Justin continued slithering in and out of the tubes, and I scanned the area. You’d think Saturday, even in January, would be a good day for people to be out and about, but yeah, not so much. I kinda liked that it was only Justin and I right now. I’d barely slept three hours so being social—sans caffeine—was not for me.
Across the street, I saw an older gentlemen standing on the sidewalk. He wore black loafers, khaki pants, a striped shirt, and a long brown sweater. His gray hair stuck up in tufts, and he wore thick glasses. He was staring at Justin, and then his gaze switched to me. He scowled. I expected him to yell, “Stay off my lawn.” But instead, he curled a finger in a “c’mere” gesture. Right. Let me jog on over to Creepy Guy and see how that turns out. It took a monumental effort to not flip him off. Instead, I gave him a little wave and returned my attention to the playground.
Bing. I took my cell from my coat pocket and looked at the display. The text was from my sister.
At the park?
Yes. U OK?
Not even close. Thanks for taking care of Justin.
R U kidding? He’s taking care of me. U know old dude across from park?
Mr. Withers. Harmless. Stay off his lawn.
Hah.
Making lunch. See you in 15? K.
“Aunt Vie?” yelled Justin from one of the cutout windows in the tunnel. “Who’s that man next to Ben?”
I turned around. My adopted spirit Ben and a man dressed in pajamas and a bathrobe stood behind me. The man held a steaming cup of coffee and a confused smile. I wanted so badly to steal his coffee. I didn’t even care that it wasn’t real.
“I found a friend,” said Ben, smiling widely.
“Hi, friend. What’s your name?”
“Carson Malloy. I live three blocks over. 615 March Street.”
“You live? As in you haunt it?”
He shook his head. “I’m pretty sure I was alive a few minutes ago.”
Spirits weren’t exactly great timekeepers. A few minutes in ghost time might be a few years. “Did you have an accident?”
“I don’t know. Made coffee. Went outside to get the newspaper.”
“An actual newspaper?”
“Yeah. I kinda like it. Anyway, next thing I know, I woke up in the front yard. Only I was looking down at myself.” He nodded toward Ben. “He found me, and brought me to you. You a doctor?”
“Do I look like a doctor?”
He considered my appearance. “No. You look like a stripper.”
In this sexy get-up of sweats and cheap shoes? I didn’t know if I should be insulted or flattered. I called my sister and told her that I had a ghost emergency, and for her to get down to the park ASAP.
“Hi.” Justin jumped onto the bench and stared at the new guy. “I’m Justin.”
“Carson. Nice to meet you.” He glanced at me. “Are you sure I’m dead?”
“Do I look lit up like the Fremont Street Experience?”
He nodded.
“Then yeah, you’re dead,” I said. Ghosts saw a light around me, which attracted them to me like bugs to a zapper. “Ben, take Carson back to his house. I’ll meet you over there.”
“Okay, shiny lady.” Ben took Carson by the arm, and they popped out of sight.
Dee arrived a couple minutes later, and Justin ran straight for her. “Mommy!”
She swung Justin into her arms and gave him a hug. “Hi, baby. You being good for Auntie Vie?”
“Very good,” he said. “Ice cream good.”
Dee laughed. “After you eat lunch, okay?”
“Okay.”
Dee looked at me. “Where’s the g-h-o-s-t?”
“At his house.”
Her eyebrows rose. “In this neighborhood?”
“March Street.”
“Oh, that’s just great,” she said, frowning. “You’re not going over there, are you?”
“I’m trying to,” I said. “But you’re still here with the squirt.”
“It’s that way, Vie.” She pointed behind me. “Be careful,” she said, her eyes framed with worry. “Call me the second you figure out what’s going on.” She turned away, still holding Justin, and started back toward the house. Justin peeked over his mother’s shoulder.
I exchanged finger wiggles with him, again, and then turned in the opposite direction.
Dread bloomed in my stomach as I hurried down the clean-swept sidewalk toward March Street, which ended in a cul-de-sac. Only seven McMansions occupied this block and Carson’s house was the first one on the left side. Since it sat on a corner lot, it had the largest lawn. Most Las Vegas homes didn’t have much space between them, especially those in newer divisions. However, that was not the case for this particular neighborhood. There was plenty of space between homes—one of the selling points for couples with children. And let’s not talk about the amount of water and landscape acuity it took to keep a lawn looking good in a desert climate. Suburbanites were nuts.
Ben and Carson stood on the driveway. Carson pointed past a large rosebush, one of three, that hid the walkway to the porch. There, in a rectangle of beautiful emerald green grass, lay his corpse. He was splayed on his back, bathrobe opened to reveal blue silk pajamas. An honest-to-God newspaper was near his hand—and the coffee mug had shattered on the concrete. His eyes were open and he looked gray.
Yeesh.
I saw blood in the grass near his skull. “Well, you’re definitely dead. And my expertise ends at the corporeal form. Time to call the cops.”
I took out my cell phone, and instead of dialing 9-1-1, I scrolled to Matt Stone’s number. My finger hovered over the call button. I looked at Carson again. This could be a murder. Stone was a homicide cop. It made sense to call him, right? This wasn’t just a desperate attempt to reconnect with him. It was business. Ghosts were my domain and dead bodies were his. I tapped the green button and resisted the urge to hit the red right after.
“Violetta?”
I dropped the phone like a hot potato then scrambled to pick it up. Oh, yeah. We’d exchanged numbers. He knew it was me as soon as I called. “Hi, Matt.”
“It’s about time.” I heard the smile in his voice. “We had a pool going you know. I said it would be a month, and Monetti said it would be never before you called me. Looks like I win the single-malt Scotch. And dinner with you.”
I felt like an asshole because I was an asshole. Why hadn’t I called him? Was I that cowardly? I cleared my throat. “Yeah. About that. Dinner sounds great. But, uh, I called you for another reason.”
“What happened? Are you okay?” He paused. “Are you in jail?”
“No,” I said, only slightly offended. “But I want you to know, right now, that I didn’t kill the guy.”
* * *
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About the Author
Michele Bardsley is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of paranormal romance. When she’s not writing sexy tales of otherworldly love, she watches “Supernatural,” consumes chocolate, crochets hats, reads books, and spends time with her husband and their fur babies.
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Copyright © 2016 by Michele Bardsley
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In Good Spirits (Violetta Graves Mysteries) Page 6
