Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
HEX ON THE EX
ROCHELLE STAAB
Praise for
WHO DO, VOODOO?
“Brava! Staab delivers effortless chills that eerily wash over you, leaving you shivering in wicked delight awaiting the sophomore volume.”
—Seattle Post-Intelligencer
“Smart, sophisticated, and utterly spellbinding. This magical mystery is captivatingly clever, completely charming, and compelling from its irresistible beginning to its unpredictable end.”
—Hank Phillippi Ryan, author of the award-winning Charlotte McNally Mysteries
“Didn’t need my crystal ball to see into the future of this wonderful debut. A sexy, funny, and engaging whodunit set in Tinseltown. Who Do, Voodoo? is a winner.”
—Lesley Kagen, national bestselling author of Good Graces
“A spellbinding blend of voodoo and tarot traditions. Who Do, Voodoo? is a superlative supernatural mystery.”
—Cleo Coyle, New York Times bestselling author
“A fresh and entertaining premise for a new series that is cleverly plotted and executed.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Fans will enjoy accompanying the charming lead pair as they explore the supernatural.”
—The Mystery Gazette
“An awesome new mystery series.”
—Once Upon a Twilight
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Rochelle Staab
WHO DO, VOODOO?
BRUJA BROUHAHA
HEX ON THE EX
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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HEX ON THE EX
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2013 by Rochelle Staab.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-62231-5
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / May 2013
Cover illustration by Blake Morrow.
Cover design by Diana Kolsky.
Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Acknowledgments
A warm thank-you to the generous folks who gave me their time and expertise in the writing of this story: Jeffrey Bloom, Jeanne Robson, Pat Sabatini, Charlie Springer, Sylvia Tchakerian, and Gerald Tinker; my baseball experts Mark Langill, Ken Levine, and Scott St. James, with an assist from David Schwartz and George Wilson; the always helpful members of the LAPD, particularly detective Joel Price, Officer Sebring, and Judi Breskin; and my first readers Carole Bloom and JoAn Brown.
I have the pleasure to work with an amazing team of people at Berkley Prime Crime. Thank you to all, especially my editor, Michelle Vega. Her warmth, wisdom, and wit encourage me through every stage of the process.
A hug and a tip of the hat to my critique partners V. R. Barkowski, Lynn Sheene, Donnell Bell, and Tammy Kaehler, whose feedback, intelligence, cheerleading, and good common sense keep me sane(-ish) and on track. You guys are the best.
And finally, my deep gratitude for the readers, librarians, and booksellers who embraced Liz and Nick from the very beginning. Your enthusiasm is my happy-ever-after.
Chapter One
Hitting the gym at dawn for a week sounded like such a good idea on day one. Wake up early, exercise and shower at the facility, and then attack unpacking the rest of the moving boxes at home with a fresh attitude—sure, I could do it. Right. Game On, the private Studio City gym co-owned by my ex-husband, Jarret, and his trainer, spanned three storefronts at Coldwater Curve, a small strip mall across the street from Jerry’s Famous Deli on Ventura Boulevard, a few miles from my new house. On day two, I had to drag myself out of bed. By then I had no choice.
Half awake and incognito—no makeup, not even lipstick, hair twisted in a ragged ponytail, rumpled cotton sweats, and faded Nirvana T-shirt—I tossed my backpack into an empty cubbyhole on the member wall beside the front desk.
Only one trainer plus Jarret’s partner, Kyle Stanger, knew me by name but I nodded hellos to my fellow daybreak warriors scattered over the three rows of equipment lined by type in the cardio room. An athletic jock ran full speed on one of the treadmills. Another man read the newspaper on a stationary bike facing the windowed wall to the mat room, and behind him, a woman paged through a magazine on an elliptical machine.
I stepped onto a treadmill in the last row and programmed the machine for a twenty-minute run. Course: Manual. Age: 38. Weight: 125 (-ish). Speed: 5.5. Incline: 0.
In the row ahead of me, a male exec type looking like money in designer track pants and a Cannes T-shirt, clicked the remote to switch channels on the mounted TV from news to a scripted “reality” program titled—according to the superimposed caption—Atlanta Wife Life.
Seriously? The guy wants to watch reality TV? Now? Waking up was enough reality for me. But like a gawker rubbernecking at a freeway pileup, I couldn’t resist a peek at the show’s unfolding theatrics.
Onscreen, a fortyish babe with lips plumped to a duck pout, false eyelashes heavy enough to require props, and earrings like road barrier reflectors dangling at her jawline, fumed at the camera. “I hope she dies alone and I never see her again. She stole the man that my girlfriend loved since high school.”
Cut to—well, calling either woman onscreen an actress would be an insult to the profession—wannabe celeb number two: a fleshy, sobbing brunette with chasm-like cleavage. “She stabbed me in the back.” Snurf.
Sympathy enlisted for the whiners in designer duds? Zero. I clicked my iPod on and ran at an easy pace with Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing,” drowning out the TV noise.
Blame my plumber, Stan, and an utter lack of showering resources at home for necessitating the early morning gym visits. I had to wait two months after moving into my new house for Stan’s schedule to clear so he could complete the overhaul of the upstairs bathrooms. Weeks of bathing in the squeaky-piped, worn-porcelain bathtub and mildewed showers left by the prior owner inspired me to sacrifice convenience for new fixtures, prompting my rise at dawn to shower two miles away. I opted for the gym as a bonus—the move had added a few pounds of stress-driven, comfort-food weight to my waistline.
As of yesterday, I couldn’t shower or bathe in my bathrooms. Tile torn out, tub and shower unusable in the master bath. The guest bath upstairs was crammed with boxes of winter clothes waiting to be unpacked. My friends and family offered me access to their homes, but vanity—dropping those pounds—won out. I couldn’t beat the price: my ex and his partner charged me half of Game On’s monthly membership dues.
Stan promised the new fixtures in and ready for use in a few days or so. With my limited plumbing vocabulary, Stan’s “or so” worried me. I notified my clients of my vacation, and closed my psychology practice down for the week to stay home, finish unpacking, and supervise. As if my presence would speed things up. I’m an optimist.
A middle-aged, corkscrewed blonde got on the treadmill to my right. She started to power-walk, loping the rubber track with stamina impressive for her short, bulky girth. I offered a smile. We jogged on the same treadmills yesterday at the same time, qualifying her as my foxhole buddy. She pointed to the pink-lipped reality star on the television, and then mouthed something to me.
I paused my music and slowed the treadmill to a fast walk for the last half mile. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“That woman up there on the TV is lying.”
“She’s definitely alienated,” I said, following her gaze. “And closed off. Her arms and legs are crossed, creating a barrier.”
The channel-changing exec turned around and said, “You’re both right. In person, she’s an angry shrew and a compulsive liar.”
“You know her?” the blonde next to me said.
“I’m Billy Miles.” He enunciated his name with exaggerated importance. “Our network produces that show.”
She tilted her chin. “I bet you don’t know your star hasn’t let her husband touch her for three years.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t care, hon.” Billy turned back to the TV.
Smiling, my blonde buddy said to me, “I’m Tess, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Liz.” I cocked my head toward the TV, curious. “How do you get three years out of her actions?”
“I’m a psychic. I read her aura.”
And I can cook. I forced a polite smile, struggling to act interested.
“Uh-oh.” Tess curled her lips in a mischievous grin. “You don’t believe. Give me a chance—I’ll change your mind. I’m very good. I do readings for people all the time. And I get visions in my dreams. You have a sharp eye for body language, what do you do?”
“I’m a psychologist. My PhD is in behavioral science—the physical response to emotion fascinates me. First our bodies react to a situation, and then our minds connect a feeling to the reaction. Body language is often more truthful than the spoken word.”
“Ooh, you’re good at this stuff. We have a lot in common,” Tess said. “The only difference is that I can see energy fields from the past and into the future, too. For example, I’ve been reading your aura. You have good energy, but what are you going to do about the two men in your life?”
My boyfriend, Nick, and my ex-husband, Jarret? I checked myself—Tess made a generalized guess, of course. Doesn’t every woman in her thirties have a man in her present and a man in her past? “The only two men I’m concerned with this week are my plumber and his assistant. They’re bringing me a new bathtub.”
“I sense there’s a lot more than plumbers going on with you, Liz. I see a man lying to you. We should talk about this some more.”
“I don’t…We…” Faltering for a way to dodge the discussion, I glimpsed past her and saw my excuse come into the cardio room.
“Two mornings in a row, Liz. I’m impressed.” Kyle Stanger, my ex-husband’s crony, personal trainer, and partner in Game On patted the top of my treadmill then stopped at Billy’s side.
A walking ad for Game On and the benefits of pumping weights, Kyle, mid-forties with the body of a middleweight boxer, wore his brown hair in a military crew cut with a sharp widow’s peak above his small eyes and thin mouth. His thick neck melded into a mass of muscles rippling across his wide, bulked-up shoulders, past a slim waist, and down to well-developed calves. Popped veins accentuated his powerful forearms and biceps.
I wasn’t a fan. We had met a decade ago in Atlanta when the Braves signed my husband. Kyle became Jarret’s team pitching coach and new best friend. In addition to Kyle’s coaching role in the bullpen, he was Jarret’s enabler in partying, drinking, and drugs. Too many nights Kyle dropped my then-husband at home in sorry shape. But when Kyle concealed Jarret’s involvement in a barroom brawl and took the fall—effectively saving Jarret’s professional baseball career—Jarret never forgot. After Kyle was arrested for battery and fired from the Braves, Jarret hired him as his personal trainer and paid him until Jarret and I relocated to Los Angeles. Two years ago, Kyle moved here and opened Game On with Jarret as his silent partner.
As Kyle and Billy talked, a chunky, round-faced brunette in her late thirties sauntered into the cardio room. She picked up the TV remote and began to change the channel.
“Don’t do that, Gretchen. We’re watching Billy’s program,” Kyle said.
“You gotta be joking.” Gretchen clicked her tongue, dropping the remote in disgust. She turned on her heel toward the adjoining weight room. Tess and I swapped eye rolls. I knew I only had so much politeness in me after one cup of coffee, but Gretchen’s stomping exit seemed overly dramatic.
“What’s Miss Snit’s story?” Billy said.
“She joined the gym a few months ago,” Kyle said. “New in town.”
“The girl obviously has no taste in good television.” Billy laughed.
Tess turned to me. “Gretchen found out about my psychic talents and asked me for a free reading. It took time to get a strong fix on her. Strange aura. Focused, yet muddy. But she’s not bad once you get her talking.”
“Do you read everyone?”
“Sure. I like to share my gift,” Tess said.
Kyle called from the side of Billy’s elliptical, “Hey, Liz. Big game tonight at Dodger Stadium. You going?”
I brushed a stray, sweaty lock off my forehead and nodded. “We’re celebrating my dad’s birthday there. He and my boyfriend, Nick, are Cubs fans.”
“You’re not rooting against the Dodgers, are you?” Kyle said.
“Never. I was born here. My first crush was on Steve Garvey. Believe me, the Illinois contingent in my group will be surrounded by plenty of loyalists.”
“I’ll be at the game, too,” he said. “Billy is hosting a party in the ATTAGIRL luxury box. I’m taking an old sidekick of yours from Atlanta. Remember Laycee Huber?”
I almost tripped off the treadmill. Laycee Huber in Los Angeles? The last time I talked to my ex-friend and Atlanta neighbor was four years ago, the day I knocked on her front door to return the pink-and-black polka-dot bra she’d bought on a shopping trip with me. At the store, she claimed she wanted something sexy to seduce her husband. Two weeks before Jarret and I moved to L.A., I found the bra, reeking of Laycee’s distinct burnt sugar scent, under my bed.
Chapter Two
Kittenish Laycee and I began our friendship in Atlanta the morning we moseyed out to our adjoining mailboxes in identical sweats and T-shirts. After swapping witty observations on our
impeccable style, she invited me to go mall hopping with her on weekends. She introduced me to her hairdresser, facialist, and the best shoe store in Atlanta. Though we shared the same size, our clothing tastes beyond mailbox garb were vastly different. Laycee shopped for low-cut and tight; I wore trendy at home and tailored to work. We shared our hopes and secrets over wine in my kitchen on the nights Jarret traveled with the Braves and her lawyer husband, Forrest, worked late.
The couple came to our barbeques and helped celebrate our birthdays; Jarret and I went to their pool parties and Super Bowl bashes. Forrest, thirty years her senior at sixty-one, watched his young trophy wife flirt with every man in attendance. The four of us were chummy until the day I learned Laycee was swapping spit with my husband. I divorced Jarret soon after our move to Los Angeles, my hometown.
“Sure, I remember Laycee,” I said to Kyle over the top of my treadmill while swallowing back bitterness I thought I jettisoned years ago. “She’s in town?”
“Yeah. She’s going to call you. She told me she wanted to get together with you.” Before I could tell Kyle to discourage her, he said, “Hey—I talked to Jarret. A string of lefties load the Cubs lineup so he’ll probably pitch relief for at least a few innings tonight. Should be a great game. You sitting in the team section?” He projected his voice loud enough for everyone in the cardio room and in the cars parked in the lot outside to hear.
“I don’t know where our seats are. My parents got the tickets.” I knew damn well Jarret gave my mom his player seats for the game, but I wasn’t about to play celebrity can-you-top-this with Kyle. And I didn’t want him to hunt us down at Dodger Stadium with Laycee in tow.
I hopped off my treadmill and crossed through the weight room to the mirrored studio at the rear of the gym. After the two-mile run/walk, I just wanted to lie down. I rolled out a mat on the floor by the mirror and began a series of knee-to-elbow sit-ups.
Across the room, a trainer counted reps for a client on an aerobics step. Another trainer joked with a zaftig redhead squatting on a balance disc. Gretchen did crunches on an exercise ball. Earl, the sociable, ebony-skinned trainer I met my first morning, supervised a girl transferring a medicine ball from over her head down to her toes.
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