Read Blown To Pieces (PTO Murder Club Mystery Book 2) Online

Authors: Katie Graykowski

Tags: #mystery, #small town, #Romance, #cozy

Blown To Pieces (PTO Murder Club Mystery Book 2) (6 page)

BOOK: Blown To Pieces (PTO Murder Club Mystery Book 2)
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Here’s the thing about séances, candle-lighting ceremony or no: they never turn out well. No matter whom you contact, the conversation’s always one-sided and open to interpretation. Once, I offered to buy Astrid a Magic 8-Ball because it was about as accurate as Sebastian Sidebottom. She was not amused and tacked a fifty-dollar-a-month “use fee” onto my rent. “Use” of what? My own rented house? Still, it was the only place that kept Max in the same elementary school and kept us from living out of my car.

The lights flickered and then went out, as the door was thrown open, bouncing off the wall and hitting Donnalee Murphy square in the face. “Who’s there?”

When it came to blindness, Donnalee could give bats a run for their money.

Donnalee smacked into the door again, which bounced off the wall and hit her again. “Why do the spirits keep slamming the door in my face?”

“There’s no one there.” Astrid marched past Donnalee and opened the door. She spun Donnalee around a couple of times and pointed her in the general direction of the table. It was like she was priming Donnalee for some piñata bashing.

“I like Richard Gere too,” Vesta Neance yelled from behind Astrid. Vesta was to hearing as Donnalee was to sight. If you put them together, they might be able to make it home in one piece...maybe.

“Spirits of the afterlife, we summon you,” Astrid chanted as she held her candle high. “Your daughters of light are waiting. Come to us.”

“Come to us,” Donnalee and Vesta chanted.

“Come to us.” Astrid’s voice rose as she waved her candle around.

“Come to us.” Donnalee and Vesta waved their candles around.

It looked like Eloise Dunlap and Mitzi Lange—the other two “daughters of light”—were running late or weren’t coming.

Monica leaned close to my ear and whispered, “Ten bucks says Donnalee catches her hair on fire before the night is over.”

“I’m not taking that bet. The reason she has a mullet is because she caught her bob on fire a couple of weeks ago.” You could call me lots of things, but fool wasn’t one of them.

“Shhh.” Astrid pegged us with her beady little tattooed-eyeliner eyes. Unfortunately, they were magnified to cow size by her Coke bottle rhinestone glasses. Add in her silver-sequined muumuu and gold-lamé turban, and she could have traded places with the ball they drop in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. The trick was to not look directly at her or your retinas were toast.

“Oh God, I looked directly at her.” Haley rubbed her eyes. “My eyes are on fire.”

See?

Donnalee walked up to the altar at the back of the room and tried to light several strands of red licorice on fire. After the fifth attempt she finally gave up, felt around on the altar for the candelabra, and found the candles. The smell of burning plastic stung the inside of my nose. All of the fake fingernails on Donnalee’s left hand were on fire. I jumped up, ducked under the mosquito netting, grabbed five vials of holy water off the altar, popped the tops, and shoved a tube on each of her fingers. She didn’t seem to notice. This close to Donnalee, I noticed that her game of Draw the Eyebrows on Her Face had resulted in two black smudges under her eyes. With the vials on her fingers and the black under her eyes, she looked like Freddy Krueger had been drafted by the NFL.

At least Donnalee no longer drove. Monica had taken care of that by throwing both sets of Donnalee’s car keys into Lake Travis, removing her car’s distributor cap, and slashing her tires. Monica never did anything half-ass.

Eloise Dunlap ran into the room, tripped over the mosquito net, and almost caught my shirt on fire, but I have very quick reflexes. It’s all the caffeine I drink; it makes me jumpy...thank God.

I knelt down and helped her up. “Let’s get you seated. Is your spirit guide the Skor bars or the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups?”

I couldn’t remember the spirit guides by their names, so I went by sugar preference.

“Thank you, dear. The Reese’s.” Eloise smiled vacantly up at me. She could see and hear, but her memory left a lot to be desired. Still, she wasn’t much of a danger to herself and others, so who was I to judge?

Life in the séance world was as risky as bungee jumping...at least in this house.

“Everyone, take your places.” Astrid flourished a big-diamonds-on-every-finger hand, and most of us took our seats. Donnalee floundered in the corner.

“Ms. Donnalee, let me give you a hand.” Haley felt her way around to the opening of the mosquito net and helped Donnalee to her chair.

Astrid glared at me as I sat down. I would have helped Donnalee find her chair, eventually. Watching her bump into the wall, back up, and bump into the wall was funny. I couldn’t afford to pay for entertainment so I had to take what I could get.

Haley took her seat.

“Join hands.” Astrid took Donnalee’s hand before she could knock any Skors bars into the candelabra and light them on fire. Candy wrappers are surprisingly flammable. You’d think something containing precious chocolate would be flame retardant; then again, the candy company probably hadn’t accounted for spirit guides on a sugar high. The rest of us joined hands. “Close your eyes and reach out with your mind to the astral plane.”

Monica and I refused to close our eyes or hold hands. Rebellion was so much fun.

“Sebastian, come to me, old friend.” Astrid started rocking back and forth.

I jammed my eyes shut. All of those sequins rocking back and forth were enough to trigger epilepsy or brain fever. Okay, now I understood the whole eyes-closed thing.

“Come to me, my dear Sebastian. I need your help.” Astrid’s voice rose in a fake-accented crescendo worthy of community theatre.

Really, she had missed her calling. Perhaps I should steer her in the direction of the Lakeside Players. I’d heard their version of
Kinky Boots
was amazing.

“Goo-day mate.” Astrid’s British accent turned slightly Australian. Sebastian Sidebottom was here. “Just out throwing with me mates.”

Or it could have been “out mowing the gates.” Sebastian’s accent was part Liam Hemsworth and part Daffy Duck.

Astrid finally stopped rocking back and forth. “Got a Largest Boomerang competition tomorrow.”

Since Sebastian had supposedly been beheaded in a horrible boomerang accident, I’d have given up the sport if I were him. Then again, he was imaginary, so I guessed he could do whatever he wanted.

Vesta pulled a crumpled piece of paper out from underneath the table and unfolded it. “We need your help finding Big Tommy Prather.” Her voice boomed out and bounced off the walls.

For clarity’s sake, Astrid always assigned a spokesperson to converse with Sebastian. She used to do it herself, but everyone kept getting confused by who was talking, and all of the fake accents had been incomprehensible, which I’d thought was a plus.

“He’s not here.” Astrid’s head whipped back and forth like Sebastian was watching a tennis match. “He’s not here.”

Astrid fell forward and face-planted in a low bowl filled with gummy cherries. After a few seconds, she sat up and looked around. A clump of gummy cherries stuck to her left cheek. “What happened? Was Sebastian here?”

Donnalee opened her eyes. “He told us that Big Tommy wasn’t there.”

“That’s my job, Donnalee.” Vesta looked like a kindergartener who was supposed to lead the line but had been usurped by the teacher’s pet. She turned to Astrid. “Sebastian says that Big Tommy wasn’t there.”

“What does that mean?” Haley watched patiently. Bless her heart, she wanted to believe in everything—Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, that
The Bachelor
wasn’t staged.

“It means that he’s not dead.” Astrid was always there to interpret the crazy.

“I’m one hundred percent sure that he’s dead.” People don’t usually blow up practically in front of my eyes. It tends to make an impression. Big Tommy was there one minute and blown to pieces the next.

Astrid hunched her shoulders. “Sebastian is never wrong.”

What the hell? Sebastian was wrong one hundred percent of the time. I wasn’t sure why I had been expecting anything helpful from this little foray into the strange. What can I say—hope springs eternal.

We were back to square one in finding Big Tommy’s killer. Then again, we’d never really left it, so we hadn’t lost any ground.

Chapter 6

 

The next day my office was starting to smell like a funeral home. Usually, floral delivery was a time for celebration, and this morning it had been. By lunchtime, the flowers being delivered every fifteen minutes had become disruptive, and the cloying scent of roses was starting to give me a headache.

Based on the cards, balloons, stuffed animals, and chocolate-covered strawberries that had all been attached to the flowers, Daman Rodriquez was sorry for having me followed. I moved an oddly designed pyramid of yellow roses to the floor, parted two thin, dusty-white strips of mini blinds, and peered out at the parking lot.

Bautista sat behind the wheel of a dark-green Tesla sedan. He waved up and saluted me with a bottle of Mexican Coke.

There weren’t words strong enough to describe the depth of my hatred for that man. On my way to my car, I was stopping by his and disabling it. I sat behind my desk and googled how to disable a Tesla. All that came up was the owner’s manual. Okay, I don’t hate Bautista enough to read the owner’s manual of any car or appliance or pretty much anything with an owner’s manual. That level of commitment better involve cupcakes, or at least caffeine.

So Daman was sorry that he was having me followed, but not sorry enough to stop having me followed? Probably made sense to a man.

I checked my watch. Ten minutes until go-home time. I’d spent most of the day going over Big Tommy’s medical records and pretending to be busy, so I shoved the records in my leather work tote, turned off Bertha, and went to make my last cup of coffee for the day—unless I stopped by Starbucks on the way home, but that was doubtful, since no more money had magically appeared in my checking account. Not that money ever had, but again, I’m an optimist—well, I would be if optimism paid money or burned calories or produced cupcakes out of thin air.

I plugged a Chocolate Glazed into the Keurig and closed the lid.

“Some damn fool bought out the whole flower shop, and this was all that was left,” a male voice said over my left shoulder.

I knew that voice, and it didn’t belong to Daman.

None of the I’m-sorries had been signed.

Maybe I shouldn’t have assumed that Daman was behind the flowers. I really should have taken stock of exactly who all owed me an apology.

I turned around.

Ben Jamison stood not two yards away from me, decked out in pressed khakis and a light-green button-down that matched his eyes. He was holding a battered red rose in one hand, and in the other hand he had a cardboard Starbucks beverage holder complete with a giant white cup in one slot and red velvet cupcakes in the other three. Damn, he was cute...bastard. If Matthew McConaughey had a younger, cuter brother, Ben would be it.

Why couldn’t the slimy ones look slimy?

Here’s the thing. I hate Ben Jamison. He pretended to like me so he could bug my house. BUT, now he had red velvet cupcakes and some Starbucks coffee product, so maybe I could like him long enough to eat the cupcakes.

“I’m sorry.” His eyes pleaded for forgiveness.

It said a lot about how much he knew me that he extended the cardboard beverage holder and not the rose. Then again, if he’d really known me, he’d have had cupcakes and lattes delivered every fifteen minutes all day long.

I took the beverage holder, wiggled the latte out, and set it next to the coffeepot. Next, I worked a cupcake out. My plan was to eat the cupcake and drink the latte before speaking to Ben. Not that I was deliberately being mean...well, not entirely; I really didn’t know what to say.

“Cool...cupcakes.” Mellie walked into our little closet/break room and took one of the cupcakes.

Notice I hadn’t offered her one. There were some things a woman didn’t share with others—her toothbrush, her lovers, her cupcakes—but I didn’t have the strength to wrestle her to the ground. I was pretty sure she could take me.

“Jack, cupcakes,” Mellie said around the masticated red velvet in her mouth.

Jack stood outside the door and peeked around Mellie. He glanced over at Ben, who was next to me. “Hey, Officer Jamison.”

“That’s where I know you from.” Mellie didn’t have a problem talking with her mouth full. Now that I saw it in action, I was never doing that again. Especially with red velvet cupcakes—kinda looked like an autopsy.

“Dinner?” Ben was all hopeful puppy dog eyes.

I looked around and then did an oh-you-were-talking-to-me.

I’m all for a free meal, but I’ve found that dating someone with a belief system other than my own is a bad idea. No, he wasn’t Jewish or Muslim or Wiccan, he was anti-carb. He’d given up the singular pleasure of a warm croissant for a side of beef. Apart from the fact that he was a lying sack of shit, I really didn’t see a love match happening there.

“I don’t know.” I couldn’t get excited about eating a couple of rotisserie chickens for dinner. “Does it involve salad and a pound of bacon?”

“Nope, my grandmother’s chef’s famous baked potato soup, homemade rolls, and two cakes for dessert—chocolate and strawberry.” Ben’s eyes sparkled with his Paleo-offensive offerings.

“Have you, um...” I didn’t want to say “removed the bugs from my house” in front of my minions. They were young and innocent and wouldn’t have believed that my house was bugged. “Cleaned up the mess at my house?”

“Yes, your house is as clean as a whistle.” Ben was too nervous to be proud of himself.

“Okay.” What does “clean as a whistle” even mean? The only time a whistle is clean is when it’s brand new. After, it’s all spit-logged and gross. Don’t even get me started on that weird, moldy smell.

“Okay, yes we’re on for dinner...or just okay?” Ben would have had his hat in his hand if he’d had a hat.

I could have used some famous baked potato soup, and let’s face it, he’d had me at cake. “Tonight?”

His grin was blinding, or maybe it was just his bleached-till-they-were-almost-blue teeth. “Okay...yes...tonight...my house...in like an hour?”

BOOK: Blown To Pieces (PTO Murder Club Mystery Book 2)
9.87Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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