Violetta Graves Mysteries

Book 5 in the Violetta Graves Paranormal Cozy Mystery Series

Free Spirit - Book 5 in the Violetta Graves Paranormal Cozy Mystery Series
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When the guy next to me keeled over dead, I admit I almost left his ass there and bailed.

Judge me if you want. I’m tired of telling Las Vegas homicide detectives that I’ve found a body. Again.

My name is Violetta Graves. I’m a cocktail waitress in Las Vegas. And I see ghosts. I should’ve never attended the séance for a murdered drag queen. 

Because now we’re all trapped in a house with a killer.

And the dead ghost hunter?

He was sitting in my chair.

“My EMF reader went off the charts in Diamond LaRue’s bedroom,” said Gary Benson, holding up a small metal box with flashing red lights. “Her spirit is definitely here.”

“Wow,” I said, looking down at my empty plate. Two seconds ago, it held the last chocolate-covered strawberry from the buffet table. I had to elbow aside a drag queen, my younger sister Dee, and some dude in a leather jacket to get that ode to sugary joy.

And you know where it was now?

In the mouth of Gary Benson, Paranormal Investigator. Apparently, Gary didn’t understand stealing a hard-won treat from a sugar addict was bad manners. Strawberry juice dribbled down his chin and he, being such a gentleman, wiped it off with the back of his hand.

This was why I hated parties. Yet, here I was at my friend Frank Delgado’s newly acquired home, whose former owner, Gerald Buckner AKA infamous 1970s drag queen Diamond LaRue, had been murdered. Yes, in this house. Her bedroom, actually, the very place Gary the Strawberry Stealer had gotten his EMF orgasm.

Frank, who was a lawyer by day and a drag queen by night, decided a housewarming party was too blasé. Oh, no, no, honey. He’d wanted to host a séance with a few friends.

“What’s your name?” Gary asked my boobs.

“Violetta Graves,” I said, sighing.

I’m a cocktail waitress so I’m used to people talking to my boobs, but in Gary’s case, it wasn’t his fault. Gary was several inches shorter than me, which put him at breast level. I wore a pink scoop-necked blouse tucked into a pair of button-up black jeans. The cleavage was more impressive than usual because I’d invested in a fancy Victoria’s Secret push-up bra.

I stared at the dessert thief, who was oblivious to my ire. His red hair was long and so was his scraggly beard. He wore a brown shirt that peeked out from beige coveralls and heavy black boots. Gary Benson looked like an overripe peach with arms and legs.

He smiled at me, chocolate staining his teeth, and said, “EMF stands for electromagnetic field radiation.” He lifted the metal box again. “This is a detector. High EMF means there are ghosts nearby.”

Or it meant that we were smack-dab in the middle of a thunderstorm with so much lightning it looked like God was hosting a giant disco party outside. The ferocity of this storm was insane. In Las Vegas, “make it rain” usually meant throwing money around, not actual water pouring from the sky. The relentless storm made the whole séance-at-midnight scenario about a thousand times creepier.

Gary lifted up his cell phone and pointed it at me. “I’ve been recording video for the last hour,” he said. “In case we have orbs.”

Having watched my share of ghost-hunting shows, I knew paranormal investigators loved seeing circles of light appear on their cameras. They called it proof of supernatural manifestations. My own theory was that orbs were ghost farts.

“Sometimes orbs won’t show until you play the video back.” He scanned the room with his phone, but I’m not sure what he thought he was recording. People eating quiche? The dining room’s ode to 1970s decor? My irritation at being pummeled with information I didn’t want to know? “I’ve done some EVPs, too.” He looked up at me. “You know, electronic voice phenomenon?”

“EVP. Yep. Awesome.”

He leaned in conspiratorially. “I left my digital audio recorder in the gym—and I think I got some really good EVPs.”

Thunder boomed for the four-millionth time in the last hour. Gary’s stupid box flashed and whirled. He squealed in excitement, hurrying out of the massive dining room and into the hallway. “I got a spike,” he yelled.

Gary didn’t know it, but Diamond LaRue’s ghost was nowhere near his EMF detector.

She was standing by the buffet table, arms akimbo, surveying the intruders in her home.

Diamond was dressed as 1970s Patti LaBelle in the space diva style perfected by Patti’s former singing group Labelle. I knew way, way more than I wanted to about Patti LaBelle, Donna Summer, and Gloria Gaynor because my friend Frank’s Diamond LaRue fandom was deep and abiding and included details about every one of Diamond’s most famous impersonations.

Still, I had to admit that Diamond rocked the signature Labelle look. The silver shirt with its huge circular shoulder pads and matching painted-on pants along with the chunky glitter boots definitely screamed: I am a space fucking diva. Either that, or she was about to do an appearance on Mystery Science Theater 3000. Her shiny silver eye shadow highlighted the irritation in her gaze and her pursed bright-red lips added an exclamation point to her annoyed expression. She turned her glare on me—like having this séance was my fault—and then she disappeared.

Book 4 in the Violetta Graves Paranormal Cozy Mystery Series

Plagued by Spirits - #4 Violetta Graves Paranormal Cozy Mysteries
Most people don’t come to Las Vegas to lose their lives. But Sin City is full of annoying dead people—and they talk to me. 

My name is Violetta Graves. I’m a cocktail waitress and I see ghosts. Everywhere. They keep warning me about an impending disaster. And these spirits? They’re terrified.

Now, you tell me, what is awful enough to scare people who are already dead?

And how am I supposed to stop it?

Book 3 in the Violetta Graves Paranormal Cozy Mystery Series

Getting in the Spirit - #3 Violetta Graves Paranormal Cozy Mysteries
I’m staring at a magician’s body parts dangling from the ceiling. This was not how I wanted to start my Monday. Neither was talking to his dead assistant while the cops stared at me. 

My name is Violetta Graves. I’m a cocktail waitress in Las Vegas and I see ghosts. If the spirits don’t help me solve this tricky case fast, then I’m the one the killer will make disappear.

And nobody will ever find me.

Book 2 in the Violetta Graves Paranormal Cozy Mystery Series

A Spirited Defense - #2 Violetta Graves Paranormal Cozy Mysteries
You gonna find a dead body every month?

I looked at the homicide detective and then at the dead guy sprawled in the front yard. I couldn’t tell him the only reason I found a corpse on this sunny morning was because Dead Guy’s ghost was standing next to me.

Also, it wasn’t my fault I kept finding bodies.

My name is Violetta Graves. I’m a cocktail waitress in Las Vegas. And I see ghosts. Worse, they see me. 

And now, so does a psychotic killer.

Book 1 in the Violetta Graves Paranormal Cozy Mystery Series

In Good Spirits - #1 Violetta Graves Paranormal Cozy Mysteries
I didn’t kill my ex-boyfriend. But I sure as hell wanted to. 

My name is Violetta Graves. I’m a cocktail waitress in Las Vegas, so I serve spirits to the mostly unlucky. But I also see spirits. Ghosts. And dead people are a pain in the ass. But you know what’s worse? Being accused of murder. And the only way to avoid getting arrested by the hottest homicide cop in Vegas is to ask the Other Side for help.

So here I am. Whispering to ghosts. And wishing Mr. Hottie’s handcuffs were being used for something other than taking me to jail.