Fifth Grave Past the Light

Darynda Jones
has won several awards, including a 2009 Golden Heart in the Paranormal Category for
First Grave On the Right
and the 2012 RITA awards for Best New Book.

She lives in New Mexico, with her husband of more than 25 years and two sons, the mighty, mighty Jones boys.

Visit Darynda Jones online:

www.daryndajones.com
 

www.facebook.com/darynda.jones.official
 

www.twitter.com/Darynda
 

Praise for Darynda Jones:
 

‘Hilarious and heart-felt, sexy and surprising, this paranormal has it all… An absolute must read - I’m already begging for the next one!’ J.R. Ward, No.1
New York Times
bestselling author

‘From its unique premise to its wonderfully imaginative characters, Jones’s award-winning Charley Davidson mystery series, from
First Grave on the Right
onward to this fifth delectable installment, will continue to attract and delight a broad spectrum of readers’
Booklist
(starred review)

‘Jones perfectly balances humour and suspense… will leave readers eager for the next instalment’

Publishers Weekly
 

First Grave on the Right

Second Grave on the Left

Third Grave Dead Ahead

Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet

Fifth Grave Past the Light

Table of Contents

• About the Author
  
   
  
• By Darynda Jones
  
   
  
• COPYRIGHT
  
   
  
• Dedication
  
   
  
• Acknowledgments
  
   
  
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• 2 
  
   
  
• 3 
  
   
  
• 4 
  
   
  
• 5 
  
   
  
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• 21 
  
   
  

For Luther and DD. You are wondrous and heroic and my favorite kind of strange.

Wow, five books in and I still can’t get enough of Charley Davidson. She makes me look forward to waking up. Each book is a little more fun to write than the last and I owe it all to you, dear readers, for allowing me this opportunity. And, as always, my heart and gratitude go out to my fantabulous agent, Alexandra Machinist, and my extraordinary editor, Jennifer Enderlin. The good news is, we made it through another installment. The other good news is, that nervous twitch I gave you by pushing this deadline just a little further than I probably should have will disappear soon. Promise. You might try an ointment. Or therapy.

And while we’re on the subject, my copy editor, Eliani Torres, is kind of amazing. I am so fortunate to have you. A humongous thank-you to Stephanie Raffle for our simultaneous versions of the Vulcan mind meld. I’m telling you, great minds, baby. And to the incomparable Cait Wells, the bestest beta reader in the world. (I know you’re dying to correct that.)

To my gorgeous niece, Ashlee Duarte, for letting me use a story straight out of her childhood. So, dear readers, when you come to it, the story where Amber signs a sentence incorrectly really and truly happened, word for word, only it happened to my niece when she was about nine. You’ll soon find out why I treasure that story so much.

Thank you ever so much to the Grimlets! You guys are the best. And to my assistant, Dana, for her tireless efforts, and our very own Mama Grimlet, Jowanna. There are so many people I would love to thank. Every book I am able to write is a gift. I am honored and humbled there are actually people who want to read them. Thank you all so much!

The dead guy at the end of the bar kept trying to buy me a drink. Which figured. No one else was even taking a second look and I’d dressed to the nines. Or, at the very least, the eight-and-a-halves. But the truly disturbing part of my evening was the fact that my mark, one Mr. Marvin Tidwell, blond real estate broker and suspected adulterer, actually turned down the drink I’d tried to buy him.

Turned it down!

I felt violated.

I sat at the bar, sipping a margarita, lamenting the sad turn my life had taken. Especially tonight. This case was not going as planned. Maybe I wasn’t Marv’s type. It happened. But I was oozing interest. And I wore makeup. And I had cleavage. Even with all that going for me, this investigation was firmly wedged between the cracks of no and where. At least I could tell my client, aka Mrs. Marvin Tidwell, that it would seem her husband was not cheating on her. Not randomly, anyway. The fact that he could’ve been meeting someone in particular kept me glued to my barstool.

“C-come here often?”

I looked over at the dead guy. He’d finally worked up the courage to approach and I got a better view. I figured him for the runt of the litter. He wore round-rimmed glasses and a tattered baseball cap that sat backwards on top of muddy brown hair. Add to that a faded blue T-shirt and loosely ripped jeans and he could’ve been a skater, a computer geek, or a backwoods moonshiner.

His cause of death was not immediately apparent. No stab wounds or gaping holes. No missing limbs or tire tracks across his face. He didn’t even look like a drug addict, so I couldn’t tell why he’d died at such a young age. Taking into account the fact that his baby-faced features would make him look younger than he probably was, I estimated him to be somewhere around my age when he’d passed.

He stood waiting for an answer. I thought “Come here often?” was rhetorical, but okay. Not wanting to be perceived as talking to myself in a room full of people, I responded by lifting one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug.

Sadly, I did. Come here often. This was my dad’s bar, and while I never set up stings here for fear of someone I knew blowing my cover, this just happened to be the very same bar Mr. Tidwell frequented. At least if it came to a knockdown drag-out, I might have some backup. I knew most of the regulars and all of the employees.

Dead Guy glanced toward the kitchen, seeming nervous before he refocused on me. I glanced that way as well. Saw a door.

“Y-you’re very shiny,” he said, drawing my attention back to him.

He had a stutter. Few things were more adorable than a grown man with boyish features and a stutter. I stirred my margarita and pasted on a fake smile. I couldn’t talk to him in a room full of living, breathing patrons. Especially when one was named Jessica Guinn, to my utter mortification. I hadn’t seen her fiery red hair since high school but there she sat, a few seats down from me, surrounded by a group of chattering socialites who looked almost as fake as her boobs. But that could be my bitterness rearing its ugly head.

Unfortunately, my forced smile only encouraged Dead Guy. “Y-you are. You’re like the s-sun reflecting off the chrome bumper of a f-fifty-seven Chevy.”

He splayed his fingers in the air to demonstrate, and my heart was gone. Damn it. He was like all those lost puppies I tried to save as a child to no avail because I had an evil stepmother who believed all stray dogs were rabid and would try to rip out her jugular. A fact that had nothing to do with my desire to bring them into the house.

“Yeah,” I said under my breath, doing my best ventriloquist impersonation, “thanks.”

“I’m D-Duff,” he said.

“I’m Charley.” I kept my hands wrapped around my drink lest he decide we needed to shake. Not many things looked stranger to the living world than a grown woman shaking air. You know those kids with invisible friends? Well, I was one of those. Only I wasn’t a kid, and my friends weren’t invisible. Not to me, anyway. And I could see them because I’d been born the grim reaper, which was not as bad as it sounded. I was basically a portal to heaven, and whenever someone was stuck on Earth, having chosen not to cross over immediately after death, they could cross to the other side through me. I was like a giant bug light, only what I lured was already dead.

I pulled at my extra-tight sweater. “Is it just me, or is it really warm in here?”

His baby blues shot toward the kitchen again. “Hot is m-more like it. S-so, I – I couldn’t help but notice you t-tried to buy that guy over there a drink.”

I let my fake smile go. Freed it like a captured bird. If it came back to me, it would be mine. If not, it never was. “And?”

“You’re b-barking up the wrong tree with that one.”

Surprised, I put my drink down – the one I bought myself – and leaned in a little closer. “He’s gay?”

Duff snorted. “N-no. But he’s been in here a lot lately. He l-likes his women a little… l-looser.”

“Dude, how much sluttier can I get?” I indicated my attire with a sweep of my hand.

“N-no, I mean, well, you’re a l-little —” He let his gaze travel the length of me. “— t-tight.”

I gasped. “I look anal?”

He drew in a deep breath and tried again. “H-he only hits on women who are more s-substantial than you.”

Oh, that wasn’t offensive at all. “I have depth. I’ve read Proust. No, wait, that was Pooh.
Winnie-the-Pooh.
My bad.”

He shifted his nonexistent weight, cleared his throat, and tried again. “More v-voluptuous.”

“I have curves,” I said through a clenched jaw. “Have you seen my ass?”

“Heavier!” he blurted out.

“I weigh – Oh, you mean he likes bigger women.”

“E-exactly, while I on the other hand —”

Duff’s words faded into the background like elevator music. So Marv liked big women. A new plan formed in the darkest, most corrupt corners of Barbara. My brain.

Cookie, otherwise known as my receptionist during regular business hours and my best friend 24/7, was perfect. She was large and in charge. Or, well, large and kind of bossy. I picked up my cell phone and called her.

“This better be good,” she said.

“It is. I need your assistance.”

“I’m watching the first season of
Prison Break.
”

“Cookie, you’re my assistant. I need assistance. With a case. You know those things we take on to make money?”

“
Prison. Break.
It’s about these brothers who —”

“I know what
Prison Break
is.”

“Then have you ever actually seen these boys? If you had, you would not expect me to abandon them in their time of need. I think there’s a shower scene coming up.”

“Do these brothers sign your paycheck?”

“No, but technically neither do you.”

Damn. She was right. It was much easier to just have her forge my name.

“I need you to come flirt with my mark.”

“Oh, okay. I can do that.”

Nice. The F-word always worked with her. I filled her in and told her the deal with Tidwell, then ordered her to hurry over.

“And dress sexy,” I said right before hanging up. But I regretted the sexy part instantly. The last time I told Cookie to dress sexy for a much-needed girls’ night out on the town, she wore a lace-up corset, fishnet stockings, and a feather boa. She looked like a dominatrix. I’d never been the same.

“S-so, she’s coming?” Duff asked.

“Possibly. She’s watching hot guys on TV. It all depends if her daughter is there or not. Either way, she should be here soon.”

He nodded.

As I sat waiting for my BFF, I took note of all the women in the bar that night. Calamity’s was kind of a cop hangout. Women certainly came in, just not by the droves. But this place was packed and noisy, and at least 75 percent of the patrons were women. Which was odd.

I’d been coming to the bar for years, mostly because my dad owned it, but partly because my investigations office was on the second floor, and in all that time, I’d never seen the place so disproportioned in favor of the feminine mystique except that one time I talked Dad into bringing in a male revue. He’d agreed for two reasons. One: I’d batted my lashes. Two: He thought a male revue was a guy who came in, tried the food, then did a review in the paper. I may or may not have encouraged that line of thinking. Dad would probably have taken it better if I’d been over eighteen when I suggested it. He wanted to know how many male revues I’d been to.

“Counting this one?” was apparently not an appropriate reply.

Someone put a plate of food in front of me.

“Compliments of the chef.”

I glanced up at Teri, my dad’s best bartender. She knew I was working an infidelity case and probably guessed that I’d struck out, thus the comfort food. The heavenly aroma hit me so fast, I had to force myself not to drool.

“Thanks.” I took a slice off the plate and sank my teeth into the best chicken quesadilla I’d ever had. “Wow,” I said, sucking in cool air as I chewed, “Sammy really outdid himself.”

“What?” she said over the crowd.

I waved her on and continued to eat, letting my eyes roll back in ecstasy. I’d been enjoying Sammy’s concoctions for years, and while they were always mouthwateringly good, this was incredible. I scooped equal parts guacamole, salsa, and sour cream onto the next bite, then went in for another trip to heaven.

Duff watched me eat while standing wedged between the back of my barstool and the guy standing next to it. His left half was inside Duff’s right. The guy looked up, searched the ceiling for air vents, turned to his left, his right, then… three… two… one…

He shivered and stepped away.

Happened every time. The departed were cold and when people stood inside one, the hairs on the backs of their necks rose, goose bumps shot across their skin, and a shiver ran down their spines.

But Duff wasn’t paying attention to the guy. While he pretended to center his attention on me, he kept a weather eye on the door to the kitchen, glancing over every few seconds, chewing on a nail.

Maybe the door to the kitchen was really a portal to heaven and if he stepped through it, he would cross to the other side. No, wait.

As I sat there stuffing my face, I began to wonder about something. I’d checked out Mrs. Tidwell’s Friendbook page while researching Mr. Tidwell for more pictures. I liked to take every precaution when approaching a mark to make certain I could recognize him or her when necessary. I got the wrong guy one time. It ended badly.

I dug my phone out of my jeans again, found Mrs. Tidwell’s profile, and clicked through her photo history. Sure enough, when they got married a little over a year earlier, Mrs. Tidwell had been much heavier. She’d clearly lost a lot of weight, and she’d kept a log on her page with her progress, losing over one hundred pounds over the past year. While I cheered her dedication, I began to wonder if Mr. Tidwell would share my enthusiasm or if he’d liked his wife better before.

The concept kind of floored me. Most guys strayed when their wives gained weight. Tidwell seemed to be straying for the opposite reason. Maybe he felt threatened by her new look. She was a knockout.

I panicked when Tidwell stood to leave. He threw down a few bills, then started for the door, and I realized this night would be a complete bust. I was really hoping for a money shot to put this case to bed. With my optimism dwindling, I began contemplating my schedule to set up a second attempt when Tidwell stopped. His gaze locked on the front door. I looked past him and almost gasped at the raven-haired vixen walking through it. The moment our eyes met, Barry White started playing through the speakers overhead. The lights dimmed and a smoky, sultry kind of aura centered on the newcomer.

Coincidence? I think not.

Enter Cookie Kowalski. Loyal, stalwart, and just the right size. Cookie walked toward me, her expression a mixture of curiosity and hesitance. Surely she wasn’t worried I’d get her into trouble.

And she was dressed to kill. She wore a dark pantsuit with a long sparkling frock and a silver scarf opened at the neck to reveal her voluptuous attributes.

“You saucy minx,” I said when she sat beside me at the bar.

She grinned and scooted closer to me. “This is okay?”

I looked her over again. “It’s fantastic. And it definitely did the job.”

Tidwell sat back down at his table, interest evident in every move he made. I gestured toward him with the barest hint of a nod. She did a quick scan of the room and let her gaze pause a fraction of a second on Tidwell before refocusing on me.

But she still wasn’t convinced. “So, if you were a guy, would you be into me?”

“Hon, if I were a guy, I’d be gay.”

“Yeah, me, too. So, what do I do?”

“Just give it a sec. He’ll probably —”

“The man at the table behind you would like to buy you a drink, darlin’,” Teri said. Her brows rose as she waited for a response. Sobriety clearly came late in life for her, but she was what my father would call a handsome woman, with long dark hair and striking hazel eyes. Still, she’d seen too many illicit rendezvous, complicated hookups, and bad one-night stands to be overly impressed. Experience had hardened her.

I could be hard. If I practiced. Gave it my all.

“Oh,” Cookie said, caught off guard, “I’ll take a whiskey sour.”

Teri winked and began practicing her magic.

“A whiskey sour?” I asked Cook.

“Your f-friend seems nervous,” Duff said, and I agreed with a nod.

Cookie stared ahead as though standing before a firing squad. “Liquid courage,” she said. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”