Unfinished Sentence (The Charlie Davies Mysteries Book 2)

by Clare Kauter

  “And he was playing Dungeons & Dragons.”

  “Right.”

  “Yeah. But the thing is, I promised him I wouldn’t tell.”

  “You talked to him?”

  I sighed. “He spotted me.”

  James tried to hide a smile. “Sweetie, you know that you’re meant to stay out of sight, right?”

  “I was having a bad day.”

  “Right. OK.”

  “Anyway, he said he wouldn’t tell his mum that he’d spotted me if I promised not to tell her where he was going.”

  “He’s too embarrassed to tell his mum that he’s playing D & D?”

  “Do you blame him?”

  He shrugged. “I guess not. So what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “That’s why I’m asking you. I can’t break my promise, and I can’t go to Tim or Adam because they’ll make me tell the truth.”

  James grinned. “You’re adorable.”

  “James! Help me!”

  “OK, well, what did she think he was doing?”

  “Running drugs.”

  James choked on his punch. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah. Apparently she’s been watching a lot of Breaking Bad.”

  “Right, well then,” he said. “It kind of doesn’t matter what you say he’s been doing. Nothing’s going to be worse than that.”

  “What would you say?”

  He thought for a moment. “I’d tell her that he’s got a girlfriend. That way she’ll be happy because he’s not a meth dealer, and it’ll make him seem cooler in his mum’s eyes, which is apparently something he cares about.”

  Brilliant. “You’re a genius, Jamie.”

  He grinned. “Seeing you all dishevelled kind of makes me want to” – where was this sentence going? – “go swimming.”

  Oh. Right.

  “Um,” I answered eloquently. “You’re welcome to get in.” (Quiet, you. That’s not what I meant. Well, OK, maybe it was.)

  “I haven’t got anything to wear,” he said. “Besides, I’m too scared to strip down in front of your friends. I still have nightmares about the Great Swimming Carnival Incident of Year Eleven.”

  “There is definitely something to be said for rashie vests,” I said.

  “You know how you said I was a genius before?”

  “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  “I think I’ve had another genius idea,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “The pool at my house is just sitting there, going to waste,” he said. “I mean, your pool is nice and all, but mine is kind of a safer zone for me.”

  He wanted to leave. Ah well. At least it would give me more time to befriend Gina if I wasn’t getting distracted.

  “If you want to leave the party to go for a swim, you have my permission,” I said. “I’d leave too if I could.”

  “That’s kind of what I meant,” he said. “Let’s ditch.”

  “I –”

  “It’s not like there’s all that much happening here. It’s not even a party in your honour this time.”

  “I can’t just –”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time you left one of your friends’ parties. It’s basically a ritual now. It would be weirder if you were still here by the end of the night.”

  I knew I shouldn’t – not again, not when they went to all the trouble of organising it behind my back so that I couldn’t escape – but it was tempting. An evening in a pool with a shirtless James McKenzie? Maybe we could pick up veggie dogs on the way…

  “OK,” I said. “But we’d better get going, because if they catch us –”

  “Got it,” he said, standing. I also attempted to stand, but kind of got my foot caught on the leg of the stool and nearly stacked it. Luckily James and his lightning reflexes were present, and he stopped me from smacking down onto the floor. He stood and steadied me before grabbing my hand and leading me to the door, half-running. We were nearly out when –

  “And where do you think you’re going?” a voice called out from the kitchen.

  We turned slowly and found Celia watching us. I opened my mouth to make an excuse, but she cut me off.

  “I’m joking,” she said. “Run. Save yourselves.”

  “Thanks, C!” we called as we ran out into the night.

  * * * THE END * * *

  If you enjoyed this book, please leave a review! Even just one or two sentences really helps me out.

  Thank you!

  The story continues in

  Graceless

  The Charlie Davies Mysteries Book 3

  Coming February 2016

  Also by Clare Kauter:

  The Charlie Davies Mysteries

  Losing Your Head

  Unfinished Sentence

  Graceless (February 2016)

  High Priorities

  Damned, Girl!

  Deadhead

  Sled Head (November 2015)

  About the Author

  Clare Kauter is an Australian author who describes her books as "mystery with a twist..ery", and advises that if you don't like puns, you should back away now. Since early adolescence, she has spent much of her time reading, writing and watching fantasy and mysteries, while shirking the sort of responsibility that real people have to deal with on a daily basis.

  If you want to hear the soundtracks to her books, follow Clare Kauter on Spotify! (Seriously, there are some cool songs on there – check it out.)

  Website: clarekauter.com

  Twitter: @clarekauter

  Instagram: @clarekauter

  Facebook: Clare Kauter

  Spotify: Clare Kauter

  Have you read

  Deadhead

  (Damned, Girl! Book One)?

  Here’s a bit for you to try…

  Chapter One

  The lady in my kitchen was stuck up and stupid but I needed her money so I swallowed hard and put on my best Customer Service Fake Smile™.

  “Was there anything in particular you’d like me to ask him?”

  She was crying into the toilet paper I’d given her when she’d asked me for a tissue. Not that I didn’t have any tissues to give her; there was just something satisfying about watching annoying clients cry into toilet paper. You do what you can to keep yourself amused in this business.

  “I just want to know if he’s… happy!” She began to sob with loud, shuddering breaths. I tried my best to look sympathetic, although I suspect my facial expression may have been one of disgust rather than compassion. I didn’t understand crying loudly in front of people. It wasn’t something I did very often. Usually only when I was in a public place and desperately wanted to get my own way. It’s amazing what people will do to get you to shut up. But these tricks don’t work on me.

  “Of course,” I said. “I’ll make sure to ask. Just before we get started though, I’m afraid we have to discuss the subject of fees. It is much harder summoning the spirit of a deceased animal, as I’m sure you can appreciate – what with the language barrier and all – and hence for animal clairvoyance I charge double my standard rate.”

  “No price is too high for my Noodle.”

  Excellent.

  Now, before you get on your moral high horse and yell at me about taking money from a grief-stricken woman, just hear me out: this was a lady who had disposable income to spend on communing with the spirit of her dead pet. She clearly knew nothing about the spirit realm whatsoever and hadn’t bothered to do any research. She’d just assumed that I could talk to her dog. Now, let’s think about this…

  She wanted me to ask. Her dead dog. Questions.

  I love animals, but even to me this was a bit far. Firstly, she wanted me to summon the spirit of her dog (and let’s be fair, dogs don’t come when they’re called at the best of times, much less when they’re dead). Spirits don’t just hang around once they die. They pick the conservative party upstairs or wild times for eternity downstairs unless they’ve got some unfinished busines
s to attend to. Most animals, especially pampered pet poodles, do not have ‘unfinished business’. The only ghost animal I’d seen in the last week was a cockroach coming back for a crumb he hadn’t finished. When he realized he couldn’t eat it, he moved on. Animals don’t tend to get hung up on the past. They go with the flow. And if, by some miracle, I did manage to summon a dog, I couldn’t be sure it was her dog, could I? Even if I were sure it was hers, how on earth was I meant to talk to it?

  Nevertheless, there was a lot of money at stake here, so I shut my eyes and gave it a go. I took a deep breath and with all my energy, projected my voice into the astral realm….

  “Here puppy! Come on, who’s a good boy? Come to Nessa, that’s a good boy. Noodles! Noooooodles!”

  Suddenly I heard a bark at my left ankle. I opened my eyes and looked down. To my astonishment, there was a dog there. A ghost dog. I’d actually summoned a dead dog. I looked away from the dog when I heard huffing and chair scraping from across the table.

  “I didn’t come here to be made fun of! I hope you don’t expect –”

  “Is Noodles a poodle with a pink diamante-studded collar?”

  She stopped in her tracks. “You – you actually –”

  “Yes,” I said. I was used to this reaction. People always thought I was having a go at them when I spoke to ghosts the way I spoke to normal people. Or dogs. They expected me to put on a sing-songy voice and talk in riddles, with perhaps the occasional head-twitch or possession. Reality was much tamer. Spirits were basically just the same as they used to be, but dead. You tried to talk to a ghost like you see people do on TV and the ghost would think you were crazy.

  Noodles had also noticed the lady moving and started growling loudly, teeth bared. Eventually he inched towards her.

  “What’s he saying?” she asked.

  “Um… Difficult to know right now,” I said.

  Noodles had advanced right up to her, no longer growling but doing the dog equivalent of shooting her dirty looks. He lifted his leg and began to wee on her shoe, still glaring at her face.

  “How about now?”

  Noodles ran back over to me, tail wagging. I leant down and patted him when suddenly he disappeared in a puff. His business in this world had concluded.

  “He’s much happier now he’s seen you,” I said, trying not to stare at the ghostly urine dripping from the lady’s foot.

  * * *

  A breeze rustled the leaves of the fruit trees as the pinkish light of dusk settled over the cemetery across from my house. Some people found it odd that I lived across from a cemetery. I found it calming. If there was one place ghosts didn’t like to hang out, it was here. You’d only get the occasional newbie passing through, and they tended not to bother me. They had bigger concerns. Like being dead. Besides, it was good for business. When you deal in death, living near a cemetery gives you some street cred.

  It had always seemed like a bit of a sick joke to me that Watergrove cemetery was dotted over with a variety of fruit trees. How cruel could you be? The first thing the dead guys would see as they floated up out of the grave would be these very alive trees bearing very edible fruits which they could never again touch. Most of the deadies who ended up at my house whined for several minutes about something to that effect, before moving on to whine about something else. Usually to do with being dead. They had very one-track minds, these ghosts. As though death had taken something away from them. I mean sure, they couldn’t touch anything, but they could be invisible and fly and walk through stuff. Surely it wasn’t that bad.

  I wandered out to the herb garden in front of my house and picked some coriander. I was having tacos for dinner, but the coriander also had the added benefit of keeping away any stray ghosts who thought about haunting me. Like most people, ghosts can’t stand the smell of coriander. It’s like garlic and vampires. Taco Tuesday was a good night to keep away all the supernaturals.

  Well, almost all of them.

  Halfway through mashing up the avocado for my Holy Moly Guocamole (to go with my Salsa-tional Tomato Salsa and Cream-azing Cashew Cream), I heard a weird noise behind me. A squishy noise, like play-dough footsteps. (I don’t quite know what that means either. Just roll with it; it’s poetic.)

  I didn’t bother turning around. I knew who it was already. It would be some representative from the Green Wattle Coven, coming to hassle me again to join them. They’d become convinced that I had magical powers ever since three of them turned up when I’d first moved in, promising to rid my house of rodents. Apparently around the cemetery there were big problems with pest animals. When they found out I’d already taken care of the mice and the cockroaches, they were in absolute awe.

  “But how?” they’d asked. “Dost thou know the ways of Wicca?” (Yes, they actually spoke like this.)

  “No, I just googled it. Peppermint oil repels rats and cockroaches hate garlic.”

  At this moment, they all turned to each other and whispered, wide-eyed, “She knows of the Sacred Herbs!”

  “No, you don’t understand. I didn’t perform any rituals, I just used the herbs to keep them away and then blocked up the holes where they were getting in. I didn’t use any magic.”

  “Thou hast brought no harm to the living creatures! Thou art at peace with the Mother Earth!” the oldest, crone-iest one said.

  “Well, no, I’m a vegan so –”

  “Veegan? I do not know that sect.”

  “Oh, it’s not a branch of magic or anything, it just means –”

  “She has no coven,” one whispered.

  “She is unclaimed,” said another.

  “Join us!” said the third. Then they all began singing “Join us” in unison. They wouldn’t leave and I ended up chasing them out by brandishing a frypan. Various representatives had been turning up a couple of times a week ever since. It got to a point where they’d started breaking into my house and I’d find them in the bathtub or hiding in cupboards waiting for me. One of them let slip that wormwood would keep them out, and after much searching I managed to find a bush in a corner of the cemetery and hung a wreath of it on my front door. I wondered how they’d finally managed to get past it. The squelchy footsteps stopped and it suddenly occurred to me that witches don’t really sound squelchy. Insane, yes. Squelchy, not so much.

  So what was that noise behind me?

  I turned around, confused.

  And screamed.

  Well, it was kind of a scream. You know when you’re not expecting something, so you start to scream, only to realize that it’s not actually that scary, and you stop committing to the scream so it sort of becomes a honk?

  Yeah. That.

  So anyway, I honked.

  Sitting in the middle of my (quite dirty, now I was looking at it – when did I last sweep it? Wait, when did I ever sweep it? Did I even own a broom?) kitchen floor, was a squishy little play-dough-footed axolotl.

  He squinted up at me. I crouched down to get a better look at him and realized he was wearing glasses. That was weird. What kind of animal has glasses? And wasn’t the coriander bothering him? He was even treading on a piece of it I must have dropped.

  “Are you lost, little guy?”

  “Unfortunately not.”

  This time I screamed properly. I did that whole scramble-back-from-the-unexpectedly-scary-thing that you see in horror movies and Vines where the person tries to run backwards while they’re still on their bum. I slammed into the kitchen bench and banged my head. Even after that, the axolotl was still there, so I kept banging it like an old person with a piece of technology that wasn’t working properly.

  “You’re mental,” said the axolotl.

  “YOU THINK I DON’T KNOW THAT?” I screamed. “YOU’RE TALKING TO ME.”

  “You talked to me first.”

  “But – but – wormwood – and the coriander!”

  He gave me what seemed to be a look of deep concern. “That’s not how you do sentences.”

  “Neither’s that
!”

  “I was trying to speak to you in your own language,” he said. Fair call.

  I took a few deep breaths and tried again. “The coriander didn’t scare you off?”

  He shrugged – I think it was a shrug – and said, “I’m Mexican.”

  “Right.” I was pretty sure it was a bad axolotl joke, though, because his accent sounded more like that of an Oxbridge graduate.

  “So, you are Nessa I presume?”

  “Yes. Who on earth are you? And why are you here? And how can you talk? And where did you get your tiny glasses? And why do you know my name?”

  “I’m your new familiar.”

  “I’m not a witch!”

  “Hey, I didn’t exactly ask for this either.”

  “What – do you mean someone sent you?”

  “Well, kind of.”

  “Kind of?”

  “I lost a bet.”

  “You lost a bet?”

  “Yep.”

  “And I was the punishment?”

  “Yep.”

  “And what did the winner get?”

  “Nothing.”

  “How is that winning then?”

  “They didn’t get stuck with you. I’m Henry, by the way. Since you didn’t think to ask.”

  “Henry?” I couldn’t take all this in. There was an axolotl talking to me and introducing himself – lecturing me on manners and grammar in amongst it – and he was here because he lost a bet?

  “Yes, Henry,” he said. “Now I hope you’re fixing me a taco.”

  I made Henry and myself a tempeh taco each and we sat out on the verandah overlooking the cemetery as we ate. Henry began explain (between mouthfuls – if nothing else his table etiquette was second-to-none) what exactly he’d been sent to my house to do.

  “I’m here to audit you.”

  “What?! What for?” I mean, sure, I wasn’t exactly paying tax on my cash-in-hand psychic business, but was the ATO really in the habit of sending a talking fish-lizard to scare business owners into following the law? Come to think of it, that would probably be quite effective. They’d either shape right up or end up in a psychiatric ward.