Kyra Davis - Lust, Loathing And A Little Lip Gloss

I looked up at Scott. He was describing the state of the body to someone on the phone and gagging between sentences. Thank God for Anatoly because I was pretty sure Scott wasn’t going to be that big of a comfort to me.

Smart Agoraphobics Invest in Real Estate.

—The Lighter Side of Death

LESS THAN FIVE MINUTES LATER, A POLICE CAR AND AN AMBULANCE arrived. The paramedics and one of the two officers immediately went upstairs to check out the body while the other officer, a sergeant with salt-and-pepper hair and a face like Paul McCartney, lingered in the living room to ask Scott and me a few questions. He introduced himself as Sergeant Poplar, but in my head he was Sergeant Pepper. After giving him a quick rundown of why we were there and what we had found, his partner (a cute blond woman who looked more cheerleader than cop) appeared at the top of the stairs and said something about it looking like “natural causes,” at which point Sergeant Pepper asked us to stick around while he took a look for himself. Once both officers were out of sight, Scott and I simultaneously collapsed on the couch and stared up at the vaulted ceiling.

“Well,” Scott said dully, “I’ve never had a house showing like this before.”

“Did you know Oscar well?” I asked. The cushions on the couch were overstuffed to the point of discomfort, but neither Scott nor I moved to find a better seat.

He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “He’s more Venus’s friend.”

“Who’s Venus?”

But before he could answer Anatoly burst through the door. His hands were still encased in the thick black gloves he so frequently wore while riding his Harley, and he creased his forehead in concern. Without a second thought I went to him and he received me with a tight embrace. “You seem to have a talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he scolded, but his tone was gentle and comforting.

“I just wanted to see the house,” I said, my words muffled by his shirt.

Anatoly pulled back slightly and took in his surroundings. “Nice,” he noted before his eyes landed on Scott. “I take it you’re the Realtor?”

Scott nodded and wiped his palm sweat on his designer jeans before extending his hand to Anatoly. “Scott Colvin, Sophie’s Realtor, friend and ex-husband.”

Anatoly’s smile of greeting froze midhandshake.

“He’s lying,” I said quickly. “At least about being my Realtor, or my friend for that matter.”

“And the ex-husband part?” Anatoly asked, keeping his eyes on Scott. He hadn’t let go of his hand yet, and judging from Scott’s expression, Anatoly’s grip had gotten a little tighter than necessary.

“That part’s true.”

Anatoly released Scott and turned to me. “You came to this house in the middle of the night with your ex-husband?”

“Eight-thirty’s the middle of the night?” Scott asked. “Guess you must be an early-to-bed guy. Sophie and I have always been night owls.”

“We haven’t seen each other in ten years, Scott,” I hissed. “You have no idea what my sleeping habits are like now.” The cool damp breeze coming in from the open door was beginning to get to me and I rubbed the back of my arms in an attempt to increase my circulation.

Scott cocked his head to the side, and shot me the first real grin since we had discovered Oscar. “There’s no way you’ve turned into an early bird. Not my Soapy.”

“Soapy?” Anatoly raised his eyebrows.

“You didn’t tell him about that nickname?” Scott chuckled and refocused on Anatoly. “Man, you’re going to love how she got it. We were washing her car and she was wearing these Daisy Duke shorts and this sheer white tank top—”

“They were regular denim shorts and the tank was not sheer,” I snapped. “I can’t believe you’re trying to play juvenile head games while the paramedics upstairs are trying to determine the cause of death of one of your friends.”

“Whose friend is dead?” a Kathleen Turner–type voice demanded.

We all turned toward the front door and standing there was a human hanger.

Actually “human hanger” was my friend Dena’s term. She used it for runway models and those who looked like them; in other words, women who were too skinny, angular and narrow in the hips to look sexy in lingerie, but managed to make clothes look fabulous. This particular hanger was hanging a delicate off-white long-sleeve top under a spaghetti-strap charcoal-gray empire wool dress. The outfit would have made me look like a matronly dwarf. She, on the other hand, looked ethereal. She glided over to Scott and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Scott, darling, who’s dead?”

“Venus, what are you doing here?” he croaked.

She pulled back, her height enabling her to look him in the eyes without tilting her head. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me, darling. I asked you who was dead. That is what you said, isn’t it?” she asked, whirling around to look at me. “You said that there were paramedics upstairs determining the cause of someone’s death.”

“I think you should answer your girlfriend’s questions, Scott,” Anatoly suggested. “This woman is your girlfriend, right?”

Scott nodded mutely.

“Then why don’t you explain to her what Sophie was talking about. Fill her in on what’s happened and what it was you said that got Sophie so irritated.”

“Your name is Sophie?” Venus asked. She truly was beautiful. Her skin was a creamy-white and her chestnut hair, which was pulled into a loose, low ponytail, had enough sheen to make an Herbal Essence model jealous. Her features were kind of perfect, to the point that I had to wonder if she had been crafted by genetics, or a very talented plastic surgeon. When I stared directly at her I could see that she was wearing makeup, perhaps a lot of it, but everything was so perfectly blended and the tones so muted that it managed to look natural. The only things that didn’t quite fit were her hands, which were a little too big to match an otherwise delicate figure. However even this inconsistency served her well, making her seem a bit more powerful than her heart-shaped mouth would suggest.

But she wasn’t nice. I could just tell. Something about the icy sheen in her green eyes hinted at a foul temperament.

“What’s your last name?” she demanded, not waiting for me to answer her first question.

I inched a little closer to Anatoly. “My last name is Katz.”

“This is your ex-wife, Scott,” Venus said slowly. “How interesting.” Her mouth curved into a wry smile. “Now, someone is going to tell me why we’re all here and why there’s a police car and ambulance outside. I know Oscar’s staying at the Nikko tonight so—”

Scott put a firm hand on her shoulder and turned her back around to face him. “Venus, Oscar didn’t get to the Nikko.”

I couldn’t see Venus’s face, but her body had gone absolutely still.

“I’m so sorry, love. We found him in his bed and—”

“Stop.” Venus’s voice was shaky and discordant. She moved away from Scott and farther into the house, pausing before the fireplace. As skinny as she was she still had the presence to fill up the spacious room. “I don’t want to hear this from you. I want to hear it from Oscar.”

Anatoly and I gave Scott a questioning look. “Right…” Then Scott looked longingly at the door. “Venus, um, sees dead people.”

“Feel,” Venus corrected. “I can feel them. The circumstances in this room aren’t right for a ghost to actually make an appearance right now.”

Anatoly stared at her for a few seconds before pulling me closer so my ear was near his lips. “Why don’t I take you home and we’ll let your ex deal with the crazy woman.”