Chase Baker and the Lincoln Curse: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 4) by Vincent Zandri

or ‘73, Mother was woken
    up in the morning by the sound of a woman calling out her name. She went to the
    window, climbed out of it, and dropped down to the front lawn, breaking her
    leg. That’s when we knew the curse was real and that the dress had to exist
    somewhere inside the house or close by.
    “When we heard through the grapevine that you was coming to
    rebury your father, we knew we had to somehow get you to the house. Balkis’ job
    was to convince Detective Miller to bring you in. Man of your expertise would
    be able to sniff out Clara’s dress if it existed. Turns out, you were able to
    sniff out a lot more. You know what, Mr. Baker? We lived in that house nearly
    seventy years and had no idea Clara and Henry were still living in that second
    basement…So to speak.”
    “So to speak,” I say. “So when the police asked me to assist
    in looking for you two, you knew that I would turn my attention to the Lincoln
    Dress.”
    “From what I hear, you can’t resist two things: fresh pussy
    and a treasure hunt.”
    “Father!” Betty barks.
    “Sorry, Mother,” he says, nodding her way. Then, eyes back
    on me. “Mother don’t like it when I use the P word.”
    “Call me an antiquities slut,” I say, “but I should have
    seen through your charade a lot sooner than this. I must be losing my edge. But
    answer me this? Why not cut through the floor and break through the brick wall
    yourself? You might have ended this mystery decades ago.”
    “Not on your life,” old lady Girvin chimes in. “Only reason
    I agreed to this here little operation is because Father and I are getting on
    in years and might not have us another shot. What you must keep in mind, Mr.
    Baker, is this: He who finds the dress will be recipient of a curse so awful
    his skin will eventually melt off his bones and he will never know a good
    night’s sleep again because the ghosts of Abe Lincoln, John Wilkes Booth, Clara
    Harris, and Henry Rathbone will be shouting in your ears.”
    “Jeeze,” I say. “Will I have chronic bad gas, too?”
    “Hey look on the bright side, Baker,” Bill Girvin says.
    “Looks to me like you’ve finally located the dress. Seems like you still got it
    even if the job ain’t gonna get you laid. ‘Less, of course, you think Balkis
    here is cute. And don’t you worry none about that God awful curse, ‘cause we’re
    gonna have to bury you and Balkis along with Clara’s empty coffin when this
    thing is done.” The old man glances over his shoulder. “How you doing, Mother?”
    Locking eyes on her, I watch her lift the casket lid just a
    few inches. But, just like Dad’s casket, the hinges are so rusted, they snap in
    two under the weight of the metal and wood lid, and it drops down into the open
    grave. She turns back to her husband.
    “There’s a box,” she says. “A metal strongbox. It’s locked
    with a padlock.”
    “Don’t you go near it!” he shouts. “You let the boys here do
    the dangerous work.”
    Girvin is torn between paying attention to her and then to
    me and Balkis. Also, the arm that supports the pistol seems to be getting
    tired. That’s when I slowly shift my gaze to Balkis.
    “On…my…count,” I mouth.
    His eyes light up like a high wattage bulb. He might be a
    trans-geographic whacko, but he understands perfectly well what I’ve got cooked
    up in my head.
    “One…two…three…”
    I lunge for the old man, wrapping my arms around his legs
    like I’m taking down an injury-plagued, way-beyond-his-prime quarterback.
    Balkis goes after Betty, thrusting his bulbous head into her
    stomach.
    “That’s for making fun of me!” he shouts.
    She drops the pistol, goes down hard on her back. But the
    old man has, by some miracle, still managed to hold onto his. He’s trying to
    aim it at my head so that he can make jelly filling out of my brains.
    I grip his shooting wrist and jam my thumb in the sensitive
    space between his arm and wrist. The pistol drops and he