The Trouble with Twelfth Grave (Charley Davidson #12)(69)

What she decided on had me both perplexed and in agony. She pushed her cart to the other side of the car, the side opposite me, and took out her phone. She pushed a few buttons as the G-men looked on, then she put it on top of the pile in the cart, turned to the lamppost and proceeded to use it as a stripper pole to preform a striptease.

When she flashed them a quick glimpse of a bra-clad Pico, I doubled over so fast I slammed my forehead into the steering wheel. It didn’t matter. I was dying.

I clung to the steering wheel but could barely watch her through the tears. She was going to kill me for not leaving immediately, but how could I? I would never forgive myself for missing the show.

She ripped a ragged scarf off her shoulders and spun it in a circle, then lifted the hem of her housecoat to reveal a shapely ankle and calf seconds before she wrapped it around the pole and blew the boys a kiss.

The men were transfixed. As was I.

I scrambled to find the video setting on my phone through the blur of my tear-filled vision when another knock sounded on the window. I sobered and rolled it down.

Uncle Bob stood beside the car, his expression grave and slightly horrified. “What the fuck is my wife doing?”

Before I could explain, Cookie jutted out a hip and slapped a hand onto it. I doubled over again and fell across the console in helplessness. “You have to record her,” I said between gasps and laughter.

I crawled back up again just as she did a sexy spin, taking the opportunity to glare at me from over her shoulder. That was when she saw her husband. She stilled and I knew if I didn’t get out of there, I wasn’t going to.

Without explanation, I turned over the car engine and sped down the alley to Silver, leaving a confused and slightly disturbed uncle Bob in my wake.

*

I hauled ass to the Chuck E. Cheese on Wyoming, giggling like a maniac, and scoured every nook and cranny of the establishment. No departed, save one. Unfortunately, I wasn’t looking for a middle-aged woman in a tube top and biker chaps. So, I got back into Cookie’s bat mobile and headed to the west side.

To my great joy, most of the rush-hour traffic had dissipated, so the drive only took about twenty minutes. I threw Peanut—I’d named her on the way over—into park and rushed inside. It didn’t take me long to spot them. Just like Strawberry said, Rocket stood hovering over the Whac-A-Mole. At the moment, however, no one was playing the game. With a heavy sigh, he turned and sat on the edge, his posture downtrodden, the poor thing sad and despondent.

The moment he saw me, however, he brightened. “Miss Charlotte!” He ran toward me, and there was nothing to be done about it. He threw his arms around me and lifted me off the ground.

Thankfully, only a couple of children saw me floating in midair. And if they told their parents, they’d never believe them, poor things.

As I was being hefted off the ground, I looked over and saw the girls. Blue and Strawberry, bless their hearts, were riding a carousel in the back corner, laughing and having the best time. Had I known all it would take was a carousel for Blue to come out of her shell, I would’ve bought one eons ago.

“Miss Charlotte,” Rocket said, putting me back on solid ground at last. “Did you come to play Whac-A-Mole?”

I laughed softly. “No, sweetheart. I need a name.”

“But it’s really fun.”

“I need a priest’s name. He just entered this plane.”

He frowned and lowered his head. “That’s breaking rules, Miss Charlotte. No breaking rules.”

“Rocket,” I said, putting my hand on his arm, partly for reassurance and partly because I couldn’t have him disappearing on me. “The priest lived a long time ago and just reentered this plane from another one. I need his name.”

He tried to step away from me. I didn’t let him.

“No breaking rules, Miss Charlotte. You know that.”

I stepped very close to him, ignoring the kids with gaping mouths who watched me talk to invisible people. “I am ordering you to break the rules, Rocket. Just this once.”

He looked to the side, his expression full of worry. Blue stood beside him. She took his hand and nodded, her short, dark bob swaying with the movement.

She beckoned him with a tiny index finger, and he knelt down to her. I knelt, too, unwilling to miss this chance. If I lost Rocket, it could take days to find him again. Summoning him only upset his already addled brain, and getting information out of the Rocket Man when he was upset was never easy.

Rocket leaned toward Blue, and she whispered in his ear. He looked up at me and said, “Father Arneo de Piedrayta.”

“What? That’s his name?” Stunned, I took out my phone and typed the name in phonetically, no clue how to spell it. “How did you…?”

Blue smiled and popped back on the carousel with Strawberry.

Rocket stood and grinned down at me. “Blue said just this once.”

“Rocket, does Blue always help you keep track of the names?”

“No,” he said with a laugh. “I don’t know the names. Only Blue does. She whispers them to me, and I write them down. That’s my job. I write the names on the walls for her.”

I stood so taken aback, Rocket grew bored and went back to the Whac-A-Mole. But I couldn’t drop it. I walked over to him, annoying a kid who was finally playing the game to Rocket’s delight.