“Yes, but you’re my snob, and I won’t let anyone pick on you.” I made a “gimme” gesture with my hand. She handed me her cell, and I dialed Frank Delgada’s phone number.
Thirty minutes later, Detective Stone opened the door to the interrogation room. “Your lawyer is here,” he said.
“Darren?” asked Dee.
“No. Says the name is Frank.”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s our lawyer.”
“Hmm. Okay. Sure you two don’t want anything to drink?”
I was dying for water or soda, but Ms.-I-Watch-Crime-Shows had put the kibosh on quenching thirst. Her explanation? DNA. I was innocent, damn it, and I wanted some carbonated sugar and caffeine.
“Out of the way, honey,” intoned a breathless male voice. “I need to check on the welfare of my clients.”
Matthew was jostled from the doorway as Frank entered the room. He pushed the detective out and shut the door. “Child, that man is smoking hot, and he carries a gun to boot.” Frank leaned against the wall and fanned himself. Then he turned to me, “Oh, baby girl. Are you all right?” He put down his briefcase, and opened his arms. I jumped out of my chair and went for the bear hug. Frank was a few inches over six feet tall. He worked out, so he was muscular, but not burly.
He was also dressed as Marilyn Monroe.
He drew back and clasped my hands. As usual, his make-up was over-the-top fantastic, and the pleated white dress clung to his frame in a way that made his fake boobs and padded hips look fantastic. His long, lean legs looked extra cute in the red high heels.
“Did you miss your show?” I asked.
“Cher took over my midnight spot.” He waved off my concern. “You’re more important than any show. You know that theatre doesn’t deserve me anyway.”
He looked around me and studied my sister. “You’re Deirdre?”
Deirdre nodded. Then she said, “You don’t look like a Frank.”
He laughed and gave my sister one of his patented hugs. “It’s gonna be okay, my darling.”
After he released Dee, he gestured for us to take our seats. He looked at the camera, wagged his finger at whoever had been watching us, and unplugged it. He sat down, opened his briefcase and took out tablet and a keyboard. “All right, tell me everything from the beginning.”
I should just write the story down and send out a memo. Once again, I divulged the details about the stiletto attack, the civil court suit, and the restraining order, and went on to describe Enrique’s harassment at the club, my subsequent flight to the bathroom, and then getting bonked on the head.
Dee told her part of the story, which wasn’t nearly as long as mine. Basically, when she came off the stage she searched everywhere for me, then she’d gone outside to look around, ventured down the alley, and found me moments before the hot homicide detective arrived.
After we finished our sordid tale, Frank saved the file, shut down the tablet, and looked at us.
“Motive, opportunity, and means, baby girl. You’ve checked off all the boxes. I’ve seen people convicted on less.”
I started hyperventilating.
Frank grabbed my head and pushed it down between my legs. “Breathe, honey. Your goose isn’t cooked yet.”
I inhaled shuddering breaths and thought about life in prison (I hated orange, my cell mate would be a tatted up biker chick named Bertha, I would be forced to get out of bed early and be productive). Oh, God. Just kill me already.
“What is that?” asked my sister.
I slowly sat up. There was definitely a commotion outside.
“Dra-ma!” said Frank. “Oooh. I love me some drama.” He got up and crossed the room, flinging open the door.
We all went out into the hallway. Andrea Keller, Matt, the barrel-chested detective from the crime scene, and two uniformed police officers stood a couple feet away. Andrea spotted me and waved. “Hey!” Her voice sounded odd. As she walked toward me, she looked like a puppet whose strings were being pulled in the wrong order. Arms flopping, legs wobbling, head bobbing.
“All yours, Stone and Monetti.” The police officers shook their heads, and left.
“I found the killer.” She lifted both her arms in an awkward cheer.
I squinted at the big woman. Something seemed off. First of all, she was being nice, after throwing me under the bus. Secondly, she was acting really fucking weird.
Ben popped his head out of her head, and startled me so badly that I yelped and stumbled back. “Holy shit. What are you doing?”
“I’m helping you, shiny lady,” he said. “I can see her memories. She’s not a nice person.”
He reinserted himself into Andrea. The possessed body turned toward Matt. “I killed Enrique Santos and blamed it on Violetta Graves.”
Matt’s eyebrows went up. “You’re confessing to the murder?”
“Yes.”
“Hold up,” said Monetti. He stated her Miranda rights. “You understand your rights, Ms. Keller?”
“Yes, I do.” She gave him a thumbs-up. “Enrique wanted me to make him a partner. Fifty-percent ownership in the club and fifty-percent of my drug operation. He told me if I didn’t do what he said, he’d turn me in to the cops. When his crazy ex—”
“Hey!” I protested.
“What the hell is going on here?” muttered Monetti.
“Anyway, the crazy ex came to the club, and I knew I could pin the murder on her. I followed them both to the bathroom. She hid in the ladies’ room and I took a tire iron and hit him hard. I heard his skull crack. When Violetta opened the door, I whacked her, too. Dragged them out to the alley, and called the police.”
Matt looked from me to Andrea. “You got evidence?”
“What? A confession isn’t enough?” said Deirdre.
I elbowed her. “Shut up.” My necklace, I mouthed to Andrea-Ben. The possessed woman frowned, and I can’t help but think Ben was checking her memories. He shook his human puppet’s head.
“Got blood on my dress,” Andrea-Ben continued. “I changed clothes. Washed my hands in my private bathroom. Drugs are kept in a secret room accessed from my office.”
“Monetti?” asked Matt.
“Works for me,” said the detective. He turned Andrea around and put handcuffs on her. “I’m booking you for the murder of Enrique Santos and the attempted murder of Violetta Graves.” He walked her down the hall.
Ben popped out of Andrea and leaned against the wall, looking happy. “I told you I would help,” he said.
I mouthed, “Thank you.”
“My work here is done, baby girl.” Frank leaned down and air kissed my cheeks. “I am go-ood. You need anything else, you call.” He retrieved his briefcase from the interrogation room, waved another good-bye and sauntered down the hall.
“He has really great legs,” said Deirdre.
“I know, right?”
“Deirdre!”
Darren whizzed past Marilyn Monroe without even a glance and skidded to a stop in front of his wife. “I’m sorry, honey. I was in a closed meeting. Big case.” He hugged her. “Are you all right?” He glared at me. “What did you do?”
I tried to look innocent. Matt stepped slightly in front of me. “Who are you?”
“Assistant District Attorney Darren Hamilton. Whatever shenanigans this woman pulled—” He pointed an accusing finger at me. “—I assure you my wife was not involved.”
Deirdre slapped his hand down. “Don’t you talk to my sister like that! Where were you for the last five hours, Darren Leroy Hamilton?”
“Leroy?” I asked. “Really?”
Darren gave me a dirty look. Deirdre pinched him under the arm. He resumed his expression of contriteness. “I told you, honey. I had to work late.”
“Hah!” Deirdre was angry. Her face was turning an alarming shade of red. “Let me tell you something, Darren. My sister is moving in with us.”
“I am?”
“You are.”
“Can Ben live with us, too?”
>
“Who the hell is Ben?” ask Darren.
“Her pet.” She lifted her finger and put it against his open mouth. “Shut. It. You are not going to have any more late nights. You are going to buy me a proper anniversary present. And you are going back to briefs.”
He blinked. I could tell from his stunned expression that he was unprepared for Hurricane Deirdre.
“Let’s go.” She wheeled her husband around and dragged him down the hall. “We’ll meet you in the parking garage, Vie.”
“Wow.” Matt faced me. “Your sister is a force of nature.”
I grinned proudly. “You have no idea.”
“You know, you were in a lot of trouble. It’s really fortuitous, and strange, that Andrea confessed.”
Ben winked at me from across the hall.
I blanched. “I guess her conscience got the better of her.”
“Hmm.” Matt drew me into his embrace. “You still got my number?”
“Yep.”
“You are a mystery, Violetta Graves.” He leaned down and kissed me. Just a soft, sweet brush of his lips. Heat swept through me. “And I love a good mystery.”
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6
Book 2 in the Violetta Grave Mystery Series
I woke up to the sound of slamming doors and the muted voices of my sister and brother-in-law in the midst of yet another argument.
Ugh.
I opened one eye, grabbed my cell phone from the nightstand and looked at the display. I groaned. It was only 11 a.m. I’d gone to bed at 8 a.m. Ah, the glamorous life of a cocktail waitress. A couple weeks ago, I got hired for the night shift at an off- Strip joint called The Mansion. Like a lot of Vegas casino-resorts, it had a theme—a billionaire’s haunted manse. Think Halloween meets Richie Rich.
I’d lived with my sister and her husband for more than a month now, a better alternative to living in a motel, but just barely. Getting sued by a deadbeat, cheating ex then being accused of his murder can take a toll on a bank account, especially since I’d been jobless at the time. The only positive thing to come out that fiasco was meeting gorgeous homicide detective, Matt Stone. Or rather, re-meeting him. We sorta had a one-night stand before he’d found me at a murder scene and I became a prime suspect. Romantic, right?
After the actual killer was caught, Matt wanted to see me again (in a non-arresting kind of way). I hadn’t talked to him since then, and I was 99.7% sure it was due to my own idiocy. See, we’d exchanged numbers, but my cell phone had been turned off at the time. When I finally got service again, I didn’t call him because I was a chicken.
Bawk. Bawk.
I closed my eyes, hoping for few more hours of sleep, but a series of bangs followed by stomping feet across wood floors put an end to that fantasy.
Deirdre and her lawyer husband Darren spent most of their time either giving each other the silent treatment or arguing. My sister had suspicions that her hubby had been having an affair. I didn’t blame Deirdre for her reaction. Hell, I’d injured my cheating ex with my high heel and we hadn’t even been engaged. Of course, since my sister and my asshole-in-law had an adorable four-year-old son, attempted homicide was probably not the best option. I’d probably end up with custody, which didn’t bode well for the kid or me since I could barely take care of myself. Evidence: I was living with my sister.
Darren denied doing the dirty, of course, with another woman, but honestly? He acted guilty as hell. Thus, all the arguing. He’d become a surly, mean, self-centered prick. Dee might see his metamorphosis as sudden and surprising, but to me, Darren had finally dropped the nice-guy act and was finally showing his true colors. He’d gotten everything he’d wanted—pretty wife, cute kid, nice house, expensive car, and an upwardly mobile career. I think he’d added “mistress” to his list of “what makes me successful.” Either that, or he was sick of his perfect life and decided to cram it down the garbage disposal and flip the switch.
Slam. Bang. Yell. I groaned. Today was Saturday, so I imagined the strained silences, occasional outbursts of name calling, and hissed insults between Deirdre and Darren would be going on all day.
Oh, joy.
“Aunt Vie?”
I leaned up on my elbows. My nephew Justin stood in the doorway. He clutched his red blanket, and sometime hero cape, in one hand and a squished juice box in the other.
“C’mere squirt.” I made room on the bed, and Justin hopped under the covers with me. “Did you bring me breakfast?”
He handed me the juice box, and I pretended to sip on the straw. “Hey, this thing is empty.”
He offered an impish grin. “Sorry.”
“Are not.” I tossed the box onto the floor and brought Justin in for a good ole Auntie Vie snuggle. I may suck at a lot of things, but snuggling ain’t one of ‘em.
“Where’s Ben?” asked Justin.
Okay. So here’s the thing. I can see and talk to ghosts. They look like real people to me, and sometimes I can’t distinguish them from the living right away. I had unofficially adopted a spirit named Ben. In life, Ben had been a homeless man. In death, he maintained an appearance of unwashed hair, dirty skin, wearing every piece of clothing he ever owned, and carrying a sign that said, “Need Money for Bear.” He wasn’t a great speller, but he saved my ass and I owed him. Plus, he was a sweet guy.
“I’m sure he’s around,” I said.
My grandma, our family’s last ghost whisperer, gifted her abilities to me. Justin could see ghosts, too. Not all of them, just the ones around me. I was pretty sure he didn’t have my curse. It’s just that kids didn’t have many fears or prejudices and took everything at face value. I figured Justin seeing ghosts was something he’d grow out of—like thumb sucking or whatever. My sister knew I was in touch with the spirits, but she didn’t know her son could see ghosts too. I wasn’t going to share that news if I could avoid it. She didn’t need anything else to freak out about.
“Why are mommy and daddy mad at each other?” He looked at me, and I saw tears glistening in his baby blues.
Because your father is a cheating douchebag, kid.
“We can talk about that,” I said. “Or we could talk about walking to that fancy schmancy park down the block.” I beeped his nose. “Dealer’s choice.”
“Park,” he said without hesitation. “Can I bring my cape?”
“Well, we can’t go without it,” I said. “Right?”
His cape, AKA the red blanket, was his woobie—the carry-around comfort some kids had. I remember Deirdre had a particular stuffed bear she took with her everywhere. Because I was the older sister, and it was my duty to toughen up my sibling by driving her crazy on a regular basis, I sometimes hid the bear. Looking back at fourteen-year-old me tormenting ten-year-old Dee made me realize what a total jerkface I’d been. To be fair, though, she gave as good as she got. Like dumping all my make-up into the toilet, for instance.
“I need my shoes,” said Justin.
“And pants,” I added.
He looked at me as if I were the wisest person ever. With the craptastic year I’d had, the vote of confidence from a four-year-old made me feel better than it should have.
“I’ll go put on my clothes.”
“Uh, nope. The last time I let you dress yourself, you wore my work shirt, your cowboy boots, and nothing else. Your mamma was not pleased.”
“I like your shirts.”
“Well, you don’t have the boobs for them.”
Justin considered that criticism. “Okay.”
“I’ll meet you in your room. I gotta potty and get dressed, too.”
“Don’t forget to wipe,” said Justin, who’d only recently learned the wonders of cleaning his own butt. It wasn’t always successful, but at least he tried. On a related no
te: Four-year-olds were gross.
“Wiping. Got it.”
Justin rolled out of bed, and because he was his mother’s child, he picked up the juice box and placed it in the trashcan near my bedroom door. He wiggled his fingers at me, his grin wide.
I returned the finger wiggles and watched him leave. His room was down the hall to the left, closer to the stairs, and therefore, closer to the domestic ruckus.
Poor kid.
January in Las Vegas isn’t too bad. Daytime temps are in the low-to-mid-sixties, but for a native, that’s winter, which meant buttoned-up coats and cozy hats. Justin wore his red cape over his coat. His hat was orange with bright green spikes mimicking a dinosaur character from his favorite show. The creepy creature sang everything in rhyme. Every time I was forced to watch, I was one scream away from losing my shit. How in the hell had my sister managed to keep her sanity? Jesus. Raising kids wasn’t for the faint-hearted.
The upper class neighborhood where my sister lived had a lot of perks such as an Olympic-sized swimming pool, a fully decked out gym, a club house that sported a wet bar, and three resident-only parks. Each park had walking paths, lakes (with boats, thank you), workout sites, and a playground built for all the prince and princesses who lived in this little kingdom.
“Swings!” yelled Prince Justin. He let go of my hand and bolted for the swings, but immediately got distracted by the multi-colored tubular maze and its slides. He popped onto the platform and scooted into one of the tubes.
I sat down on a park bench, and wished for cigarettes and coffee to appear. If only ghosts were more like genies. I hadn’t smoked since I moved in with Dee, and I was still bare-knuckling through withdrawal symptoms. I worked in a casino for fuck’s sake. The temptation to light up was a thousand times worse when I was at work. So far, so good. But hell, I’m not exactly known for my fantastic self-restraint.
Justin could entertain himself for long periods of time. I guess that was part of being an only child. You didn’t have siblings to annoy, so you figured out other ways to keep yourself occupied.
In Good Spirits (Violetta Graves Mysteries) Page 5
