Obsidian Curse (10 page)

Chapter 18

I called Tony on the way to the newspaper office and learned that my car might not be repairable, which, given all the other crap I had to worry about now, was the least of my problems.

It was nine when I got to the office. Monique’s red Honda was already in the parking lot. I pulled into the slot next to it, checked for witnesses, then pulled out my athame and punctured her front left tire. It might buy me a little time at least.

Derek’s office door was open so I popped in to discuss the plans I had for the day.

He was sitting at his desk, redesigning the website.

“Hey there,” he said. “I’m pretty swamped trying to fit all these ads into Wednesday’s edition. I was hoping you could edit Monique’s column for me.” His face told me he didn’t have high hopes that I would agree to it.

“Sure.” I sank into the brown leather chair across from him and crossed my legs.

Derek furrowed his brow. “That’s it? No argument?”

I shrugged. “We’re a team, right?”

“What’s your angle, woman? What do you want?”

“An espresso machine.”

“Done.” He smiled. “I’ll e-mail it to you. How’s the reunion piece going?”

“I still have to do the interviews, but I have a good start on Blade Knight’s profile.”

“About that—I thought you could run a separate piece on Blade. Maybe cover the book signing tonight. I’ll be there to shoot it.”

“I can do that. Do we have enough space?”

“We’ll put the signing in tomorrow’s edition. Push the reunion piece back to Friday.”

Our little paper only published three days a week: Wednesday, Friday, and a weekend Saturday edition for the tourists that mostly included articles from the historical archives, special events in the area, restaurant reviews, and new shops on Main Street.

“That works. I also agreed to help Blade with his project, so don’t say I never do anything for you.”

“Now when have I ever said that?”

I smiled, got up to leave, and told Derek I’d be in my office this morning, but in the field the rest of the afternoon.

There was a note on my office door from Gladys asking me to come see her. I plugged in my laptop, fired it up, and put the locket around my neck, tucking it under my sweater.

Monique was teetering down the hallway in thigh-high boots, her hair freshly bleached, her lipstick a glowing shade of fuchsia. She was wearing leopard-print tights, a cropped sweater that must have had industrial-strength buttons, and a red micro-miniskirt.

“Hey, I had a lot of fun with your boyfriend last night. He was a big hit with the ladies,” she said in that squeaky voice that made me want to scatter mousetraps all around her.

Be cool, Stacy. Think about Chance.

I forced a smile to my lips and felt my face contort into what could only be a spot-on impression of The Joker. “I heard. About that, I thought you and I should discuss how the reunion planning is going. It would add another dimension to the piece I’m working on.”

“What the hell is wrong with your face? Your Spanx too tight or something?”

My smile faded.
Maybe I should just let the Leanan Sidhe take her body. Maybe I could bind them together and send them both to Danu and Badb. Like a two-for-one package deal.

“Pinched nerve.”

“Huh. You should work out more. I do yoga.” She struck a pose. I was so happy it wasn’t downward-facing dog that I almost did a cartwheel right there in the hallway.

“I’m sure you do. I’ll take that under advisement. So let’s get together on that article.”

Monique buffed her nails. “I’ll see how my schedule looks. Maybe I could squeeze you in.”

I wanted to say,
You mean, in between blow jobs?
But I bit my tongue. “You do that.”

I brushed past her as fast as I could before I ended up slashing more than her tire. I could still feel her eyes on my back, but I was certain in that brief encounter that Monique Fontaine was still her usual nails-on-a-chalkboard, infuriating self. For now.

Gladys was working on a pagan-themed crossword puzzle when I got to the research room. She seemed to be having trouble with six down because she had penciled in letters and erased them so many times, the area was a big gray smudge. It began with an
N
and there was an
a
where she had filled
cauldron
in across and another
n
that was crossed with the word
newt.

“Hello, Stacy.”

“Hi, Gladys. What do you have for me?”

She pulled out a manila envelope. “I give these to you.” She handed me the folder and picked up another one. “These, I take. Ya?”

I flipped through the folder. It contained a list of names and occupations of the valedictorians I had asked her to find. Next to the names were phone numbers, the graduation date of the students, as well as times and locations for interviews she had scheduled for today and tomorrow.

She had assigned me the author, the scientist working on a cure for Alzheimer’s disease, a homemaker, and an archeologist.

“Looks good. Let me see who you’ll be talking to,” I said.

She reached around and grabbed the other folder. I thanked her and flipped it open. She would be interviewing a surgeon specializing in spinal cord injuries, a fashion designer whose work was all the rage in New York and London, and an animal behaviorist.

I handed the folder back to her and said. “Perfect. Send me the interviews as soon as you’re done and I’ll incorporate them into the piece.”

Gladys beamed. “My first writing work.”

“You’ll do great.” I pointed to her puzzle. “I can tell you six down if you want.”

She nodded. “Yes, please. Is killing me.”

“Necromancer.” I winked and left Gladys to her puzzle and her interviews.

Back in my office, I checked my e-mail. Derek had sent me Monique’s column, titled “How to Steal a Man.” Except
steal
was spelled
steel
. I saved the file to my hard drive and went through the excruciating process of editing it. Then I compiled a list of questions for each interviewee, jumping on the Internet every so often to research the hot topics going on in their professions.

One of the biggest news stories in archeology recently was the discovery of what was believed to be Pluto’s Gate, or, as the mainstream media insisted on calling it, the Gate to Hell. The dig took place in Turkey and the team uncovered a kind of pit emanating gases so noxious that some animals wandered too close and were killed instantly. They were in the process of covering it back up. My contact wasn’t on that mission, though. In fact, I couldn’t find any ground-breaking (no pun intended) stories on her at all. I wondered if perhaps she was teaching now.

The scientist was working on a cure for Alzheimer’s disease, which was a subject near and dear to me since Aunt Lolly seemed to suffer from it in a very bizarre way. I found a few papers he had written on the topic, discussing the importance of stem cell research, what he believed is the genetic link, and how brain imaging could warn patients at risk. He was also working on a controversial new drug that he claimed to drastically improve, if not cure, the symptoms of sufferers.

The homemaker, I discovered, was much more than that. She had a pretty popular blog as well as a host of YouTube videos where she demonstrated step-by-step instructions on how to attain the looks of bygone eras. Her videos showcased hairstyles like 1930s pin curls, 1940s victory rolls, and 1950s Hollywood starlet styles, plus the face-painting techniques to finish the look. There were also video reviews and giveaways of what she called “new vintage” clothing, undergarments, makeup, hair products, and kitchenware.

Around noon, I saw Monique sashay past my office door. I stuffed my research notes and the folder in my bag and hurried out of the office. I lagged behind her a few steps, trying to act nonchalant, and followed her out to the parking lot.

“What the fuck!” she screamed when she saw her flat tire.

I was standing near the driver’s side door of Birdie’s car, about to plug the key into the lock. “Problem?” I asked.

She whirled around and glared at me. “My stupid tire is flat and I need to pick up the decorations for the reunion.”

“Do you have a spare?”

She looked at me like I was the stoner of the class who only served to piss off the teacher. “Do I look like I know how to change a flat tire?”

I was careful not to smile this time. If I was going to keep tabs on Monique, I couldn’t treat her too differently.

“You look like you should be selling raffle tickets at a streetwalkers’ convention in Nevada, but that’s not the point.” I tilted my head toward Birdie’s car. “Come on. I’ll drive you.”

She gave the Buick a disgusted look, then slid her eyes to Derek’s Mercedes. “Forget it. I’ll just ask Derek for a lift.” She turned around to walk away.

“He’s swamped today. He brown-bagged it,” I called.

She flipped her hair back and twisted her neck toward me. “Then I’ll just borrow his car.” She took a few more steps.

“Don’t think so. That was a present from Daddy. Doesn’t even run it through the car wash. He just buffs it with a cotton diaper.”

Monique tossed her hands in the air in exasperation. “Fine.”

I locked the doors after she got in, twisted the key in the ignition, and fastened my seat belt. I swung the car out of the parking lot, gaining speed to make the first light into downtown.

I said in a flat tone, “Why don’t I buy us lunch? We can talk about the reunion committee.”

She eyed me with the suspicion of a woman being propositioned for a ride in a dark alley. “Why are you being nice to me?”

I shrugged. “We’re coworkers. I don’t believe in a hostile work environment.” I turned on the radio, hoping she’d shut her trap.

She snorted. “Oh, yeah? You could have fooled me. Hostile seems to run in your family. Especially that wacko cousin of yours. Of course now that she’s knocked up and looks like a Teletubby, she’s not such a raging bitch.”

The light turned yellow and I slammed on the brake. Monique wasn’t wearing her seat belt, so her head smacked the dash, leaving a good-sized welt on her noggin.

“Ow! Jesus Christ!” Monique rubbed her head and shot daggers at me with her eyes.

“Sorry.”

“Where did you get your license? A gumball machine?” She reached for her seat belt and tried to tighten it over her chest. I felt like I was transporting supplies for Wilson Sporting Goods.

“I said I was sorry. Listen, I have to make a stop first, if that’s all right.”

“No, it’s not all right. I told you I have to pick up the decorations.”

“This won’t take long. I said I’d feed you, so quit complaining.”

I ignored Monique’s brassy-pitched protests and made it to my first interview with ten minutes to spare.

Chapter 19

I parked in front of Muddy Waters Coffee House and we both got out of the car. Monique was still bitching, but she must have decided that she was hungry as soon as we walked in the door because she quit yapping long enough to order a chicken sandwich and a soda. I asked her to grab a table while I waited for our lunch, and she wandered off into the mocha-colored café looking for a spot to sit.

Iris, the gossip columnist for the paper, owned Muddy Waters. She took my order of tomato soup and tea, put a soda cup in front of me, and gave me a curious look.

“Hey, Iris. What’s shaking?” I asked. “Got any dirt to report?”

“I think it just walked in the door.” Iris winked and nodded toward Monique, who plopped her wool coat on a chair and wobbled off to the restroom.

Iris said, “Heard she was with your beau last night.”

“Hmm. They were on the reunion committee together.”

Iris tucked a pencil behind her ear and leaned over the counter. She smelled like pumpkin and her dentures clacked when she spoke. “If that man was mine, I wouldn’t let him anywhere near that girl.” She raised her eyebrows.

“I get your point. But I don’t think I have anything to worry about.”

“Well, if I hear of any hanky-panky, I’ll let you know, sweetie.” She patted my hand.

When Iris turned to pour my soup, I hurried to the soda fountain, extracted the locket from beneath my sweater, tapped some ruby dust into the empty cup, and filled it with ice and Diet Coke, Monique’s favorite beverage. I sealed the lid on top, stuck a straw in the cup, and turned back to the counter.

Rubies were believed to shield against psychic attack and vampirism of the heart. I wasn’t 100 percent certain it actually worked, or would work in this case, but Fiona, who was a love spell expert, swore by it to keep one’s affections from being stolen. Technically, it was Monique’s body the Leanan wanted, but I figured it couldn’t hurt.

When I returned, Iris had set the soup on a tray and was reaching into the glass case for a pre-made chicken sandwich. She set that down, along with a tea bag, a mug of hot water, two napkins, and a plastic plate. I thanked her and carried everything into the dining room and set the tray down at the table where Monique had left her coat.

Monique returned from the bathroom and grabbed her sandwich without thanking me.

Be a shame if she choked on it,
I thought. I dipped into my soup.

She reached for her soda and said, “So what do you want to know about the reunion stuff?”

The door chimed and in walked my first interview. Frieda Streator, class of 1986. She was wearing a faux fur coat over a black-patterned rockabilly dress, with a red patent leather belt that accented her slim waistline. Her open-toed pumps were also red patent leather, her dark hair was styled like Marilyn Monroe in
Some Like It Hot
, and she was carrying a small purse with pearl straps. She made an inquiry at the counter and Iris pointed to me.

Frieda smiled and waved. “Hello, dearie!”

Monique turned to see who I was waving at. “Who the hell is that?”

“That’s my interview. Derek thought it might be good for you to sit in on an interview. You know, so you can incorporate some Q&A into your column.” Blatant lie, I know, but what could I do?

Drink the damn soda, Monique.

Monique made a face. “Are you freaking kidding me? You said we were just getting lunch. You didn’t say we’d be interviewing Lucille Ball.”

“Shut up and be cordial,” I hissed from the corner of my mouth.

I stood up and greeted Frieda. She had cold hands, a warm embrace, and a mole the size of a saucer on her right cheek.

“Jesus, that thing got a name?” Monique asked, gaping at Frieda.

I kicked her under the table.

“Ow, dammit,” Monique grumbled. She reached down to rub her shin.

I smiled wide at Frieda, who was frozen for a moment. She darted her eyes away, probably mortified and looking for an escape route.

I laughed and slapped Monique on the back. Hard. “She’s talking about your coat, Frieda. I’m afraid Monique’s a huge animal activist. I think perhaps she thought it was real fur,” I said apologetically. I gave Monique a look that stated in no uncertain terms that I would shove that sandwich down her throat if she didn’t play along. “Isn’t that right, Monique?”

Monique smiled adoringly and said, “Yes, that’s right. My apologies. I do so love all animals.” She took a big bite out of her chicken sandwich, making a huge show of what a cockamamie cover story I had just fed my interview subject.

Frieda let out a booming laugh. “No, honey, this is straight-from-the-factory fake.” She rubbed her hands up and down her coat. “No harm came to any animals. Except maybe the stuffed kind.” She elbowed me and winked.

I extended my arm. “Please, have a seat. Can I get you some Q&A coffee? A sandwich?”

We might have been past the awkward stage had I not said that. Frieda declined refreshments, but Monique’s sandwich caught the woman’s eye.

Monique flashed me a look, then set her gaze on Frieda. She pointed to her plate. “Except birds. Hate those flapping feathered bastards. Flying around the sky like they own it. Shitting everywhere. It’s disgusting. Am I right?” She took another hearty bite.

Frieda just said, “Well…”

Because really, what else could she say?

I laughed again, knowing that Frieda was rethinking this whole interview thing, but that she was too polite to back out now.

If there had been duct tape anywhere in the vicinity of our table, I swear I would have wrapped the whole roll around that tacky blonde’s head. Super Glue would have worked too, but alas, all I had was food and drink. I shoved Monique’s soda in front of her, hoping she’d take the hint.

Birdie, you owe me big time.

Monique wrapped her lips around the straw and sipped her soda.

“So, Frieda, do I detect a hint of the South in your accent?”

“Why, yes, you do. After I graduated from high school, I went to Nashville. I had stars in my eyes back then,” she said sheepishly.

“Didn’t we all?” I leaned in toward her, giving her my full attention, hoping she’d relax and open up. I hit the audio record app on my phone and set it on the table.

Frieda’s shoulders lost their sharp edge and she seemed to be realizing that I wasn’t a raging lunatic like the loud-mouthed blonde. “So then after that, I wound up in Memphis.”

“Oh, I hear it’s just beautiful there.” I tried to sound encouraging.

Her eyes brightened. “Oh, yes. Lovely place to raise a family. There’s so much to do and see. My siblings and I share a vacation home here as well, so we do visit—”

Monique said, “Ugh, this is flat.” She got up from her stool and yelled “Iris! The Diet is flat.”

Then, to my horror, she dumped the soda down the fountain drain. So much for the ruby dust.

I sighed and turned to Frieda. “Let’s hope that’ll keep her busy for a while,” I said.

Frieda tilted her head down. “She works for the paper?”

“She’s in training. Prison release program.”

“I see. Well, that’s nice of you to help those people.” She flicked her eyes toward Monique, who was picking something out of her teeth with a fingernail. “What was she in for?”

“Embezzlement. Hang on to your purse.”

Her purse was on her lap, but now she wrapped both hands through the straps.

I nodded. “So back to Memphis. I want to hear all about that and those wonderful beauty tip videos you do. I may have to try out one of the styles sometime.”

“You should! You’d look fabulous in a Lauren Bacall wave set.”

I smiled. “I think the fashion reviews are fun too.”

“Thank you. I do enjoy getting all glammed up, as you might have noticed.” She hopped down from the high-back chair, slid her coat down her arms, still clinging to her pocketbook, and twirled. The skirt fanned out in a perfect circle, showing off Frieda’s long legs.

When she sat back down, the woman seemed perfectly at ease. She talked nonstop about her life after Amethyst, chattering away about her kids, her husband, and her business.

Except I didn’t hear much of it, because I was staring at her dress. More specifically, the pattern on it.

Tiny black skulls.