drooling down their neck.
And sometimes—although he didn’t like to admit it—being in those places, alongside families in lame matching T-shirts eating anything fried on a stick, made him feel lonely.
He gazed around at the other people in the restaurant. There were only a few. In one of the booths a cadaverous-looking woman with long white hair and bloodred lipstick sat next to an overweight man wearing an eye patch and a black velvet skirt.
“Freaks,” he murmured.
Then again, he got his kicks spinning silverware around in the air when inclined, so maybe he shouldn’t go around labeling people.
He looked back at the couple and shook his head. Nah, anyway you looked at it, they were freaks.
Earlene, the blue-haired octogenarian who’d seated him, brought over his food. Before she could leave, he touched her arm and smiled. “Can I get a side of hash browns, love?”
Earlene beamed and patted his cheek. “Coming right up.”
Digging into his meal, he wolfed down his food and was almost halfway through when a shout made him look up.
At the counter, a short, stocky man with black hair, dressed in flashy but unflattering clothes, roughly pushed away his coffee cup, making it rattle in its plate. He glared at the pretty but nervous waitress. “I wanted my coffee black. There’s about an udder full of milk in here.”
“But you asked for—”
“I’m lactose intolerant. That means I can’t digest dairy, sweetheart.”
The waitress grabbed a clean cup and began filling it with coffee. “I’m sorry. I thought you asked for coffee with milk.”
“I asked for coffee and the bill. Do I look like the kind of man who’d mess around with his small intestine?” He cracked open his newspaper. “I’m not paying for this coffee. My gastroenterologist is already milking me for a fortune.”
Earlene returned with Coulter’s plate of hash browns. “On the house, darlin’.”
He took her hand and planted a kiss on the back. “Bless your heart.”
She chuckled and wagged her finger at him. “You’re full of charm, aren’t you—you blue-eyed devil.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Not like the character over there.”
She jerked her head toward the man at the counter.
“Does Cousin Vinnie come in regularly?” Coulter asked.
She nodded. “When he isn’t complaining about the food, he’s trying to cozy up to Rachel.”
Coulter assumed Rachel was the pretty waitress who’d served the coffee with milk.
Applying himself to his hash browns, he glanced back at the counter and caught Rachel watching him. She smiled shyly and turned away.
A slow smile spread across his face.
Well now.
Maybe his time in San Francisco wo
uldn’t be wasted after all.
He decided to hang around until the place closed. Maybe he’d walk Rachel home. That would be the gentlemanly thing to do.
Since he was sticking around, he ordered a slice of apple pie.
From the corner of his eye he noticed Rachel watching him again. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, smoothed the skirt of her uniform, and edged around the counter, obviously coming toward him.
As she passed by Cousin Vinnie, he reached out and grabbed her arm, murmuring something in her ear. Her cheeks bloomed red and Rachel yanked her arm away. Then she turned and fled into the ladies’ room.
Coulter didn’t hesitate. Praying the coffee was still hot, he focused on the man’s cup. It teetered on the edge of the saucer before abruptly shooting across the counter and into the man’s lap.
With a howl he leaped off the stool, grabbing his crotch. “Christ!” He glared at Earlene, who stood watching the spectacle with obvious glee. “Don’t just stand there. Move your fat ass and get me a towel.”
Coulter focused again, and the buttons popped off the man’s blue polyester pants, causing them to slide down his hairy legs and pool around his ankles.
Several of the waitresses and customers broke into laughter.
Sputtering with fury, he yanked up his pants and pushed his way out of the restaurant.
Smiling, Coulter sat back and finished the rest of his pie.
9
The sun was shining. The birds were chirping. And Anjali smelled like Clorox.
She was scrubbing the kitchen sink, and the bleach fumes were making her giddy. So it took her a moment or two to realize someone was knocking on the door.
She wasn’t expecting anyone, but old Mrs. Griego, who lived on the fifth floor, tended to buzz anyone and everyone into the building. Last week she’d buzzed in a member from the Church of Hemp and Hallelujah.
But her visitor wasn’t a churchgoer with a goofy grin. It was Scott Wilder.
Anjali knew this without opening the door.
No, it wasn’t the psychic thing. She looked through the spy hole.
Hands on her hips, she pondered her next move.
“Anjali,” he called out, his voice muffled by the door. “I know you’re in there. Can we talk?”
I’d rather sniff Clorox, she thought.
“I’ll just keep coming back,” he said finally.
She opened the door. “Do I need to turn you down in Hindi? You obviously don’t understand English.”
Scott was wearing the same smile from the day before. “You can say it to me in any language. I don’t take no for an answer. They taught us that in business school.”
Anjali didn’t want to carry on a conversation in the hall. Mrs. Griego probably had her big ear pressed flat against the floorboards. So she stepped aside and waved him in.
She did this with a big show of reluctance.
Still smiling, Scott walked in, a slim leather folder tucked under his arm. She hadn’t noticed his clothes yesterday, but today he was dressed in a light blue Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up and gray wool slacks so fine the material looked like silk.
Anjali was wearing tan Capri pants that made her look shorter than she was and a V-neck tee that had seen better days.
She leaned back against the door and folded her arms. “Welcome to Casa Kumar. I’d ask you to sit but I know you won’t have time for that.”
“What do you want to do with the rest of your life?” Scott asked.
She was caught off guard by the question. “What? I don’t know.” But what really unnerved her was how she’d been asking herself the same thing for days now.
Scott sighed. “Do you know how many people I’ve interviewed in my search to find someone with even an iota of second sight? And here you are, the real thing, and you’re just hiding away, hiding all that talent. You’re like a sundial in the shade.”
The quip on the tip of her tongue melted away. She was at a loss for words.
Which hardly ever happened.
He extracted a disc from the leather folder. “I have something I want you to look at. Where’s your DVD player?”
Sufficiently curious, she gestured toward the entertainment center. If there was one area she splurged on it was movies—Hollywood, Bollywood, and basically everything coming out of Asia. She did a lot of entertaining at home. The guest list was pretty exclusive too.
Just Anjali and her cat.
Scott crouched before the TV set and slipped the DVD in. “I taped this four days ago.” Grabbing the remote, he sat back on the sofa.
Her black cat, Kali, wandered into the room and jumped up next to Scott. He reached out to pet her, stopping when she bared her teeth and hissed.
Anjali shot Kali an approving look and curled up in the recliner, tucking her legs under her. “Let me guess. Footage of a bunch of guys crawling through a haunted house wearing night vision goggles?”
Instead of replying, Scott raised the volume.
The camera panned in on a shabby family room. A woman and two children, a boy and a girl, were seated on a worn and sagging couch. “That’s Lynne Michaels,” Scott said. “And two of her three kids.”
Face drawn, dishwater blond hair pulled back in a tight bun, Lynne cleared her throat. “We’ve had all the downstairs windows looked at. Everything is fixed tight, but the carpet keeps getting wet. It hasn’t rained in over a month. I’ve had the pipes checked and there isn’t a single leak.”
Anjali knew where this was going. “Scott—”
“Wait, just watch a little more, please.”
It was the please that did it. It wasn’t like he was begging. But it was close.
“Fine.” She leaned forward and propped her chin on her hands.
Now the little girl was speaking. “And there’s noises in the walls…like scratching. The lights in my room won’t stay on. It’s always cold inside. I sleep with Mommy.” She nudged her brother. “Tell them.” The little boy looked down at his hands and stayed silent. “He sleeps with us too,” she added.
“We’ve had electricians come in,” Lynne said in a tired voice. “They can’t find anything. The baby is at my mother’s. She can’t take in all of us though.”
Anjali looked at Scott in dismay. “There’s a baby involved? Don’t tell me there’s a baby involved.”
Scott hit the pause button. “The strange occurrences began with the baby monitor. Strange clicks and then whispers began coming through. At first Lynne thought the monitor was picking up noises from the TV or the radio, but the kids would be in bed, nobody was downstairs. She’s had items go missing, dish towels, scissors, pliers, toys.”
“Why don’t they move?”
“She’s a single mom. It took her almost a year to find a house they could afford in a decent area. But she finally put the house up for sale weeks ago. Not a single bid. I’m telling you, anyone who walks into that house feels something’s off.”
Anjali didn’t consider herself a dumb person, but she’d honestly never expected normal people to be affected negatively by ghosts and such. Just her. Not a single mom with three kids.
Still, Anjali didn’t understand how she could possibly help. “What do you want me to do? You already suspect the house is haunted. It’s not like you need me to sense anything.”
Scott leaned forward, his dark gaze serious. “I want you to help me find out what’s in that house and why it’s there. And then I want you to tell it to leave.”
10
Coulter hadn’t hustled any pool, cheated anyone at cards, or challenged anyone to a rigged feat of strength.
His purpose in coming to the city—bigger cons, bigger stakes—had disappeared in the face of a pretty waitress named Rachel.
Now if only she would quit asking him what he was thinking about.
They were in her bedroom, where they’d spent the better part of the day.
Naked and nestled against his back, Rachel stretched and sighed. “What are you thinking
about?” she murmured.
Coulter clenched his jaw in annoyance. “Nothing.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s true. I rarely have a thought in my head. I’m not complicated, sweetheart.”
Rachel pulled teasingly at one of his locks. “How come a guy gets to naturally have hair this color?”
Enough with the questions, he thought. Then decided to ask one of his own. “Why do you sleep on the floor?”
Rachel laughed. “Japanese minimalism, just a few tatami mats, some shoji screens, and the futon we’re using. Leaves me clear and uncluttered and able to focus on other things.” Her hand slid across his stomach and then dipped lower. “Like you for instance.”
Coulter sucked in his breath. Catching her hand, he moved it away to a less sensitive area. “Give me some time to build up my strength, Lady Viagra.”
Rachel was quiet after that, and Coulter relaxed. He closed his eyes.
“Do you want to see the new Brad Pitt movie?” Rachel asked.
“No,” he said shortly.
“He’s my favorite actor.”
Coulter stubbornly kept his eyes shut.
Rachel tapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t you like Brad Pitt?”
He had a feeling she was going to keep bugging him until he answered. “He’s got stringy hair.”
“George Clooney. Now there’s—”
“What’s up with that squint? Hello Popeye.”
Rachel giggled. “You bitch! Russell Crowe?”
“Thick legs and a stocky frame.”
“Umm, what about—”
She squealed as Coulter rolled over and pulled her on top of him.
It was obvious he wasn’t going to get any sleep, and hell if he wanted to answer any more questions.
He slid his hand into her hair, curving his palm against the back of her neck as he guided her head down and took her lips with his.
A door slammed in the distance, and Rachel froze.
Coulter looked up at her. “Your roommate?”
She moved off him and pulled the covers to her chin. “She’s in Tahoe.”