by Ann Charles
He pulled back like he’d been burned and grasped my shoulders, pushing me back a step. His ragged breathing matched mine. “You’re making it damned near impossible to say no.”
“So don’t.” If this relationship was going to continue into something more serious and long-term, we’d need to find a way to play around under the same roof as the kids. Other parents somehow managed; we could, too.
“If I didn’t have a box of paperwork to go through tomorrow, I’d take you up on your offer.” He raked his fingers through his hair, looking out toward the street. “Are you going to be okay here on your own tonight?”
Not really, and that had nothing to do with wanting to have sex with him. The night stretched out before me long and exhausting, promising plenty of worry fueled nightmares, but I couldn’t bring myself to push for him to stay. He had clients relying on his clear head. He didn’t need his scaredy-cat girlfriend screwing up his livelihood.
“I’ll be fine.” Because that sounded weak I added, “More than fine. You’re right, you should go home and get some sleep.”
“Violet, look at me.” When I did, he searched my face from top to bottom, returning to my eyes at the end. “I could sleep on the couch.”
“Yes, please.” It came out in a gush of relief. Having him in the house with us would keep me from hiding under my covers when the walls and floors creaked and settled for the night. “But only if you think you can get enough rest sleeping on the couch.”
“I’ll make do.” He toyed with one of my loose curls. “You know, Boots, all you have to do is ask and I’ll come running every time.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m some wussy girl.”
His chuckle was low and husky. “I’ve watched you take on some burly monsters almost twice your size. You’re no wuss.”
“So why do I feel scared about being alone most nights?”
“You may be an executioner, but you’re still human.”
“Am I? Do we know that for sure?”
“Well,” I could hear the grin in his tone, “I’ve checked out pretty much every inch of you, and from what I can tell, you’re human all right.”
That made me laugh, easing some of the anxiety that had my guts tight about the notes, the nightmares, and the monsters still hiding out there in the shadows.
Then I sobered, licking my lips. Even though he’d already agreed, I looked into his eyes and asked, “Doc, will you stay the night with me and my family and watch over us so that I can sleep with both eyes closed for once?”
He caught my hand and laced his fingers through mine. “I’m your huckleberry.” With a tug he led me to the door, holding it open for me to go through first. “But it’ll cost you a breakfast.”
“You mean you want me to actually get up early and cook food that’s edible?”
He stepped inside after me, locking the door behind us. “I was thinking more along the lines of you spending the night with me sometime soon and letting me have you for breakfast.” He leaned back against the door, stroking his chin as he ogled me up and down. “Although I do have this fantasy.”
I stepped closer. “Oh, yeah?” I whispered. “Do tell.”
His voice lowered to match mine. “I wake up in the morning and find you down in my kitchen wearing nothing but your purple boots and …”
A zing of lust gave me goosebumps. I went up on my toes and kissed him, silencing him except for the groan that came from his throat when my tongue teased his to come out and play.
When I stepped back, I raised my brows. “You were saying something about my purple boots?”
“Damn.” He sighed, his brown eyes dark with want. “It’s going to be a long night.”
* * *
Monday, November 12th
The Old Prospector Hotel had a long-standing reputation for housing the ghosts of the prostitutes who’d once lived and worked there. This morning I was there to see the man who claimed he could hear these ghosts. I needed to set up a date with him for Paranormal Realty to film a piece inside of the building later this week. I rode the elevator up to the third floor, where I knew Cornelius Curion would be waiting for me and the protein shake I’d agreed to bring him as an entrance fee into his suite.
Being in the elevator reminded me of the last time I’d paid a visit to the hotel, which led me to wondering how things were going for Cooper down at the station with my note, which led me to smiling about the note that Doc had left under my cell phone: You owe me breakfast, Boots.
He’d even made coffee before he’d slipped out of Aunt Zoe’s place long before I’d started stirring.
I’d give him his so-called breakfast and then some for helping to keep the boogeyman away last night.
We’d stayed up too late, lying on the couch together, falling asleep to one of Layne’s favorite movies, Jaws. I’d slept hard, waking up with a sore hip. If my nightmares had come I didn’t remember them. Maybe the shark had eaten the monsters and demons before they could get to me.
Aunt Zoe’s couch was made for one. Poor Doc had been pinned between me and the back of it sans the cushions all night. I’d be happy to massage away any stiffness resulting from his sleepover. I chuckled at my own pun and then grimaced. Harvey and his dirty mind were really starting to wear off on me.
The elevator dinged and the doors opened. I stepped out into the hallway and glanced around. Not much had changed on the decorating front. The hall was lined with foot-worn carpet and wallpaper that hadn’t looked new for a generation, maybe two. I closed my eyes to see if I could sense any ghosts. After a few seconds, I sniffed like Doc often did, smelling the stale scents of years gone by but nothing out of the ordinary.
I snorted at my own silliness. Who was I kidding? I was still a dud when it came to ghosts. Prudence was a special case. Aunt Zoe had confirmed that this morning when I’d joined her in the kitchen after I’d stood under a steaming hot shower to work out my stiffness.
“You doing okay?” she’d asked as I poured the coffee Doc had made.
“Sure, why?”
“Doc spent the night.”
I glanced at her while adding milk to my cup. “We didn’t do anything.” She had to have noticed when she came in from her workshop that we were both fully clothed after falling asleep.
She waved me off. “That’s not the point. Doc usually only spends the night when you need him to be here for some reason. So, why did you need him last night?”
I shrugged and carried my coffee to the table where she sat stirring hers. “Sometimes the fear of what happened to Prudence and her family grows too big for me to handle on my own in here.” I tapped my temple. “Last night I wanted Doc to hold my hand and make me forget for a while about what might be waiting for me out there.”
“You’re not Prudence.”
“Of course not.” I gave her a toothy smile. “I’m a lot nicer than she is.”
Aunt Zoe grinned at me over her coffee cup. “Smartass. I mean that you can’t keep comparing yourself to her. She’s a special case.”
“Special how?” Was this about Prudence’s ability to turn people into walking and talking puppets?
“She’s not like most executioners. She’s the first I’ve ever heard of who has post-mortem abilities.”
“Maybe that’s one of the abilities that comes with her bloodline.”
“Maybe, but I want you to stop trying to measure up to her because you can’t.”
“Because I’m too new at this executioner gig?”
“Because you’re not the same as her.”
“We’re both killers.”
“That doesn’t make you identical twins. Trust me on this. It’s important to your success. Your skillset is different. The only thing you two share is your occupation.”
“And its hazards.”
“Unfortunately that too.”
The kids had joined us then, bickering as usual.
Before I’d left to take them to school, Aunt Zoe had kissed my forehead and r
eiterated, “Trust me, you’re just as strong, only different.”
And so I did trust her, and would continue to. I had to, because Aunt Zoe was guiding me through the ins and outs of what I was and what I needed to do.
For now, however, what I needed to do was get the date set for filming in The Old Prospector Hotel this week so that I kept my boss happy. Why couldn’t this executioner gig come with good pay and health insurance?
Cornelius’s suite was at the other end of the hall. I made it to his room without running into anyone else—alive or dead. My cell phone buzzed in the pocket of my corduroy skirt as I lifted my hand to knock.
Doc?
I pulled it out.
Tiffany Sugarbell’s name showed on the screen. My first reaction was to delete it and then throw my phone out the nearest window.
Instead, I tapped on the screen, reading her text: I have a buyer interested in the Rockhurst Ranch property out on 14A.
I texted back: That’s not my property. Mona Hollister is the listing agent.
She replied: My mistake. Thanks.
Bullshit. I doubted Tiffany made such mistakes.
I wrote: Welcome.
Then I waited for a few seconds, watching the screen. Nothing. I started to put my phone away and it buzzed again. I looked down.
I suppose Doc told you he loved you, too.
I stared down at those words, my heart beating a bass drum loud in my ears as I read them three more times.
Her supposition was correct. Doc had told me he loved me, but I hadn’t been sure at the time if he was acting the part of Gomez Addams or being serious, since we were decked out for Halloween and flirting in Gomez and Morticia fashion at the time.
What did she mean by that one sentence? Had Doc told Tiffany he loved her at some point in their relationship? Was that why she’d started talking about marriage to him? And then he’d left her high and dry after that?
Or was this a new kind of game she was playing with me? Trying to screw with my head since she couldn’t get through to Doc anymore due to his ignoring her texts and voicemails.
Images flashed through my mind. First came Tiffany smacking Doc right in front of me, spitting fire at him about breaking up with her without saying goodbye. Following on the heels of that memory was one from the night in the Purple Door Saloon after I’d had too much tequila in spite of Cooper’s attempts to stop me. Tiffany had shown up and started poking me with her barbed tongue. What makes you think he won’t get bored with you, too, Violet? she’d said, all fangs and venom, while Doc stood right there with us. Even curls and curves get boring for a guy with Doc’s appetites.
I leaned my head on Cornelius’s door, trying to stop my fears and insecurities from ganging up on me.
Doc had warned me more than once that if Tiffany came calling, I had to keep her from getting into my head and stirring things up.
She was definitely trying to stir things up with that text.
Or was Doc staying one step ahead of her because he’d played this game before and knew how to keep me on the hook in spite of his ex’s warnings?
No. Doc wouldn’t do that. He wasn’t a game player.
Right. Right??
I sighed. I didn’t need this, not with another murderer possibly zeroing in on me. Playing the does-he-love-me game with daisy petals was for love-sick girls who weren’t being hunted down by a handful of blood thirsty killers.
Whether or not Doc was truly in love with me, he seemed to really like me at the moment. The guy was even trying to win over my kids. Who in their right mind would subject themselves to my loving little holy terrors just for kicks?
I stuffed my phone in my pocket and decided on a new policy—I would not reply to Tiffany unless it was business related.
Now, back to the matter at hand, which was setting up a filming date in The Old Prospector Hotel with the hotel’s eccentric owner, Cornelius.
Per the instructions Cornelius had given, I knocked three times hard, then lightly three times, and then three more hard. This was his version of SOS. He preferred I start my voicemail messages for him in the same style, only humming instead of knocking. I preferred beating him over the head with a rubber chicken.
The door opened and Cornelius, my Abe Lincoln look-alike pal, stood there with bloodshot eyes and even paler skin than usual. In place of his black stove-pipe hat and long wool jacket was a yellow robe that hung loosely over a stained T-shirt and striped boxers. “Violet, thank God. I thought you were someone else.”
“Someone else who knocks in Morse code?”
“No, someone who’s dead.”
Well, I was dodging the grim reaper more often these days.
I closed the door behind me and followed him into his suite. The place was a mess. Shirts and pants were strewn everywhere, covering several of his expensive computer monitors and paranormal activity equipment. Empty cups and half-crushed takeout boxes cluttered every available surface, and the window blinds hung askew.
I sniffed, wrinkling my nose at the underlying scent of spoiled food in the room along with something else I didn’t want to try to identify. I moved to the window and lifted it in spite of the freezing cold morning air that seeped inside.
“What are you doing?” he asked from where he’d collapsed onto one of his computer chairs.
“Letting the evil spirits out.” I spoke his vernacular, having been around him long enough to know that would get me further than a rational explanation. “If we’re going to film here this week, we have to make sure the air is clear of malevolent manifestations and ectoplasmic proteins.”
“What are ectoplasmic proteins?” he asked.
Something I’d made up, but it sounded good. “That’s not important. We need to get you up and moving.” And preferably showered and dressed. Those boxers appeared to have been used as a napkin a few too many times.
He took a sip from the protein drink I’d brought him. “I’m glad you’re here, Violet.”
“Why’s that?” I collected several used food containers, noticing that many were mostly full yet, and carried them over to the trash. We were going to need a lot more trash bags from housekeeping to clean up this sty.
“I need your help,” he said.
“You need a maid, not a Realtor.”
“I’m not talking about help on this plane of existence.”
Cornelius was one of the few people in town who understood some of my executioner abilities. He had terms for things I was able to do during a séance, most of which I couldn’t remember. But that didn’t mean I liked to dabble in the paranormal world with him. More times than not when the two of us worked together, I ended up hiding under my bed for the next week.
I picked up his one-horned Viking helmet that he liked to wear during séances, frowning at the broken horn tip. What in the heck? “Your helmet is broken.”
“It’s her fault.”
“Whose fault?”
“She won’t leave me alone.”
“Who won’t leave you alone?” Was Tiffany filling up his voicemail, too?
“I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t focus beyond the sound of her hate-filled whispers.” He buried his face in his hands.
He should try being on the receiving end of Tiffany’s texts.
“She’s going to be the death of me, Violet,” he said through his fingers. “Or worse.”
I lowered myself onto the chair next to him, noticing his hands were shaking. “Who are you talking about?”
“A ghost. I need your help getting rid of her.”
“I don’t know how to help you get rid of a ghost.” I killed things that were still alive, not those already dead. Doc would be a better choice. He was way more knowledgeable about this kind of thing.
He held the heels of his hands over his ears. “She keeps saying I have to kill the one I love,” he yelled, seeming to forget that I wasn’t plugging my ears, too.
Wait a second. I knew exactly which ghost he was talking about no
w. My breath log-jammed in my throat for a few seconds.
“It’s the little girl ghost again, isn’t it?” I asked when I could breathe again. Wilda Hessler was not leaving without a fight.
He nodded, brushing at some crumbs stuck to his terry cloth robe. “She’s making me crazy, Violet. She says all kinds of macabre things day and night. I’m afraid that if I can’t get her to leave me alone, I’ll start doing some of the grisly deeds she’s telling me to do just to make her stop.”
Chills peppered my forearms. Wilda had driven her brother mad with her constant haunting. He’d ended up killing many in his efforts to shut her up, but nothing had worked. Nothing except his death apparently, because now she’d latched onto Cornelius.
He stared down at his hands, as if suddenly realizing they were trembling. “Will you help me get rid of her?”
This was a side of Cornelius I’d not seen before. Usually he was full of confidence, strutting around with his paranormal gadgets, eager to play with the dead.
The idea of facing off with Wilda again made me want to run away screaming. The first time she’d almost won our battle of life and death.
I frowned at Cornelius, fully seeing the shadow he was becoming because of Wilda. He looked as if he’d aged years since I’d seen him last, which had been a little over a week ago. I wondered if the little bitch somehow fed off the energy of the living, like a soul-sucking parasite.
Before I agreed to anything, I wanted to confirm one suspicion. “Who is the ghost telling you to kill, Cornelius?”
He lifted his gaze, his bloodshot eyes locking onto mine. “For starters—you.”
Chapter Six
I didn’t make any promises to Cornelius about helping him shake Wilda’s ghost. I couldn’t—I was an executioner, not an exorcist. At least I didn’t think I could, which is what led me to call Calamity Jane Realty after leaving the hotel to tell Mona that I wouldn’t be back in the office until after lunch.
There was only one person who might know for sure if I could do anything to get rid of Wilda and if so, how. I just hoped that she didn’t need our family history book to figure out the answer.
“Aunt Zoe,” I called as I stepped inside the front door.
