Curse of the Holy Pail by Sue Ann Jaffarian

Author:Sue Ann Jaffarian [Jaffarian, Sue Ann]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Suspense
ISBN: 9780738708645
Publisher: Midnight Ink
Published: 2007-02-01T00:00:00+00:00

EIGHTEEN

SATURDAY MORNINGS WERE USUALLY reserved for sleeping in, cuddling with Greg, a leisurely breakfast-not so today. It was five minutes after six when I finally located the address Porter had given me. It was a rundown six-unit two-story apartment building, three up, three down. The building was two-toned; originally mud brown with wide slashes of turquoise where some industrious soul had started painting, then changed his mind. The structure was wedged behind a strip mall that housed a liquor store, a beauty supply store, a travel agent, and a small boutique of cheap women's clothing. Except for the liquor store, none of the businesses looked prosperous. I parked my old Toyota Camry between a dumpster and a Chevy up on blocks. As soon as I opened the car door, my nose snorted the odor of urine and decay.

Porter's place turned out to be the last apartment downstairs. I held a cardboard tray in one hand. Balanced on it were an extra large cup of Ethiopian-blend coffee for Porter and a medium cup of hazelnut coffee for me. I also brought along packets of sugar and creamer and a couple of cranberry scones. Dressed in strappy sandals festooned with beads that matched my khaki skirt and blouse, I felt incredibly overdressed and silly. Obviously, I had no idea what to wear when meeting a dead man in a shabby part of town.

I knocked and waited.

Almost immediately, I heard movement on the other side of the scuffed door. The drapes covering the window next to the door moved slightly. About the same time, I heard a noise by the fence that separated the building from the strip mall. Turning, I saw a rat. A big rat. One that could have given Seamus a run for his money. I knocked on the door again, my rap harder and more insistent than the first. Warily, I watched the rat bustle around the bottom of the fence. Every now and then he looked my way, nose in the air, whiskers moving rapidly. I was sure he was smelling breakfast.

I began counting to myself. On ten, the plan was to throw the coffee and scones at the rat and run. At seven and a half the door opened. A man's head popped out. He looked up and down the deserted street before beckoning me to enter. Solemnly, like a death row inmate heading for the chair, I started across the threshold.

Zee's right, I am out of my mind.

The apartment was dark, cool, and orderly. Based on the outside of the building, I had expected squalor. But once my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I found instead a very clean and freshly painted apartment. The sparse furnishings were fairly new and reminded me of an IKEA catalogue.

The man motioned for me to sit down. He was a young, trim Latino, not quite six feet tall, dressed in clean jeans, a white T-shirt, and expensive running shoes. His shiny black hair was pulled back into a tidy ponytail and his upper lip played host to a wispy, dark moustache.

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