Grave Robber for Hire (7 page)

“We might need to hit the Brisbane State Library and find the originals or go through microfiche if this doesn’t work.”

“Great.” I hate digging through old newspapers. “Should kill a couple of days.” Mummify some part of my brain I probably needed to chew food.

We scrolled and eventually found evidence of three murders; a young male, a prostitute in her late twenties, and a sixteen year old debutante. Each person had been murdered in differing ways. The male had been choked with wire, the prostitute her neck slit, the debutante was found chained in a cabin. Alice Gilbert had been missing for three months but only dead for days when they found her bound to a bed. She’d been basically starved to death and used as a sex slave. Gee wasn’t she a lucky girl?

I pointed to Alice Gilbert’s article. “Nice to know sick bastards lived then too.”

Tyreal poured me another glass of juice. “They’ve always been around. The public just hears about it more now. Evil resides in a lot more people than we truly ever know.”

I eyeballed him warily, “Talking from experience?”

“I was in the military, signed up at seventeen prepared to save the world, got deployed to Iraq. Witnessed a woman detonate the bomb she’d strapped to her chest while she carried her baby. After that, I became a cop, got my first posting in Kings Cross in Sydney.”

I grimaced. Kings Cross, scum of the Earth and crime central all situated around some of the priciest real estate in Australia. I’d been there a couple of times, not my favorite place. I scrolled through the information on the three dead. “None of these match the girl I saw.” I scraped up the last of the risotto and shoveled it into my mouth. “I’ll head to Brisbane tomorrow and check for more articles. But I want to try that journal again, but on a different date.”

“You get different readings from different dates?”

“Every page and every entry on the page if they are written at different times. Sometimes a word will invoke a fresh thought in the person as they write. Through a dimensional wormhole I receive a visual like a movie but with emotions added in 3D Technicolor. And Clyde, the sicko enjoyed those murder memories.”

Gidget, my golden retriever, scratched at the door and whined. Asha sat next to her bowl staring i
nto its vast emptiness. “I’ve got to feed my animals.”

“I fed three cats. They kept tripping me over so I found the tins and their bowls in the laundry but I didn’t know what to feed the rest.”

I scraped my chair back, “Thanks.”

With Tyreal’s help I fed the dogs. Outside at the chicken and duck coop I scooped out a late dinner they’d eat at dawn then locked their pen against foxes and dingoes. The goats
baaed, the and horses whinnied, and pawed the ground, letting me know of their imminent starvation. In the feed shed I dished out grain while I directed Tyreal, who had two useful arms to heave hay into wheelbarrows.

“What n
ow?”

“I’ll feed the goats. Take the grain in the blue buckets and the hay in the green wheelbarrow over to that wooden fenced paddock. See those four troughs? Share out the hay and empty a bucket into each trough for the horses.”

“Um, I know you’re down to one hand, but can we swap?”

“Huh?” I said and hefted the goat food bucket into the wheelbarrow already full of hay.

“Horses and I, we don’t see eye to eye.”

I looked at his dimly lit face gazing at the horses as if he were about to face rabid sabre toothed tigers. “Kidding?” But he wasn’t, I could tell by the tightness of his lips, the slight flare of his nostrils. “You don’t like horses?”

“Not … don’t like, they’re great. From a good distance.”

Six foot four of hard packed man muscle, ex-military and cop, and horses scared him. My mouth dropped open.

“Long story.”

I bet. “Fine. The goats have a big long trough in their night yard. Make sure the grain is shared out in an even line or the bossy ones will get the lot. Break the hay up and spread it around underneath. Watch out they don’t head-butt you. They think that’s hilarious. I’ve had a concussion twice.” A bruised butt at least a thousand times.

We did what was needed then wandered back inside the house. Tyreal sat beside me and I slid the journal I’d earlier been trapped in toward me. Fear wanted a taste of me, fingers of it stroked at my nerves. I could do this, I’d read hundreds of journals, thousands of entries and nothing had harmed me. I gulped some juice.
Yet
. I flipped two pages past the murder, and a week later by date.

If the Rembrandt was thought of on those two pages—well tough, I just missed out.

Viggo popped into the yellow chair on my left. Hands clenched into fists he leaned forward to watch me. Tyreal dragged his bright blue chair closer. His nearness allowed me to savor the soft musk of living male.

I blew out a breath and primed my reflexes to rip my hand away at the first sign of horror. Chicken shit that I am, I barely touched the paper. Not even the tip of a fingerprint would be found when I finished.

On contact, a thick slime stroked at those few cells. I gulped a little,
oh God
air then ignored it. Slowly I opened the ether and overlaid 1877 above today’s dimension. At the merest glimpse of a naked ass or knives, I’d run.

Inside, Clyde’s study came to view. The second I spotted Clyde a prickly awareness shivered up my spine. Paranoid, I slid my ether self to a corner behind him, well out of his view.

Amelia, his wife, came to me from his thoughts. Late forties, I could see she’d once been very attractive. He loved her and thought she was purity and everything gentle in the world. I snorted my shock. Their eight children came through, he loved them all, but the oldest, Jessica, was his favorite.

How sweet, a family loving deranged murderer.

He spun to face where I stood.
Yikes. Now you see me—
I flicked the page and we jumped two weeks
—now you don’t. Stick that you sick bastard.

Clyde seethed. His writing, harsher and thicker in ink than normal, disclosed his mental turmoil. He planned on meeting young Jacob today. They’d arranged to meet at a new hotel, but he’d just received a message saying Jacob couldn’t make it. He wanted to return to the room they used on previous occasions. Stupid fool couldn’t see it would be safer to change destinations. Clyde’s mind wandered to the young man stripped naked and pressing himself to Clyde.

I flicked pages. I’d seen enough sex tonight.

Evil trickling up my arm thickened and pulsed. I gagged. Viggo slapped my hand off the page and slammed the journal shut in a loud slap.

Tyreal jumped. “What happened? Your hand jerked sideways and the journal shut by itself?”

Viggo grimaced, “Oops.”

Yeah Vig.
Oops.
I slumped forward and rested my head on my arm on the table and dry heaved a couple of times. Once the nausea receded, I looked Tyreal dead on. “No, I just felt wrong, so I closed the book.”

Tyreal glanced at what to him should look like an empty yellow chair and swallowed. “What did you feel?”

“Here’s a shocker. The creepy bastard loved his wife and children. Thought his wife to be pure and gentle. He was also having sex with what appeared to be an teenage boy.”

“This guy’s fu
ll of surprises.”

“I have a feeling he’s going to get worse,” I yawned. Even after my pass out sleep, my body demanded rest. Journal jumping exhausted me. I checked the living room clock. Ten minutes till midnight. “I need to play vertical on my bed. Do you want to crash in the spare bedroom?”

A half lidded gaze traced my body and came back to my face. “I’d rather play vertical in your bed with you. To make sure nothing bad comes at you in your sleep. Or we could have hot sex, your choice.”

Ohhh
, yes-yes-yes
screamed my sexually starved girly parts.
No
, said my brain.
No
, said inner save Angel voice from unnecessary problems. Like being sued.

Viggo shifted forward, pushed my orange juice over. “No,” he yelled loud enough I thought the house vibrated.

Guess no won.

Orange juice rushed over the table heading straight for Tyreal. He shoved his chair back, “What the …?” The juice trailed over the edge and splashed to the floor.

I shook my head in denial, his and mine. “Not going to happen. This is a working relationship.” Had to be, I needed help. Sex is easy to score elsewhere.

Tyreal raced to the kitchen grabbed some paper towels and cleaned up the juice. Finished, he leaned in close enough I could see the gold and mahogany flecks in the molasses that surrounded his enlarged pupils. “You find me attractive. I can feel the vibes and see it in your body language. I think you’re mind
blowingly hot, seems an obvious end to our day.”

The woman I am responded to the pull of his masculinity. I bit my bottom lip to stop myself from saying yes, and glanced down and saw the thickened bulge in his pants. “Says the horny man in the room. You’re business not pleasure.” My libido screeched,
grab him, kiss him, bang him.
Stupid libido knew nothing about business relationships.

The catch, I’d only ever used men for sex. Libido was only acting on what it had been taught.

I pointed down the hall. “If you want to stay, use the bathroom with the orange door. Towels are on the shelves in the room. You’ll find fresh soap, toothbrushes, and shavers in the bottom drawer. Watch the hot water, it gushes, and use that bedroom.” I pointed to the room next to the one I’d converted to a walk-in closet.

“Bright red door?”

“That’s the one. Warning, inside is red, orange, and gold foil. Aunty Glynnis had an Indian Sari in those colors she loved, so she recreated its beauty.” I used
beauty
loosely. The room was a garish nightmare I hadn’t gotten around to fixing.

His grin was soft. “Great. I get to sleep in an Indian Princess’s bedchamber. Night, Princess Angel. Sleep well.” He pulled me close, and kissed my forehead in a caress that sent shivers of excitement down my face and body.

Damn. Sexy forehead kisses take talent. How good would the rest be?

I let the dogs in. Gidget fell onto her bed and heaved a sigh. Asha shuffled as fast as her fat legs could take her to the cat bowls to lick them clean. Jasen skidded down the hall and sniffed at the spare bathroom door.

“Bed you lot.” I patted Jasen, pointed to the other end of the house where dog beds lay, and walked to my room. Stripped to my thong I waited to hear Tyreal’s shower finish so I could have one too. I dug around and found an aged soft t-shirt to sleep in since I had a guest and laid it on the bed. At the
thunk
of plumbing being turned off, I grabbed a rich green Chinese dragon silk robe and shook it out.

“Whoa, nice butt. Sure you don’t want to change your mind about that bed sharing?” Tyreal’s husky voice sent flames of desire licking over my bare skin.

“Eek.” I started shoving my arm into the robe and got tangled. A hand, not mine, eased around and tugged at a long bell-shaped sleeve until it slid over and off my head.

“I think your arm goes there.”

I flushed for a heap of reasons. “Thanks. Now get out.” He was too tempting, and I really needed a working partner. Sleeping with said work partner would be bad.
Yes, Angel, bad, very bad
. Sometimes life’s disappointing, especially when my own morals interfere.

“I have to say the décor in that room is even more spectacular than I expected. You do know there’s a huge marijuana plant in that bedroom?”

Unk
. I thumped my palm to my forehead. Freaking hell, I’d forgotten about Aunt Glynnis’ mammoth dope plant.

And Tyreal’s an ex-cop—brilliant. I’d definitely guzzled too much wine. Play dumb or admit it? Play dumb. I can do dumb.

Chapter 7

I looked at Tyreal. “Plant? Plant? Oh that. It’s not marijuana. It’s a rare palm. An Indian palm to go with the room’s theme.” Hee hee, nice touch. I added a little breathy laugh.

The corners of his lips twitched, “Indian palm?”

“Yep,” I stared at him. See I’m not lying; I’m looking at you eye to eye.

“Healthy. Looks well-tended.”

“It is. I fertilize and water it, prune it when needed.” Was he believing this bullshit?

“Do you smoke or sell the
prunings?”

“Shit, neither. I’m no dope head.” So, no Einstein award for me. I must still be shit-faced from the wine. That’s what I told myself to make me feel less fake blond.

“Okay, fine. It was Aunty Glynnis’. She developed that cultivar over fifty-five years of smoking and growing the stuff. I don’t have the heart to get rid of it.”

“But you don’t smoke it?”

Geez, he acted as if owning it was committing a crime. Oh yeah, it was. “No. Not since I was a teen. It messes with my gifts.”

He was still scowling. “So …,” his gaze traveled down and his scowl smoothed.

Christ, it really wasn’t my night. I pulled the gaping edges of my robe together and held them in place.

His grin was cheeky with a touch of wistful. “You keep a plant that would land you in jail for possession, and since it’s huge, perhaps dealing, in memory of your aunt?”

I bounced on my feet a couple of times. “Sort of. I just don’t really know how to get rid of it. The plant’s so healthy.”

“It has heads a foot long.”

“Yeah, Aunty Glynnis would have been thrilled. I fertilize it with goat and chicken poo. Do you want me to move it to another room?” So you can pretend you never saw it?

“What
—out of sight—out of mind?”

“Works for me.”

“I bet. If your aunt smoked dope, didn’t she have your gift? I thought she started your business.”

“She was the founder in the sixties. She had some of my gift, but not as strong. So the dope didn’t affect her, or she developed immunity.” I re-adjusted my robe. “She smoked three times a day after she took on raising Sasha, my brother, and me. Before us, when her husband was still alive, she smoked whacky weed all day.”

“Good to know.” He looked around my room. “This room is white, silver, and a touch of spearmint? It’s the only room not exploding in rainbows.”

I looked at the soothing softness of colors and textures. “I needed a color break. It’s my rebellion.”

He laughed. “You’re an odd jig-saw Angel. By the way, why don’t you call yourself, Hayyel?”

I shrugged, “I’ve always used, Angel.” Since I was ten and my brother had turned evil.

Tyreal headed for his room. I slunk toward my bathroom relieved he obviously wasn’t going to freak at my potted plant choice. I hate being called Hayyel because Sasha, taunting me in those last few years he’d been around had made it sound wrong, an affliction. By the time I realized it was he who was wrong, an affliction on the world, the name was ruined for me. So I used Angelina shortened to Angel. Only Vig called me Hayyel, but he said Hayyel as a caress, not as if I’d made him eat his own feces.

“By the way, Princess, epic breasts.
”
I could hear the smirk in Tyreal’s voice from down the hall as he slipped into his room and shut the door before I could scream.

Well he’d seen it all. Tits, ass, me passing out, and my illicit drugs. I really did need to get rid of the dope. But I hate throwing things out. And it did have the most awesome heads. Aunty Glynnis would have boasted about the heads for months. Had bong parties.

I’d have baked brownies for her.

Hopefully Tyreal would be as Aunt Glynnis would have said,
cool
, and pretend he saw no greenery in that room.

I doubted he’d be as cool regarding my assets.
Epic breasts
. And why shouldn’t he find them epic? He’d seen next to female perfection tonight. I slipped into the bathroom, dropped my robe, and viewed all my assets in the mirror. Well, broken arm, scabby grazes and yellowing bruises aside, as close to perfection as
my
body was ever going to be.

Epic.

Was this guy growing on me or what?

#

The next day Tyreal drove us in his Nissan SUV to the State Library in Brisbane’s Southbank. We dug through old newspapers, microfiche, and books from the era Clyde Owen Jones resided in Brisbane. Trolling through old news was a bit like reading old news.

I’d had my fill and was starving. Dressed, rock chick retro, sort of Sandy from Grease with curves, I pushed my library chair sideways.
Squeak, squeak, squeak
, the wheels whined until I hit Tyreal in the side, making him look down.

“I need to eat and definitely to stop reading microfiche.”

“You’re worse than a kid.”

I grinned. Wait till he saw me deprived of something I really wanted like cheesecake.

Free at last from the library, we headed for the local café strip. Viggo sauntered along behind me. He hadn’t left my side all day.

I nodded toward a packed café. “Popular. Food must be good.”

“Or everyone’s related.”

I turned to see what Tyreal meant, and realized that ninety-five percent of the patrons looked Greek. The Southbank suburbs sit across the Brisbane River from Brisbane’s city center and are home to a large Greek community and many other ethnicities. With its mix of ethnic cultures, the area was a happening place that I loved to visit and soak in some cultural fusion.

“Could be, but Greeks like value for money, if the food sucked, they’d go elsewhere. Besides, I like Greek food.” Actually, I just like food.

I guided us toward a table for four so Vig had a seat too. The waiter hurried over, yellow order book in hand, pen held with expectation. We gave our selections and watched half a world of people hurry to the local college, university campus, the cafes, and trendy shops nearby. Vig eyed Tyreal with assessing glances while he stared at trays and tables of food. Vig missed eating and I guess drinking, and was constantly amazed at the variety of food we have available to select from.

An old lady who looked as if she’d come from an advertisement to see the old Greece, walked past our table. Black tiny eyes shone in a face sultana wrinkled. Dressed in black shoes, thick black stockings, dowdy shapeless black dress, and black scarf, she’d gone for easy coordination.

She stopped and stared at me and then Tyreal, gave a gummy grin, pointed at me and spoke rabidly in a foreign language. Her old boney hand-claw clamped around my arm while she pressed her other hand to her sunken chest. Head tipped skyward, she started what sounded like a prayer.

My shoulders shook as I tried not to laugh, and Tyreal grinned.

A man in his sixties ran out of the café, took the elderly lady’s shoulders and pulled her away, talking to her softly in what I presumed to be Greek, ‘cause it all sounded Greek to me.’

The man shot me a worried half smile. “I’m sorry. Mama gets confused.”

“No harm.” I shrugged and they walked away.

Tyreal stared at me. “That happen often?”

“People touching me and saying prayers? Not as often as you’d think. Maybe she was trying to save me because you look wicked.” Dressed in black he did look wicked and drew many lingering lust riddled glances, including mine. Self-denial is not my thing—keeping things business only was going to be tough.

He wiggled his brows. “If you let me I could be very wicked.”

Did he read my mind again? “Sorry. I have ethics.” I did, I’m
almost
positive of it.

“Damn. Ethics. The guy’s grandmother believes you and I are angels, but she thought you higher in the hierarchy. She wanted guidance to the path of Heaven.”

“Wow. How misguided.” Especially considering all that evil sludge I’d touched lately. “Hey, how’d you know she said that?”

“My grandmother was Greek. She’d dressed in less black, had more teeth.”

“More teeth would be good.” Vig laughed and nodded. Greek heritage would explain Tyreal’s dark coloring, sun-kissed golden skin. But he’s taller and fifty times sexier than most Greeks I’d met.

Our coffees arrived.

I stirred in two sugars. “At the library I found references to twelve different murders, spread over the time Clyde resided in Brisbane.” Viggo had pointed out four I’d almost missed. Tiny bylines that told me the socially unimportant had barely warranted the waste of ink.

“Similar numbers here, but I also hunted for assaults and mysterious abductions. There were a good number of seemingly related assaults. And about nine people including two young brothers went missing and were never found, dead or alive.”

“Clyde can’t have been the only bad guy around. What was Brisbane’s population then?”

“Twenty-five maybe thirty thou.”

Tiny. “Over three years, that many people, murdered or missing, would have caused a lot of fear in a fairly insular population. People would have screamed for results. Wonder if Clyde dabbled in politics?”

“The wealthy in small settlements always had their fingers in governance.”

“We can’t blame Clyde for all murders. I’ve only seen one.”

“Who knows what else you might find considering his true cause of death.”

Our meals arrived. Viggo leaned forward, focusing on Tyreal’s lamb kebabs, chunky fries, and salad. More Vig’s taste than my grilled vegetables and brie on Turkish bread with a side of Haloumi cheese. But I bet my slab of raspberry cheesecake would win against Tyreal’s sweet abstinence.

Tyreal and Viggo watched me devour the cheesecake. After the last spoonful, I sat back and rubbed my stomach and made contented sounds.

“Tell me, Princess Angel, do you enjoy all your pleasures with such auditory delight?”

I raised my brows. “Yes. It’s how I was raised.”

His eyes glazed into a faraway look and Vig grunted.

“That’s disgusting,” I said.

“What?”

“What you’re thinking.”

He gave me that blinding brain sucking smile. “True.”

Just then my cell phone rang. I looked at the screen. “Claudia Reese-Jones.”

I listened to her posh voice and answered a negative to finding anything yet. “Email me those contact details. I have more journals of yours to check. If I get nothing from those, I’ll contact this Josey Richards. Thanks.”

I hung up. “Josey Richards is a direct descendant of Clyde’s eldest daughter. Lives in Sydney and reportedly has more assorted books from just before Clyde met his gory death.”

“They might show us why someone felt the need to hack him to pieces.”

“Gee, I can hardly wait.”

#

Later that afternoon, Vig followed behind us as I opened my screen door to let Tyreal and myself inside. A pile of feathers fell and hit my welcome mat. I jumped back and screamed.

Tyreal threw his arm around my chest and hauled me backward and off my feet. “What?”

I pointed to my latest present. “A dead bird.” A pigeon that was not much more than a skeleton with feathers. The skull and beak white, the eye socket empty and black. If I found who was doing this, I’d kill them. “Hell. This isn’t funny.”

Vig bent down low and looked at the remains, then he touched it with his finger. “Feel same, flowers.”

Tyreal’s mouth tightened. “And you have no idea of the giver?”

“Wish I did. I am not amused.” And how did a dead bird
feel
the same as a dead flowers?

“This feels more like a threat than a joke, Angel. Think hard. Come up with a name and I’ll talk to them.”

“I beat up,” Vig said as his face took on a nasty smile.

Nice thought. “No names. None of my friends would do this, and I have no enemies.” Living, I don’t think Clyde liked me much.

Tyreal picked up the bird. “Next thing arrives, day or night, call me.”

“Okay. But I’m sure it’ll stop.”

His arm still around my shoulders tightened. “Find out who’s doing this, Princess, and they’ll stop.”

#

The next day I heard the mailman beep his, you’ve got mail, horn. So holding my broken arm close to my body, I took the dogs down to the mail box and retrieved a large envelope. Leg muscles aching after dragging myself up my steep two hundred meter long driveway, I went inside, tore open the envelope, and found four letters.

Excellent, a fresh case to dig into.

The letters had been written about fifteen years ago by an elderly lady in England to her eldest granddaughter and my client. The granddaughter, Anne, hoped I could find where her grandmother left her three engagement rings from her three marriages. Apparently Grandma had been much admired.

I made a coffee, sat outside in th
e sun, opened the envelopes, time-jumped and found the sweet bliss of nice a spirit. On the third letter, Victoria Eldridge wrote of the sadness she felt packing her things away before moving into the nursing home.