by Lotta Smith
W is for Wicked
Paranormal in Manhattan Mystery
Book 2
By Lotta Smith
Copyright
W is for Wicked© 2016 Lotta Smith.
Cover by Viola Estrella
Editing by Virginia Cantrell, Hot Tree Editing
Proofreading by Peggy Frese, Hot Tree Editing
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express written permission from the author/and publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are the products of the author’s imagination, and are used fictitiously. None of the characters in this book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to locales, actual events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and an unintentional.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Table of contents
W is for Wicked
Copyright
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
EPILOGUE
Books by Lotta Smith
About the author
PROLOGUE
“There are some men who enter a woman’s life and screw it up forever.”
—Janet Evanovich, One for the Money
My name is Stephanie Plum, and for me, the man who takes pleasure in periodically screwing up my life is Joseph Morelli….
No, that’s a downright lie—I mean, I’m kidding—for the most part.
I’m not the world’s most famous, most popular, or perhaps, the richest female bounty hunter. As for Joseph Morelli, I haven’t even met him, much less got screwed by him. Um... don’t misunderstand me, I’m talking conceptually, not physically or carnally.
Okay, so I know it’s wrong to impersonate a total stranger, but excuse me, you need to cut me some slack.
My life sucks way worse than Stephanie’s. Sometimes, I’m oh-so-desperate to fool myself that I have a life somewhere, anywhere but where I’m stuck.
My name is Amanda Meyer. Most of the time, I’m called Mandy, and that’s the acceptable part—I can live with this nickname. Like Stephanie, I work in a law enforcement field, except I’m with the FBI instead of a bonds office in New Jersey. Unlike her, I’m not filthy rich. She’s described as constantly struggling for money in her books, but I know she’s rich.
Okay, so she goes on about how she’s stuck with a dead-end job forecasted as mostly cloudy with chances of raining bullets and dead bodies and exploding vehicles, how she ended up selling her electronics, and how little food she’s left at home—but that’s just her words. On second thought, it’s impossible to stay poor when you’re the star of a megahit series. She probably has her millions stashed somewhere, such as a private bank in Switzerland. In my previous life, I was anticipating a decent life for my future, if not being obscenely rich. I was going to become a doctor, but that career option is now gone, baby, gone. Thanks to getting booted out of medical school with no degree and a humongous student loan, I’m deep in debt up to my eyeballs.
And, believe me, there actually are some men who pop into a woman’s life from out of nowhere—like some kind of a genie, leprechaun, or ghost—with the sole purpose of messing with it.
By the way, did I mention that I have not just one, but two men, hexing my life?
For starters, there’s Rick Rowling. He’s the head of Paranormal Cases Division at the FBI’s New York City field office. He became my boss by practically butchering my medical career before it even started. Standing at 6’2” with lean, hard muscles in all the right places, he’s hot, sexy, and comes with intense green eyes. He happens to be the only heir to the huge, multi-billion, security conglomerate USCAB—United States Cover All Bases—which means he’s ridiculously rich. Unfortunately, he also happens to be an outrageous, egotistical smartass who’d kill to generate trouble and mayhem just for the sake of his own pastime.
I’m not exaggerating. During the investigation of our first case, we were close to being eaten by a bunch of unperishable, monstrous creatures. So I’m trying my best to keep a good distance from him, but he tends to pop in to dinners with my folks at my parents’ home.
And there’s another guy, Jackie, also known as Jackson Frederick Orchard, who was a budding Broadway actor.
It all happened last November when Rowling and I were walking Pier 26 in Tribeca, where I saw something—no, someone—who should be absolutely discernible…
“Cool!” Rick Rowling grinned while walking in the same park where we met Jackie the day before.
“I know! It’s totally fab!” Jackie agreed contently.
They were acting like a couple of nine-year-old boys admiring a new toy. Except, their focus wasn’t on a new Xbox or hoverboard that actually lets you float and fly in the air. Also, technically, the two of them weren’t communicating with each other.
Jackie could see and hear Rowling, but things didn’t work out the other way around, because Rowling couldn’t see or hear Jackie, which meant he couldn’t see Jackie’s revealing, skintight outfit in neon green and hot pink, the big hair like Shakira, or the snow-white boa headdress. Not that my boss had impaired vision or hearing, though… it’s complicated. He couldn’t even see the huge necklace spelling ‘FESTIVE’ hanging from Jackie’s neck.
It was sad that Rowling missed so many colorful things in front of his eyes. Still, at the same time, he was lucky, since he didn’t see the huge laceration on the side of Jackie’s abdomen, or the little portion of intestines peekabooing from the wound. On top of all that, Jackie was acting a little bit too intimate toward Rowling—for example, raining him with kisses, trying to grope his derrière, and so on. Though Jackie’s hands always went through Rowling’s body instead of actually landing on his private areas, my boss seemed somewhat uncomfortable whenever he was touched on his butt. So, he might have been feeling something….
Anyway, I happened to be the hot topic du jour. To be more precise, my newly discovered ability to interact with Jackie was.
“You know what, Mandy? So far, you’ve totally nailed it. All the details you mentioned were accurate. You even correctly described the parts yet to be disclosed to the media, which means you’re actually communicating with Jackie. Holy crap, you’re phenomenal!” Rick Rowling announced enthusiastically. “By utilizing your new skill, our case closure rate’s guaranteed to hit a new high.”
“Well, I don’t know…,” I mumbled in uncertainty. I glanced at Jackie, who was standing by my side. “Maybe he’s the only dead person I can communicate with, or maybe—” He might be my imagination, illusion, or hallucination
“Okay, Mandy. Relax.” Rowling reached for my shoulder, but before his hand touched me, Jackie butted in between us.
“So, Mandy, are you ready to find the SOB who stabbed me to death? Now that I have shared all the juicy details about my case with you,” Jackie, who turned into
a ghost after getting murdered, said expectantly.
Yeah, you heard me right. I said Jackie is a ghost. Actually, he’s not one of those common, boring ghosts, because he’s a ghost of a drag queen, and he’s urging me to help catch his killer.
“Of course, I know you’re ready to kick ass, considering you’ve got this hottie hunk FBI agent as a partner. No offence, but I’d love to team up with him without you between us as a translator, and it’d be way nicer if only I could touch him.” The ghost of a drag queen chattered nonstop. “By the way, I told you that I preferred to be referred to as she, not he. I might be a super actor who can be anybody, but I’m a girl at heart.” Jackie had the audacity to make tsk-tsk sounds and correct me.
“Um… sorry about that,” I mumbled in apology, thinking, Seriously? A girl at heart? A diva to the bone sounds way more accurate.
Meanwhile, Jackie went on. “By the way, Mandy, don’t even think about pretending you don’t see me. You can try shutting your eyes and covering your ears, but you just can’t ditch me like old undergarments infesting your closet. I have waited for three years, for Pete’s sake! If you abandon me, I’ll haunt you like the devil till you go totally cuckoo yourself.”
As he—no, she—threatened me, the gut peeking out of the wound seemed to be vibrating, as if it represented his—not his, her—anger.
Man, she sounds serious… “Oh, no, Jackie, I’ve never thought about abandoning you!” I flashed a reassuring smile, but inside I wanted to scream and run away. Deep in my mind, I was skeptical about Jackie—like if she really exists—and I wanted to state my skepticism loud and clear. But at the same time, if I was a ghost of a murder victim and someone who can hear my voice treats me like I don’t exist, I'd be devastated—as if I got murdered not just once but twice. Also, it wouldn’t be pretty if the ghost kept to her promise of haunting me like hell. Gosh, I needed a psychiatrist… or a drink strong enough to knock me down unconscious.
“Good.” She nodded.
At this time, I knew the chances of the ghost diva departing to a better place like most dead people were practically nonexistent.
“And think of the cool prospects, Mandy.” While I was being threatened by Jackie, Rowling’s hand had already gone through Jackie and was patting my shoulder. “We can interview dead politicians and high-profile bureaucrats, make them spill their guts, and put our hands on dirty little secrets of our highest-ranking personnel—such as the President of the United States.”
“E-excuse me? We? Did you just say we?” I stuttered.
“Hmm, that sounds good,” Jackie chimed in. “Grasping the VIP’s dirty secrets is always good because you can use them as leverage.”
“Yeah, it’s awesome!” Rowling beamed. “We can practically control the government by utilizing the intel obtained from dead people. Can it get any better?”
I took a deep breath and looked my boss in the eye. “Excuse me, Rick. You told me you can’t see or hear Jackie, right?”
“Yup.” His intensely deep green eyes looked straight back at me. “Why do you ask that?”
“Hey, Mandy, is there any chance he’s gay?” Jackie interjected, trying without success to pick up a lock of brown hair hanging over Rowling’s forehead. Before I answered, she continued. “No, he’s not gay. I can tell. I can just tell. Assuming he’s a straight guy, shouldn’t he be swatting me like a bug when I’m getting a little bit too intimate with him? You’re so skeptical, Mandy. He’s telling you the truth. There is no way he can see or hear me. I recommend you stop doubting. Joy and happiness will run away from you if you keep on taking a dim view of everything.”
She had a point. Considering they weren’t channeling with each other, I was stuck not only with Rick Rowling but also with Jackie the ghost, who was as outrageous as Rowling.
“Oh, I found another reason to conclude that he can’t see me.” Jackie went on. “If he’s gay or bi, he should be cooing whenever I touch him, shouldn’t he?”
Slapping my forehead, I groaned.
“What’s up, Mandy?” Rowling and Jackie said in unison as if they had no clue why I looked so grim.
“Never mind,” I said, wishing it were just a weird, wicked dream and not my life, or my career….
* * *
Once being born to this world, every life is destined to die—eventually, sooner or later, and at least once. Everybody knows that, but most people do not expect people close to them to suddenly go cold, motionless, and totally uncommunicative, as in a deathly silence, especially when they had no existing serious health problems.
“Holy smoke!”
When Marcus heard those words in Willow’s high-pitched voice, he nervously twitched his impeccably trimmed and manicured eyebrows.
It was the moment he heard the telltale thud! He was almost certain that the maid had committed another faux pas—like dropping a heavy object, or falling a few steps down the grand staircase—without seeing it for himself, because he had witnessed Willow flopping more often than he wished to see.
Marcus looked at the clock. It was just a few minutes to 9:00 p.m. He couldn’t help wondering why the maid had to make another blunder just minutes before finishing her shift and leaving. He sighed, thinking that Willow wouldn’t be happy to help fix whatever mess she had created. But when her next wail came saying, “Madame… Madame! Are you all right?” he could no longer sit quietly in his waiting room.
As soon as he burst into the foyer, he demanded, “What is the matter, Willow?”
“Oh… Mr. Marcus, I’m so glad you’re here!” the maid said breathlessly, without standing.
“Are you—” Marcus started to ask, but then gasped. “Oh my goodness, Madame Giselle!”
To his horror, it was Giselle Carolynn Axtell McCambridge, the head of the McCambridge family, and his very own employer, who was helplessly lying over the bottom steps of the grand staircase. She was bleeding from her head, and the blood was oozing over the white marble step.
Rushing to her side, Marcus inquired, “Madame Giselle? Madame Giselle! Please wake up.”
By his side, Willow shrieked, “Madame Giselle!”
“Come on, Willow! Stop shrieking and give me the phone! Now, go and open the gate to secure the access for the ambulance, and notify Mr. Wilfred and Mrs. Wilma-Diane.” As Marcus, the butler of the McCambridge mansion, shushed away the maid, Giselle let out a low groan.
“Madame Giselle! Are you all right? Are you hurting?” As soon as he finished speaking to the 911 operator, he peppered his employer with questions.
“Marcus…” twitching her delicate eyebrows, Giselle whispered in her usual commanding voice. “You don’t need to scream at me. I haven’t gone deaf.” Then she grimaced. “Ow… it’s so painful!”
Her voice was strong, and her pale gray eyes were piercing as always, but obviously, she was in pain.
“Madame, the ambulance is on the way. Please relax and rest assured—”
“Ambulance? Did I just hear that I’d be riding an ambulance? How embarrassing!” Touching her head, Giselle frowned. “No McCambridge has ever ridden an ambulance.”
“Which means you’re the very first McCambridge given the honor,” Marcus responded, forcing himself to display some humor and a reassuring smile.
“By the way, Marcus,” Giselle said, looking at her now bloodstained fingertips, “you need to call the police as well, because someone pushed me off the stairs.”
“Oh, my…” The butler gasped, but soon regained his composure. “Who committed such dreadfulness?”
“Marcus, will you collaborate with the police to catch the culprit?” Giselle reached for the butler.
Taking the mistress’s hand, Marcus consoled her. “Madame Giselle, you will soon feel better. The doctors at Beth Israel will make sure you’ll be as good as…” He stopped talking when he realized Giselle was writing the letter W on his palm in blood—over and over. “Madame Giselle?”
He intended to ask her for the meaning of W.
&n
bsp; “It is by no means acceptable to push someone off the stairs.” Before Marcus spoke, Giselle did, looking the butler straight in his eyes. “Marcus, I recall that you like Jeeves, am I correct?”
“Yes, Madame. You are correct. I’m a huge fan of Jeeves.” Even though Marcus was dying to ask more about W, he knew his mistress too well to butt in. When Giselle McCambridge had something to say, she had to say it, and there was no room for the butler to change the subject.
“Good. Make sure that this crooked criminal who hurt me gets caught and justice is served. Be my Jeeves.”
“I will, Madame Giselle. I will be your Jeeves. By the way, who is W?”
“W is… I mean… find…” As Giselle started to talk, she grimaced and gasped for air. Her entire body convulsed for a moment. Then she closed her eyes, never to open them again.
Find W—these were the last words of Giselle Carolynn Axtell McCambridge.
By the time the family members and the visitors came to see what the commotion was about, Giselle had become unresponsive.
The paramedics arrived and took her to Beth Israel, but even the world’s greatest physicians couldn’t bring her back to life.
Giselle’s death was a total shock to Marcus. Considering her advanced age—seventy-seven, that was, though she stopped counting since hitting fifty—Giselle was extremely healthy, and her death was unexpected. At the same time, Marcus knew that solving the assault, which was upgraded to a murder, of Giselle McCambridge had become the last mission assigned by his employer for the past twenty-five years. By filling the blanks and reading between the lines of his previous conversation with his employer, he knew that W was the culprit.
Under normal circumstances, the most straightforward answer would be someone with names starting with W. And considering that there was no burglar at McCambridge mansion at the time of the crime, it was only natural to assume that whoever committed this crime would be someone at the house.
The only problem was everyone at the McCambridge mansion at the time of the crime had at least one W as the initial of their names—including Marcus Warne-Smith himself.