Ghost Whisperer Read online

  Ghost Whisperer

  Jayce Venturer - Ghost Detective 1

  Serena Akeroyd

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Also by Serena Akeroyd

  Chapter One

  Jayce

  Ghosts.

  The problem with them is, no one believes they exist.

  Or, if someone does, they're kooks.

  The term kook really pisses me off. I've been labeled one all my life. Dealt with the stigma of being considered a weirdo, and though I've managed to survive and eke out a rather pleasant existence for myself, the basic rejection of everything I am by everyone around me...well, it stings.

  Like a bitch.

  My name's Jayce—even my parents didn't help me out. Who the hell calls a girl Jayce? I guess they misspelled Jaycee, too high on freakin' ceremonial incense to know how to spell their only girl-brat's name. Ever since second grade, most people call me Jason.

  Fucked up? Yeah, but I'm used to it now.

  Jason Ventura, at your service.

  Sighing into my tumbler of vodka and tonic, something it's way too early to be drinking, I glance out at the Manhattan skyline ahead of me.

  The irony of cities is the sheer number of people heightens a person's sense of loneliness. But that's hardly a radical train of thought. Cities augment the notion of how alone we are, and the fact I'm isolated amid a sea of folk always makes me feel depressed.

  Sometimes, I could leave this place. Leave my home, just to escape this endless hole of solitude, but the ghosts keep me here.

  They always do.

  My apartment looks out over Central Park. I told you I'd managed to eke out a pleasant lifestyle for myself, and my first investment had been this apartment, which is just off Fifth Avenue. I hadn't even taken out that large a mortgage. My little business suits me well enough, and the pay is great. But my staff? They suck.

  "I resent that."

  The echoing whisper doesn't send shivers down my spine. I'm too used to it. Kenna has been with me since I was four. In fact, she was the first ghost I ever saw, and now, she's morphed into a guardian angel gone wrong. She gets me into more trouble than seems freakin' possible, but even though I know of two ways to cut the spiritual link binding us together, I'd never do that to Kenna.

  I couldn't. It would hurt her too badly.

  And yes, ghosts can hurt.

  "You resent everything," I remark, slinging back another mouthful of V&T.

  "Perhaps," Kenna concedes. "However, your staff does not suck, because technically, we're the bosses and you're the employee."

  Wrinkling my nose at that correct bit of logic, I shrug. "The rest of the world doesn't know that."

  She snorts, the sound one of nails scraping down a blackboard. Again, I'm too used to the sound to really notice it. "How big is this world of yours, Jason? Mine is bigger, I can assure you."

  "I'm too tired for this argument," I complain. "I know the spirit world is bigger than this one, I also know you're scissors to my paper, and any time you want, you can frazzle my ass. Don't keep going on about it."

  Kenna huffs. "Maybe if I do, you'll finally see sense."

  "What sense?" I retort, turning away from the window and the million dollar view to look into my seemingly empty apartment.

  The rest of the world would think I was alone, but with this fucked up vision of mine, I can see over twenty-five entities.

  Yeah. Twenty-five.

  Some of them follow me on a regular basis. Kenna, for example, is one of my usual groupies (I always call her that, just to irritate her—her second huff, in as many minutes, tells me I scored the hit). There's also Jacob, Casper—yes, I know, but he isn't friendly—and Olivia. The rest either follow me because they're relieved I can see them at all, or because they need me to do something for them. Then there are those who are visiting my entourage, or those who are locked to this apartment—the people who died or were murdered here.

  Granny Roberts, for example, was suffocated back in the day by her son. A money grabbing bastard who shoved a pillow over her face while she slept.

  The back stories of ghosts always suck. It's why they're ghosts. There are no happy ever afters for any of them. They're just left here to rot. Oh, and to wallow in their mistakes.

  "Ha! They suck for you," Kenna complains. "We had to live them."

  Eying her, I sigh. "I'm sorry. It's just very gloomy. With rape/murders, robberies gone wrong, and forced euthanasia, it's a lot to deal with en masse."

  "It's your curse and your gift," she tells me, voice matter-of-fact.

  "I know. You don't have to remind me."

  Taking another sip of V&T, I study her timeless flapper-self. Dressed in a simple sheath, that isn't so simple at the back with its drop V-neckline that almost hits her butt, with a thin scarf at the waist, a fringe of tiny gold beads, small Mary-Jane pumps, and a cloche hat complete with feather—she epitomizes twenties’ glamor.

  She lives in a world of sepia, although, she told me the dress was once a bright turquoise. The only colors that transmit through the spirit world are metals. They gleam like they were real.

  In comparison to her chic-ness, I'm a mess. Yoga pants that needed to hit the laundry basket yesterday, a T-shirt with a pizza stain on it, and a bedhead that's going to take two bouts with conditioner to untangle.

  "I do have to remind you," Kenna points out, getting me back on track. She's my unofficial PA. "You haven't taken a case in over a month."

  "I'm tired, Kenna." I close my eyes, more to hide from her astuteness than out of real weariness.

  "No, you're hurting."

  Her words make me swallow back the lump that has gathered there. "Maybe," I whisper, my voice husky.

  "No 'maybe' about it. Your mother shouldn't have said those things."

  "No, she shouldn't, but she did. And what she said can't be taken back either."

  "You've always had a precarious relationship with her. It's her Catholic upbringing, love. You know it's Father O'Doyle doing the talking, not her."

  That makes me snort. "Bullshit. If anyone's the shepherd in that congregation, it's mother. Hell, it's a wonder she hasn't been ordained herself."

  Kenna cackles at that. "Oh, I think hell really would freeze over if that happened. Your mother might think she's a saint, but she isn't. Just you wait until she passes. She's in for a rough time."

  I wrinkle my nose. "That's supposed to comfort me? Christ, she's still my mom."

  Her shrug is unapologetic. "Bullshit. As you said, that woman spawned you and did precious little else. But she'll get her comeuppance."

  Immediately feeling guilty, I duck my head to hide from her. And hide I must. No one knows me like Kenna does, because if anyone was my mom, it was she. She raised me, was the one who comforted me if I fell over or had a crappy day at school.

  She loves unconditionally, whereas my mom would have loved me if I hadn't been an odd child. If ghosts hadn't followed me around, and if I hadn't spoken to them.

  I know she's a good mom. I watched her with my brothers. My normal, nine-to-five stiffs for siblings. They all get along rather well. But as the proverbial black sheep, yeah, I'm out in the cold.

  A rather luxurious cold, but still, it's something no amount of heating can thaw.

  "Who's coming?" I ask, rather than delve deeper into a topic that always makes me uncomfortable.

  M.O.M. never inspires positive conversation between Kenna and me. She gets all vengeful, promising a dire afterlife to the woman who donated her ovum. I feel guilty for having a good mom in Kenna, but always wishing the egg-donor had cared for me just
a smidgen.

  "How do you know someone's coming?"

  "Because you only go all serious on me when a new client is on their way. So, spill. Who is it?"

  "Drake Edwin. Forty-one. Recently lost a nephew. Practically raised him after his brother died in a freak train crash. It derailed."

  "What's he do for a living?"

  "Psychologist."

  That has me cocking a brow. "A shrink is coming to see me for help?"

  "After the Stewards’ case, you're a hot shot psychic."

  "Don't call me that. You know I hate it."

  "Maybe, but there isn't another way to describe you, duckie."

  Grimacing at that, I murmur, "How did the nephew die? And what's his name?"

  "David. Drug overdose. He was only seventeen."

  This time, when I close my eyes, it's at the waste. I come across so much of it. A waste of precious life. For someone surrounded in the quagmire of death, the vibrancy of existing is like a hug to my battered senses.

  "What's made him stand out to you?" For Kenna to know so much, she's already done some digging.

  "It wasn't an accident. David tells me he'd never taken drugs before."

  "It only takes one shot."

  Kenna shakes her head. "While the boy is still in denial, and doesn't want to believe he's dead, he has it together enough to know he didn't willingly take any drugs."

  "You're certain?"

  She huffs—she does that a lot. "I've been doing this a lot longer than you have."

  "Technically, you haven't."

  "Well, maybe not, but I've been around a lot longer than you."

  Kenna had become a ghost detective the same time as me. She likes to lord it over me, but we only ever agree on one thing—neither of us appreciate being called ghost detectives.

  "Your decrepitude isn't in dispute, here," I tease. "Come on, tell me why this one stands out to you."

  A shrug is the only reply she gives me.

  "Well, that's helpful." My grunt of annoyance is wasted on her. "When is he coming? I guess I need to shower if it's soon."

  The bitch that is fate works against me, because the instant I form that statement, the doorbell rings. Knowing it's this Drake Edwin guy, I glare at Kenna. "Fuck. Couldn't you have warned me?"

  The gleam in her eye makes me seethe. She can be such a pain in my ass. "I told you to shower yesterday."

  "I'd still stink."

  "Yeah, but not of two-day old pizza."

  "Yuck. Thanks, Kenna!"

  Scurrying out of the living room, I head to the hall and holler, "Just two minutes!"

  In the hall bath, I look for something to mask the scent of pizza, nachos, and one too many V&Ts, but come up with nothing better than air freshener.

  With no other choice, I douse myself in the lavender scent that always makes me sneeze, and you guessed it, immediately start sneezing.

  "That was the best choice, was it?" Kenna murmurs in my right ear. I'm used to her sneaking up on me so I don't shriek, just glower at her.

  "Shut up. Do I still smell funky?"

  Kenna grins. "No. Now you smell of cheesy lavender."

  Flipping her the bird, I look at the mirror and know there's nothing I can do about my hair. "You're such a bitch sometimes. Why couldn't you have warned me he was on his way? And before you say you did, I mean today. Preferably before he's about to knock on my door."

  "I told you, I did. Yesterday. Six times. And three times this morning but you were sleeping off a hangover!"

  "Well, I don't remember."

  "You just weren't listening. That second tub of Ben & Jerry's put you in a flipping sugar coma never mind all the freakin' vodka you were sinking back last night."

  I ignore the snipe about the vodka, but the ice cream? No way. "Two? I ate two? Shit."

  "Yeah. Don't you remember?"

  "Nope. Maybe that's a good thing." Sucking in a breath, I grunt at my hair and the general aura of couch potato I'm exuding. "I guess it's been more than two minutes by now."

  "Three, to be precise."

  "Shit." Leaving the bathroom, I head for the door. "Drake Edwin, I presume?"

  The silence from the other side tells me it's the right man. Then comes the inevitable and always tedious, "How did you know that?"

  "You wouldn't be here if I didn't know simple things of that nature."

  "Can't you open the door?"

  "Yes. I can, but I'm not looking very presentable." Hell, my slobs-r-us image will be totally off-putting to a forty-year-old shrink.

  Not for the first time, I bemoan the period front door which comes without a peep-hole.

  "That doesn't matter. I need your help."

  "Okay. You've been warned."

  I unlatch the two locks and pull open the door. When I do, I want to curl up in a ball and hide.

  "Told you you should have showered."

  Kenna's sly comment makes me want to slap her silly—a not too unusual occurrence. But in this case, I really wish I had listened to her.

  Shit, this Drake guy is hot. Capital H hot.

  His hair is streaked with silver, but those glistening strands are the perfect contrast to his blacker than black hair. Eyes like chestnuts gawk at me in what I can only presume is horror, but his face, in general, holds my attention. Strong, if slightly thin—but that gauntness makes sense if he's been grieving, and hell, when aren't they grieving when they come to me?—his jaw is firm, his chin stubborn. A slash for a nose leads to mobile eyebrows—not that they're moving constantly, but they do move. They're tells. If I study them alone, I'd probably be able to know his mood.

  Not that I want to know my client’s each and every mood, but you know...

  I cough at that, then take in the nice slacks, the white shirt, and the neat navy sweater. He looks erudite. Learned. In fact, he exudes it.

  I don't read auras but I know he'd be glowing with an orange-yellow kind of hue. He screams awareness. Which is why it's interesting he's here.

  "Your type don't usually frequent people like me," I tell him, trying to sound blunt and coming out with a breathy hybrid that would make Marilyn Monroe shudder in horror.

  "My type?"

  "Psychologists... educated people."

  "I'd say the fact you're living in one of the oldest and wealthiest buildings in this neighborhood is proof positive for even learned people that you're not a total charlatan."

  Slightly taken aback by the curt retort, I gawk at him for a second. Even though I hate the word charlatan with a passion, his answer stirs something in me.

  "I knew you'd like him," Kenna informs me cheerfully, and there you have it. The one problem with ghosts. They can talk to you when you have company, but you can't talk back.

  Not without looking like a nutter.

  Hence my mother's many issues with my four-year-old ghost-speaking self.

  An awkward pause settled after he spoke, and he's looking at me like he's waiting for the answer to a question I obviously didn't hear, so I step back and beckon him in with a wave of my hand. Oddly enough, he hesitates, then slowly follows me, making me think a part of him wonders if he's on some kind of Alice in Wonderland trip.

  Closing the door behind him, I direct him to my office. "Second door on the right."

  "Good thinking," Kenna murmurs. "It's the only decent room in this crap hole."

  "Million-dollar doss hole, thank you very much," I mumble back at her, flipping her the finger once more.

  Unfortunately, I do it so freakin' much, she's no longer offended at the gesture.

  Determining to find out hand gestures that were offensive back in her day, like I vow every day and always forget, I follow my client into the office.

  Kenna's right, it's the least-used place in my pad, which means it's always neat.

  Drake Edwins peers around the room a second before striding over to one of the chairs in front of the desk. He takes a seat without asking me, a move that has me frowning.

  "Take a sea
t," I tell him, unapologetically highlighting his rudeness.

  "I didn't think you were the sort to stand on ceremony."

  "Oh, because I'm a psychic I don't have basic manners, is that it?"

  Drake's eyebrows flat-line. "No, I didn't mean that."

  I shrug. "Judge me all you want, but remember, you came to me. Not the other way around." I sit behind my desk, look at him a second, then take in the room at large and the dozen ghosts who followed me in here.

  Perched on one of the curtain rails is a little girl called Sally. She died of the Spanish flu.

  Kenna has taken the other chair opposite my glass and chrome desk—that's her place. She's the official queen bee of my entourage. With her legs crossed, she's a beauty. I'm almost ridiculously glad Drake can't compare her chic togetherness with my rough-and-ready messiness.

  Casper is filing his nails, and the other nine or so are chatting with one another over something I can't hear without concentrating on them.

  Kenna waves at me to catch my wandering attention. "Get on with it, for God's sake."

  Attention reverting to my client, I swing back in my seat and tell him exactly what he wants to know: "David was murdered."

  "Christ, Jason, couldn't you have picked a nicer way to tell him that?"

  Kenna's bitchy tone has me barely holding back an eye-roll. But she's kind of right. It's not my fault the guy rubbed me the wrong way by being impolite, but still, I could have been kinder.

  Especially if those eyebrows of his are anything to go by.

  Clenched down and together, he almost looks surprised, but I know tears are imminent. Mostly from the way he's clenching his fists on his lap.

  "How do you know that?" he bites out. "You didn't even know I was coming."

  "You said it yourself, Mr. Edwin. I live here for a reason. I know what I'm talking about. I'm not a hack."

  He firms his jaw. "What do you know about David?"

  "Very little in the grand scheme of things. I know he lost his father, your brother, at an early age. I know you've been more of a father to him than anything else. I also know he died of a drug overdose... but David himself has told someone close to me that he's never touched drugs before."