Eleventh Grave in Moonlight (Charley Davidson #11)(20)

“Salespeople aren’t supposed to come to the front desk during business hours. What was your name again?”

I held out my hand. “Buffy. Buffy Summers-s-s-sault.” I seriously had to quit watching Joss Whedon reruns.

“And you work for?”

“Malcolm Reynolds? Maybe you’ve heard of him? He owns Serenity Office Supply?”

Holy crap on a crack pipe, I was usually better at this. It was her reaction to me. She either knew who I was or … or what? Knew what I was? But how could she? Shawn could see my light. Could she as well? Was it a family thing? But he wasn’t even her biological son. I didn’t get it.

Or maybe she knew Shawn had hired me, which would make a lot more sense. I’d have to warn him.

“Okay, well, I think we’re pretty happy with our copier. Do you have a card, though? Just in case?”

“Yes.” I nodded to emphasize the fact that, indeed, I most definitely had a card. Just not on me. “Yes, I do. In my car.”

“How about a brochure?”

“Yep.” I nodded again. “In my car as well. I seemed to have forgotten everything.” I knocked on my head to make sure it was still attached. “Still there,” I said with a nervous laugh.

The entire time we spoke, the receptionist’s jaw dropped in increments until her mouth hung open at an odd angle. Add a little drool dripping down one side of her chin, and I was right there with her. Idiot. Of the blithering sort.

“You know what? I’ll go get our extra-special promo pack with all my information and be right back.”

Mrs. Foster inclined her head as though agreeing that might be best, but she reminded me of a duck. Or that saying about a duck where it’s just chilling on the surface, all calm and collected, but underneath the water it’s paddling its little webbed feet like crazy. She looked cool on the outside, but her insides were churning like a gathering storm.

I took off before I could do any more damage. So much for stealth. I only hoped she wouldn’t connect any of the dots. Shawn had come to me, after all. Unless he told her of his pursuit, she couldn’t know. I crossed my fingers just in case the act really did have some magical ability to bring one luck.

The look on my husband’s face when I stepped off the elevator, however, would suggest otherwise.





6

A lot of people are only alive because I shed too much hair to ever get away with murder.





—MEME


I stepped off the elevator into the parking garage and stopped short as I spotted my husband leaning against a concrete column about fifty feet from me. But he graced me with only a quick glance. I could feel his anger from where I stood. I’d been having problems lately deciphering his emotions, he was so tightly wound, but there was no mistaking the quiet rage pulsing around him.

He was angry about my investigation. Well, he’d just have to get over it. I raised my chin and started toward Misery. That’s when I noticed what he was glaring at, and my apprehension eased. A bit. He stood between me and an angel.

I considered walking over to him, but he shook his head and said softly, “Go.”

He didn’t need to tell me twice.

I hoofed it to my bright red Jeep, but when I got in, I propped my head against the steering wheel and just sat there. What the hell just happened in that doctor’s office? I was normally so cool under pressure. Buffy Summersault? If I’d just risked the safety of one of my clients, I’d never forgive myself. Shawn had come to me in the strictest of confidences. It didn’t get much more delicate than investigating your own parents for child abduction. What would they do if they found out he knew?

When I looked back at Reyes, he’d shifted his attention from the angel and onto Mrs. Foster. She rushed out of a side door and hurried to a gold Prius, her movements harried, her expression lined with worry.

“And just where might you be going?” I asked no one in particular.

I turned the key, but the moment I threw Misery into drive to follow the nice kidnapper, a knock sounded on my window. My heart jumped into my throat. I turned to see the receptionist motioning me to roll the window down.

“Hey.” I couldn’t help but notice the stiff line of her mouth.

“You upset Eve,” she said.

“Yeah.” I watched as the taillights of the Prius disappeared around a corner. “Sorry about that.”

“You don’t really sell copiers, do you?”

“Sure I do. I have a card right—”

I looked around Misery, ignoring the smirk my thirteen-year-old investigator sent me from the passenger’s side. Artemis bounced up in the backseat when Angel popped in, whining in excitement, her stubby tail wagging at the speed of light.

I understood. That was often my reaction when Reyes appeared.

Angel reached back and rubbed her ears, before nodding toward the actual angel loitering in the dark garage, and asking, “What’s with all the angels?”

“Oh,” the receptionist said. “Okay. Sorry.” She started to turn. I was clearly about to lose a lead. Her demeanor was one of concern and apprehension, not triumph for having busted me for fraud.

“Okay,” I said, stopping her. “I don’t sell copiers.” I let it go there. If she had something to say, she would. If not …