Third Grave Dead Ahead by Darynda Jones

no other reports of abnormal behavior on file, so the DA’s hands were tied.”
    “That’s really interesting. One stick and her heart would stop, huh?”
    “Yeah, he probably learned something in medical school and decided to use it for evil instead of good.”
    “Have you questioned her in light of the more recent developments?”
    “Nope. But she still lives here, as far as I know. Guess I could give her a shout.”
    “Do you mind if I talk to her?”
    “Knock yourself out.”
    Marveling at how smooth this whole conversation was going, I asked, “Can I get a name?”
    After some rifling of papers, she said, “Yolanda Pope.”
    “Wait, seriously?” I asked. “I went to school with a Yolanda Pope.”
    “This particular Yolanda Pope is … Oh, here it is. She’d be twenty-nine now.”
    “That’s about right. Yolanda was a couple grades ahead of me.”
    “Then you two should have a lot to talk about. Saves me from swallowing a hefty dose of wasted time and energy.”
    Okay, I really liked her, but I couldn’t help myself. FBI agents just weren’t this into sharing. “Can I ask what’s going on here?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Why share?”
    She chuckled. “You think I haven’t heard of you? About how you helped your father solve crimes when he was a detective? How you’re helping your uncle now?”
    “You’ve heard of me?”
    “I’ll take success where I can get it, Ms. Davidson. I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday.”
    “I’m famous?”
    “Though I did actually fall off a turnip truck when I was nine. Just make sure you put me on speed dial,” she said before hanging up.
    Score! I had an in with the local FBI. This day was getting better and better. And the guacamole burger didn’t hurt either.
    *   *   *
     
    Cookie had yet to track down Teresa Yost’s sister. She lived in Albuquerque but apparently traveled a lot. Still, with Teresa missing, I couldn’t imagine she’d be out of town. I gave Cookie the name of Yolanda Pope with instructions to get whatever she could on her, then spent the rest of the afternoon interviewing friends of both the good doctor and his missing wife. And according to every single person I talked to, he was a saint. They loved him, said he and Teresa were perfect together. In fact, he was a little too perfect. Like he’d used some kind of glamour, cast a spell.
    Maybe he was magic. Maybe he was supernatural. Reyes was the son of Satan. Maybe Nathan Yost was the son of Pancake, a three-legged pigmy goat Jimmy Hochhalter used to worship in the sixth grade. Pancake was a lesser known and often misunderstood deity. Most likely because he stank to high heaven. Jimmy didn’t smell too hot either, which didn’t help the goat’s rep.
    I stopped off at Della’s Beauty Salon and stepped inside to the sound of an electronic bell. Either that or the ringing in my ears was back. Della was a friend of Teresa’s and one of the last people to see her the night she disappeared.
    A woman with spiky hair and fantastic nails asked if she could help me.
    “Absolutely, is Della in?”
    “She’s in the back, honey. You have an appointment?” She glanced up at my hair and made a sympathetic face.
    I ran a hand over my ponytail, suddenly self-conscious. “No, I’m a private investigator. I was wondering if I could ask her a few questions.”
    She stammered in surprise. “Of-of course. Go on back,” she said, pointing a zebra-striped nail toward the back room.
    “Thanks.” After another glance at her hair—I could do spikes—I stepped to the back and into a room lined with cabinets on one wall and shampoo sinks on another. A portly woman with a messy bob stood leaning over a sink, washing a client’s hair. I’d always loved the distinct smell of hair salons. The way the chemicals mingled with the scents of shampoos and perfume and the pounds of hair spray applied each day to clientele. I breathed it in, then walked forward.
    “Are you Della?” I