The Trouble with Twelfth Grave (Charley Davidson #12)(11)

“Oh, good. I didn’t want to interrupt anything.”

“That’s thoughtful of you.” I put on a robe, made sure I looked presentable-ish, and said, “Come on in, pumpkin.”

She walked in, chipper as ever, her long, dark hair pulled back in a messy bun, her huge blue eyes bright and crystal clear. She waved steam away, gave me a hug, then closed the toilet lid, a.k.a. Curly—the toilet, not the lid—and sat on it.

“What’s up?”

“Well, I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about what you do.”

“Oh, cool. Are you writing a paper for school?”

“No. And I’m only admitting that because you can tell if I’m lying.”

I perched a hip against the sink, crossed my arms, and faced her. “I appreciate your candor.”

“Thanks. I think. So, if you had to solve a case where someone was stealing something, like, say, office supplies, what would you do first?”

“Okay, is this for a story you’re writing?”

“Nope.”

“What about just idle curiosity?”

“Not that, either.”

“Care to tell me what this is about?”

She drew in a long, melodramatic breath. “You’ll just tell me not to do it.”

“How do you know? I might be totally encouraging.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Amber Olivia Kowalski.”

“Okay, Quentin and I are opening our own detective agency, and we are starting with a case at the School for the Deaf. Someone is stealing office supplies, and we’re going to figure out who.”

Quentin was an adorable sixteen-year-old with shoulder-length blond hair and a smile that rivaled the beauty of a New Mexican sunset. He was very sensitive to the supernatural world. He could see the departed and demons, and he was one of the few people alive who could see my light.

His gift was one in a million. Literally. Many people were sensitive in that they could see a clear smoke or a blur when a departed was around, or they could feel a cold spot or hear a moan. But Quentin could actually see the departed, body and soul. He would’ve been able to communicate with them more if he hadn’t been born deaf.

He attended the New Mexico School for the Deaf in Santa Fe, and Amber was hoping to join him next year if Cookie agreed and the school approved her application. It was hard to get a hearing student into NMSD without a blood relative enrolled, but they loved Amber, and she was on campus at least two or three times a week. She was becoming Deaf—capital D, as in culturally—more and more every day. And her mo—

Wait. Did she say detective agency?

I stood in shock for a solid minute before remembering I’d said I’d be encouraging. “Your own detective agency?”

“Yep.”

“Wow. I’m not entirely certain, but I think I’m flattered.”

“Really?” she asked, turning her frown upside down.

“Wait, let me think about it.” I held up a finger as I pondered the situation. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I am. But the answer is no.”

Her shoulder deflated. “See? I told you.”

I giggled, walked over to her, and kissed her head. “Just kidding.”

She brightened again. Her moods were comparable to someone switching the sun on and off, she wore them so overtly.

“Aunt Charley.” She pretended to reprimand me, but teasing her was kind of an aunt’s job. “So, you’ll help us?”

The thought of Amber and Quentin opening their own detective agency was both the cutest thing I’d ever heard and one of the scariest. Adorable? Yes. Dangerous? Considering my world, also yes.

“I’ll help you help yourself.”

“Um, okay. Can’t you just go there, ask who did it, test the emotions of everyone you ask, and tell us who the thief is?”

“No.” I went back to towel-drying my hair.

“Is this going to be one of those life-lesson things? ’Cause they don’t really work when you’re around. Nobody compares to you, so it’s not fair.”

I tossed my wet hair back and gave her my best impression of a dead pan. “Is this going to be one of those guilt trip things? ’Cause they don’t really work when I’m around. I can sense insincerity, remember?”

She pinched her mouth together, then propped an elbow on a knee and her chin in her palm. “Mom is so much easier to con than you.”

I stuck a toothbrush in my mouth and worked up a good lather. “Honey,” I said through the foam, “everyone on planet Earth is easier to con than I am. You’re fighting an impossible battle.”

“Okay, then, what should we do? We can’t figure it out. We’ve tried and tried and tried.”

“Did you find out who has access to the supply room?”

“Well, no,” she said, thoughtful.

“Okay, well, that’s where I’d start. Find out who has access, then eliminate those people one by one by checking their alibis until you have a viable suspect.”

“Yes. That’s what we need. A viable suspect.”

She braced her phone against a tissue box, hit RECORD, and began signing everything I’d just told her. She stopped and asked, “How do you say viable?”