Coached to Death

by Victoria Laurie

  Coached to Death

  VICTORIA LAURIE

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Victoria Laurie

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number:

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2033-7

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: November 2019

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2037-5 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2037-7 (ebook)

  For my sister, Sandy. Thank you for Cat.

  Love you and her to the moon and back.

  Acknowledgments

  I’m not gonna lie. When I set out to write a spinoff series featuring Cat and Gilley, I was really worried that it’d be a long, slow slog through the quagmire of characters who sometimes had their moments, but weren’t especially “gifted” with any extra talent other than the ability to engage in some witty repartee. In fact, it’s safe to say that I was a tiny bit terrified that they’d be all talk and no substance.

  But then about a third of the way through this novel, I realized that I was having an absolute blast, and that Gilley and Cat were actually the perfect characters to immerse in a good old-fashioned mystery because they each carry just enough brash impulsiveness, lack of common sense, and an alarming inability to sense the danger around them as to find themselves perpetually in trouble.

  And now after having just completed the second book, I keep wondering what took me so long to break these two out into their own series, because Cat and Gilley are hilarious together, and they can really tell a great, thrilling, suspense-filled story without any extra props, gifts, or flashy stuff.

  Who knew?

  Anyhoo, to that end, I would like very much to thank my publisher Kensington Books for their unfailing faith in me as a storyteller. At a time when most publishing houses are shrinking their lists, Kensington found the courage to add at least one more, (me!) to their roster, and as such, my faith in humanity is restored.

  I would also specifically like to thank my editor, John Scognamiglio for his encouragement, feedback, edits, and wisdom. I’d wanted to work with John for years, and I’m so thrilled to be partnered on this particular series with him. Finally, both the timing and the project feel right!

  Thanks as well to Monika Roe, the incredible artist and illustrator who’s managed to strike the absolute perfect balance between my Ghost Hunter Mysteries covers and the Psychic Eye Mysteries covers to form a new, unique look for all of the Cat and Gilley adventures to come.

  Jim McCarthy, my agent of nearly two decades now. (Ugh, we’re old!) Thank you for giving me Gilley. I’ve loved him nearly as much as I’ve loved you all of these years. Oh, and of course, thank you also for all that agenty stuff you do. Totes appreciate that!

  Sandy Upham, my sister, my confidant, my muse, my friend. Thank you for Cat. I know it’s been hard having a sister who literally has a notebook dedicated to all of your most embarrassing stories, but you bear it well . . . and you keep having interesting and embarrassing stories to tell, so I see it as a win/win.

  Leanne Sorrento, my BFF, the Candice to my Abby . . . love you to pieces, girl!

  Katie Coppedge, thank you for helping to keep the V.L. machine going strong, and also for one of the best and truest friendships I’ve ever had. Love you, dollface.

  Terry Gilman, Nicole Grey, Shannon Anderson, John and Matt McDougall, Sally Woods, Anne Kimbol, Juliet Blackwell, Cindy Elavsky, Drue Rowean, Suzanne Parsons, Nora and Bob Brosseau; thank you for your continued love and support. You guys are the BEST and I heart you fierce!

  Chapter 1

  “You can do this,” I said firmly. My reflection eyed me doubtfully. Fluffing my blond hair before adding another spritz of hair spray, I faced my concerned expression in the mirror one more time, squared my shoulders, and said, “You can. Your sister gives advice all the time, and look at how successful she is!”

  My reflection rolled her eyes. She knew that, while my sister was a world-renowned psychic who was so good that she had a four-month waiting list and was often recruited by the FBI to help solve their toughest cases, I was most definitely not my sister. I didn’t have an intuitive bone in my body.

  But I did have a few decades of keen business experience on my résumé, and a very large marketing firm that I’d built from the ground up and had recently sold for just over fifty million. That had to be worth some street cred when it came to handing out life advice.

  Still, it was one thing to run a fast-paced business, and another to help a soccer mom find her inner purpose beyond being a glorified caterer, childcare provider, and chauffeur.

  While my reflection and I silently exchanged frustrated looks, my cell rang. I answered it immediately. “I need you,” I said, perhaps a weensy bit desperately.

  “I’m on my way,” Gilley sang.

  I lifted my wrist to eye my watch and frowned in annoyance. “It’s almost ten. You’re late.”

  “I had to stop and get some doughnuts. You wouldn’t want your first client to walk in and not have access to doughnuts, would you?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. A headache was certainly destined to make its way onto the morning’s agenda. “Gilley,” I said, using the same voice I saved for those times when my sons were being difficult. “Erma’s e-mail clearly stated that she’s been using food to help her cope with all the negativity in her life.”

  “Oh,” Gil said. “Sorry. I’ll get rid of them.”

  I glanced at my reflection again. She cocked a skeptical eyebrow. She knew that “get rid of” was code for “swallow them whole like a python.”

  “You really need to pace yourself,” I told him after a few seconds of silence.

  “Wha?” Gilley said, his voice muffled by a mouthful of doughnut. “I’m not going to waste them, Cat.”

  I sighed and glanced again at my watch. It was five minutes to ten. My client, Erma Kirkland, would be here any minute. “Please, just hurry, okay?”

  Gilley muffled a reply, which I couldn’t make sense of. The python had perhaps moved on to its second doughnut. Ending the call, I came out of the small restroom located in my newly decorated office suite to nervously stare one more time at the ambience I’d created.

  My work space is located in the heart of East Hampton’s downtown. The building itself is nearly two hundred years old. Hunting for an appropriate location, I stumbled upon this lucky find and was delighted by the fact that the exterior still had such strong old-world charm. When I inquired about the building itself, I was additionally delighted to find that it was up for sale. I bought it even before I’d secured the lot for my new home. In fact, the old building was the first thing I’d purchased after the ink dried on my divorce papers.


  It may have been a little impulsive, actually, but can you blame me? My husband of twenty-one years announced the day after I received the wire from the sale of my marketing firm that he wasn’t happy with our relationship. It turns out he was much happier with the bartender from the country club, where he’s the resident pro. She’s a perky brunette named Lisa. He’s clearly having a midlife crisis, and they’re now living together in Connecticut in a house he purchased with his share of our divorce settlement—roughly half my earnings from the sale of my business.

  Bastard.

  Ah, well, at least he didn’t get the thing he’d wanted even more than my money—full custody of our boys. Matt and Mike, my twin fourteen-year-old sons . . . such smart, gorgeous, mischievous young men. They’re in boarding school just three hours away, and I miss them terribly, but it’s what they wanted as things between me and their father escalated through the divorce courts. I can’t say that I blame them for wanting to be away from both of us. The drama was a little much for teen boys to handle.

  I’m hoping the year at boarding school will allow the dust to settle and they’ll be eager to come live with me again. Fingers crossed on that, because right now I’m all alone in an enormous, nearly complete home (which my sister has dubbed Chez Cat), and it feels empty and sad. That’s probably why I spend most of my time at the guest house (Chez Kitty), where Gilley has essentially moved in while his husband, Michel, gallivants all over the globe, photographing the world’s most beautiful models. Still, their marriage seems strong, even though I know Gilley is heartsick about Michel being in such demand and away from home most of the time.

  He and I formed our own little lonely-hearts club, and to keep ourselves from getting too depressed over the past seven months, we threw ourselves into the project of bringing this old office building up to code and up to snuff.

  Nine charming suites occupy the space, three per floor. When I initially purchased the building, each suite had a tenant, except for my office here on the ground floor and one on the third floor, left of the stairs. I’d renovated and decorated that one first, but for some reason I hadn’t yet been able to rent it out. Plenty of people had come to take a look at it in the past few weeks, but no one had leased it just yet.

  Still, there was a podiatrist who’d shown some promising interest in it earlier in the week, and I was hopeful he’d come back with a check in hand, ready to sign.

  Nervously, I moved around my own suite, fluffing the pillows on the love seat and trimming an odd thread from the throw rug. Surveying the large suite one final time, I sighed contentedly. I loved this space.

  I’d used soothing tones of creamy cocoa on the walls of my office, balancing that with bright white trim and a smoky brown hardwood for the flooring. The love seat, where my clients would sit, was vanilla cream leather, soft as butter to the touch. My own chair was a high-back wing chair with a small side table pre-set with pen and paper, ready for taking notes. I’d also set a similar notebook with pen on a small side table next to the love seat for my first client, Erma, just in case she forgot to bring her own.

  I tried to picture the scene of the two of us, sitting together. She would be a pretty but nervous woman, lacking confidence and direction. She’d fiddle with her pearls as she told me about herself. And I’d listen to her story and learn what was holding her back, and then I’d lend her some insightful advice—some gentle coaching to steer her in the right direction. And through this process of my trademark Listen, Learn, Lend technique, Erma would gradually evolve, like an awkward duckling, into a confident swan.

  I imagined her back on that love seat after a few months, fresher, prettier, more styled, and confident. She’d be Erma Kirkland 2.0, and she’d rave about her new life and tell everyone how working with me had helped her. Her friends would come to me, and I’d fix them, then their friends would line up, and soon I’d have a blog, a waiting list, and a massive following. There’d be a book—aptly titled Listen, Learn, Lend, and a morning-talk-show book tour, where I’d turn on the charm, and then some producer somewhere would step out of the shadows and suggest a show of my own. I’d be the queen of advice for lost women everywhere.

  I’d be the new Oprah, and Gilley would be my Gail.

  I sighed happily, imagining myself on the cover of Time, and was pulled abruptly out of my thoughts by the jangle of the front door opening. Gilley sashayed in, smiling broadly, his lips still wearing a dusting of powdered sugar. “Cat,” he said, pausing mid-sashay to look me up and down. “You. Look. Radiant!”

  I blushed in spite of myself. I’d taken considerable care with my appearance this morning. Not wanting to appear too businesslike or otherwise intimidating in one of my usual Hermès suits, I’d opted instead for a pair of suede brown dress slacks, a bulky cream sweater that hung off one exposed shoulder, and spikey Stuart Weitzman ankle boots. I’d topped off the ensemble with some chunky gold jewelry. “Thank you,” I said, running a recently manicured finger under my bangs to move them out of my eyes. “But you’re still late.”

  Gilley waved his hand casually before shutting the door and setting down his messenger bag. “I still made it here before your client. Technically, that’s a win.”

  “How about next time we avoid getting technical, and you just show up early?”

  Gilley regarded me with half-lidded eyes. “For years, M.J. lectured me on the importance of punctuality, and . . .”

  M.J. was M.J. Holliday, Gilley’s former partner in crime. The pair went way back, to elementary school in Georgia. They’d grown up more like siblings than classmates, and the best friends had even attended college together in Boston, eventually beginning their own ghostbusting business which took on a whole life of its own when it blossomed into a hit cable TV show and then a movie called Ghoul Getters. M.J. was married now to Heath Whitefeather, who, like her, was a fellow spiritual medium. The pair were mostly retired from that life now, and were currently settled down in New Mexico, raising a family.

  “And? And what?” I asked, when Gilley refused to finish his thought.

  Gilley waved his hand nonchalantly. “And you can see how well that worked out.”

  I sighed. “Point taken. Still, can I at least convince you to sit down at your desk before Erma gets here?”

  Gilley curtsied before bouncing over to his desk to pull out the chair and sit down in one graceful move. Opening up his laptop, he pretended to type furiously while smiling at me.

  As I was rolling my eyes, the front door opened again, and a giant walked into our office.

  The woman was at least six feet tall, with flaming red, curly hair, small squinty eyes, and large manly hands. Dressed in layers of black, she was a dramatic creature. And sweaty. And so nervous her hands were shaking. “Hi!” she boomed.

  Gilley and I both winced at the volume of the greeting. “Hello,” Gil said softly, as if encouraging her to use her inside voice. Getting up, he walked around the desk to extend his hand to her. “Welcome to Cat’s Coaching Corner. I’m Gilley.”

  “I’m Erma!”

  Gil and I both winced again, but he managed to cover it by pushing that big smile onto his lips. Erma looked at him and his outstretched hand as if she wasn’t quite sure what to do with it, but then she seemed to remember herself and engulfed his hand in her palm. I watched him grit his teeth, likely from the force of the handshake. “It’s great to meet you!” she said, pumping his poor arm like a gambler on a hot streak at a slot machine. And then, all of a sudden, she stopped pumping and pulled him toward her with a jerk. Inhaling deeply, she said, “Holy cow, you smell like doughnuts!”

  Gilley’s eyes widened, and he looked at me in alarm, but I had no idea what to do. Before I could even say a word, Erma tugged Gilley forward even more—practically into her chest—as she said, “Are there doughnuts?”

  “Uh,” Gilley said, staring up at Erma, who was about six inches taller than him. “No. No doughnuts. Sorry.”

  Erma scrunched up her face into an
impressively disappointed frown, but in the next instant, the frown was gone, replaced by that beaming smile again as she wrapped Gilley into a big bear hug. “Aw, it’s okay,” she said, inhaling deeply again after she let out a satisfied sigh. “Man! It’s like breathing in heaven.”

  Gilley squeaked when Erma squeezed him tightly one last time before releasing him. She then turned to regard me, and I couldn’t help the small step back I took as her slightly wild eyes lit on me. “You must be Cat!”

  “Yes,” I said, my mind racing with possible escape routes. This woman was so much more than I was prepared to deal with. When Erma looked ready to charge and sweep me up in a big hug too, I reacted by turning my back slightly to her before making a large sweeping motion with one arm. “Won’t you please join me in the seating area, Erma? We’ll get right to your session.”

  Erma seemed a little unsure what to do, as if she were caught between attempting to still come at me for a hug and following my directive and proceeding to the sofa. Meanwhile, Gilley slinked away from her, clutching his hand, as though it was painful, all the way back to his desk. At last, Erma followed my instructions, lowering her arms and trotting forward like an obedient Saint Bernard.

  As we entered the seating area, I motioned her over to the love seat and sat down in the big wing chair. I had a whole speech prepared to get us started. Something inspiring. Something motivational. Something she’d likely pull quotes from and post to her Facebook page.

  “I can’t believe I actually get to meet you!” she giggled before I’d had a chance to even open my mouth. “You’re like the most famous person I’ve ever met!”

  The statement caught me a little off guard. “I am?”

  “Well, yeah! I mean, I saw you speak at that Empowering Women seminar thingy? Ohmigod, you were, like, incredible! And then I saw you speak at the Women in Charge seminar, and then again at the Women Can Have It All conference, and all three times you were so . . .” Erma waved her hands in frantic circles in front of me. “So, you know . . . amazing!”