Death Warmed Over Read online

  Death Warmed Over

  Phoebe Monday Paranormal Cozies: Two

  Kobo Edition

  Patti Larsen

  Copyright 2020 Patti Larsen

  Kobo Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to the vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ***

  Chapter One

  Would using magic to entice my client to tell me what she wanted make me a bad person? Because, after my third visit to her rather ostentatious mansion on the edge of town, sketching seemingly endless variations of poses I could have easily done from photos instead of live sittings, I was ready to tell her I was donezo.

  Charlotte Easton didn’t seem to notice my growing irritation at yet another wasted two hours watching her fiddle and fidget in the dark blue gown she chose (from a long line of clothing already worn and then discarded), substantial bosom on the verge of bursting from the low-cut satin making me wince as she shifted yet again on the crushed velvet daybed she’d decided (after many other locations had been sampled and rejected) was today’s selection for my fresh torment.

  Listen. I’m a patient person for the most part. But sheesh already.

  “How’s this, Phoebe, dear?” My portrait commission prices weren’t cheap, and Charlotte had agreed to a much higher payment due to the personal interaction I was forced to endure, so I made sure I at least attempted to hide my growing lack of enthusiasm. After all, this payout would mean I could finally, at twenty-freaking-five, afford my own apartment with my own money and move out of my family’s house without their financial support. Not that Mom would begrudge me the cash. I knew she’d happily hand over a chunk of the Monday fortune anytime I asked. So why then was it so important to me I do this on my own?

  Long story. Stay with me.

  “Phoebe?” Oops, Charlotte’s curious stare reminded me I had a tendency to let my mind run off with me at inappropriate times. How long had I been sitting here, faking a smile, nodding like an idiot, while she waited on a response? Long enough her own smile faded and that look I’d come to recognize that meant she was doubting and about to change her wardrobe and/or location again decided matters.

  “Gorgeous, love it.” I wasn’t lying to her, either. Despite my simmering resentment at feeling like she wasted enough of my time already, I had to admit she really was a beautiful woman, especially for someone in her fifties, skin flawless, voluptuous figure reminding me of my mother, long, honey blonde hair in an elegant upsweep. The copious jewels she wore along with the carefully applied makeup and her complete body confidence should have made my job easy. Charlotte would have looked good in a paper bag, never mind the stunning overflow of navy satin and the incredible backdrop of the study with the giant windows behind her casting her in perfect light. Even the gauzy sheers draped in a most elegant way, the faint breeze from the garden blowing the edges over the shiny silver of her stilettos. “You look fantastic.”

  Charlotte beamed at that, primping the skirt of her gown a moment, before another doubtful look crossed her face, tugging down the corners of her full mouth, bright red lips almost at a pout. “I’m still not sure about the dress.” Her eyebrows raised at me. “Maybe we should go back to the scarlet suit?”

  That was three outfits ago. Before she could rise, I drew a soft breath and made a decision I hoped I wouldn’t live to regret. Focused on her with a smile and asked a simple question. “What do you really want for this portrait, Charlotte?”

  She blinked slowly, eyes wide, almost startled, the quiet magic behind the query doing its job, hopefully without anyone ever knowing. My sort simply didn’t use our power on her kind, humans being off-limits unless in a life and death situation. And even then. Thing was, magic users knew the rules, of course. But we all did it, from time to time. Like telling little white lies or getting away with using an expired grocery coupon. Thing was, as long as she didn’t know and it didn’t hurt her, I knew no one would say a word.

  Still. My family had been under some rather uncomfortable scrutiny since Christmas, only five months ago, and though the Monday wonderworking triunity of Maiden, Mother and Crone (me being the tag-along forth) was one of the most powerful and respected of the Academy of Adepts, things could change in a heartbeat. Sure, the accusations of blood ritual magic were lies, fabricated by a jealous enemy. It didn’t stop me from flutters of concern something I might do could put my beloved sister, mother and grandmother in harm’s way.

  The likelihood of someone stumbling on this situation, however? Slim to yeah, wouldn’t bet on it. And with my sanity and crumbling patience threatening my financial stability, I took a chance and went for it, accepting the consequences.

  See, it wasn’t really the risk of being caught that held me back. Not when my push of synchromysticism gave me a clear view of Charlotte’s present and, in a fanning out kaleidoscope of possibilities, the variations of her future based on the choices she made. Sound confusing? Trust me, the pathways leading away from her in a widening fan of decisions and opportunities always gave me a bit of a goosebump shiver.

  Each and every path led down a road of luck, good or bad, though some felt neutral, unchanged. All flashing to life in an instant and spreading continually while I waited for her answer.

  “I just want to love how I look,” Charlotte said at last. While the path she really wanted snapped into focus, the rest disappearing in a flicker of shadow.

  A shadow I used to associate with my power but I’d come to know was just the veil of the curse I’d carried since I was a child.

  Lost? That’s okay. I was too when I found out six months ago it had been with me since I was basically born. More on that later.

  Seeing Charlotte happy and smiling at the painting, dressed in the scarlet suit, reclining in a wingback chair with her shoes dangling from one hand and a decidedly wicked grin on her face gave me the answer I needed. I sighed into the spell, nudging her ever-so-gently toward the result she’d wanted all along.

  Sat back as her change in direction had me rise, attempt to adjust her skirt. Then “accidentally” spill the cup of tea she’d just reached for. All over her dress.

  She leaped to her feet in horror while I rushed out an apology, feeling the bad luck that was the price of changing hers to what she really desired kick in.

  Twenty-four hours of mini disasters for a new apartment and freedom.

  Worth it.

  “I really loved the red suit, Charlotte,” I said, that forced smile now tied into the weight of the change of my luck sitting on my shoulders like a tiny little devil ready to make mischief.

  She beamed at me then, hugged me, kissed my cheek firmly enough I knew I’d be wiping red lipstick off my face before letting me go. I felt the threads of her like sticky rubber bands tying us together, thanks to the spell I cast, feeding into the law of contamination. I’d have to do some serious scrubbing of my magic field to free me of her this time, something I was forced to do at every meeting since she insisted on physical contact. Oh well, she was happy and that meant I’d get paid.

  Phoebe. Worth it.

  “You’re so right,” Charlotte gushed at me, hands clasping in front of her generous endowment and making me self-conscious of my own slim physique. No, I didn’t dislike myself or anything, but coming from the Monday family of witches tied into Mother Nature and the Great Moon and everything that implied—my mother taught mystic Tantra for the Goddess’s sake—being a barely five-foot-one and rather flat in places my fellow Mondays were round definitely made me feel out of place. “Never mind the tea.” She batted at my hands when I tried to blot the mess I’d made with a napkin. “It’s a sign. Scarlet it is.” She tossed her head, tall enough to be intimidating while I smiled for real this time.

  I was surprised when it only took her ten minutes to change, helped guide her into the perfect position from the path she’d chosen, the image clear enough to me I knew I could paint it without her, then stood back to do a quick sketch.

  The moment I was done and showed her the rough outline, she squealed and hugged me all over again. I’d need sage, at the very least. Copper. Maybe a lavender bath. Mom could make some suggestions, even, if the contamination was too tightly woven. Except that meant she’d know I used my power. Not that she’d give me a hard time. On the contrary. My family wanted me to. I was the one holding back, if only because of the damned curse.

  I promise I’ll get to explaining it, what little I know.

  “It’s perfect, Phoebe.” Charlotte cradled me against her, arm around my waist, the scent of her perfume familiar enough now, sticky ends of the spell’s ties pulling tighter. I knew better than to fight it, smiled up at her, nodded.

  “It’ll be beautiful,” I said.

  Charlotte finally let me go. “I’ve kept you long enough today,” she said. “Or do you have time for tea?”

  Argh. Every freaking time. I could usually make an excuse, but my luck had other ideas, nodding my head for me. Which was how I found myself sitting on the sofa in the living room next door, sipping the rather hideous chamomile the disapproving housekeeper, Margaret, delivered with that signature scowl of hers over the rims of her wire glasses whi
le Charlotte did what Charlotte did best.

  Talk.

  And I was forced to listen.

  ***

  Chapter Two

  Charlotte’s favorite topic never ceased to bore me, bless her. And, as I settled into the comfortable cushions of the wide sofa in the large room filled with more art pieces than I could shake a besom at, I knew my luck wasn’t about to change anytime soon, synchromystic activation or not.

  “Don’t you just adore the Charles Butler Father dear brought back from Wales?” While he might have been a less well-known painter from that part of the world, his works were still sought after, even more so since his death a decade ago. The only reason I knew who Charles Butler was came from art school and four years of studying everything to do with the one thing in my life I knew I was meant to do.

  A wise and discerning soul would assume I’d be all for deep and meaningful conversations, even a threat to waxing poetic over the stunning talent of one of the world’s fine painters.

  Except, of course, the gigantic landscape over the fireplace? Not a Charles Butler. Oh, sure, it was a fantastic forgery, made by someone with an impeccable eye for brush strokes. But I’d actually seen the original several years ago while it was on loan from a private collection to the Seattle Art Museum. Had spent a few hours actually sitting in front of it, absorbing the beauty of it. Truly a stunning landscape of a cloud-skied Wales, deep greens and achingly pure golds and heart-wrenching grays all holding me captive.

  “I knew you’d appreciate it,” Charlotte said, taking my steady stare, I could only guess, as admiration, both hands pressed to her actually heaving bosom, eyes alight with her own adoration. “Father was thrilled when the Fairchilds finally parted with it and snapped it up immediately.” She dabbed at the corner of one huge, blue eye with a napkin, sighing so dramatically I almost winced. “A pity he only had a year to enjoy its beauty before he passed.” She had to have musical training, the way her voice hitched at the end, the thrumming control she had over every nuance. There had been a time, at the beginning of our relationship, I thought her a fraud, too. But nope. Charlotte Easton was just authentically over-the-top. That I could willingly accept.

  The lie about the painting, Llandovery by Morning, however? That I continued to struggle with. As I did the rest of Charlotte’s collection. Because despite the fact she claimed each and every one of the pieces in the house was authentic? As far as I could tell—and yes, I checked with magic once I realized the truth—was fake.

  Okay, not all of them. There were one or two that seemed real to my power, tracing back through touch in time. While I couldn’t see their creators—how cool would that have been?—I could, at least, sense their age and provenance. So, either Charlotte was lying to everyone, which I just couldn’t buy (and neither could my power), or her father had lied to her. Since I assumed the should-have-been expensive art pieces she thought she owned were part of her inheritance, I hoped it was the former.

  When she decided it was time to sell, the poor thing was in for a heck of a surprise.

  I’d kept my mouth shut, thank you, knew better than to crack open cans of worms that often turned into giant snakes. Still, as I sat there for the third time, staring up at the painting I’d adored, I had to fight off a small hit of anger at Charlotte’s father. What a way to treat your kid, anyway.

  “Oh, you must see my newest acquisition.” Charlotte swept to her feet, crossing to a glass case in the corner, opening the door with a soft rattle. “Father’s collection inspired me and when I saw her, I simply had to have her.” She spun, bare hands cradling a small bronze statuette.

  “It’s beautiful.” No need to fake my interest, either, or my discomfort with her clear lack of knowledge when it came to preserving the piece. One simply did not handle bronze that way. Yes, I was an art snob. No judging. “Jean-Richard Gautier?” His sculptures were not only in high demand, they were very expensive—in the hundred-thousand-dollar range—and utterly delicious in their perfection. I found myself at her side, not touching but admiring with full delight. This piece, a tall, elfish woman in a long, flowing dress, the bronze so finely sculpted it looked like real fabric over the lines of her body, arching backward as though a crescent moon, tiny toes balancing her on the base of flowers.

  “You have an excellent education in art,” Charlotte gushed, cradling the precious bronze to her. I wasn’t going to tell her she should be handling her own art piece with gloves, but I wanted to snatch it from her and put it away where it would be safe. At least she hadn’t been duped, which led me all over again to believe it was her deceased father that did the duping. “I’d love to have you over for dinner to discuss all of Father’s pieces.”

  And I would rather stab myself in the eye with a fork.

  “Madame.” Thank the Goddess for interruptions, though the singular glare from Margaret surely was part of my bad luck streak. “Mr. Grayson has arrived.”

  Charlotte’s instant moue of unhappiness told me everything I needed to know about her new visitor. “Oh, show him into Father’s office,” the suddenly pouty mistress of the mansion said, waving Margaret off as she turned and replaced her Gautier in the cabinet. Glass sang as she closed the door just a little too firmly while my heart pounded at the slight skitter of the precious artwork that settled despite Charlotte’s tantrum, right in the path of a lovely sunbeam. Another freaking massive no-no, the ultraviolet light, while pretty, turned my cringing gut ball of anxiety into a squeak of horror.

  If my employer noticed she didn’t say, sweeping past me and toward the door where she paused, eyebrow arched in expectation, one hand raised toward me in a lethargic gesture of summons. I hurriedly gathered my things, tripping over the toe of my boot as it caught on the edge of the carpet and sighed inwardly. Bring on the endless bits and pieces of aggravation already.

  I could take it.

  Sure, I could. Like, when I exited on Charlotte’s heels I stepped on the hem of her scarlet pants, making her stumble and cry out while I recoiled too fast and impacted another case of “precious” art, forced to drop my bag—which emptied out the contents in a skittering dance of possessions across the polished marble floor—and leap for the wobbling vase that threatened to hit the ground and shatter.

  I caught it in time, despite my luck, though the touch told me there was no way the clever imitation of an ancient Chinese dynasty was anything but a fake.

  Poor Charlotte.

  She shook off the stumble with a faint frown that turned to a strained smile before striding away, clearly dismissing me from her attention. Margaret, on the other hand, continued to glare, arms crossed over her thin chest inside that perpetually gray cardigan she always wore over her severe black dress, that bun she chose so tight her skin pulled taut at the corners of her eyes. The lift of her thin upper lip reached sneer proportions while I sighed out loud this time and went to my knees like some scullery maid being chastised by the castle matron and began to gather my things.

  Okay, so maybe giving up my luck for a payout wasn’t worth it after all.

  I did glance up when I reached for my errant eraser, spotting the tall, gray-suited man who had come to visit, noting the family lawyer seemed as reserved and unhappy as he always did. Certainly, he looked the part of the wealthy solicitor, silver hair swept back in waves, hazel eyes lighter than most I’d seen, jawclean-shavenn and still firm despite his obvious age. He carried about him an air of someone who didn’t like life, though, and always seemed to look at me like I was some kind of irritant. Why he didn’t want me around I had no idea. Thing was, I agreed with him and that wasn’t helping.

  “Lyle, darling.” Charlotte’s reaction to his arrival might have been unpleasant but she didn’t show it now, kissing both of his cheeks before guiding him toward the office doors. He followed, sparing me a moment of dead disapproval.

  How kind of him to think of me in my moment of embarrassment.

  At least they disappeared into the office and left me to pick up my stuff in peace. Oh, wait. Right, I still had the glaringly uncomfortable attention of Margaret Wells to tolerate the seemingly sixteen million hours it took me to track down the last of my pencils, papers, jump drive in the shape of a pickle, half a sandwich in plastic wrap, and an assortment of other personal items I wished I’d left home that day. Because my bad luck? Didn’t go halfway, nope it didn’t. My foot, it turned out, had hooked the strap of the bag and latterly upended it so every single piece of lint and unwrapped piece of gum had found its way onto Charlotte’s shiny floor.