Page 84 of Cold Sacrifice

Gracie Dawn hurried into the room with the first client of the night. “I had to bring her first,” she said, trying to whisper, but as usual, failing miserably, “because she was upset at how late you were in getting here. Apparently, she’s in a real hurry to get her ghost handled. She threatened to go to our competition.”

I frowned. “What competition?”

“I’m right here,” the client said. “I can hear you.”

I pointed at a chair. “Have a seat and tell me how I can help.”

Gracie put the folder on the desk and turned to leave, and then, just as the client opened her mouth to tell me her story, Gracie Dawn interrupted her.

“Would it be okay if I went to the clinic to see Remy?” she asked me.

“Gracie, he’s confined to bed and can’t escape you. Let’s wait for him to be stronger before we torment him.”

She sighed. “Fine. I’ll wait.”

The client, a woman somewhere in her forties wearing a severe haircut and a gray pantsuit, glared at Gracie. “Would you wait somewhere else, please, so I can get through the appointment I’m paying for?”

“Sorry,” Gracie said, and went out, shutting the door gently behind her. “Bitch,” she whispered.

Joe snickered.

The client shook her head. “Does she have a hearing problem that she thinks she can shout but no one can hear her?”

“I apologize for the delay, Mrs…” I opened the folder to get her name. “Carmichael. How can I help you?”

“I own the White Clover boutique on Smythe Street. There’s been a ghost haunting the place for years. A few months ago, things started disappearing from the shop, mostly jewelry. I want you to talk to the ghost and find out who is stealing from me. The cameras show me nothing.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You don’t believe the ghost is the culprit?”

“What on earth would a ghost want with expensive earrings, Ms. Silver?” She gathered her bag and stood. “When can you come?”

Tomorrow was Saturday, and I had a dinner date with the detective. My stomach tightened at the thought. I cleared my throat. “I can stop by tomorrow afternoon. One o’clock.” If there was a ghost to talk to, it would take only a few minutes to get Mrs. Carmichael her answers. “If something comes up, I’ll call to let you know.”

“If you commit to a job,” she said, walking toward the door, “you should not allow ‘something to come up.’ If it does, as I have already said, I will go to your competition.”

She was pissing me off.

“Who,” Joe growled, startling the client, “is this competition?”

Richard appeared abruptly. “I can answer that. There’s a fake psychic only two blocks away on Clairmont Street. She put her shop there because she liked the name of the street. She opened her shop nearly two months ago, and she is taking advantage of gullible humans by telling them she can speak with their loved ones who passed.”

“She’s a fake over on Clairmont Street,” I told Joe.

The client opened the door but turned to look at me before she stepped through. “Fake? I don’t like your petty jealousy, Ms. Silver. Competition can be good for a business. You should—”

I stood. “Mrs. Carmichael. I’ve changed my mind. I won’t help you. Go to Clairmont Street. When the person there takes a good chunk of your money but doesn’t solve your problem, you can come back and I’ll consider talking to your ghost.”

“If,” Joe said grimly, “you come back with a changed attitude, an apology, and a little fucking respect.”

“Exactly,” I said.

She sailed through the doorway, muttering angrily, and I was glad to see her go. I didn’t tolerate assholes well—especially when they wanted my help.

But it hadn’t been a total loss. She’d made me aware of a person I would absolutely need to visit—someone taking advantage of humans.

“Did you see Lucy?” I asked Richard, as we waited for the next client.

“Indeed,” he said. “She was deep in conversation with the other witch. Trinity. Sam watched them carefully, as though afraid the little things might kill each other with spells gone awry.”