The Dirt on Ninth Grave

by Darynda Jones

  Unfortunately, it didn’t help much. It still swallowed me, and I no longer had shoulders or hands, but that was okay, too. The length would keep my fingers from turning into flesh-flavored Popsicles. He curled the cuffs, but only once. They still hung past my fingertips.

  After a moment, I realized he’d stopped and was staring down at me. I looked up into the glittering depths of his mahogany irises. A soft line had formed between his brows as he studied me, and I realized for the thousandth time I could not read him. Not like I could most people. I felt emotion roiling within him, but it was jumbled, chaotic, a mixture of desire and concern and regret.

  His gaze dropped to my mouth, and I wondered just how many drinks he’d had. So I asked.

  “Just how many drinks have you had?”

  “Not enough,” he said, his voice oceans deep.

  “Not enough to forget her?” To forget the woman who still haunted him? The jealousy that spiked within me did nothing to boost my self-esteem.

  “There isn’t enough alcohol on the planet to make me forget her.”

  That stung. He was clearly hung up on his ex, and I was standing there like a schoolgirl hoping to be asked to prom. A foolish schoolgirl.

  Humiliation burned beneath my skin. “Please excuse me,” I said, grabbing the bag and jerking open the door. I rushed into the frozen air again. The jacket helped, but it wouldn’t have mattered either way. I ran as fast as I could without slipping on the ice, embarrassment and a devastating sense of loss driving me forward.

  I didn’t realize until I locked the door to my apartment and leaned against it, panting, that my cheeks were covered in frozen tears. I was such an idiot. And my heart hurt. Bad. Every beat sent an ache rocketing through my body. I was having a heart attack. Or, more likely, my heart had just broken.

  Either way, I realized my mistake—my attention was not where it should have been—when a man walked up beside me and grabbed my arm.

  8

  A lot of people are alive because

  I shed too much hair to get away with murder.

  —INTERNET MEME

  My heart lurched and lodged somewhere in my esophagus as I tried to karate-chop the intruder. Sadly, I didn’t know karate. And he was very well versed in escape and evasion. He easily sidestepped my blow and ducked past the next one.

  “It’s me,” he said, catching my arm again.

  I jerked out of his grip. “What the fuck, Ian?”

  “Where have you been?”

  I gaped at him. He’d essentially broken into my apartment and he was grilling me? “How did you get in here?”

  He dangled a key in front of my face, his watery blue eyes waterier than usual. He’d been drinking. “I was worried about you.” As though that would explain away the key.

  “How did you get a key to my apartment?” I asked, strolling to my cracker-box kitchen and setting the bag on the counter, thoroughly annoyed with myself. I’d forgotten to get James his sandwich, as frozen and mushed as it was.

  James was a homeless guy who lived in an abandoned, partially collapsed shed across the street from me. I’d never actually seen him. I’d heard him. He always sang as I walked home from work, and I finally stopped to talk to him one day. He wouldn’t come out of his cubby of boxes and blankets, but he did tell me his name was James and that he was from the planet Hazelnut. Before that, I’d had no idea there even was a planet named Hazelnut, but I totally wanted to move there. Hazelnut tasted great in coffee. I fucking loved science.

  “I had one made in case of emergency,” he said.

  I wiped at my face furiously. This had gone too far. It was time to end it. Right after he gave me a ride back to the café. I would have borrowed Mabel’s car, which had actually been my plan, but it wasn’t in the drive. Apparently her great-nephew had borrowed it again. That kid was such an inconvenience.

  “I was worried about you,” Ian continued. “You freaking passed out at work. You could have a concussion.”

  “I don’t. Someone caught me before I hit the floor.”

  Emotion spiked inside him. “Who?”

  “A guy. You don’t know him. Wait, how did you get into my apartment again?”

  When he dangled the key a second time, I swiped it out of his hand.

  “What the hell?” he asked, trying to swipe it back, but I’d curled it into my fist and stuck it behind my back. If he wanted it, he was going to have to fight me for it, and I was not above swallowing it, though the key ring might present a problem. Also, I didn’t particularly cherish the thought of another visit to the emergency room. That would take some explaining.

  “You don’t get to just make copies of people’s keys, Ian. I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”

  “Not when they’re dating.”

  I leveled a warning glare on him as I took off Reyes’s jacket and walked back to my bathroom. I’d wanted a scorching-hot Reyes, but a scorching-hot shower would have to do. Yet I couldn’t even have that with Ian here. “Ian, we’re not dating. We talked about this.”

  “What do you call it then?”

  He followed me. Into the bathroom. Unbelievable.

  “We go out to eat,” he argued. “We go to the movies. We watch television together.”

  When I looked in the mirror, I wanted to cry. I really was blue. My lips were a particularly pretty shade of violet, had they been a sweater or a sport drink. And my hair resembled a wig that had caught fire.

  I ran my fingers through it and cringed. Reyes had seen me like this. I couldn’t have looked worse if I’d had scales and a forked tongue.

  “What do you call that?”

  “Hanging,” I said, dragging out the tiny travel blow dryer I found at Goodwill. It was worth every cent of that two dollars and, sadly, not much more. It would take forever to dry my hair, so I concentrated on the roots. I yelled at Ian over the sound of the dryer. “That’s what friends do, Ian. They hang.” Not for much longer, though, if I had anything to say about it. This was getting downright creepy.

  I rethought telling Ian about Mr. Vandenberg. He didn’t seem the most stable of men. Maybe Bobert would come through and I could talk to the FBI tomorrow. Until then, Mr. V and his family were in mortal danger. I needed to get to the café and check to see if he’d gone back to the shop. If those men were still with him. Maybe they got what they were after and left, but I doubted it. I tried to come up with a plan. If only I could slip a note to Mr. V somehow. I’d have to think on it.

  “We going to dinner?” Ian asked over the hum of the dryer, dismissing the conversation we’d been having.

  “If you want to eat at the café, we are.”

  He wilted. “I wanted to take you somewhere nice.”

  “I’m not dressed for nice. I look like a blue Popsicle with hair.”

  A smile slid across his face. He was trying to make amends. “I like Popsicles.”

  It didn’t work. Sadly, if Reyes had said that, I would have melted into a pretty blue puddle. Ian didn’t give my girly bits quite the same zing.

  “Out,” I said once I got my roots fairly dry and the rest of my hair pulled up into a ponytail. I pointed to the door, ordering my unwanted company out. I had to change if I was going anywhere, and the last thing I wanted to do was give Ian another reason to think there was more between us than there was by changing in front of him. That would be equivalent to throwing gasoline onto a fire.

  He backed out, his slow moves evidence of his reluctance. What did he think? I’d scramble out the window? I looked toward it. It was way too small. I’d never make it.

  “I’ll warm up the car,” he said.

  I gave him a thumbs-up, then shut the door and collapsed against it. The Reyes Effect was still screaming though me, pulsing along my nerve endings, whetting my appetite for more. But it didn’t matter. I had to get my hormones under control. He loved someone else, and there was nothing I could do about it. Absolutely nothing.

  I changed clothes, then pulled Reyes’s jacket
on, breathing him in as I did so. Before I left, I said a quick good-bye to Irma.

  “Hold down the fort, Irm!”

  I had no idea what her name really was. She was there when I’d rented the apartment, hovering with her nose in a corner, never moving, never speaking, her toes several inches from the floor. She wore a bright floral muumuu and love beads despite her tiny stature and advanced age. She was old enough for blue hair, so I was guessing she was at least seventy.

  I almost didn’t rent the apartment when I saw her there, but I really needed out of that storeroom, and this was the only thing I could afford. Once I got used to her, I couldn’t imagine the apartment without her.

  As usual, I didn’t get a reply from Irma. Ian was in his running car when I braved the cold once again. At least it had quit raining at last. I held up an index finger to tell him to give me a minute, then ran next door and knocked lightly on Mable’s window. I didn’t want to wake her if she was already asleep, but she called out for me to come in.

  “Hey, hon,” I said, dragging a frozen, wet sandwich out of the paper bag.

  Mable was already in her pajamas and housecoat, getting ready to settle down for the evening. “Have you seen my brush?” she asked me. “The brown one?”

  I chuckled. “Not lately. I brought your favorite, but it’s kind of squished. And frozen.”

  “Oh, honey, squished and frozen are my middle names.”

  Yesterday her middle name was suppository. Long story.

  She hurried over, her face the picture of glee. Surely she could roast the sandwich to dry it out a bit. Make it crunchy.

  “Can I borrow the car when Stan brings it back?”

  “You can borrow it now. He doesn’t have it. Little shit wrecked it the other night.”

  Alarmed, I asked, “Is he okay?”

  “He’s fine. It was just a fender bender. Barely left a scratch. Nothing to write the governor about.”

  That woman loved to write the governor. “That’s good. So it’s not in the shop?”

  “Nope. It’s in my backyard. He doesn’t get to take it anymore until he pays for the damage.”

  “God bless you. Kids these days.” I didn’t mention the fact that Stan and I were very close to the same age.

  “But you can take it anytime, sweet cheeks.”

  “Thank you,” I said, rushing around her counter to give her a squeeze.

  She fought me off with a threatening wave of her spatula, but relented and let me give her a quick hug.

  “Key’s on the hook.”

  I grabbed the key to her Fiesta, wishing I’d known about the car situation beforehand. I could’ve avoided another evening with the cop voted most likely to be put on administrative leave pending a psych eval. It was a real award. Oh well, surveillance could begin later. It might be better if it did, in fact. I could check out Mr. V’s house after bedtime when everyone had settled in for the night.

  I ran outside, held up my finger again to an ever-more-agitated Ian, and sprinted across the street, only almost busting my ass on the ice once. I saw a soft glow coming from inside the shed. He must have gotten oil for his lamp.

  I picked my way carefully through the brush and to the fallen structure. “James?” I called out.

  He didn’t like me to get too close, so I put the bag just outside what used to be the shed door.

  “I’m leaving your sandwich here. I apologize for the state it’s in.”

  After a moment, I heard a grunt and then a honk.

  A honk!

  Ian had honked at me. I whirled around and glared at him, though I doubted he could see me. I would not be honked at. That was absolutely the final straw. This ended tonight.

  I could’ve just broken off our friendship right then and there and taken Mable’s car, but I wanted to explain to him why we couldn’t see each other anymore. And I wanted to do it in a public place. I didn’t trust him. Thinking back, I’d never really trusted him. Even that first night.

  We drove to the café, which took all of two minutes, in absolute silence. He knew the honking thing had set me on edge, so he wisely kept his mouth shut. His emotions, however, raged behind his stony visage, and they spoke volumes. He was pissed. At me. For being mad at him. At least that was my guess. Of all the gall. I suddenly could not wait for our relationship to come to an end.

  But I’d been wrong. Once we pulled up to the café, he turned off the engine and faced me. “Whose jacket is that?”

  He was just noticing? Some cop.

  “It’s a friend’s.”

  “What friend? You don’t have any friends.”

  “Well, fuck you very much,” I said, turning to leave.

  He grabbed my arm for the second time that evening. I did a twisty move and jerked out of his grip. For the second time that evening.

  “Look, Ian, this whole friendship thing we have going on isn’t really working out for me.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I would love to be friends with you, but you don’t know where to draw the line. I see no other choice but to end our friendship altogether.”

  The calmness that came over him should have been a sign. An indicator of what he was truly capable of. I felt anger swell hot and fast inside him, but on the outside, he was a picture of amiable reserve, the way a nun might be at a kegger.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone soft as though he were talking to a child. “Let’s just have dinner, okay? Then we can talk about it.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  He lowered his head, and I saw the shimmer of wetness gather between his lashes. But nowhere in his emotions did I pick up even a hint of remorse. “I’m so bad at this. I know. And I’m sorry, Janey. I don’t want to lose you as a friend.”

  Praise the Lord. At least we were finally back to being friends and nothing more. That, I could live with. Maybe.

  “So, we’re friends, right?”

  He raised a hopeful expression. “Right.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “Nothing more. I just … Well, you’re really special to me, and I just worry about you.”

  I had to admit, he was a good actor, but a coldness had settled over him. He was resting one hand on the keys still in the ignition as though waiting for my response. I had little choice but to do some character acting myself.

  I smiled at him and, taking that extra step that always impresses directors, threw my arms around his neck. His anger dissipated, though not entirely, and he hugged me back.

  When I pulled away, I said, “Let’s eat, yes?”

  For the barest fraction of a microsecond, he narrowed his lids in suspicion.

  I didn’t give him a chance to dwell on my sudden shift in moods very long. I bounced out of the car with a flirty “I’m starved.”

  He followed at a slower pace, so I wrapped an arm in his, sending him a thousand different mixed signals. But his peace of mind was hardly my priority. I just wanted to be near people. People who could call the police should the need arise.

  I totally needed a phone.

  * * *

  Making sure to sit where I could see the alley, I scooted into a booth. Ian tried to sit next to me. After I shot him a warning glare on the dos and don’ts of friendship, he moved to the other side.

  Shayla, a tiny, fairylike creature who defined the phrase cuter than a bug’s ear, brought us some menus. “Can’t get enough of us?” she asked, teasing.

  “It’s the excellent service.”

  She giggled, took our drink orders, and went to wait on another table. I was half hoping Reyes would be in. Maybe we couldn’t have a relationship, but I could damned well look upon him when he presented himself to be looked upon. That wasn’t so much stalking as appreciating. Like art. And porn.

  We’d barely sat down when a truck pulled up behind Mr. V’s antiques store. I was hoping to see more of the van Cookie and I had seen that morning behind the dry-cleaning business. It hit me some time later that most supply
vans rarely carried boxes out of a business. Wasn’t it their jobs to carry boxes of supplies inside? So what would they have been carrying out?

  I’d racked my brain trying to remember which supply company the van had been with, but it just wasn’t coming to me.

  Cleaner Supply Warehouse.

  I blinked in surprise. It popped into my head out of nowhere the moment I’d stopped trying to remember it. I saw the green lettering on the white van clear as sunshine, a commodity we’d had far too little of lately.

  I jumped up, grabbed a pen off the checkout counter, and wrote the name down. I’d look the company up later. See how legit they were. For now, I focused on the truck, a red four-door Chevy I didn’t recognize. Two men got out and put the tailgate down. There was some kind of equipment in the back. I leaned in, but it was just too dark to see. Also, a set of fingers began snapping in my face.

  My ire rocketed to an all-time high as I scowled at Ian.

  He scowled back, his patience seeming to run thin as well. His audacity was reaching new levels of stupidity by the second. Why did I ever put up with him? Because when I first showed up, I had no one and he was nice.

  “Are you even on earth?” he asked.

  I bit back a retort. I had him in a public place. I could end things for good here, but first I needed to get a look at the contents of the truck before they hauled their load inside.

  Still, I was finished worrying about his feelings. “Order me a quesadilla.”

  “What? Where are you going?”

  “I’ll be back,” I said in my best Arnold voice, the niggling at the back of my mind concerned at how I could remember a line from a movie and, again, not my own name.

  I hurried to the alley exit and snuck out the door, trying to stick to the shadows and ever so grateful for Reyes’s jacket. Thankfully, there was a slight discrepancy in the length of the two buildings. They were connected, but the antiques store was a couple of feet longer, which gave me the perfect barrier to hide behind.