“They broke into my house,” yelled Robert. “They tried to kill me!”
“Both of you stand up. Now.”
Dee and I did, slowly.
“He’s the kidnapper,” I said. “He took Thomas Whitby.”
The officers shared a look. “Back up. Hands behind your head.”
Keller sat up, his lip bloodied and his eye swollen. “I want to press charges.”
“You need to get up, sir. Hands behind your head.”
“I own this property,” he sputtered.
“Until we figure out what’s going on, everyone’s going in cuffs.”
Thank heavens the cop had some sense!
They started with Robert. I was next—at least until my hot homicide cop strode into the kitchen. “Don’t cuff her. Or the other woman.” He took my hands. “What’s going on?”
“Those two crazy bitches broke into my house,” Keller said, his face piggish red now as he struggled to get loose from police officer holding his arm.
“Watch your mouth,” said Matt. He looked at me. “Did you?”
“Technically the door was open,” I said.
“Violetta.” He took me aside. “Please tell me you have a good reason to commit three felonies.”
“That many, huh?” Henry’s ghost materialized behind Matt. His sad brown eyes filling with tears as he beckoned me to follow. “I can’t…” The other three boys popped up next to him. My throat tightened.
“Violetta, what’s wrong?” Matt asked.
“The kids.” I looked at Matt. “I’m sorry.” I shoved my way around him. I couldn’t explain to him how or why I knew that Keller was a child killer. My sources were voiceless dead children. I had no details other than what I could glean from Henry’s desperate soul.
I followed them out to the back porch, Matt on my heels. “What the hell is going on?”
Overwhelmed with a sick feeling of helplessness, I blurted, “Robert has Thomas Whitby.”
He looked utterly shocked. “Did you see something? See him with the boy?”
“Not exactly.” I blew out a steadying breath. I had to trust Matt. Or at least I had to try. He might think I’m crazy. He might think I’m mental. He might never want to see me again. Ever. All that was still better than letting Thomas Whitby die because I was scared of how the man standing in front of me might feel afterward. “Henry Mason told me.”
“And Henry is who?”
“A little boy from Barstow.” I took Matt’s hand and brought him to the edge of the porch. “He’s there.” I pointed to the top left limb of the tree. “There are three others buried here, too.”
“How could you know that?”
I closed my eyes briefly. Then I looked at Matt unflinchingly. “I see ghosts.”
I saw right away that Matt had a difficult time with my confession. “Violetta…”
“Don’t. I’m not crazy.” I looked him straight in the eye. “The reason I knew about Carson’s body is because Carson told me. I knew he had brain cancer, too.” I squeezed his arm. “Remember when you found me in this backyard, and I said I’d chased a little boy back here?”
He nodded, his expression wary. “You’re saying the boy was a ghost.”
“Yes. And there are three more. Four dead kids, Matt. And Robert Keller is the reason why.”
Chapter 9
Matt moved away from me, breaking my grip on his arm. “This is nuts.” He shook his head, his denial cutting me like the butcher knife Dee had been holding earlier. He looked at the backyard. “I can’t get a warrant based on a psychic’s vibes.”
“I’m not a psychic,” I said. “And I don’t have vibes. Matt, you have to believe me. If you don’t, and you let Keller go, Thomas Whitby will die.”
He turned. “You broke into the man’s rental house, and you assaulted him. I can’t protect you from this, Vie. You and Dee are in the wrong.”
“No, we’re not. It’s how I knew who killed my ex. It’s why I seem to attract dead bodies.”
He stared at me. “I’m having a hard time buying into the I-see-dead-people thing. I believe that you believe it. But like I said, it’s not evidence.”
His demeanor had turned cool, and that’s when I realized that not only did Matt not believe me, but that he was also having second thoughts about us. Just what I expected. It didn’t mean I wasn’t thoroughly disappointed with the man.
“Fine. Arrest us. But can you at least check out the pantry? There’s a pull-cord in there, which is weird because it can’t lead to an attic.”
“I can ask to search his house, but he can say no. Without a warrant, Violetta, I can’t do anything.”
“What if you hear a child crying?”
He stared at me. “You want me to fake hearing a child’s cries?”
“Look. Believe I’m insane. Whatever. But if you leave this house and let Keller go, Thomas Whitby will die—and he will never be found.” I gestured behind me. “His grandson Jeremiah disappeared the same exact way as Thomas. He’s buried here, too.”
That got Matt’s interest. I could tell he really wanted to believe me, but his practical cop side wasn’t having it. “I’ll check into the grandson’s disappearance, and if I can find cause, we’ll come back.”
Henry appeared next to Matt. He was shaking his head and pointing at the house. Thomas Whitby didn’t have much time. Damn it! The cop already thought I was crazy, so it didn’t matter if I talked to Henry or not. “I’m sorry, Henry. The police have nothing to prove Robert is your killer. I can’t get to Thomas.”
The boy’s sadness overwhelmed me.
He waved good-bye and disappeared.
I felt like someone had cleaved my heart in two. I pressed a hand against my chest and felt hot tears gather in my eyes. I couldn’t bear the fact that Matt was denying us the only opportunity to save Thomas—and that Henry and the others might well stay buried forever. I was more than hurt that Matt hadn’t at least tried to believe me. To trust me. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Violetta,” he said, his voice filled with regret. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
Matt led me back into the house. As we stepped into the kitchen, I looked at Dee. She read the situation instantly. Her expression went from hopeful to angry in a nanosecond.
I glanced at the pantry door, which was still open. If I was already going to be in trouble, I might as well go for full broke. I glanced at Dee. She nodded slightly, and I knew she was on board.
Matt went to talk to the police officers.
I bolted into the pantry.
Dee slammed the door shut behind me and leaned against it.
Adrenaline pumping, I leapt and grabbed the cord, yanking the folding ladder down.
“Hurry, Vie!” yelled Dee. She was forced away from the door and Matt entered. I scrambled up the ladder, away from his grasping hands.
“Violetta!”
He climbed up after me, which was fine. Because—
“Oh, my God.”
The room was the size of a walk-in closet. In one corner sat a dentist’s chair and a tray of surgical instruments. Scrubs hung on the wall. In the opposite corner lay a long metal box perforated by small circles.
I rushed to it and banged on the top.
“Thomas?”
I heard nothing. Not even the sound of breathing. Henry appeared; his expression was anxious.
“Is he alive?” I asked.
Henry nodded. Relief flooded through me. Okay. We weren’t too late.
“Violetta?” Matt poked his head up into the space and looked around. “What the hell?”
“Help me,” I yelled. “He’s in here.”
I grabbed at the padlock, but I didn’t have Hulk strength.
“We can’t break in to the man’s storage box.” I heard doubt creeping into his tone. He was at least considering the possibility that I might be right. It gave me hope.
“Look around, Matt! What kind of upstanding citizen has a h
idden surgical nook in a house where his missing grandson used to live?”
Matt disappeared and a minute later, he returned. He had a key. “Robert had it in his wallet.” He unlocked the container and opened it.
Thomas.
“Shit.” Matt looked shocked, but I didn’t have time for I-told-you-so.
The boy looked pale, but I could see he was breathing shallowly. His throat was wrapped in gauze, and he was dressed in a hospital gown. I picked Thomas up and cradled him.
“It’s okay,” I cooed. “You’re safe now, Thomas. You’re safe.” He was cold, but I felt him curl against me, and I couldn’t stop the tears.
“Son-of-a-bitch.” Matt scrambled back to the entrance. “Get an ambulance,” he yelled down. “And arrest Robert Keller for kidnapping, attempted murder, and assaulting two women.”
Chapter 10
The next morning, I was imbibing my second cup of coffee, and thinking about my life choices. The doorbell rang. I shuffled to the front door and looked through the peephole.
On the other side was an exhausted-looking Matt.
I let him in and handed him my mug. “You look like you need this more than I do.”
“You are a goddess.”
“I know.”
I took him into the kitchen, and he sat on one of the stools lining the center island. I poured myself another cup and sat next to him. “You okay?”
“Yeah. And thanks to you, so is Thomas Whitby.”
“What about his throat?” I asked. “Why was it bandaged?”
Matt blanched. “Keller put being an ENT doctor to horrifying use. He performed a cordotomy.” He made a motion across his neck. “He severed the vocal cords so Thomas couldn’t scream while he—.” He sucked in a breath. “Robert Keller is the epitome of evil. The good news is that surgery went well, and he’ll be able to speak again.”
“That’s fantastic.”
He sipped his coffee. “Four graves, Violetta. Just like you said. We haven’t identified the bodies other than they are male boys between the ages of six and ten years old. We’ll need DNA to confirm.”
“One of them will be Henry Mason,” I said. “And Jeremiah, Keller’s grandson, will be there, too.”
“The FBI was called in. Serial killers are more in their wheelhouse. You said Henry was from Barstow?”
I nodded.
“Kidnapping across state lines,” he said. “Definitely FBI territory.” He put down his mug. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.” He glanced away for a moment then back. “I’m still struggling with what you told me.”
“Your almost girlfriend said she saw ghosts. I sorta get why you had a tough time.”
“I should’ve given you the benefit of a doubt.”
“Totally.”
He was silent. Then he turned to me and kissed me hard. “Dinner. Tonight.”
“Okay. I have to work, so how about six-ish?”
“I’ll be here.” He stood up, drained the coffee, and then I walked him to the door. He gave me a quick peck. “Try not to find any dead bodies or serial killers before then, okay?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Tell your sister I dropped by.”
“She still wants to dropkick you.”
“I really need to work on getting on her good side.”
“Yeah. You really do.”
I marched up the walkway to Mr. Withers’ house and pounded on the door. It swung open, and I felt my stomach drop.
“Please don’t be a ghost,” I whispered as I entered the darkened home. Matt would kill me if I called in a dead body before our date tonight. Okay, Vie. If he’s dead, you make an anonymous 9-1-1 call.
The television was on in the living room. I could see the old man slouched in a recliner. His head slumped to the right.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
“Hi. Uh, Mr. Withers?” I crept across the living room. This was the second house I’d broken into in 24 hours, although technically, both times, the door was open.
My heart pounded as I reached over and poked the top of his balding head. “Hello?”
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
The room had a nice old people smell, something between pipe tobacco and worn leather. It wasn’t unpleasant.
I took a deep, cleansing breath. Then I grabbed the old man’s shoulder and yelled, “Mr. Withers!”
He bolted upright, screaming.
I screamed, too.
“Are you dead?” I yelled.
“Do I look dead?” he yelled.
“Yes, you do!”
He put a hand against his heaving chest. “What are you doing in here?”
“I came to see if you were … uh, okay. You’ve been crooking your finger at me every time I see you on your porch.”
“Well, that wasn’t permission to come inside my house and give me a heart attack.”
“Did I?” I looked at his frail form wrapped in a plaid robe. Tufts of hair erupted around his head like a ring of gray beach grass. His blue eyes twinkled at me beneath heavy white brows. “You’re not really having a heart attack, are you? I suck at CPR.”
“Good thing my ticker’s as strong as an ox’s. Sit down.”
He plopped back into his recliner and waved at the other recliner that faced the television. I took off my jacket and took the seat. “Okay, I’m here. What do you want?”
“Can you cook?”
“No, but I can order take-out like a boss.”
“Not a lot of wifely skills, huh?”
I stared at him. His thin lips quivered as though stalling laughter.
“You had me pegged the minute you saw me, didn’t you?”
“Sure did.” He leaned over the side of the chair and pointed an arthritic finger at me. “I think you need my help. And I need yours.”
“Need your help with what?”
“The ghosts, of course.” He guffawed. “Pain in the asses, aren’t they?”
Getting in the Spirit
Book 3 in the Violetta Grave Mystery Series
“Are you sure you want to eat rubber chicken and solve a fake murder?” Dee asked. My sister looked at me. I saw the shadows in her gaze, the betrayal of her soon-to-be ex-husband that she’d equated to a sucking chest wound. Attending the murder mystery dinner suggested by my boyfriend, Detective Matt Stone, was the first time in a couple of weeks that she’d shown any interest in a social activity.
“Well, that would be a switch from solving real murders,” I said. “Given all our recent experiences, I think we’ll find the killer before dessert. Plus, we have a pinch hitter.”
“Matt is the consultant. He helped plan the murder. So, he can’t help us solve it.”
“You’d be surprised what a man will do for some kissy-kissy time.”
“Yeah?” said Dee, smirking. “What exactly will you be kissing?”
“Shut up and drink your free wine.”
Matt took the seat next to me. We sat at our own VIP table, just one perk of being the guests of a Las Vegas homicide detective. Actually it was the only perk because Matt refused to give hints about anything crime related.
Three weeks ago, I used my paranormal ability (AKA family curse) to find a serial killer’s hidey-hole. He liked to murder little boys and one of his victims had gotten my attention. In order to get Matt to believe me (cops like warrants and evidence), I had to confess that I could see and talk to ghosts. He did not take it well, but after catching a child murderer, he had to admit something was going on.
Dinner was nearly over and we’d already listened to the actors planted among the guests set-up the situation. Dr. Ludwig Greenspan had invented a formula that would cure cancer. At the dinner were the CEO of a pharmaceutical company, a nurse with a dying mother, the doctor’s two adult children, a private detective, and the rest of us. The guy playing Dr. Greenspan had a gray beard and monocle, dressed in a pinstriped suit, and spoke with a British accent. He was a little pompous, and it was obvious several of his guests didn
’t like him, but overall, he seemed a decent enough guy.
As the chatter among the participants exploded (chocolate cake with a ganache frosting tended to give you sugar energy), we heard a shot. Silence settled like a thick blanket over the crowd.
“Oh no!” yelled the doctor’s daughter. “Dad!”
Everyone stood up and looked over the tables to the prone man lying dead, red dye soaking his white dress shirt.
“Wow,” said Dee. “He’s good.”
“Thank you,” said a voice next to me.
I turned to my right and saw Dr. Greenspan standing next to me. I looked again at the corpse and returned my attention to the other Dr. Greenspan. “Is that your twin?” I asked. “Because the whole twin thing was not included in the mystery, and that’s cheating to randomly introduce another character this late in the game.”
The guy next to me frowned. “What are you talking about?” I watched him walk through the table and bend down to look at the dead guy. Oh, crap. Crap. Crap. Crap!
Dr. Greenspan returned, looking decidedly unnerved. “What the hell is going on?” he asked. His accent had disappeared and as I watched, the beard and monocle faded. In seconds, I was looking at the actor who’d been playing the doctor.
“I’m sorry, dude. You’re dead.”
“That’s impossible. This isn’t a real murder mystery.”
“Violetta?” Matt was staring at me strangely. “Whom are you talking to?”
“Dr. Greenspan. Or the guy who was playing him. That fake corpse over there? Well, he’s uh … not fake.”
“What?” Matt made a beeline through the dinner guests who were already bouncing theories off each other about possible motives and list of suspects. He bent down and pressed his fingers against the guy’s neck. He studied Dr. Greenspan’s face. “Everyone sit down now,” he barked. He took out his cell phone and one-clicked a number. “This is Detective Matt Stone. We have a murder at the Gilded Cage. I need back-up, CSI, and the coroner.”
A Spirited Defense (Violetta Graves Mysteries Book 2) Page 7
