Goes Down Easy

“No.” Perry shook her head. “That’s Sugar.”

“Another aunt?”

“This used to be where she lived. This building. She was a famous blues singer.”

“So you pipe the music into the shop for old times’ sake.”

“No. That’s Sugar singing.” She waited and waited, but his expression never changed. “She died after a suspicious fall down the stairs. These stairs,” she added, pointing.

“Then the piping’s about exploiting the legend?”

It took all her control not to stomp her foot. “Jack, there is no piping. That singing you hear is Sugar’s ghost.”

3

WHAT A LOAD of hooey. “You’re kidding me, right? A ghost?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t hear her.”

“I hear music.” He shrugged. That much was true. “It doesn’t mean I buy into any ghost story.”

Perry sighed and closed her eyes. “I should be used to this by now. I don’t know why I let it get to me.”

“Hey, it’s got to be good for business.” Jack backed up against the wall, keeping his hands in his pockets since she seemed bothered when he used them. “Adds to the woo-woo flavor of the place.”

Perry pushed away from the corner and paced the length of the counter twice before she stopped to face him. “Believe or don’t believe. It’s no skin off my nose that you’re lacking an open mind.”

His mouth twisted to the right. “Guess I played hooky the day they passed out the gene.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised to find out you played hooky several days in a row.”

That made him smile. “You think?”

“Yeah. I do.” When she tossed back her hair, the strands of colored crystals dangling from her ears twinkled, speckling her cheeks with dots of blue and gold. “You missed good manners day, for one.”

“Actually, that gene’s only loose.”

She gave him a measured glare. “There’s a toolbox on the floor of the pantry.”

“Thanks. I’ll see what I can do about tightening it up before I head out.”

“And when will that be?”

“I was hoping for brunch, at least.” He wasn’t really, considering he was still burning up inside from the gumbo. He just wasn’t ready to leave. “And maybe more time with your aunt once the detective is through.”

“I doubt she’ll be able to tell you anything useful. Her visions aren’t exactly newsreels.”

“What are they?”

Perry boosted herself up onto the stool at the cash register. “It’s hard to explain. Even to believers.”

“The listening gene?” When she arched a brow, he went on. “I was there that day. It was handed out at the same time as the one for paying attention.”

Her smile was slow to come but when it did, Jack felt as if he’d been poleaxed. It wasn’t even about her mouth—though she did have a great one that sent his mind south—as much as it was about her eyes.

They were deep and dark, more black than brown, and they were sucking him down in a hurry. They were eyes he could drown in, dangerous and dazzling, which his experience told him meant deceptive as well.

“In that case, all I can tell you is that she sees flashes,” she said, the smile fading. “Bits and pieces of clothing. Or a location. The last time she helped Book, she saw chickens.”

O-kay. “Doesn’t sound like a lot of help.”

“Oh, but it was,” she insisted, crossing one leg over the other. “The chickens she saw are only raised at two area farms. The police were able to close in quicker with that one bit of information added to what they already had.”

Interesting. And legit enough that he could easily check it out. But he still wasn’t buying the ghost. “Close in quicker on what?” When she hesitated, he prodded her with, “What was the case?”

She hopped down from the stool, turned to the counter and began to straighten the chains on a display of jeweled silver pendants. “It was infanticide, and it was ugly. If you want details, you’re going to have to check newspaper archives.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Fine. Just don’t say a word about it to Della. She doesn’t need to relive any of that.”

The thought hadn’t crossed his mind. “I won’t. I promise. Pinky swear and everything.”

Her hands stilled on the pendants, and it took a minute for her to respond. When she did, it was to turn slowly and face him, to wrap her arms around her middle, to take him in from head to toe—twice—and say, “I’m not so sure I want to make a pinky swear with you.”

“Why not?” He pulled his hands from his pockets, hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, drawing her gaze.

Her throat worked as she swallowed. “With that hands-on thing you have going, I’m not sure you can keep it to just a pinky.”

She believed in ghosts and psychics and whatever the hell rune stones were, but the idea of holding his hand was too much for her? He took one step forward, offered her his little finger without saying a word.

He could tell by her hiss of breath that she was as bothered by his dare as by the thought of making physical contact, yet he was certain that what bothered her most of all was the quirk in her makeup that wouldn’t let her walk away.

Thing was, it got to him, too—her hesitation, her unease—but in a way he’d bet cold hard cash was the polar opposite of hers. Even more so, however, he was caught off guard by her eyes and her mouth, and the fact that he couldn’t remember the last time a woman had looked him over with such intensity.

She took a step toward him and lifted her hand, pinky extended. An inch and no more separated their fingers. At least an inch of actual, measurable space. What couldn’t be measured was everything else keeping them apart. The unspoken words and the private thoughts and the truth of this step they were taking.

Then, before he could say anything or form another thought or even define what this particular truth was, she hooked him, her finger grabbing his and pulling tight. He grabbed harder, holding her there even when she gave a half-hearted tug for freedom.

“See?” She glared. “I knew you couldn’t keep up your end of the bargain.”

“Remind me again of the terms,” he said, close enough to see the spattering of freckles on her nose that she’d powdered away.

Close enough to smell the herbs in her shampoo, the coffee she’d had in the kitchen, her skin. “I’ve totally forgotten what—”

A loud crash came from the rear of the building—breaking glass, a thud—followed by Della’s sharp cry, the detective’s sharper curse and the whack of a door bouncing open on its hinges.

Perry nearly took off Jack’s arm as she jerked her hand free from his and ran through the beaded curtain toward the kitchen.