Reaping Hell: Kiara Blake Book 2, page 5
“Latex mask,” Wilcox guessed. “Someone went through a lot of trouble disguising their features. He probably purchased the expensive stuff used in movies and took the time to properly apply it since Mrs. West thought his face only looked odd, not a mask.”
“Why not go all old school? Ski masks work.”
“How many people would stare at you if you strolled down the street wearing a ski mask?”
Yeah, that would be too obvious.
“Touché.” I turned back toward the glass door of the deli and stared at the solemn group seated inside. “I don’t understand why he wouldn’t have used a simpler method to hide his face like most criminals do.”
“He didn’t only want to hide his face, he wanted to change his appearance.” Wilcox’s gaze held mine. “I guarantee that every person seated inside the deli knows exactly who this killer is. They just don’t realize it yet.”
Chapter Five
Maude Taggert’s rules for my continued employment were simple: show up to work, keep her rich clientele ecstatic—or at least love-drunk happy enough to believe they were ecstatic—and make certain enough information on the client had been obtained to pull off her charade. Not that she’d admit to her psychic ability as being a sham. But it was.
Only one of the three was currently in my favor that morning since one, I was late, and two, the discovery of the off switch on my cell phone—the phone that had been accidentally turned off all morning—led to an anomaly. A voice message. One voice message from one Maude Taggart. Maude didn’t voice message. She texted. Except for that morning. Because that morning, she had a client who was far from ecstatic. The woman was opposite of ecstatic. She was irate. That’s what happened when an e-mail from Fated Match went out informing clients that matchmaking services would no longer be provided, but Women Embracing their Singleness seminars were offered instead.
To say that Maude was less than pleased with this executive decision that never cleared her desk was an understatement. That assessment included her ignorance to the fact that this proposed seminar would be conducted by a nineteen-year-old dead woman that none of the living could see.
A balled up piece of paper shot through the air as I entered the office of Fated Match. A blaze of fire followed.
“You have a hellhound? Nifty!”
Nifty was HG’s—Handsome Ghost—word of choice. Good to know since I was certain to hear it a lot. It appeared that I’d doubled the ghost residency in the office and no memory surfaced of placing a vacancy ad.
Hellhound looked up at me with a mouthful of ash. The paper ball didn’t survive his flames. Yet that hadn’t deterred the upturned lips of his beastly smile or the happy thump of his flaming tail. One day, that very tail was certain to catch the rug on fire.
A sheet of paper lifted from a stack on top of my desk and raced through the air toward HG. He quickly crumpled the paper into a ball before sending it on a new track through the room, one that Hellhound happily darted after.
Cold air blasted from Miss Prim’s chair. Her arms were crossed, and her eyes narrowed. And, for the first time, the prim ghost appeared absolutely rumpled. Hair windblown. White blouse pulled loose from her skirt. And pissed off. Miss Prim’s face was drawn tight. The frown on her lips wasn’t capable of turning down more than it already had. Her gaze never wavered from HG as he continued with his game of fetch that, thankfully, my eyes were the only human ones capable of seeing right then.
One look at the stack of papers lying on my desk had me wishing for my own cold air of energy to blast. At Miss Prim. I ripped a sheet up from the pile. “We are not giving seminars on being single.”
Miss Prim’s chin tilted up. “Well, we should. Women would be so much happier without men. This is my cause. To free the women of America from the evil clutches of men.”
HG sent a paper ball flying toward Miss Prim’s head. A blaze of fire in the form of one beast shot after it. With a shriek, Miss Prim poofed and then rematerialized in front of HG with fists planted firmly on hips. “Stop throwing paper at me. Leave my stuff alone.”
“Your stuff?” I asked. “And I’m revoking your computer privileges.”
“You can’t do that.” Miss Prim rushed to my desk and gathered her stack of papers into protective arms. “I have an important update for my blog tonight.”
“What’s a blog?” HG asked.
“You should have thought of that before you sent off an unauthorized e-mail.”
“I’m trying to save women from evil men.”
“No, you’re trying to get me fired,” I countered while logging onto the computer to change my password. “I spent the last forty-five minutes standing outside Addison Greer’s door trying to convince her that your e-mail was really a joke to a friend that accidentally got sent out to the entire address book.”
“What’s a blog?” HG asked again.
I stared at the puzzled expression on the ghost’s face. “It’s like an editorial for a website she created online where she expresses her opinion about men’s butts.”
“You write about men’s butts?” HG asked Miss Prim. “Want to write about mine?”
“Detective butts,” Miss Prim corrected. “And I’m off men. I need to inform my followers tonight that their time would be better spent embracing singleness instead of staring at evil men’s bottoms.”
My eyebrows rose at those familiar words. My words.
“I was a hawkshaw back in the day. Sure you don’t want to write about my butt?” Miss Prim’s silent stare prompted him to look down at his worn button-up shirt and trousers. Tugging at the brim of his flat cap, a lock of blond hair shifted into his right eye, and he shrugged. “Okay, so maybe I wasn’t a copper, but I had lots of experience dealing with them. What’s online mean?”
“This is the twenty-first century, and you haven’t figured out what the Internet is?” Miss Prim asked, edging back to straighten the flowers sitting on an accent table. The gaze of her eyes drifted past the colorful petals and landed straight on his butt. “You need to adapt to the changing times.”
“Twenty-first century?” HG’s eyes gave a slow perusal of Miss Prim. His eyes roamed up and down her body, lingering on a particular spot long enough to make her arms cross over her chest. “I saw that outfit in a shop more than sixty years ago.”
“Why were you in a women’s boutique?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” His grin was sly.
“Humph!” Miss Prim’s jaw went slack as her fists shot down her sides in outrage.
HG’s grin turned devilish. Then he focused on me. “What’s on today’s agenda? More letters from Hell?”
God, I hoped not. “Nope.”
“Hot stone massage with carefully selected rocks from the pits?”
My eyes shot up to see the smirk on his face. “What’s your fascination with Hell?”
He rolled back on his heels, and his gaze zoomed in on my pendant. “Curious. You’re a Praedator.”
“So?”
“Don’t you know what it’s like down there?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t. Would you like me to send you down to check it out?”
He looked away, but not before I caught a wash of emotions fleeting across his pale face. None which I had time to decipher. His head shook. “No. Hey, can I take your hellhound for a walk?”
“Uh, sure?”
“Come on, boy!” HG poofed, and Hellhound lunged, disappearing into the newly vacated spot after him.
“Get rid of him.” Miss Prim was at my side.
My fingers stilled on the keyboard. “How?”
“How?” Her foot tapped. “I don’t know. Don’t you have some way of getting rid of ghosts—other than with that sword, I mean.”
Her eyes were focused on the back of my jacket as I turned and faced her. “If I knew of a way to rid this place of ghosts, you’d have been gone within the first hour of your arrival.”
Miss Prim’s face fell.
I was an ass.
Ugh. Ghosts weren’t my friends. That had been my number one rule since age fifteen. A ghost attempting to murder me tended to establish rules such as that. Yet here was a ghost. Gut informed with a sinking sensation that she was, in fact, my friend. Damn. How had that happened?
“I didn’t even know you then,” I said. “My point is, I don’t know how to make a ghost leave if they’re being stubborn enough to stick around.”
“But now you don’t want me to leave, right?”
I leaned back in my chair, sighing at the hopeful expression plastered across her face. She was Wilcox’s opposite as far as emotions went. Every single one of her thoughts and feelings screamed so loud they might as well have been etched across her forehead in ink. “Who else would help me maintain my sanity by keeping a running commentary on Maude’s snooty clients if you weren’t around?”
Her grin was bright. Too bright. Sunglasses required. Yet the tightness in my chest eased at the sight of her happy expression. Her arms flew out, and my hands shot up. “No hugs. I’m working here.”
Her frown was brief as she leaned in. “Me, too. I think I’m close to solving the case.”
“What case?”
Her head tilted to its side, so her exasperated expression shot straight into my eyes. “Margaret’s case.”
Margaret was a ghost who had been murdered sometime in the 1920s. Miss Prim had shown up at Fated Match with the ghost two weeks before for a counseling session, except Margaret hadn’t come across as particularly concerned about her own death. Miss Prim had appeared to be the ghost much more troubled about Margaret’s untimely demise when declaring that she was taking on the case. I hadn’t heard much about it since.
“Oh, right,” I said and Googled TRND Energy. “Good luck with that. I’m working on something else.”
“What?”
“Those four non-marked men Satan wants me to find.” Scrolling down the page, I read about the company’s history. Brief history. It was formed only four years before—about the same time Todd Ashford had shown up on social media’s radar. A few more clicks and… “What the hell?”
“What?” Miss Prim’s cold arm butted into my side, rolling my chair. I gave a not-so-gentle shove back.
“They’ve only been in business for the past four years, yet they made the Fortune 500 list last year.”
“So?”
“So, I’m no expert on running a business but to make that kind of money only three years in? I don’t think it’s normal. Like really, really not normal.”
“Maybe they got lucky?” Miss Prim suggested. “What do they do?”
Eyes rescanned the page. “They do something in hybrid energy, whatever that means. They invent technology powered by energy.”
“Oh. So what does this have to do with the ghosts you have to find?”
“They own this company.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, and so far two of their bodies have been found.” One a day, I thought. “Perhaps the next body shows up tomorrow?”
The thought was both depressing and sickening. A whiff of burnt human flesh haunted the air at the memory of Robert Dunlap’s hanging corpse. Acid once again churned my stomach, and Hands flew up to my mouth to cover the dry gag that heaved.
“Are you okay?”
My head shook.
“Have you seen any of the ghosts?”
Head shook again.
“Is there some way to locate the ghosts without finding the rest of the bodies?” Miss Prim asked, seeming to clue in on what had left me hunched over at the waist, sucking in panicked gasps while staring at my knees. I was trying to not vomit.
A vision could be attempted to gain answers, but currently, I had no direction, no focus. I wasn’t certain where any vision could take me. Honing and expanding my skills needed to be moved to the top of my to-do list. That would be a Tristan-approved task, I knew. The vampire seemed to have something personal invested in my success. What, however, remained the question. The man loved mystery.
“I need to speak with Maude Taggart.”
The voice was cultured. Unfamiliar. Impatient. Each word properly enunciated.
Managing to gain control of Stomach, I sat upright in my chair to face perfect dark curls, perfectly applied makeup and perfect designer clothing. One of Maude’s clients. All were rich enough to afford her fees. Except Maude’s next appointment wasn’t scheduled for another two hours.
“May I help you?” I asked.
A ten thousand dollar purse was set on my desk by one perfectly manicured hand. I knew the cost of that particular purse. Eyes may have recently gone on a shopping spree. The Pinterest kind. Pin but no buy. Torturing myself on the goodies in life that I couldn’t have. Yeah, that was my definition of fun… and why Checking Account constantly knocked me upside the head in case I colluded with emergency-only credit card and got a few ideas. Wrong ideas.
“I’m here to see Maude Taggart,” the woman said.
Yeah, I got that, but the calendar didn’t need to be opened to verify the only appointment for Maude’s morning hours was the half spa day she’d taken last-minute due to the stress of Miss Prim’s unauthorized e-mail. Maude wasn’t due back to the office for another hour. I pulled up the calendar anyway. Just in case.
“I’m sorry, but she’s out of the office at this time. You’ll need to schedule an appointment if you would like to speak with her.”
“She should be here.”
Okaay. “Why should she be here?”
“Because she’s psychic, and she should know that I am here. I need to speak with her. It is urgent.”
Technically, there was logical reasoning behind those words. A psychic should foresee when she was needed. But since a real psychic didn’t reside at Fated Match, I simply smiled. One with lips clamped to hold back the she’s not here, leave.
“Call her.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Ms. Taggart needs to be here. My consultation is important.”
“That isn’t how this works. If you would like to hire her service, I need for you to fill out an application and pay the deposit fee.”
“No,” the woman said, the palm of her other perfectly manicured hand hitting against the surface of my desk.
“So, uh, you don’t want to hire Maude’s services?”
“This won’t do.” The tight lips holding an irritated frown weren’t so perfect. Unless it was perfectly bitchy. Because I was on the fast track to forming the realization that this woman was a perfect bitch. With a capital B. Her head shook. “I will have your job for this.”
Smart Aleck begged to make an appearance and taunt The Bitch for requesting to work my position since basically that was what she had said; although, that wasn’t what she had meant. But Maude would not appreciate me taking this woman’s words as literal. The Bitch screamed of money, and Maude loved money. Adored it. Probably rolled around with it on top of a bed. Sipped it like a glass of champagne. Images I did not want to think about.
Checking Account loved money, too. Which was why I shoved Smart Aleck back into its hole so I’d remain gainfully employed. No matter how hard I tried otherwise, Checking Account remained at the top of my life priorities list.
“I would love to schedule an appointment for you to speak with Maude,” I tried again. “If you’re interested in her matchmaking service, I need for you to complete this form.”
One perfectly waxed brow rose. “Fill out my paperwork for me. I simply don’t have time. Tell Maude I will speak with her tomorrow at one o’clock. Have my application completed by then.”
She stood. The over-sized purse was lifted from its position of rest on my desk. Then she was out the door, leaving behind a trail of expensive perfume.
Pride was miffed. Do her paperwork? What next? Polish her shoes? Kiss the very ground she walked on? Never had one so arrogant and dismissive walked through Maude’s front door. Until now. And Miss Prim, working hard to become the Queen of Sarcasm since first picking up a few of my bad traits, would soon pipe in with a perfect snark containing just the right mixture of sarcasm and droll, leaving me with regrets for not having said it myself before Bitch walked out the door.
“That was a Hermès purse,” Miss Prim said, her voice nothing but a breathless sigh.
Or maybe not.
Chapter Six
Newly minted ghosts were often irritable, confused, and stubborn. Alive one moment, basking in five senses that functioned fully on all cylinders, and dead the next second while still grasping at the familiar mannerisms no longer holding any traction on the earthly plane of existence. Mystified from the abrupt change often left them in a perplexed state of mind. This dismissed all rational reasoning and drew heavily on trait number one. Irritably turning into anger, and anger morphing into rage.
That, I understood. Despite the past eleven-year avoidance of all things ghostly, I was back in the game. I’d held my own during the last month. Yet life had thrown another curveball, and gruesome dead bodies put me back to square one: job avoidance.
Lighting was dim inside my bedroom. The sun only now making its morning appearance, yet Eyes had already been startled wide. No caffeine required. Fortunate considering it was Wednesday, and Mr. Coffee always took that day of the week off. No exceptions.
I wasn’t certain what caused my unscheduled wake-up call, other than the nightmares, the haunting smell, and the strong desire to retch… Because the ironclad contract I had never signed? It hadn’t said flip about dealing with smelly corpses. The kind of stink that haunted dreams, waking a person like me to lean over the side of the bed and retch out dry heaves. One more reason to un-ironclad Satan’s airtight contract. There was no way in hell I was searching out corpses to find their detached spirits.
