Chapter 1

Chapter

One

J esus. It was just a game of Twister…

"Miss, do you really think this is a good idea?"

She looked around at the small room that led to a much bigger room, its walls made of brick, the floor littered in Sheetrock debris, and sighed. How could a spirited game of Twister have led to this?

"Miss? I repeat, do you have your listening ears on? Do we really think this is a good idea?"

Good ideas had levels. This one might be on the lower end, but it was the only idea they had.

"Stop calling me ‘miss,' Tottington. We don't want these people to think I'm some pretentious rich kid with a servant."

He raised his salt-and-pepper eyebrow with perfected haughty disdain. "You are a rich woman in her mid-thirties with a servant, Roberta Tisdale."

On the cusp of thirty-six, if they were splitting hairs.

"Well, at least you didn't call me pretentious, that's something. And call me Robbie, T, please ," she emphasized. "Roberta makes me sound like a spinster who lives with a hundred cats."

Tottington raised the other eyebrow. "But you do?—"

Robbie rolled her eyes and flapped her hand at him. "I don't live with a hundred cats. I have three. Three ."

Three of her favorite furry things in the whole wide world. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. Two boys and one unfortunate girl who had a boy's name because it fit with the other two musketeers.

Tottington pursed his lips in stern disapproval as he eyeballed the small antique-looking desk with a vase filled with gorgeous fall sunflowers, running his finger over it for dust.

"I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you, when I dust, it surely feels like a hundred at times."

"Then be remiss. And I don't have money anymore because my mother took it all away. Also, I don't care that she took it all away. So I'm not rich, and I'd prefer to be called Robbie. Now, pipe down before those women in there who look like supermodels think we're nuttier than a macadamia."

Tottington opened his mouth, but Robbie shook a stern finger under her faithful, lifelong servant's nose. "I said don't, T. As in do not . I already know you think I'm nuts. Remember, I'm the nut who gave up a zillion dollars to live in a slum because morals . And if I didn't think I was nuts before tonight, I'm giving you confirmation now, because I feel nuttier than ever after last night. Even nuttier than when I told my mother she could stuff her fat wads of cash up her old keister. I mean, I must be hearing things. Okay? I'm nuts. The end."

"You are not ze macadamia, Robbieee!" a heavily French-accented voice indignantly insisted. "You are not hearing ze things. I do indeed talk and zis is very real. I am real."

Robbie exhaled with a raspy sigh, holding the broom at arm's length—a talking broom that had appeared out of nowhere in her tiny apartment, its bristly head twitching as it spoke.

Tottington cleared his throat, folding his hands in front of him, looking anywhere but at the broom because he knew this was nuts, too. He could play all cool as a cucumber, like his feathers weren't at all ruffled, his typical MO, but Robbie knew him well. On the inside, he was a riot of continually fraying nerves.

Because talking broom . The broom was talking to them, and Tottington knew it just as sure as the day was long.

Clinging to the worn handle, Robbie gave it (him?) a shake. "You are not real!" she cried, hoarse from all the screaming she'd done earlier, when it had first spoken. "This is a bad joke. A poorly executed hoax, maybe. I don't know how you're doing it, but this isn't real!"

It couldn't be real. A talking broom? It was right out of a horror movie—except the broom was kinda nice (like that Disney movie with all the dancing brooms, nice) and Robbie didn't entirely hate…it. Him? Was the broom a him? Did brooms have genders? Did it matter if she got its pronouns right?

It was a talking broom , for heaven's sake!

Winding its handle around her neck like a snake, it caressed her cheek and whispered, "Oooh, ma chère, why do you hurt me so?" he purred in her ear, soft and almost mesmerizing. So mesmerizing, she found herself leaning into it.

But then she remembered this couldn't be happening.

Robbie snapped back in the padded chair as far as she could, putting her fingertips on its handle to push it away. "I'm going to tell you one last time…" She paused, frowning. "Uh…sorry, what's your name again?"

"Hervé. My name is Hervé , mon amie."

Her disbelief was clear. "Like Tattoo? Hervé Villechaize from Fantasy Island ? That Hervé?"

The handle of the broom leaned back now, too, mirroring her in an almost indignant stance—which was curious, considering he was basically a stick. "How dare you? Zere is only one Hervé!"

Oh hell.

She gripped the handle, pulling it close to her face, giving it a thorough eyeballing. "Okay, Hervé , as I said, I'm going to tell you one last time, back the hell off!"

"Mon dieu!" he spat in surprise. "Touchy witch is touchy!" He pushed away from her, using his bristles to dance backward."Bah! Fine-fine. I will back away, but you will regret zis request."

Herve skittered away to rest against the far wall from where she sat, waiting for these women from OOPS to make an appearance in some under-construction room that led to what looked like a medieval basement.

From where she sat, it looked like a waiting room. There was a small old-looking table with a vase of flowers, the chair she sat in, and a bunch of plastic separating a much larger, almost cavernous room, where the sounds of hammers and drills rang out.

The archway leading to the under-construction room was dark, though. Curious for this time of night, especially when you were using power tools.

Tottington had found this group of women on the Internet, after diligently searching all manner of keywords for her…predicament. Their website made the claim they could help solve all your accidental paranormal needs.

Ridiculous . The words flashing on that website with sparkly bursts of stars were ridiculous. What kind of world did they live in where they needed paranormal accident experts?

But what choice did she have? Who did you call when you had a talking broom and you'd set your hair on fire with your fingertips? Her fingertips .

It had happened so fast, Robbie almost couldn't believe she was the one who'd done it, but Tottington confirmed it. She'd set fire to her own hair with her fingers.

Robbie clung to her left hand, shoving the deviant offender under her armpit as if that might prevent another inferno. She used her other hand to push the frayed ends of her hair away from her face.

Tottington stared at her from his place next to the puffy chair and cleared his throat.

Robbie sighed in exasperation. "What, T? Does it look that bad?"

He cocked his head in that haughty way one does when they're British, but also riddled with good manners and years of rich-people protocol. "Certainly, it isn't ideal for you to meet new people looking as though you've recently escaped a house fire. Alas, as the saying goes, beggars can't be choosers. However, a good brushing before leaving that hellscape we call home wouldn't have hurt."

Rolling her eyes, Robbie made a face at him. "I'm sorry I didn't change into something more appropriate before I came to find out how I managed to set my hair on fire with my fingers from these quacks. Next time, I'll wear my good heels."

He scoffed, running a long, slender finger down his shiny black tie, giving it a flick. "You don't have any good heels left, Miss. You left them all behind at the residence where the matriarch of your bloodline with the fat keister full of wads of cash dwells, remember?"

Robbie fought a giggle. She'd really said that. Right in front of all of her mother's fancy guests at one of her elite parties, where they ate caviar on water crackers and suckled at the mouths of dozens of bottles of Robert Mondavi.

"I'm not ever going to regret that night, Tottington. Not as long as I live. My mother's a bad person and you know it. You've always known it. She can keep her expensive shoes and designer clothes. We're doing just fine."

And she was. Mostly. Maybe she worked in a Dollar General now because no one would hire her anywhere in the greater Tri-State area. Her mother had made sure of that. No one talked to Agatha Tisdale the way Robbie had. Not even her only daughter, apparently.

But so the heck what? She was free .

To think, but a year ago, she'd had an office in Manhattan in a high-rise building with a view—working for her mother as their head of public relations, of course. Until she wasn't…

Stocking shelves at the DG wasn't the worst thing in the world, and she'd made a couple of really nice friends. It was an honest living. Sort of.

Though, if she were truthful, it was a small living at best. Thankfully, Robbie'd socked away some money her mother had no idea existed. If she continued to live off that, she and Tottington might make it another four years before she collapsed in financial ruin and was forced to live on the streets.

But she'd do it all again in order to be able to sleep at night—so her skin wouldn't crawl.

Tottington's gray-blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Fine? Are we fine, Miss? We live in a ramshackle apartment building built somewhere in the age of paper-thin walls, with electrical wiring done in the days when they paid electricians in bags of beans. It smells alternately of two-week-old fried fish and despair, and there's a spore of some sort growing in a decidedly monstrous pattern along the side of the shower tiles. It's unspeakable."

She winked at him, refusing to give in to the idea they lived in some sort of hell. "And it's only eight hundred bucks a month—in Long Island , Tottington. That's unheard of. We were lucky to find it. Plus, Mrs. Campisi brings us a free meal once a week when it's fish day. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

He made a face, a rare departure from his normal placid glare—which meant he hotly disapproved. "Fish she buys from a gentleman named Momo Battaglio, Miss. Fish that tastes reminiscent of leather and sweat."

Robbie shifted in her chair, using her right hand for leverage. "Have you eaten a lot of leather, Tottington?"

Now he gave her the disapproving glare. "I see you have quips this eve. Isn't that lovely, considering you've fried half of your hair to a crisp, leaving it rather resembling a plate of the lovely Mrs. Campisi's fish and lest we forget, you have a talking broom."

Mrs. Campisi's fish was pretty gross, but she was a sweet old lady who'd welcomed her to the hell of her new life with open arms and, for some reason, a need to nurture them. She was the one person who'd shared all the ins and outs of her new apartment community willingly, rather than look at her as though she had leprosy.

For instance, when Blonda and Mick the Tic, the couple who lived in the apartment between them, fought with each other (dear Heaven, did they fight), Mrs. Campisi had been the one to suggest a headset—to block out the poor language and the intermittent smash of glassware.

The headset also helped for the moments after the fight was over, the walls being as paper thin as they were and all. Suffice it to say, Blonda and Mick the Tic lived out loud—no matter what they were doing.

Also, had it not been for Mrs. C, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis would have been dog food for Mr. Shazinski's big ol' pit/lab mix, Augustus—Auggie for short.

Auggie was a sweetheart of a hundred-pound Pitbull baby. Loving, gentle, enormous, and Mr. Shazinski was a great guy. Maybe a shower from time to time wouldn't be the worst thing he could fall into, but he was a sweet retired man, and she liked him very much.

But he was also a man who couldn't control his dog.

When the old Augster had gotten a whiff of her babies, it was a snarling, drooling, knock the door down, drag his master by the leash to the almost death match.

Good thing Augie liked Mrs. Campisi's fish just fine. It was the only thing that had gotten him out of her apartment and Robbie's cats off the ceiling.

Still, Robbie shook a finger at Tottington. One from her left hand, so as not to set him on fire, too. "You leave Mrs. Campisi alone. How else would we have known to keep the window by the fire escape closed between the hours of five and six at night, when Joey Diamotto's being chased down by the cops for selling extasy to the seniors when they get off the bus from the center? We'd have been accused of aiding and abetting."

Tottington brushed the sleeves of his suit jacket in disgust, as though Joey Diamotto had brushed against him and left his ick all over T's flawless suit. "Heaven forbid we should aid and abet a common criminal looking for an escape route, Miss. Nonetheless, it still does not excuse that aberration Mrs. Campisi deems fish."

"She calls it blackened fish, and we're going to keep right on accepting her goodwill because that's what a good neighbor does, and I don't want her feelings hurt. Besides, the cats kinda like it. So, quit being such a snobbity-snob. Was it you who grew up with a silver spoon in their mouth? I don't think so." Robbie paused, looking around and really seeing where they were for the first time. "Now, back to the sitch at hand, buddy. Are we really in a castle?"

When they'd pulled up in the Uber, she almost couldn't believe her eyes. Looming in the purple-bruised sky of chilly late October was a castle. A real live castle, with arched windows and a big heavy door. Robbie was sure she'd spotted a hedge maze toward the back, but as the skies grew dark, she couldn't be sure.

"It would appear so, Miss. A quite drafty one, for certain."

"Sorry about that. Nina insists the windows stay open down here so she doesn't have to smell the paint fumes." A beautiful blonde tapped her pert nose, pushing her way out of the plastic sheet. "Sensitive olfactory and all." She stuck out her hand with a warm smile, paying no attention to the fact that Robbie cringed and refused to take it for fear she'd set this woman's amazing, very meticulously dyed blonde mane on fire. "Marty Flaherty. One third of the OOPS gang. We're in the middle of a renovation right now. Please forgive. We're in the process of turning Dracula's castle dungeons into a murder basement."

Before Robbie had the chance to pick her jaw up off the floor, another equally gorgeous but exceptionally understated woman floated into the room, her scent floral, her eyes kind, her outfit harkening to an era when Grace Kelly reigned.

"What Marty means to say is, this area was, indeed, once a dungeon. However, since we've decided to open a detective agency of sorts, this basement is in the process of being converted into the room where we'll meet clients. Some of whom…" She cleared her throat. "Some of whom will need a murder solved. We jokingly dubbed it the murder basement. In poor taste, certainly. My apologies. Anyway, I'm Wanda Schwartz-Jefferson. Pleasure to meet you, Robbie."

"Stop being a fucking weenie," groused the most beautiful creature Robbie had ever seen in her life, clomping out of the room where all the noise came from in work boots, a pair of jeans, a hoodie, a T-shirt that read: You're Dry Humping My Last Nerve , and hair so long and glossy black, she could almost see her reflection in it. She poked Wanda in the arm. "It was GD funny, Wanda, and we all laughed. Christ knows, starting up another fucking time suck like a detective agency needs a good laugh. I won't apologize for it." Then she eyeballed Robbie with a pair of coal-black narrowed eyes. "Roberta, right? Nina Statleon. Greetings, or whatever the fuck." She didn't offer her hand, but she did flick a strand of Robbie's crispy-fried locks. "Curling iron incident?"

Clearing her throat, she nodded as she looked up at these three gorgeous women with flawless skin and hair straight from a salon, swallowing hard. "Robbie. You can call me Robbie, and this…" She shot a glance at T. "This is Tottington…my, um, friend ."

"You're friend or your fucking sugar daddy? Don't be shy. We don't knock a chick for a good side hustle, do we Blondie?" Nina asked Marty.

Tottington bristled, but inside, Robbie knew he wanted to faint from the horror. "I am absolutely not her side hustle , Mrs. Statleon."

Marty rolled her eyes. "Ignore Nina. She's rude, she swears all the time for no apparent reason, has a big, opinionated mouth and doesn't know the first thing about common decency."

"But we keep her around because no one packs a punch like our girl Nina. Trust me, she's handy when we have to square off with the devil," Wanda said on a snort. Immediately, she obviously noticed Robbie had paled. She shot her a sympathetic look. "Too much too soon, I'm afraid. My apologies again."

Marty held out her hand to Robbie to encourage her to come into the murder basement, but she shrank back in the cushy chair. "I can't…" How did she explain why she couldn't take her hand?

Nina squinted, peering at her with prying, beautiful, almond-shaped coal eyes. "You a fucking germaphobe? Got a disgusting rash? No biggie. It's just better we know now. You know, for when shit gets real."

Robbie gulped. Real? Was any of this real?

"Nina!" Marty yelped, swatting her on the arm. "Why must you always be so crude? She's barely been here two minutes and already you want her health history. Dear God, you're out of control, Mistress of the Night."

Mistress of the Night…what an interesting choice of words.

Nina flicked Marty's hair, leaving the gold strands to catch the light. "Fuck off, Ass Sniffer. You were the one who said I had to be more goddamn sensitive to people's shit. I'm tryin' to be squishier and this is the flack I get? Isn't it better we know if she has shit going on so we don't offend her? Freak her out? Catch her fungus infection? Isn't that what you two rambled the fuck on about while we were setting up the murder basement?" Nina cupped her hand beside her mouth and gave Robbie a conspiratorial look. "BT dubs, officially the dumbest idea on the planet."

Robbie held up a hand to thwart this gorgeous creature's rant, but she had other ideas.

Nina planted her hands on her hips in a defensive stance—yet, Robbie couldn't help but note that, even angry, she was still, without exception, the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen. "So what do I do? I try and be sensitive, but it's never good enough for you two damn shrieking banshees, is it? What the fuck do you want me to do? Bake her cookies, tuck her in for the night while I ask if she has any issues we need to know about? Offer her antifungal cream? I'm lookin' out for the client's best interests is all, and this is the thanks I get. Fuck you. Fuck you both. Am I clear?"

Robbie sensed these women were deeply in tune with each other, despite their bickering and despite Nina's angry words. In fact, she didn't actually sound as much angry as she did totally over their admonishments, but in a weirdly loving way.

That obviously made no sense, and she'd have to chalk it up to her current predicament. Though mind, it didn't make them any less intimidating or scary, but there was an underlying respect they had for one another that was easy to spot.

Wanda released a long, clearly pent-up sigh of aggravation. "Nina, what have we told you? It isn't the message, it's the delivery. It's how you ask if this poor woman has any health concerns we need to be aware of." Backing up, she planted her hands on her hips in a pretty good imitation of Nina's current stance, glaring at her friend. "Hey, lady, what the fuck is wrong with you? You got any shit we need to know about before we turn your fucking life inside out?" she asked gruffly, making Robbie actually snicker.

Marty clapped her hands with a gleeful giggle, making her bangle bracelets clack together. "Ooo, that was really good, Wanda!" she praised with a wink.

Wanda curtsied, tugging at the sides of her slender pencil skirt. "Merci, mademoiselle."

"Fuck off, Marty, you ass kisser," Nina said with a grin that surprised Robbie. Then she turned back toward Robbie, jamming her hands inside the pockets of her dark hoodie. "So what the fuck is wrong and how can we save your ass today? Forget saving your hair, because that ain't lookin' promising."

Her right hand instantly went to her singed hair, but as she stared up at these woman, all waiting for her to tell them why she was here, her throat closed up.

"Robbie!" her broom called out from the corner, skittering toward her, making her flinch in fear. "You must tell zis divine angel what is wrong with you. Do not be afraid. I sense they can help. Especially zis miraculous creature with ze hair like black satin!"

Nina whipped around as Hervé scooted toward her, pressing close to her long leg with a soft purr. She snatched Hervé up by his handle so fast, the motion blurred. As he choked, she squeezed her lean fingers so tight, Robbie saw veins pop in her pale hand.

"What the fuck are you?" she spat, her eyes on fire.

Robbie almost felt bad for him, but Hervé recovered just fine with a flirty response as he bent toward her, pressing his handle against her forehead. "Your dream come true. Enchanté, Mademoiselle! I am ze one, ze only Hervé, and you are an absolute vision," he cooed seductively.

But Nina wasn't exactly charmed by Hervé and his swishy French accent. She flashed her teeth at him—pointy, sharp-looking teeth—and then she hissed.

Robbie's eyes flew open wide—and by the by, so did Tottington's—just as Nina launched Hervé across the waiting room of the basement.

Without thought and with no clear reason why she reacted as she did,—she hardly knew Hervé, and what she did know was pretty durn annoying—Robbie yelled, "No!"

Throwing her hands in the air in distress, forgetting about her hand and its capacity for carnage, she flung her fingers forward.

Big mistake.

The biggest.

"What the fucking fuck?" Nina screeched, swatting at her head as puffs of smoke emitted from half of her glorious head of hair.

Hervé skittered toward Robbie, leaning into her with a quiver. "Merde," he muttered.

Oh, sweet Italian sausage, what had she done?