“Our evening is free. We could take a stroll around the neighborhood. Say, all the way to March Street.”
“Are you kidding me? That’s a tremendously bad idea.”
“Why?” asked Dee. “Aren’t you curious about why a ghost child is haunting that place?”
Yes, I was. Dealing with adult spirits was one thing, but kid ghosts were something else entirely. I couldn’t forget how that weird backyard made me feel, either. “Okay. We’ll go look. But we aren’t stepping a toe off the sidewalk.”
“Not even a pinky toe.” Dee lifted her hand palm side up. “Scout’s honor.”
I didn’t laugh because Dee had been a Girl Scout, and she took her oaths seriously. “Fine. We’ll go after Justin leaves.” There were a few things I wanted to talk to the little guy about, and I wanted to see if a certain ghost of ours could chaperone.
I was in my bedroom, door shut, with Ben and Justin. It turned out that Ben could travel with Justin. He attached himself to the kid, which was some kind of actual ghost thing. He was damned excited about Disney World. He’d never left the state of Nevada.
“You’re sure you can get back to me to report on Justin?”
“Yes, shiny lady.”
“I don’t want you to get lost and end up in Texas or something.”
“I can find you.” He was so happy about the Disney World trip that he’d shed his homeless persona. Sorta. He wore a rumpled shirt with torn jeans and flip-flops. He still had the wild hair and scraggly beard, but at least he wasn’t carrying the sign.
“All right.” I turned to Justin. “Remember what we talked about, okay?”
“I shouldn’t talk to Ben when Grandma and Grandpa are around. No one else can see Ben even though he’s right there.” My nephew pointed at the ghost.
“Exactly. Ben is your secret friend.”
“Okay, Aunt Vie.”
I hugged him hard. “You are going to have so much fun.”
“Violetta?” My sister’s voice accompanied a knock.
“Come in.”
She opened the door and entered. “What are you two doing?”
“Well, I’m trying to figure out how to get inside Justin’s suitcase.”
Justin giggled. “You won’t fit.”
“Grandma and Grandpa are here,” said Dee.
“Yay!” Justin darted out of the room, and Ben followed close behind him.
“You know he’s going to be okay, right?”
I smiled. “Yep.”
“I thought there’d be crime scene tape.” Dee sounded disappointed.
“Not for an accidental death.”
Dee and I wore what she called “walking outfits,” AKA suspiciously all-black clothing and shoes. We stood on the sidewalk and stared at Carson’s former abode.
“It’s a rental,” I told her.
“In this neighborhood? That’ll drive down property values.” She looked around. “Oh, yeah. These were the model homes. They were the last to be sold. You know, maybe I could rent it. I might need a new place soon.”
“You mean Darren might need a new place soon. The one being an asshole has to move out.”
“I don’t want to think about that jackass right now.” She tapped her bottom lip. “I’m pretty sure a child dying would be longtime fodder for the neighborhood grapevine. People still bitch about the ‘poop in the pool’ incident and that happened two years ago.”
“You live in a really weird world.”
“You should talk, ghost girl.” She studied the house. “Do you see him?”
I looked at the windows. All the curtains were closed. I shook my head. “He’s not there.”
“Gruesome, isn’t it?”
Dee and I both yelped and staggered into each other. We turned to find an older gentleman dressed in sweats and a light jacket. He wore running shoes, and he held the leash of a tiny dog. I think. Basically, it was ball of fluff with feet. I recognized him instantly. He was the dude I’d seen earlier in the day. Other than the jacket he’d donned for his evening stroll, he was dressed exactly the same.
“Didn’t mean to startle you, ladies.” He smiled. “I’m Robert.”
“Deirdre,” said Dee. “This is my sister, Violetta. We live over on Gallop Drive.”
“Nice to meet you.” He nodded toward the yard. “I saw you here earlier, Violetta. Are you with the police?”
He thought I was with law enforcement? Yeah, sure. “I found the body, so I had to give a witness statement.”
He shook his head. “A shame about the young man who died.”
“Did you know him?”
“Not really. Nice enough fellow, I guess. He stayed to himself mostly. He seemed normal, though, not like the odd duck who lived there before. ”
“Odd duck?” I asked. “How?”
“Secretive. Ordered take-out all the time. Whenever I did see him, it was at night—either to drag down the garbage can or check the mail. Not right in the head, if you ask me. I was glad when he moved.”
“Did he have kids?” asked Dee.
“I don’t think so.”
“How long did he rent the house for?” I asked.
The man looked surprised. “How did you know it was a rental? We don’t like to advertise that. Too many rentals in a neighborhood can lower property values.”
Dee elbowed me. “Told you.”
“Has it always been a rental?” I asked.
“No,” said Robert.
The puff of lint yipped.
“Okay, Muffin. Let’s go home.” Robert waved at us. “Good talking to you, ladies. Have a nice evening.”
“You, too,” said Dee.
He turned around and headed back down the way he’d come. I watched him enter the middle house at the end of the cul-de-sac, the crown jewel of the block. It was the biggest house with the best-landscaped yard. I wondered what Robert did for a living.
“Bless gossipy neighbors,” said Dee.
“Amen.” I sighed. “We’re no closer to figuring out who the boy is, though.”
“Maybe the murderer was the previous renter.”
“We don’t know if he was murdered.”
“All the same, we should track down the creepster and question him.”
“Uh, no.”
“Even if he had nothing to do with the kid’s death, he might know something about the boy.”
Shit. I couldn’t argue that logic. Carson didn’t seem to have any idea that he was living with a ghost. Maybe the previous renter did.
“Okay,” I said. “But let’s call it a night. We can go home, drink wine, and watch the Nightmare Next Door marathon. I don’t have to be at work until midnight.”
“I’m in,” said Dee. She turned and started walking. I glanced up at the second-story window.
The little boy stared at me. But this time, he wasn’t alone. Two other children were with him.
Three ghosts.
My heart nearly jumped out of my throat. Oh, my God. Three dead boys? I felt sick to my stomach. The little boy waved at me.
Then they all disappeared.
I pressed a hand to my roiling stomach, feeling utterly undone.
What the fuck was going on at 615 March Street?
Chapter 4
I was dragging ass after only two episodes of Nightmare Next Door and a single glass of wine. Wow. A party animal I was not. I begged off TV and booze and went to nap. A couple of hours of sleep, a hot shower, and a fast food run would hopefully be enough to get me through my shift at The Mansion. I’d kill for a cigarette, but I’d made it longer than I ever had before, and I wasn’t ready to give in. I’d only recently stopped trying to hack up my lungs—coughing up crap every morning was evidence that I needed to nix the bad habit. Even though it had been only four weeks, I could breathe better and my ability to detect scents had returned. It was also nice to have clothes that didn’t smell like nicotine and regret.
I didn’t bother turning on my bedroom light. I just went face-first
into the comforter, missing the pillow entirely, and not giving a damn. It took approximately 1.2 seconds for me to fall asleep.
Henry wanted the Coco Puffs. But it was his sister’s turn to pick the cereal and she liked stupid Fruity Pebbles or anything pink. He’d told her you can’t taste pink, Lilly. But she didn’t care. His mom had almost reached the end of the aisle, Lilly dancing beside her, still dressed in her ballet outfit. He looked longingly at the chocolate cereal.
“Hello.”
Henry looked up at the man standing nearby. He wore a ball cap pulled down low, which hid most of his face. But Henry’s eyes were on the big Snickers candy bar. The biggest Henry had ever seen. He glanced back at his mom and sister. Lilly was twirling and giggling, and Mom was on her cell phone as she pushed the cart around the corner.
“You like chocolate?”
Henry nodded.
“Well. Maybe if you’re good for your mommy, I’ll give it to you.”
Henry looked over his shoulder. He and the man were alone now.
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Henry.” The moment Henry told the man his name he got a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.
The man waved the candy bar. “Remember, Henry. Be good and you’ll earn the treat.”
He turned and walked away.
“Henry!” Mom stood at the end of the aisle. “How many times do I have to tell you to stay with the cart? You almost gave me a heart attack.”
I woke up suddenly, my heart pounding, and rolled onto my back. Sweat dribbled down my temples. I’d never had such a vivid dream before. Dream? No. It felt more like a memory. I’d recognized Henry instantly.
He was the blond-haired ghost.
My stomach cramped with anxiety, and I blew out a steadying breath, trying to alleviate the strange panic consuming me. Okay. This was new. As someone who could see and interact with spirits, I also had the ability to experience their emotions. Carrying the burden of dead people’s feelings along with my own had been another reason that I’d cut off my access to the Other Side for nearly a decade.
But visions? Tamping into a dead person’s memories?
Holy crap on a cracker.
There was a lot I didn’t know about my gift. How the hell had my grandmother handled this shit?
Breathe, Vie.
I turned on the bedside lamp and got up. I took a quick shower, dressed in my skimpy maid’s outfit, grabbed my new pair of, sadly, cheap red high heels, and went downstairs. Deirdre was still in the living room where I’d left her. Her gaze was pinned to the TV as a small-town cop talked about the vicious murder of a housewife. Weren’t they all vicious? Murders, I mean. But probably housewives, too. The vivid description made my stomach turn. Usually, I could handle the luridness of those shows, but … Henry.
He was only two or three years older than Justin. And something awful and horrifying had happened to him. Anxiety pinged through me again. I knew that I needed to find out why Henry and two other boys haunted the house on March Street. I also knew I was going to hate the answers.
Being mature sucked ass.
“Are you going to be okay?” I asked Dee.
She turned a blurry gaze to me. Oh, she must’ve finished the entire bottle of Moscato. I couldn’t blame her. Her husband had taken off, her child was in another state, and the only company she had was a reprobate sister. She looked like she was ready to fling herself off a cliff. She needed more purpose and less Investigation Discovery Channel.
“Look … uh, I think that ghost kid’s name is Henry. Some dude kidnapped him. Maybe you could use your Google-fu to find out more?”
Dee perked up. “Totally. No last name?” She lifted her hand in a stop motion. “How do you know that?”
“I had a dream.”
She stared at me. “A dream.”
“Maybe a vision. I don’t know. I’m telling you the kid’s name is Henry. Maybe he’s six or seven years old? Blonde hair cut short. Brown eyes. When I saw him the first time, he was wearing jeans, a red-striped shirt, and Nikes.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll start with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. But we should probably go to the house tomorrow night and snoop around. It’s your night off, right?”
“Um. I … uh, have a date.”
“Oh yeah! I almost forgot.” Dee hung her arms over the back of the couch and frowned. “You and Mr. Smart Ass Cop.”
“I prefer Mr. Hot Ass Cop, thank you. You’re not still mad at him are you?” Matt had managed to separate me from my sister a month ago during that little adventure where I was a suspect in my ex-boyfriend’s murder. She still hadn’t forgiven him for outsmarting her.
“No,” she said. “Okay. Maybe a little.” She waved her hand. “What do I know about men other than they’re stupid assholes? Really though, I’m happy for you. At least he’s a cop and not a crook. Besides, you need some fun.”
“That’s why I have you. That, and someone to commit felonies with.”
“It’s nice to be loved.”
The ghost of 74-year-old Laverna Claremont followed me closely around the casino, puffing on a non-existent cigarette. Her teased blonde hair was a throwback to the sixties, or the eighties, I’d never been sure. Either way, the hairstyle did not belong on her wizened head any more than the thick, frosty blue eye shadow and blood-red lipstick belonged on her wrinkled face. To top off her Grandma from Hell look, she wore a tight white dress waaaay too short, especially when her gams looked like two melting candles. At least she wore sensible orthopedic shoes.
“Laverna,” I whispered as I maneuvered around the five-cent one-armed bandits and the red-eyed people playing them. “I’m not playing slots for you. We’ve talked about this. You need to move on already.”
“I keep tellin’ ya, Vievie, I need one more pull. Just one. Then I can go meet Howard. He’s probably pissed off that I’m late. My husband had an ass you could bounce a quarter off of, but his insistence on punctuality drove me crazy. He always said I’d be late to my own funeral.” She paused, blowing out a long stream of ghost smoke. I swear I could almost smell it. “Actually, he was right about that.”
“First of all, don’t call me Vievie. Second, I can’t gamble while I’m on the job. And third … well, there is no third.”
“You can keep the dough,” said Laverna. “What am I gonna do with it?”
I sighed. “Can you haunt another part of the casino? Please?”
Laverna rolled her eyes. “Fine.” She disappeared.
In the nickel slots area, I delivered the Coke and rum to Bleary-Eyed Retiree #1 and the vodka tonic to Wearing-Same-Clothes-As-Yesterday Retiree #2. Both tipped me a dollar. Woo. I got the low-pay slots area because I was new. Eventually, I’d work up to delivering drinks to the players on the $100 slot machines, or better yet, sashay myself around the tables. Blackjack players were a lot more generous. I think it had something to do with drunken math.
My shift was almost over and my feet were killing me. I was still breaking in the high heels, or rather the heels were breaking me. I was getting blisters on my pinky toes and my ankles ached like nobody’s business. I took three drink orders from some twittering ladies playing two machines each. I pegged them as best friends on a girl’s trip. I carried my tray back to the bar.
“Hey, Regina. I need three margaritas, please.”
Regina was in her fifties and wore her graying hair in a French braid. She was dressed in the uniform of the Mansion’s bartenders—black pants, white shirts, and red vest with matching bowtie. I envied her the pants, but I’d rather suffer the vagaries of high heels than have to sport a bowtie. “Frozen or on the rocks?”
“Frozen.” I slid onto a barstool. My feet throbbed. I needed to get one of those segues. Now, there was an idea. Let servers whiz around on those things. There was a 100% chance of spilling drinks, but oh man, it would be worth it.
My gaze flicked to the television. A blond-haired boy smiled from a school ph
oto. Underneath it read: Amber Alert for California boy Thomas Whitby.
I immediately thought of Henry, and my stomach squeezed. I tried to convince myself that this child abduction wasn’t necessarily connected to Henry’s unfortunate circumstances. How could it be?
“Sad, isn’t it?” Regina filled plastic cups with margarita slush from a churning machine. “Six years old. Snatched from the lobby of the Luxor. His parents were checking in, and the next thing they know their son was gone.”
“He was kidnapped in Vegas?”
“Yeah.” She shook her head. “Can you imagine? First day of vacation and your good time turns into a nightmare.”
“Worst nightmare ever.”
Snatching a kid right underneath the noses of the parents was ballsy. If this was Bumfuck, Minnesota, that story would be utterly tragic. But in Vegas, all kinds of bad shit happened. Vegas was the penultimate distraction. Shine. Glitter. Magic. And underneath it, grime and guts. Most tourists came in, gambled, ate their way through buffets, watched a show or two, and went home happy. For those of us who lived here, it was a different story.
Regina placed the margaritas on the tray. I gave her $5, not because I had to, but because sharing tips with the bartender put you in her good graces. She smiled as she tucked the bill into the tip jar near the cash register. Another thing about Vegas? We were all about the tokes. Even the fast food joints had tip jars.
For the last hour of my shift, I couldn’t stop thinking about Thomas Whitby. Or about Henry. Or about the anonymous asshole who liked to hurt kids.
I wanted to help, but I didn’t know how.
What could I do to find one little boy alive—and give peace to others already on the Other Side?
Chapter 5
Exhausted, I stumbled into the house. It was just after eight a.m. I noticed Darren’s Mercedes was not in the driveway. Either he’d slept elsewhere or he’d come and gone before my shift was over.
A Spirited Defense (Violetta Graves Mysteries Book 2) Page 3