Read Grave Robber for Hire Online
Authors: Cassandra L. Shaw
I woke at seven, to a pounding headache and the echoes of unrequited lust. Both drug and naturally induced. What a night. I’d never witnessed such raw animal desire as I’d seen last night at the club, or here from Tyreal.
Tyreal’s arm and legs, tree trunk weights, trapped me against the mattress and his chest. I pushed until he rolled and his legs fell off me. With a small gap made I declared freedom, slid free of him and the mattress, hit the floor, and half sleep-walked to the bathroom. I’d showered last night but needed another to feel semi-human, big on the semi.
I fumbled through my bathroom tote for painkillers. Gulped two with a gallon of water straight from the tap then hit the hot, wet, and hard. Water that is. Twenty minutes later, I brushed my teeth and realized today I had to return Josey’s journals.
My mind blanked and had a tiny panic fit before it blinked back into function mode. Best get them to her
fast.
I didn’t need sadist non-human whores with snakey-leech sidekicks visiting my room, hunting for me and the journals.
Also after last night’s creepy wake-and-see the monster showdown, entering her house was
wayyyyyyy down on my list of things to do—ever. I’d just continue with the journals and writing searches for the Rembrandt. Good chance she didn’t have or know of the painting’s whereabouts.
My gut grumbled, growled, and churned to signal imminent starvation. After such a weird night, I figured Tyreal’s stomach would feel no better, perhaps worse. I hoped worse.
Dressed in a robe, I exited the bathroom, rang room service and ordered a large pot of coffee, eggs benedict on toast, pancakes with maple syrup, muesli, and a fruit platter with yogurt for two to our room. Obviously I’d ordered for two gluttonous pigs, but we’d had a rough night.
A few quick calls and I arranged for a courier to collect the journals from my room and to do a Josey house delivery.
Time to wake Tyreal. Since he currently sported a willy blessedly soft, I hoped with every atom in the room’s air that all the lust gas had worn off. I didn’t want him to wake and discover fresh wood. Hopefully he suffered from erectile fatigue.
I approached Tyreal with stealth steps. After all the dry humping and feeling me and himself over last night, this would be embarrassing. But since it would prove far
more
embarrassing to him I’d deal. I’m kind that way.
It was four in the morning before Tyreal stopped rubbing against me, murmuring lascivious suggestions in my ear and to the room at large, and fell into a soundless stupor. By
that
time, I was primed for mass murder. Tyreal first, then Josey, Tony the cop, for putting Tyreal in this position, and any bastard who’d try and stop me.
Last night, minutes after I left my cold shower, Vig poofed in, took one look at Tyreal, and burst out laughing. He laughed so hard he started to lose his corporeal body. Scared he’d ditch me to my fate I’d snatched and grabbed his hand.
“Vig, stay, help me get Tyreal de-fugged and out of this trance.” Yes, I admit it, I begged.
Vig stopped laughing to watch and absorb the true horror of Tyreal, who in avid ecstasy rubbed his body all over the bed. Viggo snorted, looked away, saw me shudder and started to laugh again until tears ran down his face.
His voice, breathy from the exertion squeezed out. “On own.” Then he laughed until he poofed out. Even jabbing the air with my most aggressive and desperate
up yours
sign, didn’t make him return. Bastard guardian angel. Leave me to the very hungry or more precisely, horny wolf.
So the murder list also included Viggo. Death by flaying sounded fair, although I wasn’t really sure how one flayed anything, but I’d Google it and find out.
My stomach rumbled, and I wondered how long breakfast would take. Tyreal would fancy some dead animal on his plate, but he could go suck. An act, in his entrancement last night, and after my adamant refusal, he’d tried and almost succeeded in doing.
That was when I started to laugh, hysterically until my sides and gut hurt.
Good thing he didn’t succeed. Although not a big loss for planet Earth, if guys could do that, it would probably mean extinction for humanity.
Tyreal still lay sprawled on the bed, naked, and softly snoring. A soft knock sounded on the door followed by a, “Room Service.”
Whoot. Food and coffee, surely a magical combo. I flicked some sheet over Tyreal’s vital bits and opened the door.
I trundled the trolley across the floor until it sat next to the tiny table, then turned and kicked the bed. “Hey, air
humper, get up.” Okay, so after last night I had some anger issues.
He grunted, kicked off the sheet. God, as if I hadn’t seen that thing enough to see me through ten years.
I shook his shoulder. “Wake up.”
“
Umpff.”
I put my face an inch from his. In my most cajoling and feminine snarl, yelled, “Get. Up.”
“Auggh.” His very bloodshot eyes flew open.
“I’ve got food and lots of black coffee.”
“Umph.” He swung his legs over the bed and sat up. All color plummeted until his face became pasty white and sweaty.
“You feel alright?”
He threw his hands to his head. “No. Fuck. Holy fuck, Princess, what happened to my head?” He squinted, looked around the room, at me. Shock, slow and all-encompassing spread over and flushed his face a deep-beet-red.
“Did I ... Was I ….”
Memories. Aren’t they a bitch?
He wiped a hand over his face. “I didn’t. I dreamt it?”
“No.”
He squinted then looked away. “I really …” He looked at his male bits. Flushed redder.
I hope my evil smirk wasn’t too much. “Yes.”
“All night?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck.”
“No.”
“Hell. Sorry. Geez—sorry. What the heck came over me? Did someone spike my drink? He rubbed his hands over his face. “Hang on—I don’t remember having a drink. I don’t remember frig all. When did I get home?”
“About midnight.”
“How?”
“I dragged you from the club, stuffed you into a cab. With difficulty. Taxi drivers are pretty cool, but not all are enthused about having a dry humping crazed man in their car.”
He grimaced, stood and released a wall vibrating groan. “My whole body’s pulsating. Did we get Josey?”
“You don’t remember?”
He started rubbing his hand behind his neck. “I remember the undercover crew passing me my outfit. Guys I worked with years ago waiting to see me in it, and laughing themselves until I think someone pissed their pants. I’m sure it will be on YouTube before the morning is dead. Remember getting to the club and seeing Josey on stage. Remember being here, feeling err, passionate. Rest is blank. Want to fill me in?”
Life’s full of dilemmas. What could, or more accurately, should I tell him? For the moment, I was willing to bet my new red boots that evasion of all knowledge pertaining to last night would prove prudent. I dug a blister pack of headache tablets out of my handbag, poured a glass of water and passed both to him.
He popped four tablets out, took them. Midway to passing me the glass, he stopped. His already
slitted eyes slitted more. “And I remember
you
. What part of, this is police business, didn’t you get, Princess?”
“Maybe I’m into those clubs, wanted to check out the local scene. Just happened to be the same one you attended.”
“Yeah, and I’m a virgin fairy.” He walked to the bathroom giving me a good view of ass. At the door, he stopped. “I feel like death warmed over. Too much like death to yell at you.”
I poured myself a coffee, added lots of anti-bad-mood sugar. Mouthed, “
after breakfast I yell
,” at the bathroom door with my best sneer and sipped my coffee. Seven minutes later Tyreal, towel wrapped around his hips, came back out.
“You know after I saw you at that club—I remember nothing except for the, err, odd urge to fuck everything that moved.”
“Things that didn’t move too.” I smiled evilly.
Tyreal sat down, took the cup of coffee I handed him and slurped long and hard. “
Ahhhhhh, that’s good.”
His phone rang. We both grabbed our heads, holding our skulls together as the cacophony of obvious orchestral decibels blasted from his bag.
He scrambled to the counter and unzipped the bag, releasing more brain sizzling decibels, then dug out and mercifully answered his phone. His right hand massaged the back of his neck. “Tony, hey. Yep, umm, nope not a thing. Saw her on stage after that … nothing.” His eyes met and held my gaze.
“Christensen and Be
nson were found where? He did a tooth suck thing with his tongue and frowned. “Right. Sorry but I think I got doped too. I remember nothing after I saw Lillith as Josey calls herself, on stage.”
He hung up and wandered to the window.
“The two detectives on my tail were doped, tied up in chains, and dumped naked into a dumpster out back of Devil’s Whip.”
“I’m pretty sure Josey puts something in the vent near her stage. She uses it to pump an aphrodisiac drug gas stronger than any prescription available into the room. This drug enthralls people to go into uncontrollable lust.”
“If that’s what got me, then it works.”
“Oh, it works. Within a nanosecond of her mist hitting you, you had the erection from hell jammed into your leather cock cage. If she were to sell that shit on the open-market, she’d be a billionaire.”
“Drugs in the air? What drug does that?”
“Do I look like I’d know?”
“No. Were you affected?”
“A little but when I saw it affect the others, I held my breath.” Noses don’t grow so I was safe.
Someone knocked on the door. I answered, took the satchel off the courier, filled it out, shoved in the four journals and handed it back.
Back at my seat I started to eat. “I’m not sorry to see those journals of Josey’s go, but I still have nothing on this damn Rembrandt. I need that list of assets.”
My phone rang. I tossed Tyreal a pair of jeans he’d left hanging over a chair. “Get dressed. I’ve seen more of your junk than I expect to see of my husband of fifty years.” I dug into my bag for my cell phone.
Claudia Reese-Jones.
Crapola
. Could the morning get any better? Still after yesterday, today couldn’t be worse. I hit activate call. “Hello Claudia.” She came straight to the issue. The woman was good that way. No wasting time on polite small talk. She went straight for the guts.
“I have a relative who claims to have a couple of account ledgers and some letters.”
Account ledgers—oh yeah, that was tummy tumbling good. “Good, what are their dates?”
“The years around the time Clyde resided in Brisbane.”
Belly still flipping in I hope I’m close joy, I wrote down details on a Gladys Morgan. Gladys lived in Inala, one of Brisbane’s rougher socio-economically challenged areas. Inala’s a cultural melting pot where the ethnic ingredients didn’t want to mix and make soup.
Gee, if I was lucky when visiting I’d get gang raped while someone chop-shopped my car. Always nice to have things to look forward to.
#
That night Tyreal drove into my drive at dusk. Dogs wiggled, cats meowed, goats baaed and horses snickered hello. I ushered Tyreal inside, dumped my bag and trotted down the hall. A cardboard box taped shut sat on my table. Lucy must have put it there when she fed my animals.
I walked past it to pour Tyreal and myself a cold orange juice.
Back at the parcel I picked it up and gave it a shake. Something shifted inside. “After my last two gifts of dead birds and flowers, I’ll open this outside in case it’s something else dead.”
Tyreal put his glass on the table. “Give the box to me, I’ll open it.”
“Nah, it’ll be fine those dead things weren’t wrapped. This is probably some writing for a new case.” I still walked out into the middle of the yard. Easier to dump dead things into the compost that way. Tyreal stood on the veranda close by.
Outside, the tape pulled off the box easily, the lid flipped open. A snake reared its head and struck.
The snake struck the lid
of the box twice in lightning strike speed, missing my finger by about two millimeters. I hurled the
gift
, ran and called the dogs to go inside. Tyreal grabbed my arm, pushed me into the house and slammed the sliding door shut.
“What sort was it?”
I opened my mouth and shut it. Head bowed, my stomach roiling, heart racing, I held my hand to my chest and took a deep breath. “Brown snake.” Brown and deadly but luckily also a species endemic to the area.
Eyes angry and face set like stone, he looked outside. A small brown slithered away into the grass of the front paddock. At least my hor
ses were used to snakes and adept at avoiding them.
“Who’d leave you a venomous snake? Who’d do that? Think.”
“I don’t know. Someone’s trying to scare me.” And succeeding.
“Christ, Princess, we need to know what the hell is going on.”
“I know.”
Tyreal went outside and grabbed the empty box, looked over it. “No name on it. Think, who’d want to risk your life?”
“Don’t know.” That was the scariest part. I didn’t have a clue. “Maybe it’s mistaken identity.”
“This isn’t good. You should come and stay with me.”
“No shit it’s not good, but I’m staying here.”
He stood for a while, thinking I suppose, and walked back inside and took my shoulders into his large hands. “Anything else comes you call the cops and use tongs or something to open boxes. After you call the cops you call me.” He handed me my juice. “Drink up.”
#
I’d called Gladys, the lady from Inala and the owner of the next lot of hopefully Rembrandt detailed writing, and arranged for me to collect the fresh supply of written material from her house.
Gladys lived in a house hidden in one of Inala’s quiet tree lined streets. Except for the odd front fence and garage decorated with graffiti, this street didn’t fit the suburb’s rough image. Dogs ran around large neatly mowed yards surrounding ultra-modest houses. Kid’s toys decorated lawns, and the cars although dated past the ten year mark appeared mostly well kept.
Flowers of six dozen differing hues filled a large portion of Gladys’ front yard. A thirty year old white Holden Commodore with gleaming chrome and paint sat in a carport.
Gladys answered the door of her tiny timber cottage. Dressed in a loose yellow smock she looked exactly as her age suggested. Even at five feet three I towered over her. Her gray hair held a blue rinse and through her tight curled perm showed a generous amount of scalp. Milky blue eyes twinkled with life. Smile false teeth perfect, she opened the screen door with a pudgy arthritic hand.
“Hi
, honey, great outfit. You, Angel Meyers?”
My vest had an embroidered skull and rose theme. My black shorts had studs in the shape of skulls down the side. My black boots, a few more. Gladys was cool.
I stuck out my hand, gave her tiny gnarled one a quick shake, then fumbled in my pocket to pull out and handed her my card. “Thanks and I am.” I flicked my cast arm toward Tyreal. “This is my colleague, Tyreal Van Der Waals.” Vig stood behind us, taking in the flowers.
Gladys checked out Tyreal in a slow granny assessment. She stretched up to whisper in her normal voice in my ear. “That there colleague of yours, he’s a honey.”
Vig snorted in disgust. I looked at Tyreal as if I’d never seen him before. He grinned, put his hands in his jeans and rocked on his boot heels. Even after my snake present, all I saw in Tyreal was a man who’d knocked me back. My elephant memory remembers all slights.
“He’s okay. Problem with him is he lacks focus.”
Tyreal’s grin died. “I did apologize.”
“What?” Vig asked, looking form Tyreal to me and back. I
flicked my hand out in a shush signal.
Gladys chuckled at Tyreal’s answer. When she laughed her whole cherub body laughed with her. I lik
ed her instantly. “Come in and sit town while I make a pot of tea.”
I love old people, they always make tea. Tea is the meet and greet drink. The fixer and elixir of all problems, the beverage you share with old and new friends and memories. I knew this since Aunty Glynnis had been ninety-three when she died. So okay, she served her tea with hash cookies but she’d still been a little old lady.
The inside of Gladys’ house was as neat as her car and as colorful as her garden. A ginger marmalade cat ran down the hall and slinked in purring ecstasy around first Viggo’s ankles and then mine. I bent and picked the cat up making him purr louder.
Gladys smiled. “That’s Tit
Tit.”
He nuzzled my chin. “He’s lovely. Has a good gentle soul.”
Tyreal looked at me as if I’d said the cat held magical powers. To me and Gladys, Tit Tit did. He gave an old lady a reason to get out of bed, shared love, and life.
At the old wooden dining table, I took the chair Gladys pointed to. Tit
Tit kneaded my denim clad crotch and snuggled down for more purring and nap time and Vig started to wander around looking at all of Gladys’ life mementos.
Gladys headed for her little yellow and blue kitchen. “Jason’s wife, Claudia, sounds posh and somewhat bossy on the phone. He’s my great nephew, should be him calling.”
I rested my hand on Tit Tit. “I believe Claudia’s husband is overseas.”
“
Mmm, family gossip is the marriage is on the blitz. Funny she’d want to compile a list if the marriage is as ready for burial as my old bones.”
Gladys placed a rose patterned porcelain tea set and homemade scones with side dishes of strawberry conserve and cream on the table, making Vig rush back over and carefu
lly take a seat. “Help yourself, dears. It was such fun having a reason to cook. Company’s rare these days. I’m ninety, most folk I know are dead or in nursing homes. Mostly dead.”
Even one of her visitors today was dead. I poured my tea, passed the pot to Tyreal. Once we’d sugared. I slathered conserve then whipped cream onto my scone and bit into it. The puffy softness melted onto my tongue. I moaned and Vig copied the sound. Sweet gods this lady could make a scone. Fully melt in your mouth and whisper soft scones. The strawberry conserve must be home made to be that fruity with a hint of tang. I waved the remaining piece in my fingers at Gladys. “
Thos os owesome.”
Tyreal bit into his scone, groaned, and tipped the piece in his hand in a nod of approval at Gladys. I finished mine and decided on seconds. I drowned that baby in thick cream and a dollop of conserve and hoped I found reason to visit Gladys again.
“Are these standard scones?” Cause I wanted her recipe.
“Yes
, it’s how you handle the dough. Lightest touch.” She made feathering movements with her fingers to show me what she meant and pushed the plate toward Tyreal. “Eat up, I’ll be offended if there are any left when you leave.”
Her arthritic hands worked miracles and I planned on leaving no prisoners on the plate.
With a second cup of tea waiting to be drunk, Gladys stiffly stood and ambled to a circa 1940’s Formica wall unit. She picked up several old cardboard covered books and a handful of letters. “You know I thought I had a lot more of these around, but I can’t find them. You’ll take these away, note their contents, and then bring them back. Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
She tapped the books. “I’ve gone through these. Nothing more than a lot of figures and side notes. Family legends reckon great granddad was all smile and sugar coating, but inside the crust lay rotten meat.”
She put the books and letters on the table. “The letters are more interesting. These are from his wife to their youngest daughter Celia, my grandmother, my mother’s mother. Seems my great grandma Amelia was frightened of her husband even though he never harmed her. She was convinced he had something to do with their neighbor’s two young sons’ disappearance.”
I had my cup against my lip and placed it on the saucer quickly. “Really?”
The boys, it had to be the boys. The boys I’d seen him bury
.
“Apparently he’d
often watched the boys. One day they headed off to the river for a bit of a fish as boys tend to do, and she saw Clyde follow. Their fishing gear was found. No sign of the boys though. Poor things were never seen again, dead or alive. Amelia thought he pushed them in the river.”
“How creepy. She didn’t go to the police with her thoughts?”
“No, dear. Wouldn’t be any point. Great granddad was in cahoots with all the big nobs around Brisbane. Clyde liked to befriend the important crowd. You read the letters you’ll see. Amelia was real chuffed when he died.”
Gladys turned to Tyreal. “You’re a tall lad, do you think you could put in a light bulb for me. They pop and I’m too old to climb step ladders anym
ore to replace them. The aged care place send people out, but it takes weeks.”
Tyreal stood. “Sure, which one and where are you spare globes?”
“Kitchen and bathroom. The globes are on the counter in the kitchen.” Tyreal went off to change light bulbs and Vig stood and snooped around some more.
Gladys packed my books into a calico bag. “He’s a keeper that one. Not many guys like that around and he don’t
yabber on. Lot to be said for a quiet man. And he watches you—hungry like.”
“He
ass,” Vig stated as he looked at an ancient VCR. He pointed at the red light on the front. “Still work.” He sounded as amazed as I felt. Did she still use it?
I took my eyes off the VCR and decided to guide the conversation to less stormy waters, ones without someone spouting awe over Tyreal. That talk just made me and Vig disgusted. “Have you lived here all your life?”
“Since the day we married. Was farmland around here back then, full of nice country folk. Not like now. The area sure does get a lot of weirdos. Had a guy here the other day hiding behind my Camellias watching the house. But he wasn’t from around here. I’d have remembered hair like that lot. Long and deep red with gold through it.”
Vig walked over and scowled. I got it, she was without protection and this concerned him and me. “Did you call the police? He may have been casing your house.”
“No point. Everything in my house is decades old. Who’d want it?”
“But he could harm you. Promise me if you see him or anyone else watching your house, call the police.”
#
Back home I changed and tossed Gladys’ books onto my table and pulled out the blue cha
ir and sat. Tyreal leaned against the kitchen counter.
“Claudia, Josey, and Gladys have had a guy that meets the same description at each of their houses. Long dark red hair with gold highlights. He asked Claudia about the Rembrandt, Josey too, but he also got a sex session from Josey. With Gladys he appeared to just have watched her house.”
Tyreal scratched at his black one day growth. “Someone else is after the Rembrandt.”
“Yeah. Wonder how many more family members he’s visited?”
“He didn’t ask for journals?”
“No. Doubt anyone else can do what I do or at least the same way.”
“Good. You’ll find it first. If it still exists.”
Viggo flashed in and grunted when he saw Tyreal then walked to the couch, looked at the T.V. and sighed. I walked over and turned it on. Tyreal looked at me in question.
“Background noise. It feels too quiet.” His,
if it still exists
, comment hit a nerve. The painting could be long ago destroyed. “Can you make the coffee?” It wasn’t really an ask, I just thought it sounded politer if I phrased it as a question. Not so domineering. Then again he’d gone to Devil’s Whip as a submissive, maybe he liked bossy.
Someone knocked on the door. “Angel, it’s Lucy.”
“Door’s open. Better make a third cup. Lucy takes lots of milk so leave an inch on top.” Tyreal nodded and Lucy, my neighbor’s sixteen year old kid, ran down the hall, saw Tyreal and dark hair flying, skidded to a very neat stop.
Her hazel black
kohled eyes widened. “Wow. What happened to Luke?”
“We had a difference of opinion, but Tyreal’s not his replacement.”
She stared at Tyreal, mouth hanging open showing her tongue piercing. “Why?”
Tyreal let out a bark of laughter and Viggo muttered a hearty, “
Ferk.”
I let out a
why me
sigh while thinking why me. “Lucy, close your mouth. You’ll swallow a fly. Tyreal, this is Lucy, my neighbor and when I’m away, pet feeder extraordinaire. Lucy, this is Tyreal, my new work associate. Tyreal’s gay.”
“Oh.” All her puff went out and Vig laughed.
Tyreal handed Lucy a mug of coffee and the milk carton. “I’m not gay. Angel won’t listen. I keep asking her out, she keeps knocking me back. Maybe she’s gay.”
I did that eye roll thing again. He hadn’t actually asked for a date. Sex yes, date no. There is a difference because that was how I ran my life.
Ogling a man twice her age, Lucy poured milk into her coffee and handed him back the carton. With her twelve earrings in each ear jiggling and a dazzled smile, she sat in the lilac chair. Gidget pushed open the screen door, raced toward Lucy and knocked Tyreal as he passed me my coffee.