Wickedly Ever After: Halloween Hijinks (Paranormal in Manhattan Mystery: A Cozy Mystery on Kindle Unlimited Book 8)

by Lotta Smith

  Here’s my point: Education is so overrated.

  My name is Kelly Kinki. Yes, it’s my real name as written on my birth certificate. No, my surname is not a joke. And no, I’m not into kinky sex. Kinky or otherwise, it had been a while since I had sex.

  As I thought about sex, I realized how much I hated walking through the creepy woods. I could think of much better things to do—such as tackling crossword puzzles or building a robot vacuum cleaner from scratch—but sometimes, you had to do what you had to do.

  All of the sudden, one of the crows let out an especially menacing squawk as something started chirping and vibrating at the same time, startling me.

  “Holy crap!”

  A second later, I realized it was coming from my purse and reached for my phone.

  “Hello? What can I do for you, Mr. Archangel?” I said to the person on the other end, who happened to be the one responsible for my current situation.

  There was no response.

  “Hello? Mr. Archangel?”

  Still nothing.

  From the other end, I could hear muffled voices. I recalled a bunch of retired gentlemen, who resided in the neighborhood, gathering at the crime scene. When I left there, they were busy gossiping. In my mind’s eyes, I could almost see and hear them cracking jokes and laughing their as—I mean, laughing their pants off. A moment later, I finally got a whispered response from Archangel.

  “Password.”

  “What? Password? What are you talking about?” I said, puzzled.

  “You need to provide the password of Michael Archangel Investigations.”

  “Excuse me? I’ve got your name on my caller ID. And it’s my voice. You can recognize me from my voice, can’t you?”

  “No. You sound different,” he said. “Actually, you sound pretty much annoyed.”

  “Come on, so I’m pretty much annoyed right now, but still, it’s me. Besides that, you’re the one who’s calling my phone, so you should know—” I was tempted to go on with my rant, but I realized it was easier to just tell the password.

  “All right! I’ll tell the password.” Then I stopped short. What was the password? I knitted my eyebrows. It was something about artists. Oh yeah—Matisse, Bonnard, and Rothko—that was it.

  “Matisse, Bonnard,” I said my part and waited for him to say “Rothko” but—

  “Okay, let’s get to the point.”

  “Hey!” I protested. “You’re supposed to finish the password before getting to the point. I said ‘Matisse, Bonnard’ and you’re supposed to say ‘Rothko.’ Without your finishing, the password isn’t complete!”

  “What are you babbling, Kelly? It’s me, Michael Archangel. You should be able to recognize me from my voice. Otherwise, you must be affected with an early-onset of Alzheimer’s.”

  All right, he had a point. The password was pretty much worthless since I knew I was talking to Archangel. His voice was deep, husky, and somewhat seductive, per usual. In addition, I knew no one else as fuc—I mean, freaking annoying as him.

  “So, what’s up, Mr. Archangel? Any progress?”

  “Yeah. The cops found the item I was looking for. I knew it was somewhere in the ground. Anyway, you can come back to the tennis court.”

  “What? So you sent me to this creepy forest fully knowing I wouldn’t be the one to find the granny panties?”

  “Actually, the discovered item turned out to be a ghost mask.”

  “That’s not the point. You sent me, of all people, to go into this deep, spooky, and potentially dangerous forest for a wild goose chase of a ghost mask you didn’t even bother to mention in the first place. On top of it all, I’m talking about these woods located near the site where a twenty-four-year-old female office worker was nearly raped last night for Pete’s sake!” I spat.

  I knew about her because, this morning, local news was all about this serial rapist in Arlington. In the past month, at least five women had been brutally raped. I was more than concerned about my own safety.

  “Good thing you’re much older than twenty-four years old,” was Archangel’s reply.

  “Excuse me? That’s not the point.” I continued. “This rapist has not yet been ID’d, much less arrested. Has it ever come to your mind that the rapist is still hiding in the darkness of these woods, determined to assault another young, innocent, and defenseless woman, such as your assistant? Imagine it. I might become his next prey. Aren’t you worried about me?”

  Without responding to my bullets of questions, he said, “Come back to the tennis court pronto. If you don’t come back before I finish wrapping up the case, I’ll leave without you.”

  And the line went dead.

  Words like manners and protocol must be missing from my employer’s dictionary.

  Man, I really, really hated this job.

  Book 2: Immortal Eyes: http://amzn.to/1T4DKC3

  Serial murder with a sick ritual...

  The most unusual way to use Eggs Benedict...

  The mismatched duo's race against time...

  Former London socialite Kelly Kinki doesn’t always see eye to eye with her sexy-as-hell boss Michael Archangel, but she’ll follow the brilliant, cross-dressing detective anywhere to help solve their latest case.

  Kelly was happy to lay her rep as the Dragon Lady to rest when she moved across the pond, but to catch an eyeball snatching serial killer she’ll have to put her skills at fire breathing to the test once again.

  A gruesome autopsy, a visit with her ex, and a shocking encounter with a killer compete for craziest day on the job, but nothing can hold a candle to a glimpse of her boss in the buff.

  Can Kelly and Archangel solve the case? The ayes have it. PI’s that is.

  Chapter 1

  There’s a first time for everything.

  I was at a medical examiner’s office in rural Virginia. It was my first visit to this place and, actually, it also happened to be my very first trip to a morgue. I was there to attend the autopsy of a woman who allegedly had fallen victim to a brutal murder. So far, I’d seen more than my share of corpses in the past four months; however, I usually saw them at crime scenes and not morgues.

  I didn’t know much about the statistics of murders, but I had seen lots of homicide victims since starting this job. In the beginning, I kept track of the body count, but I stopped counting after hitting ten on the third day of my current employment. Later, I learned it was just a temporary thing—one of those crazy, busy times—the “on-season” of killing. Anyway, who knew murders had on-seasons? And I’m not talking about Walmart jobs during the holiday season or the wedding industry in June.

  My name is Kelly Kinki. Yes, it’s my real name as written on my birth certificate. No, I’m not into kinky sex, and no, I’m not making this surname thing up. I’m twenty-nine years old, half Italian-English American and half Japanese. Currently, I’m divorced with no intention or anticipation of a new romantic relationship, much less marriage.

  Been there, done that. No thank you very much.

  Right then, my mind was completely centered on my career. And guess what, thinking about myself as a super-cool, classy, and oh-so-savvy sleuth—the assistant extraordinaire, to be precise—totally made me happy. The hard bench chair I sat on was no Cassina, and with the faded grayish-green color scheme, sad taste in décor—or lack thereof—and chilly yet stale air, the morgue’s waiting room was depressing at the best of times. But I was optimistic. In fact, I was feeling kind of flamboyant because I really, really liked the idea of visiting the morgue in line of my job. First of all, I loved the CSI TV series, and the prospect of seeing a live autopsy was totally thrilling. Besides that, it was not like the morgues were open to the public so that anybody could take a sightseeing tour and attend an autopsy, right? Having access to this facility was a real privilege.

  In my mind, I was picturing myself as a female version of Dr. John Watson, only less geeky. Maybe by taking a part in the autopsy, I might come up with something that could lead to a
breakthrough—just like super-assistants of brilliant detectives in fictions do all the time. Maybe I could even kick some ass like a badass assistant, too. In my opinion, it was often the assistant extraordinaire who should get the credit for disentangling the mystery before his/her boss did.

  Something warm and fuzzy started to bubble up in my stomach. It wasn’t the aftereffect of a lunch burrito. I had to use a great amount of self-restraint to keep myself from singing, “For the first time in forever, I’ll be watching an autopsy!” like a certain Princess of Arendelle.

  I didn’t realize I was smiling until I heard, “Why don’t you stop grinning like an idiot?” in a deep, husky voice, which belonged to Michael Archangel, the private investigator I worked for, who was sitting next to me on the same bench.

  How I managed to forget his presence, I didn’t know. If nothing else, the delicate yet distinct scent of Higher Energy by Dior, his fragrance de jour, should have alerted me to his presence.

  No thanks to his voice, I was snapped back to the reality that it was him who had access to the morgue, not me. I hadn’t clarified with the morgue, but considering I had no authority or qualification, they wouldn’t have granted me permission to attend the autopsy if I went there all by myself. I also realized a real badass woman wouldn’t imagine singing like a Disney Princess while sitting in the morgue’s waiting room. The truth was, I wasn’t very sure if I wanted to attend the autopsy at all.

  I was no Dr. Watson. I had no background in medicine. The closest experience I’d ever had with this particular field was having a pediatrician and an orthopedic surgeon as ex-faux-dads. It was the first time for me to see a cadaver getting cut open. The corpses I had seen often had a hole or two, but I had never seen the human innards peekabooing from inside of the body cavity, saying something like “Yoo-hoo?”

  As I anticipated this new experience, a gazillion butterflies went wild in my stomach. Okay, so the earlier flamboyance and faux-hardboiled tone were only parts of my façade to hide my nervousness. And speaking of body contents, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to keep my lunch burrito where it belonged.

  Discreetly, I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and regain my composure. “I didn’t realize you were watching every step of mine, but thanks for your keen attention anyway. I’m flattered,” I said nonchalantly.

  “Ha.” With a snort, Archangel’s candy-apple-colored lips curled into a sarcastic smirk. “Don’t get me wrong; it’s hard to miss someone sitting by my side babbling silly things with goofy grin pasted on her face, especially when this special someone starts drooling.”

  I felt around my lips with my fingertips, only to find the area completely drool-free.

  “I wasn’t drooling. You tricked me!” I narrowed my eyes.

  “It’s because you’re such a good comic relief to poke fun at, Kelly,” he had the audacity to admit. “But look on the bright side. It was just a joke and not a con. Hey, speaking of a con, did I mention I in no compare to the lying, cheating, jilting, swindling, oh-so-disturbing excuse for a human douchebag who happens to be your ex-husband?” With a lighthearted chuckle, he added, “No pun intended.”

  Biting my lip, I toyed with the idea of kicking him really hard in the shin. This cra…I mean, nonsense, of him dissing Warren and my past marriage was just getting old, and it was oh-so-tempting to finally make a point. But I thought better of it. First off, kicking your employer runs a potentially hazardous risk for your job security. Secondly, most of his words were accurate, especially the part about my ex being a con—as in being a convicted conman. I didn’t want to reinforce his cocksureness by getting upset. That would only tip him off that yours truly, indeed, had feelings for my ex-husband.

  So instead of kicking him, I retorted, “I never drool!”

  “Hey, Kelly.” Flashing the perfect set of pearly whites, Archangel nudged my elbow. “Look what you’ve done to her.” I followed his gaze and spotted the female receptionist. She was practically gaping at us from behind the counter. My eyes met with hers. I tried a polite, social smile that implied I was not her enemy. She averted her gaze.

  “See?” He cocked his head. “You’ve managed to creep her out in five minutes. What a shame. Now I’m labeled as a PI who’s stuck with a weird assistant from La-La Land. Come on, I’ve got a reputation to maintain.” As he shook his head, shining locks of his long, auburn hair swayed like dancing waves.

  “I see, so you’ve got a reputation to maintain.” Rephrasing his words, I gave him an up-and-down look. His attire consisted of a skintight, above-the-knee-length dress in vivid magenta and purple fishnet stockings paired with fuck-me-if-you-can high heels. Okay, so the colorful attire flattered his alabaster complexion and the totally gorgeous hair that went midway down his back. Even the heavy makeup wasn’t laughable.

  Yes, you heard me right. I said he was dressed like a woman. I’m not making any of this up. His outfit de jour was described as skimpy and eye-catching, at best. It was not his Halloween costume on an account that it was early April, not the last day of October. Did I mention that cross-dressing was his “casual/business” attire? I didn’t know and didn’t want to know what he wore for black-tie events.

  I glanced back at the receptionist, who was shaking her head as if trying to clear away the many thoughts running through her mind. I suspected she was taken aback—no, that would be an understatement. I wouldn’t be surprised if her brain was caught in a temporary cerebral arrest. Archangel had that effect for many people. Basically, unlike L.A. or Miami, seeing a transvestite in rural Virginia was a very rare occasion, which alone counted as an element of surprise. There was another major element called confusion. Indeed, to the casual eye, his appearance was very confusing. I’m not talking about an esthetically challenged dude playing dress up as a geisha.

  He wasn’t ugly—lucky him—thanks to inheriting high cheekbones, baby-blue eyes, a well-sculpted nose in a perfect shape that would make Cleopatra cry with envy, and a tall, slender figure from both his mother—Miss California—and grandmother—Miss Greek—he managed to appear almost as strikingly gorgeous as a woman. At least in photos.

  Speaking of photos, I supposed perhaps she had seen the pictures of him in the morning paper. Newspapers often carried his photographs. As a Virginia-based PI, he usually consulted with law enforcement, such as the FBI, and worked on tricky, weird, or even the most impossible cases. As a matter of fact, he happened to be a good detective—not just good, but top-notch. He always cracked difficult cases quickly, and as result, newspapers, magazine articles, websites, and sometimes even TV shows reported his accomplishments.

  Then again, seeing him in person was a whole different story. Archangel happened to have an even bigger impact in person. He still looked almost like a woman. To be precise, he looked more like a supermodel than a woman. I mean, it’s not like supermodels look like the rest of us real women, right? Those tall, skinny girls are byproducts of women-hating men who dominate the fashion industry and set out to punish us real women by force-feeding us distorted body images, just because we have curves and boobs.

  Okay, enough with my little speech. I had mixed feelings about my employer’s looks. I know his outfit preference was none of my business, and I believe everyone’s entitled to express themselves through fashion. I also appreciated he was the one who caught all the attention, not me. I was the shadow. I enjoyed my invisibility. Then again, it got a little awkward when total strangers would stare at us, chattering about ‘That totally dazzling supermodel,’ and they went on like, ‘Who’s she? The little one standing next to her? An assistant wannabe? Doesn’t she look so mediocre and a little bit heavy?’

  And it got a little annoying when Archangel caught such chatter and would announce, ‘Did you hear that? They think I’m pretty and you’re not!’

  Did I mention he has a diva personality?

  Yeah, it’s pretty clear, I ain’t no size two. But in my defense, I’ve got the boobs, uterus, ovaries, and everything a girl needs. B
esides that, it’s totally rude to judge people based on the physical features for Pete’s sake! I might be described as a petite woman, but that doesn’t make me the little one. I’m the assistant, not a wannabe. Besides that, if you looked carefully, Archangel’s jaw was a little bit too strong for a woman and he has an Adam’s apple. At 6’3” with lots of toned muscles, what he resembled the most was a Greek Goddess with excessive growth hormone. Or Poseidon in drag.

  “Mr. Archangel, why do you think I’m the one who’s responsible for spooking her out? Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you’re the one who’s grabbing her full attention?” I asked.

  “Why?” Without answering my question, he arched an eyebrow.

  “First of all, she’s looking in our direction in general, so both of us are in her sights, and…” I struggled with the words.

  “And?” he probed, tapping the backrest of the bench chair with his fingers, which sported nail polish in the same shade of color as the lips.

  I was ready to tell him, “And… with all due respect, a giant transvestite is very eye-catching—or rather, an eyesore?” Then it dawned on me that maybe dissing your employer might not be a good move. Call me desperate, but I wasn’t made of money and I needed to pay my credit card balance. Unlike Mom, I wasn’t a rich-husband-magnet, which meant I really needed to keep my job as a personal assistant to this huge, cross-dressing, brilliant-yet-cynical detective. Maybe I shouldn’t have purchased those pricy pillows from Neiman Marcus, but they were so worth it. You want to invest in high-quality pillows to ensure beauty sleep and sweet dreams, especially when you see murdered corpses on a regular basis.