Chapter 1
11:02 a.m., Saturday, November 2
They’re coming.
The message vibrated with crystal clear intensity.
Trusting her spiritual advisor Gabe to handle the slow-moving roommates, Riley Thorn ran from the office, wiping dog slobber off her hands onto her jeans as she went. She needed to warn Nick, her tattooed, dimpled PI boyfriend, before it was too late. She flung open the front door in time to spy him parking her Jeep nose-to-nose with homicide detective Kellen Weber’s police issue SUV across the driveway.
“Woo-hoo! Finally some action! Lemme at ’em,” the ghost of Riley’s long-dead Uncle Jimmy crowed from the Jeep.
Weber was already hunkered down behind the wheel well of his vehicle, wearing a bulletproof vest and loading a rifle with deadly looking rounds.
“They’re coming,” she said through cupped hands.
“Get back in the house now, Riley,” Nick ordered, hopping out of the driver’s seat and rounding the back of the Jeep.
Just then the distant pop pop pop of gunfire exploded followed by the faraway whine of sirens.
“They’re not going to get here in time,” she whispered to herself as she was closing the door.
But she didn’t do it fast enough. Burt her burly dog bolted through her legs, out the door, and off the porch.
“Burt! No!” she cried.
Tires squealed on the street.
Pop. Pop.
Swearing to herself, Riley slammed the door and raced into the yard after her idiot dog.
“Damn it, Thorn!” Nick growled.
She tackled Burt to the cold ground two feet from Nick as tires squealed again before giving way to the crunch and scrape of metal. In an impressive show of strength, Nick grabbed her and Burt and dragged them behind the Jeep’s fender. “Stay down,” he ordered.
Burt’s tail thumped happily against Riley’s leg. “You’re in big trouble when this is over,” she told the dog.
Nick put a knee to Riley’s back, holding her down. From her belly-level view under the Jeep, she watched as Harrisburg’s morning news anchor and her regrettable ex-husband Griffin Gentry’s snazzy sports car smashed through their gate…again. On his tail was a powder blue Fiat with guns hanging out of both windows.
“Ready?” Weber yelled.
“Kick ass on one,” Nick said. “Three…”
Free of the gate, Griffin’s car accelerated, sending gravel flying.
“Two.”
Riley watched in horror and braced herself as the car fishtailed before smacking soundly into the driver’s side door of the Jeep.
“One,” Nick shouted.
Two days earlier
1:41 p.m., Thursday, October 31
Riley Thorn’s ex-husband hurling himself at her feet and begging for help had not been on her bingo card for this sunny Halloween afternoon.
The day had started off nicely enough with champagne, cake, and family for Nick’s birthday.
And then about ninety seconds ago the questionable roof on the crumbling mansion next door had collapsed, sending up a dust cloud that could be seen for blocks. Nick and Riley’s historic house wasn’t in much better shape, but at least it still had a roof. Which meant the migratory path of their elderly neighbors brought them and their dusty belongings right through Nick and Riley’s front door.
But these were things Riley had grown accustomed to dealing with. Problems she could solve, discomfort she could weather.
And then her horrible ex-husband had appeared and ruined what had been until that point, a salvageable day.
Now, Griffin Gentry, morning news anchor and lousy human being, was wrapped around her legs like an entitled boa constrictor while Riley waved her family off as they pulled out of the driveway. In her experience, fewer things ended a party faster than the sudden appearance of her ex-husband.
“You have to help me! Use your weird psychic mumbo jumbo or whatever you have to do. Just don’t let me get murdered,” Griffin whined against her thighs. He looked worryingly pale beneath the orange of his spray tan.
“Want me to poke all his pressure points at the same time?” Nick’s cousin-in-law, the ferocious Josie Chan, offered from her battle stance next to her husband Brian on the front porch.
Riley shoved at Griffin’s blond head and got a palm full of pomade for her trouble. “Not yet. Maybe later. Who’s going to murder you, Griffin?”
Burt, Riley’s pony-sized dog, trotted off the porch to sniff at Griffin’s fussy suede boots.
Apparently not liking what he smelled, Burt curled his lip in a doggy sneer and pranced off to pee on Griffin’s car tire.
“Hey, Riley, I meant to ask is that mean friend of yours around?” Kellen Weber called as he wandered out of Nick and Riley’s front door. He winced, then leaned against one of the porch columns and used one hand to block the sun. The homicide detective was on day three of one hell of a hangover.
“Gentry, if you don’t get your grubby, child-sized hands off my girlfriend in the next point three seconds, I’ll be doing the murdering,” growled grumpy PI and birthday boy Nick Santiago.
“What’s this about murder?” Weber demanded. Even hungover he was a no-nonsense, rule-following kind of man. Riley had a hunch he’d been the class tattletale in kindergarten.
“The guy’s got his badge back for five seconds and instantly turns into the fun police,” Josie complained. “I wanted to watch Nick beat the shit out of Griffin.”
“Come on, babe. Let’s go inside and make out instead,” said Josie’s husband and Santiago Investigations resident tech genius, Brian Kepner. He patted his lap, and she hopped on before he guided his wheelchair around the porch toward the side entrance.
“We don’t rent rooms by the hour,” Nick yelled after them.
“Excuse me! I said I need your help, and you didn’t automatically offer it. Now I’m confused.” Griffin’s off-air voice was two octaves higher than the one he used on camera and it grated Riley’s nerves like no other sound on earth.
“Point three. Point two. Point one,” Nick counted down before shotgunning the rest of his champagne and tossing the glass into a pile of leaves. He grabbed the groveling Griffin by the scruff of the neck and hauled him to his feet.
“Nick, what are you going to do?” Riley asked in exasperation. She wasn’t particularly worried for her ex-husband. After all, the man had sued her almost into bankruptcy for breaking his nose after she found him cheating on her in their own bed. But she didn’t want Nick committing any crimes in front of an actual cop who would enjoy arresting him.
“I’m just gonna introduce his face to the river until the bubbles stop,” Nick said as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.
“Did you get new shoe lifts, Griffin?” Riley asked, frowning at Griffin who looked ever so slightly taller. Though it could have been the fact that Nick was holding him on his tip toes.
Mrs. Penny, followed by the rest of the dust-covered next-door neighbors, trooped out of Riley’s house onto the front porch. They were all over the age of seventy-five, all eating birthday cake, and only some of them had managed to wipe the drywall dust from their bifocals.
“Somebody say murder?” Mrs. Penny barked. She was eighty years old, had purple hair, and had stopped giving a shit about thirty years ago.
“How about we all calm down?” Riley suggested.
“I won’t hesitate to arrest you, Nicky,” Weber warned.
“I’d like to see you try,” Nick muttered as he grudgingly released the squirming news anchor.
“Darn it! I was hoping for some shirtless wrestling,” Lily, the man-crazy octogenarian, lamented. Lily was a good cook, a great bridge partner, and a handsy admirer of the male form.
“Let’s go get the rest of our stuff and then I’ll cue up some old WWF reruns for you,” her twin brother, Fred, said. His crooked toupee was sloping over his forehead. Little dust bunnies hung from the bangs.
“Gabe, go with these guys and bring back my favorite couch and all my liquor. I need to get to the bottom of this murder business,” Mrs. Penny said, gesturing at her aged cohorts.
Gabe was Riley’s friend and spiritual guide who worked with her to hone her psychic gifts. He was tall and muscular with flawless dark skin and a kind, Zen-like attitude that made him unrufflable.
“It will be my pleasure,” he assured her before following Lily and Fred in the direction of their disaster of a house.
“You people can’t just walk into a collapsing building,” Weber announced, pinching the bridge of his nose.
The neighbors pulled the “hard of hearing” card and made a beeline toward the looming dust cloud despite the official police warning. Weber looked back and forth between the departing pack of fogies and Nick, who still looked like he was about to commit a crime.
“Shit. Do not assault anyone until I get back,” Weber ordered before jogging off after the elderly pack.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
Nick sighed and hooked a thumb in the direction of the roofless mansion. “Should I…”
“Oh, yeah. Let me check.” Riley closed her eyes. It took her more than a few seconds before she could shut out the multitude of external distractions and finally drop into her psychic Cotton Candy World. It was a dreamy, peaceful place that existed…well, somewhere that was definitely not reality. The fluffy pastel clouds served as home to her spirit guides who passed mostly convoluted messages to her about the living, the dead, and everything in between.
“Hey, spirit guides. Is the house going to collapse on my friends and turn them into walking pancakes?” she asked.
The clouds pulsed a warm, cozy pink in response and a sense of giddiness swooped through her. Riley guessed this meant a pancaking was not imminent. Suddenly, the clouds transformed into radiant sparkles.
Frowning, she opened one eye. “I don’t think there’s any danger. I’m feeling happy and seeing sparkles.”
“Better not be another damn glitter bomb,” Mrs. Penny said. She had icing smeared across her chin.
“You must be seeing this asshole’s funeral,” Nick quipped, nodding toward Griffin.
“That’s really not very nice,” Griffin complained.
“I’m not talking to you,” Nick said. “Because if I were talking to you, I’d remind you that last time you were alone with my girlfriend, you asked her to be your mistress. I don’t care if you’re being hunted down by ISIS. Hell, I’ll sell t-shirts that say Ding Dong, the Dick is Dead at your crime scene.”
“But you have to help me! I’ll pay you,” Griffin squeaked. “How much do you want? A thousand dollars?”
“Pfft. I don’t get out of the bathroom for less than twenty K,” Mrs. Penny said.
“Fine. Twenty thousand dollars it is,” Griffin said, reaching into his suit jacket pocket and producing a checkbook and pen.
“I’ll take the case!” Mrs. Penny said, wielding her plastic cake fork in the air.
“The hell you will,” Nick barked.
Mrs. Penny tossed her empty paper plate and fork over her shoulder. “Let’s step into my office and discuss this primo case.”
Nick stomped up to her. “A. You don’t have an office here. B. We’re not wasting our time on a non-existent case. And C. No one here cares if this human sack of fertilizer gets whacked.”
“Hey!” Griffin said, sounding offended.
Mrs. Penny crossed her arms over her generous bosom beneath her roomy Harrisburg Senators Baseball hoodie. “Bullet point number one. I’ll share Riley’s office. We’ll get those cool partner desks and push them together like in the movies. Bullet point number two—”
“You don’t have to say it like that. Pick one. Bullet point or number. Not both,” Nick complained.
“The man said he’s got twenty Gs. I don’t know about you, but I get off the john for that kind of moola.”
Riley quickly did her best to slam her mental psychic doors shut to prevent any accidental sightings of that particular scene.
“Great. Now I’m going to have that picture in my head for the rest of my life,” Nick said.
“You’re welcome,” Mrs. Penny shot back. “Bullet point number three, last time I looked at my checkbook it said you and I were partners and this partner says we take this human bag of fertilizer’s case.”
Nick’s blue-green eyes landed on Riley.
She shrugged. No one in the history of Mrs. Penny had been able to dissuade her from doing anything. “I don’t know. He sounds upset. And it’ll give Mrs. Penny something to do. I’ll keep an eye on her.”
Besides, not only did she not need Nick going to prison for murdering her deserving ex, but he’d promised to clean his office and she was really, really invested in not attracting more vermin.
“Fine. Have at it, partner,” he said to Mrs. Penny, then turned back to Riley. “I’m gonna go clean my office and pretend none of this mess exists. If this weasel breathes funny in your direction, you let me know. I’ll take care of him.”
Griffin swallowed audibly and side-stepped to the right until Riley was between him and Nick.
“My hero,” she said on a sigh. “Come on, Griffin. Let’s go inside.”
***
It took a few minutes of vehicle jockeying to get everyone around Griffin’s terrible parking job and another five minutes of staring at the roof collapse and police presence next door.
By the time Riley headed inside, Mrs. Penny had Griffin settled on one of the green faux leather chairs in her office and was delivering a glass of water…by sloshing it over the rim every three steps.
Riley’s office was an organized room at the front of the house with tall windows, French doors that opened onto the side porch, the aforementioned visitors chairs, and a utilitarian desk that wasn’t so much an antique as it was just old and crappy. As the official office manager for Santiago Investigations, her days were spent scanning and filing paperwork, redirecting the elderly and the stubborn, and studying up on investigative techniques.
“I didn’t have sparkling water, so I got it out of the tap and blew bubbles in it through the straw,” Mrs. Penny announced, handing over the glass to Griffin.
“Psst.”
Nick was peering at Riley through a crack in the door that connected their offices. Burt’s nose appeared three feet below Nick’s face.
Riley sidled toward the door. “Need a shovel?” she teased. His office had been ground zero for a recent investigation that had involved many late nights and mountains of old takeout containers.
“Might go with the leaf blower.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to hear what Griffin has to say? I can help you clean later,” Riley offered.
“My mess, my responsibility. No one’s out to get him. His kind always sails through life without paying for their assholery. Besides, if I listen to one more word that human donkey has to say, I’ll end up stuffing his body into a UPS envelope and mailing him home.”
“Understood. You deal with your natural disaster. And I’ll deal with this one.”
He reached over and nudged her chin up. “You do know you have no obligation to waste another second of your life on this idiot, right? I can detach Brian and Josie at the mouth and make them babysit.”
“It’s fine,” she assured him.
“Are you one thousand percent sure you want to deal with this?” Nick asked again, concern lighting his eyes.
“I’m better at wrangling Mrs. Penny. Besides, a small, mean part of me likes seeing Griffin freaked out,” she admitted.
The double dimple flash and quick grin from Nick had a swoop of giddiness resurfacing. “That’s my girl. If you need me for anything, especially an extra small UPS envelope, I’m one open door away.”
“I appreciate the offer…and you not committing murder in our house. Especially since we just got the smell of the last one out.”
A stack of sticky notes hit the back of Riley’s head.
“Enough lovey dovey chitchat! We’ve got an attempted murder to solve,” Mrs. Penny bellowed.
Riley kissed Nick on his stubbly cheek, gave Burt a good scruff of the ears, then returned to take a sentry position behind the elderly woman, who had settled in behind her desk.
“Now what makes you think someone is trying to whack you? Put you in the ground? Turn you into worm food?” Mrs. Penny had to shout the last few terms for getting murdered over the groaning screech of a large piece of furniture being scooted across the floor in Nick’s office.
“This!” Griffin reached into his suit jacket and slapped a piece of paper on the desk.
Mrs. Penny snapped her fingers and pointed. Riley bit back a sigh and reached over her to pick it up. “You’ll pay,” she read aloud. “That’s all it says. Where did you find it?”
“I found it after Bella and I finished filming the morning show today. We’ve been shooting it at home since the studio blew up because we live in a very large and spacious house. A mansion, really,” he said trying and failing to look humble.
“I remember. I used to live there,” she said dryly.
“It was stuck to my pillow on the bed. Can you believe that?”
Riley could indeed believe that. Griffin was a selfish jerk who had no qualms about trampling others to get what he wanted. The only thing stopping her from sending him packing right now was the authentic-feeling fear wafting off him like cartoon stink lines. The Griffin she knew was too self-absorbed to be afraid of anything.
“What the hell? I don’t remember ordering curry,” Nick muttered from the other room.
“Hmm.” Mrs. Penny stroked her chin, then discovering the icing there, licked her fingers. “Read it again. But make it scary this time.”
Riley cleared her throat and delivered the line in her best threatening voice. “You’ll pay.”
“Interesting. Read it again, but with a French accent,” Mrs. Penny said.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Riley said, putting the note down. She turned her attention to the trembling news anchor in the chair. “As far as threats go, this one seems kinda vague.”
Nick walked past the open doorway headed for the front door carrying a snow shovel and a cordless drill.
“But it’s typed in all caps. Everyone knows that’s more serious in death threats,” Griffin whined.
“Why didn’t you go to the police? You had a homicide detective right in front of you a minute ago, and judging from the sound of the sirens, there’s a half dozen cars next door,” Riley asked.
“The police are bozos. Griffin here wanted professionals, isn’t that right?” Mrs. Penny said, scooting her chair forward until her ample bosom rested on top of Riley’s desk calendar.
“Actually, I went to the police first. They’ve never punched me in the face or thrown me in a dumpster.”
The man had a point. Nick had done both of those things.
“But they didn’t take it seriously,” Griffin continued. “They said it was probably just a prank.”
Mrs. Penny slapped the desk. “They obviously missed the capital letters. Amateurs.”
The front door opened again, and Nick backed inside, holding up his hands. “Look. Can’t we talk about this? Isn’t there a nice roach motel you could stay at instead?”
In shuffled Mr. Willicott, the last of the next-door neighbors. He was wearing four hats and clutching an ancient accordion. Fred and Lily followed, carrying a hammock between them loaded with pantry supplies. Gabe was behind them, balancing a faded yellow sofa on one shoulder and lugging a crate of liquor bottles under his other arm.
“Put that in the bar,” Mrs. Penny told Gabe.
“We don’t have a bar,” Riley reminded her.
“Then we’ll hafta make one, won’t we?” The elderly woman snorted and tossed her purple-tinged hair.
“Do not go up those stairs, Fred,” Nick barked. “You better turn around when you get to the landing. Do not go up to the second floor! Damn it! Willicott, do not hang those saddlebags on Burt. Burt, do not carry his shit!”
Riley waved her hands to get Mrs. Penny and Griffin’s attention. “Okay. Let’s get this circus back under the big tent. What makes you think this isn’t a prank, Griffin? Besides the capital letters.”
“Because immediately after finding the note, I went to the salon to get my usual and this happened.” He started to unbutton his shirt.
“What happened? Is this charades? Is it a movie? The Exorcist? Monty Python and the Holy Grail? The Fast & the Furious Tokyo Drift?” Mrs. Penny fired off question after question as Griffin frowned down at his monogrammed Oxford.
“I’m unbuttoning my shirt. Expensive buttons are smaller than working class buttons. It takes longer,” Griffin explained.
Riley slouched against the filing cabinets and idly wished that she and Nick lived in a nice hut on a deserted island.
The racket in Nick’s office kicked up a notch. She couldn’t tell if he was running the vacuum cleaner or a leaf blower.
“You’re boring me, Gentry. I don’t like boring cases,” Mrs. Penny warned.
“Just gimme a minute,” he whined. Finally his petite fingers worked the last button free. “Does this look non-threatening to you?”
In the middle of Griffin’s chest hair was the letter G in hot pink flesh.
Riley rounded the desk to get a better look.
“Is that your chest hair?” Riley asked.
“Shh!” Griffin pressed a manicured finger to her lips. “I’m a famous celebrity. I’m supposed to be hairless.”
“Get your stupid fucking finger off my girl and put your goddamn clothes back on, Gentry, or I’m putting you in this wheelbarrow,” Nick snapped from the doorway, where he was indeed pushing a wheelbarrow overflowing with trash bags.
Griffin dropped his finger from Riley’s mouth.
“Lemme get a better look at this.” Mrs. Penny huffed and puffed her way out of the chair.
“Did someone say chest hair?” Lily appeared in the doorway. Her pink housecoat was still covered in a fine layer of dust and she had several serving spoons in each pocket.
“Take a look at this,” Mrs. Penny told her roommate.
Lily motored in and planted her face two inches from Griffin’s chest. She raised her glasses and squinted. “Hmm. What an interesting birth mark.”
Nick returned through the front door with the now empty wheelbarrow. He glanced their way, shook his head, and stomped off, muttering about how much birthdays sucked.
“I don’t understand what I’m looking at,” Riley admitted.
“The wax dyed my skin,” Griffin lamented. “The esthetician didn’t notice until he got to the bottom. He always starts with a G for Griffin.”
“And you think this is related to the note?” Riley clarified.
“Of course it is,” Mrs. Penny said elbowing her way in for a closer look. “Any idiot can see that.”
Lily poked Griffin in the belly with her finger.
Riley stepped back and rubbed her temples. “Griffin, I don’t see how these things are connected. They both seem like pranks to me.”
“There is nothing funny about defacing my body! Now use that creepy psychic woo-woo or whatever it is to solve this.”
Riley had done her best to deny her psychic powers while married to Griffin. Nothing was more important to the man than appearances. She’d put so much effort into pretending to be normal that she’d ended up suppressing her gift until it became uncontrollable.
Now he wanted her to use it…and she wanted to punch him in his pink G.
“I’m telling you, this is bullshit,” Nick called as he pushed another overflowing wheelbarrow load past the doorway again.
“And I’m telling you as long as his check clears, I don’t care,” Mrs. Penny barked.
“These aren’t pranks! Someone shot at me,” Griffin announced.
“Before or after the capital letters?” Mrs. Penny asked.
Riley’s nose twitched. “Oh boy,” she muttered. Sometimes the stronger psychic visions came on too quickly to mentally prepare.
Suddenly, she found herself back amongst the cotton candy clouds. They parted to reveal a worried-looking Griffin behind the wheel with a pink, hairless G poking out of his unbuttoned shirt. As he swooped his sports car around his circular driveway, a single shot rang out and a nice, neat hole appeared in Griffin’s windshield several inches from his head. Riley watched from the clouds as the blood drained from his face. A high-pitched screech emanated from his mouth before his small foot mashed the accelerator.
The car shot across the cul-de-sac, taking out the neighbor’s concrete corgi statue next to their mailbox, before he shifted into drive and fishtailed down the street.
Riley’s stomach dropped as her body went into free fall. And then just as suddenly she was back in her office, steadying herself on Lily’s sturdy arm.
“Griffin, did you say someone shot at you today?” Riley asked.
“Oh, yeah. I was very upset about my chest and forgot to mention that part when I got here.”
“Nick!”
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