Ciarra Pacelli studied the doctor sitting across from her in the booth. No doubt drop dead gorgeous with the blond crew cut hair and glistening baby blue eyes. The women must swarm after him. The appealing tan he sported was dark enough, but didn’t overpower the rest of his amazing features.
She closed her eyes for a brief few seconds to regain control and remember her husband, Jack.
Well, actually her deceased husband.
This was silly. She wasn’t hard up for a man. She would never have another man in her life again, not like Jack at least. Sure, she had needs. And there had only been two times she’d gotten smashed after drinking a little too much vodka and satisfied those needs with a complete stranger. She’d regretted it the next morning and for a long time afterward. No matter how often her father had told her it was time to let go, she couldn’t give herself the permission to do so. No matter how she tried to look at things different with the couple of semi-interesting men she’d met since, it always came back to Jack. She couldn’t imagine loving another man again, at least not in this lifetime.
But with Trent Moore, an instant spark sizzled beneath the surface, almost like a heightened sense . . . or an adrenaline rush. It spooked her, because she hadn’t felt an instant attraction with anyone other than Jack.
“Would any of your relatives have a reason to dig up the grave?”
His brows drew in. “You’re joking, right?” When she didn’t respond, he pushed his coffee aside and sat up straighter. “You aren’t. Holy . . . none of my brothers or my sister is that deranged to do something so utterly sick.”
“I’m sorry, doctor. I had to ask.” Still, she would keep any possible options including whether or not any family member was crazy enough to dig up a grave wide open. “Your father’s grave is the fourth one desecrated at the local cemeteries.”
“Really?” he questioned, as he sat back crossing his arms across his chest. “Do you know why some insane person is digging up dead bodies yet, Detective Pacelli?”
Doctor Moore didn’t seem as upset over finding his own father’s grave ransacked as she expected. If it had been Jack’s grave . . . oh hell, someone would have to hide well if they didn’t want her to find them before law enforcement. Slow ancient torture would be the punishment. She wouldn’t have been able to handle seeing Jack’s grave tossed like this one. She still had a hard time with him being gone, even after three years.
Has it really been almost three years?
“Excuse me. I thought that was you, pumpkin.” Lorenzo Pacelli, Ciarra’s father, dropped a kiss on Ciarra’s cheek.
Ciarra stood up and hugged her father. “Hi, Dad. Now isn’t the best—”
“Time, yes I know.” Her dad had a menacing grin forming at the corner of his mouth. “Spotted you here with this gentleman and thought I’d say hi.”
“Excuse us for a moment, Doctor Moore.” Ciarra glared hard at her father and steered him by the elbow, moving out of earshot. “Dad, really?”
“What?” The feeble attempt at innocence sparkled in his eyes.
“You know what. I saw your eyes grow huge at the mention of ‘Doctor’.”
“Can’t a father dream? All I want for you is to be happy again. Jack wouldn’t want you moping around this long.”
Ciarra huffed. “Goodbye, Dad. Have a wonderful day. I love you.” She rose on her toes, kissed him on the forehead, and moved back toward the table.
“Hold it, pumpkin.” He held a newspaper in his hand as he walked over to her. “Here’s some news for you. Page six. Read it when you have the time. Maybe wait until you get home. If you need me, call.”
Ciarra opened to the page to glimpse the headline. Oil Tycoon, Zachary Rutherford, Dead at the Age of Sixty-Six. Her eyes widened. She looked up, but her father was already headed out the door. She walked back over to the table as the doctor wrapped his hands around his coffee mug. There was no time, and she didn’t have the energy right now to deal with that newsworthy bombshell. But, it sure as hell would be hard to shove it to the side for the moment.
Rolling up the newspaper, she shoved it into her oversized purse and sat back down. She turned her thoughts back to the graves and the doctor. “Now, where were we?”
“The graves.” When she didn’t speak right away, his eyes narrowed and he asked, “You okay?” He covered her hand lying on the table with his own. The spark zipped through her hand and up her arm leaving a tingling sensation coursing through her body. She drew her hand against her chest.
Keep this professional, Pacelli. “Yes. I’m great. Let’s get back to the grave. Like I said, there have been four graves desecrated across the city including your father’s.”
“Anything worth stealing in the others?” His deep voice rippled through her.
What was it about this man? What was going on? “I can’t really discuss the others.” Two of the three deceased individuals hadn’t been poor, but they hadn’t been buried with their worldly goods either.
Doctor Moore shifted in his chair. “So, I take that to be a no? Because I can assure you there was nothing to rob from my father’s grave.”
“Nothing valuable at least.” Even his cologne was wreaking havoc on her senses increasing her aggravation with herself.
How could this man be so damn calm? Granted, she was an Italian with a quick temper, but any normal human being would be raising all kinds of serious hell. What was his problem? Did he not like his father or what? If it were her father’s . . . she couldn’t even comprehend it. She wanted to shake him. But, maybe there’d been bad blood between the two. “Look, I have to get back to work. Are you one of those calm types of people?”
His forehead wrinkled as his eyes narrowed at her once again. “What do you mean?”
“Never mind. It’s none of my business.” Ciarra rose from her seat. She had to get away from him. She didn’t know what kind of pheromones were at work inside her betraying body, but she wasn’t about to give in to them. She had Judge Reynold’s death to investigate.
“Why would someone take my father’s finger, Detective?”
She zipped up her jacket and laid her hands on the table. She leaned toward him. “Good question, but one that I don’t have the answer to . . . yet.” She grabbed her purse. Shut up, Ciarra. Not another word. Can’t discuss the other cases. However as much as she tried preaching to herself, something nagged at her. His calmness maybe. After all, if the cases were somehow all tied together, he would find out sooner or later. Damn it. “How about this? The other graves belonged to Judge Reynolds’ wife and Solicitor Baker’s grandmother.” The same judge found dead in his home two days ago. Sabrina, his daughter, hadn’t heard from him in three days. He had taken a two-week vacation, so no one at the court expected him at work. Ciarra could still hear Sabrina’s words. ‘There is no way he just dropped dead. He is the healthiest man I know. They need to do an autopsy.’ Ciarra couldn’t disclose any of this to the doctor though. “Here’s the kicker, the last grave was a taxi driver’s brother. Neither the driver nor his brother is of significant importance around this city like the judge, the solicitor, and yourself. Do you personally know the judge or the solicitor? Or maybe any taxi driver?”
“No. I’ve just heard of them. And I hardly ever ride in a taxi.”
“All of them have the pointer missing.” Ciarra paused to let the information sink in. He appeared aloof. Normally, she wouldn’t divulge this much information. She wanted to rattle him up a little. But, he still didn’t seem all that concerned. It was enough to force her over the edge and question him on a personal level. “Doctor Moore, why in the hell aren’t you mad? Most people would be.”
She regretted her question as soon as it left her mouth. Heat rose in her cheeks. Ciarra wasn’t allowed to become emotional in this line of work. But, she couldn’t help it. With seeing her father, reading this morning’s headline, and the anniversary of Jack’s death approaching, she’d been a bit more sensitive as of late. If it were Jack’s grave, heads would
roll.
Not to mention the sexual vibes coming off this man. She needed to run, as far and fast as she could. She had to escape before she did something even more unprofessional and stupid.
Doctor Moore sat straighter in his seat, obviously taken back by her question. “As you said, it’s none of your business.”
Trent followed her movement out of the café, his eyes not able to completely enjoy the view any longer.
Why wasn’t he mad? Of course he wanted to have a good old-fashioned fit, but he wasn’t about to throw one in a public place. He would love nothing better than to get a hold of the person responsible and rip them apart. Mad? Hell yes, big time. But, he kept those feelings inward. The shock lingered. Missing fingers? The image alone disturbed him.
He noted something wasn’t quite right with the detective either. A hint of sadness crept upon her face a couple of times. And shock when her father handed her the newspaper, her emerald eyes growing wide before she had gotten herself under control. He wasn’t so tuned in to anyone, if ever. But, some kind of connection had been made between the two of them. Definitely an instant attraction.
Oh, shut up. More like what lies between your legs had its own tuning for her hot body.
He wasn’t the ‘hearts and feelings’ type. No commitments, no unhappiness, and no one to bring him down and shred his heart like Rachel Montgomery had. No one to depend upon him for things he couldn’t give. He would never again give his heart to another woman, only satisfying his basic needs and enjoying a little female companionship in and out of bed.
The other three graves having been dug up stumped him. He usually walked to and from the hospital. He couldn’t remember the last time he took a taxi. The judge and solicitor were well known in Acadia but they weren’t pals. So, what was the link?
There probably wasn’t one. Just some loony tune digging up random graves.
And taking some as tokens?
Maybe a sick joke?
Who knew these days? Something nagged at him though. Whether it was the solicitor or the judge, he couldn’t figure out which one or why. He rose and walked over to the cash register to pay for the coffees which hadn’t been touched much. He handed their waitress a twenty-dollar tip knowing it wouldn’t change her life, but he was hoping it would help out in some small way. At least he gave to those who were trying to help themselves, like this young woman.
Trent pulled open the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He took a deep breath of the cold fresh air and quite suddenly found himself laying face first on the cement, someone on top of him, and the sound of a quick snap followed by a loud smash. Ceramic flew overhead in their direction. On instinct, Trent covered his head with one arm.
Men began shouting at one another. “Aw shit! You got to be kidding me!”
Trent struggled to sit up as the large man rolled over to one side. The statue the men had prepared to hoist moments before lay shattered in pieces all over the sidewalk and street.
“Gee, are you okay, sir?” the man asked. If it hadn’t been for the man shoving Trent out of the way, the statue would have crushed him, no doubt killing him in an instant.
Trent stood up on wobbling legs and held out his hand to the man. “Thank you. I’ll be fine.”
The man shook Trent’s hand, patted him on the shoulder, and walked toward what was left of the shattered statue.
That had been the second near death occurrence this morning. The first had been the electric razor damn near turning him to ash. His day was going to hell.
Chapter 2
The Haitian woman rocked in her chair out on the tiny balcony overlooking the canal in the early morning dawn, huddled in her winter coat with her son’s favorite blue and yellow striped blanket lying over her legs. She didn’t care if anyone saw her in her present state. Her unkempt, dull hair used to shine, and she’d kept it in one long braid. Now what was left after radiation treatment hung limp, short, and matted from a lack of brushing. The wrinkles around her eyes and mouth confirmed she’d not been taking care of herself in the correct manner. Her clothing these days were falling off her thinning frame. At one time not too long ago, she’d been healthy with beautiful curves and glowing skin. Now, her skin was ashen. She’d been feeling more like sixty, than her true age of forty-three.
She gripped the warm mug of Pepper Mint tea, her hands shaking. She wanted to believe the cold caused it, but she knew better. Karma was hellish on those using Obeah, black magic, for evil or revenge.
She had set things in motion, and the cancer eating her insides was the steep price to pay. But, it would be worth it in the end. When first diagnosed, she’d satisfied her husband’s wishes for her to go through with the radiation treatments. The tumor had been removed, but her doctor insisted on the treatments, which had not done her any good. The cancer had a mind of its own and spread like a wild fire. The radiation had not killed off any of the deadly cells.
The doctor assessed her condition a couple of weeks into the treatment and had found the cancer had spread to her lymph system and bones. He had called it the most aggressive form he had seen in quite a while. He’d given her six months. She fought for the last four and a half months to stay alive long enough to ensure each person involved in her son’s death had been cursed and died a slow painful death.
Her own suffering was all because the Gods had known what she’d been planning. She, of course, had to pay to balance things out. This wasn’t revenge. The curse she’d placed on each of the four men had been the final justice for her precious son’s death, her sweet baby boy. He had been gone now for over nine months.
The picture she pulled out from underneath Liam’s blanket fogged up from the bitter cold outside. Using the sleeve of her coat, she wiped away the condensation. Liam had smiled at the camera. He had liked posing for pictures. He’d been quite photogenic. He had round, beautiful brown eyes which had held such angelic innocence. He had been such a good baby.
Tears cascaded down her cheeks, becoming cold almost instantly. Her sore throat tightened more. She didn’t think a heart could physically hurt . . . until Liam’s death. It squeezed, threatening to explode. She’d welcome it.
Her husband had told her no amount of torture and death to the four men would bring Liam back. He had been right, of course. But the pain overwhelmed her and took over the reasoning side of her brain. She had promised her love she wouldn’t seek out this justice. Sadly, the promise had been broken within a matter of hours after speaking those words. If he knew what she’d been doing and still was carrying out, he would take the children and leave her to her own miserable and destructive end. And she would not blame him at all. But, she couldn’t allow that to happen. She had to be with her children for as long as she still breathed.
The men involved had to pay the price and be held accountable for their actions and decisions. Liam’s death had been ruled an accident.
An accident!
They were all going to pay, every last, despicable one. She just hoped she’d stay alive long enough to see each one die or at least hear of each excruciating death.
She let out a ragged breath and thought back to the first evening she began to take each of their fateful lives into her own hands.
“The finger points the way; from father to worthless son: let the finger point the way; so that I may have my revenge this day . . .” She’d chanted over her altar as the Dragon’s Blood incense burned away all positive thought. Her circle, with a black candle lit inside it, had this written in dove’s blood on a piece of paper. Chanting still, she’d added crushed rosemary, some frankincense, a dash of saltpeter, Orris powder and Patchouli leaves. For five of the seven nights needed for the Voodoo Black Curse of Death she’d chanted, she let the herbs smolder and concentrated on her first enemy . . . the taxi driver . . . two more nights and her enemy will be destroyed . . . just two more nights and the curse will be final.
She had continued with each of the wretched souls only days apart from one another.
She smiled through the tears. The taxi driver can’t move his body anymore. Despicable man. Staring across the Acadia skyline, she prayed the driver and now the judge had withered from the inside in incredible agony before they’d taken their final breaths.
Only two more to go.
Ciarra headed off to her best friend’s metaphysical shop downtown with the newspaper her father had given her clutched in her hand. Of course, she hadn’t listened to him when he said to wait until she got home. She should have listened.
She dialed her father’s number as she made her way down the sidewalk. “Hi, Dad.”
“Hey, baby. So, how did your meeting with the doctor go?”
“Please don’t start your little matchmaking silly ways. I’m calling you about her.”
“I think you will have to give me a little more to go on there, honey.”
Ciarra rolled her eyes. “Bianca and the damn obituary.”
“Oh that. I thought you might want to know.”
“Why would I care if he died or not?”
“I don’t know. Why would you? Because, darling, if you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be calling me.”
“What I care about is why you would point it out to me. We never . . . and I do mean never . . . talk about her. So what was the point?”
“Meet me for dinner tonight, and we can discuss it then.”
What was there to talk about? The man died and the witch inherited a fortune. The end.
Deadly Curses Page 2
