Getting in the Spirit (Violetta Graves Mysteries)

by Michele Bardsley

  I let the papers flutter to the table. “You want me to throw him off the Hoover Dam?”

  “Would you?” Dee smiled, but the corners of her mouth drooped. “C’mon. I told you, we had a mission.” She got up from the table. “Ready?”

  4

  “Have a seat, ladies.”

  Harry Grudd, private investigator, looked like a bear dressed in human clothes. He was a big guy, hairy, just like his first name, and he had the hands the size of Volvos. I couldn’t stop stared at his amazing eyebrows. They looked like fat caterpillars resting above his unsettling blue eyes.

  Dee elbowed me, and I tore my gaze away from Harry’s craggy face. I sat down in one of two foldout metal chairs, and Dee took the other one. Harry’s place of business, crammed between a dry cleaners and an Albertson’s, was small, stifling, and smelled like stale pizza and cigarette smoke. My gaze traveled across his crowded desk, to the file cabinets overflowing with papers then down to the stained carpeting. Eh. I’d lived in hotel rooms that looked and smelled worse.

  On the way to the PI’s office, Dee told me how she’d hired Harry to find out more about the “other woman.” I’m not sure the state of Nevada cared about adultery, but I don’t think Dee wanted divorce fodder.

  She wanted answers.

  Harry leaned over the desk and handed Dee a black folder. She clutched it in her hands, her face filled with trepidation.

  Harry’s blue gaze held empathy. “Maybe you don’t wanna look.”

  “Of course, I don’t,” said Dee. “But I’m going to anyway.” Her fingers trembled against the folder. She blew out a breath and flipped it open.

  I leaned over to get a peek at Miss Hussy and immediately wanted to puke. A full-color photo of Darren and a buxom blonde kissing passionately was framed against the dancing fountains at Bellagio. Well, that’s how he kept his affair secret for so long. Most Las Vegans didn’t venture to the Strip unless forced by out-of-town visitors or enticed by good buffet coupons.

  The next photo showed Cheater McCheaterPants and his hussy inside Bellagio, standing at the stairwell to Le Cirque, a restaurant so classy, I didn’t own a single dress that would allow me to walk into the joint.

  It hadn’t escaped my attention that Darren was conducting his affair at the same hotel where he’d met his wife. His assholery knew no bounds.

  “What. The. Fuck.” Dee’s gazed turned murderous. “On our last anniversary, Darren took me to Macaroni Grill. Me. His wife. Mother of his child. And he takes this bitch to Le Cirque.”

  The next photo showed them, hand in hand, strolling through Via Bellagio—the exclusive, expensive shopping promenade in the hotel. I think breathing the air in that place cost money.

  “Please tell me he did not buy her a Hermès bag,” said Dee her voice a mixture of hurt, anger, and disbelief. “And a wallet?”

  Yep. There was Darren, idiot of the century, whipping out a credit card to purchase gifts for Big Boobs.

  “How much is Hermès bag and wallet?” I asked.

  “Seven grand, give or take,” said Harry.

  I choked on my spit. “Seven thousand dollars? That’s insane!”

  “Some people got money to burn.”

  “He doesn’t,” said Dee, slapping the folder shut. “I want to hire a hit man.”

  Harry put his elbows on the desk and steepled his hands. Those monstrous eyebrows squiggled just enough to suggest they might scurry off his head. “I don’t recommend doing anything that’ll get you sent to prison.”

  “She’s not serious,” I said. “Right, Dee?”

  “We could take him to Red Rock Canyon, stake him to the ground, and leave him to roast in the sun.”

  “Or you could hire a divorce attorney,” said Harry. He opened a drawer, extracted a card, and handed it to Dee. “Don’t get even, Mrs. Hamilton. Get everything.”

  Dee showed me the card. Silver Rochester, Divorce & Custody Attorney.

  “We have another mission?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Dee, tucking the business card into her purse. “And it involves alcohol.”

  I took Dee to the MGM Grand buffet. I vetoed her attempts to drive because despite trying to put on a brave face, she was obviously upset. Her hands were shaking so bad, she dropped the folder with its awful contents three times. I also nixed daytime drinking, which was out of character for me. I wasn’t used to being the adult in our relationship. Dee was quiet as we inched our way down the Strip. We found a decent spot in the parking garage and trekked to the buffet. If you didn’t know your way around a casino-resort, you were screwed. It wasn’t like hotels offered Sherpas. Why do you think there aren’t windows or clocks? So you lose your sense of time. Add in free booze and noisy shinies and boom. You’re handing over your money, your time, and, in some cases, your soul.

  After we paid and the hostess showed us a table, it took us 1.2 seconds to grab our first plates and pile on the food.

  The clank of silverware, the murmur of voices, the soft strains of music, and the whirring sounds of competing slot machines felt familiar and soothing. I know. Only I could find solace in a place designed for excitement. The tangy scents of mouth-watering dishes mixed with the MGM’s signature perfume. Casinos pumped in a pleasant scent hoping that it inspired happy money-spending thoughts with gamblers. Plus, the perfume covered the smoke-sweat-sour stench that would otherwise permeate the air.

  After we sat down, Dee stared morosely at her plate arranged with steamed vegetables and grilled chicken. My own plate held a carnivore’s paradise with prime rib, shrimp, pork, and beef tips. The only vegetable was the pile of mashed potatoes soaked in gravy.

  A perky server approached. She was sooooo cute with her black hair in a French braid, along with her thin frame and fresh face. Her college-girl smile was as sweet as the naïve twinkle of joy in her eyes. Aw. Vegas hadn’t yet withered her soul.

  “Drinks, ladies?”

  Dee ordered diet Coke, and I went for iced tea. I wasn’t much of a soda fan unless there was booze in it.

  Dee looked at me. Her eyes were shiny with pain. “I thought he wanted little Suzy Homemaker—”

  “No, he wanted little Scuzzy Ho Maker.”

  She laughed and blinked away her tears. We both glanced at her healthy plate of low calorie sadness, and I said, “Excuse me.” I returned with the proper food for heartbreak, pushed aside Dee’s crappy lunch, and put the dessert-laden plate in front of her. She picked up her fork and went for the cheesecake first.

  “If I sate my urges with this deliciousness, my body will think dessert equals orgasm.”

  “You’re not completely wrong,” I said, returning to my seat and diving into my prime rib. “Tell you what, let’s go toilet paper Darren’s car and throw eggs at his office windows.”

  “I’m in.” She sighed. “How am I going to tell Justin? He’s not even five-years-old—and he has to deal with this crap?”

  “He’ll be fine. Kids are resilient.”

  “What about adults?”

  “Not so much.”

  Our server delivered our drinks. I held up my glass, and Deirdre lifted hers.

  “Here’s to getting everything,” I said.

  “With my sanity intact,” said Dee. We clinked glasses and took long sips.

  “I think we should cut off Darren’s dick and put it in a jar,” I said. “We won’t even need a big one, just one of those baby food jars.”

  Deirdre almost spit out her drink. She managed to swallow—barely—and then started laughing so hard she almost fell out of her chair.

  “I love you, Vie.”

  “I love you back,” I said. “Now eat your dessert. We have revenge to plot.”

  Dee and I returned to the car. We had come up with at least seven viable revenge plots, and I think Dee felt better—well, less homicidal. She’s stopped shaking like a nervous Chihuahua, and she seemed more like her spunky self. She took the driver’s seat. I heaved myself into the passenger side. God, I was full. Beyo
nd full. Ugh. That was the price paid for buffet dining. I was already planning a long nap. I couldn’t wait to crawl into bed and hug my pillow.

  Baby Got Back erupted from my phone. I dug it out of my purse and answered. “Hey, Matt.”

  “Did you talk to anyone about Blaine’s murder?”

  “No,” I said. “Unless you count reporters at the Las Vegas Review-Journal.”

  “That’s not funny, Vie. Can you come to my office?”

  His urgent tone dampened my smart-assery. “Yeah. Sure. Dee and I just finished stuffing our faces. We’ll head there now.”

  We hung up. Dee had already turned down Las Vegas Boulevard.

  “Why are we going to see Matt?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I think it has something to do with Blaine Angel’s murder.”

  “Shut. Up. Blaine Angel is dead?”

  Oh, right. I hadn’t had a chance to fill in her yet. I told Dee everything about my visit to the Black Dragon, including the part where Monetti’s mother asked for my help. After I was done spewing my guts, my sister offered a heartfelt, “Holy crap.”

  “You ain’t kiddin’.”

  Dee and I waited in the lobby. A couple of uniformed officers passed through, and I immediately recognized the wavy-haired cop from the crime scene. He seemed to recognize me, too. He looked at me a second too long, frowning.

  His buddy bumped his shoulder. “C’mon Capelle. You owe me a Snickers from the vending machine.”

  Capelle walked away, but cast one last suspicious glance over his shoulder.

  “What did you do that guy?” asked Dee.

  “Exist.” I shrugged. “I saw him at the crime scene the other day. Maybe he doesn’t like my face.”

  Dee pinched my cheeks. “Who wouldn’t love this face?” she asked in a voice reserved for babies and dogs. “Such a cutie patootie. Yes, you are.”

  I slapped her hands away. “Shut up.”

  Matt arrived in the lobby with a man who was at least half a foot taller, not to mention wider.

  “Edison?”

  Mountain Man looked at me and grinned. “Violetta. We meet again. I thought you and the law weren’t friends.”

  I glanced at Matt. He lifted an eyebrow, his gaze questioning.

  “I had to lower my standards. You know how it is.”

  Edison laughed. “I do. I hope to see you again, Violetta.” He turned and shook Matt’s hand. “Thanks for everything, Detective. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “Will do.”

  Edison lumbered out of the building. I shook my head. “Is he a football player or something?”

  “I think he played in college,” said Matt. “But nowadays he’s too busy being a billionaire developer.”

  “What?”

  “That’s E. L. Katch, Vie,” said my sister. “He owns half the Strip. Including the Black Dragon. How the hell do you know him?”

  Matt crossed his arms. “Yes. How do you know him?”

  “We met at the crime scene. Briefly.”

  “Hmm.” Matt wore his super serious cop expression. I immediately felt like I was in trouble. For once, I hadn’t done anything wrong. Talking to some guy wasn’t a crime. Sheesh. My thoughts turned to the murder, and I tried to avoid looking guilty. Okay. I’d told my sister about the Blaine’s death, which didn’t count because I didn’t tell her until after Matt’s call, and besides, I couldn’t keep secrets from Dee. She was too well versed in my lying skills.

  “C’mon,” said Matt. “Sorry, Deidre. You’ll have to stay here.”

  “You might as well include her,” I said. “She knows everything.”

  He gave me a what-the-fuck look.

  “What? She’s not a reporter.”

  “Fine. But don’t tell anyone else.” Matt escorted us through the building and into an interview room. He shut the door and turned toward us. “Do you know Gretchen Montrose?”

  “No,” Dee and I said at the same time.

  “She’s also known as Greta the Great.”

  “Wait,” I said. That name sparked a memory. “She does some kind of show at one of the downtown casinos, right? Frank’s mentioned her before.” Frank was my friend/lawyer, and also a drag queen/Marilyn Monroe impersonator. He knew almost every entertainer on the Strip. “He said she was an old hack.” Actually, “hack” wasn’t the word he used, but I wasn’t going to use the c-word in front of Matt. Also, Dee hated that particular word and would whap me upside the head.

  “She’s been around Vegas for the last fifty years doing the same psychic schtick. I wouldn’t have taken her seriously except I know now that some psychics are real.” He looked at me.

  “I’m not a psychic,” I said. “I see ghosts.”

  “That makes her a medium,” added Dee, not-so-helpfully.

  “The point is that Gretchen showed up a few minutes ago, claiming she had a vision of Blaine Angel’s murder.” He grimaced. “I don’t believe her, but she knows details about our crime scene that haven’t been released to the public.”

  Wait a minute. I glared at him. “You think I told her? Seriously?”

  “I had to ask,” he said.

  “Humph.”

  Dee squeezed my shoulder, and her compassion ratcheted down my hurt. “Why are we here? You didn’t ask us to come in just to insult Vie, did you?”

  “I didn’t insult—“ he cut himself off. “Look, I’m a detective. I’m going to do everything necessary to solve a case, even if that includes asking my girlfriend uncomfortable questions.” He took my hand and kissed my knuckles. “There are some things we’re just going to have accept about each other.”

  I got a tingle in my belly from the brush of his lips against my hand. I suppose if he could embrace my ghost abilities, I could tolerate his murder inquiries. Also, he called me his girlfriend again, and in front of Dee. A witness!

  “You’re right,” I said. “What do you need from us?”

  “Greta’s in an interview room with Monetti,” he said. “I want you to observe and tell me your impressions.”

  “You want to know if I see any spirits around her.”

  “Exactly.”

  “We get to stand behind a two-way mirror, don’t we?” Dee grinned. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  My sister’s ID addiction allowed an interrogation to be the perfect distraction from her marital woes. Hey, I’d take it. Seeing Dee excited was better than witnessing her devastation.

  “Let’s go ghost hunting.” I looped my arm around hers, and we followed Matt out of the room.

  5

  “This is the modern-day version of the two-way mirror,” said Matt. “We watch interviews via closed circuit video.”

  “Works for me,” said Dee.

  We sat down around Matt’s desk, and he brought up the feed on his computer monitor.

  Greta the Great looked every inch the clichéd fortuneteller. She was dressed in heavy purple robes. Chunky jewelry glittered from every finger. She also wore a satin red turban. Her make-up was over-the-top—trying to be exotic Gypsy but really portraying sad clown.

  “Detective Monetti,” said Greta in a thick accent. “Will you follow the guidance of the spirits?”

  “I need evidence,” said Monetti. “Far as I know, ghosts can’t testify.”

  “They testify through me.”

  “Yeah. Well, that’s considered hearsay, and it’s not valid in court. And it won’t get me an arrest warrant.”

  Greta huffed. “Haven’t I told you the truth? You’ve checked out my story, I’m sure.”

  “So you know a few weird things. Coincidence.”

  The woman pointed at him, her ring finger quivering in accusation. “You are a non-believer.”

  “What I believe is irrelevant. It’s what I can prove.”

  I had to give it to Monetti. He was a cool customer. Even with the shadows under his eyes and wrinkles in his shirt, his exhaustion was well hidden. He was ultra professional. I didn’t see his
mom around, which was a relief. I still had no idea how to handle that situation.

  “Very well.” Greta inhaled a deep breath and put her fingers to her temples. “Come in great spirits of the beyond! Bring forth your truth and speak through me!”

  “I’m both fascinated and horrified,” murmured Dee.

  Greta began to quake then she threw her head back and gurgled. Within seconds, she straightened, her eyes wide, and began to speak in a deep monotone.

  I couldn’t stop the burst of laughter. Dee pinched the back of my arm.

  “Ow!”

  “I can’t hear,” she hissed.

  “You don’t need to hear. She’s full of shit. There aren’t any spirits in that room with her.”

  “Shush!”

  I rolled my eyes, but I shut my trap.

  “The death of Blaine Angel will not be the last,” Greta intoned. “David Criss is in daaaaaanger.” Greta gasped, and her eyes widened more. “Vengeance for…for…” The woman shuddered and collapsed against the table.

  “Who’s she kidding?”

  “Aaaaah!” I wheeled around and saw Annette floating about a foot off the floor, completely unrepentant about scaring the hell out of me. “Greta’s never accepted that she’s past her expiration date. Her shtick is so 1940s.”

  I pressed a hand against my chest. My heart hammered against my fingertips. “Did you come here to talk shit about Greta, or did you just want to make me pee my pants?”

  “Nah. That’s a bonus,” she said, grinning.

  “Vie, who’re you talking to?” asked Dee.

  “Annette. She’s the former assistant to David Criss.”

  “One of many,” said Annette. “He goes through assistants the same way I used to go through a box of Ethel M’s. Anyway. I found His Royal Doucheness.”

  “Where?”

  “Hiding out in a crappy motel room in Boulder with his booze friends Jose and Jack. He’s paranoid—I mean, more so than usual. The place is right off the highway—The Juggler’s Inn. Room two-oh-three.”

  “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  Annette saluted me before shooting up through the ceiling.