“Aunt Charley?”
“I’m in the bathroom, hon.” I turned George off—probably in more ways than one—and reached for a towel.
“I just have a couple of questions for you,” Amber said from behind the closed door. Amber was Cookie’s thirteen-and-three-quarters-year-old daughter. “Are you, um, busy?”
“Busy?” I asked, wrapping a towel around my head.
“Is Uncle Reyes in there with you?”
After almost choking on my own spit, I cleared my throat and said, “Not at the moment.”
“Oh, good. I didn’t want to interrupt anything.”
“That’s thoughtful of you.” I put on a robe, made sure I looked presentable-ish, and said, “Come on in, pumpkin.”
She walked in, chipper as ever, her long, dark hair pulled back in a messy bun, her huge blue eyes bright and crystal clear. She waved steam away, gave me a hug, then closed the toilet lid, a.k.a. Curly—the toilet, not the lid—and sat on it.
“What’s up?”
“Well, I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about what you do.”
“Oh, cool. Are you writing a paper for school?”
“No. And I’m only admitting that because you can tell if I’m lying.”
I perched a hip against the sink, crossed my arms, and faced her. “I appreciate your candor.”
“Thanks. I think. So, if you had to solve a case where someone was stealing something, like, say, office supplies, what would you do first?”
“Okay, is this for a story you’re writing?”
“Nope.”
“What about just idle curiosity?”
“Not that, either.”
“Care to tell me what this is about?”
She drew in a long, melodramatic breath. “You’ll just tell me not to do it.”
“How do you know? I might be totally encouraging.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Amber Olivia Kowalski.”
“Okay, Quentin and I are opening our own detective agency, and we are starting with a case at the School for the Deaf. Someone is stealing office supplies, and we’re going to figure out who.”
Quentin was an adorable sixteen-year-old with shoulder-length blond hair and a smile that rivaled the beauty of a New Mexican sunset. He was very sensitive to the supernatural world. He could see the departed and demons, and he was one of the few people alive who could see my light.
His gift was one in a million. Literally. Many people were sensitive in that they could see a clear smoke or a blur when a departed was around, or they could feel a cold spot or hear a moan. But Quentin could actually see the departed, body and soul. He would’ve been able to communicate with them more if he hadn’t been born deaf.
He attended the New Mexico School for the Deaf in Santa Fe, and Amber was hoping to join him next year if Cookie agreed and the school approved her application. It was hard to get a hearing student into NMSD without a blood relative enrolled, but they loved Amber, and she was on campus at least two or three times a week. She was becoming Deaf—capital D, as in culturally—more and more every day. And her mo—
Wait. Did she say detective agency?
I stood in shock for a solid minute before remembering I’d said I’d be encouraging. “Your own detective agency?”
“Yep.”
“Wow. I’m not entirely certain, but I think I’m flattered.”
“Really?” she asked, turning her frown upside down.
“Wait, let me think about it.” I held up a finger as I pondered the situation. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I am. But the answer is no.”
Her shoulder deflated. “See? I told you.”
I giggled, walked over to her, and kissed her head. “Just kidding.”
She brightened again. Her moods were comparable to someone switching the sun on and off, she wore them so overtly.
“Aunt Charley.” She pretended to reprimand me, but teasing her was kind of an aunt’s job. “So, you’ll help us?”
The thought of Amber and Quentin opening their own detective agency was both the cutest thing I’d ever heard and one of the scariest. Adorable? Yes. Dangerous? Considering my world, also yes.
“I’ll help you help yourself.”
“Um, okay. Can’t you just go there, ask who did it, test the emotions of everyone you ask, and tell us who the thief is?”
“No.” I went back to towel-drying my hair.
“Is this going to be one of those life-lesson things? ’Cause they don’t really work when you’re around. Nobody compares to you, so it’s not fair.”
I tossed my wet hair back and gave her my best impression of a dead pan. “Is this going to be one of those guilt trip things? ’Cause they don’t really work when I’m around. I can sense insincerity, remember?”
She pinched her mouth together, then propped an elbow on a knee and her chin in her palm. “Mom is so much easier to con than you.”
I stuck a toothbrush in my mouth and worked up a good lather. “Honey,” I said through the foam, “everyone on planet Earth is easier to con than I am. You’re fighting an impossible battle.”
“Okay, then, what should we do? We can’t figure it out. We’ve tried and tried and tried.”
“Did you find out who has access to the supply room?”
“Well, no,” she said, thoughtful.
“Okay, well, that’s where I’d start. Find out who has access, then eliminate those people one by one by checking their alibis until you have a viable suspect.”
“Yes. That’s what we need. A viable suspect.”
She braced her phone against a tissue box, hit RECORD, and began signing everything I’d just told her. She stopped and asked, “How do you say viable?”
With a giggle, I signed it for her. She finished her message and hit SEND.
“Quentin can find out some of that today at school. I wish I went there.”
“I know, hon. Maybe next year.”
She shrugged acceptance and hopped up. “Can I call you if I have more questions?”
“You know you can, but there’s someone else in this building who’s a pretty incredible investigator.”
“Uncle Reyes?”
“No.”
“My stepdad?”
My very own uncle Bob had married my BFF and became Amber’s stepfather overnight, a role he cherished and Amber found safety in.
“Nope.”
She skewed her face in thought. “Mrs. Medina, the elderly lady in 1B who swears she was a spy in the Cold War and that she once used peanut butter to create a bomb to distract her enemies so she and her Chihuahua, the Mighty Thor, could escape from that prison in Siberia?”
I pressed my lips together to keep from saying something sarcastic. Since Sarcastic was my middle name, restraint didn’t come easy.
When I had a handle on my innermost nature, I said, “No, not Mrs. Medina.”
She finally gave up with a curious shrug.
“Your mother, hon.”
“Mom?” she asked, the doubt as visible on her pretty face as her nose.
I laughed softly. “Who do you think does all the behind-the-scenes work for me? Your mother’s a badass.”
She blinked, then seemed to warm to the idea. “My mom? A badass?”
“Abso-freaking-lutely.”
“Sweet.” She turned, beaming, and headed out the door. “Thanks, Aunt Charley.”
“Not at all, sweet pea. Tell Quentin hey for me.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, wait,” I said, leaning out the door. “What’s your business’s name?”
“Q&A Investigations.”
She paused and waited for my reaction.
“I love it.”
She twirled around and bounced out.
4
I once made a pot of coffee so strong, it opened a jar for me.
—T-SHIRT
I finished dressing, made a pot of coffee, and downed half of it straight from the carafe. That could’ve be
en why I saw it again. The dark gray swish. Before I’d officially met Reyes, he kind of followed me around but kept his distance. All I’d see was a black blur, but this seemed different somehow. Colder. Grayer.
I walked into the living room, opened a closet where the swoosh appeared to vanish into, then gave up. If it were dangerous, I’d know soon enough. Denial was a wonderful thing.
After pouring an actual cup of coffee, I checked email, grew instantly bored, and decided to check the news instead.
I was doing exactly that when Cookie walked in.
“Hey, pumpkin,” she said, but my face was glued to the screen.
I couldn’t believe what I’d found. “Did you know Penn Jillette and his wife named their daughter Moxie CrimeFighter?”
She poured herself what was left of the coffee, then joined me. “I read that somewhere. How cute is that?”
“Cute? Cook, it’s horrible. I mean, what if, when the poor girl grows up, she wants to be the villain?”
“That is a conundrum. Speaking of which, did you take my cupcakes?”
“Only four. I had to wake up Garrett in the middle of the night, and I needed an olive branch. With chocolate icing.”
“I don’t think Garrett would mind your waking him up no matter what time it was.”
“He pulled a gun on me.”
“But it never hurts to take that extra step.”
“Why’d you make them? Is there a special occasion I don’t know about? Birthday? Anniversary? Guilt over an illicit affair?”
“No, I made them for you. You’ve been … off lately. I thought cupcakes might make you feel better.”
“Cook,” I said, leaning toward her for a big fat hug.
She was wearing a crinkly sage-green outfit with a lime-green belt and scarf. Her black-with-a-hint-of-gray-striped hair was spiked in all directions as usual, but if it had been lighter, she would’ve looked a little like Elton John. His loss.
“Cupcakes make everyone feel better,” I said, letting her go. “Well, maybe not diabetics.”
“What are you up to these days?”
“What? Nothing. I had nothing to do with it,” I said, sure she’d already discovered my traitorous involvement in the case of the missing office supplies and the start-up detective agency.
Cookie had been concerned Amber and Quentin were spending too much time together, and encouraging the elfin in this new endeavor would definitely give them an excuse to do exactly that.
In fact, I wouldn’t put it past those two to have made up the whole mystery for that very reason. I mean, she had to know we’d be flattered that they wanted to follow in our footsteps.
“Okay, then.” Cookie sat quietly after that, sipping her coffee, until she could contain it no longer. “What the hell, Charley?”
“I’m sorry.” I bowed my head in shame. “I didn’t mean to. She was just so cute, and you know damned well I can deny that child nothing. She used her charm on me. It’s lethal. It should be registered on a weapons database somewhere.”
“What is going on?” She stood and began pacing. “After all we’ve been through together, after all the secrets we’ve shared—granted, you have a few more than I—but still, if you and Reyes are having problems, you know you can come to me. Hell, you’ve slept on my couch more times than I can count.”
“Like, three?” Clearly, she wasn’t very good at counting.
“And now you’re obviously having serious issues and—” She turned toward me. “What did you say?”
Uh-oh. My words just sank in.
“Nothing. I had my listening ears on.”
She pursed her mouth. “What did she do?”
“Who?”
“My daughter.”
“Nothing. I swear.”
“Charlotte Jean Davidson.”
Wow, that really worked. “Okay, I’ll tell you, but don’t say anything. She wants to come to you for guidance and structure. So when she tells you, act surprised.”
Cook narrowed her eyes on me, her expression one of absolute disbelief. She was catching on so much faster these days.
* * *
I explained all about Amber and Quentin’s new venture. Cookie took it better than I’d hoped. I think it was the part where I told her Amber wanted to come to her first, but she was worried Cookie would be upset about them spending even more time together—you know, beyond the whole every-waking-moment thing—so she came to seek my counsel because she thinks she’s found her calling. She wants to do what her mother does.
That pretty much clinched it. Amber so owed me.
“And the rest,” I said, rising to hunt down my boots, “I’ll tell you at the office. I’ve invited the whole gang.”
She’d started for the door, but she stopped and turned. “It’s that bad?”
I wrested a boot out from under Sophie, my couch, and slipped it on. Without looking back at Cookie, I said, “Yes, sadly, it is.”
We walked to the office together since it was only about fifty feet from the front door of our apartment building. But we walked in silence, she in thought and me in a state of panic. I didn’t let it show, though. I’d essentially lost my husband, his body taken over by a deity I knew nothing about. Was he volatile? That much seemed a given, but was he cruel? Was he malevolent? Only time would tell, but time was not something we had a lot of. If he turned out to be everything we feared, we needed to capture him. Period.
Davidson Investigations, not to be confused with Q&A Investigations, sat on the second floor of a historic brick building on Central, right across from the beautiful campus of the University of New Mexico. The first floor housed Reyes’s bar and grill, Calamity’s. My dad, who’d owned the bar before Reyes bought it, had called it Calamity’s after yours truly. No clue why. Chaos rarely followed me.
We put on a fresh pot of coffee, because coffee made everything okayer, and waited for our guests to arrive.
Which they all did. Like all at once. It was weird.
Garrett. Uncle Bob. Angel. Gemma. Osh.
Wait, Gemma?
“Uh, hey, Gem,” I said, greeting everyone with a hug, including the man who once tried to invent a hug repellent spray thanks to me, my wonderful uncle Bob. And now he was married to my bestie. It’s like we were really related now. Not Cookie and I. We became sisters the moment we met. But Uncle Bob was always iffy at best.
I stepped to Gemma and pulled her into a hug, too.
“Whatcha doin’ here?” I asked into the suddenly very awkward silence.
“Spending time with my little sister. Can’t a girl spend time with her little sister?”
“No.”
She laughed and waved a dismissive hand.
“No, really, Gem.”
Growing more serious, she lifted her chin and said, “I’m ready.”
I strode to the coffeepot for a refill. I just couldn’t seem to get enough of it lately. Probably because of the lack of a good siesta. “You’re ready?”
She braced herself and nodded.
“For?”
“This.” She gestured around her. “You. Whatever it is you do, I’m ready.”
“I’m not sure you are.”
Uncle Bob stepped closer as the others staked their claims in Cookie’s office. “Gem, I think maybe—”
“No,” she said, her mind set. “It’s time I got more involved. You know, step up to the plate. Go for the touchdown. Turn the dial to eleven.”
For someone with a genius IQ, she was really bad at metaphors.
“What the hell does any of that mean?” I asked.
She drew in a deep breath. “I’m here for the meeting.”
“No.”
“I want to become more involved in your life and what you do.”
“No.”
“Why does Uncle Bob get to be involved and not me?”
“No. And who told you we were having a meeting?”
Osh spoke up from his chair in the corner. “I think she should stay.”
“Just pretend this is your hometown. Daeva don’t have a say.”
He narrowed his bronze eyes on me. “That’s low, sugar. Even for you.”
“See?” Gemma said. “That’s interesting. What’s a Daeva?”
“A slave demon from hell,” I said, hoping to scare her right off the bat.
“Oh.” She thought about that a moment, then said, “Okay. Well, I’ve learned something already.”
This was going to be a long morning.
We sat around Cookie’s desk, Uncle Bob next to my best friend and associate-slash-receptionist. He took her hand in his, and I felt a small rush of pleasure erupt out of her.
Garrett stood back, pretending to be annoyed that I’d asked him if the ho had called. He was worried about Reyes. As was I.
Osh sat in the farthest corner, tipping his chair back like a kid in high school.
Angel popped in and hung back with Osh, probably because Osh was the only person in the room besides me who could see him.
Even Artemis showed up. She sat at Angel’s feet, and he and Osh took turns rubbing her ears.
Gemma sat next to me. I’d commandeered Cookie’s chair and sat behind her desk so I could see everyone as I explained the situation.
I cleared my throat, but Garrett motioned to me, lifting the rope he had in his hands.
“Oh, right.” I looked at Osh. “Osh, we are going to have to tie you up and torture you. Sorry.”
“Really?” He stood and removed his top hat, a broad grin splitting his perfect face. With the enthusiasm of a virgin at a brothel, he slapped his hands together and rubbed them in anticipation. “Where do you want me?”
“That chair will be fine. Just scoot it to the middle of the room.”
Cookie’s office wasn’t huge, but it was big enough to tie Osh up and torture him.
Gemma’s eyes rounded in concern when Osh sat down and Garrett began the bondage process. Was it wrong that I had a hankering for gay porn at that moment?
I walked over to them to make sure Garrett’s knots were inescapable. But inescapable to a human and inescapable to a Daeva were two very different things. Osh could most likely get out of pretty much any sticky situation, but if it did nothing else, it would damned sure slow him down. Garrett’s handiwork made certain of that.
The Trouble With Twelfth Grave Page 4
