Grave Robber for Hire (4 page)

He grinned and shook his head. “Never do. She live?”

“Yeah, she’s alive.”

“Good girl. I good. You rest.” He kissed my forehead and flashed out. Knots I hadn’t realized existed in my stomach, released.

My family was safe, but what a day

Three cats lay beside me on the couch. Misca my black cat, pushed her way to sit closest. I finished the last of the wine, dug out two plastic bags to cover my cast with, and drift-walked to the bathroom.

The plug popped as I pushed it into the bathtub’s drain. A finger flick had the hot and cold taps running enough to bubble the neroli gel wash I drizzled into the tumble of water
, scenting it and the room with the sweet oil from the flowers of the sour orange bush.

With a bit of hot water and that wine warming the slip streams of my veins, I knew when I’d finished bathing I’d spill into bed and sleep like the dead. Bean gas and all. But I’d leave the windows open in case I fumigated myself to death.

Steam and citrus blossoms fragranced the air as I pushed my leatherette trousers down and remembered gym junkie’s card. Bare assed I dashed across the hall and dug out the white card from my boot. Back in the bathroom I considered his hot-damn corded arms and those molasses depths I’d floated in, and expelled a deep lust driven sigh. A picture of his butt fluttered into my dirty mind, making me smile. All men’s butts should be so tight, with indents carved into each cheek, visible even when clothed.

Oh yeah. That had been a good ass.

Dark blue lettering wavered on the plain white. Tyreal Van Der Waals, Private Investigator specializing in cyber research, an email address and cell number. Damn what a sexy name. Ty-
real
. I played around with his name a few times testing it for testosterone, then the words
private investigator, cyber research,
hit.

Shit, perfect—I needed a hand with my investigations. And a honey, an arm sniffing honey true, but an arm sniffing,
private investigating cyber specializing
honey
. Those are rare.

I looked at the card and lusted a little more. Okay a lot more. So he smelled me, kept touching my arm—shit happens. That was one man too hot not to hire.

I dropped the card on my vanity and froze. In too much pain and shock today, I hadn’t realized he’d called me Angel. Not like Amy Bryley in her effort of thanks. He’d called me
Angel
as if it were my name.

It is of course, but I didn’t introduce myself.

#

I woke with brain, back, and arm aches. I felt as if I’d crashed into concrete at the speed of sound, without the sonic boom to impress people. Playing super hero Angel always hurt. I moved my grated
shoulder and grit my teeth. Yeah, wasn’t feeling too super anything this morning.

The kitchen and I bonded over a fried egg, whole grain buttery toast, and three large cups of coffee-press liquid splendor. I had a mild stomach ache, but I wasn’t sure if that was left over beans or my stomach revolting against the pain meds and wine. I ignored it, and gobbled pain killers like candy, fed the furry kids then hit the computer and started protection spell hunting.

With a cat walking over then lying on the computer keyboard, another nestled in my lap and a morbidly obese dog asleep on my foot, sending it numb, I made twenty phone calls and wasted four hours to discover nothing.

I wiggled my foot free, screwed my face up at the tingles as blood rushed to save the appendage, lifted the cat off my lap, and pushed my chair away from the desk. I tottered on my tingling foot past my dead aunt’s six bookcases filled with volumes on finding Zen and inner peace and the best way of growing dope with hydroponics, to my bathroom.

I picked up Tyreal’s card from my silky-oak vanity and stared at his name.

Why did I feel I
needed
to phone this man? Lust—yes. Need help in my investigations—yes and yes. Curiosity over his, I think you need help declaration yesterday—yes, yes, and yes. I tapped the card on my cheek and stared outside at the flowering bottlebrush bush. The phone rang. I held my casted arm close to my body, and ran to answer it.

Claudia’s refined voice irritated my ear. I wondered if she knew of the evilness that rotted in her husband’s ancestor.

Five minutes later I hung up. She’d found a whole box of written material she thought Clyde Owen Jones wrote. It was rare to score such a large bounty of old writing. Shame the evil bastard had been such a prolific writer. Still, if I wanted to find the painting I needed that material so I’d arranged to collect it tomorrow at eleven.

Besides, touching his writing was better than his grave. Until I’d warded myself, or whatever witchy stuff it took to stop black goop leaching up my pores, I wasn’t going near Clyde’s grave. Perhaps not even when witch
latexed. I glanced at my fingernails, shuddered and phoned my manicurist.

In a blink of white light, Viggo popped in, and I nearly fell off my chair. Fully corporeal again he’d arrived refurbished. For the first time since he flashed into my life and nearly caused a ten year old child to suffer a cardiac arrest, he’d changed clothes. Vig probably died in his early thirties, but had always looked a bit older and weather beaten.

Today his skin gleamed as if buffed, his hair shone, making his appearance fresher, younger. His blue and red striped shirt was gone. In its place he wore a crisp white cotton or linen shirt open to the waist, a wide leather belt cinched it at his hips. Pale leather leggings accented strong legs, and tan mid-calf length boots finished his new retro pirate look.

Vig winked at me and smoothed his hand down his chest, pride in his new garments lending a childlike wonder to his face. “Like?”

At about five ten tall, Viggo bulged with more muscles than I’d ever realized. Alive, he must have been a blacksmith or plowed fields or wielded a sword, or all three.

“Good look. Suits you.” A lot. “Why the changes?”

He showed me the palms of his hands and held them above his head. “Ajer.”

Helpful
. It was times like this I wished I’d been able to learn his language, but it seemed to be a mix of languages, and he changed words for objects like I change panties. Luckily he understood me, and he could even read.

“I have no idea what that means.”

Vig thrust his hands into his hair. His lack of English frustrates him as much as me.

“So, you’re all right. Don’t have any lingering problems from yesterday?”

He looked thoughtful, “No. All good.”

He picked up a broken mobile phone I’d given him a few days ago, retrieved his tool kit from my desk and started to pull the phone apart.

“You going to share how you fixed me yesterday? Tell me what that black crap is?”

He sighed, put down the phone and garbled a spiel of ancient which was flowered with the word bad. As usual I understood very little, but I got it was bad.

Great Aunty Glynnis, who’d raised me, said Vig couldn’t learn much English because guardian angels rarely change from the person they were at death. Frozen in time, a guardian came to guide and help, not metamorphosize.

Today’s new clothes and the ongoing appearance of new words meant some changes could occur, just slowly. To make life easier for both of us, we needed to work out how to trigger a major learning curve.

“You know, Viggo, Clyde Owen Jones scares me.”

He assessed my expression and nodded, “Should, Hayyel, should.”

I fingered Tyreal’s card as I walked out onto my veranda and enjoyed the flowers of my gardens, a caroling magpie, and the swallows twittering. Nature quiets my inner melting pot. A swallow swooped past, flew in a high arc then dived onto my shoulder. Animals, wild or not seek me out as if they know I love them all. I stroked her shiny blue-black head then she flew off, air dancing, to catch lunch.

Back inside, I put on the radio and watched Vig pull the back off the phone. “I got another new case emailed to me this morning. I’m getting busy.”

The global financial crisis has been fab for business. Hard-times make people curious about family legends of great-great-Gramps’s lost riches. Mostly, Gramps pissed his dough away on booze, gambling, and whores. However, once in a while, Gramps hid his treasure for safekeeping, or for the giggles. Time passed, death stepped forward to shake hands, and Gramps’ hiding spot lay forgotten.

Vig looked up, a green wire hanging from his finger. “Good, Hayyel.”

“That’s three new cases in three days. I need to find some sort of investigator to help me.”

Vig scowled, tugged out an electrode thingy, eyed it and put it aside. “How help?”

I got his confusion, wasn’t like anyone else I knew had my gift. “Help with computer and paper searches”—I wiggled my fingers—“not with readings.”

“
Ahh. Hard to find.”

“Just as hard finding someone I trust enough to run a thorough investigation.” Searches involve locating burial sites, birth, death, marriage records, and contact details of living descendants who might have more of the deceased’s hand written documents. All were elements vital in a successful treasure hunt.

I wish I could get
him
to help. Guardian angel labor is cheap. Vig doesn’t even need food. Problem is his idea of cyber investigating involves taking my electronic equipment apart, dumping the contents on the floor and playing with the pieces. Between his techno fascination and Satan’s explosive one, they’d cost me tens of thousands of dollars over the last decade.

I tapped my feet to
Pink
and blasted out my best tuneless scream. Viggo slapped his thigh to the beat. For a thousand year dead guy, Vig’s cool.

#

Pink duet finished, I kept revisiting the desire to call and ask Tyreal to work for me on a sub-contractor basis. I needed an expert’s help to gather more info on Clyde Owen Jones and on some of my other cases. Such a dark spirit as Clyde’s would have left a scar on the world. At some stage in his fifty-seven years of life, Clyde committed something evil, and I needed to know the degree of that malignancy. And for some reason I also felt that I needed to somehow share that knowledge with the world in order to make things right.

I decided to check out Tyreal’s credentials a little. A quick Google search found him easily enough. Ex-cop, ex-army, private investigator. He originated from the Sunshine Coast and had sixty-eight Facebook friends, went to school at Noosa District High, my old high school but three years ahead of me. All seemed pretty normal, and then I hit the cincher.

His aunt was a clairvoyant, and I found pictures of him with her at fairs. How freaking perfect was that? No point in hiring someone who didn’t believe in my psychic gifts.

It was almost too perfect, but hey, never look a gift donkey in the ass, or something like that.

I rang Tyreal. His voice vibrated in a rich masculine timbre, deep and personal and pure sex. He was more than happy to meet me to discuss business. He didn’t seem surprised I’d called. Such is the confidence of good looking men.

But when I asked him where we could meet, thinking it would be Brisbane somewhere, I discovered he lived no more than a fifteen minute drive away from my home.

I agreed to meet at my house and hung up the phone. I squinted a little at the phone and bit my lip. With Tyreal saying my name at the scene of the accident, and him living so close when the cemetery I’d been outside of was a good two hour drive away, a soft, but oddly shrill alarm went off in my head.

And that alarm started to sound like it shrieked
stalker.

Chapter 4

I decided to still meet Tyreal but called and changed the venue. I wanted privacy so I suggested we meet in a public place. At the agreed on café on Noosaville’s Gympie Terrace, I selected an outdoor table a little distance from the other patrons. Today I wanted to see if Tyreal emitted a bad vibe. A, I know who you are
bah-ha-ha
vibe. Or a, I’m really an axe wielding psychopathic stalker, vibe.

Yeah, I found it spooky he knew my name yesterday and
yet something insane inside me said-
safe
, which is bizarre. I never trust men.

I’m into the universe bringing people together for multiple reasons. Those beliefs I chewed with my morning plate of organic oats while Aunt Glynnis puffed on her it’s-medicinal-baby-girl, bong.

But universe or not, a touch of paranoia often proves judicious. It can also indicate drug use or schizophrenia.

A dark haired waitress in her early twenties, collected, cleaned, pocketed a tip left on my table, and beamed. Her French accent and cheap perfume said working visa tourist. The smile she gave me said welcome.

I followed her inside the café and viewed the cake display with greedy anticipation. My taste buds still salivated for raspberry baked cheesecake, but sadly this café appeared to be a cheesecake free zone. Yesterday I missed my after-cemetery cheesecake sustenance due to snapping bones.

A tiny voice whispered to me through the refrigerated glass.

“
Eat me, eat me, eat meeeee
.” And it wasn’t Luke, my ex-friend with benefits, lying back, wearing a silly grin and a whipped cream smiley face on his boy bits. There she sat, second row down in a visual display of whites and browns that assured sugar satisfaction. Her little tag said she was a three chocolate mud and mouse layer cake. My mouth filled with saliva and my fat cells cheered.

The French girl leaned over, “It is good, that one.”

“Excellent, I’ll have a slice and a large pot of English tea, thanks. I’m meeting a friend, so can I have my order arrive with his?”

“
Oui,” she made a note on her pad.

I hoped I’d find Tyreal as delicious as my memory visualized.
Perving’s good for my hormones and makes my heart race, so it’s also a cardio workout. A definite win win.

Seated back at my chosen table, I gazed over the road to the long thin park that runs parallel to the Noosa River. Pelicans stood on pontoon pylons, kids paddled, and the sun glinted off boat wakes in shards of diamond bright lights. A cool breeze wended its way up from the ocean, teasing my
bare arms in a welcome kiss.

The new, pirate style version of Viggo flashed in and took a seat on my left. He glanced at the table and sagged backward.

I whispered, “Sorry, no food yet.”

“
Umph.”

“I did order cake.” His grin creased the skin around his eyes and made me grin back. Vig’s easily contented.

My gorgeous man approaching radar went—
beeeep-beeeep-beepbeepbeep
. I looked up and beheld gym junkie. Tyreal Van Der Waals strode towards me. Long muscular legs were showcased in almost white jeans, and a partially undone burgundy knit shirt hugged wide shoulders. The sleeves strained around defined biceps. Our eyes met, my breath hitched, and my heart did a
Holy-shit
look at
him
flutter.

It’s not polite to drool, it’s not polite to drool, it’s not polite to drool
. Vig kicked my foot making me jolt. We exchanged quick squinty glares before I refocused on Tyreal. I ran my hands over my hair and wished I’d reapplied my slut-red lipstick.

Yesterday, Tyreal was yummy. Today, not writhing in agony, I fixated on the harsh line of his jaw, the slight hollows below his cheeks and the black liquid beauty of his regard. He quirked his full, taste me lips, and sat.

“Hi.” He flashed white, not quite even teeth. The two top front ones crossed a little at the bottom, and one of his eye teeth jutted a fraction forward. Somehow, that lack of symmetry made him even more gorgeous.

Pfft
, lucky I only wanted him for a work partner. Cute and pretty with great tits and ass and on the slightly lush side, I know my limits. I pull the cute guy a girl turns to have a second perv at, not the guy she rubbernecks until she steps in front of freeway traffic.

I licked my lips. “I pre-ordered my tea and cake. To order you have to go to the counter.”

“Great, be back in a sec.” Tyreal stood and wended his way through the tables toward the counter. Two ladies in their forties, sitting at the nearest table had their gazes glued to his ass as he walked by.

I considered my opening line, how best to approach someone with the question of stalking while also assessing them for a work partner. I blinked and realized my gaze was also plastered on that ass. Lucky he didn’t feel our mental groping.

Mine was probably inappropriate for a work partner. There are laws against sexual harassment in the workplace.

Sitting opposite me again, Tyreal rested his elbows on the table with the tips of his fingers touching his bottom lip and smiled. The two ladies exhaled loud no-lust-concealed sighs. Vig snorted and crossed his arms. Tyreal glanced at the ladies and winked, then scrutinized the chair where Viggo sat and frowned.

I put my hand on my cast and gripped tight. Could he see Viggo? Christ, Clyde yesterday, today Tyreal. Was this see-the-unseeable week?

Viggo waved his hand in front of Tyreal’s face then rolled his eyes in toward his nose. Mature, but effective, because Tyreal didn’t react so he couldn’t see Vig. Not even Aunty Glynnis had seen him, although she’d sensed his presence from the time of his arrival, so maybe Tyreal was intuitive too and felt Vig’s presence.

Tyreal shook his head, turned away, and zeroed in on my cleavage. My boobs almost jumped out of my dress in their excitement of being noticed. They’re such attention seekers.

“Cute outfit. How’s your arm?” Tyreal could do sexy commercials. With his smooth deep voice, he’d sell Brazilian bikinis to Eskimos.

I rapped my knuckles on the cast. “Painkillers are magic.”

Cute? Did he say,
cute
? Today’s outfit theme was fifties rockabilly on the tarty side of town.
Most
of my clothes are on the tarty side of town. I wore a white, pencil skirted halter sun-dress, with red platform stiletto’s, super wide red belt and big red hoop earrings. Betty-Boop hair pins clipped back my long blond hair.

I kicked the spare chair, and Vig sniggered.
Cute, my sexy ass.

Vig shifted in his seat, and Tyreal glanced at the movement. “You believe in ghosts Angel?”

Ghosts? Do fish poop in the water? “No, why—do you?” I used my wary voice because now I got it. Not a stalker, just an optimistic moron. He’d heard of my gifts, added two plus two, hit equals and got twenty-two. He wanted me to exorcise a ghost. I didn’t know how since I only saw them if I did something stupid like use my sixth sense without pulling the dimensions.

The waitress arrived. Did her sunny smile thing and put down our orders. Did her, “Enjoy.” Did her exaggerated hip swing for Tyreal’s benefit, although it might have been for me. One can never tell.

Tyreal slid his black coffee closer.

Coffee only. “No cake?”

“I like to stay in shape.”

The waitress returned. As she adjusted our table’s umbrella, she checked out Tyreal under her lashes. Umbrella fixed, she bent low to fiddle with a shoe, giving him a long display of peachy shaped butt before she strutted away.

Subtle. “I think she likes you.”

“Who?”

Obviously too subtle. “Waitress”

“Oh,” Tyreal pointed to Viggo. “In that chair, I think I see the shape of a man.”

Vig’s eyes went Holy-crap-wide. I think we mirrored our looks of shock. Tyreal squinted at Vig as if to bring an object into greater focus.

I bit my lip. If he could see him, what would it mean? Just in case this was bad, I’d try denial. “I can’t see a ghost.” My guardian angel? Yes. Ghost? No.

Little dessert fork in my good hand, I cut off a piece of cake. “They do say it’s important to have a good imagination or life’s dull.”

Tyreal looked at me. “Obviously mine’s about to become real exciting.”

Viggo let out a blast of air from his chest, cut his gaze to my hand and stared intently at the cake on my dainty fork as it hit my mouth and disappeared from view.

The rich smoothness rolled across my taste buds, cream and chocolate dissolved and melded, and I moaned, “God, this is awesome.” I was so coming back to this café.

Tyreal’s black coals lit to hot-hot-hot. “Good huh?”

“Yep.” A sparrow flew into the small potted bush beside me. I broke off a piece of cake and placed it on the tip of my index finger. The sparrow flitted to the table, cocked a bright eye at me, and pecked up the offering. He dipped his brown head and flew off.

Tyreal laughed. “Friendly little thing.”

Now Tyreal and I’d done the pleasantry thing, I eyed my potential stalker, which in a way could be cool, and creepy, in a
stalkerish creepy way.

“Yesterday you called me Angel. How is it you knew my name? Stalk people much?” Yep, just toss the snake into the crowd, see where everyone ran.

Something in his eyes shifted as he put his hands behind his head and coolly met my gaze. “Think highly of yourself? I could have called you lady or sweetheart or … mate.”

I snorted—which may or may not have sounded like,
bullshit
.

He went to speak. I put up my hand in that rude hand in the person’s face action. His mouth snapped shut into a tight line. I looked at my palm. Cool, a new super power.

“Not only do you know my name, you were outside a cemetery that’s a two hour drive away—for both of us.” I put my face closer to his. “Are you stalking me? Lie and I’ll tell your girlfriends I’m your wife, and we have six special needs children.”

He dropped his arms back to the table. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

I eye rolled twice, cause once couldn’t cover the big pile of Tina fertilizer he’d just dumped on the table. “Please. I said don’t lie.” I looked at his left hand, no ring so not married. Lots of guys don’t wear wedding bands, but the wife of
this man
would mark her territory.

“I didn’t. I haven’t dated in several years.”

I waited for him to laugh and say,
kidding
. “You dead from the waist down?” I slapped the table. That’s why he didn’t notice the French chick. “You’re gay?” Muscles, dressed nice, stupefyingly good looking,
of course he’s gay
.

He half laughed, “Not that I remember. It’s been a while. I’ve just been occupied with other things.”

I ate more cake, never taking my regard from him. “So my name?”

“I asked, and you told me.”

My nostrils flared, and I pointed my cake smeared fork at him. “Liar.”

Blink free, his eyes locked with mine. “You told me your name.”

I mentally scanned yesterday’s events and found some fuzzy zones. Could I have? I was pretty freaked when I saw myself in my next life rolling shit balls.

“Fine. I’ll concede that’s a possibility.” I hate being wrong, it steals my
supergirl powers.

He raised his brows, “Big of you. But living in Cooroy I have seen you around.”

I had a piece of cake halfway to my mouth. It just stayed there, attracting flies. Suspicion shot its arm in the air. Sweet mercy, I had a real live psycho sitting at my table.

“You’re attractive and love wearing kooky outfits. No harm.” He made a sound that sounded like a stifled snort.

No harm,
tee-creepy-hee? “Cemetery?” Oh God, this really was getting eerie. Off on a trot my heart agreed, which wasn’t the cardio workout I’d promised it.

“Visiting my first niece. My brother lives near. I was walking to my car when I saw a woman throw herself into an old lady to save her.”

He drank some coffee. “Have we finished with your interrogation?”

“No. You sniffed me.” This ought to be good.

“Because you smelt of roses. Very pretty, and oddly appealing.”

I’d smelt it too, thick and cloying and beautiful. “That was the old lady.” Old ladies smell of roses, not hot chicks dressed in Goth whore.

“No, you.”

Cute, kooky, and
now
I smell like an old lady. This really started to sound bad for my image. “The,
you need me
, comment?”

“Just blurted out. I have no idea why I said that,” he suddenly grinned. Mega-watt in capacity, its impact scalded me with avid lust.

My mind went blank, and all I could see was his firm full lips.

“So you want someone to help you with background research?”

Huh? I blinked and realized my nipples were hard. What a weapon. A nuclear smile. The ladies at the other table tittered nervously. They’d obviously caught a blast of that OMG.