Her Last Eclipse: A Bobbi McCoy Private Investigator Mystery Read online

  HER LAST ECLIPSE

  A BOBBI MCCOY PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR MYSTERY

  VIVIAN BARZ

  HER LAST ECLIPSE

  by Vivian Barz

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  HER LAST ECLIPSE

  Bobbi McCoy Private Investigator Book One

  Copyright © 2022 by Vivian Barz

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any electronic or written form without permission.

  Created with Vellum

  CONTENTS

  Also By Vivian Barz

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  ALSO BY VIVIAN BARZ

  Dead Remaining Series

  Forgotten Bones

  Hidden Bones

  Campus Bones

  PROLOGUE

  Kate’s hands were shaking so badly that it took a few tries to unknot the cord at her waist, but, finally, finally, she managed. She allowed the robe to slide down past her gaunt shoulders, icy air assaulting her bare flesh like a slap, before closing it back up with a shiver. “Are you sure I have to be naked for this?”

  She was granted a small, patient smile—a look that was so him that it could’ve been trademarked—yet his eyes betrayed his irritation. His tone was measured as he said, “If you have something I’ve never seen before, I imagine we should both be greatly concerned.”

  Not really an answer, she thought, but he might change his mind altogether if she continued wasting his time.

  She dropped the robe at her feet with a bold cock of the hip, a hummingbird peeking out from the bone there. The tattoo had been a sweet sixteen gift from a john she tried hard to forget, the first man in a string of many who’d used her up so completely that she’d become a stranger to herself, a worn paper bag with hollow eyes she avoided meeting whenever she looked in the mirror. “I’m not shy, if that’s what you’re insinuating,” she said, her chin pushing forward in a show of bravado she did not feel. “You’re hardly the first to see me without any clothes on.”

  Another smile. “Insinuating,” he remarked, more to himself than to her. Probably amused that she could use such a term. If he only knew. He’d fall right out of his fancy black leather chair if he were to learn that she’d been an honor roll student destined for Big and Great Things once upon a time, but that had been before her stepfather, then heroin, had come along.

  She ignored the appraising gaze he gave her backside as she climbed the first two rungs of the ladder. She stretched up, dipped in a finger. “What if I get cold?”

  “Ah, not to worry. The tank is kept at skin temperature, so you’ll hardly feel it at all, once you get in.” The gold cufflink at his wrist glinted dully as he mimed an X over his heart. “I can promise you that much, Patrice.”

  There it was again, the name that belonged to someone else. It wasn’t even in the ballpark; she wasn’t Patricia or Patty or even Pamela. She’d been christened Catherine Evangeline Shepard on the day she’d come into this world—Katie to anyone who knew her past hello—which he knew but refused to acknowledge.

  “It’s beneficial for you to be nude during your rebirth. It is, after all, how you came into this world?”

  He spoke quietly into a walkie-talkie before she could comment, and a tall white-haired woman came in without a sound and ceremoniously presented her a cup of steaming liquid. Katie accepted but did not take a sip, sniffing the drink as if it might be poisonous. “This stinks.”

  “That, my dear, is ayahuasca. It will enhance your sensory experience, elevate your state of consciousness.”

  “Sounds like drugs. I told you, I’m done with all that.”

  “This doesn’t count. It’s organic—plant-based, understand? People take it in the jungle. Very wise and respected medicine men in the Amazon. It’s completely safe. But you must drink all of it to make the experience worthwhile.”

  “This isn’t a trick? You made me promise to get clean, which I have. I swear on my mother’s grave.”

  He let out a soft chuckle. Was he laughing at the accusation, or because he knew she was lying? “You’ve already accepted my help, Patrice. So, there’s no need for me to test your loyalty, is there?”

  “No, I suppose there isn’t.”

  “If you’ve changed your mind, you’re free to go. Nobody is holding a gun to your head.” He paused. “It’d be a shame if you went, though, with all the work you’ve already put in, and because this is the final step to your rebirthing. But if you don’t truly want to be here, there are plenty of other—”

  “No, I want this.” She swallowed the drink in a single gulp, shuddered. “Tastes like dirt.”

  “It’s not very pleasant, I know.”

  “You’ve had it?”

  “Oh, yes, many times. I would never ask you to do something I was unwilling to do myself.”

  She handed the mug back to the woman and then climbed to the top of the tank. “How long do I need to stay in?”

  “As long as is required. If you want to emerge purified, you must confront all your personal demons. Your instincts will guide you.”

  If she’d listened to herself less in the past, her life wouldn’t be the mess it was today. “But how—”

  “Shh, no more questions.” He crossed the room to assist the woman in easing her down into the water.

  “Feel . . . weird. Maybe . . . do this . . . some . . . other time,” she slurred as the drink began to work into her bones, her heartbeat rising to the soft spot under her jaw, thick and sluggish as mud.

  The woman patted her shoulder maternally, but it was he who spoke as the pair released her. “Relax, Patrice. Open yourself to the experience, let your mind, heart, and soul roam free.”

  “Think . . . made . . . mistake . . .” Unable to make her tongue work properly, she stretched up toward the fading crescent of light but became distracted by the trails of fireworks streaming away from her fingertips. She stared at them glowing in the darkness, the colors so beautiful.

  Eventually, they went dark, too.

  A scream rose from her tightening chest, and she commanded herself to stay calm, stay calm, stay calm. She had to prove herself worthy, show that she was brave enough to start a new life. No more turning tricks, no more being slapped around—Katie may have put up with that, but Patrice would never allow it. One night of black hell was worth never having to go back to the streets.

  And it was only water, right?

  Just water.

  Shivering, she rubbed the goosebumps erupting on her arms. Hadn’t he said it would feel as wa
rm as her own skin? How long had she been in?

  Her bowels twisted, cramped, the pain so intense that stars bloomed before her eyes. Her lungs breathed acid, stomach raw, an angry beast clawing at her insides. She leaned forward and heaved up her lunch, the scent assaulting her nostrils. Spaghetti and meatballs. Breadsticks. Chocolate cake. She’d eaten so much she’d nearly burst, since it had been on his dime.

  “Please, I’m sick!” she cried, terror and adrenaline sobering her. Her words thumped against the tank’s walls, dull, useless, and heavy as lead, sinking down, down, down deep into the murkiness that enveloped her. “Help! I need help!”

  Would she be forced to spend the night in there, cold and terrified, floating in her own sick?

  “But you’re not alone, are you, Patrice?” a creature whispered from below.

  It’s only a hallucination, she told herself, but then it—whatever it was—rose from the blackness, slithering coolly against her skin, fondling her in places men usually had to pay to touch.

  It’s not real-not-real-not real.

  Splashing near her ear, it told her what she already knew, that she was going to die.

  “I’ll do anything, just PLEASE LET ME OUT!”

  Arms thrashing, nails raking skin, hands searching for the creature and grasping only snatches of water, her heartbeat choked her. Could they even hear her? Had they gone away? She released a guttural cry as she hurled up from the water, slamming every ounce of her body weight against the lid.

  It didn’t budge.

  The bastards had locked her in.

  1

  I was giving my chest a good airing when a handsome stranger suddenly appeared before me. I jumped, as if electrocuted, and let out the sort of eardrum-shattering yelp that’s typically achieved by the lapdogs of crabby old ladies. The man was as quiet as a ninja, and I told him as much.

  Something close to an amused half-smile was provided to me, a grudging upturn at the corner of his full mouth. He kept his gaze trained on the wall as I tucked, ladylike as possible, the flouncy top I’d been flapping over the fan back into the sweaty waistband of my skirt. What a gentleman.

  The guy was vaguely familiar, like a place I’d visited long ago but had forgotten I’d been to. “It sure is a hot one today,” I commented, because what else could I say? At least it was only my breasts. Could’ve been my crotch, which I’ve also been known to air out on days it’s so muggy that a girl starts to sweat in places she didn’t even know she had glands.

  Mississippi weather in the summertime is like none you’ve ever experienced, not unless you’re acquainted with jungle living or spent a semester studying abroad in hell. With a temperature and humidity level that typically falls a couple ticks above ninety percent, everything gets damp—hair, skin, clothes—even your car seats. Don’t bother with any mascara that’s not waterproof; you’ll only look like a raccoon by lunchtime. And if, like me, you’re so cursed as to live in a house without central air conditioning, crawling into bed at night feels like you’re being swathed in a moist tortilla. You resign yourself to lying there until morning, clammy and miserable, like an enormous burrito even a starving person marooned on a desert island wouldn’t want to eat.

  My visitor, however, did not seem bothered by the heat in the slightest, which made me wonder if he might be an android. He wasn’t frantically flapping a hand in front of his face the way a tourist would, yet he was far too swanky to be local. Natchez residents have a laidback way of dressing, and in an expensive-looking three-piece suit, Rolex, and gleaming loafers, he was anything but. From the South, though, I could tell, because of how considerately he’d behaved. Or maybe it’s that Southerners can point out one another in a crowd of thousands, as if we’re all tuned in to the same twangy radio frequency. Jackson, Mississippi, was my guess.

  “I need help locating my daughter,” he said abruptly. His voice was as smooth as silk and as dark as his ebony skin. He was tall, too—so tall that I had to crane my neck to look him in the face—and wearing the type of high-class aftershave that makes one close their eyes as they inhale it.

  I was kicking myself for not wearing something a little nicer. As I mentioned, it was hotter than Hades, so forgive me for not dressing for the Met Gala. Still, few level-headed individuals would consider sporting a faded floral skirt and tank top with permanent deodorant stains on the armpits in a place of business the height of professionalism. Especially not someone like this guy, who’d probably feel more assured had he been met in the waiting area by a perky assistant in clacking high heels who was quick to offer him a cappuccino.

  Looked like he was out of luck on that front. I didn’t have a waiting area, I wasn’t busy enough to warrant hiring a helper, and the closest thing to a cappuccino I could offer was directions to the coffee house a couple doors down. I also kept a jar of no-nonsense instant coffee hidden in my desk for nights I worked late and became desperate for a caffeine fix after everything was closed, though I doubted he’d be interested. That stuff was one molecule away from rocket fuel. Every time I drank it, I marveled that my heart didn’t explode.

  “Okay, I can help with that,” I said in my most proficient voice, as if clients of his ilk waltzed through the doors of McCoy Investigations by the hoards each day. Had that been the case, I wouldn’t have flashed my lady-parts at the fan so carelessly.

  Most of my clients are usually looking to catch a good-for-nothing spouse cheating—I have a theory that warm weather makes people randy. My advice to this day remains: if your partner is behaving so suspiciously that you take the drastic step of hiring someone to tail him or her, they’re probably stepping out on you. Do yourself a favor, save the dough on a private investigator, and instead find a good divorce attorney.

  But denial is merely a fool’s optimism in disguise, and not once has anyone taken my advice. Clients tell themselves they’re only being paranoid (they’re not), blame their suspicions on a silly jealous streak they didn’t even know they possessed (because it’s imaginary), and claim they simply want to put their heart at ease for one reason or another (wait until they see my bill). Disinclined to turn down easy money, I’ll take the case and try not to say I told you so when I produce footage of the honey bunny in question checking into a sleazy no-tell motel with their illicit piece of stuff.

  I’ve also had fathers come to me wanting to catch a future son-in-law they’d rather drink bleach than see their daughter marry partaking in acts that would, at best, be described as untoward. These targets are easy to surveil, since the little creeps tend to act out when they think nobody is watching. Father knows best, indeed.

  There’s been a few business owners wanting to catch an embezzler, though nine times out of ten it’s a relative whose got their hand in the cookie jar—a lot of cousins and uncles, go figure. I’ve had victims of theft employ me after the police investigation went cold. Once, I managed to locate a man’s beloved iguana the malicious ex-wife had swiped during the divorce; she was trying to hawk it on Craigslist for a whole dollar. Hardly grand theft, but the client was so happy about the recovery that I’d gotten a bonus large enough to cover a nice weekend away on the Gulf Shores.

  I’ve encountered my fair share of unsavory characters and have received more threats than I can count on all my fingers and toes, but from what I’ve seen, big talk goes hand in hand with big cowardice. It’s the quiet ones you’ve got to watch out for. Some cases are more difficult to crack than others, but I succeed more often than I don’t. Not having much of a social life has its benefits. Plus, I don’t like haggling over refunds.

  “Did she go missing here in town?” I asked, surreptitiously peeking at his left hand as I reached for my pen and notepad. There was a gold band glinting on the ring finger, just as there always is on the good ones. Not that I was in any kind of position to date. Every time I’d tried, disaster city.

  He glanced apprehensively around my empty workplace, which was just off Franklin, one of Natchez’s busier streets that hosts a vari
ety of boutiques and eateries in our historical district. Within a two-block radius, a person could pick up an antique armoire, eat a slice of mud pie, and nail a philandering lover, should they desire. My space wasn’t huge, but I’d decorated it handsomely with an eclectic mix of traditional and modern furniture. The building had served as a tavern a hundred or so years prior, and I’d kept the original red brick walls exposed.

  He turned his gaze back to my general direction. I could sense him assessing me, the cogs and whistles in his brain laboring as he tried to piece together the imprudent life choices I must have made to wind up a private investigator, a profession judged harshly (and, in my opinion, unfairly) for its sleazy nature. The reason was straightforward enough. About twelve years ago, I was in grad school training for a career in criminal justice, but my heart wasn’t in it anymore. On a whim one day, I searched the “help wanted” section of the online classifieds in Natchez, a place I’d never visited but had seen featured on a reality TV show about a young family RVing across America in search of quaint small towns. Shane Parks, a delightful old grouch who I’d eventually come to regard as a second father, was looking to train an apprentice to take over his profitable business. Turned out I was the right person for the job.

  My mysterious guest still hadn’t answered my question, and I was beginning to wonder if he might be nuts. The heat had also made me cranky. “Sir, your daughter?” I prompted, posing a pen over my notepad in a passive-aggressive fashion that communicated he should get to the point or get the hell out of my office.