Sixth Grave on the Edge(93)

I crinkled my nose, busted beyond belief, then popped up out of Cookie’s lap, wondering in the back of my mind what that would look like. “Oh, hey, Mrs. Garza! I didn’t see you.”

After taking a long moment to fold her arms over her chest, she said, “You sent more money this month.”

“Right, um, your relative’s estate was larger than we’d originally been told.”

“It magically got bigger?” She was such a stunning woman. Even at fifty, she had an amazing body and fantastic hair. Combine that with her thick Spanish accent and her rich, husky voice, and she was what Garrett would call a TKO.

“It did get bigger. Weird, huh?”

“Right,” Cookie said, nodding in agreement. “Totally weird. That was one eccentric aunt you had.”

“Uncle,” I corrected her.

“Uncle. Aunt,” she said, going in for a save. “I think he was a cross-dresser.”

Not bad. Not bad.

Mrs. Garza slid into the booth with us. “I’m not here to cause problems, Ms. Davidson.”

This was not going to end well. “Call me Charley,” I said. “And this is my assistant, Cookie.”

She blinked at her. “Your name is Cookie?” she asked her. No one had ever questioned that, but she was right. It was an odd name. And yet it fit her so perfectly.

“Sure is.” She held out a hand, and Mrs. Garza shook it.

“I am Evangeline.”

“Oh, we know,” Cookie said. “We make out a check to you every—”

“So,” I said, interrupting her before she said too much, “what brings you to our neck of the woods?”

“You. This money. This tío de tu imaginación.”

Well that was uncalled for. “I have a couple of imaginary friends,” I said, correcting her, “but my uncle is very real.”

“No, my uncle,” she said.

“Does your uncle know you think he’s imaginary?”

Just when I thought she might grow frustrated enough to storm out of the room, she stopped and implored me. “I just have some questions. For him. For Angel,” she said, pronouncing it Ahn-hell.

“I don’t know anyone named Ahn-hell.”

Cookie shook her head, too, completely baffled. She was getting really good at this stuff. Of course, she was not lying. She’d never seen the little punk, though I’d described him to her on several occasions. Every time, a starstruck expression would come over her face. She liked the kid. So did I. Usually.

Evangeline held up hand. “Spare me. I know who you are. I know what you can do.”

I kept waiting for the subject of our conversation to pop in. He always seemed to sense what his mother was up to. While I wanted to tell her, to let her know what a great kid she had and how well he was doing, Angel was so vehemently against it, I didn’t know what to do.

“Charley,” she said, leaning in to me, “I insist.”

Maybe if I just explained why I couldn’t tell her. Then again, that would be confirming her suspicions, but I had a feeling she was like a pit bull with a stuffed Elmo. No way was she giving up until everything was out in the open, polyester guts and all.

There was one place Ahn-hell wasn’t allowed. “Follow me,” I said, scooting out of the booth and leading her to the women’s restroom.

“Is he in here?” she asked, kind of appalled.

“No, that’s why we are. He is no longer allowed in the women’s restroom.”

She stilled. I’d just confirmed all her suspicions. All her hopes. Who wouldn’t want to be able to talk to a lost child? I couldn’t imagine what she went through when Angel died. He told me she was devastated. Understandably so. But the thought of the agony she’d suffered tightened around my chest as I watched her face. Every emotion known to mankind flashed across it.

“So, what everyone says about you is true.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. That whole chess-team thing was a big misunderstanding.”

I didn’t amuse her. She was lost in her thoughts. In her hopes and, deep down, her dread. “You can speak with the dead.”

“I can, but only when they want me to, for the most part. Evangeline,” I said, knowing I was going to regret everything I was about to say. Angel was going to kill me. “He doesn’t want you to know he’s … he’s still with us.”

A hand with impeccably finished nails covered her mouth. She leaned against the counter, clearly afraid her legs would give. I let her absorb, mull, and otherwise process everything she was going through. After a long while, she said, “Why—?” Her voice hitched. She swallowed and started again. “Why doesn’t he want me to know about him?”