Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet (Charley Davidson) cd-1

by Даринда Джонс

  “Nice try,” she said, completely unmoved. “We’re going to sort through all of this stuff and send back everything except what you’ll actually use. Which is not a lot. Again, I would like to continue collecting a paycheck, if that’s not too much to ask.”

  “Do you take American Express?”

  “Oh, I canceled that, too.”

  I gasped, pretending to be appalled. With a determined set to her shoulders, she led me to my own sofa, took boxes off it, piled them on top of other boxes, then sank down beside me. Her eyes shimmered with warmth and understanding, and I became instantly uncomfortable. “Are we going to have the talk again?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Cook—” I tried to rise and storm off, but she put a hand on my shoulder to stop me “—I’m not sure how else to say that I’m fine.” When she looked down at Margaret, who sat nestled inside my hip holster, my voice took on a defensive edge. “What? Lots of PIs wear guns.”

  “With their pajamas?”

  I snorted. “Yes. Especially if they’re Star Wars pajamas and your gun just happens to resemble a blaster.”

  Margaret was my new best friend. And she’d never funneled money out of my bank account like some other best friends who shall not be named.

  “Charley, all I’m asking is that you talk to your sister.”

  “I talk to her every day.” I crossed my arms. Suddenly everyone was insisting that I seek counseling when I was fine. So what if I didn’t want to step out of my apartment building? Lots of people liked to stay in. For months at a time.

  “Yes, she calls and tries to talk to you about what happened, about how you’re doing, but you shut her down.”

  “I don’t shut her down. I just change the subject.”

  Cookie got up and made us both a cup of coffee while I stewed in the wonders of denial. After I came to the realization that I liked denial almost as much as mocha lattes, she handed me a cup and I took a sip as she sat next to me again. My eyes rolled back in ecstasy. Her coffee was so much better than Aunt Lil’s.

  “Gemma thinks that maybe you need a hobby.” She looked around at the boxes. “A healthy hobby. Like Pilates. Or alligator wrestling.”

  “I know.” I leaned back and threw an arm over my eyes. “I considered writing my memoirs, but I can’t figure out how to put seventies porn music into prose.”

  “See,” she said, elbowing me. “Writing. That’s a great start. You could try poetry.” She stood and rummaged through my box-covered desk. “Here,” she said, tossing some paper at me. “Write me a poem about how your day is going, and I’ll get started on these boxes.”

  I put the coffee cup aside and sat up. “For real? Couldn’t I just write a poem about my ultimate world domination or the health benefits of eating guacamole?”

  She rose onto her toes to look at me from behind one of my more impressive walls. “You bought two electric pressure cookers? Two?”

  “They were on sale.”

  “Charley,” she said, her tone admonishing. “Wait.” She dipped down then popped back up. “These are awesome.” I knew it. “Can I have one?”

  “Abso-freaking-lutely. I’ll just take it out of your pay.”

  This could work. I could pay her through my Buy From Home purchases, though that might not help her keep her lights on or continue to have running water. But she’d be happy, and wasn’t happiness the most important thing in life? I should write a poem about that.

  “You do realize that to use any of this stuff, you have to actually go to the grocery store.”

  Her words shoved me deeper into the pit of despair often referred to as buyer’s regret. “Isn’t that what Macho Taco express delivery is for?”

  “You’ll have to buy food and spices and crap.”

  “I hate going to the grocery store.”

  “And you’ll have to learn to cook.”

  “Fine,” I said, letting a defeated breath slip through my lips. I had a fantastic flair for the dramatics when needed. “Send back everything that involves any kind of food preparation. I hate to cook.”

  “Do you want to keep the Jackie Kennedy commemorative bracelet?”

  “Do I have to cook it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then it stays.” I lifted my wrist and twirled the bracelet. “Look how sparkly it is.”

  “And it goes so well with Margaret.”

  “Totally.”

  “Pumpkin butt,” Aunt Lil said.

  I looked up from my Jackie Kennedy commemorative bracelet. Now that she knew she was dead, I would never have to go through that surge of panic at the prospect of her insisting on cooking for me for two weeks straight. I almost starved to death the last time. I held up the bracelet. “Do you think this bracelet is too much?”

  “Jackie goes with anything, dear. But I wanted to talk to you about Cookie.”

  I looked in Cookie’s direction and frowned in disappointment. “What has she done now?”

  Aunt Lil sank down beside me and patted my arm. “I think she should know the truth.”

  “About Jackie Kennedy?”

  “About me.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “What in the world does this monstrous machine do?” Cookie asked from somewhere near the kitchen. A box appeared out of nowhere, hovering unsteadily over a mountain of other boxes.

  I smiled in excitement. “You know how sometimes we order coffee and it comes with that incredible foam on top?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, that machine does the magic foam trick.”

  Her dark head popped up. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  She looked at the box lovingly. “Okay, we can keep this. I’ll just have to carve some time out of my schedule to read the instructions.”

  “Don’t you think she should know?” Aunt Lil continued.

  I nodded. She had a point. Or she would have if Cookie didn’t already know. “Cook, can you come here a sec?”

  “Okay, but I’m working out a system. It’s in my head. If I lose it on the way over, I won’t be held accountable.”

  “I can’t make any promises.”

  She sauntered over, shaking another box at me, a disturbing kind of joy in her eyes. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted a salad spinner?”

  “People actually want those?”

  “You don’t?”

  “I think that was one of those four A.M. purchases where I’d lost all sense of reality. I don’t even know why anyone would want to spin a salad.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “Okay, so, I have some bad news.”

  She sat in a chair that catty-cornered the sofa, a wary expression on her face. “You got bad news since you’ve been sitting here?”

  “Kind of.” I tilted my head discreetly to my side, indicating a presence.

  Cookie frowned.

  I did it again.

  She shrugged in confusion.

  With a sigh, I said, “I have news about Aunt Lillian.”

  “Oh. Oh!” She looked around and questioned me with a quirk of her brows.

  I gave a quick shake of my head. Normally, Cookie would play along, pretending she could see Aunt Lil as well, but since Aunt Lil had finally caught on to the fact that she could walk through walls, I didn’t think that would be appropriate. I put a hand on hers and said, “Aunt Lil has passed away.”

  Cookie frowned.

  “She’s gone.”

  She shrugged in confusion. Again.

  “I knew she’d take it hard,” Aunt Lil said by my side. She sniffled into her sleeve again.

  I wanted so badly to roll my eyes at Cookie. She was not getting my hints. I’d have to try harder. “But you know how I can see the departed?”

  A dawning emerged on Cook’s face as she realized Aunt Lil had caught on at long last.

  I patted her hand. Really hard. “She’s here with us now, just not as you will remember her.”

  “You mean—?”

  “Yes,” I
said, interrupting before she could give anything away. “She has passed.”

  Cookie finally grasped the entire concept. Not just a little corner of it. She threw a hand over her mouth. A weak squeak slipped through her fingers. “Not Aunt Lil.” She doubled over and let sobs rack her shoulders.

  Subtle.

  “I didn’t think she’d take it this hard,” Aunt Lil said.

  “Neither did I.” I looked on in horror as Cookie acted out that scene from The Godfather. It was even more eerie from this close proximity. “It’s okay,” I said, patting her head. Really hard. She glared through her fingers. “Aunt Lil is with us incorporeally. She sends her love.”

  “Oh, yes,” Aunt Lil said with a delirious nod. “Send her my love.”

  “Aunt Lil,” Cookie said, straightening and looking beside me. Only on the wrong side.

  I nodded in Aunt Lil’s direction again, and Cookie corrected her line of sight.

  “Aunt Lil, I’m so sorry. We’ll miss you so much.”

  “Aw, isn’t she the sweetest thing? I always liked her.”

  With a smile, I took Aunt Lil’s hand into mine. “I always liked her, too. Until about fifteen minutes ago.”

  I decided a shower was not out of the question and hopped in as Cookie took inventory and Aunt Lil decided to see what Africa looked like from her new perspective. I wondered if she’d ever figure out how long she’d been dead. I certainly wasn’t going to tell her.

  Hot water was one of the best therapies in the world. It washed away stress and soothed nerves. But Rottweilers were even better. Ever since a gorgeous Rottie by the name of Artemis had died and become my guardian—against what, I had no idea—I found my showers more challenging than usual. Mostly because Artemis loved showers, too. She didn’t come around that often, but the minute I turned on the water, there she was.

  “Hey, precious,” I said as she tried to catch a stream of water in her mouth.

  She barked playfully, the loud yelp echoing off the walls of the tub. I reached down and rubbed her ears. The water ran straight through her, so she was dry to the touch, but she tried so hard to catch the thick droplets on her tongue.

  “I know how you feel, girl. Sometimes the things we want most seem completely out of our reach.”

  When she jumped up on me, her stubby tail wagging with delight, her weight sent me crashing against the tile wall. I clutched on to the showerhead to keep my balance, then let her lick my neck before another stream of water captured her attention. She dived for it, almost knocking my feet out from under me. I totally needed a shower mat. And shaving my legs with a Rottweiler chasing every splash of water known to man was like taking my life into my own hands, but it had to be done.

  After semi-successfully shaving my legs with minimal blood loss, I turned off the water and nuzzled her to me. She licked my left ear, her front teeth scraping the lobe and causing goose bumps to spread over my skin, and I laughed out loud. “Oh, thank you. I needed that ear cleaned. Thank you so much.”

  With another yelp, she realized fun time was over. The wonderful world of waterworks had stopped, so she dived through the exterior wall and disappeared. I wondered if it was wrong that I took showers with a dog.

  I dried my hair and pulled it into something that resembled a ponytail, dressed in jeans and a white pullover with a zippered collar, then inspected myself in the mirror. No idea why. I’d only change back into my pajamas in a couple of hours anyway. Why did I get dressed? Why did I bother? Why did I shower, for that matter?

  I pumped a dollop of lotion onto my palm and rubbed my hands together as I examined the nasty scar on my cheek. It was almost gone. On anyone else, it would have remained a constant reminder of events better left forgotten. But being the grim reaper had its benefits. Namely, quick healing and minimal scarring. Nary a shred of visible evidence to support the reasoning behind my sudden case of mild agoraphobia. I was so stupid.

  I took the lotion I’d been rubbing into my hands and smeared it across the mirror. White streaks distorted my face. A definite improvement.

  Growing more annoyed with myself by the second, I strolled to the window to see if my traitorous father was at work yet. He seemed to be coming in later and later. Not that I cared. Any man who would have his own daughter arrested while she lay dying in a hospital bed after being tortured almost to death didn’t deserve my concern. I was just curious, and curious was way on the other side of concern. But instead of seeing my father’s tan SUV, I caught sight of one Mr. Reyes Farrow, and my breath stilled in my chest. He was leaning against the back of Dad’s bar, arms folded at his chest, one booted foot leveraged against the building.

  And he was out.

  I knew he would be, but I had yet to see him. He’d been in prison for ten years for a crime he didn’t commit. The cops caught on when the guy he’d supposedly killed tied me up and tortured me. I was glad he’d been freed, but to get there, Reyes’d used me as bait, so we were once again at an impasse. I was mad at him for using me as bait. He was mad at me for being mad at him for using me as bait. Our relationship seemed to hinge on these impasses, but that’s what I got for falling in lust with the son of Satan. If only he weren’t so deliciously and dangerously hot. I had such a thing for bad boys.

  And this particular bad boy had been dipped in a lake of beauty when he was born. His arms corded with muscles across a wide chest; his full mouth, too sensual for my peace of mind, sat in a grim, moody line; his dark hair, forever in need of a trim, curled at his neck and tumbled over his forehead. And I could just make out his thick lashes as they fanned across his cheeks.

  A man walked past him and waved. Reyes nodded, but then he must have felt me watching him. He looked down in thought then up directly at me. His angry gaze locked on to mine, held it for a long, breathless moment, and then slowly, with deliberate purpose, he dematerialized, his body transforming into smoke and dust until there was nothing left of it.

  He could do that. He could separate from his physical body, and his incorporeal essence—something I could see as easily as I saw the departed—could go anywhere in the world it wanted to. That didn’t surprise me in the least. What surprised me was the fact that, while incorporeal, no one else could see him. But that man had waved. He’d seen Reyes standing there and waved. That meant his physical body had been leaning against that brick wall.

  That meant his physical body had dematerialized, had vanished into the cool morning air.

  Impossible.

  2

  Doing nothing is hard.

  You never know when you’re done.

  —T-SHIRT

  It took every ounce of strength I had to tear myself away from the window, wondering if Reyes Farrow had just dematerialized his human body. Then another thought hit: What the hell was he doing out there? And then another: Why was he so angry? It was my turn to be angry. He had no reason to be. And I would have told him that very thing if I’d felt any incentive to leave my apartment and hunt him down. But my apartment was cozy. The thought of leaving it just to get in a fight with the son of evil incarnate made about as much sense as flying ants. Where was the logic in that? Ants were scary enough without giving them the ability to fly.

  I walked into my living room, shaken and disoriented. “Reyes Farrow was outside. Just leaning against the bar. Watching the apartment.”

  Cookie jumped up. She gaped at me for about ten seconds before hurdling the couch and stumbling into my bedroom, nearly crashing through the window. She was almost agile where men were concerned. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d have had a better view from the living room, from pretty much right where she’d been sitting. Nor did I have the heart to tell her that he was already gone.

  “He’s not there,” she said, her voice agitated and panicked.

  “What?” I asked, pretending to be surprised. I hurried over and peeked out the curtains. Sure enough, he was gone. “He was there a minute ago.” I scanned the entire area.

  She frowned at
me. “You knew he was gone.”

  I cringed, ashamed. “Sorry. You were just so into your gymnastics routine, I didn’t want to break your concentration. Do you know how hard it would be to explain to the cops if you’d crashed through the window and plummeted to your death?” I refocused on the spot where Reyes had been standing. “But I swear, if that man is tailing me—”

  “Hon, you have to go somewhere to be tailed. This would be more like stalking.”

  She had a point. One that I could throw in his face if I were ever going to speak to him again.

  I bowed my head as Cookie continued to search the parking lot in the hopes that he would show up again. I could hardly blame her.

  “While we’re on the subject, I think he dematerialized his human body.”

  She jumped in surprise. “I thought that was impossible. Are you sure?”

  “No.” I walked back into my cluttered living room, because another thought hit. Freaking ADD. “So, be honest. How broke am I?”

  Cookie drew in a deep breath and followed me. She regarded me with a sad expression before answering. “On a scale of one to ten, you’re not on it. You’re more like a negative twelve.”

  “Crap.” I studied my Jackie Kennedy commemorative bracelet with a great and terrible weight on my chest, then opened the clasp. “Here, send this back, too.”

  She took it. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I was only pretending it went well with Margaret, anyway. Now, if it were black with skulls on it …”

  “Sadly, I don’t think Jackie wore skulls all that often. You know, we still have a couple of clients who owe us.”

  “Really?” This was promising. I wound around boxes to Mr. Coffee. He was the only action I’d been getting lately.

  “Yep.”

  When she hesitated, I knew something was up. I refreshed my cup and questioned her with a quirk of my brows. “Like who?”

  “Like Mrs. Allen.”

  “Mrs. Allen?” I stirred in creamer and fake sweet stuff. “She pays me in cookies. I’m not sure how that will help with the bills.”

  “True, but she didn’t pay us the last time you found PP.”