Spellcasting in Silk: A Witchcraft Mystery
Page 29
“Not much of a history buff, I take it.”
“Never have been. The past is gone, irrelevant. It’s the future I’m interested in.”
Unless, of course, that past was quite literally haunting you and keeping you from selling your obscenely priced home so you could golf in peace and retire to cocktails in your Bollinger.
* * *
I felt a little surge of triumph that Andrew and I hadn’t tripped over any bodies while making our tour through the Crosswinds mansion.
I know, I know. I’m getting stranger by the day. And certainly there are some houses I work on where my biggest problem is a plumbing backflow issue or dry rot or earthquake bracing. But by and large, when I’m introduced to a haunted house, I tend to trip over bodies. Perhaps with Crosswinds, I would be able to deal with renovation issues and ancient ghosts, rather than getting involved in any contemporary murders. Fingers crossed.
I sat in my Scion outside Crosswinds, looking up at the beautiful Victorian exterior while I placed a few calls. First, I dialed a certain one-named psychic. Chantelle answered with an appealing, husky voice. She laughed when I mentioned Andrew Stirling and Crosswinds.
“He hasn’t been able to sell it, has he? I told him so. One thousand dollars.”
“Excuse me?”
“I charge one thousand dollars for a drop-in. You’re lucky. I just had a cancellation at three.”
“But . . . I’m not seeking a reading or anything like that,” I clarified. “I just wanted to talk to you about what you saw—and felt—at Crosswinds.”
“I understand that, sweetheart. One K, that’s my rate. Charge it to Stirling. He’ll pay. The man has more money than sense.”
Luckily for me, clients with more money than sense were my specialty.
* * *
Chantelle’s apartment was in a disappointingly 1970s condo building at the corner of Jones and Clay. The doorman, Gabe, had been told to expect me, and he buzzed me right in. He wore a surprisingly formal monkey suit but didn’t look the part otherwise. He was young and tattooed, his eyes were bleary, and he had a serious five-o’clock shadow. He had appeared asleep when I walked in.
“How’re you doing?” I asked.
He shrugged. “You know how it is. Late night. Chantelle’s on the ninth floor.”
I let myself into the elevator and wooshed up to the ninth floor.
Down the hall, the door to 916 was ajar, and a woman stood just outside, in the corridor. She seemed ethereal, beautiful eyes. Wow. If this was Chantelle, it was no wonder people spent a thousand bucks for a meeting. Even from a distance, she seemed . . . special. Perhaps she really could tell me something.
“Chantelle?” I asked. “I’m Mel. Mel Turner.”
She nodded, and without a word turned and went into the apartment. I followed her.
And found her on the floor, blood pooling.
Looking for more?
Visit Penguin.com for more about this author and a complete list of their books.
Discover your next great read!
Table of Contents
Praise
Also by Juliet Blackwell
Title Page
Copyright
Contents
Dedication
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
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Excerpt from GIVE UP THE GHOST