Grave Robber for Hire (8 page)

Through the dimensional viewing, I watched as she took three rings and put them in a tiny wooden shabby-chic white box. She’d sealed it with electrician’s tape. The phone rang. She dropped the box into a large wooden tea chest filled with knick knacks and shambled off to answer the phone. The chest had the letters VE, written in thick pen on one side. From her memories I saw about twenty other similar chests, but none I noticed with VE on the side.

Why couldn’t all cases be this simple? No evil guys, no graves, no watching gruesome murders. Just a nice old lady packing away her life. Sad, but it wasn’t nightmare inducing.

A quick email was all I needed to send Anne. Her job was to find what happened to that VE marked crate. Hopefully it hadn’t been shipped to good will or auctioned off.

The rest of the morning I spent one handed raking out animal pens and putting the results into compost bins. I’d been digging and fertilizing my vegetable garden with composted poo when I heard the crunch of gravel on my drive. I wiped my forehead with the back of my filthy good hand and squinted against the glare reflecting off a windshield.

Black Nissan SUV.
Shit
—Tyreal. I looked at myself and groaned. In a bikini top, micro denim shorts, my hair in pigtails, sweating, and covered in mud and shit, I looked a real treat. Smelt good too. Obviously today’s dress theme was Elly May Clampett crossed with Pig Pen. I raced for the hose to wash off the worst and tripped. The rake flung up and cracked me in the head hard enough to fling me backwards. I fell into something wet, warm, and putrid. The dead duck pond water I’d just emptied.

My God my head hurt. I’d have a ripper bruise tomorrow right in the middle of my forehead.

The SUV slowed, and the side window slid down. Tyreal’s laughter was loud and clear. He stifled it enough to ask, “You okay?”

Excellent. I rolled to my stomach and hated all men. “Yep.”

The window closed, silencing the laughter.

Ass
. At least I managed not to land on my bad arm. I pushed myself up to my feet. Filth trickled in sickly warm fragrant streams down my body. Coco Channel eat your heart out, nothing beats eau-de duck-crap. Cursing the sky bluer, I trudged up the wide stairs I’d cut into the embankment with Aunty Glynnis fifteen years ago and hit the grass at the top as Tyreal stepped out of his car. Dressed in a white short sleeved shirt and faded denim shorts, he looked fresh and clean. The grinning idiot probably smelt good too.

He checked me out and focused on the bits men focus on. His grin widened until his cheeks creased into dimples. “A woman covered in mud. My prayers are answered.”

“Not much is mud. Give me ten. I need a shower.” Or six. I walked past Tyreal.

He gave an eye blink, did a fast step back and wrinkled his nose. “It’s shit?”

“Assorted flavors. Still think I look hot? Want a grope?”

He shuffled a few more inches back, his body slightly bent backwards.

Wuss
. I gave him a tight grin. “Didn’t think so. Go make coffee and make mine strong.”

“Aye, aye, sir. And yeah, you still
look
hot. By the way, your bikini top has slipped.”

I looked down and found my breast covered in muck brazenly baring its
nipply self. “Shit.” I tugged the sloppy fabric back in place and stormed inside. Tyreal snorted. I spun and glared until his face smoothed and lost all expression. But his shoulders still shook.

“You’re going to pay for laughing at me.” Might take a while, but I’d find revenge.

“Hey, I’m a guy who scored a mud covered chick and an eyeful of breast. Men pay for that. You just provided fertilizer, no pun intended, for my dreams for weeks. Since I believe in the power of soap, if that offer for groping is still on, I’ll join you and help suds you up.”

My heart jumped in glee. Down lust, down. “Coffee—please.” I turned and ran before I changed my mind or the smell of myself made me puke.

In the bathroom, I threw my clothes into the shower for a preliminary rinse, jumped into the spray and shampooed three times, washed my body twice with strong neroli scented gel wash then did it all over again. I dried my hair, smelt it and my arm. Good, now I reeked of orange blossoms, much sexier than mix-species feces. I dashed naked into my room and found flared sixties jeans, a green camisole and a white crochet top.

I walked to the kitchen, found a frozen ice brick and stuck it on my head. “You didn’t see me near naked the other night and nor did you see my boob this afternoon.” I took the mug of coffee he passed me and ignored his smirk.

“I could tell myself that, but then I’d be forgetting the best thing I’ve seen in years.” He sipped his coffee, stared at my bust and breathed in deep and closed his eyes. “Roses, you always smell of roses.”

“My soap and shampoo are orange blossom scent not rose.”

He leaned in close and sniffed, “Nope, rose.”

I sniffed my arm and scowled. I did smell of roses. How does one strong and very different scent molecularly change to smell of another? “That’s weird.” I sipped the coffee and sighed. My life always bordering the line between normal and odd seemed to be tipping odd side down.

“Thanks for the coffee, why are you here?”

“Came for the mud wrestling, I’ve been told the chicks are hot.”

I glared, flared my nostrils, and imagined kicking his shin.

“Okay grumpy. I found out something about Clyde’s past in England and thought I’d drive over and share. Tell me, no more dead birds or flowers?”

“No. Hopefully the pigeon was the last.” I pulled out the red chair and sat.

Tyreal selected the navy blue one. “None of these chairs match in color or style.”

“Or era. As my aunt found one she liked at a yard sale, she’d bring it home and paint it a new color. Under the paint of the one you’re sitting on is English Oak and its three hundred years old. The one I’m in is Cedar. My great-great grandfather felled the tree and made the chair for his wife. The yellow chair is cane and about a hundred and fifty years old, etc. etc.”

I tapped the eight seat table. “Walnut under the hippy turquoise paint. Three hundred years old, estimated value twelve grand even though she painted over the walnut. The lilac chair she found at the dump, its pine worth five dollars, was her favorite.”

Tyreal stared at the table. “She painted over an antique table?”

“Nothing held monetary value to her. She said color made her feel alive, and there was nobody more alive than Aunty Glynnis.” She’d tipped the scales into eccentric insanity long before I knew her, but insane or not, she certainly lived. “So what’s the news from old mother England?”

“Mixed bag. Ten months before Clyde Jones and wife left for Australia, Amelia’s father died a brutal death. A week later her brother hung himself which left Amelia the sole beneficiary of both estates.”

“Was the brother heartbroken over his father’s murder?”

“Doubtful. Ton gossip news sheets said they’d been estranged for five years. Suddenly Amelia’s a very wealthy heiress and Clyde puts everything on the market. The twelve months the Jones’ were married before they immigrated to our great land, they lived at her deceased grandmother’s estate. In that year, three prostitutes in the local market town were murdered. Two stabbed in the back multiple times, one had her neck slashed.”

My chest felt like was had been stuffed with cotton balls. “Jesus. It has to be him. I wonder how many he killed over the years?”

“Gossip linked him to fancying boys as much as women. And when frequenting clubs, he played rough. Sicko-rough. The prostitutes often needed a couple of weeks or more for recovery.”

I pulled my horrified face while my inner over the fence gossiper wanted details. “Who had this info?”

“Amelia’s second cousin, a barrister, had a thing for detective work. I can’t get his journals for you to read, but the guy who has them is willing to scan all references of Clyde Owen Jones and Amelia. Her cousin was positive Clyde murdered Amelia’s brother. They’d been seen together earlier in the evening. Other evidence also indicated the possibility.”

I pointed to the oak box holding the journals Claudia had passed onto me. “So I might find more murders in those journals?”

“I think I can guarantee it. I’ve got a bad feeling, and I always listen to my instincts. They kept me alive in the army and police force. Walk away from this case.”

“I can’t stop. I want to find that Rembrandt.”

“There must be other ways of making enough money to buy your farm.”

“Well I haven’t found it yet, so I’m going to keep hunting.”

Chapter 8

Tyreal sat back in the dining chair, arms behind his slightly turned head, his scrutiny and concern targeting me. “If this case scares you, Angel, tell your client you found nothing and return the journals. She’ll never know any different, then start one of your more benign cases.”

“But I already told Claudia the painting existed, and in Clyde’s mind was genuine.”

He dropped his hand onto the table. “Shit. Because it is, wherever the hell it’s gone. Three well known paintings were brought to Australia. Listed in shipping was a Rembrandt, a Rubens, and a Gainsborough.”

“Then I continue.”

“Why?”

“It’s what I do. Besides my entire business is based on word of mouth. If I quit all the scary cases, I wouldn’t have an income.”

“You could try ordinary investigative work, get a P.I. license.”

Yeah and I could also be that racing car driver. “It’s sweet you think so, but I’m not an investigator. I only know this business because I was born with my gift. I’m clumsy in the field.”

“Do you fall in mud and crap?”

“No. Maybe. Once I watched a house so I could break in and read a journal the owner wouldn’t share.” Was I really telling an ex-cop this? “I decided to go for a walk by. I hadn’t seen the signs warning of fresh cement. Boy weren’t those men a grumpy pack of bastards. It wasn’t as if they’d walked and fallen into six inch deep wet cement. Nor had
they
ruined their favorite white knee-high boots or original seventies Mary Quaint mini dress.”

He laughed. “Right, since I’m here, Princess, read the journals. Every time you look scared, horrified, or even a little uptight, I’ll pull your hand away from the book. No arguments.”

I’d normally tell him to stick his overbearing attitude past his sphincter, but Clyde scared all rebellion right out of me. “Only when I looked stressed.” I had to have some boundaries.

“Absolutely. Scouts honor.” He held his hand to his forehead.

“That’s not the Scouts salute.” Not that I know the Scouts salute.

“Damn. Thought I’d fake it.”

“Hah, I didn’t know that. I just out bullshitted you.”

I settled back in my chair. “Okay, you can stand guard.” It takes a lot of energy to enter dimensions. If Tyreal knocked my hand off the journal too often, I’d be exhausted. Upside, I’d burn calories and be able to eat more cake.

#

Tyreal put his hand over mine. “Angel, enough. That’s the third time you’ve nearly passed out, twice you’ve screamed. Call it quits.”

I agreed. In two hours, I’d seen some horrible things and was mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted. Constantly being on edge, waiting for Clyde to see or sense me, ready to time jump to safety had worn my nerves too, I need a bottle of cheap-red, thin.

“Three murders. At the moment, I don’t want to dwell on those. Plus the usual crap about money and family and petty hates, but not one thought of the Rembrandt.” It couldn’t be this case I found the item within twenty minutes of time jumping, like I had the three engagement rings earlier today.

Tyreal’s warm hand stopped mine from moving toward a red leather bound journal. “Leave it. Perhaps we will find out more by other research. I have feelers out with private art collections that might have the painting. It might have been stolen, purchased and the sale never recorded, or maybe Clyde owed someone and gave them the painting as payment.”

“Then I might be able to discover that knowledge. Getting to know our not so friendly murderer, he would have been incensed at a theft, smug at a good sale, and I doubt he’d have allowed himself to fall into debt.”

“You look exhausted.”

“Clyde’s a hard initiation into the mind of a total sociopathic serial killer. One minute he’s thinking of his wife and how beautiful she was, the next page he’s screwing some prostitute or slicing open a woman’s throat.” My horror gauge had long passed holy-moly-let-me-out level.

Clyde Owen Jones was our own Jack the Ripper. But he spread his evil over two countries and for over at least two decades.

“I’m going to need the painting to afford long-term therapy.”

If I got to the end of this nightmare with no painting in hand I’d eat a whole cheesecake, drink a bottle of scotch, find a priest and give him some exorcism work. Just to make sure nothing of Clyde remained.

I’d also revisit his grave and stomp on it. With six-inch metal tipped stilettoes.

Would Clyde feel it? No.

But it would sure freaking help
my
inner demons.

#

Traipsing over Sydney’s airport car park, I cursed the weather and wished I’d worn blue. To visit Josey Richards, Clyde’s descendant and possessor of more journals, I’d dressed business entrepreneur. The sky sitting in a dismal blanket matched my charcoal gray trousers, and the rain my silver of sodden silk blouse. Hopefully the weather didn’t try and find a way to mimic my red belt, shoes, and earrings.

Cause that’d be scary.

Sydney is Brisbane on cocaine. It has a harder faster edge to the style and the way of living. Sydneysiders are more ambitious and want a bigger chunk of the Australian dream. It has houses so expensive I can’t compute the numbers, and suburbs that are so rough that rats cower.

Rain at a constant drizzle, I wandered around the airport’s car hire area. The parking map the attendant had given me was a useless sodden blob in my hand. The area had not long ago been renumbered and named, but my map had not scored the same upgrade. I was wet, cold, and cranky. My bag spun sideways, wrenched out of my grip and made a funny grinding sound.

Oh crap, the rough tarmac had eroded off my bag’s tiny wheels. I kicked the bag right in the guts and burst into tears. And then started dragging the POS sans wheels. Wedged in newish and tight pointed boots, my feet protested with throbbing demands, but they had nothing on my right arm. I couldn’t use cast covered lefty to drag my bag and share the load, so now both ached equally. Wee, life’s freaking awesome.

My hair dripping rivulets of water, I at last found my car’s lot and sobbe
d in relief. My car was green. Bright vivid frog green and super compact. I’d seen larger green tree-frogs hiding in my loo. I opened the hatch, lifted my wet travel bag remains and dumped it into the tiny space. My bag, built for a few nights worth of clothes, overhung. Eyes shut I told myself not to cry, again. Tears held in check, I thudded the bag with my non-broken arm. It didn’t move. I thudded it harder.

Anger boiled to lid popping level. “Piece of crap car, crap bag, crap day. Crap every-frigging-thing.” I climbed onto the rear bumper, put my knees on the bag and bounced. “Take that.” Nothing. Clutching one handed onto the hatch’s raised door, I stood and jumped.
Slurp
, the bag slipped in. I hit the bumper with my knee and landed on the ground, ass first.

What to grab, my knee or ass? I whimpered and rolled in puddles. I should have put the bag on the passenger seat. Freaking stupid too late to help, epiphanies.

A minute passed as I felt out the full spectrum of self-pity. Satisfied with my misery fest, I pushed myself to my feet. In a futile effort to look nice, I used my hands to brush myself down. Now I was dressed bedraggled homeless business entrepreneur. I caught my reflection in the hatch’s window. Make that mugged and dragged behind a car entrepreneur. Excellent. I always like to impress a certain image on people. I bet Josey would never forget me.

At the front seat, I suddenly became exceedingly pleased for being on the short side of average. I hopped into my green bubble, let the water drip and soak onto the foam and fabric of the seat, probably voiding all chance of my deposit being returned. I started the car and headed for Paddington and Josey Richards’ house.

Before I booked my flight to Sydney, Tyreal had done a little research on Josey. In her early-thirties, Josey is a notorious Dominatrix Queen on the fetish club circuit who charges for her whipping and chaining services. Meeting her should be a hoot.

Viggo flashed into the passenger side. He looked at me and shared one of his rare smiles. “Look, great.”

“Ass. You could have come a few minutes ago and helped me kick some travel bag butt. Wonder what a Dominatrix really wears on the job? She might answer the door in her kink wear. That should harden a few muscles for you.”

Vig shook his head and poofed out. Had I offended him? Maybe guardian angels couldn’t get it up? Did they still have their junk? Or would he be like Barbie’s Ken, just a mound? I shuddered. Probably best not to ask, he might show me. Junk or not that would be way too much information, and the Ken look might cause more nightmares.

Paddington is part of old Sydney and has terrace houses that were once two up and two down. Ex-poor bastard workers housing that survived long periods as slums then one day hit high society. Most owners have extended the tiny abodes into their minuscule yards until most now meet a tight fit, four bedroom two bathroom, executive minimum. Backyards are often no more than paved courtyards, greenery comes in pots. Each property was worth twice that of my twenty-five acres and five bedroom house. Even minus the hippy chic.

I pulled up outside a soft yellow terrace house with black lace iron balustrades on the first floor balcony.

At ground level, the division between footpath and tiny one meter wide patio was a fence slash balustrade of metal uprights topped with sharp fleur-de-lis. The front door had an arched top matching the single window on street level. Everything was meticulously trimmed in black.

At three-fifteen and fifteen minutes early, I p
arked under a large Melaleuca tree, brushed my sodden hair, and reapplied lipstick then checked the mirror. Oh yes, fresh lipstick made all the difference.
Not
.

Out of
Frogger, what I’d named the car, I stood on the stoop and used the brass knocker beside the door to announce my damp arrival. I’d stopped dripping and hoped me looking like something the cat hacked up didn’t put her off handing over the journals.

A tall willowy woman answered and looked me up and down as if she’d found dog crap on her favorite Christian
Louboutins of which I’m sure she wore. Although I can’t guarantee they were her favorite. Josey wasn’t wearing her work wear. Other than a bad-ass severe black haircut and cold blue-gray eyes, she looked normal. Poo. The day just kept on sucking.

I shook off my disappointment of not being able to goggle at her Dominatrix leather and stuck out my right hand. I rested
aching lefty on my wet handbag.

“Angel Meyers. I called last night. Sorry about my appearance, I got caught in the rain.” Then played pig in some puddles.

Josey glanced from her six foot tall body plus four inch heels height at my hand. Her fingers, topped with scary looking extra-long pointed black nails, inched forward with obvious reluctance. Cool and thin, her fingers enfolded mine. Ooze, thick and sinister fed spores of horror up my hand’s nerves, pulsing upward and out until it hit my heart and gave it a jolt.

She let go, and I gulped air to purify whatever had just
osmotically leached through her skin into mine. My whole arm tingled with a soft insidious burn. Christ she really was Clyde’s descendant. Talk about frigging family inherited infestation.

I didn’t fancy entering her house’s threshold, I might be entering Hell. I wanted a shower, a really hot shower, a scalding shower, to scour myself clean of her touch.

Josey stood back. “I suppose you better come in. I don’t know why that awful woman Claudia would want these old journals. I read through them last night. Daily life of late nineteenth century: church attendances, knitting, afternoon teas, and all that boring crap. They’re hardly interesting reading. Man was much better off dead.” A soft wistful smile played around her lips before she pointed down the hall.

I headed for what looked to be a largish living-come-dining room and wished to be anywhere else.

“Now, as I said to Claudia, if you want to read the journals I expect the journals to be returned. Although they’re boring they were given to me, and I value gifted items. Gifted items link me to the giver for eternity.”

There was something wrong with the way she said that. I waited for the
mwah-ha-ha-ha
, cackling laugh of insanity. Of course, I’d only ever heard that laugh in cartoons. And gifted, not inherited. Odd spin of phrase.

“I’m staying in Sydney, so I’ll return the journals on Wednesday morning before I fly out.” Quick hand them over, so I can escape. I’m not religious, but I said a small prayer and pictured babies and kittens and puppies. Things I considered pure and full of light.

“Good. I’ll just retrieve them. You know, Claudia never did say what she wanted the journals for. Is there some secret Da Vinci code in them that will tell us what Clyde, the sneaky bastard, did with the real Rembrandt?” She stared at me hard. It felt as if she could probe my brain, see my neurons and synapses working in unison and was trying to read their computations with her cold glare.

“Rembrandt? He had a Rembrandt?” Real Rembrandt? “Claudia just wants to see what happened in his daily life. I believe she explained she’s typing up a catalogue of who in the family have letters and journals, etc. I’m doing this as a favor for her.” And the bullshit trickled out of my mouth.