Always Look Twice. Sheri WhiteFeather
where moonlight glinted through lace sheers, sending a filigree pattern across the floor.
After she climbed out of bed, she slipped on a pair of sheepskin slippers, warming her feet from the linoleum. The loft was a little chilly at two in the morning. But just a little.
She smiled to herself. That was the beauty of living in Southern California. While other parts of the country were banked in snow, L.A. offered mild temperatures, even in February.
Olivia went into the kitchen, where a twenty-watt bulb above the stove served as a nightlight. She fixed herself a cup of mint tea and noticed conversation-heart candies dotting the counter.
Allie had left them for the ghost.
She picked one up, read the Be Mine inscription, almost ate it, then set it back down. Allie used to leave cookies and milk for Santa Claus, too.
Olivia tasted her tea. She’d never believed in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny or any of those childhood myths.
Allie had believed in everything.
Taking her cup, she walked to her sister’s room and peeked in. A low-burning lamp bathed a collection of fancy dance shawls with an amber glow, making the retired powwow regalia look like oversize butterflies with fringed wings.
Olivia expected to find Allie in bed, sleeping like a castle-bound princess, but the pink-and-gold chamber was empty.
She closed the bedroom door and headed to Allie’s studio, knowing that was where she would be. Sure enough, her sister was working. The smooth side of a buffalo hide was stretched across a table, with Allie leaning over it, drawing a design she intended to paint.
“Couldn’t that wait until morning?” Olivia asked.
Allie looked up. She wore white pajamas and pair of cat-shaped slippers. Samantha, the real cat, slept on a nearby shelf cluttered with art supplies. “No. I have to do this now.”
“Why? What’s the hurry?”
“It’s going to be a portrait of Dad, so he can travel the Ghost Road. If I paint a tattoo on his wrist, the old woman will have to let him pass.”
Olivia moved farther into the studio, still clutching her tea. In the early Lakota days, the Ghost Road was a path taken by spirits. To the south the road branched, where an old woman inspected the tattoo of each spirit. Those without tattoos would be pushed over the side of a cloud or a cliff, condemned to roam the earth as ghosts.
“Spirits don’t get a second chance on the Ghost Road, Allie.”
The younger woman continued sketching. “Dad might.”
Olivia wished her sister’s artwork had the power to free their father. He’d taught them about the old ways, but he’d lived a modern life. A tattoo for the Ghost Road wasn’t something he’d considered. “Do you really think it’s him?”
Allie glanced up. “Who else could it be?”
“I don’t know.” Olivia laughed a little. “I’ve been calling it Casper.”
Her sister laughed, too. “At least Casper was on TV and in the movies.” Her mood turned solemn. “Do you think Mom knows that he’s dead? That he killed himself?”
“I have no idea.” Joseph Whirlwind wasn’t a well-known actor. His suicide hadn’t made the papers. He’d disappeared into the bowels of Hollywood, like so many others before him.
Allie smoothed the hide. “I wonder where she is.”
Olivia didn’t want to think about their mother, about the betrayal that still left her empty inside. What kind of woman walked away from her family? Discarded them like trash?
She changed the subject, focusing on Allie’s project instead. “Are you going to paint some weapons for him? A lance? A shield?”
Her sister nodded. “I’m going dress him in the traditional way, too. Eagle feathers in his hair and beaded moccasins with fully quilled soles.”
“That’s a good idea.” There were only two times when moccasins with quilled or beaded soles were made. When a baby was born and when a loved one died.
“So did you find out who was staying at the motel?” Allie asked.
Olivia sighed. She couldn’t seem to shake West from her mind. “It was the special agent assigned to the Slasher case.”
“An FBI guy?” Her sister stopped drawing. Her hair was loose, falling in a thick black curtain, glimmering under the studio lights. “Wow. That’s wild.”
Yeah, wild. “He confuses me.”
“Why? Because Dad drew him to that room?”
Olivia frowned. West had implied the same thing. “We don’t even know if the wanagi is Dad.”
“It is. It has to be. And after the Slasher case is solved, he’s going to travel the Ghost Road.”
After it’s solved? Olivia glanced at the buffalo hide, at the rough image that had begun to appear. She sipped her tea, needing warmth, needing reassurance.
Then without the slightest warning, Samantha opened her eyes, arched her sleek black body and hissed at a shadow on the wall.
Leaving Olivia chilled once again.
At daybreak Olivia drove to an area in the high desert where the Manson gang once dwelled, an area where methamphetamine labs brewed illicit drugs, and relocated sex offenders pretended to be part of society.
She parked beside a house encompassed by a chain-link fence. The front yard was littered with old car parts, broken-down swing sets, wagon wheels, goofy-looking lawn jockeys and bearded gnomes. Several outbuildings stored even more salable junk, things exposure to the elements could damage. A metal aircraft hangar sat behind everything else, taking up a noticeable portion of the seven-acre property.
Olivia approached the perimeter of the front yard and waited for the rottweiler on duty to snarl and bark his fool head off.
He did just that, baring his teeth until he realized who she was. Then he wagged his docked tail and whined for attention.
“Clyde, you big baby.” She unlocked the gate with her key, entered the property and knelt to pet him. “Where’s Bonnie?”
Just then, a miniature dachshund came around the corner, her long, low-slung body wiggling. She looked like what she was—a wiener dog Clyde could consume for breakfast. But he wouldn’t dream of it. Bonnie and Clyde adored each other.
Olivia tapped the dachshund’s pointed nose and received a sappy grin in return. “Okay, you guys, I’m going to wake up your master.”
She walked passed the junk, where a sixty-year-old house with a sagging porch made a run-down statement.
Once again, she used her key, hoping Kyle wasn’t in bed with his latest lover, whoever the unfortunate girl might be.
His house was a mess, almost as cluttered as his yard. She passed the kitchen and winced. Food-encrusted dishes were piled in the sink and stacked on the counter, leaving little space for much else.
Kyle Prescott was a decorated Desert Storm soldier, a half-blood Apache who looked like an indigenous god, but he was also the biggest slob on the planet.
She tore open his bedroom door, and he awakened with a start. He was alone, as big and broad and surly as a brown bear.
“Olivia.” He cursed her name. “Do you know what time it is?”
“I need to blow off some steam.”
“Oh.” His demeanor changed. He smiled and patted the empty space next to him. “In that case, I’m all yours.”
“Not that kind of steam.”
“Figures.” He climbed out of bed, unabashed and completely naked.