The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection by Frost, J (great novels .txt) 📕

The planchette moves. Really. I definitely didn’t put any pressure on it and by the surprise on Austin and Cappa’s faces, I don’t think they did, either. The planchette slides so the hole is over the 2, the point at P, then moves to the 9, pointing between the W and X.

“Two. Nine. Or P and W,” Hunter says, leaning over the board.

“Tomorrow’s the twenty-nineth,” I whisper, something I know without having to check a calendar because I’ve been so focused on the date of my collaring.

The planchette slides so the hole is over the “yes,” then slides again so the hole is over the 8, then the 9, then the 4.

“Eight. Nine. Four,” I breathe.

“Or W, X, R,” Hunter says.

I shake my head. It’s definitely the hole we’re supposed to be reading through. That was clear when Molly’s spirit used it to indicate “yes.”

The planchette slides so the hole is resting over the “d” in “goodbye.”

“She’s gone,” Cappa says.

“Did you feel her?” I ask. I didn’t feel anything mystical, or even drafty.

Cappa nods, the curls at the back of his neck brushing the collar of his white shirt like fingers of ink. “Motherly. She’s not scary at all.”

“Let’s ask Martyn what eight-nine-four means,” I say, clapping my hands together.

We scramble to tidy up the room and then into the bar where Martyn’s already pushed two tables together to make a little buffet and set out plates and cakes. There’s no tea, though, so I’m hoping he’ll come back soon. I plonk myself down to wait, not very patiently, and Luisa sits beside me in another of the comfortable, leather wing chairs while Cappa perches on the arm of my chair and plays with the bunny ears on the hood of my onesie.

“Does eight-nine-four have any meaning to you?” Luisa asks me.

I shake my head.

“There’s a theory about how Ouija boards work that has nothing to do with spirits,” Luisa says. “It’s called the ideomotor effect. It’s unconscious movement and with an Ouija board, it’s your brain talking to itself. The significance of twenty-nine is obvious, so I’m wondering if the other numbers have meaning to you?”

“Not that I can think of.” I roll the numbers over in my mind, but I can’t come up with anything.

“Eighteen ninety-four?” Cappa suggests. “Could it be a year?”

I can’t think of any significance to the year. Molly lived and died in the late seventeen-hundreds and my books are set at the beginning of that century. Honestly, the only thing I can think of that happened in that year is the Hershey Chocolate company was founded, which I only know because I went to Hershey’s Chocolate World a few years ago with my friend Gracie and her son and remember the date being on one of their displays.

Unfortunately, when Martyn comes in to serve tea, he can’t think of any significance to the numbers, either. We sit around throwing out increasingly wild ideas until Vashi disappears for a few minutes and returns with a wicker case that gives off a wonderful, earthy smell and a very stained, brown towel. She orders Daisy out of the chair across from me in a very unsubmissive way, spreads the towel across the small table, and gestures to me to put my hands on the towel. When I do, she takes a squeeze bottle with a long metal tip out of the wicker case, shakes it, and squeezes out a thin line of greenish-brown paste across my forearm. She wipes the tip off on the towel with a quick, flicking motion, then starts drawing small loops off the line. I’m awed by the pattern she quickly develops, of a crown with flowers and vines and spirals rising off the line. Once she covers my arm from forearm up with the cool paste, she reverses direction and works down my arm to my wrist, creating a lattice that she fills with flowers. She ends with another crown on the back of my hand, then gestures for me to move my other arm closer. We’ve barely spoken while she’s been doing the henna. I’m just enraptured, watching her work.

Once she’s finished the design on both arms, she takes out a spray bottle and mists both of my arms with a clear liquid that feels sticky on my skin. “Sugar water,” Vashi explains. “It will keep the henna paste moist for a while to give you a darker stain. Let it dry now.”

“Thank you, this is so beautiful.”

She smiles broadly at me. “We will do a full bridal set for you in January, yes?”

I nod and almost clap before I remember not to move my arms. “I’d love that.”

“Very good. I have two spare tubes of henna, if anyone else would like a design?” she offers to the room.

Everyone wants henna.

Daddy, Niall, and the other people who went to the gym return as Vashi’s finishing a small, floral design on the backs of Fleur’s hands. After admiring my henna, and the tiny, French braids Laurel has done all along my crown while we’ve been watching everyone else gets theirs, Daddy says he’s going to check on DirtyGurl and clean up. I look a question at Vashi and she nods. “Keep the henna out of the water until tomorrow.”

I’m glad Daddy gave me a bath last night. I wouldn’t want to be stinky for the tea party. “When should I take the paste off?”

“It is better to let it dry up and fall off on its own, but I will take it off you before bed if it has not fallen off.”

“Okay.” I pause by her chair to kiss her on the cheek before I run after Daddy.

While he showers, I tell him all about the séance. He puzzles over the numbers for a while, too, but can’t come up with anything.

“Spirits work in mysterious ways,” he tells me.

I shake my head at him. “You don’t even believe in ghosts.”

He crosses to the closet and takes out a dry-cleaning