A Ghoul's Guide to Love and Murder (6 page)

Heath sighed and whispered in my ear, “We were so close to a clean getaway.”

I stifled a laugh and said to Gil, “Please tell me that was Gopher or the producer and one of them is going to help us get the dagger back.”

Gil's excited smile faded. “No. But I'll figure out something. Don't worry.”

“Who was it, then, Gil?” Heath asked.

“None other than
the
Catherine Cooper-Masters!”

My brow furrowed. “You mean Cat Masters? Abby's sister?” Abby Cooper was a very dear friend of mine. She was also a psychic, but the kind who predicts the future, not the kind who talks to dead people. She lives in Texas, and her sister, Cat, was a tiny woman with an enormous, and often overpowering, presence. Oh, and an insane amount of personal wealth.

Gilley bounced on the balls of his feet. “Yes! That's her!”

“She called you?” Heath said.

“Yes!”

Heath and I exchanged a look. “Why?” we said together.

Gilley fanned himself and went over to sit in one
of the living room chairs. “I sent her a note two days ago just to say hello and let her know that I was getting married, and to tell her that I'd so admired all the hard work she'd put into her sister's wedding—”

“You mean the disaster you and I nearly didn't live through?” I interrupted. Was he kidding? That wedding had been one of my worst nightmares.

Gilley waved his hand dismissively. “It was a gorgeous ceremony with unfortunate and unrelated extenuating circumstances.”

“Unrelated,” I said flatly. “Are you talking about when swans attack, or when little people dressed as cupids start shooting wedding guests in the butt with their bows and arrows? Or maybe when a team of stallions runs away with the wedding carriage?”

“Wasn't there also a swarm of moths or something too?”

I held up my hand and splayed my fingers. “They were butterflies
this
big!” I said. “Which I think were also carnivorous.”

Gilley glared at us. “Will you two stop? Seriously, that kind of extravaganza is a tough thing to pull off—and all that stuff wasn't Catherine-Cooper-Masters' fault.” He said Cat's name like he said Sarah Jessica Parker's name. As one word. “And you
know
what extenuating circumstances I'm talking about, M.J.”

I sighed. I did know. “So what'd Cat have to say?” I asked, reading Gilley like a book. He had more to tell.

“Well!” he said, excited again. “In my note I'd told her how much I'd admired her ideas, and asked that
if it wasn't too much trouble could she recommend a good caterer—I'm having the
worst
trouble with ours—and when she called me just now she said that she had a whole binder full of great ideas and contacts, and would I like any of her input?! I mean, can you
believe
it? Catherine-Cooper-Masters wants to help
me
plan our wedding!”

I stared at Gil. After the horror show that'd been Abby Cooper's wedding ceremony, she and I had talked at length about what a nightmare her sister had been when she'd taken on the task of planning Abby's wedding. Cat had big ideas.
Big.

Of course, she also had the money to execute most of those plans, but in Abby's case, it had all gone terribly wrong. To be fair, it'd gone terribly wrong for reasons other than just Cat's crazy weddingpalooza, but that'd been a freak show unto itself.

“Did you accept the offer?” I asked, already knowing Gil would've jumped at the chance.

“Of course!” he said. “We're meeting for brunch tomorrow. Isn't that amazing?”

Here's the part where I really should've stepped in and cautioned Gil about the wisdom of joining forces with another impossibly impulsive and headstrong person. Here's also the part where I remembered my earlier vow that no matter what drama unfolded from Gilley's wedding plans, I was not going to have an opinion or give my input. That was the quickest way to get sucked into trying to fix it when things started to go south, and no way did I want to get caught up in
that whirlpool. So instead I pushed a huge smile onto my face and said, “I think that's amazing, Gil!”

He beamed at me and clapped his hands together. “I've got to call Michel!”

He left us again to hurry into the office, and I grabbed Heath by the arm and said, “I now need ice cream more than ever.”

“Let's roll,” he said, and we rushed out the door.

“
Where
have you been?” Gil yelled the second we came back from the ice-cream shop. I've read that when a dog is barking like crazy, it's best to distract it by offering it a treat.

FYI, this works with Gilley too.

I shoved the only slightly melted triple scoop at Gilley, and his yap stopped flapping almost instantly. “Peanut butter fudge brownie atop rocky road atop death by chocolate,” I announced. “You're welcome.”

To my surprise, Gilley shook his head and stepped away. “No! No, no, no! My diet! I have to stick to my diet!” And then he licked his lips hungrily, his eyes never leaving the cone.

I moved it back and forth in front of me. “It's deeeeelicious . . .”

Beads of sweat broke out over Gilley's brow. “You're
hateful,” he said. “I hate you, M.J. You're mean. So mean!”

I sighed dramatically and brought the scoop closer to me. “You're right. I shouldn't tempt you. I suppose Heath and I will just have to eat this ourselves . . .”

Gilley darted forward and grabbed the cone right out of my hand. His mouth then descended on the ice cream, much like a viper dislocating its jaw to consume dinner, and he moaned with pleasure. “Hate. You,” he said between bites.

I waved a hand at him. “You can work that off tomorrow on a run with me.”

“Hate. Hate. Hate,” he repeated.

I was about to tease him some more when there was an unexpected knock at the door. I glanced at the kitchen's wall clock. It was nearly ten. “Are we expecting someone?” Heath whispered.

I shook my head and gazed at the door. I had a bad feeling. Nobody moved to answer the knock. Maybe I wasn't the only one with a bad feeling.

Three firm raps came again. They had the ring of authority to them. “Miss Holliday?” said a woman's voice. “This is Detective Olivera. Please open up. I need to speak with you and Mr. Whitefeather.”

A bolt of alarm traveled from the top of my head all the way down to my toes. “Shit,” Heath whispered. I was certain he felt it too.

Taking a deep breath, I crossed through the kitchen to the front door and opened it, finding a tall, lanky woman with enough presence to make me take a step
back. She radiated authority. And confidence. And badassery. (It's a word. Coined by badasses. Trust me.)

As looks went, she was. Gorgeous, I mean. Wavy brown hair, olive skin, big brown eyes, and a figure that probably belonged on the cover of
Sports Illustrated
at the peak of bikini season.

I could just imagine my husband working hard to rein in the barooga eyes. A quick glance behind me suggested he wasn't working so hard after all. It was all I could do not to slam the door in her face. Consequences be damned.

As if sensing I might try something like that, Detective Olivera pushed one boot subtly forward into the doorframe. Great. She was gorgeous
and
smart. My lucky day. “M. J. Holliday?” she said, flipping open the leather billfold that contained her picture ID and shield.

“Detective,” I said. “What's this about?” (As if I couldn't guess . . . )

Instead of answering me, she looked over my shoulder. “Heath Whitefeather?”

I felt a hand on my back as Heath said, “Yes, ma'am. What's happened?”

Tucking away the badge, Olivera pulled out a small leather-bound notebook and flipped it open expertly. “I was hoping you could confirm a few facts for me.”

My brow furrowed. Facts? “Of course,” I said. “Has something happened, Detective?”

Again she ignored me and read from her notes. “Were the two of you at one zero six Mount Vernon,
earlier this evening? The Museum of Modern Science, say, around six p.m.?”

“We were,” Heath and I said together.

“What was the nature of your visit there?” she asked.

I mentally groaned and my heart rate ticked up. She knew damn well what the nature of our business was. Something had obviously happened at the museum. Something very likely involving Oruç's dagger. “We were there on a matter of personal business,” Heath said. “A relic belonging to us had been loaned to the museum without our knowledge while we were on our honeymoon. We went to the museum to try to get it back.”

Something flickered in the detective's eyes. I didn't like it. “What relic?” she asked.

“A dagger,” I said. No point lying. She knew what damned relic. “It belonged to a Turkish warlord.”

“How did you come to own this relic?” she asked.

Crap. We were getting into dicey territory here. “It was put into our care by a police inspector in San Francisco,” I said. “And I'd prefer to keep his name out of it.”

Olivera's granite-hard expression showed a tiny crack. “You're kidding, right?”

“Why do you need to know?” I demanded. She was making me feel defensive, and I knew it wasn't the tone to set with her, but I couldn't help it.

Olivera considered me with a steely gaze. “Miss Holliday—”

“Whitefeather,” I corrected, just to be a pain. “And that's Mrs., Detective.”

She gave a tiny nod of acknowledgment for the error. It felt a little condescending. “Mrs. Whitefeather, the dagger has been stolen from the museum. And I'd like to know what you might think or know about
that
.”

I felt the blood drain from my face, unable to take even a breath for a long, long moment. The dagger had been stolen? It was the worst possible news. “Detective,” I said quietly after I'd taken that in. “You've
got
to get that dagger back. Seriously, you've got to.”

She cocked her head, and her eyes never stopped assessing me. “Again, Mrs. Whitefeather, that's what I'm doing here. I'm looking for the dagger.”

Heath's hand on my back moved to my shoulder and he stepped forward to stand next to me while my brain raced with all the awful implications of a relic such as Oruç's dagger free of its magnetic bonds, able to inflict all kinds of terror upon the city of Boston. “Detective,” he said, and a sideways glance at him told me he was every bit as alarmed as I was by the news. “What's really going on? You wouldn't be here at ten o'clock at night for just a stolen relic from a museum with little to no market value. So why don't you come out and tell us what else happened?”

Olivera lifted her chin slightly. It was clear she was surprised Heath was cutting to the chase. Maybe she'd underestimated him. “How would you two feel about
coming down to the precinct to talk about what else happened?” she said.

I reached for Heath's waist to steady myself. Oh, God. Someone had died. It had to be that. Oruç's dagger had struck again. “We'd be happy to,” Heath told her. “As soon as I can arrange for an attorney to meet us down there, of course.”

“Why would you need an attorney?” she asked him.

“Why would we need to go down to the precinct to discuss what else happened?” he replied.

“Ohmigod!” Gilley gasped behind us. I jumped a little, as I'd all but forgotten he was there. “Someone was assaulted at the museum in a robbery gone bad!”

I turned to see him scrolling his finger along his iPad. Why hadn't I thought of that? Turning back to Olivera, I said, “Will they be okay?”

“Who?” she said, looking like she wanted to punch Gilley. He'd clearly stolen her control of the conversation. And then she turned those steely eyes back to me.

“Whoever was assaulted,” I said impatiently. “Will they be okay?”

“No,” she said evenly.

I sucked in another breath and Heath wrapped his arm around me, which was good because I thought my knees might give out. “Oh, God,” I whispered. “Who was it? A patron? Or someone who worked there?”

But Olivera was done giving up information. Handing us her card, she said, “Mr. and Mrs. Whitefeather, I'd appreciate it if you'd come down willingly to the
precinct for a conversation. If you feel you need to be represented by counsel, fine. But one way or another I'm going to get to the bottom of this, and you can either cooperate now, or I'll build my case around the two of you.”

“I'll call someone,” Gilley said, heading off toward the spare bedroom, and I knew he meant he'd be calling an attorney.

I began to tremble. This had all gotten way out of hand so fast. I mean, I'd been worried about Oruç's dagger being on display, but even I'd figured we'd have at least twenty-four hours to get it back before the worst happened. And the exhibit had been blocked off as we were being led from it by museum security—probably to prevent any further scenes like the one we were involved in. I'd figured that they'd keep the exhibit closed at least until morning and we'd have a chance to work the back channels to get the dagger out of there.

What I still couldn't understand was how the dagger had overcome all those magnets. Even with the amount of fear that'd been generated after the lights went out to fuel either Oruç or his demon, the lights had still been turned off and all the batteries drained
before
anyone had gone crazy with fear. So how had that anomaly happened, and why hadn't anything like it happened when we had the dagger hidden in my office safe with just a few magnets to surround it? At the museum, none of the spikes had been touching the dagger, but it'd been surrounded by half a dozen of
them only inches away. The whole room was decorated with magnets, in fact, and that kind of electromagnetic field should've kept even a demon as powerful as Oruç's quiet.

And then I thought of something even scarier. What if Oruç's dagger had been stolen by a fan of the show? No one but myself, Gilley, Heath, Gopher, and a dear friend in San Francisco really understood the magnitude of danger the dagger represented. If some brazen fan had decided that the dagger was a collector's item worth stealing, then we had a gigantic problem on our hands. “Detective,” I said as Heath took her card, “I'm sure by now you've heard that the dagger is a very dangerous relic—”

She smirked at me. “Obviously,” she said. “It played a major part in a murder tonight, Mrs. Whitefeather.”

She had no idea how right she was, but I didn't want to fill her in any more than I had to about how we came into possession of Oruç's dagger. It'd probably come out anyway, but for now, I figured Detective Olivera was on a need-to-know basis. “It goes beyond that,” I told her. “The dagger isn't just some antique knife. There is a very powerful—very dangerous—set of forces that're associated with it, and in the wrong hands, they could become a
serious
problem.”

She cocked her head again. “You don't think murder is a serious problem?”

“Of course I do!” I snapped. “And please don't think I'm not every bit as concerned as you are. But, ma'am, that dagger
is
evil. It needs to be locked away in a safe,
lined with enough magnets to choke a whale.” I was beginning to regret very much the fact that we hadn't at some point thought to take the dagger, wrap it in magnets, throw it down a deep hole, and cover it in concrete. In hindsight, simply leaving it in my safe seemed like the stupidest thing I'd ever done. There was no help for it now, but I silently vowed that once I got the dagger back, I was gonna bury that thing in a dry well and pour enough concrete over the top to seal it up for all time.

“You keep talking about this dagger like it's got a life of its own,” the detective said. “Come down to the station and explain that to me.”

I sighed. Why were cops always so skeptical of the supernatural? I'd had my fair share of encounters with law enforcement, and it was always the same deal: suspicion and skepticism until they saw the demon du jour up close and personal, and then they were all, “Oh, please help us, M.J.!”

“Fine,” I told Olivera. “We'll follow you to the station.”

Heath was quick to protest. “Em, we'll need to wait for the attorney to meet us there.”

“No, we won't,” I told him. When he opened his mouth to argue with me, I laid a hand on his shoulder and said, “Heath . . . the dagger. Someone has it.”

He pressed his lips together and nodded. “You're right. Okay, let's go.”

I called to Gil, who came out from the spare bedroom looking frustrated. “I'm waiting on a callback,” he said.

“It's okay. We're headed down anyway,” I said, as Heath handed me my jacket.

“Without a lawyer?” Gilley said. “M.J., don't be stupid!”

“Don't be stupid?” I repeated angrily. “Gilley, somewhere in this city someone has Oruç's dagger—which
you
offered up to the museum on a silver platter, and in so doing,
you
placed it within the public domain, where it obviously tempted someone into stealing it. And now someone appears to be dead, so I gotta ask you, who's really the stupid one in this scenario?”

Gilley's face flushed with shame and he dropped his gaze. “Me,” he said softly. “You're right, and I'm so, so sorry, guys. I really thought I could keep it safe.”

“Come to the precinct with us,” Heath said gently while I continued to fume a little. “I think we're gonna need you to confirm our whereabouts for tonight anyway.” For emphasis he glanced at Olivera, who nodded subtly. So it was true. We were under suspicion for the crime. Great. Just great.

•   •   •

We met Olivera outside the precinct and then followed her inside, up a flight of stairs, and down a long hallway to the back of the building. Once through a set of double doors, we came out into a large room with desks arranged in a kind of haphazard fashion, some facing each other and others simply by themselves like little islands floating in a sea of paperwork.

I wasn't used to seeing actual desks at a police precinct—all of the previous investigative offices I'd
visited had always been arranged in cubicles, which I personally hated. I never knew how people could spend hours at a time in a tiny three-walled area with barely enough room to turn around and which gave only the pretense of privacy. Looking at the area Olivera had led us to was like stepping back in time before corporations became so uniform. I liked it.