Grave Memory: An Alex Craft Novel (6 page)

T
he woman standing in the center of the lobby was a complete stranger, but I immediately guessed who she was. Or, at least, I knew who she was related to—the ghost standing behind her was the jumper Rianna and I had encountered last week.

“Welcome to Tongues for the Dead Investigations,” I said, stepping forward and extending my hand. “I’m Alex Craft.”

The woman, who looked to be in her late forties and very, very pregnant, tore her less than impressed gaze from studying the lobby and turned those critical eyes on me. I got the distinct impression she disapproved of my appearance even more than that of the ramshackle office. Of course, despite her swollen belly, she wore what had to be a tailor-made dress suit, complete with pearls and fat-heeled pumps that her water-bloated ankles pudged over. I, on the other hand, owned only two pairs of dress slacks and I’d already worn those this week. Today I had on a pair of hip-huggers. They were black and I’d paired them with a flattering blouse, so I thought I’d pulled off something close to business casual.

My prospective client clearly didn’t agree.

She frowned at me before releasing the death grip on
her designer purse and reaching out to give my hand a limp squeeze. Pain shot through my fingers and up my arm. If I hadn’t spent the last two months perfecting not flinching whenever I came into skin contact with someone, I would have winced. But I had practiced, and I kept my smile locked tight on my face. Still, I was thankful when she dropped my hand, even though she pulled back as if I had some disease that might be contagious.

Several months ago my body temperature had dropped significantly, so much so that the touch of someone running your typical 98.6 was uncomfortably hot against my skin. But I was accustomed to that. The pain from her touch had been deeper, sharper. I glanced at her well-manicured hand and noticed a thick ring of dull metal.

Iron.

So Tongues for the Dead’s first walk-in client was firmly anti-fae.
Great.
And wasn’t that just my luck? Of course, judging by her disapproving expression aimed at, well,
everything
, she might turn around and waddle right back out of our office. And I wasn’t sure I’d be disappointed by her doing just that. Of course, we needed the money if we were going to really fix this place up, and I definitely needed to raise a shade.

“Would you like to have a seat in my office?” I asked, taking a step to the side and gesturing toward my open door.

The woman continued to study me and Roy stepped forward, extending his own hand. “I’m Roy Pearson.”

She didn’t even glance at him, though the other ghost looked up, and on seeing Roy, shrank back a step behind his wife.

Well, that answers that question.
Whatever I’d done to Roy, I hadn’t forced him to manifest.

When the woman ignored Roy, he frowned, gave me a nod, and then stepped back, his eyes on the other ghost. Neither spoke. They watched each other warily, and I realized this was the first time I’d seen two ghosts in the same place outside of a cemetery. Ghosts were so rare, I’d never
considered that they might avoid each other intentionally or what would happen if they crossed paths—judging by the hostile glances between these two, nothing good.

“You’re very cold,” my potential client said.

I’d been so busy watching the ghosts’ interactions that I’d missed the fact she’d finished her assessment. Her expression wasn’t pleased, but apparently I’d passed, at least enough for her to finally deign to speak to me.

I shrugged off the comment but kept my face in what I hoped was a politely professional smile. “Hazard of the job.”

“Then you’re the grave witch? The one who talks to ghosts?”

My gaze flickered to the shimmering form behind her. Oh, I could talk to ghosts. But that wasn’t why people hired me. Ghosts were rare anomalies—which wasn’t properly represented at the moment as I had two in my office. But as a general rule, ghosts occurred only when something went wrong. Grave witches raised shades, which were the collective memories stored in every cell of the body given shape by magic. I didn’t bother correcting her. Instead I nodded and said, “I’m one of two investigators with the firm.”

Roy cleared his throat, clearly miffed at being left out. I ignored him as he disappeared through the door of the broom closet.

“Would you like to step into my office and discuss your case, Ms…?”

“Mrs. Kingly,” she said, but this time she walked to my office, her movements slow as she waddled with one hand supporting her belly and the other clutching her purse. The ghost followed, shiny ephemeral tear tracks evident on his cheeks. The woman tottered when her heel caught in a hole in the carpet that Rianna had used magic to disguise. The ghost threw out his arms, trying to support his wife. His hands passed through her with her none the wiser of his presence. I jumped forward, but the woman straightened before I reached her, which was probably for the best. I had the distinct impression she wouldn’t have appreciated me
touching her. She waddled the last five feet to my office, her husband haunting her wake.

If Mrs. Kingly had been less than impressed with the front room, my office didn’t do much to improve her opinion. A salvaged, battered desk took up most of the small area. It left just enough space for my chair and the two almost matching client chairs. The room wasn’t exactly cramped, but if I closed the door it would get claustrophobic fast. At least she didn’t stand there assessing the room with disapproval this time, but lowered herself awkwardly into one of the chairs. I spent half a moment wondering if I should offer some sort of help, but I didn’t know what she might need so instead I scooted around my desk and sat in my own chair.

“I assume you’re here about your husband?” I asked once we were both settled.

My client startled, her eyes flying wide before the expression turned into something that looked a lot like suspicion. Of course, she’d just walked in off the street and had no idea her dead husband was following her around. I probably should have approached the topic less directly, but I wasn’t used to dealing with clients face-to-face until after all the details of a case were worked out.

She studied me with narrowed eyes for a long moment before finally saying, “I suppose it doesn’t matter how you guessed that, but yes, I’m here about my husband, James Anderson Kingly.” She touched her belly and added, “Senior.” She paused, looking away from me. “Do you have a tissue?”

Crap, tissue. That was definitely something I should have in the office. I added it to my mental shopping list because if we had grieving family members walking in to hire us, this was unlikely to be the only time someone asked for a tissue. I shook my head to let her know I didn’t have any and noticed for the first time that under Mrs. Kingly’s perfectly applied makeup, her eyes were red from crying.

“There’s a bathroom on the other side of the lobby. I can show you to it.”

She sat there, silent, unmoving, her gaze focused on the window on the far side of the room. Then she shook her head, but she still said nothing. I didn’t push her. Her husband had just died, which didn’t excuse the chilly demeanor she’d treated me with, but it factored into the equation. Appearances were clearly important to her, and she was too proud to break down in front of a stranger, so I gave her time to collect herself, even if that meant she’d wrap herself back in that disdainful armor she’d walked in wearing. Finally she turned to me, and while her eyes were shiny as if tears could fall at any moment, the glare she speared me with was cold. Hard.
No big surprise there.

“An officer gave me your card and said that you’d told him that James didn’t kill himself,” she said, opening her purse and producing the card, which wasn’t mine, but Rianna’s. Of course, as the card had been torn into several pieces before being taped back together, the only thing legible was the name of the firm. “Can you prove that claim?” she asked. “Can you prove it wasn’t suicide?”

My gaze slid to the ghost, who’d sunk to his knees beside her and was carrying on a rambling monologue about how he loved her and their baby and how he would never have killed himself. She couldn’t hear a word of it, but I could. Not that he knew that. I looked back at his widow.

“Your husband has been quite insistent about the fact he had too much to live for and wouldn’t leave you and the baby.”

Her lips pursed and the muscles around her jaw twitched as she clenched her teeth. “Ms. Craft, I have no interest in what platitudes you think I might want to hear. I suppose next you’ll tell me you can feel my husband’s presence and he’s close by, watching over me. I shouldn’t have come here. You’re nothing more than a charlatan profiting off the grief of the weak-minded.”

It took every ounce of self-control in me not to reach out and make her husband’s ghost visible just to prove how very real my magic was. But as tightly wound as she was, I wasn’t sure what that kind of shock would do to her. She
looked about to pop, and I didn’t want to send her into premature labor because I sure as hell didn’t know how to deliver a baby. Instead I settled for saying, “I assure you that I am fully OMIH certified in grave magic.”

She gave a huff under her breath.

“What exactly is it you want me to do for you, Mrs. Kingly?” Because surely she hadn’t come to the office simply to insult me.

“The police have written off my husband’s death as a suicide. Whether you are a fraud or not, it seems the two of us are the only ones convinced he didn’t jump off that building, regardless of what witnesses saw or what evidence the police think they found. If you can truly prove that his death was…” She stopped and this time the tears that had been threatening trailed over. She flicked them away without a word and I dutifully ignored the tears.

To fill the silence while she regained her composure I said, “I can raise his shade and find out what really happened on that rooftop.” Or I could just talk to his ghost, but if she needed proof for her insurance company, only a shade’s recounting of the event would be legally sufficient. While the court system was still working out the validity of allowing shades to testify in their own murder cases, insurance companies had acknowledged the validity of shades’ claims for nearly fifteen years. A ghost could swear and promise as much as they wanted, but just like when they were living, ghosts could lie. Shades couldn’t. They were just recordings of a person’s life. If I raised James Kingly’s shade and he said he jumped, that would be the end of it. If he said he tripped, the insurance company would have to rule it an accidental death and pay out.

“Normally I would encourage you to join me at the gravesite, but I imagine your husband’s funeral was closed casket and you don’t need to remember him as he died.” Because the shade would look exactly as it had the moment the soul left it—which would have been after Kingly hit the roof of the car. I hadn’t taken a close look, but I’d seen enough to know that no one needed to see her loved one in
that condition. “You can send your lawyers and insurance reps to the graveyard to meet me—”

“This has nothing to do with insurance.” Mrs. Kingly’s words were all but a shout and if she could have shoved herself out of the chair and stomped out, she may have done so in that moment.

“I…” I caught the apology before it left my lips. I had too much fae in me to offer false regret and there was no reason to incur a debt over something like this. But I couldn’t leave the sentence at just “I” so I finished by saying, “I didn’t know.”

She could have frozen a lake with her glare. Again I wondered if she’d walk out, but after a moment she said, “And James isn’t buried. He’s still at the morgue.”

I blinked and counted backward to figure out how many days he’d been there. Medical examiners usually tried to get bodies back to their families as quickly as possible, but James had been there over a week. If the police were so certain he’d committed suicide, why wouldn’t they have released the body by now? I repeated as much aloud but Mrs. Kingly gave me only a grim shake of her head.

“I’ve called in every favor and used every bit of influence my family has to encourage the police to investigate James’s death, but despite everything—even my threat to not donate to the annual police ball this year—they are still releasing his body to Sweet Rest Funeral Home tomorrow. His body can’t be allowed to leave the morgue. If it does, they’ll never prove he was murdered.”

“Murdered?” I was assuming there had been an accident. I’d certainly seen no sign the man had been murdered. Granted, I hadn’t arrived until after he hit the car, but the police had looked into the matter. If there were indications someone had pushed him over the edge of that building, they’d have continued looking into the case. “You’re convinced it was murder?”

“There is no other explanation.”

I disagreed but kept my mouth closed.

“James shouldn’t have been on that roof, and he
shouldn’t have been anywhere near the Magic Quarter. We’re Humans First Party. We don’t support magic or its practitioners.” She lifted her chin, as if daring me to say anything about that last bit of information.

I almost groaned, but I should have guessed she supported the Humans First Party, an anti-fae/anti-witch political group. The ring, the attitude—it all made sense. Except that she was here. And one other thing.

“Do you know what a sensitive is, Mrs. Kingly?”

She gave a sharp shake of her head, but the fact she didn’t meet my eyes betrayed the lie. Not that it mattered.

“A sensitive is someone who can feel magic,” I said, and not only did she continue to avoid my eyes but a flush of color filled her cheeks. I continued: “As well as being a grave witch, I’m a sensitive, which means I can feel the charm you’re wearing. It’s a good one. A medicinal grade charm to help with your pregnancy, if I’m not mistaken.”

She didn’t try to deny it, nor did she lift her gaze.

“You look very young, Ms. Craft.” She wrapped her arms under her belly as if cradling the child within. “James and I were so focused on our careers when we were younger, we didn’t even think about starting a family until I was in my late thirties. We were established then. It seemed like the perfect time. But we had trouble conceiving, and once we did…” She paused as the words caught in her throat. “I miscarried. Twice. When we got pregnant a third time, we decided to give this baby the best chance we could. That’s the only reason we turned to magic.”