First Grave on the Right (Charley Davidson, #1)

by Darynda Jones

“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?”

“Ms. Davidson, did you just kick that dead body?” “For heaven’s sake, I’m not dead!” “No.”

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

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

Then we all looked at Barber, expecting him to have someone to write to as well. “I only have my mom. She knows how I feel about her,” he said, and I wondered if I should be happy about that or sad because his mother was all he had. “I’m glad,” I told him. “I wish more people took the time to make their feelings known.” “Yeah. I’ve hated her guts since I was ten. There’s really not much else to put in a letter.”

“Hon, I’m still working on the day-you-were-born thing.” “Right, sorry. But could you hurry up and get over it? I have questions.” 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.

“Well, he sounds suspiciously supernatural to me.” If I hadn’t been so tired, I would have laughed. “You’re suddenly the expert?” “If it’s hot and dark, yeah, pretty much.” That time, I did laugh.

“Charley?” one asked. She was big and startlingly pretty with a dark brown bob and wide smile. “That’s me. How did you know?” The other one smiled, a Latina with curly hair pulled back into a frizzy ponytail and skin to die for. “Your assistant told us that you’d probably be the only girl walking through the door who looked like she could do the name Charley Davidson proud. I’m Louise.”

I ran into a supermarket for the basic essentials of life. Coffee, tortilla chips, and avocados for guacamole. One can never have too much guacamole.

“Ms. Davidson, I didn’t mean to hit you.” I raised it again and arched my brows in question. I thought about throwing my grocery bags at him and making a run for it, but those avocados were expensive. Damn my love of guacamole.

The DA took my hand, pumping it hard in enthusiasm. “Ms. Davidson, you have done an outstanding job here today. Outstanding.” “Thank you, sir,” I said, choosing not to mention that my outstanding work involved falling through a skylight and making a ham-and-turkey sandwich.

“Just because I see dead people doesn’t mean I want to be dead people.”

Where I lost complete respect for him was with his tie and kerchief. The tie was magenta against a sleek black shirt and pin-striped vest, and the handkerchief peeking from the vest pocket was much closer to violet. That settled it. He had to go down.

“I gotta tell you, Davidson, I’m impressed,” he said, his eyes glued to the screen. “That took balls.” “Please,” I said with a snort, “that took ovaries. Of which I have two.” He turned to me, a new appreciation lighting his face. “Have I mentioned that I’m a licensed gynecologist? If your ovaries ever need anything…”