Sky High (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 2) Read Free Page B

applied twelve-hour, oil-absorbing powder, skin-tone-matching blush, and lipstick that would outlast dinner and—God willing—kisses. I also wore waterproof mascara, invisible deodorant, an up-and-at-’em bra, and an expression meant to exude relaxed confidence I didn’t feel. All for under fifty bucks at Target. Confidence not included.
    “That was intense,” Dean agreed. After reviewing the night’s events, he asked if I believed in mediums.
    “I don’t know.” About as much as I believe in wrinkle-erasing foundation. “I mean, it’s possible, but I think there are plenty of con artists out there. What about you?”
    “I’d love it to be true. But I don’t buy it.”
    Dean’s mom had died of cancer when he was twelve. Like me, maybe he protected himself with skepticism. Seeing a medium might only add questions to our questions.
    “In this case, though, the medium would be trying to help herself and her family. I guess that’s different.”
    “Yeah.”
    Quiet set in. Dean and I were used to communicating online. What if our long-distance rapport didn’t work in person? My overactive brain leapt to the crumbling of our potential romance. Imagining worst-case scenarios was a terrible, reassuring skill. If the worst was manageable, everything else was okay.
    “I applied to be on Midwest Medium ,” I blurted.
    Great. Dean knew I de-stressed with reality TV, but being on a show took things to a whole new level.
    “Is that a reality show?”
    “Yes,” I admitted. “It’s about a medium who’s an everyday single mom with three kids and a dog, but she sees spirits wherever she goes. She’s really convincing.”
    “And you wanted to talk to her?”
    “I did a long time ago. She looked so genuine. But they never called. Probably a good thing.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t want to get fooled.”
    “Makes sense. Especially on TV.”
    I hadn’t considered how I’d look on TV. I’d been desperate for peace of mind. That’s probably how most of the show’s guests felt, and they inevitably bawled for all to see.
    “Good point. Anyway, I don’t know much about Bruce, or even about Mia. But I feel awful for her, and I’ve told you how close I am to Aunt Liz. I have to help somehow.”
    “Of course. I understand. We’ll make the best of it. Are you hungry?”
    “No.” Nerves either fueled or destroyed my appetite, depending on the situation. This was a suck-the-glutton-outta-me event. “Are you?”
    “Starving.”
    He’d chosen salmon on the RSVP, and as a longtime vegetarian, my only option was pumpkin ravioli. At the time, it sounded amazing. Now he was welcome to it.
    “Should we have a strategy for the reception? I don’t interview people in depth too often.” Most of my PI work involved computer databases and telephone work—modern tools of the trade. I was more likely to get carpal tunnel syndrome than a bullet wound. Based on my past, however, gunfire wasn’t out of the question.
    “I’m looking at this like an undercover job. Just act natural and be yourself, but extra outgoing and curious,” he said.
    That wouldn’t be easy. My least favorite part of investigation was surveillance—being uncomfortable and bored in a car while desperately needing a bathroom. Next on my “to-avoid” list was pretext, a.k.a. lying to get information. Now the son of an actor would be watching my performance. Stupendous.

      
    The mood at the reception was somber, but based on the popularity of the open bar, which had more customers than the hors d’oeuvres table, that might improve. Dean offered to get me a drink, but I declined, not wanting to risk its effects there, on the dance floor, or at home. I was a rap and R&B fan. I was also used to dancing solo in my living room or with my kids and their tabletop disco ball. My moves needed minimizing.
    “Let’s find our table,” I suggested. I was hoping for gossipy company—relatives who would bend our ears without much prodding.
    We found our