by Lotta Smith
After relaying his words, I muttered, “Seriously?”
“Wow, I like your reason,” Jackie commented. “Still, how would you do that?”
Her question was what we all shared, and everyone cocked their heads in anticipation.
“Come on, don’t say you’ve forgotten about my golden past as a budding real estate developer and salesman.” Woody held his arms out. “I rock at attracting customers, and I’m better at selling. So, I’ll attract customers to your bakery, and your yummy baked products are gonna sell like hotcakes.”
Harriett’s jaw dropped, and Meg was smiling.
“Hmm, maybe you should do hotcakes,” Madame Roloff commented as I relayed his words.
“Look what I’m capable of.” Woody flashed a thumbs-up and flew out of the bakery.
People were passing by the street where Charmed and Sprinkled stood. When Woody went out there, I was expecting him to shout out about the bakery, but he didn’t. Instead of yelling, he quietly approached them and whispered something in their ear.
To my surprise, most of them took a moment to stop and look at the shop. In thirty seconds or so, the first customer actually stepped inside.
“Um… hello?” The customer, a young woman who was dressed in a shabby-chic outfit, looked confused, as if she didn’t know why she came inside.
“Harriett, Meg, why don’t you go and assist the first customer in ages?” Madame Roloff urged, prompting them to stand up and scurry toward the woman.
After that, people practically started flooding into the bakery, and many of them were locals.
“Hey, did you hear that the killer has been caught?” I caught one of the customers—a middle-aged brunette woman—saying to Meg.
“Yes, I heard about that,” she replied, offering a sad smile.
“Look, it’s not like I’d suspected either you or Harriett of foul play, but the moment I heard about that, I had to come here. Can I have two pieces of Nutty Nutcracker’s Christmas Delight?”
“Of course!” Meg replied and grinned at Harriett.
At the entrance, Woody winked and gave us a thumbs-up.
“Why don’t we excuse ourselves from here? They’re busy, and they’d probably appreciate having an extra table for the customers.” Madame Roloff took my arm and stood up. “Also, I need to drop by USCAB to meet Rick.”
“Oh, of course.” I tried to sound casual and laid-back, but inside, my stomach was flipping all over. I was nervous about if Madame Roloff was going to sign the new and bigger contract with the company. I wasn’t naïve enough to blindly believe that she’d sign it without tough negotiation.
When we arrived at Rick’s office, business attorneys serving USCAB and Madame Roloff were already there, and Rick had been informed about our adventure—or rather misadventure—confronting Anna Linton, which led to a total fiasco, but Madame Roloff went through it all over again anyway.
“Why do I get headaches whenever I hear about the danger you’ve barely managed to miss, Mandy?” he said, massaging his temple.
I was about to say, “Well, I don’t know,” but Madame Roloff answered before I opened my mouth.
“That’s because you love her so much,” she said.
“Exactly!” Jackie chimed in, carrying pom-poms.
Rick snorted, chuckling. “I don’t disagree with you.”
“That’s good.” Madame Roloff nodded graciously. “So, I’m here to sign the new contract regarding the condotel security.”
“Okay. I appreciate your coming to my office.” Rick smiled, but his jaw looked slightly tightened.
“And I’m willing to accept the offered prices without negotiation.”
At Madame Roloff’s announcement, his green eyes widened with obvious surprise—no, surprise was an understatement. It was shock.
“Excuse me, Madame Roloff, but—” One of her attorneys raised his hand.
“It’s okay, Mr. Harvey. I know what I’m doing,” she dismissed him.
He shut up, and Rick muttered, “Good.” USCAB’s lawyers seemed to agree with him.
“All right. So, shall we sign the deal?” he said, prompting the USCAB attorneys to bring the documents. I could feel his attempt to sound calm and casual, but when he signed his name on the first page, his hand was slightly trembling.
“That’s about it. I’m looking forward to working with you all.” Madame Roloff’s smile widened when she finished signing the documents. “Can we speak in private for a second?” she said, and the attorneys left the office.
“I’m glad to see both of you unharmed.” Rick let out a deep breath.
“Me too,” I agreed. “But as they say, all’s well that ends well…” I stopped short as he gave me the eye that demanded, “Why do you have to stumble upon the most dangerous, deranged, and crazed killers?”
When I was shrugging, Madame Roloff said, “Rick, you want to be nice to Mandy. She’s the reason I chose to sign the deal without a tough negotiation about the prices and services. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am. I understand,” Rick admitted.
I cleared my throat. “Do I want to take that as a hint that I’m going to have a big bonus?”
Rick crossed his arms. “Let’s keep that a surprise.”
“Oh, okay.” I shrugged.
“Speaking of a surprise, I’ve got a suite booked at Chateau Hotel and Spa in Tarrytown for the weekend. If you’d like, you can join me,” he said nonchalantly, uncrossing his arms.
“Really?” I exclaimed.
“That’s the same hotel where you said the big L-word to each other for the first time, isn’t it?” Jackie sucked in air. “Yay!”
“Oh, yes.” He walked toward me and wrapped his arms around me. “What do you say, Mrs. Rowling?”
“I’d be delighted to join you,” I said, all smiles.
“Ooh la, the room is getting hot, isn’t it?” Madame Roloff fanned herself. “So, Mandy, Rick, and Jackie, wishing you all a Merry Christmas!”
“You too, Madame Roloff,” Rick, Jackie, and I said in unison.
Oh joy. Christmas was just around the corner, and I could almost hear the footsteps of reindeers and Santa Claus’s sleigh...
About the author
Hi! My name is Lotta Smith. I’m the author of Paranormal in Manhattan Mysteries and Kelly Kinki Mysteries. I love everything comedy, from novels, TVs, to movies. In my teenage days, I was addicted to mysteries that involves amateur sleuth duo of a hot male professor and a quirky female student—with a light touch of romance sprinkled on top. So I went to medical school, partly because I wanted to see real dead bodies, and mostly because I was determined to meet sexy professors (specializing forensic pathology, perhaps) and go a-sleuthin’.
I got to see dead bodies and learn about the danger of petting zoos (sometimes, kids have their lips bitten off by…say, a pony!) but unfortunately, sexy professors were absolutely nonexistent. Recently, I realized that I’m a hopeless unromantic.
I’m hard at work writing new books.
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Books by Lotta Smith
Paranormal in Manhattan Mysteries: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B074P97GY9
Book 1: Wicked for Hire: http://amzn.to/25IHH6X
Sometimes, the opportunity of a lifetime busts your door instead of gently knocking at it...
FREE on Kindle Unlimited!
Medical student Amanda Meyer thought she had her life all planned out until people started dying the moment they touched her. Being cleared of any wrongdoing didn't stop the medical school from expelling her, and it didn't rid her of the unfortunate nickname Grim Reaper.
Luckily, having a rep as the harbinger of death isn't a total resume killer. Rick Rowling, Special Agent for the FBI's Paranormal Cases Division recruits her to work for the Bureau. But the sexy, brilliant, outrageous loose cannon proves to be ju
st as untouchable as the mysterious creature or creatures that may be responsible for the seemingly unsolvable murder that becomes their first case together.
Instead of treating patients, Amanda's life becomes a test of her patience and a wild ride into the wicked paranormal world where her new boss runs the show. Together they face a ghoulish force that could destroy the entire city and a grueling family dinner that could leave Amanda contemplating harakiri.
It's a battle of life and debt [student debt, that is] and saving the world has never been so funny.
Prologue
966 Park Avenue Tower
11:48 AM, November 10…
With a weird moan, her whole body shivering, she collapses onto the sofa.
I think she’s lucky that she’s already sitting on the sofa as she crumples. If she was standing, she might have cracked her head on the marble floor like Humpty Dumpty—which won’t be pretty.
She’s lying there, totally motionless. One elbow’s stiffly bent at a right angle, as if she’s turned into stone as the result of looking Medusa in the eye.
I gasp—fearing she’s dead.
Rick Rowling, the head of the FBI’s New York Paranormal Division and my boss for the past two days, approaches and touches her neck. Looking totally blasé, he confirms that she’s still alive.
I let out a sigh of relief.
On the other hand, Rowling announces that we leave the place because “It’s boring.”
My eyes widen with a total disbelief.
Of course, I disagree with him, but he brushes off my objection, stating that he doesn’t care about all the crap of making arrests, prosecuting, and taking cases to trial. Again, he says that it’s just a minor issue and he’s way too busy for that. “You know what? I have better things to do,” Rowling declares, turning on his heels to leave the condo.
“Excuse me, Rick,” I call to his back.
“What?” he asks, without turning around.
“We can’t just leave,” I say. Then it suddenly occurs to me that offending my boss isn’t in my best interest, so I add, “I’m afraid.”
“Why not?” He cocks his head. “Mandy, don’t be such a killjoy. The NYPD can work on the boring stuff, such as deciphering the social pathology of crimes and so on, because they have time to kill. On the other hand, I have no time to waste.”
“Okay, so we don’t need to decipher the social pathology of crimes, but we do need to figure out the whereabouts of the human-eating monster, don’t we?” I point out.
I’m not joking or exaggerating.
I’m talking about a practically imperishable ghoul which could eat up the entire population of New York State, if not the whole world.
* * *
At precisely 2:13 in the morning, John Sangenis was standing in front of a shabby five-story apartment in Washington Heights. Fortunately, he didn’t live there. He was just visiting Ivan Flynn, the insufferable asshole.
Usually, he had better things to do than visiting his worst enemy before the crack of dawn, such as sleeping like a log. Or making love with Ruth, which was even better than sleeping on his own. Ruth MacMahon was his girlfriend, who was unbelievably beautiful, dazzling, and had a truly big heart. Also, it didn’t hurt that she was rich. What was more wonderful about her was she appreciated John’s talent as an actor. It was a rare trait to come across in society, and it was why she happily provided him both moral and financial support.
If there were any shortcomings about her, it was that she was two-timing him with Ivan.
He thought about her taste in men, or lack thereof, and shrugged.
John wasn’t the sharpest knife in the kitchen, so he didn’t realize describing Ruth’s taste in men as horrible was the same as admitting that he was a total loser.
A cold, wet late-autumn breeze was blowing from the East River. A sprinkle of rain hit him in the face. The metal stairs were slippery, occasionally letting out squeaks and squawks, as if the steel structure itself were threatening to fall into pieces any minute, which made John nervous. The building’s elevator hadn’t functioned since God knows when, so he had no choice but to climb up the damned stairs. Getting smashed with the lousy staircase like a piece of garbage wasn’t high on his to-do list, so he ran up the stairs.
As an actor, he went to the gym to do occasional workouts and training, but that didn’t mean he was a big fan of vigorous exercise. On normal days, he would have shied away from walking up the rusty metal stairs of a sad-looking apartment. Actually, he wouldn’t have set a foot in this neighborhood unless he was starring in a gangster movie or TV show, hopefully as the lead role. After all, it wasn’t the area where any of the characters of Sex and the City lived. It almost felt comical that this neighborhood was still included in Manhattan.
While he mentally dissed Washington Heights, he completely forgot about his own social status as one of the least important actors in off-Broadway theater scenes. He also conveniently forgot the fact that, if it weren’t for the tiny apartment in Brooklyn, which he inherited from a late great-aunt, and financial assistance provided by Ruth, he couldn’t even keep a roof over his head.
He jumped and let out a girly yelp when a rat the size of an obese Chihuahua ran up the stairs from behind and went ahead of him.
“What kind of miserable excuse of an unknown artist lives here?” he muttered to himself after some cussing—again, completely forgetting the fact he happened to be one of those miserable excuses himself.
As he approached the third floor where Ivan lived, John remembered his last exchange of words over the phone with his enemy, and being annoyed so greatly that he almost felt like his blood flowed backward.
About thirty minutes ago, he received a strange phone call from Ivan.
Getting a phone call from him was a rare event, mostly because the feeling of hate between the two of them was mutual. Both were Ruth’s kept men, and both were trying their best to convince her that the other guy wasn’t worth her time—or money.
“Hey, John the loser, I’ve got bad news for you,” Ivan declared as soon as John picked up the call. He sounded like he was drunk, but there was something in his voice that made John nervous.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m calling to deliver a piece of special news to you. Now that I’ve acquired something to make me the El Greco of the twenty-first century, you’re so out of sight to Ruth and out of the picture. She is going to choose me, and she’ll dump you like a piece of garbage. Ha! Why don’t you curl up in the corner of your tiny apartment and cry like a little girl?” Then the line went dead.
Immediately, John rushed from his apartment and took a cab to Washington Heights. He was determined to confront the SOB and beat him till he cried like a baby.
As soon as he reached apartment 312, he banged on the door.
“Who’s there?” Ivan’s voice demanded from inside.
“It’s John. Open up.”
“No way.”
“I have something to say to you. Open up!” John banged on the door even louder.
“Stop bothering me. Just leave!”
“No, I won’t. I won’t ‘just leave’ until I get to talk to you face-to-face.”
“I have nothing to say to you. You have to leave, or else I’ll call the cops and have you—”
It seemed Ivan was about to say “arrested,” but his words stopped short.
Instead of menacing words, he let out an agonizing moan. It became louder and escalated to a high-pitched shriek.
Then came silence.
“Hey, Ivan, what’s going on?” John asked as he switched from banging to knocking on the door.
No reply.
“Come on, Ivan. Open up. You can’t fool me!” John yelled at the door, but again, no reply.
“Guess what, Ivan? You’re all words and no action. You’re just running away from me because I’m stronger than you. Ha!” John yelled at the door and turned on his heels to leave. After taking a couple of steps, he
went back to his love opponent’s door.
“Loser!” Yelling, he jumped and kicked at the door. He was just trying to make his point, but the worn-out door made of a thin veneer wood panel broke easily.
John lost his balance and fell onto the cold concrete corridor.
“Crap,” he groaned.
Lying on the hard, cold floor, John was half expecting Ivan to come out of hiding, yelling at him, but no one came from inside. Instead, a twentyish Asian guy stormed out from next door.
“What is the matter with you?” he demanded.
John mumbled an apology and the guy went back to his room.
Something wasn’t right.
He got up and reached for the now-broken door. It was locked, but he could put his hand inside to unlock the door.
Getting inside was a piece of cake.
“Hello?” John said. “Ivan? Um… Sorry about the door.”
As he opened it, dim light came into his eyes.
“Ivan…?”
There was no one in the room.
“What the hell…?” he muttered.
It was a tiny, one-bedroom, matchbox-sized apartment. In the living room / dining room / workroom was a 30” x 40” painting sitting on an easel. It was nothing fancy. The whole background was painted in an assortment of dark, boring, and depressing colors. The only part that caught his attention was the large blank area in the canvas. It looked as if whatever was portrayed had run out of the canvas and vanished.
He advanced closer to the painting.
On the side of the canvas, the title G.H.O.U.L. was written in pencil.
Glancing down, John gasped as he spotted an assortment of men’s clothes, including underwear, heaped on the floor, as if someone stripped off those garments and left.
Or whoever had those garments on had disappeared like smoke.
“Hey, Ivan?” Not grasping the situation, John searched the apartment for his rival, but he couldn’t find any signs of him.
