First Grave on the Right (Charley Davidson #1)

by Darynda Jones

It was 4:34 A.M. What kind of sadist called another human being at 4:34 in the morning? A throat cleared at the foot of my bed. I turned my attention to the dead guy standing there, then lowered my lids and asked in a gravelly voice, “Can you get that?” He hesitated. “Um, the phone?” “Mmm.” “Well, I’m kind of—”

After giving him a second to get his bearings, I pointed to the sign tacked on the outside of my bathroom door. “Memorize it,” I ordered, then slammed the door shut again. “‘No dead people beyond this door,’” he read aloud from beyond the door. “ ‘And, yes, if you suddenly have the ability to walk through walls, you’re dead. You’re not lying somewhere in a drainage ditch waiting to wake up. Get over it, and stay the hell out of my bathroom.’” He stuck his head through the door again. “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?” My sign may have seemed a tad brutal to the untrained eye, but it usually got my message across.

Just then I noticed Garrett Swopes, aka pain-in-the-ass skiptracer, standing over the body. I rolled my eyes so far back into my head, I almost seized. Not that Garrett wasn’t good at his job. He’d studied under the legendary Frank M. Ahearn, probably the most famous skip-tracer in the world. From what I’d heard, thanks to Mr. Ahearn, Garrett could find Hoffa if he put his mind to it. He was also easy on the retinas. He had short black hair, wide shoulders, skin like Mayan chocolate, and smoky gray eyes that could capture a girl’s soul if she stared into them long enough. Thank God I had the attention span of a gnat.

Never knock on death’s door. Ring the doorbell then run. He totally hates that

Okay, I admit it. That was rude. The demon in the backseat thought so, too. She took a swing at me. I laughed when I dodged her fist by accidently-on-purpose dropping my cherry lip balm to the floorboard. “I’ll take that as a can-do,” Uncle Bob said. “Oh, right. My office, nine o’clock. Got it. I’m just going to run by my apartment and grab a bite, then I’ll be there.” “Thanks, kiddo. And, are you okay?” “Me? Always,” I said, just as the golden-haired demon dive-bombed for my eyes. She fell out of the car somewhere between Carlisle and San Mateo. “But I have to say, Uncle Bob, I’ve recently uncovered irrefutable evidence of why some species eat their young.”

My stepmother was never big on the whole nurturing thing. I think she used up all the good stuff on my older sister, and by the time she got to me, she was fresh out of nurture. She did, however, give me one pertinent bit of 411. She was the one who informed me that I had the attention span of a gnat; only, she said I had the attention span of a gnat with selective listening. At least I think that’s what she said. I wasn’t listening. Oh, and she told me that men want only one thing. And on that note, I must give praise and thanks to the powers that be. I don’t want much else from them either.

I once signed up for an anger management class, but the instructor pissed me off.

“Who’s that?” I asked, pointing to a second unmarked police car strategically parked a few yards away. Totally camouflaged by darkness. Except for one small, teensy-tiny, minuscule blunder. His parking lights were on. I took a shot and guessed the guy hadn’t graduated at the top of his class.

“This is Danger.” Then my left. “And this is Will Robinson. I would appreciate it if you addressed them accordingly.” After a long pause in which he took the time to blink several times, he asked, “You named your breasts?” I turned my back to him with a shrug. “I named my ovaries, too, but they don’t get out as much.

“What happened?” “I fell.” “No shit.” “Someone hit me.” “Again? I didn’t realize it was National Kill Charley Davidson Week.” “Do we get a vacation day with that?” Garrett asked. Uncle Bob must have flashed him his famous glower because Garrett jumped up and said, “Right. I’m on it.” He took off, supposedly in search of the assailant.

“Do you want to look at mug shots tomorrow, as well?” Uncle Bob asked. “Can you ID the guy who hit you?” “Well …” My nose scrunched as I considered the possibility of positively identifying my assailant based on the knuckle sandwich he gave me. “I got an almost clear peripheral look at the guy’s left fist. I might could recognize his pinkie.”

“I wasn’t upset that you called me. I was upset because you think you’re indestructible. You’re not.” She paused to let her gaze bore into mine, to drive her point home. It was sweet. “And because of this false sense of security, you get yourself into the most … bizarre situations.” “Bizarre?” I asked, pretending to be offended. “Three words. Sewage plant disaster.” “That totally wasn’t my fault,” I argued, balking at the very idea of it. As if. She pursed her lips and waited for me to come to my senses. “Okay, it was my fault.” She knew me too well. “But only a little. And those rats had it coming.

Her expression turned dubious. “Got any other astonishing tidbits to impart?” With a shrug, I said, “Not really. Unless you count the fact that I’ve known every language ever spoken since that whole day-I-was-born thing. That’s probably worthy of note.” I was tired, so I couldn’t be completely positive, but I had the distinct feeling Cookie seized.

“I’m going tomorrow.” “To the prison?” “Yes.” I clicked on the personnel files that listed the administrators of the prison and highlighted the picture of Neil Gossett. “I went to school with the deputy warden.” “Really? Friend or foe?” I wondered the same thing myself. “That’s a tough call. Had I suddenly burst into flames in the school lunchroom, I doubt he would have sacrificed his vitamin D to save me, but I’m pretty sure he would have felt guilty about it later.”

They’d dragged me to a chair outside the room and were trying to keep me in it despite my limp body’s insistence on eating floor tile. “Oops,” the nurse said. “Got her?” “I had her the first time. She just keeps slipping out of my grip. She’s like really heavy spaghetti.” “What?” I shrieked, jerking to my senses. “How heavy? What happened?”

I pulled in between Uncle Bob’s SUV and a patrol car, put my phone on silent—because there’s nothing worse than a cell phone going off in the middle of an extraction; everyone glares at you really mean—then went in search of Ubie.

“Oh,” Angel said before he left, “Aunt Lillian’s here. I like her.” I tried not to look disappointed. “I like her, too, but her coffee sucks. Mostly ’cause it’s nonexistent.”

I gestured for Taft to sit on the sofa while I took the opposite chair. “I’d offer you coffee, but my Aunt Lillian made it.” “Um, okay.”

“What do you want?” I asked over my shoulder. “I just want to talk.” “I’m busy.” “You don’t look busy. What are you doing?” “Whatever the little voices tell me to do.”

Uncle Bob didn’t want to hear me, to listen, but he couldn’t help it. His curiosity always got the better of him. And I knew one surefire way of getting his complete and undivided attention. I curled my fingers into his blazer and said, “You have to promise not to tell Dad.” Uncle Bob was suddenly salivating to know more.

“You are never driving this vehicle again.” I did my signature rolling of the eyes. “Puh-lease. That sign was totally superfluous. Honestly, Uncle Bob, how many times do we need to be reminded of the speed limit? No one’s gonna miss it.” He pulled in a deep, soothing breath. “I’m getting too old for this crap.” “Ah, yes. Impotence, decrepitude. Still, you’ll always have Werther’s Originals.” I watched as Uncle Bob’s face went from a pale, post-fender-bender white to a flushed shade of rosy pink. I had to laugh. On the inside, because he really was mad at me.

Good. He seemed to be doing better. He turned thoughtful a moment, then asked, “In the meantime, can I jump in your body and make out with my wife through you?” I fought a grin. “It doesn’t really work that way.” “Then can you just make out with my wife and pretend I’m in your body?” “No.” “I can pay. I have money.” “How much we talking?”

“Hey, pumpkin head.” Turning to Aunt Lillian, I almost screamed aloud when I saw who she was with. Instead, I forced a smile and said, “Hey, Aunt Lil, Mr. Habersham.” Mr. Habersham was the dead guy from 2B for whom I’d invented the transcendental pest repellent. They were all googly and giggly, and I threw up a little in my mouth. But Aunt Lillian had the sweetest look on her soft, wrinkly face. “We’re going down to the Margarita Grill to smell the lobster, then we’re going to watch the sunrise, and in between we’ll probably have hot, unsafe animal sex.” Wh-what? Even my internal dialogue stuttered. I couldn’t believe what she’d just said. Does the Margarita Grill even serve lobster? “