The Dirt on Ninth Grave: A Novel (Charley Davidson Series, 9)

From Publishers Weekly Jones's fast-paced ninth Charley Davidson novel (after 2015's Eighth Grave after Dark) alternates between the comical and the mystical. Charley, who's suffering from amnesia and is known as Janey, has been working as a waitress at the Firelight Grill in the Hudson River town of Sleepy Hollow, N.Y. Unaware of her paranormal powers, Charley is perplexed by her ability to see dead people and understand multiple languages. Charley attempts to see the humor in her everyday life even as she feels the otherworldly forces around her. Meanwhile, she's attracted to customer Reyes Farrow and seeks to solve the mystery of the disappearance of the family of Mr. Vandenberg, a nearby shop owner. Fortunately, Charley's unexplained supernatural abilities prove beneficial to her amateur sleuthing efforts. Charley's adventures build to an apocalyptic conclusion that uncovers the true meaning of her life. Agent: Alexandra Machinist, ICM Partners. (Jan.)\n “Sexy, sassy...Jones's characters, both living and dead, are colorful and endearing.” ― The Associated Press on First Grave on the Right “Jones's wickedly witty debut will delight.” ― Booklist (starred) on First Grave on the Right “Jones perfectly balances humor and suspense...will leave readers eager for her next installment.” ― Publishers Weekly (starred review) on Second Grave on the Left “Charlie continues to fascinate.” ― Booklist on Third Grave Dead Ahead “ Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet continues to blend paranormal, romance, and mystery better than any other contemporary work out there.” ― Heroes and Heartbreakers “Jones has hit on the perfect recipe for a wisecracking, wickedly funny romp that is edged with truly chilling danger...sexy and mysterious.” ― RT Book Reviews on Fifth Grave Past the Light “Delivers plenty of thrills and laughs, as well as a deliciously explosive climax.” ― Publisher’s Weekly on Sixth Grave on the Edge “Übertalented Jones keeps stirring the pot and throwing in crazy new developments, guaranteed to keep her characters and readers zanily off balance.” ― RT Book Reviews on Sixth Grave on the Edge “Hilarious, terrifying and poignant - a truly tremendous read!” ― RT Book Reviews (4 ½ stars) on Seventh Grave and No Body “ Seventh Grave and No Body is Charley at her finest!” ― Fresh Fiction “Action, action, action, all encased in snappy, funny dialogue...Charley is a sassy, funny woman a reader cannot help but love.” ― Romance Reviews Today on Eighth Grave After Dark “As always, there is plenty of the weird and wacky, but there is also a heaping dose of high-stakes drama and poignancy. This is one fantastic read!” ― RT Book Reveiws (4 ½ stars) on Eighth Grave After Dark New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Darynda Jones has won numerous awards for her work, including a prestigious RITA, a Golden Heart, and a Daphne du Maurier, and her books have been translated into 17 languages. As a born storyteller, Darynda grew up spinning tales of dashing damsels and heroes in distress for any unfortunate soul who happened by, certain they went away the better for it. She penned the international bestselling Charley Davidson series and is currently working on several beloved projects, most notably the Sunshine Vicram Mystery Series with St. Martin's Press and the Betwixt and Between Series of paranormal women's fiction. She lives in the Land of Enchantment, also known as New Mexico, with her husband and two beautiful sons, the Mighty, Mighty Jones Boys. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. The Dirt on Ninth Grave By Darynda Jones St. Martin's Press Copyright © 2015 Darynda JonesAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-1-250-07448-5 CHAPTER 1 Remember, it's never too late to give LSD a shot. — T-SHIRT I stood beside the booth and poured coffee into a beige cup that had the words FIRELIGHT GRILL written across it, wondering if I should tell my customer, Mr. Pettigrew, about the dead stripper sitting next to him. It wasn't every day a dead stripper accosted one of my regulars, but telling Mr. P about her might not be a good idea. He could react the way I did the first time I saw a walking corpse a little over a month ago. I screamed like a twelve-year-old girl and locked myself in the bathroom. For seven hours. I admired the rascally old man, a decorated war veteran and retired NYPD detective. He'd seen more action than most. And with it, more atrocity. More depravity and desperation and degradation. He was a tough-as-nails, real-life superhero, and I couldn't picture any situation in which Mr. P would scream like a twelve-year-old girl and lock himself in a bathroom. For seven hours. In my own defense, the first dead guy I saw had fallen to his death at a construction site in Kalamazoo. Thanks to a hundred-foot drop and an unfortunate placement of rebar, I had another image to add to my things-I-can-never-unsee collection. Silver linings, baby. I pulled three creamers out of my apron pocket where I stashed them, mostly because keeping creamers in my jeans pocket never ended well. I placed them on the table beside him. "Thanks, Janey." He gave me a saucy wink and doctored his coffee, an elixir I'd grown to love more than air. And French fries. And hygiene, but only when I woke up late and was faced with the heart-wrenching decision of either making a cup of the key to life itself or taking a shower. Strangely enough, coffee won. Every. Single. Time. Mr. P was a regular, and I liked regulars. Whenever one walked into the café I felt a little less lost, a little less broken, as though family had come to visit. As fucked up as it sounded, they were all I had. A little over a month ago, I woke up in an alley, soaked to the marrow of my bones with freezing rain pelting my face and no memory of who I was. Or where I was. Or when I was. I had nothing but the clothes on my back, a honking big diamond on my ring finger, and a blinding headache. The headache disappeared fairly quickly. Thankfully the clothes and the wedding ring did not. But if I were married, where was my husband? Why had he not come for me? I'd been waiting since that first day. Day One, I'd called it. I'd been waiting for four weeks, three days, seventeen hours, and twelve minutes. Waiting for him to find me. For anyone to find me. Surely I had family. I mean, everyone has family, right? Or, at the very least, friends. It would seem, however, that I had neither. No one in Sleepy Hollow — or the entire state of New York — knew who I was. But that didn't stop me from digging in my raggedly bitten nails and clinging to the knowledge that almost everyone on the planet had someone, and my someone was out there. Somewhere. Searching for me. Scouring the galaxy night and day. That was my hope, anyway. To be found. To be known. The spiderweb cracks in the shell holding me together were splintering, bleeding into one another, creeping and crackling along the fragile surface. I didn't know how much longer it would hold. How much longer until the pressure inside me exploded. Until it shattered and catapulted the pieces of my psyche into space; to the farthest reaches of the universe. Until I vanished. It coul Read more