In Good Spirits
Violetta Graves Mystery #1
Michele Bardsley
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
About the Author
1
“Your honor, this is bullshit. He knows this is bullshit.” I pointed to Enrique Santos, former asshole boyfriend. He oozed sex appeal in that white suit with an electric blue shirt and matching tie—like cotton candy, all sugary sweet—but I knew better. How could I have ever believed that curling sneer was a nibble-me smile? Hah.
“That’s the second time I’ve admonished you not to curse in my courtroom, Ms. Graves.” I looked at the judge, an old gray-haired bat with thick glasses, two chins, and a soft spot for backstabbing boyfriends. “I’m still waiting for your version of events.”
Enrique, that lyin’ lowdown scummy snake, was suing me in Las Vegas small claims court for medical expenses and compensation for emotional damages because I have good aim. Three months ago, I threw my fabulous red stiletto at his head, which caused a nasty stitches-necessary cut down his cheek and detached his ear lobe—just a little. Maybe I wasn’t that good of an aim. After all, I’d been trying to gouge out his eye.
“If he hadn’t been fu—vigorously screwing that red-headed bit—bimbo, I would not have felt compelled to throw a projectile at his head.”
After I smacked Enrique with my right heel, I took off the left with every intention of winging it toward his genitalia. Meanwhile, the bimbo got dressed and out the door in ten seconds flat and didn’t look back, even with her lover screeching in pain and cussing me in Spanish.
“You admit that you threw the object that caused permanent damage to Mr. Santos’ face?”
Okay, okay, the stitches left a scar. A light, barely-there scar that only added to his sex appeal.
My hands trembled. Five grand. That’s how much he wanted. He knew I didn’t have it. “My actions were rash,” I admitted. “I was … upset.”
“To say the least, Ms. Graves.” She looked at me. Her thin gray brows rose nearly to her hairline. “Have you nothing else to add to Mr. Santos’ story?”
“I drove him to the emergency room.”
“As well you should since you were the perpetrator.”
Oh terrific. I was a perpetrator. I squirmed, my toes doing the nervous tango in my $5 flip-flops. Thank heavens for cheap tourist souvenir shops, or I wouldn’t have any shoes to wear at all. I still missed my stilettos, but I could barely afford to feed myself or keep a roof over my head—I had only a couple days left at my pay-by-the-week motel. And now there were the court costs to consider. Shoes were at the bottom of my long list of priorities. If only I hadn’t used my one good pair of designer heels as lethal weapons … oh jeez, Violetta.
“He dropped the criminal charges,” I said.
Y’see, he’d been in bed with his boss’s wife and didn’t want to draw attention to that indiscretion. It’s possible Enrique would’ve let the whole shoe-at-his-head thing drop if his boss hadn’t gotten an anonymous phone call about his wayward wife. He, already a suspicious sort, hired a private detective who caught the couple banging. Enrique lost his job and, because his boss had some major juice in the car-repair business, he hadn’t found another one. The only revenge left to Enrique, short of maiming or killing me, was to sue me in small claims.
And he was going to win.
“Ms. Graves, have you anything else to say?”
Numbly, I shook my head.
“I believe both parties in this matter must shoulder some blame for the incident. However, since Mr. Santos is the only one who sustained physical and fiscal damages as a result, I rule in favor of the plaintiff. Ms. Graves, you will pay Mr. Santos the sum total of five thousand dollars.”
My heart dropped to my toes. “I don’t have any money.”
“Do you have a job where you can work overtime?”
“I … uh, just lost my job.” Last night, I was fired from the Pit, a small, dingy downtown casino where you could smoke a carton of cigarettes by just breathing the air for five minutes. I was a poorly paid cocktail waitress (thus all the unpaid bills and cheap shoes). Officially, I had been let go due to “downsizing.” The new manager, a skinny peach named Darla, fired me two days after she came aboard, and said that I needed to downsize my body. I believe her words were, “You won’t fit into the new uniform. If you want to work in this town, get a boob job for those saggy tits and lay off the Twinkies. Your ass is the size of Montana.”
“What about assets you can sell?”
I blinked at the judge. “What?”
“Her necklace. Her car. Her grandmother’s wedding dress.” Enrique grinned at me. “You never gonna be a bride, mi flor.”
Of its own violation, my middle finger rose and sent Enrique a message that required no interpretation.
“Ms. Graves!” The judge slammed her gavel onto its tiny wood square. “Mr. Santos, please refrain from gloating.”
Anger and despair crept through me, crowding my lungs until I couldn’t breathe. “My piece-of-crap car isn’t worth the gas I put in it and my mother took Grandma Rose’s dress after I left Enrique’s stupid ass.”
Mom, who was still upset that I somehow ended up with the dress she was married in, had always considered it part of her inheritance that I had stolen. She ignored the fact that my grandmother left it to me, along with five hundred dollars, and the “gift.” Mom made the five-hour drive from California to Las Vegas to help me move out from Enrique’s condo. Her idea of “helping” was to pack up the dress, hand me a hundred bucks, and leave.
The judge looked at me, a flash of empathy in her gaze. Hope fluttered anew. Maybe she’d realize how much Enrique deserved a heel to the cheek. Maybe she’d reverse her decision.
“How much is the necklace worth?” asked the judge.
Crap. My hand automatically went to the silver chain around my neck. “He can’t have it.”
“It’s been appraised for $1,500.” Enrique held up some papers. “Three jewelers say so.”
I bared my teeth at him. “I’m not giving it to you.”
The necklace was the only protection I had from the family gift, which was the irritating ability to communicate with and be stalked by spirits. On her deathbed, my grandmother bestowed this horrifying power on me, the least qualified person in the family to handle the responsibility. Mom was livid that she’d been skipped over. Even my younger sister Deirdre was a better choice than me. Grandma grabbed my hand and whispered the binding spell. Boom! Ghosts all over the fucking place. I was sixteen-years-old, and I had no idea dead people were complete assholes. After five years of harassment, last-wish requests, and late-night wake-up calls, I tracked down a witch named Sage and paid her to create the pendant necklace.
The circle was pure silver embedded with black obsidian for general protection, carnelian for physical protection, and fire agate for protection against evil. The middle stone was brown tiger-eye. It kept unwanted spirits away. Every couple of months I took it back to Sage, who dipped it in sacred water and rock salt and strengthened the magic. The pendant was a paranormal off switch that I couldn’t live without.
“If you have no other assets,” said the judge, “and the necklace is the only thing you have with any value, then you must give it to Mr. Santos.”
Enrique opened his hand and made a “gimme” gesture with his fingers.
“No,” I said.
“If you would prefer that I give you less time to pay Mr. Santos, then continue your protestations. What�
��s it to be, Ms. Graves? $5,000 due in one week, or handing over the necklace now and owing $3,500 to paid in thirty days?”
I wasn’t entirely sure the judge could demand I give up my personal property to my ex-boyfriend to pay my debt. Why hadn’t I listened to the droning lectures my brother-in-law, an assistant district attorney, forced upon me every time I saw him?
Dread balled in my stomach as I reluctantly took off the necklace and handed it to the waiting bailiff. The burly man stepped to the other side of the courtroom and gave it to a very gleeful Enrique. He grinned at me as he pocketed the necklace. Then he blew me a kiss.
Fury surged through me, and I barely held on to my temper.
“How am I supposed to get him the rest of the money?” I asked through gritted teeth.
“There’s a little thing called the post office, Ms. Graves. Mail a check.” She peered at me over the top of her glasses. “Sending a letter won’t violate the restraining order Mr. Santos has against you.”
“If I pay him his blood money, can I have my necklace back?”
“I’m not a pawn shop,” Enrique said. He wiggled his finger at me. “Restrain yourself, mi flor.”
Oh, if he only knew. Enrique needed a restraining order like I needed a boob job. Despite my former manager’s opinion, I have some seriously great tits. I wasn’t pining after him or tracking him around town. As a matter of fact, I hadn’t seen Enrique since catching him inflagrante delecto—not until today when I walked into the courtroom.
I’d moved into Enrique’s practically the day after I met him. I was between apartments. Again. Our romance, if you can call it that, was whirlwind. We burned bright and hot... until I caught him lighting someone else’s fire. We’d lived together for six weeks in sexual bliss before parental guilt forced me to go to California and see my mother. That entire trip from beginning to end had been crappy. I left early and when I got home, it went from plain ol’ crappy to downright shitty.
Other than bedroom games, Enrique and I didn’t have a lot in common. But I liked him a lot. And I was faithful to him. Damn it. We had a good thing going, and he ruined it all because he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants for two whole days.
The judge smacked the gavel. “Mr. Santos, you will need to sign a document that states you received $1,500 of the debt owed to you. Miss Graves you are hereby ordered to pay the remaining sum of $3,500 dollars to Mister Enrique Santos by January 5th. You understand, Ms. Graves, that if you do not honor the edict of this court, Mr. Santos can file criminal charges.”
A spiky haired woman, heavy set, but in a fancy designer, aubergine jumper bounced up to Enrique. It looked like something a pop star might wear if she had zero self-esteem. I couldn’t get a good look at her face, but all the same, I felt like I’d seen her before. He put the necklace—my necklace—around the woman’s neck. He kissed her, staring at me the whole time with an evil “take that bitch” look in his eyes.
“But your honor, you don’t understand. I need that necklace. It has ... sentimental value.” I couldn’t explain that it kept ghosts from harassing me. Or me from accidentally going into karmic debt because of said harassment.
“Do you understand what will happen if you refuse my orders?”
Understand? Did I ever. “I’ll go to jail.”
The judge’s smile was not reassuring. “I suggest you consider taking anger management classes. If you endeavor to continue with your current behavior patterns, you’ll end up in another courtroom.”
I stomped all the way from the courthouse to the street where my car was parked. The meter was almost on red, and I didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Overwhelmed and on the verge of crying, I yelled, “My life sucks!”
“So does mine, lady.”
I turned around and saw a homeless guy leaning against the wall with a sign: Why Lie? Need Money For Bear.
“You getting’ much business, old man?”
“Nope.”
“Maybe it’s because you spelled beer wrong.”
The scruffy guy looked at his sign and scratched his neck. “Never was much of a speller.” His wide smile framed a gap at the top of his mouth. Like most of the homeless who shuffled around Fremont Street, he wore his entire wardrobe. Everything looked dirty and torn and sweat-stained. It was the first week of December, but the temps hovered in the high sixties and low seventies. Vegas didn’t really have winters. Bear guy might be uncomfortable now, but he no doubt suffered hardcore in the summer. But where else would a homeless person keep his wardrobe?
How far down did a person have to go to reach this kind of ugly desperation? How much more did I have to lose before I was wearing all my clothes, leaning against walls, and begging for change? Right now, this man was probably the only human being left in Las Vegas more desperate than I was.
“How much you make so far today?”
“Six dollars and fifty-eight cents.”
I sighed. A homeless man had more money than I did.
“Hey! Hey, you!”
I turned toward the male voice. Striding toward me was a man dressed in a green polo shirt, faded jeans, and black Converse sneakers. A shiny gold badge was clipped to his belt, right next to the gun holstered on his hip. His dark hair was long, curling just behind his ears. He had blue, blue eyes, and a face carved by angels. The little crinkles around his eyes told me he liked to laugh. And his mouth? Absolutely kissable.
My gaze flicked to the badge. What the hell had I done now?
He looked familiar, and as he stopped next to me, I tried to place him. Where had I met him? How could I forget that face, and that tight, muscled body? A lot of LVPD took security jobs at the casinos. Maybe I’d seen him on the Strip.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Did he think the panhandler was bothering me? I didn’t want to get the dude into trouble. “Yeah. I’m good.”
The cop’s gaze followed mine. He frowned. “I thought you were talking to someone.”
I opened my mouth to question his sanity, but then I realized he couldn’t see the man leaning against the wall. Shit. The homeless guy was a ghost. Ghosts looked like real people to me. I couldn’t tell the difference between the living and the dead. Only the necklace had kept the spirits invisible.
I smiled brightly. “Sorry. I have a tendency to talk to myself.”
He lifted a brow.
Embarrassment warmed my face. “It’s nice to see you again,” I said. “Um…”
“Ouch.” He put a hand to his heart. “You don’t remember me?”
“Yeah. Of course I do.”
He smiled, and shook his head. “You’re a bad liar, but a fun date.” I stared into his gorgeous eyes, and I immediately recognized the flare of desire.
Ooooh. A couple of weeks ago, I’d gotten naked with this guy.
Very, very naked.
Feeling sorry for myself. Drinking too much. Singing karaoke badly. He sat at the bar, watching me, the heat of his smile, the need in his eyes zapping me right to the core. A motel shared a parking lot with the bar. He checked us in. The minute we got inside the room, we tore off each other’s clothes.
“No names,” I told him. “Just this. Only this.”
He grinned knowingly. “Ah. You do remember.” He lifted his hand and pushed my hair behind my ear. The slight touch made girly parts tingle. “You rocked my world, and then you disappeared.”
He’d rocked my world too, but then I’d seen the gun he’d put under his folded jeans. I assumed he was just another bad decision on my part. I made lots and lots of them, and in my defense, I left without a goodbye to prevent making that particular mistake with him over and over again. “I didn’t know you were a cop.”
“Homicide detective. I was off-duty that night. We needed each other. But I have to admit, I wanted more. Still do.”
His words made me mute. This Greek God of law enforcement wanted more of me? Oh, this poor delusional man.
“You always hang around the courthouse talking
to yourself?” he teased.
“Only on Mondays.”
He laughed. “Let’s start over.” He held out his hand. “I’m Matthew Stone.”
I accepted his handshake, and considered giving him an alias. It would probably save us both a lot of headaches in the near future. But he was a cop, and I didn’t want to lie to a man who could put me in jail. Besides, I kinda wanted Mr. Yummy to know my name. “Violetta Graves.”
“Violetta. That’s an unusual name.”
“Not for the nineteenth century. I was named after my great-great grandmother.”
“I like it.” He smiled. “I like you.”
Yep. Delusional.
“Would you give me your phone number?”
“I don’t have one.”
He blinked. “Are you trying to let me down easy?”
“No.” The cell phone company had cut me off last month. “It’s more of a concern for the environment. Do you know how many cell phones end up in landfills?”
“How many?”
“A lot,” I said. “Human beings should be ashamed for wrecking the environment with their technology.”
He studied my expression. The corners of his mouth turned up. “So, you’re an environmental activist?”
I sighed. “No. I don’t even recycle. I just don’t have a phone right now.”
“Okay.” He pulled out his wallet and removed a business card, and then he extracted a pen from his shirt pocket. “I’m giving you my cell number. You can also contact me at work. Anytime. I want to take you to dinner.”
I hadn’t been on a real date in forever. “I’d like that.”
“Ball’s in your court, Violetta,” he said as I took the card. “I hope I hear from you soon.”
God, staring into his blue eyes was like going on an all expense trip to paradise. Oh that dangerous, exciting spark. Would I ever learn my lesson? Thinking about his rock hard abs and his broad shoulders, I really hoped not. I nodded. He offered another melt-my-panties smile, then turned and went inside the courthouse.
In Good Spirits (Violetta Graves Mysteries) Page 1
