“Don’t even think about sneaking into Mudder Brothers, Violet.” He squeezed my leg to emphasize his point. “There are legitimate ways of finding out what’s in their records that don’t end with you behind bars.”

  “Fine.” I parked behind the hotel, climbing out before the Picklemobile stopped sputtering. “Stop reading my mind,” I said and slammed the door shut.

  His chuckles were drowned out by the Picklemobile’s echoing boom!

  He caught up with me, matching my stride.

  “I need a name, Doc. I have to have something to call out during this channeling gig besides ‘Hey, you, ghost prostitute chick.’”

  Doc beat me to the door, holding it open. “Pick a name. Any will work. If we find out her real name eventually, you can just claim to have been using her alias.”

  Any name? That seemed so detached, so cold. She’d been a living, breathing girl with hopes and dreams, somebody’s child.

  I stalled mid-casino. The rings and dings from the slot machines faded into the background. Wait. That was assuming I believed she’d really existed. That ghosts really existed. Did I believe that? Doc hadn’t found any proof of her to back up his claim. True, but he had with Prudence—a picture even. Right, but … .

  “What’s wrong?” Doc said in my ear, his voice pulling me out of my spiral of doubts. The casino sounds flooded back in a rush of noise. “Did you forget something in the truck?”

  Shaking my head, I made a beeline for the stairs, trying not to think too hard the whole way there. I beat Doc to the stairwell door and waited for him to close the door behind us.

  Inside the stairwell, he sniffed, frowning up at the three levels of stairs.

  I knew better than to sniff. It would smell only like a musty old stairwell.

  “You sure you’re ready for this?” I whispered.

  “As ready as I can be. Why are you whispering?”

  “I don’t know,” I still whispered.

  “You whisper in my stairwell, too.” His smile took a smoldering turn. “You also moan and cry out my name.” He grabbed my arm, tugging me toward him. His eyes held devilish promises.

  Temptation beckoned like a house made of candy in the middle of a dark forest. I resisted, pulling free. “Doc, not here.”

  “I warned you, Boots. You do things to me.”

  “Even now? Here?”

  He nodded. “Most of the time, especially at night.”

  That had to be something to hope for future-wise, right? Or was I grasping at straws? I turned and led the way up the stairs before I gave in to Doc and agreed to spend the rest of my life peeling grapes for him and fanning him with palm fronds.

  At the top he said, “Hold up a minute.”

  “What’s wrong? Do you smell her again?”

  “No.” He caught my hand, staring down at me with a very serious expression. “Listen, Violet, no matter what happens in there, I need you not to worry about me out loud.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Don’t ask me if I smell anything, don’t check to see if I’m feeling okay, don’t draw any attention to me no matter how pale or shaky I get.”

  “What if you pass out?”

  “I won’t.”

  “You have before.”

  “True, but the whole reason we came by earlier was so that I could prepare for tonight. Now that I know what I’m dealing with, I can keep her at bay.” He squeezed my hand. “Are you ready?”

  I could have used a shot of tequila first, but, “As ready as I can get.”

  We made it to Cornelius’s room without a hitch—or a ghost. A glance up at Doc as I knocked on the door gave me a breath of hope. His skin looked tan as usual, his eyes were bright and assessing, his face relaxed and unstrained.

  Here we go.

  The door opened and Safari Skipper beamed at me. She smelled like bubblegum. How appropriate. “Hi, Ms. Parker.”

  Her resemblance to the plastic doll still made me stare. It was a bit eerie, really.

  She stood back to let us enter, smiling up at Doc. “Hi, Ms. Parker’s friend.”

  Tonight, Skipper wore silver, from her sparkly heels to her hair band, she looked like a Christmas tree ornament. Her biker boyfriend kept with the leather and chains motif he’d used previously for spirit calling.

  “Hey, babe,” Skipper’s boyfriend called out to me from the kitchen as she closed the door behind us.

  Babe? Apparently I’d missed the moment at the last séance when I’d moved from being a stranger to one of his women. It must have happened while I was sleeping.

  Doc’s hand on my lower back nudged me further into the room.

  Just as before, a single candle sat in the center of the table, the electronics hummed, and the host was one horn short. Thing 1 and Thing 2 were missing in action, though. The place was much darker, too. The candle was the only source of light besides the glow from the electronics.

  Cornelius looked up from his laptop long enough to notice I brought company. “Violet, you brought your friend again.”

  “This is Doc Nyce.” I made introductions this time since Doc planned on sticking around. “Doc, meet Cornelius.”

  Eye contact and nods took the place of a hand shake.

  “Are you a believer in ghosts?” Cornelius asked Doc.

  “I’ve had some brushes with the paranormal,” Doc answered.

  Brushes? I started to scoff and turned it into a cough. “S’cuse me.”

  Doc shot me a warning frown.

  “Well, tonight, you’re in for an amazing treat. Violet is a talented conduit.”

  Cornelius advertised me like the sideshow freak I’d become.

  “Her talents and treats often amaze me,” Doc said with a wide grin, and then grunted when I elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Where do you want us?” I asked. The ottoman I’d tripped over last time was missing. I hoped the same could be said of Wolfgang and Kyrkozz.

  Doc sniffed behind me, twice.

  I almost looked back at him, but remembered his pointed stairwell speech and kept my focus on Cornelius’s stupid horn. I couldn’t wait for tonight to be in my rearview mirror.

  “We’re all going to sit around the table,” Skipper told us, playing hostess and pulling out chairs.

  “Who’s going to monitor the video equipment?” I asked.

  “Nobody. Several more pieces of my equipment came in today. I could practically do this on my own now.”

  I wished he would.

  Cornelius indicated for us to sit across from him.

  Doc waited for me to sit, holding my chair, and then settled himself into the seat next to mine. He squeezed my thigh under the table, reassuring me with his touch.

  Pushing a pad of drawing paper over to me and a black marker, Cornelius pointed at the pad. “Tonight, we’re all going to watch as you channel another ghost, Violet.”

  “Groovy.” Shit. Not only was I going to have to perform, I would be under a microscope at the same time. I really could use a shot of tequila to grease my channeling gears. I needed to think up a damned name, too.

  Doc sniffed again.

  I frowned down at the paper, wondering if anyone would be up for a game of hangman instead.

  “Take your seats,” Cornelius instructed Skipper and her biker dude. “It’s time. I can hear the whispers in the walls growing louder.”

  I trembled, every muscle in my body anxious to jump up and race from the room.

  Doc’s grip tightened on my leg. “Relax,” he said for my ears only.

  Relax? Ha! I was starring in a fucking séance, for crissake. If I couldn’t fake out Cornelius, I was going to lose my job. My breath turned to quick pants, my cheeks warm. Shit, shit, shit.

  Doc’s fingers crawled up the inside of my thigh, heading straight for the mother lode. What was he doing? I clamped my thighs together, blocking his spelunking attempt, and shot him an are-you-kidding-me glare.

  The lack of lust in his eyes clued me. He was trying to pull me back from the edge before my panic shoved me off the cliff.

  Breathe, he mouthed, and then lifted his chin and breathed deeply, giving me an example.

  I followed his lead, taking one breath after another until I felt sanity grab the reins again.

  Okay. I could do this. I picked up the marker and wrote a tiny note for Doc: One ghost coming up.

  He took the marker from me, scribbled something, and then turned the paper back to me.

  I leaned over, squinting in the candlelight at his scrawls.

  She’s already here.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The thing about séances was that a belief in the supernatural sort of greased the wheels in rounding up some dead participants.

  I peeked out from under my closed eyelids, checking to see if any of my cohorts were watching me. Surprise, surprise, they all were, including Doc. I growled in my throat. Damn it, faking this would be much easier if nobody was watching me.

  I frowned at them in turn. “Aren’t you all supposed to close your eyes and say “Ohhmmmm”?

  “Like we do in my meditation class?” Skipper asked in her chipper voice.

  My gaze narrowed on her. “Yeah, sure. That’s how I roll when it comes to channeling. Now close your eyes.” I looked around the table. “All of you, close them, now.”

  They listened, including Doc. Miracles did happen.

  “Now say ‘om.’” I ordered.

  The room hummed with their voices.

  That was more like it. I cleared my throat. Here went nothing. “If there is a ghost in this room, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  Nice one, bonehead! Well, it worked for weddings, so why not séances?

  Doc’s “ommm” paused, his lips twitching, his chest shaking in silent laughter.

  I reached under the table and pinched his hand, which still warmed my thigh.

  “Do you hear anything yet, Cornelius?” I asked, willing him to say he did and put an end to my misery.

  His one-horned helmet shook side-to-side. “Patience, Violet. Just do what you did last time.”

  What? Fall asleep? Fat chance.

  Wait! I remembered something from before. “Cornelius, you need to chant.”

  Without further prodding, he obeyed, his rhythmic words barely audible over the group’s low humming.

  I let him work his magic for a handful of seconds, then cleared my throat and said to the ceiling in what I hoped was a medium-like voice, “If you are here, please tell me your name.”

  “Butch,” the biker dude answered.

  “I was talking to the ghost,” I said dryly.

  “Sorry, babe.”

  Doc’s laughter vibrations spread to his hand. I could see him struggling to keep his lips straight.

  The chanting continued from Cornelius. Skipper was doing a bang-up job on the “oms,” too.

  After counting to ten, I tried again. “Would you like to tell us how you died?”

  I really didn’t want to hear that, not if it happened as Doc told me, but I doubted the prostitute felt like giving me her list for Santa.

  “Is it a man or woman?” Skipper broke her meditation to ask.

  If she’d been within flicking reach, I would have started with her perky little nose. “Are you a man or woman?” I asked the ceiling.

  Cornelius’ chanting cranked up a notch. He was really getting into it now, rocking with the beat.

  “What did it say?” Skipper asked, her eyes still closed like an obedient séance groupie.

  “It’s a girl,” I lied … well, kind of. Doc did write that she was here.

  “Make her tell us her name.” Skipper pushed.

  “Will you please tell us your name?” I figured it was nicer to ask than demand.

  Skipper gave the ghost all of two heartbeats to answer. “What did she say?”

  “Hold on,” I told her. Sheesh, give the prostitute time to get back with me. Then I remembered I was making all of this crap up. Oh, right. I got back into character and picked up the marker. “She’s going to speak through my hand,” I decided.

  Doc raised his brow, which I noticed was glistening, so was his upper lip. The heat coming from the vanilla-scented candle didn’t warrant perspiration. Why was he sweating? Was his ghost-girl messing with him?

  The rest of the group kept omming and chanting.

  I scribbled gibberish on the papers, flipping through them like I’d seen mediums do in many movies. Then I lowered my head and pretended to be taken over by the presence in the room in case anyone was peeking.

  I needed a name, damn it.

  Think, think, think.

  My brain flipped through the names of soiled doves I’d heard over the years in rolodex fashion. They were all so cliché. Finally, a name popped into my head. I wrote it down in a cursive scribble.

  “What does it say?” Butch the biker dude whispered.

  Skipper leaned over the table and read my writing upside-down. “It looks like Big Lisp Sally.”

  “Big Lips Lolly,” I corrected, watching for Cornelius’s reaction. He paused for a couple of my racing heartbeats, then nodded as if agreeing with my name choice and returned to his chanting.

  Doc, on the other hand, suffered from a tickled funny bone. He masked the laughter lining his face behind both of his hands, but his wheezes shook his whole body.

  I kicked his foot with the side of my boot. He was going to blow this for me, and I didn’t need any more help—I was doing a fine job of screwing it up on my own.

  “How did she die?” Skipper asked as she sat back in her seat.

  Who was running this show, anyway? I hit her with a flat stare since I didn’t have a cast-iron skillet handy. “Your questions are causing a disturbance in the Force. I need your oms.”

  Doc coughed, apparently choking on his laughter.

  “Oh, yeah, sorry.” She returned to her closed-eye meditation routine.

  When Doc sobered enough to stop hiding behind his hands, his hot palm returned to my thigh.

  I glanced at him, and then did a double take, frowning as I watched a drip of sweat roll down from his temple. Oh, crap. His breaths were deep and rhythmic, as if he was busy with a little meditation of his own.

  Leaning toward him, I murmured, “Doc?” in his ear. I remembered his earlier don’t-ask instructions, but I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t like to see him suffering for my sake.

  A gentle squeeze and brief nod from him encouraged me to continue.

  With the marker back in my fingers, I asked the ceiling, “Will you tell us how you died?”

  I scribbled for a moment, then wrote: murdered, and shoved the paper into the center of the table for others to read.

  Skipper gasped. She was eating out of my hands now.

  Hiding my small smile of triumph, I asked, “Do you know who your killer was?”

  Scribble, scribble, then: Two men.

  “Oh, how horrible,” she whispered, gaping across the table at her boyfriend. Butch mirrored her expression.

  Cornelius didn’t even seem to know we were there, anymore. He appeared totally lost in his chant-a-thon.

  I checked on Doc and my chest tightened. His face looked gaunt, his skin now coated with sweat, his Adam’s apple bobbing like he was gulping down air as fast as he could.

  Oh, hell. I knew those signs too well. He was one big sinking ship, hull-ripping explosions and all. I needed to keep going, keep distracting, keep the band playing as he went under. I licked my lips. “Do you know why they killed you?” I asked the ghost.

  Scribble.

  Teeth.

  God, that looked totally stupid on paper, even if it had an element of truth to it.

  “She must have had gold teeth,” Skipper surmised.

  I stole a glance at Doc out of the corner of my eyes. The tendons in his neck were visible, his jaw clenched.

  My jaw tightened, too, my angst mushrooming. What if he … ? Keep on track! “Where did they bury you?” I asked.

  Good question. One I wanted to ask George Mudder to see if he had an answer for me.

  Scribble. Under the—

  I gasped as Doc’s hand squeezed my thigh hard, bruising. I tore at his hand, which seemed to have a mind of its own. Prying one finger from my muscle at a time, I freed my leg. My thigh throbbed in complaint.

  A glance at Doc turned into a gaping double-take. His eyes were squeezed tight, his body quaking and shuddering, locked in the midst of convulsion. The intensity of his reaction was unprecedented. My adrenaline cranked up in response, my breaths coming faster, matching his.

  Fuck! What could I do? How could I help him? If I didn’t do something, his struggle to maintain control would tear him apart.

  My gaze darted around the table. Nobody had noticed him yet, but they would as soon as they opened their eyes. I had to cover for him and quick. Talking to the ghost wasn’t going to cut it. Smoke and mirrors would have been handy. So would a big tarp to hide him under.

  “Keep oming,” I ordered to buy me some time.

  I needed to pull Doc out of this, like I had earlier this afternoon in the stairwell. Wincing for his sake, I reached over and pinched him hard on the back of his arm.

  His jerking grew more visible, more violent.

  Yikes! I pinched his thigh, twisting a little to add more oomph.

  He listed away from me.

  No, no, no. I caught him before he slumped off his chair and tugged him back upright.

  He groaned loudly.

  Ack!!

  I mimicked his groan to fool the others and poked him hard in the ribs.

  Nothing, not a single reaction to me.

  ARGHHH! It was a matter of seconds before Skipper opened her big blue eyes again; I just knew it.

  He jerked hard, his knee slamming into the table leg, moving the whole table to the right.

  “Was that the gh—” Skipper started.

  Before she could finish, I did the only thing I could think to do. In one combined move, I clocked Doc with my elbow, nailing him in the cheek with enough force that his chair toppled backwards. Then I screamed and threw myself face-down across him.

  He grunted as my knee jabbed into his thigh. My hip landed on his gut, pushing an “Oof” from his lips.

  As falls go, it wouldn’t go down as one of my most graceful cinematic moments. It could have been choreographed a little better with some rehearsal and a bit of participation from Doc, who lay there, crushed under my weight on the floor until Butch lifted me off of him.