Part 4 (1/2)
”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 a.s.sured 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 relations.h.i.+p 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 w.i.l.l.i.e.s 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 m.u.f.fled 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 overa.n.a.lyzing 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?
Sadie glanced through the articles for pictures of Iris but there was only one blurry shot of her, looking much younger and with a ma.s.s of curls covering most of her face. As she read through the various reports, most of the journalists stated the same facts: Della Prior was a single mom and a deeply religious woman. She worked nights as a nurse and homeschooled her daughter. Neighbors described both mother and daughter as quiet, and a neighbor was quoted as saying that Iris's father, Eddie Prior, walked out when the child was only a couple years old.
Sadie felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe she should've at least tried to help Iris's spirit move on? She shook her head. Sadie didn't like to deal with angry ghosts who threw things. In her experience, that only led to trouble and she had more than enough other problems right now. She clicked out of the newspaper sites and played a couple games on the computer before heading back to bed.
It felt as though she'd just fallen back asleep when she was woken again, this time by sound of her office phone ringing persistently in the den down the hall. When she reached the phone, she quickly answered while glancing at the clock on her computer; it was after nine. Time to sound business. She cleared her throat.
”Scene-2-Clean. How may I help you?”
”Is this Sadie Novak?” asked a woman's voice.
”Yes.”
”My name is Gayla Woods. You met my partner, Owen Sorkin, last night at the house we own on West Halladay Street.” Her words were simple but her tone was formal, causing Sadie to sit up a little straighter.
”Yes, I remember.” Sadie couldn't think of anything else to add so she waited for Gayla to speak, which resulted in a somewhat uncomfortable silence for a few seconds.
”Anyway, as you may have deduced from meeting Owen, he's not much of a believer in the paranormal. As a matter of fact, he thinks the very idea that I hired Madam Maeva's company to deal with the goings-on at the house is a ridiculous expense.”
She chuckled but the laughter was forced. Gayla Woods sounded like a woman wound a little too tight.
”If it's a spiritual problem, you can't go wrong hiring Madam Maeva.”
”Oh, I agree. I heard her speak at a convention a few months ago and the stories she described were positively hair-raising. That's why I was convinced she'd help with our situation. Of course, I'd like to do it in a cost-effective manner. This house was a bargain but it'll only be a great deal if we can flip it for substantially more in the near future. Owen doesn't mind the cost of Madam Maeva's, provided we both get what we want, which is to have the renovations completed as soon as possible. The main thing we want is for the workers to be safe in the house, and something is obviously keeping that from happening.”
”I'm not exactly sure how I can help. I explained to Mr. Sorkin last night that I do trauma cleaning. I'm merely friends with the people who run Madam Maeva's.”
”Yes, but Rosemary Thingvold seemed insistent that whatever is going on in the house may be connected to you and . . .”