Getting in the Spirit (Violetta Graves Mysteries)

by Michele Bardsley

  For a moment, I glimpsed the man Dee probably fell in love with: calm gaze, shy smile, and perfect hair. But I knew better. My definitions of those attributes my sister once called ‘adorable’ (vomit) were way more jaded. The calm gaze was really one of disinterest. The shy smile was a sharp, arrogant crease of lips. And the perfect hair was a prime example of his OCD nature and his need for control. He hated when anyone messed with his shellacked Dan Rather style.

  I wanted to ruffle his hair.

  But I had to ruffle his feathers instead.

  “Did you take those ugly purple sheets? Seriously, dude. You have shitty taste,” I said because I’m at expert level: bitch.

  He sneered at me. “Shut up.”

  “Don’t tell my sister to shut up.” Dee’s voice trembled. “You can leave your house keys on the counter.”

  He glared at her. “I’m not leaving the keys. This is my house. You’re not going to get shit.”

  “Oh, you think so?” Dee grabbed the folder full of incriminating evidence and clutched it against herself like a shield. “I hired a private investigator to follow you and … and your scuzzy ho!”

  “You what?”

  Dee flung the folder at him. It smacked him on the arm and opened, the photos fluttering like ghostly shadows to the floor. He kneeled and picked up the one of him kissing Bimbo outside the entrance to Le Cirque.

  Darren leaned over and picked up the folder. He methodically re-filled it with the incriminating photos and then he straightened. He carefully placed the folder on the granite countertop. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Deidre?”

  “Me?” Dee cried. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”

  “Haven’t you?” he asked. “Our marriage falling apart isn’t just on me. We weren’t happy.”

  “I was,” she said. The tears fell harder, and Dee wrapped her arms around her stomach. “I was happy.”

  “Then you’ve been lying to yourself.” Darren’s jaw clenched, and for a second, I saw guilt flicker in his stony gaze. “Don’t be so goddamned self-absorbed. Not everything is about you.”

  The patronizing tone of Darren’s voice amazed me. He was playing armchair psychologist instead of guilty adulterer. Was he addressing the issue of Big Boobs—the mistress who rated fancy dinners and designer purses? Oh, no. He was addressing the issue of Deidre—the woman who took care of their child and their home. She’d been a Stepford wife—seeing to his needs, while he ignored hers. He owed her everything, not the least of which was loyalty.

  Dee paled and her shoulders slumped. She’d taken all the verbal punches she could handle right now and her husband knew it. He was going in for the kill, that ass monkey.

  I stepped between him and my sister and poked him in the chest. “Dee didn’t do jack shit, and you know it.” Poke. “You’re a liar.” Poke. “You’re selfish.” Poke. “And you put your teeny tiny dick into another woman.” Poke. Poke. Poke.

  Darren slapped my hand away and moved out of finger-poking range. Apparently he had some sense of self-preservation. “It’s none of your goddamned business, Vie.”

  “You keep saying that,” I said. Anger thrummed through me. I had a terrible urge to punch his face and follow it up with a knee to the balls. “I don’t give a fuck. You mess with my sister then you mess with me. End of story. Keep that in mind, would you? Leave your keys. And don’t fucking come back here. You left Dee and your son and this house. You know what that means, don’t you?”

  His cheek muscles twitched—and I knew that he was gritting his teeth. It was really costing him to keep his self-control. Good. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “You’re not that stupid.” I silently thanked Wives with Knives for educating me on the logistics of divorce. “You abandoned the marital home—and your wife and son. It’s not your house anymore.”

  Dee had gathered her composure and came to stand beside me. “If you want to get more of your things or to visit with Justin, you call first.”

  Darren looked like he’d realized he was dealing with mentally impaired people, and he needed to find the right tone and action to soothe us. Then he shook his head, as if he were loosening all the common sense in his damned skull, and the real Darren emerged.

  “Deirdre, you’re being unreasonable.”

  “Pardon me. I didn’t mean to be unreasonable.” She held out her hand. “Keys. Now.”

  I crossed my arms and stared at him. He looked as though he were contemplating the consequences of keeping the keys. If he thought him being an assistant district attorney would prevent me from tackling him, he was sadly mistaken. I spent the last fifteen years fucking up my life. I was good at it. Taking him to the ground would be worth every day in jail.

  Darren made a face like he’d been sucking on a lemon. He unclipped the house key from his ring and gave it to my sister.

  “Back door, too. And the side entrance to the garage.”

  He took off two more keys and slapped them into her palm. “This is temporary.”

  “Your face is temporary,” I said.

  Dee burst out laughing.

  “You two are insane.”

  “In the membrane,” I added. “Don’t let the door hit you where the good Lord split you.”

  After Darren left, Dee collapsed against the counter. “This sucks.”

  “Hardcore.” I hated seeing my sister defeated. “What time do you pick up Justin from Hogwart’s?”

  She snickered. “There’s no way you read those books.”

  “I watched one of the movies,” I defended. “So there.”

  “You’re hopeless.” She smiled. “I gotta pick Justin up at four p.m. Please tell me you have mischief planned.”

  “I have mischief planned.”

  “Excellent.”

  On the way to Madame Toussaud’s, I told Dee about my strange encounter with CSI Sara.

  “So we’re going on a recon mission?”

  “Yeah. I think it’s the best place to ask questions about making fake people.”

  “Who are real people.”

  I shuddered. “That’s so gross.”

  As soon as we got to the wax museum, we immediately began the serious undertaking of investigating its possible connection to Blaine Angel’s death.

  Ahahahahaha. Just kidding. We spent an hour making faces and sexually suggestive poses with celebrity statues. I can’t explain what we did with the Rock, but let’s just say that picture is going onto Facebook as soon as I can steal Dee’s phone and upload it onto her account.

  We finally made our way into the section featuring famous magicians. Lance Burton. David Copperfield. Penn and Teller. Harry Houdini. Some cute dude in a turban named P.C. Sorcar. And you know who else was among those wax figures? Jack Fucking Withers. According to the placard at the feet of his younger likeness was this: One of the Greatest Mentalists of All Time. Born March 6, 1933. Died July 4, 2001.

  Oh, I was having some words with Mr. Jack Withers. I knew his old ass was alive because Dee had met him. If she could see him and accept his bony hug, then he wasn’t a ghost. And ghosts couldn’t eat bacon cheeseburgers, either.

  Dee poked my arm. “That’s our Jack?”

  “Yep.”

  “It says he’s dead.”

  “Yep.”

  “He’s totally not dead.”

  “Yep.”

  “You’re going to hand him his ass, aren’t you?”

  I turned to her. “Damn skippy.”

  We made another circuit around the room, but we didn’t see Adam LaFarge. Supposedly, he’d been a big deal, and he’d been a popular Vegas magician (according to the Wikipedia article Dee read).

  We made our way to the gift shop and bought a toy and treat for Justin. When we paid for our purchases, Dee asked the clerk, “Who can we talk to about the wax figures? I mean, how they’re made.”

  “Oh, you can Google that, dear,” said the sweet-faced grandmotherly woman. She had tight gray curls and wrinkles on her wrinkles, and a sm
ile that made me think about warm chocolate chip cookies and crocheted blankets. “Oh! We do have this little pamphlet, though.” She pulled out one from underneath the counter and handed it to Dee. “Do you know it takes four months to make one human figure?”.

  “Four months?” I glanced at Dee. Blaine Angel hadn’t been dead for four months. Hell, I’d seen him at Fremont Street a month prior. Some show was filming him doing magic tricks for tourists.

  “Here’s a weird question,” said Dee. “Is it possible to make a dead body into one of those wax figures?”

  “It is a strange inquiry, dear, but you’re the second one to ask. A good-looking detective was in here yesterday asking the same thing. I’m sorry, but the answer is no. And I’ll tell you what I told him, you’re thinking of plastination.”

  She studied our faces and must’ve discerned, correctly, that we didn’t know what the hell she was talking about.

  “It a process that preserves the body. Water and fat are replaced by certain kinds of plastics. There’s a private facility here in Vegas that does plastination.” She stared at us, frowning. “They don’t just plastinate any body, you know. You can’t walk in with a corpse.”

  There went my idea for what to do with Darren.

  Also, did Dee and I really look like people who wanted to plastinate a dead body?

  “Thanks for your help,” said Dee. “You’re better than Google.”

  The clerk’s smile widened, pleased by the compliment.

  “By the way,” I said. “Why isn’t Adam LaFarge in the famous magicians display?”

  “I remember him. Such a good performer. It’s too bad he disappeared.” She waved toward the Strip. “The Black Dragon borrowed him. They’re hosting tribute event to honor Mr. LaFarge.” She paused. “I do think it’s morbid to celebrate on the exact day he disappeared ten years ago.”

  As Dee and I walked out of the museum, I said, “We need to talk to Edison.” I spun her around. “To the Black Dragon!”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said as we maneuvered through tourists. “Let’s march up to management and demand to talk to the billionaire owner of half the Strip. That’s gonna go well.”

  10

  We marched up to the Black Dragon’s check-in counter and asked for the manager. When a tall woman dressed in smart black suit and high heels came out, I asked to speak to Edison.

  The woman blinked. “You’re kidding, right?” She looked us over and shook her head. Her elaborate blonde up-do didn’t move. How much hairspray did the lady use? “I can’t give you access to Mr. Klatch.”

  “We know you can’t,” said Dee in a syrupy sweet voice. “So please get someone who can.”

  I elbowed my sister. “Look, just call him and tell him Violetta wants to see him.”

  The woman’s face turned incredulous. “That isn’t the way we do things here at the Black Dragon.”

  “You mean you don’t have direct access to your boss,” said Dee.

  The manager’s smile tightened. “You’ll have to talk to security.”

  She went behind the check-in counter and lifted the receiver of the phone. She spoke quietly to whoever was on the other end, and returned within a minute. “Wait here.” She turned on her heel and left us standing in the lobby.

  “We’re going to get thrown out,” hissed Dee. “We should make a run for it.”

  I half-agreed with her, but that’s when Gargantuan Man arrived and blocked our exit.

  “Hi,” I said weakly.

  “Miss Graves?”

  I nodded. “This is my sister, Dee.”

  “Nice to meet you.” He gestured for us to follow him. We moved in the opposite direction of the entrance.

  “You’re not going to take us out back and whack us, are you?” I asked. “Because I’d rather not do that.”

  He chuckled. “The mob days are long gone, Miss Graves. Today, it’s about lawsuits, politics, and media manipulation.”

  “I’d rather be whacked,” muttered Dee.

  We wound our way through the $100 slot machines, the high stakes poker rooms and then an area so posh, I’d never seen its like. This was no doubt where they entertained the whales. Whales were rich people who could afford to lose a million or two. In return, they were treated like royalty.

  We stopped at what was obviously a private elevator. The doors opened and Huge Guy gave us a little bow. “The elevator will take you directly to Mr. Klatch’s private residence.”

  “He lives here?” I asked.

  “Sometimes,” said our escort. “Good day, ladies.”

  The doors closed. Dee and I turned and looked at each other. “Can you believe this shit?” I asked.

  “I think we’ve fallen into an alternate universe,” said Dee.

  “If that were true, I could blow up Darren with just the power of my mind.”

  “You should at least try.”

  “I will.”

  The doors opened, revealing a fancy lobby with black marble floors, deep red walls, and gold accents. We stepped out and looked around.

  “If I was wearing socks, I’d totally Risky-Business-it all the way across the floor,” said Dee.

  “I bet we could floor-sled on our butts.”

  “It’s too level,” said a male voice. “But I do have a water slide you could use.”

  I yelped, and Dee took a karate stance. She took karate in third grade, and I think made it to a red belt or something. However, there was nothing in front of us to scream and/or ineffectively karate chop.

  “Behind you,” said the voice.

  We whirled around.

  Edison leaned against the wall near the elevators and offered us a wicked grin.

  “Where the hell did you come from?” I asked.

  “A secret door.”

  He said nothing else so I assumed we weren’t going to be shown where the so-called secret door was located.

  “I’m glad you stopped by, Violetta,” he said. “And this is your sister, Deirdre?”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Dossiers.”

  He walked around us and we followed, trailing him like confused puppies.

  “You’re kidding, right?” asked Dee.

  “No.” Edison led us into a living room that seemed to have sprung from the pages of a Look-at-Me-I’m-Rich magazine. The furniture was white and all squared off. It looked as uncomfortable as hell, too. What was it called? Modern style? More like make-your-ass-hurt style. On the right were floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the Strip and the desert beyond. There was also a black marble fireplace with weird purple flames flickering inside. Instead of logs, there were black shiny rocks.

  “Please sit,” said Edison as he waved us over to the square-y chairs.

  Dee chose the couch and made a face as she tried to get comfortable. I perched on the end of a chair. Nope. My butt did not like it at all.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “We just wanted to ask you if you killed Adam LaFarge,” I said.

  Dee stared at me open-mouthed.

  Edison blinked.

  “Granted, asking a potential killer if he’s a potential killer isn’t too smart, but I’m guessing we’re pretty safe. You don’t want ruin your furniture with blood streaks.”

  “You’re holding my furniture hostage?” he asked. “I’m a billionaire, Violetta. I could replace everything in this room before your bodies were buried.”

  It was my turn to gape.

  He laughed as he rounded the couch and sat on the opposite side as Dee. “I haven’t killed anyone, especially not Adam LaFarge. My late father and Adam were good friends. I was in college when he disappeared. He was long divorced and had no children. I figured it was up to me to honor his legacy. That’s why I gave David Criss an exclusive two-year contract to perform at the Black Dragon. Adam mentored him—and Blaine Angel. I thought it was fitting for Criss to launch his new show as part of the tribute.” He leaned back, his gaze one of amusement. “Why do
you think I killed Adam?”

  “She doesn’t,” said Dee. “I mean, we don’t. We wanted to know about your Adam LaFarge event. We went to Madame Toussaud’s to see his wax figure, and a lady there said you borrowed it.”

  “Like I said, I wanted to do a tribute to Adam.”

  “On the ten-year anniversary of his disappearance?” I asked.

  “Salaciousness greases the wheels of publicity.” Edison shrugged. “It was David’s suggestion. I ran it past our PR team, and they loved the idea.”

  “What are you going to do now that David Criss is in police custody?” Dee asked the question like she was a murder cop. I expected her to whip out a notepad and pen to write down his answer.

  His expression registered surprise. “What are you talking about? David will be performing as scheduled. He’s in the theatre now, practicing.“

  11

  “Is he crazy?” I jumped up from the chair. “Somebody wants to murder him, and he’s waltzing around the same place where Blaine was killed?”

  “With a security detail,” added Edison. “No one will disturb David, much less murder him. Trust me.”

  Dee popped up from the couch. “You’ve obviously never watched a single episode of Stalked: Someone’s Watching.”

  “Or I Am Homicide,” I added.

  “Or Disappeared.”

  “Or Who Killed Jane Doe?”

  Dee glanced me. “That one doesn’t make any sense in this context.”

  “I know. I just really like that show.”

  Edison cleared his throat. “Ladies, I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about. But if it makes you feel better, we can go check on David.”

  While we were walking to the elevator, Edison pulled a cell phone from his suit jacket’s inner pocket. “Debra? Please let Mr. Bliss’ security detail know that I’m coming down for a visit.” He paused. “And get me the entire the season of—“

  He looked at Dee. “What was that first one called?”

  “Stalked: Someone’s Watching,” she said. “But if you want to play detective with us, you need to watch a lot more of the Investigation Discovery Channel.”