“What I was thinking was, seeing as how you’re a hoodoo woman like my Granny, maybe if he’s dead, his ha’nt is hanging around and you might be able to see him or hear him.”
I leaned back in my chair, contemplating the situation. Over the past few months, Jimbo and I’d had several talks about his grandma, who practiced some sort of folk magic down in the bayous of Louisiana. Jimbo firmly believed in the supernatural, he’d had several interesting experiences as a kid, then again when helping me rescue my son. And apparently, I was the only one he could talk to about the paranormal without being labeled a wacko.
I took a long swallow of my lemonade. Chances were good that Scar had just dropped out of sight for awhile, but Jimbo had tweaked my curiosity. If it would set his mind at ease, I’d do it. And as he’d said, I owed him one.
“All right. How about Sunday? I can’t promise results, but I’ll give it a try. Do you mind if I bring my friend Murray?”
He hesitated for a second, then shrugged. “What the hell, it ain’t like this is top secret. Why don’t you bring some chips and beer, and I’ll fry us up a chicken, fresh from the henhouse.”
It was my turn to pause. “Fry a chicken? You can cook?”
Jimbo smirked. “Hey babe, I ain’t just good looking, you know. My Granny taught me how to pluck a hen and skin a possum, and fry up catfish fresh from the lake. Hell, you think I could do the work I do if I lived on baloney sandwiches?”
We had more in common than I’d thought. Since my mother had worked in my father’s business, I’d learned most of my skills from my Nanna, too, though I’d never once had to face skinning a possum. I shuddered, grateful for small favors.
He pushed back his chair and winked at me as he stood up. “I’ll hide anything your cop-friend shouldn’t see.”
Oh yeah, that made me feel better. I cleared my throat. “Sounds like a plan.” He stood up, but paused when I rested my hand on his. “Jimbo, what do you really think happened to Scar? You said you think something’s prowling in the woods out there. Are you hiding something from me?”
He paused, his expression guarded. “You’ll think I’m nuts.”
I stared at him. “You do realize who you’re talking to, don’t you?”
He rubbed his hands together. “You know, those woods have a lot of secrets. There’s some crazy-assed shit going on out there; always has been, always will. Rumors and stories float around. I laughed most of them off until lately. About two . . . maybe three weeks back, I start getting the feeling that I’m being watched every time I’m out there. I tell you, those woods are alive, and they seem agitated.”
My psychic alarm clock began to ring. “So what do you think happened?”
He sighed, then jammed on his helmet and pulled on a pair of leather gloves. “I think the Klakatat Monster killed him and dragged him off somewhere. That’s what I think.” And with that, he saluted me and strode toward the door.
Klakatat monster? What the heck was that?
With visions of beasts and bogies dancing in my head, I glanced over to where Margaret sat, ostensibly reading her book. I could see her peeking over the top, her face a question mark. I leaned down next to her and gave her a gentle hug. “Jimbo’s just a friend in need of a little help.”
“Friend, indeed,” she said. She shook her head, but looked relieved. “He’s wearing enough leather to build himself a cow.” I poured her another glass of iced tea, then got back to work.
Chapter 2
MURRAY WIPED THE dirt off her face and took a long drink from her water bottle before bending back over the tangle of bramble creepers and clover. I’d enlisted her help to thin out my overgrown, weed-infested flower beds in the backyard. Earlier that spring I’d planned on planting a kitchen garden, but during my last adventure I’d bonded with nature a little more than I had intended. The experience turned me off from anything having to do with mucking around in the dirt.
By the time I’d managed to shake off the memories of being encrusted from head to toe with forest mulch while welting up from a nasty patch of stinging nettles, it was too late to start any seedlings. Now though, I was determined to get the beds ready and then, in a month—or whenever my neighbor Horvald Ledbetter told me to—I’d plant a bevy of spring bulbs for next year. Tulip lovers of the world unite!
My knees pressed into the soft dirt as I stabbed a particularly tenacious dandelion with my trowel. “Sheesh, these things don’t want to give up!” I finally edged the tip of the garden tool under the root and pried until I’d dislodged the tuberous plant enough to yank the whole thing out.
Frustrated, I tossed the trowel aside. “Time for a break.” Leaning back onto the warm, soft grass, I stared at the clouds that wandered across the evening sky. There went a sinuous sea monster, and there, a griffin. Thoughts of sea creatures and legendary beasties brought me back to my conversation with Jimbo.
“Mur, have you heard of the Klakatat Monster?” I glanced over to where she lay, sprawled out on her stomach, face down in the grass. I leaned over and poked her gently in the side. “Hey, you awake?”
She grunted. Anna Murray was my best friend. One of two, actually. We’d known each other since high school and had been roommates during our college years. A detective with the Chiqetaw Police, she was carving a niche for herself in a department headed by a man who didn’t particularly welcome Native Americans or women.
Actually, I had a feeling it wouldn’t have mattered what ethnicity she was. Mur was a warrior by nature, who looked like a cross between a sturdy Amazon and an Indian princess. Stronger, faster, and smarter than most of the men on the force, her competence and stern beauty rattled a handful of the detectives with whom she now worked. Luckily, she still had stalwart friends among the patrol officers, including the chief of police; friends who would do anything for her.
She sat up and gracefully folded her legs into the lotus position. Just looking at her made my joints ache, though I had to admit, I envied her flexibility and good health. Lately it seemed like I was always catching the sniffles or something and I had the sneaking suspicion it had everything to do with my intake of gooey treats, my lack of self-discipline when it came to exercise, and the amount of caffeine I happily imbibed.
“How do you do that? I don’t understand how the heck you twist yourself into those positions.” I tried to mimic her, failing miserably.
“They’re called asanas.” She grinned at me. “I keep asking you to come to yoga class with me. It’s fun, and good for you.”
I considered the idea. I hated the thought of going to the YMCA, which was the only gym left in town since my other best friend—Harlow—had closed the doors to her spa. I’d taken a self-defense course and felt confident that I could protect myself in an emergency, but the fact was that I’d turned into a sloth, spending most of my free time lounging around with Joe. I had no problem with my curves, but the only exercise I got lately was sex. I wasn’t complaining, but the truth was that the mattress mambo couldn’t replace a good set of weights or a treadmill.