Obsidian Curse (A Stacy Justice Mystery Book Five) Page 12

  “Ow! Jesus Christ!” Monique rubbed her head and shot daggers at me with her eyes.

  “Sorry.”

  “Where did you get your license? A gumball machine?” She reached for her seat belt and tried to tighten it over her chest. I felt like I was transporting supplies for Wilson Sporting Goods.

  “I said I was sorry. Listen, I have to make a stop first, if that’s all right.”

  “No, it’s not all right. I told you I have to pick up the decorations.”

  “This won’t take long. I said I’d feed you, so quit complaining.”

  I ignored Monique’s brassy-pitched protests and made it to my first interview with ten minutes to spare.

  Chapter 19

  I parked in front of Muddy Waters Coffee House and we both got out of the car. Monique was still bitching, but she must have decided that she was hungry as soon as we walked in the door because she quit yapping long enough to order a chicken sandwich and a soda. I asked her to grab a table while I waited for our lunch, and she wandered off into the mocha-colored café looking for a spot to sit.

  Iris, the gossip columnist for the paper, owned Muddy Waters. She took my order of tomato soup and tea, put a soda cup in front of me, and gave me a curious look.

  “Hey, Iris. What’s shaking?” I asked. “Got any dirt to report?”

  “I think it just walked in the door.” Iris winked and nodded toward Monique, who plopped her wool coat on a chair and wobbled off to the restroom.

  Iris said, “Heard she was with your beau last night.”

  “Hmm. They were on the reunion committee together.”

  Iris tucked a pencil behind her ear and leaned over the counter. She smelled like pumpkin and her dentures clacked when she spoke. “If that man was mine, I wouldn’t let him anywhere near that girl.” She raised her eyebrows.

  “I get your point. But I don’t think I have anything to worry about.”

  “Well, if I hear of any hanky-panky, I’ll let you know, sweetie.” She patted my hand.

  When Iris turned to pour my soup, I hurried to the soda fountain, extracted the locket from beneath my sweater, tapped some ruby dust into the empty cup, and filled it with ice and Diet Coke, Monique’s favorite beverage. I sealed the lid on top, stuck a straw in the cup, and turned back to the counter.

  Rubies were believed to shield against psychic attack and vampirism of the heart. I wasn’t 100 percent certain it actually worked, or would work in this case, but Fiona, who was a love spell expert, swore by it to keep one’s affections from being stolen. Technically, it was Monique’s body the Leanan wanted, but I figured it couldn’t hurt.

  When I returned, Iris had set the soup on a tray and was reaching into the glass case for a pre-made chicken sandwich. She set that down, along with a tea bag, a mug of hot water, two napkins, and a plastic plate. I thanked her and carried everything into the dining room and set the tray down at the table where Monique had left her coat.

  Monique returned from the bathroom and grabbed her sandwich without thanking me.

  Be a shame if she choked on it, I thought. I dipped into my soup.

  She reached for her soda and said, “So what do you want to know about the reunion stuff?”

  The door chimed and in walked my first interview. Frieda Streator, class of 1986. She was wearing a faux fur coat over a black-patterned rockabilly dress, with a red patent leather belt that accented her slim waistline. Her open-toed pumps were also red patent leather, her dark hair was styled like Marilyn Monroe in Some Like It Hot, and she was carrying a small purse with pearl straps. She made an inquiry at the counter and Iris pointed to me.

  Frieda smiled and waved. “Hello, dearie!”

  Monique turned to see who I was waving at. “Who the hell is that?”

  “That’s my interview. Derek thought it might be good for you to sit in on an interview. You know, so you can incorporate some Q&A into your column.” Blatant lie, I know, but what could I do?

  Drink the damn soda, Monique.

  Monique made a face. “Are you freaking kidding me? You said we were just getting lunch. You didn’t say we’d be interviewing Lucille Ball.”

  “Shut up and be cordial,” I hissed from the corner of my mouth.

  I stood up and greeted Frieda. She had cold hands, a warm embrace, and a mole the size of a saucer on her right cheek.

  “Jesus, that thing got a name?” Monique asked, gaping at Frieda.

  I kicked her under the table.

  “Ow, dammit,” Monique grumbled. She reached down to rub her shin.

  I smiled wide at Frieda, who was frozen for a moment. She darted her eyes away, probably mortified and looking for an escape route.

  I laughed and slapped Monique on the back. Hard. “She’s talking about your coat, Frieda. I’m afraid Monique’s a huge animal activist. I think perhaps she thought it was real fur,” I said apologetically. I gave Monique a look that stated in no uncertain terms that I would shove that sandwich down her throat if she didn’t play along. “Isn’t that right, Monique?”

  Monique smiled adoringly and said, “Yes, that’s right. My apologies. I do so love all animals.” She took a big bite out of her chicken sandwich, making a huge show of what a cockamamie cover story I had just fed my interview subject.

  Frieda let out a booming laugh. “No, honey, this is straight-from-the-factory fake.” She rubbed her hands up and down her coat. “No harm came to any animals. Except maybe the stuffed kind.” She elbowed me and winked.

  I extended my arm. “Please, have a seat. Can I get you some Q&A coffee? A sandwich?”

  We might have been past the awkward stage had I not said that. Frieda declined refreshments, but Monique’s sandwich caught the woman’s eye.

  Monique flashed me a look, then set her gaze on Frieda. She pointed to her plate. “Except birds. Hate those flapping feathered bastards. Flying around the sky like they own it. Shitting everywhere. It’s disgusting. Am I right?” She took another hearty bite.

  Frieda just said, “Well…”

  Because really, what else could she say?

  I laughed again, knowing that Frieda was rethinking this whole interview thing, but that she was too polite to back out now.

  If there had been duct tape anywhere in the vicinity of our table, I swear I would have wrapped the whole roll around that tacky blonde’s head. Super Glue would have worked too, but alas, all I had was food and drink. I shoved Monique’s soda in front of her, hoping she’d take the hint.

  Birdie, you owe me big time.

  Monique wrapped her lips around the straw and sipped her soda.

  “So, Frieda, do I detect a hint of the South in your accent?”

  “Why, yes, you do. After I graduated from high school, I went to Nashville. I had stars in my eyes back then,” she said sheepishly.

  “Didn’t we all?” I leaned in toward her, giving her my full attention, hoping she’d relax and open up. I hit the audio record app on my phone and set it on the table.

  Frieda’s shoulders lost their sharp edge and she seemed to be realizing that I wasn’t a raging lunatic like the loud-mouthed blonde. “So then after that, I wound up in Memphis.”

  “Oh, I hear it’s just beautiful there.” I tried to sound encouraging.

  Her eyes brightened. “Oh, yes. Lovely place to raise a family. There’s so much to do and see. My siblings and I share a vacation home here as well, so we do visit—”

  Monique said, “Ugh, this is flat.” She got up from her stool and yelled “Iris! The Diet is flat.”

  Then, to my horror, she dumped the soda down the fountain drain. So much for the ruby dust.

  I sighed and turned to Frieda. “Let’s hope that’ll keep her busy for a while,” I said.

  Frieda tilted her head down. “She works for the paper?”

  “She’s in training.
Prison release program.”

  “I see. Well, that’s nice of you to help those people.” She flicked her eyes toward Monique, who was picking something out of her teeth with a fingernail. “What was she in for?”

  “Embezzlement. Hang on to your purse.”

  Her purse was on her lap, but now she wrapped both hands through the straps.

  I nodded. “So back to Memphis. I want to hear all about that and those wonderful beauty tip videos you do. I may have to try out one of the styles sometime.”

  “You should! You’d look fabulous in a Lauren Bacall wave set.”

  I smiled. “I think the fashion reviews are fun too.”

  “Thank you. I do enjoy getting all glammed up, as you might have noticed.” She hopped down from the high-back chair, slid her coat down her arms, still clinging to her pocketbook, and twirled. The skirt fanned out in a perfect circle, showing off Frieda’s long legs.

  When she sat back down, the woman seemed perfectly at ease. She talked nonstop about her life after Amethyst, chattering away about her kids, her husband, and her business.

  Except I didn’t hear much of it, because I was staring at her dress. More specifically, the pattern on it.

  Tiny black skulls.

  Chapter 20

  After Frieda left, we finished lunch and I paid Iris while Monique phoned Tony to ask him to replace her flat tire.

  I wasn’t certain if the dress with the skulls really meant anything, but it lit a spark in me. I needed to talk to Blade. He was the next interview Gladys had set up, but that wasn’t for another hour, so I decided to drive Monique to get her decorations. Hopefully that would stop her squawking.

  It didn’t.

  “Can’t you drive any faster? I want to pick this crap up and get back to Down and Dirty so I can meet the liquor distributor,” she said.

  “Doesn’t he just drop the shipments off through the back door? That’s what Cinnamon arranges when she can’t get to the bar.”

  Monique snapped. “Yes he does, but he’s hot and I’m trying to get him to take me to the reunion. So get the lead out, grandma.”

  I wondered if the United States government paid for privatized weapons. Because I was pretty sure even the most stubborn terrorists would crack if they had to spend five minutes in a car with Monique.

  I sped the car up and we arrived at the party store a few minutes later.

  We both got out of the car and Monique said, “I don’t need an escort.”

  “I thought you might need help carrying whatever crap it is that you bought.”

  “Huh,” she said.

  She walked through the door and I followed her, thinking that no other man on earth is worth all this but Chance.

  The cashier rung up streamers, balloons, a large banner, a bunch of fake flowers, and several cardboard crowns like they pass out to kids at Burger King.

  “What are those for?” I asked.

  “For awards. Duh. You know. Most changed, most successful, who came the farthest, who got the fattest, stuff like that.”

  She shoved a box in my hands and we were out of there after fifteen minutes. I popped the trunk and we loaded the party supplies inside. Monique’s phone made a whistling sound and she extracted it from her pocket. She tapped the screen a few times and said, “Tony says the car will be done in an hour.”

  “Good,” I said. But I was really thinking, Now how am I going to keep tabs on her? I could always slip a tracking device under her bumper, but Birdie said I had to watch her like a dog watches a bone.

  The next stop was Down and Dirty and the whole ride there I was trying to come up with another plan.

  Monique checked the time on her phone. “He should be here any minute. Make yourself scarce. I don’t want you cock-blocking me.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  I parked the car in back of the building. I watched her get out, take her keys from the side pocket of her purse, and unlock the door. I figured she couldn’t get into too much trouble flirting with the delivery man.

  When I heard the blood-curdling scream a few minutes later, I knew I was wrong.

  I grabbed the gun out of my bag, jumped out of the car, ran to the back door, and shoved it open. Water came gushing out as soon as I did and I leapt back, tucking the gun into the waistband of my pants.

  Monique was standing there, looking like she’d been attacked by the Loch Ness monster. Her hair was plastered to her head. Literally. There were bits of plaster and soggy wallpaper covering her top half. Her bottom half was standing in knee-deep water, women’s toiletries floating downstream toward the front of her bar.

  I looked up to find a good portion of the ceiling—and also the floor of Monique’s upstairs apartment—missing. She must have dodged just in time before it collapsed. Broken tile and crumbled plaster had crushed the boxes that the liquor distributor had, unfortunately, already delivered. The smell of scotch, beer, and tequila was strong, but it was overpowered by the stench of sewage.

  There was a crack above our heads, then a snap, and I looked up just in time to see a live wire disengage from what was left of the ceiling.

  I reached in, grabbed Monique’s arm, and yanked her out of there, then slammed the steel door shut.

  As I turned around, I saw Pickle disappear behind a dumpster. He gave me a thumbs-up and I smiled, thinking he must have received my note requesting help with Monique along with the offerings and that I was now forgiven.

  “It’s not funny, Stacy!” Monique screeched. Her chest heaved in anger.

  “Of course it’s not. I’m not laughing. I’m just happy we didn’t get barbecued.”

  Birdie always kept a towel in the back of her Buick so I went to fetch it and handed it to Monique.

  “Here.”

  “Screw you!”

  “Calm down; this is nothing that can’t be fixed.”

  She flailed her arms. “All the liquor for the reunion was in there. What am I supposed to do now? I spent all the cash on product. Everyone’s going to be pissed at me when there’s no booze.”

  “It’ll get worked out. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Sure, easy for you to say. It’s not your business on the line. This was going to be the event that gets me out of the red.” She plopped herself on top of a wooden crate and started bawling.

  I had no idea Down and Dirty wasn’t doing well, but with the money she must have spent to get the place looking like the set of Moulin Rouge, I can’t say I was shocked.

  The towel was still in my hand, so I offered it again. This time she accepted. She wiped her head and then blew her nose in it.

  “And where am I going to live?” she wailed up at me. With all the makeup she had on, her face looked like a Picasso left out in the rain.

  “My mother was right. I am a loser.” She sniffed.

  It never occurred to me that Monique had a mother, let alone a terrible one. I had always assumed she was built in the basement of a horny teenager.

  I sat down next to her. “You’re not a loser, okay? Besides, you still have a job at the paper.”

  “Yeah. Thanks to you.”

  Well, not really, but okay.

  Suddenly she tensed. “Thanks to you,” she said slowly. She shot up off the crate and pointed. “You. This is all your fault!”

  Here we go. One moment of humanity and she was back to her old self. Although she had a tiny point. But she didn’t know that.

  I got up too. “How is this my fault?”

  She wagged her finger at me. “I’m not sure, Stacy Justice, but shit like this doesn’t happen to me. It happens to you all the time, though. You’re like, like…” She struggled to find a word.

  “Kryptonite?”

  She snapped her fingers. “Exactly. That’s exactly what you are. And I’m not staying here another minute with y
ou.”

  Monique tried to storm off, but she busted her left heel in the process and it slowed her down. Then she launched into a fresh crying jag.

  I caught up to her and reached for her elbow. “Come on, let me at least drive you to your car.”

  She reeled on me. “Don’t touch me. I mean it. I never want to see your face, your cousin’s face, or this stupid town again!”

  “Monique, you can’t just walk all the way to Iowa with a broken shoe, smelling like tequila and urine.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the only action you’ll get is from the hobo on Station Road and that’s just because he smells the same.”

  She spun around, nearly lost her balance, but recovered gracelessly.

  She pointed again. “That’s another thing. You’re always making fun of me.”

  “Only because you make it so easy.”

  Monique flipped me off then tottered back around. “I want you out of my sight.” She waved a fist in the air.

  I sighed. “I’m afraid I can’t let that happen, Monique.”

  She sent me another bird and kept walking.

  I pulled out my tranquilizer gun and shot her.

  Chapter 21

  Monique landed face-first on a soiled mattress that someone had thoughtfully tossed in the alley. I plucked the dart out and called to Pickle. He helped me load her in the back of Birdie’s Buick, before he disappeared again. Then it was straight to the Geraghty Girls’ House.

  I found an old wheelbarrow in the shed behind the house and jogged it to the car. A quick scan of the area told me no one was watching. I opened the driver’s-side door, reached in, and clutched my bag. I slung it over my shoulder, shoving the tranquilizer gun back inside. Then I opened the back door of the car and dragged Monique out by her armpits. She was heavier than she looked, but that could have been because she was waterlogged. I hoisted her into the wheelbarrow just as a soft rain began to fall. I carted Monique up to the back door of the inn while the sky darkened and thunder boomed. I twisted the handle, but it was locked, so I rang the bell that only sounded in the private quarters of the house.