Grave Robber for Hire by Cassandra L. Shaw Read Free Book Online Page B

Streak’s trunk, thanked me for once more buying from his store, and whistled while he walked back inside. My appliance bad luck made Gary a happy man. I could face seeing a less happy Gary.
    I turned to Viggo, “No touchy. You can have the charred one to pull apart.”
    He huffed out a breath, tugged on the end of my hair and eyeballed the keys in my hand. “Okay. I drive?”
    “Absolutely.”
    Vig’s grin could have lit the night sky. I opened the driver’s door and Vig’s grin dulled to moonless midnight. Seated, I locked in my seatbelt and looked at him as he climbed into his seat. “A, you can’t bloody drive. B, I like both Streak and living, and C, when some poor bastard sees no one driving a car they’ll crash.”
    All the way back to my house, Vig kept his arms crossed and sulked. At home, a bouquet of flowers waited at my front door. Wrapped in sun faded pink tissue paper, the roses were brown, shriveled and dead.
    Obviously not a token from an admirer unless they thought I was Morticia from the Adams family.
    My throat tightened and went as dry as my gift. I kicked the present and looked around to see if anyone was waiting to leap out and laugh about their un-awesome joke. Nobody and no note I could see. I shook my head and picked them up. My fingers tingled with a peculiar vibe.
    Inside the house, I dumped the crisp lot onto the dining table. Misca woke, stretched out to her maximum length, rolled over, touched a rose with her paw, and hissed. She jumped off the table and stalked to the couch. I peered closely at the rose but couldn’t see a thorn she’d touched. I shrugged, maybe the dry petals made a funny sound she didn’t like.
    Viggo leaned over my shoulder and prodded them. “What this?”
    Gidget head butted his hand until he patted her. The animals see and like Vig, but we have to be careful. People get funny expressions when they see a dog lifting its paw or leaning into the air for a harder scratch.
    “Joke in poor taste.”
    “ Mmm, ver poor.” He touched the bunch again, frowned and wiped his hand down the front of his shirt.
    “They feel funny to you?” Maybe Misca also felt the same odd vibe.
    “Yes. Feel—wrong. Throw out.” He walked into the kitchen, and then hoisted and carried off my old coffee maker to the outside garden shed. In an electrical CSI nightmare, a lot of dead bodies lay in his shed. He then carried in my new coffee maker and opened the packaging. A broken arm meant Vig did more things than normal for me.
    He slipped the machine out of its box, tore off the thin foam wrapping and ran reverent hands over the red enamel and chrome. “I set up?”
    “No.” Within five minutes, he’d have it in twenty pieces.
    He looked at me.
    “You learnt that look from the dogs.”
    He raised his brows, “Not work?”
    “No.”
    He pulled out the manual and waved it at me. “I set up.”
    “No, you’ll break it.”
    He flung the booklet onto the counter. “Won’t”
    “Will.”
    “Won’t.”
    “Will.”
    “Won’t.”
    Christ this could go on for hours. “Not happening. Thanks for bringing it in.” He gave me an exasperated look as if I’m the person who demolished things, flicked the manual onto the floor and stomped out of the house.
    Bloody hell. “I’m sure guardian angels aren’t meant to throw tantrums,” I yelled after him. The front door slammed.
    I shook my head and started setting up the coffee machine. Last night I’d emailed Tyreal the details I had on Clyde Owen Jones. Today while I’d been in Brisbane, he’d texted to say he had found some info and would drop over to discuss it with me.
    Coffee machine ready to make liquid gold, I did a quick one-armed house clean then changed into side buttoned high-waist forties style, navy blue shorts. Still squirming into the matching sailor top, I heard a throaty engine growl up my steep drive.
    Eager to see what caused the racket, the dogs smashed into the back of my legs as I tried to navigate the