First Grave on the Right

Chapter One

Did I look frightened? Clearly my death stare needed work.

Ignoring him, I inched out of bed. I had on a Scorpions hockey jersey I'd snatched off a goalie and a pair of plaid boxers-same team, different position. Chihuahuas, tequila, and strip poker. A night that is forever etched at the top of my Things I'll Never Do Again list.

With teeth clenched in agony, I dragged all 470 throbbing pounds toward the kitchen and, more important, the coffeepot. Caffeine would chisel the pounds off, and I'd be back to my normal weight in no time.

Because my apartment was roughly the size of a Cheez-It, it didn't take me long to feel my way to the kitchen in the dark. Dead Guy followed me. They always follow me. I could only pray this one would keep his mouth shut long enough for the caff eine to kick in, but alas, no such luck.

I'd barely pressed the on button when he started in.

"Um, yeah," he said from the doorway, "it's just that I was murdered yesterday, and I was told you were the one to see."

"You were told that, huh?" Maybe if I hovered over the pot, it would develop an inferiority complex and brew faster just to prove it could.

"This kid told me you solve crimes."

"He did, huh?"

"You're Charley Davidson, right?"

"That's me."

"Are you a cop?"

"Not especially."

"A sheriff's deputy?"

"Uh-uh."

"A meter maid?"

"Look," I said, turning to him at last, "No offense, but you could have died thirty years ago, for all I know. Dead people have no sense of time. Zero. Zip. Nada."

"Yesterday, October eighteenth, five thirty-two P.M., double gun shot wound to the head, resulting in traumatic brain injury and death."

"Oh," I said, reining in my skepticism. "Well, I'm not a cop." I turned back to the pot, determined to break its iron will with my infamous death stare, second only to-

"So, then, what are you?"

I wondered if your worst nightmare would sound silly. "I'm a private investigator. I hunt down adulterers and lost dogs. I do not solve murder cases." I did, actually, but he didn't need to know that. I'd just come off a big case. I was hoping for a few days' respite.

"But this kid-"

"Angel," I said, disappointed that I didn't exorcise that little devil when I had the chance.

"He was an angel?"

"No, his name is Angel."

"His name is Angel?"

"Yes. Why?" I asked, becoming disenchanted with the Angel game.

"I just thought it might have been his occupation."

"It's his name. And believe you me, he is anything but."

After a geological epoch passed in which single-celled organisms evolved into talk show hosts, Mr. Coffee was still holding out on me. I gave up and decided to pee instead.

Dead Guy followed me. They always-

"You're very . . . bright," he said.

"Um, thanks."

"And . . . sparkly."

"Uh-huh." This was nothing new. From what I'd been told, the departed see me as something of a beacon, a brilliant entity-emphasis on the brilliant-they can see from continents away. The closer they get, the sparklier I become. If sparklier is a word. I've always considered the sparkles a plus of being the only grim reaper this side of Mars. And as such, my job was to lead people into the light. Aka, the portal. Aka, me. But it didn't always go smoothly. Kind of like leading a horse to water and whatnot. "By the way," I said, glancing over my shoulder, "if you do see an angel, a real one, run. Quickly. In the opposite direction." Not really, but freaking people out was fun.