Dead Suite Part 4

"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 . . ."

Sadie was furious. Gayla continued to speak but all Sadie heard was the voice inside her head that said she wanted to kill Rosemary, or at least have a serious discussion with her that involved the threat of bodily harm and possibly pummeling her bald little head.

She became aware that Gayla had paused expectantly.

"Sorry, I was momentarily distracted," Sadie stated without adding, by my need to get off this phone and kill someone.

"I was just asking if you'd reconsider helping out at the house if I offered to pay you your usual rate."

"I don't have a usual rate for cleansing a house of ghosts," Sadie replied, trying desperately to keep her voice even. "My usual cleaning involves mopping up after a murder, suicide, or an unattended death."

"Oh. And what do you charge for that?"

"A lot." Sadie rubbed the back of her neck. "You can't seriously be thinking of hiring a trauma-clean company to work with psychics?"

"Let me explain how this was supposed to work," Gayla began. "I make my living buying homes in various cities, fixing them up and selling them for quick profit. Sometimes I secure a partner to lower my cash up front. In this case, Owen and I were both bidding on the house. We decided to partner up to lower our expenses and split the profit. This is what I do as a main source of income. I'm sure you can appreciate how tough my business must have it during this housing crash and these difficult economic times."

"Sure. Times are hard for everyone," Sadie agreed. She picked up a stack of unopened bills and shuffled the envelopes in her hands.

"Right. Well, we bought the house on Halladay because it was undervalued. We got it for a song and stand to make an easy profit. That's provided that we can get the renovations done in a timely fas.h.i.+on. The market is falling rather quickly in Seattle and time is of the essence. So, as you can see, I'm desperate. We're four months behind on the renovations. My fiance and I actually delayed our wedding until this job is completed. That's how serious I'm taking this."

"I understand this is rough on you, but I truly think that you're barking up the wrong tree here," Sadie replied. She toyed with the necklace around her neck as she talked.

"When we bought the house we got it for a deal because it stood empty for years after the murder. If word gets around it's haunted, then we'll be stuck with it, or end up selling at a loss. Your name was written by ghosts on the bedroom wall, and-"

"We don't know that," Sadie cut in. "A name was painted on the wall but we don't know that I'm the Sadie it refers to, and we sure as h.e.l.l don't know that it was written by ghosts."

Sadie's fingers released the pendant and allowed it to rest warmly against her chest.

"Well, if you believe that, then it's my loss if things don't work out, right? How about we meet for dinner tonight to discuss an arrangement? You choose the place. My treat."

"I don't know. . . ."

"You have nothing to lose. At the end of the meal, if you still feel like you can't help, we'll part company with no hard feelings."

Sadie had a sudden hankering for some fish stew that she'd not been able to afford on her beer budget.

"Fine. Etta's on Western Avenue, seven o'clock," she blurted before she could stop herself.

"Good choice. See you then," Gayla stated and quickly ended the call before Sadie could change her mind.

After she hung up Sadie grumbled angrily to herself. She was ticked off that she'd gotten mixed up in the whole Halladay mess. Then again, she had to reluctantly admit that she needed the money, and helping the ghost of poor Iris Prior wouldn't be entirely a bad thing. Deciding she needed to get out and clear her head, Sadie slipped on shorts and a T-s.h.i.+rt and headed out for a two-mile jog. She tried to run at least three times a week. It was cheaper than joining a gym.

When she returned home she went around the back of the house and examined last night's damage. A heavy branch had split the doorjamb. There was a very large tree in her neighbor's yard overlooking her house. It must've been some gust of wind that forced it through her back door.

She wasn't exactly a carpenter, but she managed to use a drill and long screws to hold the jamb together enough that the door would lock again. After that workout, she headed for the shower, pausing only to text Zack good morning.

After she dressed she fed Hairy and took a toasted bagel with cream cheese to her den to eat while she checked e-mails. There'd been no reply to the message sent to Hugh Pacheo telling him that she'd completed the job. She tried the phone number she had for him but, once again, the call went to an automated message saying the number was not in service. Sadie wasn't worried. People dealt with grief differently. Mr. Pacheo could've suddenly taken off on a trip to visit family, or he could just be hunkering down in a depressive state and not returning messages.

After lunch Sadie glared at her cell phone, willing it to chime with a text from Zack, but the device remained sullen and unresponsive. Sometimes technology sucked. Twice she started to dial his phone number and both times she put the phone back down.

Instead she decided to busy herself with work. She put a call in to the Hotel Pacifica, the site of the second prost.i.tute murder, to see if she could offer her cleanup services. She had Googled the number for the hotel and discovered the name of the manager, then punched in the main number and asked for Ms. Bev Hummel.

Although she answered the phone and politely listened to Sadie discuss the nature of her call, the woman was understandably reluctant to talk about the recent murder at her hotel.

"The comfort and security of the patrons here at Hotel Pacifica is my first and foremost concern," Bev Hummel said calmly. "At this time we are, of course, allowing investigators free rein in the hotel to do whatever is necessary to solve this crime."

"I appreciate that," Sadie replied with an equally calm voice, intentionally leaving out the desperation for work that penny-pinching can create. "This is merely a courtesy call to let you know that my company is available to a.s.sist you in cleanup once the police have done their job. Scene-2-Clean will work with your insurance company and, also, you have my word that there will be no disruption or inconvenience to the patrons of the Pacifica."

"Did your company also a.s.sist at the recent unfortunate incident at the Bay Eminence?"

Sadie smiled because she had been hoping that Bev Hummel would ask precisely that exact question.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not at liberty to reveal my clientele," Sadie stated smoothly.

"I think you just did, but I appreciate your discretion."

Bingo.

"You're welcome to ask Seattle Police Detective Dean Petrovich for a reference. I've worked closely with Seattle PD many times."

"I'll be sure to do that. Let me get your contact information."

Sadie gave the manager the Scene-2-Clean office phone number, her personal cell phone number, and the company e-mail address. She would've offered her blood type and bra size if it would help her get the job.

After ending the call Sadie caught up on paperwork. She checked and double-checked to see if there were any outstanding accounts that had yet to pay for her services. Unfortunately she would've had more luck searching her sofa cus.h.i.+ons for loose change. She did that later and found almost enough to cover the cost for parking for her dinner meeting later.

By the time she'd watched an old movie on TV and checked her phone a dozen times to see if Zack had texted back, it was time to get ready for her dinner date with Gayla Woods.

Maeva called just after Sadie finished applying some mascara. She was surprised to hear Sadie was meeting the co-owner of the Halladay Street house for dinner.

"After last night I was sure you wanted nothing to do with the place."

"And don't think that I'm not still p.i.s.sed at you for not telling me up front about it," Sadie snipped. "But it's no big deal. Gayla Woods convinced me to hear her out on the subject of working with the Thingvolds, and she's buying me dinner at Etta's with no strings attached, so I agreed."

"You said yes because money's tight and this way you get dinner out at one of your favorite restaurants," Maeva chided.

"That's a definite bonus." Sadie had the phone under her chin while she tugged on her black jeans and a deep purple sweater to ward off the evening chill. "Do you think I'll luck out with parking midweek on Western Avenue?"

"Probably not on Western," Maeva said. "There's a parking garage up on Lenore, and that's not too far."

"It's too far if I decide to wear my knee-high black suede boots with the three-inch heels."

"Wow you're getting gussied up to go out for dinner with a woman you've never met?" Maeva smiled. "It's been a long time since you've been out."

"I've had to make a lot of hard choices since business dropped off. I'm buying single-ply toilet paper and no-name kibble for Hairy. Dining out isn't a priority, but yes, it's nice to have an excuse to wear heels." Sadie went into the bathroom to touch up her lipstick and brush her hair.