Shenanigans
by
Gail Koger
Genre:
Paranormal Romance
Kandi
Cain inherited her Dr. Doolittle abilities from her grandmother and
became a psychic pet detective. To her dismay, she just acquired the
power to communicate with the spirit world, but dead people give her
the willies.
Just
when Kandi thought her life couldn’t get more complicated, the
neighbor from hell moved in next door. The nasty guy’s name is
Dutch Callaghan. How can someone so gorgeous be such a dick? Kandi
could chalk some of it up to his job. Dutch is a Phoenix PD homicide
cop.
Kandi’s
current case is rescuing a Yorkie from a brutal dog fighting ring.
Little does she know her dog napping suspect is involved in a series
of brutal murders. Disguised as an elderly nun, Kandi rescues the
Yorkie and, in the process, blows the hell out of Dutch’s
undercover operation.
Kandi
now finds herself a person of interest in her client’s murder and
her sexy-as-hell, pain-in-the-butt neighbor is in hot pursuit of the
Ninja Nun. Is Dutch about to slap the cuffs on? Only time will tell.
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My
name is Kandi Cain. How did I get stuck with this swell name? My mom, Margaret,
is obsessed with Christmas. She even dresses as an elf in July. She had her
ears surgically altered to be more elf-like. Ho. Ho. Ho.
I
got into more fist fights than I could count in school defending mom’s
quirkiness and my name. When I was eight, Dad decided enough was enough and
gave me boxing and karate lessons. By the time I reached high school, no one
dissed my mother or me anymore.
Our
home is a shrine to Santa and his elves. The interior is a museum to rare and
unique Christmas ornaments from the 19th century. The yard is
decorated year-round with enormous Santas, giant candy canes and nutcracker
statues. There’s an awe-inspiring amount of twinkling lights on the roof.
They’re so bright, the astronauts complained.
I
think my mother’s preoccupation with Christmas started when her father got
drafted during the Vietnam war. Before he was sent on his second deployment, he
took leave to spend Christmas with his family. He was killed in action six
weeks later.
My
father, Nick Cain, is a very large Santa look-a-like. He was a mob enforcer for
the Gambino family until he met my mother at a Christmas party. It was love at
first sight. To keep her safe, my Dad quit his job and they quietly moved from
New York to Apache Junction, Arizona. Apache Junction is a small tourist town
located at the base of the Superstition Mountains. The town caters to people
interested in visiting the numerous ghost towns and hunting for the Lost
Dutchman’s gold mine.
When
Dad isn’t playing Santa, he’s a member of the Superstition Mountains Search and
Rescue squad and a highly sought-after rattlesnake wrangler.
I
was two when my parents found me in the backyard surrounded by birds, skunks,
coyotes, jackrabbits, dogs, cats and a big ass mountain lion. I was giggling
happily and petting them. My Dad said he almost crapped himself.
Mom
wasn’t pleased I had inherited her mother’s psychic talents. She wanted me to have
a “normal” childhood. As if. My ability to summon and communicate with critters
grew until they were forced to ask Grandma Hester for help. They didn’t know
how to deal with a miniature Doctor Doolittle.
My
mother and Grandma Hester are poles apart. My grandmother always reminded me of
the Queen of England with her crazy hats, brightly colored polyester suits,
pearl necklaces and pristine white gloves. C’mon who still wears gloves? In the
summer? In Phoenix?
My
grandma lived her entire life in a dazzling pink gingerbread house located in
the historic district of Phoenix. Her two acres of orange trees kept the
neighbors supplied with fruit.
Overwhelmed
by requests to find lost pets, and unable to live on the military’s survivor’s
benefits, Grandma Hester started a pet detective agency called Finders. I was
seven when I started helping her locate missing pets. I discovered I had a
knack for it and once I started my hunt, I never failed to track down the lost
dog, cat, horse, parakeet or pot-bellied pig. When I graduated from high
school, I became a full-time pet detective. Since the pay wasn’t the greatest,
I moved in with Grandma Hester and didn’t miss the Christmas music at all.
News
of Grandma Hester’s ability to find missing pets spread and a movie star flew
her to Hawaii to find his missing tiger. Her helicopter went down in a storm
and the wreckage was never found. It felt like a piece of my heart had died
with her.
She
left me her house, the business and a bank account with the grand total of three
thousand dollars in it. The bad news was, the house needed a new roof. The
price tag was ten thousand dollars and our rainy season was rapidly
approaching.
Two
months after my grandmother died, the neighbor from hell moved in. One look at
his muddy red aura and I knew he would be a problem. The asshole’s name is
Dutch Callaghan. He reminds of that guy who plays Thor in the movies. How can
someone so gorgeous be such a prick?
I
could chalk some of it up to his job. Dutch is a Phoenix PD homicide detective.
I know the long hours and the blood and gore would make me cranky. I even baked
the ass some “welcome to the neighborhood” cookies. He took one bite and dumped
them in the trash. I’ll admit I’m not the best cook in the world, but that was
downright rude.
Then
the bastard said, “I don’t do pity fucks.”
I
was so stunned, I just stood there gaping at him. With a nasty smile Dutch
stomped off.
Me
a pity fuck? Did I look that desperate? My temper flared to life and I yelled,
“I’m not a pity fuck.”
“And
I don’t pay for sex either,” the asshole yelled back.
He
thought I was a prostitute? Oh, hell no. This meant war. The jerk had spent
hours washing his big, black, high-rider truck. I summoned a flock of pigeons
and had them crap on it. Repeatedly. “Game on asshole.”
How
do I come up with my stories? Being psychotic helps. I was a 9-1-1
dispatcher for way too long. All those years of wild requests, screwy
questions, bizarre behavior and outrageous demands have left me with
a permanent twitch and an uncontrollable craving for chocolate. Don’t
get me wrong. Working as a 9-1-1 dispatcher can be very rewarding.
BUT - some days I felt like the entire world was nuts. I mean, c’mon,
who in their right mind calls 9-1-1 for the winning lottery numbers?
To keep from hitting myself repeatedly in the head with my phone, I
took up writing.
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