Nearly Departed (Spring Cleaning Mysteries) (5 page)

"
What did 'Thursday' mean?"

I led the way back to the kitchen.
"It means I have a standing order for two pies to be delivered every Thursday evening."

"
That's pathetic."

"
That's efficient," I countered, pulling paper plates and napkins out of a kitchen cabinet. "I've got either plain or pepperoni."

Smoke reached over my shoulder and reopened the cabinet I
'd just closed. I froze, trapped between the cabinet and his body. Even though he wasn't touching me, I could feel his body heat. I peeked up at him.

He was staring into the cabinet
. "How long have you lived here?"

"
Three years."

He tilted his head so that he was looking down at me.
"But there are no dishes. Just paper goods."

We stood so close that his breath tickled my cheek as he spoke. My throat went dry. I had to swallow hard before I was able to answer.
"This place doesn't have a dishwasher." Desperate to put some space between us, I ducked under his arm and yanked open the fridge. "Sorry, but I'm kinda limited on beverage choices. Would you prefer water or water?"

Smoke started systematically searching through my kitchen cabinets.
"There's nothing in any of these. It's like you never moved in."

"
Hey, are you always such a snoop? Because I don't tolerate my employees going through other's people stuff."

He turned and looked back at me.
"I've never seen anything like this. The place looks abandoned from the outside, and in here it looks like you've never moved in."

Flipping open the lid of one of the pizza boxes, I hid behind it as I mumbled,
"It's not my fault." I put a slice of pepperoni on a doubled-up paper plate.

"
What's not your fault?"

"
The way it looks. I hire people to fix things, but they never finish the job."

"
Why not?"

I handed him the plate and a bottle of water.
"I told you, people think the place is haunted. My brother, Jerry, loved…loves it though."

"
So he lives here too?"

I hesitated.
"His name is on the lease."

Smoke cocked his head to the side and stared at me, trying to read on my face everything I wasn
't telling him.

"
What did Mike tell you about me?" I asked, repeating the very same question he'd asked me in the diner that morning, as we slid onto stools at the kitchen table.

"
He said you were the sister of his best friend, that you run Spring Cleaning, and…" he trailed off.

"
And?" I prompted.

"
And that you were looking to hire."

I had the distinct impression that his answer was a half-truth designed to appease me, but I let it go, unsure I really wanted to hear Mike
's frank assessment of me and the situation I'd managed to get myself twisted up in.

"
So," I said, deftly changing the subject, "I went to tomorrow's job this afternoon."

Smoke
's eyes narrowed. "I thought we'd agreed you wouldn't go to that scene alone."

"
The landlord met me there." I neglected to mention that he'd left the moment the key had hit my palm. "It looks like they were killed in three separate rooms, so it's going to be a time-consuming job."

"
Listen to me, Victoria. You can't be going there alone. It's not safe." Leaning very close, he invaded my personal space without actually making physical contact. The intensity glittering in his gaze was unnerving.

Instinctively I reared back, almost falling over. I swallowed hard and tried to retake control of the conversation.
"First: The only person who calls me Victoria is someone I don't particularly like. Second: I heard that the police think that one boy killed his roomies and then himself, so there's nothing to be afraid of."
Except for a frightened, half-headless ghost who falls through walls
, I amended silently.

"
It still doesn't mean it's safe," Smoke said softly.

Before I could respond, I heard a familiar splat.

"Bastards!" Jumping up, I grabbed two soup cans off the counter and charged out the kitchen door into the storm.

I wasn't too confident that Smoke Barclay would show up to help me with the college student bloodbath. He hadn't approved of my method for scaring off the local kids who pelted the neighborhood haunted house with tomatoes, eggs, or anything else that made a satisfying splat against my back door.

He
'd muttered, "Mike never mentioned anger management issues," after following me outside and witnessing my inaccurate aim as I chucked chicken noodle and split pea at the rear tires of the escaping dirt bikes.

He
'd hesitated when I'd asked him if he still wanted to sign the Spring Cleaning employment contract, but he had ultimately scribbled his John Hancock in all the appropriate spots. Apparently he was less worried about my violent outburst than his lustful stalker. I argued that the little heathens deserved to be tossed into a maximum security prison for breaking my window three months earlier, but Smoke disagreed.
I half-expected to never set eyes on the man again.

And I would have been okay with that.

At least that's what I told myself the next morning as I trudged across the rear parking lot of the diner. Per the request of the owners, Sam and George, I always parked in the back so as not to have the Spring Cleaning van scare off potential diners. Just the idea of Crime Scene Clean-Up tends to turn stomachs.

As I passed the garbage dumpster, I realized that Carla, my favorite waitress, was being hassled by someone. She looked upset. Carla handle
d randy cross-country truck drivers and obnoxious teenagers with practiced indifference. I'd never seen her upset. I slowed, wondering if I should intervene.

The short guy with greasy hair
doing the hassling had his back to me, so I couldn't see his face.

Deciding I should try something novel and just mind my own business, I walked past, turned the corner
, and headed toward the front door. I'd almost reached the steps leading inside when I heard the scream.

"
Murderer!"

So much for trying something new. I took off at a dead run toward the back of the diner.

"Let her go, you son-of-a-bitch!" a female voice shrieked.

Rounding the corner, I skidded to a stop. The greasy-haired man had Carla by the arm and was shaking her. Both turned in my direction. The man
's face a mask of rage, Carla's a mask of terror.

It wasn
't Carla who was screaming though. It was the ghost in the gold dress I'd seen inside the diner the day before. She'd wedged herself between Carla and the man and was trying to shove him away, but she kept falling through his chest.

"
Let her go!" the ghost screamed.

"
Everything okay, Carla?" I asked.

"
Mind your own business," the guy snarled.

Every muscle in my body tensed, wanting to take flight, but I stood my ground. I
'd been bullied by his kind before, and I'd survived…barely. I couldn't in good conscious just walk away.

"
Tell him to go to hell," the ghost urged, floating over to my side.

I had a big enough problem dealing with the living people I faced, so I made sure I didn
't indicate that I could see and hear the ghost.

"
Carla?" I prompted, staring pointedly at where the creep's fingers curled around her arm.

He loosened his grip.

"Everything okay?" I raised my gaze to her face.

She looked away.
"Everything's fine."

"
So go away," the guy growled.

My stomach flip-flopped nervously.
"Let her go," I said with a hell of a lot more bravado than I was feeling.

"
Good for you!" the ghost cheered.

"
What will you do if I don't?" the guy taunted. "Scream?"

I reached into my purse and pulled out my cell phone, brandishing it like it was a weapon.
"I'll call the police."

He threw back his head and laughed.

A chill snaked down my spine, and my legs felt rubbery, but I forced myself to straighten my shoulders and to look the creep in the eye.

Realizing I wasn
't going to back down any time soon, he released Carla.

"
This isn't over," he said, spinning around and stalking away.

I watched the ghost follow him.

Once they were out of sight, I turned to Carla. "You okay?"

"
Coffee?" she replied, making it clear she wasn't going to talk about what had just happened.

I could understand that need.
"And a blueberry muffin, if there are any left."

Side-by-side we walked into the diner.

*  *  *

I was still a bit shaky from the diner encounter when I pulled to a stop in front of Mr. Ribisi
's rental property. Smoke sat on the hood of a black Jeep parked in front of the house, reading the newspaper, not the sports section either, the actual news.

Folding up the paper, he stood as soon as he saw me and was waiting at the van
's back door by the time I got there. "'Morning."

"
You're here." I couldn't believe it.

He raised his eyebrows.
"It would appear so."

"
You're early." Even to my ears it sounded like a masked accusation.

"
So are you."

"
I'm always early," I told him. "My mother says it's a lifelong condition. I was born a month before my due date. What's your excuse?"

"
I have a highly developed sense of responsibility…that and I'm a bit of an insomniac." He responded with a breezy easiness, but I sensed the truth in his words.

Despite my best efforts, I identified with those particular traits. Maybe that
's why Mike had wanted me to hire Smoke. Because he knew we had a similar work ethic. I wondered what caused his insomnia but didn't ask. Instead I said, "Do you want to take a quick look around inside and decide our plan of attack?"

"
Sounds good."

I took the ozone box out of the van
, and we both pulled on protective gear and respirators before stepping inside the house. Once again the coppery-tang of spilled blood assaulted me the moment the front door swung open. I led the way to the living room, indicating that Smoke should set up the air purifier he'd carried in by the overturned sofa.

Surveying the carnage, Smoke let out a low whistle.
"Somebody was pissed."

I didn
't respond because I was too busy surreptitiously looking for the half-headless ghost. I didn't see him.

"
It's freezing in here."

I nodded
.

As Smoke followed me up the stairs to examine the rest of the destruction, he said,
"Strange case. From all accounts these were good kids. No record of trouble. Not even a noise complaint from the neighbors."

I decided not to point out that one of the
boys had gone on a homicidal rampage, so probably wasn't such a "good kid."

"
The media has labeled this 'The Frat House Murders,' but none of them even belonged to a fraternity," Smoke continued.

I frowned. How had I managed to hire a talker
? One of the only things I liked about this job was the quiet. Reaching the top of the staircase, I came to an abrupt halt. Smoke bumped into me, but that wasn't what caused a chill to skitter between my shoulder blades.

"
What's wrong?"

"
I left all the doors open yesterday," I whispered.

Now they were all closed.

"Wait for me outside." He sidled past me on the stairs. "I'll check it out."

Rooted to the spot, I watched him approach the bathroom door first. Wrapping his fingers around the handle, he mouthed,
"Go."

I shook my head.

He scowled and then threw the door open. It bounced on its hinges, the sound echoing in the preternatural silence. Peering inside, he shook his head and moved onto the next door.

I held my breath.

There was no one inside that room or the other two either.

"
Not another soul here," he reported finally.