by K. C. Burn
Why hadn’t it occurred to him earlier that he’d be returning to a Sandy Bottom Bay with full-grown Drummond twins to make his life hell?
The chief’s jaw hardened. “In the grand scheme of things, they could be worse. Both of us coming from big cities, we’ve definitely seen worse. But they’re an annoying infestation, like damned cockroaches, the lot of them.”
An unwelcome sensation of vindication filled Cliff, as shameful as it was to feel it. Good to know it wasn’t just he who had no time or patience for the Drummonds. Of course, the chief was undoubtedly talking about the whole clan, not just the twins. Not that Cliff had ever had any real interaction with any of the Drummonds aside from Rob and Wyatt, but he’d heard plenty of rumors in school about the rest of their family. Somehow, it didn’t surprise him a bit that the police force found them aggravating.
“Well, I’m going to have Scott show you around. However familiar you may be with the town, living in it isn’t the same as policing it. He’ll also be sharing babysitting duty with you until after Haunt Fest; he’ll go over the basics.”
“Babysitting?” As the new guy, Cliff had expected to get some shit jobs, but babysitting didn’t sound good.
Walker rolled his eyes. “Some woo-woo celebrity is in town, got here early this morning to film yet another illogical television segment. But since his visit overlaps the Haunt Fest, he needs some extra protection from his fans. The mayor insisted on having police presence for good publicity.”
Good to know his new boss didn’t believe in the occult any more than Cliff did, however much he respected the power of its tourist dollars.
“Ah.” Cliff had interacted with too many minor celebrities in LA, his ex-boyfriend one of them. For the most part, they were arrogant and needy, a combination that set Cliff’s teeth on edge, but at least this was only for a few days.
The chief turned away from Cliff and bellowed. “Hunter!”
Hunter? Scott Hunter?
The solid thump of boots on linoleum had Cliff turning around. The broad, muscled man heading for him at a swift pace had the same coloring as the Scott Hunter he’d known in school, but it couldn’t be the same guy. He was so damn big.
The other officer skidded to a stop, and an instantly recognizable goofy grin split Scott’s face.
“’Bout time you headed back this way, Cliff.”
“Scott, I can’t believe you… Look at you.” Cliff would readily admit he sounded like an idiot, but Scott was one of the few people he’d regretted not keeping in touch with when he left.
“Ha. Bet you never thought the runt you had to help pass gym class would ever look like this.” Scott posed like he was in a muscle mag, and Cliff laughed.
“I guess I don’t need to worry about introductions. Hunter, stop fucking around, and show Garcia the ropes.” Walker’s words didn’t have a lot of heat in them, and while Scott stopped posing, it didn’t erase the goofy grin. Walker’s bark must be worse than his bite. The man walked away without any more orders, and Cliff just stood there, taking in the differences between high-school Scott and grown-up-cop Scott.
“You’re an asshole, you know.” There was no change in Scott’s expression or real heat in his words, but Cliff’s cheeks warmed nonetheless.
“I know.” If Cliff could have chosen one guy out of the circle of four he used to hang around with, he would have said Scott was his best friend. Once he’d realized he was gay, he’d found it hard to spend too much time with any one of his friends, for fear they’d discover his secret. But he’d missed Scott.
Scott’s smile slipped away. “You just… You never… I didn’t know graduation was going to be the last time I’d see or hear from you for eight years, you know?”
Regret and guilt crashed over Cliff. He’d better get used to the emotional overload because it would probably be a hundred times worse once he finally got the balls to go see his mother. Tell her he’d gotten a job in Sandy Bottom Bay and was moving back.
“I know. I’m sorry. There were…circumstances.”
“Yeah. Sucks that your parents split, but I missed you.”
Cliff suppressed a grimace. His parents’ divorce wasn’t the only reason he’d distanced himself from his hometown, and he knew he’d have to come clean to Scott sooner or later. Later was better. “Yeah, missed you too. I’m sorry, I should have… Maybe we can catch up with a beer after our shift is over?”
“Sounds good. Except it’ll have to wait until Mr. Big Shot has gone.”
Great. Cliff had already forgotten about their babysitting gig, but at least Scott hadn’t lost his sweet, forgiving nature. “Is he going to need round-the-clock protection?” It would suck sweaty donkey balls if Cliff had to spend the next week guarding a hotel room while the TV princess got his beauty sleep.
“No, the security at the hotel ought to be able to cover overnight tonight. In fact, we’ll probably be partnered for most of the day with the TV crew, but our shifts will be longer than normal because most days they expect to start midafternoon, then shoot well into the night.”
Right. Paranormal claptrap never happened until dark, and those ghost-hunter shows never failed to make use of all that green night-vision shit. Only made it easier for them to scam an unsuspecting and uncritical public.
“Okay, then, show me around. Let’s get started.”
“Follow me. Everyone’s a little squirrelly today, though.”
Just today? Cliff didn’t say that aloud. “Oh? Any particular reason?”
“Had an unexpected death out on the…” Scott swallowed his words, looking a little green. “Uh, don’t you know this already?”
A chill swept through Cliff’s veins, along with a heaping dose of guilt. Surely his mother was okay. Surely Scott wouldn’t have been so cheery if something had happened to her. And surely someone in this podunk town would have called Cliff. An unexpected urge to speed directly for home gripped him.
“Don’t know what?” Somehow Cliff managed to grit out the words.
“Oh. Well, the town’s handyman died out at your mom’s place yesterday. Name of Andy Wilson, midforties, came down here to escape the frozen north a few years after you left. Possibly escaping other stuff too, because he seemed a bit too comfortable with the Drummond twins.”
“Who killed him? Did you run a background check on this Andy?”
Scott’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. “You, my friend, have been out in La-La Land too long. Andy didn’t have a record, and the medical examiner confirmed he died falling off a ladder. Nothing suspicious. Blood alcohol wasn’t quite high enough to get him a DUI if he’d been driving, but high enough it wasn’t hard to imagine him losing his balance.”
Nothing suspicious except for hanging around the evil Drummond twins. The tension in Cliff’s body faded away. His mother was fine. But the incident did highlight that no matter how conflicted his feelings were for his mother and for Sandy Bottom Bay, he needed to get back and visit her sooner rather than later. Even if she hadn’t been hurt herself, having someone die on the estate would upset her and might exacerbate her delusions of the estate being haunted.
* * * *
Drew Drummond was so hungry he could eat a whale. Not that he could afford such an extravagance. Instead he slathered peanut butter on one slice of bread, grape jelly on another, and slapped the two together. With his hastily made sandwich and a cold glass of milk, he slumped down in a kitchen chair and took a bite. If he hadn’t woken up at an ungodly hour this morning and dashed out to the local Publix, he’d be licking grape jelly off a spoon for lunch. Not going grocery shopping earlier in the week had been a mistake, one he might regret at every meal involving peanut butter for the next few days.
He knew better. Sandy Bottom Bay, renowned for being the second-most haunted town in Florida, was busy gearing up for the haunting season. With the ghost festival coming up the first week of October, then Halloween, the fall saw a huge influx of tourists. As the only psychic tarot reader in town—than
ks somewhat dubiously to his family—the fall tourist season brought Drew enough income to see him through the rest of the year if he was frugal. But that meant he had enough appointments and walk-ins that he should know skipping breakfast was a bad idea. And that was without the previous day’s death of the town’s resident handyman, Andy Wilson. Not that Drew knew him well, nor was it a shock to anyone that ladders and alcohol weren’t the best combination. But the fatal accident at the Somerset estate had brought in a number of walk-ins from his regulars wanting to share the gossip. Especially since his brother Wyatt had found Andy. Put a Drummond next to a dead body, and the tone of everyone’s words took on an uncomfortable bite.
Midchew, Drew heard the tinkle of a bell at the front door announcing the entry of yet another client, and he groaned. Glancing at the clock, he realized it was almost three. Not surprising he was faint with hunger. Still, whoever was out there could wait a few minutes until he was done eating. He wasn’t in the habit of turning away business, because the psychic tarot reader gig wasn’t going to make him rich, even in Sandy Bottom Bay. But damn, he was starving.
He swallowed and brought the sandwich to his lips again before he shot to his feet.
Shit.
His client had to be none other than Helen Somerset; she’d called wanting an extra appointment this week. Her patronage had sometimes been the difference between the luxury of peanut butter and the desperation of ramen noodles cooked with swamp water, so he didn’t want to piss her off. That wasn’t the only reason he wanted to stay on Mrs. Somerset’s good side, but it was the only one he’d admit to aloud.
With a resigned sigh, he dropped his barely touched sandwich and stood, plucking at his damp T-shirt. September was so damn humid that it had only taken minutes of wear in the hotter, private part of his home before he’d sweated through his clothes. Drew had window air-conditioning units for the front of the house to keep it just cool enough for clients coming in out of the Florida heat and humidity to feel comfortable, but he didn’t want to spend extra money to air-condition the rest of the house. He was a Florida native; he ought to be able to get by with ceiling fans and open windows most days.
Sitting at the kitchen table was the most comfortable, especially when he opened all the windows and the screen door that led from the kitchen to his tiny backyard. Air cooled by the greenery overhanging and shadowing his back yard would flow in through the screen door. Today, though, not even a breath of a breeze stirred.
He shucked off the sweaty T-shirt and pulled on his mystic’s robes, navy trimmed with gold. Once fastened, the robes still exposed a rather large vee of naked chest that made Drew extremely self-conscious, but he didn’t know what he could wear that wouldn’t make him drown in his own sweat or ruin the illusion that he was the all-seeing, tarot-reading psychic Malachi.
If he weren’t such a skinny-ass beanpole, the bare skin might get him bigger tips. Still, he could only work with what he had.
The robes themselves were damp, but at least he’d had them made of material that was easy to wash and quick to dry. A faint scent of laundry detergent still clung to them. If the heat broke a little, he might be able to go another day before he had to wash them again.
After shrugging into the robes, he placed the turban on his head and went into the bathroom to inspect his appearance. The thick black eyeliner he’d applied before opening his doors had only smudged a little. Using a piece of toilet paper, he quickly corrected the smudging. Unruly red hair spilled out in untidy waves below his blue-and-gold turban, and he stuffed as much as he could into the turban. He wasn’t fond of the outfit, but his granny had sworn up and down that people were more likely to buy into the readings if he looked the part. Since she’d been the only one in the family, besides himself, who’d managed to escape any brushes with the law, he didn’t think he had a choice. At the beginning, he’d left off the turban, and he’d soon found that even the tourists were distracted by his hair and weren’t fully invested in the whole tarot experience.
Hiding his red hair, adding eyeliner and the robes, he could maintain the fiction with clients, especially those who’d been clients of his grandma before she died, that he truly was a mystic and not just that weird, skinny Drummond kid. Not that anyone would have ever called him that. There were more Drummonds in and around Sandy Bottom Bay than any other family, and despite the fact they were, as a group, on just about everyone’s shit list, no one with any sense messed with a Drummond. It wasn’t healthy or smart.
Turning away from his reflection, Drew took a moment to picture his grandma before she’d do a reading, turning himself into the poised, mystical Malachi.
Chapter Two
Ready for business, Drew stepped through the door that separated the tiny living space of his home—kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom—from the reading room. He rearranged the draperies so they hid the door—no sense in advertising exactly how to enter his home—and walked across the room to yet another set of draperies. Embroidered with mystic symbols in gold thread, they were the same ones his grandma had used. They might be a little threadbare now, but no sense in fixing what wasn’t broken. Psychic readings weren’t exactly a booming business, although he did okay for himself.
The tourists were hard to deal with sometimes, but if he turned away drunk or obnoxious tourists, he’d be out some much-needed bucks. Even the random drop-ins with his regulars, like he’d had yesterday and today, were a little annoying. Appointments, especially with a nice lady like Helen Somerset, were Drew’s preference every time.
Drew peered through the black curtains that separated the reading room from the tiny reception area at the front of the house, making sure it was, in fact, Helen waiting for him.
Helen Somerset was an older woman, her perfect makeup unable to hide the creases at the corners of her eyes and alongside her mouth. Her perfectly dyed blonde hair was twisted into a fancy updo Drew wanted to call a chignon. He’d read the term in one of his grandma’s romance novels, and it sounded sleek and sophisticated, just like this woman. Of course, he had no idea what a chignon actually looked like for real.
She sat with a regal air, ankles crossed and pale yellow skirt suit displaying not one hint that she’d just come in from 90 percent humidity and ninety-two degrees. She was Sandy Bottom Bay’s resident lady of the manor—or at least the wealthiest woman in the area and owner of the Somerset Estate. If she took the bay’s haunted reputation a little more seriously than most folks, even those who made a living on the supernatural, Drew was willing to forgive. He was never sure if she patronized his business because she truly believed in the hokum Drew and his granny before him had concocted, or if it was simply a way to support the town. A number of residents, especially those who hated the tourism influx, had made a lot of derogatory statements about her, but never in her hearing.
Drew had a soft spot for Helen, though, beyond the regular and reliable appointments she made with him.
Helen Somerset was the mother of one Northcliff Garcia, the guy who’d been indirectly responsible for turning Drew’s world upside down—in a good way—eight years ago. Drew still carried a torch for the boy who’d confirmed Drew was unequivocally gay as well as convincing him to turn his life around. Weighty baggage for a guy Drew had never actually spoken to, but his unrequited and unquenched crush on Northcliff made him treat Helen Somerset with the same reverence and respect he’d used with his grandma.
The guy had never gone by Northcliff, to Drew’s knowledge. It had taken a few sessions before it had truly sunk in that when Helen Somerset spoke about her son, Northcliff, she was referring to the Cliff Garcia who’d consumed Drew’s thoughts since he’d hit puberty. In fact, he’d quickly surmised that even she rarely used Cliff’s full name. Drew loved the name, even occasionally tested out the shorted North like a special nickname that was his alone to use. Stupid, really, but then, so was he for still crushing on a guy he hadn’t seen in eight years. It was a secret he’d shared only with his best friend, Kyle. As
far as the rest of the town knew, Cliff was the only name Helen’s son had, assuming anyone else remembered him.
“Good afternoon.” She’d asked him to call her Helen the first time she’d come to him in a professional capacity after his grandma died and he’d inherited her house and business, but he’d never quite managed to do it. She was Sandy Bottom Bay royalty, and he was…one of the dirty Drummonds.
Never once, in all the times she’d graced his front room, had a hint of a sneer appeared on her face. Most times, Drew looked forward to her visits. Although Cliff hadn’t returned to Sandy Bottom Bay since he left for college, Drew often picked up tidbits about his life in California from things Helen said or questions she had for the cards.
“Good afternoon, Malachi. How are you today?”
While Drew appreciated that she never broke character, by always calling him Malachi, this wasn’t the first time he’d wondered if she had any idea he was a Drummond. After all, there was no reason for her to know or care, especially since his grandma had taken back her maiden name long before Drew’s birth, after Grandpa Drummond had been killed in prison.
“Just fine,” Drew answered. “Did you want to come right in?”
“That would be lovely, thank you.”
With a flourish of his long, bony fingers, Drew ushered her past the mystically embroidered curtain. Quasi-occult-looking implements, relics, and charms filled the reading room. Candles, incense, and herbs rounded out the ambiance. When he’d decided last year he needed an additional revenue stream, he’d hit on the idea of selling those same things, both out of the shop and online. He provided a greater variety for sale than he used in his own readings, and he hoped this year would see a boost in his income. He was doing okay, but if a big expense cropped up, like major house maintenance, he could be in trouble.
