Grave Robber for Hire (5 page)

I wanted to grab Tyreal by the shirt and stick my tongue into that mouth. Probably not the best move at this moment—might appear desperate.

My hand wavered as I reached for and lifted my teapot. Tyreal eyed the shaking pot, took it from me and poured my tea. “Bit hard one handed.”

“Thanks.” I flushed, added sugar to my tea, took a sip, and scooped more cake.

“So the job?”

I really did need help, and I’m not a great man assessor since I’ve never been able to truly trust one after half a life-time of not so brotherly love. I’d never had a man in my life that I didn’t just use for sex—nothing and nobody except Vig. I was nearly thirty and it was time I got past my man aversion.

In choosing work partners, I couldn’t be sexist. I glanced at Vig. He’s a good lie detector. He’s fallen off a chair laughing at a guy’s bullshit. Not the tiniest smirk showed, but then he was ogling a man eating a huge steak burger. There’s no competing with food that holds meat especially when his ward is vegetarian.

I tapped my fingers on the table for a few seconds. “Right, because I’m obviously certifiable,” and my guardian angel isn’t laughing, “as I said this morning I need someone to help with cyber research. You had a bit of time to check out my err … profession?”

“I did and have.” Tyreal took a sip of coffee.

“And?”

“My aunt sees the dead, and can pass on messages from the dead. So I can’t see how what you do can’t be true. Besides I could do with a change from following the unhappily married or hunting social security fraud.”

“Surveillance work does suck.” Not that I’d done much. Hard to sit in a car and peer into windows of the long ago expired.

#

On the way home, I cranked the radio to brain dead level, and Vig and I screamed along to Janis Joplin’s,
Baby
. She’d died long before my parents had me and my shit of Satan brother, but you can’t grow up with a stoner great aunt without reliving every song of the sixties and seventies a few thousand times. Mid song, I sucked back a tuneless
Baby
.

Well shit. I’d been snookered by a frigging smile.

Half way through my interrogation that frigging nuclear smile of his blindsided me. I bet he knew he could suck out a girl’s brains and make her a drooling horny mess. Frigging wet-your-pants smiles and hormones.

Being such a slut stuffs me up every time.

Sure, I’d scored a partner. But did said partner possess Angel-stalking tendencies?

And if he did, why?

Chapter 5

The next afternoon, driving home from collecting a box of journals and letters from Claudia Reese-Jones, I ducked into my local electrical store. I half-heartedly smiled at Gary the salesman. His obvious joy at sighting me in place, I let him talk me into buying a coffee maker four times more expensive than what I’d budgeted for. Hopefully it made orgasmic coffee.

Actually, at the price, the coffee better give
multiple
orgasms. Especially since it had been two months since I’d had the real deal—an orgasm that is.

Luke, my friend with benefits had pulled the let’s make this exclusive line on me. There were still skid marks from Streak’s tires on the road in front of his house from me driving away.

I’ve never met a man dead or alive I could trust much beyond being good in bed. I’d lost all trust in human males after Sasha had turned cold, malicious, and insane. Plus I’d seen too much through my time-jumping to think that much of the male gender in any era.

For me, men were not for relationships, just a bit of fun. I have my animals to love and be loved by, and I guess when the time came I’d have kids and raise them alone.

I admit I’m pathetic. Five years of being tortured by my own brother meant I had never had a decent relationship with a man or even a boy over the age of ten. One minute they love you, the next they’re hurting you, and pain is not always physical.

At the car, Vig saw the coffee machine’s box and his eyes sparked. Gary put the box into Streak’s trunk, thanked me for once more buying from his store, and whistled while he walked back inside. My appliance bad luck made Gary a happy man. I could face seeing a less happy Gary.

I turned to Viggo, “No touchy. You can have the charred one to pull apart.”

He huffed out a breath, tugged on the end of my hair and eyeballed the keys in my hand. “Okay. I drive?”

“Absolutely.”

Vig’s grin could have lit the night sky. I opened the driver’s door and Vig’s grin dulled to moonless midnight. Seated, I locked in my seatbelt and looked at him as he climbed into his seat. “A, you can’t bloody drive. B, I like both Streak and living, and C, when some poor bastard sees no one driving a car they’ll crash.”

All the way back to my house, Vig kept his arms crossed and sulked. At home, a bouquet of flowers waited at my front door. Wrapped in sun faded pink tissue paper, the roses were brown, shriveled and dead.

Obviously not a token from an admirer unless they thought I was
Morticia from the Adams family.

My throat tightened and went as dry as my gift. I kicked the present and looked around to see if anyone was waiting to leap out and laugh about their un-awesome joke. Nobody and no note I
could see. I shook my head and picked them up. My fingers tingled with a peculiar vibe.

Inside the house, I dumped the crisp lot onto the dining table. Misca woke, stretched out to her maximum length, rolled over, touched a rose with her paw, and hissed. She jumped off the table and stalked to the couch. I peered closely at the rose but couldn’t see a thorn she’d touched. I shrugged, maybe the dry petals made a funny sound she didn’t like.

Viggo leaned over my shoulder and prodded them. “What this?”

Gidget head butted his hand until he patted her. The animals see and like Vig, but we have to be careful. People get funny expressions when they see a dog lifting its paw or leaning into the air for a harder scratch.

“Joke in poor taste.”

“
Mmm, ver poor.” He touched the bunch again, frowned and wiped his hand down the front of his shirt.

“They feel funny to you?” Maybe Misca also felt the same odd vibe.

“Yes. Feel—wrong. Throw out.” He walked into the kitchen, and then hoisted and carried off my old coffee maker to the outside garden shed. In an electrical CSI nightmare, a lot of dead bodies lay in his shed. He then carried in my new coffee maker and opened the packaging. A broken arm meant Vig did more things than normal for me.

He slipped the machine out of its box, tore off the thin foam wrapping and ran reverent hands over the red enamel and chrome. “I set up?”

“No.” Within five minutes, he’d have it in twenty pieces.

He looked at me.

“You learnt
that look
from the dogs.”

He raised his brows, “Not work?”

“No.”

He pulled out the manual and waved it at me. “I set up.”

“No, you’ll break it.”

He flung the booklet onto the counter. “Won’t”

“Will.”

“Won’t.”

“Will.”

“Won’t.”

Christ this could go on for hours. “Not happening. Thanks for bringing it in.” He gave me an exasperated look as if I’m the person who demolished things, flicked the manual onto the floor and stomped out of the house.

Bloody hell.
“I’m sure guardian angels aren’t meant to throw tantrums,” I yelled after him. The front door slammed.

I shook my head and started setting up the coffee machine. Last night I’d emailed Tyreal the details I had on Clyde Owen Jones. Today while I’d been in Brisbane, he’d texted to say he had found some info and would drop over to discuss it with me.

Coffee machine ready to make liquid gold, I did a quick one-armed house clean then changed into side buttoned high-waist forties style, navy blue shorts. Still squirming into the matching
sailor
top, I heard a throaty engine growl up my steep drive.

Eager to see what caused the racket, the dogs smashed into the back of my legs as I tried to navigate the hall. Outside, a huge Honda motorbike pulled into my carport. I don’t like bikes, but this one appeared so powerful my nipples hardened.

My dogs ran around the bike, sniffing the new beast. In appreciation of the exotic smell Jasen, my cocker spaniel, lifted his leg and sprinkled the back tire. Tyreal pulled off his helmet, smoothed his jet hair, looked around and shook his head.

“Sorry …”

“No, biggie. Cute shorts.” His fingers tugged the tab of his leather jacket’s zip. Earth slowed her spin. In slow-mo action, inch by delicious inch, the silver teeth parted to reveal stripper like crevices and bulges concealed in a tight white t-shirt.

Total, girl see hot man lust filled every body cavity I own and a few more. Scared I’d start to resemble Asha eyeing a steak, I swallowed and quickly wiped my mouth in case dribble had escaped. A man might find a salivating new co-worker a tad—desperate.

“You okay, Angel, you seem a bit dazed.”

“Is that deliberate?”

“What?”

“The tight white thing that’s a size or three too small.” A surreptitious foot shuffle shifted me forward to see if he’d painted on the shirt. I thought the bike hot, it had nothing on the rider.

“It was clean.” He turned, put the jacket over the bike seat, stepped over it and grinned. Conceited ass.

Fabulous ass.

Actually his was more a, fab-u-lust-ass.

I cast Vig’s CSI shed a nervous look. All was silent. Maybe he’d poofed out when he heard Tyreal arrive, or he was being very careful, so Tyreal didn’t hear him mid-dismantle.

Three dogs nuzzling his hands and barreling into his side, Tyreal walked a crooked line into the house. He took in the colors, the odd assembled furniture, the medley of my love of animals and Aunty Glynnis’ Buddhism, Hindu, Christianity, and all sorts of Pagan artifacts that decorated the house. In the dining room, he smothered laughter in a false throat clear.

I lifted my brows.

“Interesting décor—into seventies hippy?” He gazed around for a second time his grin widening.

I put my hands on my hips and glared. Something in my head started to burn, ah yes my pissed off fuse. His survey of the room hit me, and his grin disappeared.

“This was my great aunt’s house. The house she raised me in, and the
home
I inherited.” I know it’s eclectic. Full of color and over stuffed with total crap and treasure, both imagined and real, but it’s my home.

“Sorry. Shit, hate foot in mouth disease.” He followed me into the kitchen and looked very carefully at his boots as if they’d suddenly become the most amazing things he’d ever seen, but I’d caught the glint of laughter in his eyes. Yes, in my kitchen the eccentricity continued. I’d updated with a six burner gas stove and oven, microwave, modern fridge and freezer, but the hippy household essentials remained. Overfilled open shelves, organic groceries, and things nobody used like the hand cranked cream separator and wooden butter paddle and churn.

Well nobody used since Aunty Glynnis died three years ago.

I started to feel sorry for Tyreal, wasn’t his fault he knew nothing of life on the eccentric side. His house was probably white, black, and chrome or was that assumption sexist?

“Coffee?” I’d already filled the reservoir with water and hungered to try it out.

Composed, he looked up. “Yeah great. Nice machine.”

I stroked the smooth red exterior that matched nothing else in the room. “Bought it this afternoon. This will be its first offering, so consider yourself privileged. I thought we’d have it outside since it’s cooler on the veranda,” I pointed in the general direction. “Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll bring these out in a minute.”

Tyreal headed out and stopped at my dining table. “Haven’t seen a dried floral arrangement for years.”

“It’s not a decoration. Somebody left the flowers at my door.”

“They’re dead.”

“Observant.”

“Who’d you piss off?”

I put a cup under fabulous coffee machine number four’s spout and let it do its thing. “No one. I think they’re meant to be someone’s bent sense of humor.”

“If I were to leave dead flowers for a woman, my intentions wouldn’t be to amuse her. Had a nasty breakup in the last couple of months?”

I bit my lip. “Nope. None.” Never—I’d never been in a relationship, and Luke was away doing whatever it was Luke went away to do so often so they weren’t from him. “Actually take them outside and toss them in the garden, they might as well become compost. Once I find out who left them, I’ll get my revenge.” Thing was my circle of friends weren’t the sort to find that funny. They were more the doggie doo-doo in a burning bag types.

Outside, Tyreal tossed the flowers and patted my dogs and cats. Coffee mugs and cake slices I’d bought at the local bakery on a small tray, I slid my cast under one side to balance it and shuffled carefully outside. Tyreal stood looking over the paddocks while my ducks quacked and hens excitedly cackled at him hoping for dinner. He took the tray and put it on the table.

“Nice property. Must be pleasant to come home to.”

“It is.” I’d miss it if I ever got to where I could afford to buy a bigger farm.

“How many acres?”

“Twenty-five, but I need at least two hundred and fifty. More if possible. The bigger the rescue farm the more animals saved.”

“It’s always good to plan big,” he looked at me. “Is this a rescue farm?”

“As much as it can be since the property is so small. All my animals have been saved from pounds and slaughter yards. Even my chickens are all ex-battery hens.”

We sat and slurped in silence, and both devoured a slice each before he spoke again. “Had you done any research on Clyde Owen Jones previously?”

“Just a general one to find his burial site.” Cold fingers of recollection skittered over my skin. My fingers stung with phantom memory. Dead bastard did that to me. “What did you discover about Clyde?”

Tyreal rubbed two fingers to his left temple. “Our man Clyde was the second son of a Viscount and part of the Ton. Do you know what that means?”

“Yep,” I’d seen enough of it in my treasure hunting. For the titled rich and not so rich, it provided entertainment, introductions, business opportunities, gossip, and a marriage market.

“To the Ton, Clyde the bachelor was regarded as charming and handsome, although his father was not liked and considered a violent man. Other than a Rembrandt promised to him by his father, Clyde held little wealth but still won a wife with a large dowry.” Tyreal settled back into his seat.

“Within a year of their marriage, he’d sold all her real estate assets, and together they sailed for Australia. Clyde and his wife lived in Sydney for seventeen years in various residences before they moved to Brisbane.”

“My client Claudia, said they only lived in Brisbane for three or four years before he died.”

“Apparently so. I found records of him accused of seven assaults in Brisbane and fifteen in Sydney. All seemed to have been brushed aside, so I gather he paid off the judge or the person he assaulted.” He took a sip of coffee. “How do you believe he died?”

“Horse kicked him in the head.” Probably deserved it. After groping his grave, I wanted to kick him too.

“Family fabrication. Clyde Owen Jones was murdered. Brutally. His wrists cut, heart hacked from his chest, and then as if he might resurrect himself, decapitated.”

I covered my throat with my hand and swallowed. “Jesus. That’s sick.” So Clyde found someone his equal in evil. Good score Clyde.