Medium Well (9781101599648) (21 page)

Biddy popped open the lid on the can of tuna-flavored cat food she'd brought and placed it at the side of the gallery, where it wouldn't be the first thing Araceli saw if she showed up with a client. Even if the ghost cat couldn't eat it, maybe some neighborhood tabby would.

Assuming the neighborhood cats came within a mile of this place. She glanced around the yard again. She didn't even see squirrels. The whole place looked like a dead zone, now that she studied it. She shivered.

“Come on, Biddy,” Deirdre called, “Danny's decided to listen to reason.”

From somewhere on the front walk, she heard Danny snort. His definition of “reason” might not match Deirdre's. On the other hand, Biddy decided she could definitely use a margarita herself.

***

Danny brought his mother a margarita and a double order of nachos, along with another margarita for Biddy and a Corona for himself. Apparently, communicating with the dead was sort of like running a marathon in terms of working up an appetite. Or like how Biddy felt after a show.

He'd found them seats on the deck at Buentello's, close to the river. The afternoon sun had moved far enough to the side to put the table in deep shade from the live oaks and cypress that lined the riverside.

Biddy sat beside his mother, sipping her own margarita and looking like a beauty queen in disguise. Her jacket was tossed over the back of her chair and her flowered blouse hung loose. Her blue A-line skirt was hiked up just enough to show the curve of her calves. Her toenails were the color of bubblegum. He was half tempted to chew on them, but he figured that might get them thrown out of the place. On the other hand, it would be a great way to end what had already been a totally gonzo day.

He'd become a ghost cat's sex object. He'd watched his mother channel a cranky senior citizen. Then he'd watched his mother keel over after channeling said cranky senior citizen, who seemed altogether too happy that her pet demon wasn't going away.

He shook his head. If anything happened to Ma because of this, his entire family would kill him. Hell, he'd probably beat them to it and commit suicide.

“Put the plate down and take a seat, Danielo,” his mother ordered. “Stop looking like you're trying to figure out the world's problems.”

“I'm not up to the world's problems, Ma.” He slumped into an Adirondack chair in the shade of an ancient cypress. “I've got enough trouble with a demon-ridden carriage house. Somehow I don't think that's going to qualify as a selling point for the average buyer.”

“No. A couple of ghosts might lend some charm, but demons make lousy houseguests.”

Biddy wrinkled her forehead, and Danny felt the familiar ache in his groin. Even her frowns were hot. “What exactly are we talking about here?” she asked. “I mean, you said they were evil spirits, but what does that mean? What are they really?”

His mother munched on a nacho. “As I said, ‘demon' is a sort of generic term, kind of like ‘salesman.'” She gave Danny a guileless grin.

“Thanks loads, Ma.” He grabbed a nacho of his own, scooping up melted cheese and jalapeño.

“Then what are we up against?”

His mother shrugged. “Do you want the entire explanation?”

Biddy nodded. Danny shook his head. His mother ignored him.

“All right, this is the way it works, according to Grandma Riordan. Most ghosts don't last long among the living—a few years for some, more often a few months. Then they move on to the next ‘realm,' and before you ask, I have no idea what that means. That's the way Granny Riordan used to describe it. But some spirits are stronger, and they don't fade. Some of them use their powers to go back and forth between the realms, between the dead and the living. Those are the spirit guides. Every family of mediums has at least one. Some of them have several.” Something flickered across her expression, but then she smiled again.

“Family of mediums?” Biddy took a sip of margarita.

His mother sighed. “Being a medium, being able to communicate with these spirits, is an inherited ability. It's passed down within families.”

He sensed Biddy turning toward him. He managed not to look in her direction. “Exclusively females in the case of the Riordan family.”

“Yes.” His mother licked cheese off her fingers. “So far, anyway.”

“Okay, so those are the spirit guides, but what about the demons?” Biddy reached for another nacho.

“Some of the strong spirits, the unfading ones, go bad.” His mother shrugged. “Predictable, I guess. With all that power, some of them are bound to try to see how far they can go.”

“But these are still ghosts, right? Just nasty ones.” Danny took a breath and pretended he was in a normal conversation.

“They
were
ghosts, once upon a time,” his mother explained. “By the time they become demonic, they've long since turned into something else—something that doesn't have much in common with humans.”

“So how did Palmer get hold of one?” Biddy snagged a bit of cheese.

His mother grimaced. “It wouldn't be hard if he really was a medium. Mediums can communicate with all kinds of spirits. But most of them try to avoid the demonic kind. They can be very dangerous unless you can control them. And they're not easy to control. Still, some mediums specialize in them—some families are demon tamers.”

“So . . .” He ran a finger through the condensation on his glass, thinking. “Palmer finds out his wife is cheating on him with the coachman and decides to kill them both. He locates a demon and promises it . . . what? A spirit wouldn't want any of Palmer's cash.”

“That's a very good question that I can't answer.” His mother took another sip of her margarita. “I know demons are very powerful, but I've never understood why a medium would want to call them up. They're also very dangerous. The question is, why would Palmer go to so much trouble? Why use a demon at all? It would be far easier to simply hire a nasty human being to do his killing. Lord knows there have always been a supply of those available.”

“Maybe he originally called the demon up for something else. Maybe killing his wife and her lover was just some kind of spur-of-the-moment thing.”

“He had a demon on hand so he decided to use it?” His mother watched an egret take flight across the river. “I guess that makes sense. But why would he have a demon around in the first place?”

“If I had to guess, I'd say information.” Danny took a swallow of his Corona. “He was passing on financial advice—good financial advice. His clients kept coming back. Maybe he was a financial genius, but my money's on the demon.”

His mother nodded slowly. “Spirit guides might be able to do that for him. Demons would be more powerful, and they might be willing to do it for a price. I'm not sure what that price would be, though. Probably something quite painful.”

“He wasn't able to control the demon at the end, though.” Biddy rubbed a bit of salt from her fingers. “Somehow, Mrs. Palmer got away and Palmer didn't.”

“If Mrs. Palmer got away, I'd guess she was extraordinarily lucky.” Deirdre looked back and forth between them. “That carriage house is a very dangerous place. That's probably what the ghosts are trying to tell you. Right now, the demon's dormant for some reason, although you can feel its power when you go inside. But there's no guarantee it will stay that way.”

He took a deep breath. “The main question is—how do we get rid of this thing? Assuming Mr. Black and company were trying to warn us about the demon in the carriage house, how do we clear it out? Was Mrs. Steadman right—are we stuck with it?”

His mother frowned, prodding the last nacho with her index finger. “I don't know much about driving them out, but I know it's very hard to get rid of them once they're established. You could try an exorcism, but those don't always work and sometimes they just make the demon angry. An angry demon isn't something I want either of you confronting.”

“Me neither.” He rubbed his eyes. “Plus, I have the feeling Araceli would be a little put out if we had an exorcism in a property we were trying to sell. Any other ideas?”

“The one sure way,” his mother said slowly, “is to destroy the building. If someone managed to bind the demon inside the carriage house, the house and the demon go together.”

Danny rubbed harder. “Another nonstarter, Ma. Destroying houses I'm trying to sell is a great way to end up in jail. Anything we can try other than exorcism or demolition?”

She sighed. “It all depends on the type of demon you have. My guess is that different demons require different methods.”

“How would we find out what we've got?” Biddy asked.

Danny ran a hand across his face. He really didn't like the idea of Biddy messing around with demons.

His mother shook her head. “I don't have any ideas about how you go about it. I'm sorry, Biddy. I've told you everything I remember from what my grandmother told me.”

“Maybe I can go to the library downtown, although I have no idea how this might be listed in the card catalog.” Biddy pushed her glass back to the center of the table. “I'm sorry, I've got a show tonight. I've got to get going.”

Suddenly, all Danny wanted to do was listen to Biddy sing something soothing and then kiss her senseless. Hopefully, she'd return the favor.

“Where?” He tried not to sound as eager as he felt.

“It's a private party—at someone's house.” Biddy was fumbling in her purse.

He ran through a quick variety of suggestions, none of which was likely to work. “Want a ride?”

Biddy raised an eyebrow at him. “You don't know where it is.”

“You can tell me. I'll be your roadie for the night.” He tried for his winning smile, but he came up a few yards short. Maybe pathetic would work instead.

Biddy folded her arms across her chest, frowning. “Do you have any idea what a roadie does?”

“Nope.” His grin was getting desperate. “You can tell me that, too. I'm a quick study, believe me.”

His mother shook her head. “Oh, take pity on him, Biddy. He's doing his best to grovel. He's just not used to it.”

Biddy's frown slid into something closer to a smile. Danny's temperature spiked a couple of degrees. “Okay, roadie. Pick me up in twenty minutes. Wear jeans and a T-shirt, assuming you own one.” She slung her purse over her shoulder and headed for the street.

Danny sat watching her move, trying to ignore his mother's grin.

“Well done, Danielo,” she murmured beside him. “There may be hope for you yet.”

He narrowed his eyes, but she seemed not to notice. He sighed. “Is there anything else I can do, Ma? Some way to find out what kind of demon I'm dealing with at that carriage house?”

His mother's smile dimmed, then disappeared. “I did think of one thing you might try. I didn't want to mention it in front of Biddy.”

“And that is?”

“Go to your grandmother's house. Your grandmother Riordan, that is. Assuming your sister hasn't cleared everything out, which I doubt she has, you might be able to find some information in the books there. The last time I looked, there were manuscripts dating back several generations. The kind of books Biddy won't find in the public library.”

Danny thought about his grandmother Riordan's house. Once when they'd driven past it, his Granny Ramos had taken one look and crossed herself. After his experiences of the last few days, he felt the same way.

His mother's smile was bleak. “It's all right, Danny, she's not there anymore. Not even in spirit form. And this way you can check on your sister at the same time. Think of it as something you're doing for me.”

“Right.” He'd do that. Maybe tomorrow. Tonight he was going to listen to Biddy sing.

Chapter 21

The house with the party was in Olmos Park. It was larger than the average Olmos Park mansion, which meant it was humongous, sprawling along a hillside dappled with ivy and live oaks. With its glass and limestone walls, it was too modern for Vintage Realty and not really to Danny's taste, but it reeked of money.

Fleetingly, he wondered if anyone he knew would be there. But he discovered he didn't give a damn if they were. So he, a well-known yuppie asshole on the party circuit, was a roadie for an obscure but smokin' band. So what?

Well and truly snagged, Danielo.

He'd worn exactly what Biddy had told him to. His oldest jeans—soft from years of use—and a Chalk Creek Changelings T-shirt he'd picked up at one of their shows.

She hadn't batted an eye—just told him to hustle his sorry buns along because he'd already made them late getting to the gig. Given that his conversation with his mother had lasted longer than he'd planned, she was absolutely right.

Her dress was bright red, cut with a low scoop across the curve of her breasts. The skirt swung three inches or so above her knees. He recognized her stage style now—soft fabric that shimmered around her as she moved, letting her long, slim legs swing free. Like a high-spirited colt or an antelope gamboling across a plain.

No, more like one helluva sexy woman.
His
sexy woman, if he had anything to say about it. And he could pretty much guarantee that he did.

He closed his eyes. Already his groin was aching. It was going to be a very long night, particularly if he couldn't convince Biddy to come back to his house after the show was over.

The guys in the band seemed to take him in stride, although they also seemed to order him around with particular gusto. Danny didn't care. As long as he could watch Biddy sway across the stage in her swinging red dress and her high-heeled do-me sandals, he'd be a happy man.

Once they'd gotten the speakers and amps set up at one end of the long room that served as a dance floor, he settled against a pillar at the side of the makeshift stage to watch them play. The band ran through a couple of their standards—the one about traveling and the one about the loser boyfriend—but the crowd didn't seem to notice they were there. After a while, it was hard to hear the music above the buzz of conversation. Danny wondered if a crowd of rich jerks constituted a typical occupational hazard.

Onstage, Biddy frowned, then motioned to Sideshow Bob at his keyboard and the guitar player, Skip. After a whispered conference, they began again.

Their music became louder, hotter, more intricate. Biddy and Skip leaned together, harmonizing into a single mike, before she stepped back and began playing a devilishly complicated fiddle solo.

A few people in the crowd turned toward the band. Then a few more. The noise diminished slightly.

Sideshow Bob swung into one of his wild-ass piano riffs, his huge corona of hair waving as he nodded his head in time to the music. Biddy glanced toward him, grinning, and then began to play a line on top of his piano melody. The two went back and forth, trading riffs, Bob grinning and bobbing as she scrambled up and down the scales after him.

Most of the crowd had turned toward the band now. Some of them applauded the solos, and a couple of whistles sounded from the back of the room.

Biddy leaned into the mike again and began to sing. “Go, baby,” somebody yelled.

Danny leaned a little closer to the band. If necessary, he figured he could switch from roadie to bouncer at a moment's notice.

Biddy raised her hand and the band swung into the final chorus. She and Skip leaned together again, skipping through the consonants in the last line.

Danny could feel the energy rising in the crowd, feel them leaning forward, listening now, no one talking, no one yelling. “C'mon, Biddy,” he whispered, “bring it on home.”

She leaned in one more time, running her fingers over the neck of her fiddle in a cascade of notes as Sideshow Bob played the last few chords. She raised her head, grinning at the crowd. Top that!

The yells and whistles were deafening. She waved her bow like a conductor's baton, then curtseyed low, while the band grinned and bowed along with her.

“Biddy Gunter, ladies and gentlemen,” Skip yelled, “the divine Miss G.”

She spread her arms wide, taking in the entire band with her smile, then mouthed something to Skip. He turned back to the mike again, playing some opening chords that were rapidly picked up by the rest of the band.

“Grab your coat and get your hat,” Biddy sang.

Couples swung onto the floor, two-stepping back and forth. One guy did a modified jitterbug with his partner.

Danny settled back against his pillar again.
The Divine Miss G.
Seemed fitting. As long as being
divine
didn't limit Biddy's more earthly activities.

As the evening wore on, he found that being a roadie didn't actually demand much of his time. After a half hour, he brought Biddy a glass of tea and the guys a bucket of beers. That seemed to be about it for the moment.

He found himself a chair and sprawled in the corner, trying to be inconspicuous. It wouldn't be a good idea for Araceli to hear any chance reports of her top salesman showing up at a party to carry equipment for a band. A band that featured a lead singer named Biddy. He might not agree with Biddy's decision to hide from her sister, but he wouldn't do anything to undermine it.

He let the music wash over him, smoothing off the rough edges of his day, his week, his month. The melody felt like Biddy's fingers running down his back. A surge of warmth to complement the perpetual groin ache.

“Ramos?”

Danny looked up at the man standing in front of him. Linen trousers, silk shirt, Rolex Oyster, vaguely familiar face. He flipped through his mental address file, trying to find a likely name.

“Still trying to sell that carriage house?”

The name clicked into place. Clark Henderson. “We've had some interest.” He managed to keep his voice neutral. “I thought you might come back and look at it again, Henderson. Hell of a buy.”
Or a slice of hell, anyway.

“I got involved in some other things.” Henderson waved his hand, dismissively. “You a friend of Chuck Piñeda?”

It took Danny a moment to figure out Henderson was referring to the owner of the house. He smiled a little dryly. “I'm not a guest. I'm with the band.”

“You play?” Henderson raised an incredulous eyebrow.

He shook his head. “I appreciate.”

Henderson turned toward the band, watching Biddy play a quick succession of notes. He narrowed his eyes. “A lot to appreciate there.”

Danny told himself to cool it. Biddy would not be pleased if he clocked one of the customers. “They're a good band.”

Henderson turned back to look at him again. “Who is she?”

“The singer? Her name's Biddy.” He tried to figure out a quick way of getting around the last-name problem. Henderson was more likely than most people to see the connection between Biddy and Araceli. And he might remember her from the carriage house.

“Biddy what?”

“Biddy Gunter. The band's the Chalk Creek Changelings. They've been playing around town for a couple of months. Building up quite a following.” He knew he was babbling, but he figured the more words he threw out, the less likely Henderson would be to pick out the ones that were dangerous.

“Biddy Gunter.” Henderson raised an eyebrow while Danny said a silent curse.

He nodded, waiting for the inevitable moment when the penny dropped.

“Nice-looking girl.” Henderson stared back at the stage, his gaze fixed on Biddy once again. His lips moved into an expression that resembled a smile.

Danny's shoulders tensed with the need to relieve Henderson of some surplus teeth. “Very nice – looking.” He managed to keep his voice dry. “Also very taken.”

Henderson looked back at him. His eyes had the kind of predatory gleam Danny associated with guys in polyester leisure suits at singles' bars. “Yours?”

Danny nodded slowly. “Oh yeah.” He ignored the slight prick of his conscience that reminded him he didn't have an exclusive claim on Biddy yet. She might have other ideas.

Or not. Biddy suddenly glanced his way, her lips spreading into a slow, sultry smile.

Lust and male pride and a deeper feeling he didn't particularly want to identify all hit him at once.
Mine, mine, all mine.
He looked back at Henderson again, defiantly. “Definitely taken.”

The testosterone-addled part of his brain half hoped Henderson might try to challenge that idea, but he didn't seem to be interested. He shrugged. “Pity. Like I say, nice-looking girl.” He picked up his drink from the table near Danny. “Maybe I'll call you next week about that carriage house.”

He nodded. “Do that. I can set something up for you.” He watched Henderson amble back across the room, heading for another girl who looked young enough to be his daughter—possibly his granddaughter if Henderson had had as much plastic surgery as Danny suspected.

Henderson belonged in the carriage house. He and the demon might find they had a lot in common.

He sighed. Realistically, if Henderson got around to calling, he'd have to figure out how to get rid of the freakin' demon before he could show him the house. He had a feeling it wouldn't be easy.

***

Biddy was still trying to remember who the man was who'd been talking to Danny. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't see him all that well. The room was dim, the stage lights were bright, and she was singing. Inside and out.

Danny had never left the side of the stage, and whenever she glanced his way, he was watching her. It made Biddy want to dance. Fortunately, she was standing in front of a band, so dancing was sort of natural.

The band was really
on
tonight, too. The sets had flowed together and the audience had clustered around the stage, dancing, clapping, yelling encouragement. The evening provided all the things she loved about performing, the incredible rush of knowing she was very, very good.

They'd only been paid for a ninety-minute show—three thirty-minute sets. The guy who was giving the party tried to negotiate for a fourth, but Skip and Gordy had had enough. “Always leave 'em wanting more,” Skip muttered, anxious to get to his solo gig at a bar in Southtown.

Biddy felt like she could have sung all night, but then she saw Danny again and realized she had better things to do.

He helped the guys load the equipment into the back of Skip's van without complaint, his biceps flexing beneath the weight of the amps. The thin cotton of his T-shirt showed the hard strata of his chest muscles as he lifted. She bit her lip and then concentrated on his back until she decided it was almost as beautiful as his other side, his wide shoulders veeing down to a narrow waist and tight buns.

“Lordy, lordy, lordy,” she whispered.
Mine, all mine.
At least for the moment.

He tucked her fiddle case under one arm and put the other arm around her shoulders, walking her toward his car.

“Who was that guy you were talking with before the last break?” she asked.

“I don't know if you remember him—Clark Henderson. He's the speculator who was at the carriage house.”

“Oh, I remember him.” She shivered in the cool night air. “I also remember that day he was there. Something about him gives me the creeps.”

His jaw tightened slightly. “With any luck you won't have to be around him again. I'll do my best to make sure you're not.”

“What did he want?”

He shrugged. “Maybe the carriage house. He may call, but he'll want to do another walk-through. Which means we'll have to locate some kind of demon repellant. Maybe they sell it at Home Depot.”

He opened the back door of his car and slid her fiddle case behind the seats. Then he straightened and looked down at her. “I can let you off at your house if that's what you want, but . . .” His eyes were suddenly a shade darker. “What I really want to do is make love to you until you scream. Me, too. Preferably multiple times. Would you rather go home and get some sleep?”

She felt the flush of heat all the way to her toes. She reached her hands around his neck, pulling his head down so that she could kiss him. He tasted of beer and lust, and her brain went pleasurably numb. “Sleep is overrated.”

He dipped his head toward her, his tongue darting along the line of her lips. She opened to him, letting her tongue slide along his.

He raised his head after a moment, his breath warm against her cheek. “God, you're sweet,” he whispered.

“So are you.” She ran her fingers along the bottom of his T-shirt, slipping underneath to trace the satin of his skin. His muscles tensed, flexing beneath her fingertips.

“Christ,” he whispered. His hands moved along her sides, cupping her breasts lightly. “We've got to get out of here before we get into real trouble. The host probably wouldn't be delighted if we started doing the double-backed boogie in his parking lot.”

“How close is your house?” She ran her teeth along the edge of his collarbone, grinning as she heard his swift intake of breath.

“Normally about ten minutes. At this point, five tops.”

“Start your engine, Danny,” she purred. “We're wasting time.”

***

Danny had thrown open the bedroom curtains in the split second before he pulled Biddy down on the bed. He hadn't thought about anything else for at least an hour after that. Now he lay watching his backyard in the moonlight, moving his hand across her bare back, feeling the slight puff of her breath against his chest as she dozed.

The live oaks swayed gently in the evening breeze, crooked limbs and dense clusters of leaves outlined against the darkness.

Demons.
He'd managed not to think about their demon problem for most of the evening, but Henderson had brought it back to his mind. How had the demon been bound to the house and by whom? Could he find a way to break those bonds? But if he did, what would he do with the demon once he'd set it free?