Dead Suite (6 page)

“You were discussing murders with my four-month-old son?”

“He didn’t seem to mind.” Sadie turned to the Thingvolds. “So you can keep one hundred
percent of your take on this job, because I’m really not interested in doing . . .
whatever it is that you plan on doing here.” She put fingers to her temples and rubbed.
“Besides, I’m getting a headache.”

“That’s an interesting necklace,” Rick said. He got up from his chair and walked toward
Sadie. He pulled the pendant away from her chest and rubbed the smooth, round disc
in his fingers. “It’s old too.” Turning it over, he squinted. “What’s the Latin on
the back mean?”

“I got it from a client who couldn’t afford to pay.” Sadie tucked the necklace inside
her shirt. “He said the words were some kind of good-luck thing. It’s a rabbit’s foot
and four-leaf clover rolled into one.”

“Well, a little good luck is always a good thing.” Rick nodded but frowned when he
said it, like he didn’t believe it himself.

“Well, you guys have fun. I’m out of here.” Sadie turned on her heel and began to
walk back down the hall.

“But you were specially requested. Invited even,” Rosemary called out to her back.

Sadie stopped and looked over her shoulder. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s probably best that we just show her,” Maeva said. “Besides, I’d like to see
it too.”

The Thingvolds shared a look and then agreed.

“We didn’t want to scare you away but since you’re determined to leave anyway. . . .”
Rosemary shrugged. “It’s upstairs.”

Rosemary led the way up the stairs to the second level of the old house. Everyone
followed and, at the end of the hall, they opened a bedroom door and stepped inside.

The room was so cold they could see their breath, but that wasn’t what caught Sadie’s
attention. In huge letters, each two feet high, were two words scrawled in a red paint
that looked like blood.

Chapter 3

Sadie became aware that her head was spinning. She braced herself against a wall but
it didn’t help. The room tilted and swayed before going to black.

Seconds later, she opened her eyes to a frantic wailing of “Psychic down! Psychic
down!”

Sadie was on the floor looking up at Rosemary and Rick while Maeva bounced around
the room shrieking hysterically and sounding much like a squirrel on crack.

“Shut up,” Sadie growled.

“Give her room,” Rosemary said.

“Are you okay?” Maeva asked.

“Wha . . . what happened?” Sadie asked, lifting herself up on her elbows.

“You fainted.” The reply came from a deep baritone voice and Sadie’s gaze searched
the group for the source. She fixed her eyes on an extremely sexy man standing in
the doorway. “It was quite dramatic. Very Scarlett O’Hara of you.”

Sadie struggled to her feet, blushing from her scalp to her sock-clad feet.

“I’m glad to entertain you.” Sadie scrambled to her feet. “Who are you?”

“This is Owen Sorkin. He’s one of the owners of the house who hired us,” Rosemary
said. “Owen, I’d like you to meet—”

“Let me guess.” He offered a crooked smile and pointed his thumb behind him toward
the bedroom wall. “You must be Sadie. When Rosemary said she and Rick knew who this
graffitied mess was talking about and said they were going to deal with it tonight,
I just had to stop by and see for myself.” He stuffed his hands into the front pockets
of his jeans and chuckled. “I figured they’d catch a couple teenagers with spray paint.
I didn’t expect to find a pretty woman dramatically fainting on the bedroom floor.”

Sadie blushed to an even deeper shade and smoothed the front of her T-shirt.

“Are you okay? Your color isn’t good,” Maeva said to Sadie. Then she pointed a finger
at Rosemary and growled, “Put down your phone. We don’t need you tweeting every goddamned
catastrophe and event!”

“It’s good for business,” Rosemary said, but she reluctantly pocketed her phone.

“I need to go,” Sadie said. She took long, determined strides. Owen Sorkin stepped
aside to allow her through the bedroom door and she kept right on going down the stairs
to the front door.

“Hold on a second!” Rick shouted after her. “We need your help with this situation!”

Sadie paused to stuff her feet into her Nikes. The rest of the gang followed down
the stairs and watched her.

“Well, are you coming, or do you want to get a ride with Rick and Rosemary?” she asked
Maeva.

“But it’s not even eleven.” She pouted. “I’ve got another hour before I have to go
home.”

Owen Sorkin remained a few steps up on the stairs and leaned casually against the
wall. He seemed to be regarding the entire situation—purple flamboyant Maeva, tattooed
and pierced Thingvolds, and fainting Sadie—with complete amusement.

“I don’t care if it’s only eleven,” Sadie said. “I’m not sticking around just for
everyone’s entertainment.”

She directed the last part at Owen’s smarmy grin, which, at her comment, broke into
a beaming movie-star smile boasting perfect teeth.

“Don’t leave on my account,” he said. “I’m just here as a curious observer.”

Sadie stormed out the front door and strode angrily down the stone steps toward her
car. A light drizzle had fallen and coated the dimly lit path with a fine, slick mist.
When Sadie reached the last step her feet went out from under her and she landed with
a painful thud on her ass.

“Are you okay?” Owen asked. Much to her dismay, Owen Sorkin had exited the door after
her and witnessed the entire thing. He rushed to her side as she was struggling to
her feet and, with hands under her armpits, he hoisted her effortlessly to her feet.
“Do you always have this much trouble standing upright?” he joked, offering a steadying
grip on her shoulders.

Sadie pushed his hands off her and turned to face him. “Do. Not. Touch. Me,” she said
in a seething hiss between her teeth.

“Sorry.” His hands went up in a motion of surrender. “Thought I was helping.”

She stomped over to her car and pressed the key fob to unlock the door, but Owen was
right there and opened the door for her. Sadie glared at him.

“Sorry again,” he said but didn’t look the least bit apologetic. “My mother raised
me to open doors for ladies.”

When she climbed behind the wheel and tried to close the door he still had it in his
grip and it didn’t budge.

“Look, obviously we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. Let’s start over.” He stuck out
his hand. “I’m Owen Sorkin. Owner of haunted real estate and apparent asshat and jerk.”

Sadie felt some of her anger dissipate.

“I’m Sadie Novak. Friend of Madam Maeva’s psychic friends and apparent overreactor.”
She took his hand for a quick shake, but his grip lingered and she felt herself begin
to blush again.

“I’m sorry I offended you,” he said. His voice was low and sexy and he still had her
hand in his. “I have a hard time believing everything going on inside this house is
somehow ghost-related, and I keep feeling like I’m the butt of some elaborate joke.”
He released her hand and used his fingers to comb through his spiky blond hair in
a sheepish look.

“I’m sure if it is about ghosts, then you’ve got the right people. Madam Maeva is
very qualified. Now, if you don’t mind . . .” She pointed to his other hand that still
held her door, but he pretended not to notice.

“My partner on this house insisted on calling Madam Maeva’s when we kept losing renovation
workers. She told me she’d heard all about them at some convention or another. Next
thing I knew she hired Mr. and Mrs. Thingvold. Truthfully, if I’d met them first,
well, I probably wouldn’t’ve given them a cent.”

Sadie didn’t argue. The piercings and tattoos were a lot to handle if you weren’t
prepared.

“If it’s a spiritual problem and not kids breaking into your house to smoke weed and
spray-paint, then you’ve got the right people,” Sadie repeated.

“My partner and I were here last night and saw the painted wall, but Rosemary assured
us that she knew the Sadie the spirit wanted. Rosemary said she’d bring her here and
Sadie could solve the whole thing. Naturally, I had to come see for myself.” His tone
softened. “I’m sorry if I’m just not very good at this kind of thing and if I insulted
your, um, ghost-hunting profession.”

Since he managed to say it with a completely straight face, Sadie reached into her
purse and pulled out a Scene-2-Clean business and handed it to him.

“I do trauma biohazard cleanup. That kind of thing,” Sadie explained, trying for a
businesslike tone to appear more dignified and to cover for the fact that she’d fallen
in front of this man twice in five minutes. “So even though Madam Maeva and her partners
are friends of mine, and regardless of what Rosemary may have implied, ghost hunting
isn’t my area of expertise.”

“Crime-scene cleanup?” Owen whistled as he looked at her card intently. “That sounds
very
CSI
.”

“Investigators collect evidence. They don’t clean up afterward,” Sadie pointed out.

“I didn’t know that, but even if I did, I wouldn’t have thought that kind of messy
work would involve such a beautiful woman.”

“Um. Thanks,” Sadie said, praying she didn’t blush again. She said good-bye and then
she tugged the car door shut. She offered Owen Sorkin a friendly wave as she started
her car and pulled away from the curb as quickly as possible.

***

When Sadie came home she sent multiple long text messages to Zack describing everything
that happened. Well, not everything. She didn’t tell him that Owen Sorkin looked like
a rough-and-tumble version of actor Matthew McConaughey and that he had flirting down
to a fine art. But she did put a comedic spin on how someone had painted “Bring Sadie”
on the wall and she’d fainted like a teen at an Elvis concert.

She undressed and was just crawling under the cool covers of her bed when the bedside
phone rang. It was Zack.

“I don’t understand your last text,” he said when she answered.

“What don’t you get?” Sadie stifled a yawn behind her hand and snuggled deeper under
the covers.

“Your message says, ‘Someone painted me on a wall and I was like a fifteen-year-old
seeing Elvis.’” He paused. “Were you out drinking with your sister again?”

Sadie giggled at her own abbreviated version of the event.

“Someone painted ‘Bring Sadie’ on a wall and I fainted, probably because I worked
all night and I’m beat. This would be easier to explain in person.” She sighed. “I
really miss you.”

“I’m working. The only reason I can talk to you at all is because I’ve been staking
out this guy’s house for two hours and it’s quiet.”

Sadie waited a beat, hoping he would add
miss you too
. But all that came was, “So, who wrote ‘Bring Sadie’
on the wall of that house?”

“Don’t know. Maybe it was an elaborate prank by Maeva and the Thingvolds to give an
excuse to cut me in on the job and pay me,” she joked.

“That doesn’t sound like Maeva.”

“I was kidding.”

“Oh, then you believe it could have been a ghost? You do seem to bring out these kinds
of scenarios.”

“I don’t know and I don’t care. If it is something spiritual-related, nothing good
will come of dealing with a ghost who summons me.”
And nothing good will come from working with Owen Sorkin when I’m trying to have a
relationship with you
. “Whatever it is that’s going on at that house, Maeva and her posse of merry misfits
will have to deal with it on their own. It’s best that I stick to mopping up Seattle’s
dead like a good little trauma cleaner.”

“Sounds good to me.” Then he added, “I was new on the force when that Halladay Horror
thing hit the papers and Della Prior killed her fourteen-year-old daughter, then herself.
I remember cops saying how they got the willies just being around the mom because
she was so convinced that her daughter was demonically possessed.”

“That poor girl,” Sadie said with a sigh. “She was probably only possessed by a bad
case of teenage rebellion but got cursed by having a crazy mom.”

“So how’s business?” Zack asked. “Do you have any more jobs lined up for this week?”

“I heard on the news yesterday that there’s been another hooker killed at a hotel.
I’m hoping I’ll get the call to clean that one once the SPD is done with its investigation.”
She frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll call up the hotel manager myself and offer my
discrete but efficient services.”

“Way to be proactive.” Then he cursed and there was suddenly a lot of raucous noise
on his end of the line. “My guy’s on the move. Gotta go.”

Zack ended the call abruptly without any niceties. Sadie stared at the dead phone
in her hand and said a word rhyming with
duck
. She didn’t want to think about Zack being out this late at night somewhere noisy.
Noisy could mean dangerous. Or fun. Or dangerous fun. She fell asleep deeply worried
about Zack but ended up having an X-rated dream about Owen Sorkin.

Sadie woke up in a hot sweat and tangled in her sheets. She bolted upright, positive
a sound in the house had woken her. A glance at the clock told her it was nearly four
in the morning, far too early for Hairy to be thumping around demanding a treat. She
strained to listen. Wind and rain were kicking up a fuss outside and she could hear
her recycle bin scooting along her back deck. Convinced that sound was what had woken
her, she began to relax. Then, suddenly, there came a loud muffled bang for the other
end of the house.

She swung her legs out of the bed and reached into her nightstand for her only weapon—a
can of pepper spray she’d received as a gift from Zack on Valentine’s Day. Apparently
it’s the kind of gift a paranoid ex-cop gives his girlfriend. If it hadn’t been accompanied
by a heart-shaped box of chocolates, Sadie probably would’ve been tempted to test
out the can with a spritz in his face. Now she was grateful for the protective aerosol.

Sadie picked up the cordless phone in one hand and dialed 9-1, saving the last remaining
digit for when she thought it might be needed. Spray in one hand and house phone in
the other, she tiptoed down the hallway, turning on all the lights along the way.
She glanced in the living room but not a creature stirred, not even Hairy, who was
nestled cozily in his bed in the living room.

The bang came again and Sadie narrowed her search to the kitchen, where she discovered
the back door swinging wildly back and forth in the gusty breeze and a large branch,
as thick as her thigh, half inside the house. The rain pelted her back deck and the
wind howled but she had no trees this size in her yard. She hoisted the limb and tossed
it off the deck, into the yard, and then slammed the door shut. The doorjamb was splintered
where the dead bolt had torn through the frame and the door flew open again. Necessity
being both the mother of invention and the parent of paranoia, Sadie pushed both a
kitchen chair and then the table up against the back door to secure it. Her large
new purse from Maeva had been knocked to the floor but remained unscathed. Sadie plopped
it back on the counter.

The lights flickered momentarily but the power remained on. Sadie set her house alarm
and padded barefoot down the hall to bed, but she was wide-awake and the wind howling
outside did little to help her sleep. She lay staring at the ceiling while overanalyzing
her earlier hot dream about Owen Sorkin. Finally she gave up trying to sleep and crossed
the hall to her den.

Sadie figured after a few rounds of computer solitaire her eyes would grow heavy,
but curiosity got the better of her and she began researching the Halladay Horror
home. Every article showed a close-up of the front of the house she’d been inside
earlier that evening. There were various photos of the mother, Della Prior, being
led away in handcuffs. Her crazed, wild eyes looked directly into the camera and made
Sadie shudder. How does a mother kill her own daughter?