by Isabel Wroth
“Alright. Nigel and I can get a ride home with your parents.”
Callum pulled me out of the flow of moving pedestrian traffic, tipping his sunglasses down to search my face, like he thought I might be hiding how I felt about him leaving.
“I’ll call when I’m on my way home.” It was becoming a habit for him to tell me he’d call or text on his way back to me, and it never failed to warm me up better than hot coffee. Home was with me now.
“I’ll leave a light on.”
He bent to kiss me, and for a few precious seconds, the entire world faded away. Then, he drew back with another sigh, explained to his parents that he had to go, and as I stepped back into the procession, Nigel took Callum’s place at my side. We both shamelessly watched Callum go.
“Well, you can scratch that off your bucket list,” Nigel told me with a salacious wink.
I frowned up at him in confusion. “What?”
“I-shamelessly-kissed-my-boyfriend-at-a-funeral-while-standing-on-someone’s-grave.”
My lashes fluttered as I struggled between embarrassment and hilarity. “That wasn’t on my bucket list.”
“Damn well shoulda been,” Nigel muttered, adding a little sashay to his walk. “It’s on my list.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
I found the dead woman lying on the floor in a red dress and stumbled back in shock. My feet felt like someone had gone after them with meat tenderizers, throbbing and aching inside the boots I’d worn to the funeral so viciously they could no longer bear my weight.
My elbow and hip got the worst of the impact when I went crashing to the floor, and it was the pain of my hands cramping violently and the frustrated anger that had me shouting at the top of my lungs.
“God DAMNIT!”
Crimson paint speckled my hands, smeared along the backs of them, splattered like blood on the face of the large moonstone decorating the hair stick I physically couldn’t let go of.
I sat there on the floor, tears pressing at the back of my eyes as I stared at the silver piece of jewelry I’d ordered for myself.
The package had been waiting after Nigel and I got back from having brunch with Marcy and John after Helena’s funeral.
I remember picking up the box, climbing the stairs to Nigel’s new apartment, laughing the whole way about John’s hilarious jokes and stories involving funerals.
Namely, a call he’d gotten as a rookie about a naked woman performing a séance atop the grave of a deceased relative, and his dead-ass tone when he told me he hoped to never get a call like that again, as though I would someday be moved to get naked and magically phone the dead from a graveyard.
I’d peeked in on the beautiful, nearly finished apartment and told Nigel I was going upstairs to have a bath and a nap while he got to arranging what items he’d brought over from his old place.
I remembered getting in the door, dropping my keys in the bowl, heading to the kitchen to open my package, and being delighted to find my hair-stick and the pair of pretty earrings I’d ordered to give Marcy for Christmas.
I’d discovered the artisan purely by coincidence, getting a head start to my Christmas shopping online like I always did, searching for something unique and original to give Callum that wouldn’t freak him out.
Looking for someone local to assure my gifts made it on time, I’d come across the jewelry store and told myself it was perfectly acceptable to buy myself a few things while I was getting something as a gift and that Marcy might like the pair of rose quartz and pearl earrings.
Now, holding at the hammered silver stick with its beautiful Art Noveau swirls and the large moonstone while staring at my newest Portrait of Death, I regretted my decision.
Big time.
Just as I was about to start railing at Fate, or whoever it was controlling my visions, I heard a key scrape in the lock and turned toward the sound with a hint of panic, not wanting Callum to come home and find me like this, again.
“Jo? Everything okay in here? I heard a huge crash,” Nigel called loudly as he came in.
Relieved that it wasn’t Callum, I didn’t answer, so much as sob, “I’m fine.”
Even with the botox, alarm twisted Nigel’s features as he rushed to where I sat, his emerald green eyes hurrying to scan my body for injuries as he dropped to his knees beside me.
“GB, honey, what happened? Are you hurt?”
I shook my head, mad at myself that I couldn’t keep tears from trickling down my cheeks.
I wanted to explain, but I knew if I opened my mouth, it would only be to wail and cry.
But, hell, if I can’t cry in front of Nigel, who can I cry in front of?
“I ordered this stupid hair-stick for myself while I was shopping for Christmas presents, and when I opened the box to pick it up, poof!
“I painted another damn dead person! I can’t even order shit online anymore without it potentially being contaminated!”
Nigel briefly glanced at my painting before he nipped the hair stick out from between my clenched, spasming fingers and carelessly tossed it up on my drawing table.
If I’d had the ability to do it myself, I’d have thrown the damn thing across the apartment, but I couldn’t even feel my hands past the terrible cramping.
“Come on, Jo, we’ll worry about the painting later.”
“I’m covered in paint; I’ll ruin your clothes.” I bawled.
Nigel snorted at me as he helped me up onto my knees and looped one of my arms around his shoulders.
“If they get ruined, it means I get to go shopping for something new. Let’s get you sorted; up we go.”
He helped me over to my ratty Victorian chaise by the window and immediately pulled off my shoes. He was careful, but it still hurt like a bitch.
The low-heeled boots were my most comfortable, but standing in them for hours turned them into torture devices, and I was horrified to see the swollen, mottled state of my feet when Nigel pulled off my socks.
He made a sound of sympathy but was all business while getting me out of my clothes and rushing to get the thick robe from my bathroom to bundle me up into.
“Hang tight. Ice bath for your hands, and I’ve got just the thing for those poor feet of yours.”
I was too busy hurting and feeling sorry for myself to ask how Nigel knew how to deal with a post-POD episode and couldn’t remember if we’d discussed it or not.
He got my bowl of ice water, and to my bafflement, started sticking wet towels into the microwave.
He brought my entire post-POD kit over to the lounge along with a bottle of water, Tylenol, and the stack of now steaming hot towels to wrap around my legs and feet.
Once I was all settled, Nigel declared, “I’m calling Callum.”
Calmer now, I hiccupped and shook my head, whimpering when Nigel unwrapped one of my feet and started rubbing.
“No, don’t. He’s working.” It was late, after ten, and a glance at my watch said Callum hadn’t called or texted to tell me he was on his way yet, so I knew he was probably still in the thick of his new case.
“Once I can straighten out my fingers and feel my toes, I’ll take a bath and go directly to bed. I promise. Thank you for helping me.”
Nigel’s look was less than flattering. “Josephine, if your man comes home and finds out we didn’t tell him you had an episode—”
“I’ll tell him, just ... not while he’s in the middle of work,” I grumbled lamely.
“Honey, are you under the misconception that his work is more important to him than you?”
“No, but I’m not bleeding or dying, and he can’t do anything right now other than worry. I’m okay.”
The way Nigel narrowed his eyes at me was a dead giveaway to say he wasn’t convinced.
I did my best not to squirm because squirming was as good as admitting I was a wreck.
If I kept crying, Nigel was sure to call Callum, and I wasn’t ready for that.
“Keep soaking. I’m going to make you some food. It
’s been a good twelve hours since brunch.”
Nigel’s mention of food had my stomach roaring, and he harrumphed as though my belly were agreeing with him that all was not well, but he didn’t say anything else as he got up and headed back to the kitchen.
He didn’t say anything the entire time he put together a bacon grilled cheese and some vegetable soup, but when he came back and hand fed-me the little sandwich squares he’d cut, Nigel broached a subject I’d been circling for days.
“Jo, I think you need to see someone. Not a shrink,” he assured me quickly, “someone with some actual insight. Like another psychic or something.
“This can’t keep happening to you, sweetness. I can start doing some research and find you someone who isn’t a faker, first thing.”
“Helena actually already did,” I confessed slowly.
“And you haven’t gone to seen them?” Nigel gasped, like he couldn’t believe I’d hesitate.
I started to tell him it was hard to explain, but that was a ridiculous excuse. “If the psychic Helena found is legit, I’m scared what she’ll tell me.”
Nigel couldn’t frown because of his Botox, but his brows pinched together as far as they could, and he was silent for a moment while he spoon-fed me some soup.
I waited as he then drew in a big breath, rolled his lips together, and then gave a tiny shake of his head.
“Jo, I’m your friend, so I say this with love: That’s some bullshit right there.”
I was able to say his name in response, but that’s as far as I got before he started waving the soup spoon around and using what he called his ‘Drag Queen Preacher voice’ to get his point across.
“That’s like me being afraid the pain in my ass might be prostate cancer, but I don’t want to go to the doctor and have them tell me its prostate cancer because I’m afraid of the treatment.
“But if I don’t go and I just keep letting that cancer spread, it’ll be too late for me to do anything about it, in which case, I’ll really have something to be scared of.”
His point was fair, logical even. “But, Nigel—”
“Ain’t nobody gonna argue with you, Josephine, all this shit is messed up!” He put a little pop on that ‘p’, waving the spoon in a circle to encompass me where I lay on the lounge,
“But if there’s some woman out there who can give you some damn answers, you go see the bitch. Do you hear me?”
“Yes...” I responded slowly.
He gave me a glare like he knew I wanted to giggle at his Madea-worthy performance. “I said, do you hear me?”
“I hear you, Nigel. Am I the pain in your ass?”
“Damn straight! Now hush up and eat your soup. White girls be crazy,” he muttered darkly, but I know he said it with love.
Turn the page for an exciting preview of
PORTRAIT OF DEATH: UNKNOWN
A novel in the Portrait of Death series by
ISABEL WROTH
Portrait of Death: Unknown
I’ve been walking aimlessly for about six blocks, bravely telling myself I wouldn’t let my latest episode stop me from buying Christmas presents for my loved ones, but so far, I haven’t gone into any of the stores or picked up anything to buy.
I still hadn’t told Callum about my newest POD. He’d come in at two in the morning the day I’d painted it, dead-dog tired, and had to be back in the office again at eight.
It was all the excuse I needed to put off telling him, but today, while I was out from under Nigel’s knowing eyeballs, I called John to explain.
His response was—as usual—blunt and somehow hilarious.
“Look here, Dame Death, I’ve got a case going already, but clearly, this one takes precedence. I need a note or something official for the wife to work this newest portrait before the victim drops dead, otherwise, it’s my ass.”
John so far had stuck to his promise to Marcy, only working one POD case at a time.
I could hear the excitement in his voice about a fresh case and the idea that maybe, just maybe, if we got to the woman beforehand, she wouldn’t end up with her neck broken at an odd angle, dead in that gorgeous red dress.
I was excited too because Helena’s time of death broke my previous seven to ten day murder window, which might mean other deaths could actually be prevented.
I had the artisan’s address thanks to the shipping label, and her name, which presented John with a unique opportunity.
To do what, I couldn’t say. But without Marcy’s approval and understanding, it was both our asses.
“I’ll call Marcy today and give her the scoop. Just as a side note ... would it be wrong to give your wife the earrings I bought her, since the woman who made them may or may not be dead in a week? I’m suddenly feeling weird about it.”
There was silence from the other end of the line, long enough I had to check to make sure the call hadn’t dropped.
“You can keep those for yourself, Jo. I’m sure Marcy would love them, but now I’ll know where they came from, and every time she wears them, we’ll have a fight ‘cause I was lookin’ at her funny.
“You women get touchy about shit like that, thinkin’ we’re mentally weighing you or something equally ridiculous, the F-word comes into play, and nothing can then be said, except ‘sorry.’”
“Which implies you were thinking she’d put on a few pounds, which clearly, she hasn’t ...” John took a pause, and I could picture him looking around for signs of his wife, just in case she’d heard him speak about gaining weight and was preparing himself for an onslaught.
“Keep the damn earrings. Or, give’em to me to return. It’ll be an easy way for me to get in to see this woman.”
“And say what? ‘Hey, sorry to bother you, but my son’s girlfriend says you’re probably going to die. Here are your earrings back ... can we talk?’”
I turned the corner and caught the scent of something spicy. It made me think of a going on a carriage ride through Central Park with Callum.
A relaxing smell that put me at ease and drew me forward at the same time, promising to warm me from the inside out.
Wryly, John told me, “I’m sure my thirty years of experience talking to victims and suspects will afford me a little bit more tact than that, Dame Death.”
The snort of amusement was unavoidable. “I’m sure. I’ll text you photos of the shipping label. She’s local, in Brooklyn.”
“You didn’t mention this to Cal yet? He hasn’t called to have a hissy fit.”
I frowned, wondering if Callum always called his father to have a ‘hissy fit’ after I painted a new Portrait of Death.
“No, I didn’t mention it yet. He was exhausted when he came home, and I figured since he has an active case going now, it could wait.”
“Good, good. Alright, send me the info, and I’ll start running her info. You ever met this woman in person?”
“Nope. Found her online shopping for jewelry.”
“Shopping for jewelry...” John repeated dubiously.
My eyebrows gave a bounce as I stopped in front of a gleaming set of glass windows and peered into the display.
“I’ve done it before without a problem, but I’m about to rethink my habitual online purchases.”
John agreed it was probably a wise decision, took the artisan’s name and address from me, and we hung up.
The storefront on the corner of Elizabeth and Broome was painted turquoise, the style reminding me of something out of a village in Ireland.
A row of tree-shaped, potted rosemary bushes sat on a low, rolling cart right out front.
Behind the glass in the display window, books with metaphysical titles sat on wooden candlesticks, and a few cool prints of New Age art adorned the display.
I told Nigel I’d make an appointment with the psychic Helena referred me to but hadn’t done it yet. Without intending to, I’ wound up at St. Clairevoyance.
Well, I’m here now. Might as well check it out and meet this person. If she’s he
re.
Curious, I wrapped my gloved hand around the door handle and pushed, my pulse leaping as the bell tinkled.
The shop wasn’t what I’d been expecting. The entire place was stocked with everything paranormal and new age to cater to a variety of people.
The floors were original and polished to a gleam, natural woven rugs sat beneath towers of old wooden spools that held candles, products, pots of vibrant purple lavender, and little ferns.
White wainscoting came halfway up the red brick walls, industrial shelves displayed more books, more crystals, jewelry, incense, and sage.
A whitewashed desk with a sleek Apple computer kept customers from wandering through the round Hobbit door that led to the rear of the shop.
There was a young woman, skinny as a string bean and smelling of patchouli, who’d just pulled her earbuds out and smiled at me as I wandered in.
She was dressed like a girl who worked in a new age shop. Her long hair plaited into two braids, which were the same faded pink as the slouchy sweater she was wearing over the black tank-top and yoga leggings.
She had on big hoop earrings with chunks of crystals touching her shoulders and strings of necklaces around her throat.
Her face was open and friendly, her lipstick a vibrant magenta, and her thick black eyeliner was winged over her pretty blue eyes.
She had rings on every finger and wore boots that looked like Uggs, but I had ten bucks in my purse to bet they were vegan and cruelty-free.
“Hi! Welcome! You must be Josephine.” Her squeaky greeting made my lashes flutter in surprise.
Surely, this isn’t the psychic Helena said was the real deal. She sounds like Minnie Mouse sucked on a balloon full of helium.
“Um, yeah. Hi ...”
“Great! Miss St. Claire will be right back; she’s out walking the dogs, but she said to make yourself at home. I’m Star.”
Star. Of course. Flustered, I grabbed onto the strap of my purse a little tighter, waving my free hand around at the shop.
