A Ghoul's Guide to Love and Murder

  Gilley clicked off and turned to us. “You guys heard?”

  “We did,” Heath said, sliding Gilley’s meal over to him. “I guess Gopher can’t help us, so, Gil, you’ve got no choice. You’ve got to call that producer back and tell him the deal with the dagger is off, and he can keep his money.”

  Gilley bit his lip, and for a moment I thought he might protest, which made me wonder exactly how much money the studio had put up for the dagger, but then Gil said, “Yeah. Okay. I’ll call him right now.”

  I gave Gil an encouraging pat on the back and went back to my dinner. I hadn’t realized how ravenous I’d been, and Heath chuckled at the way I was eating with gusto.

  Meanwhile, Gilley apparently got voice mail and left a message for someone named Bradley. It wasn’t a name I recognized, but I didn’t think much about it. The movie had so many names attached to it, there was no way I could keep them all straight.

  “He’ll probably get back to me,” Gil said, putting his phone back on the charger.

  “He’d better,” I heard Heath mutter.

  Gilley appeared pained, but I thought we needed to talk the issue through. “What do we do if we can’t get anyone to make the call and get the dagger out of that museum?” I asked them.

  Heath and Gilley were quiet for a moment, and then Gil said, “We could sabotage the exhibit. Shut it down so that no one can enter and get close to the dagger. That should keep it isolated long enough to have the loaner period expire, and then the museum has to give it back to us.”

  I frowned. “How? I mean, Heath and I have both been banned from the premises. What kind of damage could we do that wouldn’t get us sued or arrested and would ride out the next two weeks?”

  “I could mess with their computer network,” Gil said. He’s an incredibly skilled hacker, and he flexed his fingers and grinned slyly to show me that he welcomed the opportunity to work a hack on the museum.

  “What if it comes back to you?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “It’s not like I’m tinkering with a government agency, M.J. I’ll just mess with the sprinkler system.”

  “The sprinkler system?” Heath said.

  Gilley chuckled slyly. “The museum has an extensive fire-prevention sprinkler system. I could make it rain, rain, rain.”

  “But what about the other exhibits in the museum?” I said. “Gil, we can’t destroy or damage anything but the movie exhibit. If you mess with the sprinkler system, it has to be in that room only.”

  “I’ll look into it,” he promised.

  “Good. And remember—it can’t get back to us.”

  Just then Gil’s phone rang and we all jumped a little. He looked at the display, gasped, then ran off to my home office in the spare bedroom. Heath and I shared a look and a sigh. “Want some popcorn?” he said, getting up to take my plate and his to the sink.

  He and I were eating very healthy these days. We’d turned vegetarian a couple of years earlier, and now we were on a no-sugar kick. He’d been so good about it that I didn’t have the heart to tell him how very, very, very much I missed ice cream. And brownies. And especially ice cream over warm brownies.

  “Sure,” I said, trying to muster up some enthusiasm.

  He grinned at me and there was a knowing look in his eye. “Why does the image of ice cream and brownies keep popping into my head?”

  I sucked in a breath. “Whoa,” I said. “Who ratted me out?”

  Heath, like me, was a medium—able to communicate with the dead as easily as the living. The dead are funny—and I mean that literally. They’re big on pulling pranks and teasing, and I had no doubt that one of the spirits connected to me had told my husband what I’d been too chicken to say. That I hated the “absolutely no sugar ever, ever again” diet and really wanted to switch to a “sugar every once in a while when I’m really craving it” diet.

  “It was your mom,” Heath said with a laugh. My chest filled with warmth, but my eyes misted just a bit.

  My mom passed away when I was eleven. Her loss was the most devastating thing that’d ever happened to me. It was like a terrible earthquake that’d caused me to fall from a high shelf and shatter into a thousand tiny shards. All these years later I was still picking up the pieces and trying to reassemble them into something whole and unbroken. But no matter how hard I tried, I could never get the pieces of myself to come together in a way that made me feel sound. Her loss was always there, pronounced and ready to level me. I’d come to realize that I could glue back all nine hundred and ninety-nine pieces, but the most important piece, the piece I needed more than all the others and the one piece that could actually make me feel fully myself again—well, that piece was her. And she was gone. So I’d never be whole. I’d never be sound. I’d never be quite healed. I’d be okay, I’d be happy, I’d be loved and love in return, but a part of me would forever remain broken, like a china doll with a chip in it. I knew that about myself, and it was something I accepted, but there were times when I couldn’t hide how very much I missed Mama. Sometimes, that chip in my armor was the only thing I saw or felt.

  Blinking furiously and turning my face away from Heath, I forced a laugh and said, “Mama shouldn’t rat me out like that!”

  I felt his arms around me a moment later. He knew. “Why don’t we go out for ice cream?” he said. “We can sneak out while Gilley’s on the phone and come back with a scoop for him.”

  I leaned back against him. “We’d have to go, like, right now,” I said.

  “I’m game,” he replied.

  “Ohmigod!” Gil shouted, coming out of the study. “You two will not believe who just called me!”

  Heath sighed and whispered in my ear, “We were so close to a clean getaway.”

  I stifled a laugh and said to Gil, “Please tell me that was Gopher or the producer and one of them is going to help us get the dagger back.”

  Gil’s excited smile faded. “No. But I’ll figure out something. Don’t worry.”

  “Who was it, then, Gil?” Heath asked.

  “None other than the Catherine Cooper-Masters!”

  My brow furrowed. “You mean Cat Masters? Abby’s sister?” Abby Cooper was a very dear friend of mine. She was also a psychic, but the kind who predicts the future, not the kind who talks to dead people. She lives in Texas, and her sister, Cat, was a tiny woman with an enormous, and often overpowering, presence. Oh, and an insane amount of personal wealth.

  Gilley bounced on the balls of his feet. “Yes! That’s her!”

  “She called you?” Heath said.

  “Yes!”

  Heath and I exchanged a look. “Why?” we said together.

  Gilley fanned himself and went over to sit in one of the living room chairs. “I sent her a note two days ago just to say hello and let her know that I was getting married, and to tell her that I’d so admired all the hard work she’d put into her sister’s wedding—”

  “You mean the disaster you and I nearly didn’t live through?” I interrupted. Was he kidding? That wedding had been one of my worst nightmares.

  Gilley waved his hand dismissively. “It was a gorgeous ceremony with unfortunate and unrelated extenuating circumstances.”

  “Unrelated,” I said flatly. “Are you talking about when swans attack, or when little people dressed as cupids start shooting wedding guests in the butt with their bows and arrows? Or maybe when a team of stallions runs away with the wedding carriage?”

  “Wasn’t there also a swarm of moths or something too?”

  I held up my hand and splayed my fingers. “They were butterflies this big!” I said. “Which I think were also carnivorous.”

  Gilley glared at us. “Will you two stop? Seriously, that kind of extravaganza is a tough thing to pull off—and all that stuff wasn’t Catherine-Cooper-Masters’ fault.” He said Cat’s name like he said Sarah Jessica Parker’s n
ame. As one word. “And you know what extenuating circumstances I’m talking about, M.J.”

  I sighed. I did know. “So what’d Cat have to say?” I asked, reading Gilley like a book. He had more to tell.

  “Well!” he said, excited again. “In my note I’d told her how much I’d admired her ideas, and asked that if it wasn’t too much trouble could she recommend a good caterer—I’m having the worst trouble with ours—and when she called me just now she said that she had a whole binder full of great ideas and contacts, and would I like any of her input?! I mean, can you believe it? Catherine-Cooper-Masters wants to help me plan our wedding!”

  I stared at Gil. After the horror show that’d been Abby Cooper’s wedding ceremony, she and I had talked at length about what a nightmare her sister had been when she’d taken on the task of planning Abby’s wedding. Cat had big ideas. Big.

  Of course, she also had the money to execute most of those plans, but in Abby’s case, it had all gone terribly wrong. To be fair, it’d gone terribly wrong for reasons other than just Cat’s crazy weddingpalooza, but that’d been a freak show unto itself.

  “Did you accept the offer?” I asked, already knowing Gil would’ve jumped at the chance.

  “Of course!” he said. “We’re meeting for brunch tomorrow. Isn’t that amazing?”

  Here’s the part where I really should’ve stepped in and cautioned Gil about the wisdom of joining forces with another impossibly impulsive and headstrong person. Here’s also the part where I remembered my earlier vow that no matter what drama unfolded from Gilley’s wedding plans, I was not going to have an opinion or give my input. That was the quickest way to get sucked into trying to fix it when things started to go south, and no way did I want to get caught up in that whirlpool. So instead I pushed a huge smile onto my face and said, “I think that’s amazing, Gil!”

  He beamed at me and clapped his hands together. “I’ve got to call Michel!”

  He left us again to hurry into the office, and I grabbed Heath by the arm and said, “I now need ice cream more than ever.”

  “Let’s roll,” he said, and we rushed out the door.

  Chapter 3

  “Where have you been?” Gil yelled the second we came back from the ice-cream shop. I’ve read that when a dog is barking like crazy, it’s best to distract it by offering it a treat.

  FYI, this works with Gilley too.

  I shoved the only slightly melted triple scoop at Gilley, and his yap stopped flapping almost instantly. “Peanut butter fudge brownie atop rocky road atop death by chocolate,” I announced. “You’re welcome.”

  To my surprise, Gilley shook his head and stepped away. “No! No, no, no! My diet! I have to stick to my diet!” And then he licked his lips hungrily, his eyes never leaving the cone.

  I moved it back and forth in front of me. “It’s deeeeelicious . . .”

  Beads of sweat broke out over Gilley’s brow. “You’re hateful,” he said. “I hate you, M.J. You’re mean. So mean!”

  I sighed dramatically and brought the scoop closer to me. “You’re right. I shouldn’t tempt you. I suppose Heath and I will just have to eat this ourselves . . .”

  Gilley darted forward and grabbed the cone right out of my hand. His mouth then descended on the ice cream, much like a viper dislocating its jaw to consume dinner, and he moaned with pleasure. “Hate. You,” he said between bites.

  I waved a hand at him. “You can work that off tomorrow on a run with me.”

  “Hate. Hate. Hate,” he repeated.

  I was about to tease him some more when there was an unexpected knock at the door. I glanced at the kitchen’s wall clock. It was nearly ten. “Are we expecting someone?” Heath whispered.

  I shook my head and gazed at the door. I had a bad feeling. Nobody moved to answer the knock. Maybe I wasn’t the only one with a bad feeling.

  Three firm raps came again. They had the ring of authority to them. “Miss Holliday?” said a woman’s voice. “This is Detective Olivera. Please open up. I need to speak with you and Mr. Whitefeather.”

  A bolt of alarm traveled from the top of my head all the way down to my toes. “Shit,” Heath whispered. I was certain he felt it too.

  Taking a deep breath, I crossed through the kitchen to the front door and opened it, finding a tall, lanky woman with enough presence to make me take a step back. She radiated authority. And confidence. And badassery. (It’s a word. Coined by badasses. Trust me.)

  As looks went, she was. Gorgeous, I mean. Wavy brown hair, olive skin, big brown eyes, and a figure that probably belonged on the cover of Sports Illustrated at the peak of bikini season.

  I could just imagine my husband working hard to rein in the barooga eyes. A quick glance behind me suggested he wasn’t working so hard after all. It was all I could do not to slam the door in her face. Consequences be damned.

  As if sensing I might try something like that, Detective Olivera pushed one boot subtly forward into the doorframe. Great. She was gorgeous and smart. My lucky day. “M. J. Holliday?” she said, flipping open the leather billfold that contained her picture ID and shield.

  “Detective,” I said. “What’s this about?” (As if I couldn’t guess . . . )

  Instead of answering me, she looked over my shoulder. “Heath Whitefeather?”

  I felt a hand on my back as Heath said, “Yes, ma’am. What’s happened?”

  Tucking away the badge, Olivera pulled out a small leather-bound notebook and flipped it open expertly. “I was hoping you could confirm a few facts for me.”

  My brow furrowed. Facts? “Of course,” I said. “Has something happened, Detective?”

  Again she ignored me and read from her notes. “Were the two of you at one zero six Mount Vernon, earlier this evening? The Museum of Modern Science, say, around six p.m.?”

  “We were,” Heath and I said together.

  “What was the nature of your visit there?” she asked.

  I mentally groaned and my heart rate ticked up. She knew damn well what the nature of our business was. Something had obviously happened at the museum. Something very likely involving Oruç’s dagger. “We were there on a matter of personal business,” Heath said. “A relic belonging to us had been loaned to the museum without our knowledge while we were on our honeymoon. We went to the museum to try to get it back.”

  Something flickered in the detective’s eyes. I didn’t like it. “What relic?” she asked.

  “A dagger,” I said. No point lying. She knew what damned relic. “It belonged to a Turkish warlord.”

  “How did you come to own this relic?” she asked.

  Crap. We were getting into dicey territory here. “It was put into our care by a police inspector in San Francisco,” I said. “And I’d prefer to keep his name out of it.”

  Olivera’s granite-hard expression showed a tiny crack. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Why do you need to know?” I demanded. She was making me feel defensive, and I knew it wasn’t the tone to set with her, but I couldn’t help it.

  Olivera considered me with a steely gaze. “Miss Holliday—”

  “Whitefeather,” I corrected, just to be a pain. “And that’s Mrs., Detective.”

  She gave a tiny nod of acknowledgment for the error. It felt a little condescending. “Mrs. Whitefeather, the dagger has been stolen from the museum. And I’d like to know what you might think or know about that.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face, unable to take even a breath for a long, long moment. The dagger had been stolen? It was the worst possible news. “Detective,” I said quietly after I’d taken that in. “You’ve got to get that dagger back. Seriously, you’ve got to.”

  She cocked her head, and her eyes never stopped assessing me. “Again, Mrs. Whitefeather, that’s what I’m doing here. I’m looking for the dagger.”

  Heath’s hand on
my back moved to my shoulder and he stepped forward to stand next to me while my brain raced with all the awful implications of a relic such as Oruç’s dagger free of its magnetic bonds, able to inflict all kinds of terror upon the city of Boston. “Detective,” he said, and a sideways glance at him told me he was every bit as alarmed as I was by the news. “What’s really going on? You wouldn’t be here at ten o’clock at night for just a stolen relic from a museum with little to no market value. So why don’t you come out and tell us what else happened?”

  Olivera lifted her chin slightly. It was clear she was surprised Heath was cutting to the chase. Maybe she’d underestimated him. “How would you two feel about coming down to the precinct to talk about what else happened?” she said.

  I reached for Heath’s waist to steady myself. Oh, God. Someone had died. It had to be that. Oruç’s dagger had struck again. “We’d be happy to,” Heath told her. “As soon as I can arrange for an attorney to meet us down there, of course.”

  “Why would you need an attorney?” she asked him.

  “Why would we need to go down to the precinct to discuss what else happened?” he replied.

  “Ohmigod!” Gilley gasped behind us. I jumped a little, as I’d all but forgotten he was there. “Someone was assaulted at the museum in a robbery gone bad!”

  I turned to see him scrolling his finger along his iPad. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Turning back to Olivera, I said, “Will they be okay?”

  “Who?” she said, looking like she wanted to punch Gilley. He’d clearly stolen her control of the conversation. And then she turned those steely eyes back to me.

  “Whoever was assaulted,” I said impatiently. “Will they be okay?”

  “No,” she said evenly.

  I sucked in another breath and Heath wrapped his arm around me, which was good because I thought my knees might give out. “Oh, God,” I whispered. “Who was it? A patron? Or someone who worked there?”

  But Olivera was done giving up information. Handing us her card, she said, “Mr. and Mrs. Whitefeather, I’d appreciate it if you’d come down willingly to the precinct for a conversation. If you feel you need to be represented by counsel, fine. But one way or another I’m going to get to the bottom of this, and you can either cooperate now, or I’ll build my case around the two of you.”