Page 8 of Housesitter

Cults were, perhaps surprisingly, a good place to pick up a solid work ethic.

Shepherd paused on the doormat, straightened his shoulders, and put on his best ‘nothing to see here, Federal Officer/Tax Man/CPS’ bland smile. He opened the door, mouth open to refuse cookies or services, and was flustered into silence by a strange, hot man grinning at him and grabbing his hand.

“Hey, you must be Dio’s house-sitter,” the tall, auburn-haired man said, as he shook Shepherd’s hand enthusiastically. For no particular reason, Shepherd wondered idly if he was as ‘all-in’ when it came to his approach to cocks. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get here. You must be wanting to hit the road?”

He said it with confidence…and from inside the house.

Shepherd gawped at the empty space where his intruder had been, his hand still limply extended like…OK, mind out of the gutter. He took his hand back and turned around.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Who are you and what are you talking about?”

The man looked even taller inside. It was disconcerting. He had his hands in his pockets as he leaned forward to look at the signature of one of the paintings in the hall. The writhing, naked horrors depicted in thick, spiky oil paint didn’t seem to bother him. He ‘hemmed' absently in answer to Shepherd’s question, then pulled himself together as he turned to look at him.

His expression started confused and then twisted into apologetic.

“Sorry,” he said. “I thought someone would have told you already. Um…I’m not sure I should, but…Dio Madden’s missing. Presumed ganked.”

“He’s on holiday.”

“Afraid not.”

“He’s on a cruise.” Under normal circumstances, that would be a convenient lie, but in Dio’s case it was apparently true. Just because the necromancer had looked like he was in his early twenties didn’t mean he didn’t have the tastes of a septuagenarian—right down to the deck shoes and buffet shrimp.

The man crossed his arms and turned his mouth down in a regretful grimace.

“Does not look like it,” he said. “So, under the circumstances, I’m afraid your services aren’t going to be needed.”

Shepherd stared at him. “Uh-huh,” he said. “And how exactly are you involved?”

That got a snap of fingers and that too-easy, too-bright smile he pulled up like a conjurer's trick.

“Oh, of course,” he said. “Sorry. It’s just been a bit of a whirlwind trying to get on top of everything. We weren’t close, the opposite really, but it’s still awful. I’m Ezekiel Laker, but you can call me Kel.”

He waited.

So did Shepherd.

After a brief pause, Kel tried again.

“Dio Madden was my uncle,” he said. “In the absence of any other relative…I’m his next of kin. That makes me executor of his estate.”

It didn’t. And he wasn’t. Kel Laker was the sort of man who lied fast and lied easily, but not well. Which explained why Shepherd found him so attractive, but left a lot of other questions open.

“I’m going to make some calls,” he said. “Don’t touch anything.”

Kel shifted his weight onto his left leg and discreetly stretched the other. “Funny enough,” he said, “I was going to say the same thing.”

Shepherd snorted and turned to head for the kitchen. He remembered three steps across the living room and backtracked to stick his head back through the door.

“Especially not her,” he said. Kel’s hand stopped mid-reach for Shithead, and he raised his eyebrow at Shepherd. “She’s mine. Nothing to do with the house.”

If Shithead had been on the list of responsibilities, the service fee would have been a lot higher. She was not an easy keeper.

Kel thought about it and pulled his hand back before his fingers touched Shithead’s dirty lace dress. At some point, Shepherd would pay for that. That was the job, though.

“Jesus,” Kel said as he gave Shithead a once-over. “And I thought I’d had a rough childhood.”

Marble Falls chief of police took his bifocals off and pinched the bridge of his nose.