own client, Dinah Edger?
Would her mouth be blue from all the swearing she'd done this morning? Not that I blamed her for being upset. Her life sucked on several fronts: Someone committed murder in her place of business, two of her former performers had perhaps been victims of the same killer, her much younger husband was possibly cheating on her, and, though she'd given me money to, I had yet to come up with anything concrete on that score.
Not to mention, I'd disobeyed her specific order not to go to the nightclub by being there the evening Lars was stabbed to death. I didn't have a license or a contract, but I had a conscience. So, yeah, I was still inclined to cut her a break.
I understood some of what she was dealing with — like the sickening ache of suspecting the man in your life might be cheating, like the devastating thoughts and images those suspicions roused to shatter your spirit, suck away your self-worth and make you wonder why you were unlovable.
It was hard enough to think he would prefer someone else, and humiliating to have to speak these suspicions to a complete stranger. But worst of all were the clawing need to know and the desperate hope to be wrong.
Dinah was as tough as they came, as tough as I'd seen, but she wasn't made of iron. I knew what it had taken for her to seek my help. I touched my wrist tattoo. Her heart could be broken, too. If I could, if it were true and Frankie was cheating, then I had to find out and spare her what had happened to me.
No woman should find out their man preferred someone else's bed by being confronted with the cheater and his paramour doing the nasty. Better to have the awful truth confirmed by someone you've hired. On your terms. Not by the whim of fate or inevitability or the heartless bastard himself.
But don't think I've turned all mushy and soft. I'm not just a fake-P.I. with a skewed sense of right and wrong. I had ulterior motives for wanting to continue my investigation for Dinah. I was meeting her at the scene of the crime. It was a chance to look around — without nerves scrambling my discerning eye. As upset as I was about Lars' death, and stumbling over his corpse, today I would be cool-headed and assessing. I had to find a clue that would help me solve his murder.
"You can, darlin'."
I jumped as Lars' voice filled my head. I would have cursed at him for startling me, but what he'd said took priority. "Is there a clue to be found, Lars?"
"How should I know? I'm dead."
Now I did swear. "If you're not going to help, stop popping into my head."
"Cranky, as usual. You really should work on that, darlin'. Have you considered getting laid?"
"Oh, shut up!"
"I beg your pardon?" Dinah's voice came through the speaker near the front door of Club Jaded Edge. I glanced around, saw the surveillance camera and knew she could see I was standing there. Alone.
"Sorry." I smiled weakly. "I wasn't talking to you." No, I was arguing with a ghost. My cheeks were hot. Not the start I'd wanted for this meeting.
She buzzed, the latch released, and I slipped into the nightclub foyer. Shadows engulfed me and the lock engaged with a nerve jarring click. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I noted there was no thumping, luring music today, just an eerie goose-bumpy quiet. My gaze darted across the posters of the current performers and the memorial to Jade Edger.
I wondered if Lars' ghost had followed me inside, or if he'd met with resistance from the spirit of Jade Edger that I felt permeated these premises. Did misery love company in the ghost community? I shivered and scooted into the main audience gallery. So alive the night Lars died, it seemed now as sad and shabby as a downtrodden whore reeking of cheap perfume and debauched nights.
I descended past the empty, half-moon booths. Spooked. Pop Goes The Weasel ticked through my mind as though on the last note some psycho was going to pop up from under one of the tables and grab me. So much for cool-headed
Would her mouth be blue from all the swearing she'd done this morning? Not that I blamed her for being upset. Her life sucked on several fronts: Someone committed murder in her place of business, two of her former performers had perhaps been victims of the same killer, her much younger husband was possibly cheating on her, and, though she'd given me money to, I had yet to come up with anything concrete on that score.
Not to mention, I'd disobeyed her specific order not to go to the nightclub by being there the evening Lars was stabbed to death. I didn't have a license or a contract, but I had a conscience. So, yeah, I was still inclined to cut her a break.
I understood some of what she was dealing with — like the sickening ache of suspecting the man in your life might be cheating, like the devastating thoughts and images those suspicions roused to shatter your spirit, suck away your self-worth and make you wonder why you were unlovable.
It was hard enough to think he would prefer someone else, and humiliating to have to speak these suspicions to a complete stranger. But worst of all were the clawing need to know and the desperate hope to be wrong.
Dinah was as tough as they came, as tough as I'd seen, but she wasn't made of iron. I knew what it had taken for her to seek my help. I touched my wrist tattoo. Her heart could be broken, too. If I could, if it were true and Frankie was cheating, then I had to find out and spare her what had happened to me.
No woman should find out their man preferred someone else's bed by being confronted with the cheater and his paramour doing the nasty. Better to have the awful truth confirmed by someone you've hired. On your terms. Not by the whim of fate or inevitability or the heartless bastard himself.
But don't think I've turned all mushy and soft. I'm not just a fake-P.I. with a skewed sense of right and wrong. I had ulterior motives for wanting to continue my investigation for Dinah. I was meeting her at the scene of the crime. It was a chance to look around — without nerves scrambling my discerning eye. As upset as I was about Lars' death, and stumbling over his corpse, today I would be cool-headed and assessing. I had to find a clue that would help me solve his murder.
"You can, darlin'."
I jumped as Lars' voice filled my head. I would have cursed at him for startling me, but what he'd said took priority. "Is there a clue to be found, Lars?"
"How should I know? I'm dead."
Now I did swear. "If you're not going to help, stop popping into my head."
"Cranky, as usual. You really should work on that, darlin'. Have you considered getting laid?"
"Oh, shut up!"
"I beg your pardon?" Dinah's voice came through the speaker near the front door of Club Jaded Edge. I glanced around, saw the surveillance camera and knew she could see I was standing there. Alone.
"Sorry." I smiled weakly. "I wasn't talking to you." No, I was arguing with a ghost. My cheeks were hot. Not the start I'd wanted for this meeting.
She buzzed, the latch released, and I slipped into the nightclub foyer. Shadows engulfed me and the lock engaged with a nerve jarring click. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I noted there was no thumping, luring music today, just an eerie goose-bumpy quiet. My gaze darted across the posters of the current performers and the memorial to Jade Edger.
I wondered if Lars' ghost had followed me inside, or if he'd met with resistance from the spirit of Jade Edger that I felt permeated these premises. Did misery love company in the ghost community? I shivered and scooted into the main audience gallery. So alive the night Lars died, it seemed now as sad and shabby as a downtrodden whore reeking of cheap perfume and debauched nights.
I descended past the empty, half-moon booths. Spooked. Pop Goes The Weasel ticked through my mind as though on the last note some psycho was going to pop up from under one of the tables and grab me. So much for cool-headed
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