Reaping Hell: Kiara Blake Book 2, page 7
It wasn’t lost on me that once again I sought out a ghost I was tasked with sending to the pits, yet in dire need of gleaning information from him first. Logan Bradley had been the last one I’d sought out for personal reasons, and that hadn’t turned out too well. Or rather, at all. This time would be different. The world was at stake. Lives depended on my success.
Honestly, climactic music needed to blast in surround sound to my dramatic thoughts. Instead, I settled for classical background music inside the hotel lobby. The sound softly drifting from hidden speakers. I expected rag, or jazz at least, due to the decor.
The housekeeper wasn’t in sight. My stance relaxed to casual as I peeked around the room while pretending to study my phone. Two days before, when standing inside this very hotel with Wilcox and Detective Ross, too many of the faces had been a blur. The detailed observation skills I normally possessed had been off-kilter due to the sight of a dead body. I, however, might easily be recognizable as the woman tagging along with two homicide cops. No matter the situation, I tended to stick out, and today I needed to be stealth. The jacket. It was not quite long-sleeved weather—almost, but no cigar—and people tended to notice. Yet the stares would only increase if they saw me wearing the sword. Not to mention my booty would end up in the slammer for illegal display of a weapon. Wilcox had already confiscated my sword once. Now with the understanding of its purpose, he maintained a blind eye. The mention of how something previously locked up in evidence at the police station sneaked its way onto my back remained lost in translation. As in, he never asked, and I never explained.
My head stayed bowed in the hotel lobby as I maintained a steady pace toward the elevator bank. Not too fast of a walk to draw notice, but any slower and a turtle would win the race.
“I can’t find my badge.” A familiar voice cried out from a room located behind the reception counter. “It was the ghost. I told you, this place is haunted.”
Feet picked up speed. Notice be damned. Attention was no doubt focused on the cries of ghostly theft, anyway. I reached destination number one and about fell to my knees in thanks for the waiting elevator cab. Score thus far: Kiara, two. Everything to hinder progress, zero. Zilch. Nada while I had a borrowed badge and held an undetected trek across the busy hotel lobby as listed accomplishments.
Large potted plants adorned one end of the hallway on the eleventh floor. The barrier a joke in hiding the yellow crime scene tape still placed across the door to suite 1142. It screamed dead body inside through the leaves of the indoor trees, names of which I did not know. Standing still, I took stock of my surroundings. No hotel employee in the vicinity? Check. No ghost loitering? Check. No ghastly smell of burnt human flesh? Triple check. Another sniff ensured a quadruple check.
Badge performed beautifully at the entrance door, and within seconds I illegally stood in the dead man’s room. Except he no longer resided inside. Thank God. The police had combed through the space in their investigation, traces of their dusting were left behind.
As I had noted on my first visit, the room was large and elegantly furnished. Yet it wasn’t one of the high-end suites the hotel had to offer. I knew money had been no obstacle for Todd based on his publicly lavish lifestyle and the financial success of his business. But instead of the bell and whistles, he chose to stay in a standard room. The exact same room each visit. And he had stayed often, based on the housekeeper’s observations. What drew him to this precise room? Crossing to the window, I drew back the curtain. Buildings, city streets, pedestrians, and traffic. None of the businesses lining the first floor of the fifteen-story structure across the way appeared to be significant. A dry cleaner and a Chinese shop were located directly across and down from the window. Unless Todd had been laundering money in between layers of lo mein, the view had not been his reason for room selection.
The curtain fell back in place, but not before a ray of sun snagged against something on the brown and gold swirls of the carpeted floor. The shiny droplet gathered lightness reflecting in sharp contrast to the dark textile. Wax. I traced a finger across before tugging up the rubbery substance. Very odd. Standing, I then walked around to track the path of the scattered drippings. A circle. But of what? Candles?
What had occurred in Todd’s last few moments before death? The bed had been stripped of its covering, probably removed for testing when they took the body. I stood inside the circle’s center. It placed me at an angle of clear view for how I recalled Todd lying. Someone had stood inside this circle, and Todd had watched that person while he was dying.
Maintenance Man’s witness had been the only absolute proof two days ago of another person’s existence inside the room. No—wait. A bottle of Scotch sat on the bar. An unfinished glass of the amber liquid resting nearby. A second untouched glass was shoved rim down on the counter near the bar backsplash. Untouched except for a small smudge of a lip imprint. Leaning down for a closer inspection, I could tell the glass had only been wiped down, not washed. Either the housekeeping staff was seriously lax with their job—and if so, ew, gross—or Todd had shared a drink with his murderer before his death.
This. Todd knew his murderer. Wilcox was certain the employees of TRND Energy knew the murderer, hence the efforts to distort facial features with latex. A disgruntled employee hell-bent on killing off his bosses, perhaps?
Determining if an employee had been acting suspiciously odd the past few days was Wilcox and Detective Ross’s problem. Mine was finding Todd Ashford and figuring out what the man knew about the portal.
It was then I saw it. The carpet behind the corner chair wasn’t smooth. Normally, the textile would lie flat, and this wasn’t. I determined that tucked into the corner as it was, no one would usually be the wiser. Except now, the corner of the carpet wasn’t pressed down into place. I pulled it back to reveal a shallow hole in the flooring. A little wooden box sat tucked inside. On top lay a small leather-covered journal.
Now we’re getting somewhere. Lifting the loot, I discovered the box to be empty. The journal blank with the exception of scribbling on the first page. Damn. I pulled the pad closer to study the sprawling script.
The words break-up the vortex—conductor? Lodestone? were written at the top. A phone number followed the cryptic words. Another type of number listed below that.
Not much help that was, but perhaps the phone number could turn into a lead. Ripping the top page out, I slid the items back into their hole only for my hand to brush against something on the underside of the wood. A key.
Mind scrambled through various thoughts as I studied the small item. Mental words finally landed on safety deposit box. Way too small to belong to a door lock.
Any elation with finding a solid something evaporated with the thought of one question. Would the deposit box be here or in San Francisco? Had to be here. Logic dictated if the key was here, the box was here. Which bank was left to be determined.
I tucked everything into my purse right as the text notification chimed.
Small salad. No cheese. No croutons. Vinaigrette on the side.
Huh. Not Maude’s number. Not her order. Wrong number. A glance at the time revealed my moments of freedom had drawn to an end. Time to face the dragon—one who wore Chanel Nº 5 and pearls.
Chapter Eight
Something had happened within the last twelve hours. That unknown something left one headstrong ghost seated in her reception chair with arms crossed while another spirit sat directly across from her, staring with a smug smile on his full lips.
Miss Prim’s gaze seemed to land on those masculine ghostly lips before drifting down to Hellhound lying at HG’s feet—I’d wondered where the beast had gone—before her eyes returned to the ceiling to stare at a spot where she seemed determined to scorch a hole.
Mouth opened to ask… and then snapped shut. Who was I to question peace? With the two of them mutinous over whatever had ruffled Miss Prim’s skirt, I was guaranteed quiet. And it is said that silence is golden. Never had I understood that lesson so well until a ghost, who never went into the light upon her death some sixty years ago, decided to make Fated Match her new home.
Checking Account demanded a raise from Maude with the added babysitting duties required to fulfill my job while inside her office. The uptight dead girl sitting prim and proper on a chair while her green eyes occasionally shot daggers towards the other ghostly occupant in the room most certainly needed adult supervision. As soon as courage could be summoned, I’d write out the demand to Maude. However, concern was strong that requesting additional compensation would leave me standing at the back of the unemployment line.
“Kiara?” Maude breezed into the office. “What’s my schedule today?”
My thoughts scrambled while my gaze flew over the folders sitting on my desk. Computer had yet to be awoken from its deep slumber. “Ms. Bennett will be here at ten thirty to discuss her upcoming engagement party and wedding venues. She would like to know if you see her cousin Sadie fighting with her other cousin Avery over Avery’s husband, Brent, should the both of them be invited. From what I can conclude, Sadie and Brent had an affair last year, but Avery chose to work things out with her husband rather than leave him.” I flipped to the second page of my notes. “Also, Ms. Bennett would like to know if you see visions of her wedding being held in the south of France. It looks like her mother isn’t keen on that location.”
Maude’s lips pursed in thought. “And the mayor?”
“Willing to give his little girl whatever she wants.”
“Anything else scheduled today?”
“You have a one o’clock.”
“And?” Maude’s expression was expectant as if my statement hadn’t been all the words to my sentence.
But it had.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Taggert. I don’t have any additional information.”
“That is simply unacceptable. I do not take on everyone who walks through my door as a client. There are standards that must be met.”
“Her clothing was tailored and expensive.”
“Not good enough. Do not schedule just anyone to meet with me, Kiara. Your job is to weed those types of people out.” She disappeared behind the slam of her office door.
Well, then.
“What a nut,” HG said. “She couldn’t see me, could she?”
“Not even your cocky grin,” I said, hitting the on button to my computer.
“It is, isn’t it?” Miss Prim asked, staring at the mouth whose expression I’d just commented on. “That type of obnoxious behavior would dampen the mood Ms. Taggart would have when important clients arrive. He should leave.”
My jaw clenched. Still on the getting rid of HG thing?
“What rubbish. Who cares about the mood?” HG asked. “The woman’s as fake as the plant off in the corner.”
“The plant is not fake,” Miss Prim said.
“It is.” HG pointed to the unnatural shade of green leaves. “Walk over and see for yourself.”
“I do not need to walk over and prove anything. The plant is real.”
It wasn’t. No one ever went to that corner of the room, and it was one less Dieffenbachia for me to kill. Botany had been the first on the list to be crossed off when making college degree selections. My thumb was mud brown. The only reason I knew the name of the plant was because the cut-off tag still resided in my desk drawer.
“Okay, enough,” I said. “Both of you. I don’t know what happened last night—”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Miss Prim said. Her red face suggested otherwise.
“This bickering needs to stop. If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything.”
“Geez, you sound like my mother.” Miss Prim leaned back in her chair. Arms returned to crossed.
Mother? I wasn’t that old—was I? Still had three years, one month and one day until I hit the big three-oh. No way could I sound motherly. Despite Aunt Kate’s continuous reminder that my biological clock was ticking, I was plenty young.
Reassured that Miss Prim was simply set in a perpetual teenage mood she’d apparently never grown out of due to her untimely death, I Googled the phone number I’d found written in the journal hidden inside the hotel room. The fact that it was an international number was a given, the zero-one-one indicated the United States country code to dial out. But which county was the rest of the number?
“What are you doing?”
Déjà vu. Miss Prim was back to hovering over my shoulder as she’d been every other time I’d tried doing research on my marks.
“Working on hunting down those ghosts,” I said. “Why don’t you work on your case?”
“Your assignments are more interesting.”
Great.
“Besides, whoever killed Margaret is probably already dead,” Miss Prim continued. “What’s in Ireland?”
“Apparently, a precious jewel and stone shop.” I looked at the link my search had pulled up. Why Ireland? Lodestone. Todd had written that word in his journal, but what exactly was a lodestone, and did it even qualify as a precious stone? The word didn’t make it sound very exquisite.
“So, how are you getting rid of the woman when she shows up for her canceled one o’clock appointment with Ms. Taggart?” Miss Prim asked. “Can you convince her to donate her purse to the Deprived Ghosts of America?”
A snort sounded from the direction of the reception chairs. Hellhound wasn’t the culprit.
It was probably the best topic to pry my attention away from Todd Ashford’s journal, however, because I didn’t have an answer for Ireland and lodestones. Four hours later, I still didn’t have a clue when a voice cut into my thoughts.
“Where’s my salad?”
Head tilted up from my computer monitor. “Excuse me?”
“My salad.” The Bitch stood in front of my desk. Her hands gestured to my salad-free desk. “I texted you my lunch order this morning. Where is it?”
“How did you… Why did you…” Brain wasn’t certain which question to ask first, and it left Mouth stupefied. “How did you get my cell number?”
Her hands flew up in the air as if dismissing my question. “I see we’ve got our work cut out for you. Never mind, you’re new. Don’t let it happen again. Now, I would like to see Maude.”
Rage. It tended to leave a person feeling hot. Burning. Fire boiling in their blood. And it was exactly how I felt at that precise moment. A mirror didn’t need to inform that my face was red because I could feel the heat. With great pleasure, I smiled. “Well, Maude would not like to see you.”
Perfectly glossed lips fell apart. “The nerve of you speaking to me so. Do you know who I am?”
“Someone who does not have an appointment with Maude Taggart. Please leave.”
“Like hell, I will. I am here to see Maude Taggart, and I will see Maude Taggart.”
“What’s going on out here?” Maude appeared in her doorway. Her irritated gaze at me turned into stunned disbelief as it fell on The Bitch. “Desiree Hurst?”
“Your receptionist—” Desiree spit the word out as if it were dirty, “—informed me that I did not have an appointment with you.”
“Why, that’s ludicrous,” Maude said.
I heard an engine roar as it approached. I saw the tires I was about to be thrown under. They were heavy.
“You would never be turned away from my services,” Maude continued. Her gaze returned to me. “You know how it is… Help. Come, let’s talk in the comfort of my office.”
Mouth was agape as the two disappeared into Maude’s inner sanctum. Eyes were probably wide. The semi-truck that metaphorically ran over me would have been less traumatizing had it been real. At least Miss Prim and HG had enough common sense to keep their lips zipped. Although HG kept muttering something about Maude and stupid grifter under his breath.
Hellhound slept. I was becoming quite envious of that beast.
Forty-five minutes on the dot later, Maude’s office door opened.
“Oh, I can feel the spirits excited about you,” Maude said. “It won’t be long at all before they reveal your perfect soulmate.”
“I should hope not,” Desiree said. “I don’t have time to wait.”
“You won’t, dear. I can assure you.”
One fake air-kiss later, Desiree Hurst was out the door, and Maude whipped around to face me. It was like The Exorcist. Except Maude’s entire body spun around, not only the head.
“She’s the top model in the world,” Maude said. “Matching her will be the best advertising money can’t buy.” Maude’s gaze hardened. “I do not want to see another mistake like this out of you. If she tells you to jump, you had better fly.”
Maude disappeared behind her office door. Again. Too often she did that. Already, my legs were tired with jumping for Maude. Add Desiree into the mix? Legs needed a transplant. One thing was for certain, I’d finally found in Desiree Hurst the one person who could rival Lacey Briggs for Bitch of the Year.
“She has a smile that looks as sour as a melon.” I punched. Hard. Memories of perfect hair, perfect clothes, and perfect snobbery—along with that grin which didn’t really contain any imperfection at all—made me want to kick something. Except right then we were punching. So I hit again.
“Is a melon sour?” Tristan asked.
“Yes… possibly? Isn’t that an expression?” I paused mid-strike. Then shrugged. “Maybe it’s only a drink. I know I’ve had a sour melon ball at a bar before, but the memories of that night are a bit fuzzy.”
“Come on, ma chérie. Focus.”
