Speak of the Wicked (Paranormal in Manhattan Mystery: A Cozy Mystery on Kindle Unlimited Book 9)

by Lotta Smith

  “You call me a poor soul?” Rick questioned.

  “Yes. You’re pathetic, unable to use anything but science to observe and understand everything happening around you.”

  “Wow, I’m impressed.” Rick flashed a lopsided grin. “All right, let me watch you make a total fool of yourself.”

  For a split second, Mr. Barnes’s jaw muscles seemed to tighten, but soon, he regained his composure. “Shall we get started?” he said.

  “I’m not cooperating with him,” Jackie declared defiantly. Arms crossed, the ghost shot daggers at the self-proclaimed psychic, placing his hand on the planchette.

  Ken placed his hand on the planchette as the psychic glanced at him.

  Mr. Barnes took a deep breath and mumbled something. Then he said, “Hello, visiting spirit. Are you Diana Macomber?”

  Following a short silence, the planchette moved toward “No.”

  “No?” Mr. Barnes cocked his head to the side. His hand was still touching the planchette, along with Ken’s fingertips. “It looks like some stray spirit has sneaked in while we were fussing around.”

  Jackie rolled her eyes. “I did nothing. Mandy, you saw I’ve been by your side the whole time, right?”

  I made a slight nod in agreement. Wow, this arrangement was more difficult than usual. Under normal circumstances, I often used my phone to look like I was making a call to someone whenever I chatted with Jackie in front of people who didn’t know her. But tonight, it didn’t seem appropriate to fake a phone conversation while silence was required.

  “Who is the spirit?” Mrs. Prescott asked curiously.

  “Okay, let me ask for the name.” Mr. Barnes looked at the planchette. “What is your name?”

  The planchette moved across the board, indicating M, I, C, H, A, E, and L.

  “What?” Mr. Macomber furrowed his eyebrows.

  Karen inhaled sharply. After a brief silence, she muttered, “Michael…?” Her voice was hoarse.

  “This is outrageous!” snapped Mr. Grasso, the banker who had been mostly quiet.

  “Darling, don’t be upset.” Alexandra, his wife, patted him on the arm. “The doctor says it’s not good for your heart to be excessively excited.”

  But she couldn’t prevent her husband from standing up and glaring at Mr. Barnes, Ken Tillard, and Mr. Macomber. “Don’t you think it’s too crude and disgusting a joke? It’s been just a short while since he passed away. Karen, you don’t have to deal with such lunacy.” He looked at Karen with concern, but she didn’t seem to be listening to him.

  “Is that… really him? I mean, Michael… my husband?” Karen looked at the wooden board, then at Mr. Barnes.

  The planchette moved to the word “Yes.”

  Mr. Barnes gawked at the moving planchette, but then he suggested, “Why don’t you ask him a question about something only you and he would know the answer to?”

  “Karen, you don’t need to bother with such a phony parlor trick,” Mr. Grasso insisted, but Karen shook her head as if to say she was able to choose what she wanted to do.

  She buried her face in her hands for a while. When she raised her head, she looked and sounded determined. “What can you tell us about your moles?” she said.

  “Moles?” Mrs. Prescott muttered.

  “My husband had moles aligned in a unique shape.” Karen smiled, slightly blushing.

  The planchette started sliding toward P—ultimately spelling the word “pentagon.”

  “Pentagon?” I parroted.

  “Michael had five moles shaping a pentagon on his….” Karen turned pink. “You know, on his inner thigh.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Prescott cupped her face in her hands.

  Karen giggled. “That kind of secret is only known between us.” Then she took a deep breath. “Oh, Michael… I missed you so much. You have no idea how much I wanted to talk to you, Michae—”

  “Stop it! It’s nothing but a disgrace of the deceased!” Mr. Grasso yelled as Karen talked to the midair with dreamy eyes.

  As if on cue, one of the windows of the salon fell, shattering and prompting Ken Tillard to pull his hand back from the Ouija board. Mr. Barnes also released his hand from the planchette.

  “I didn’t do that,” Jackie said as we fell into silence.

  “I know, I know,” I whispered.

  Having lost a window, the air in the salon suddenly felt cold.

  “Please refrain from yelling.” Mr. Barnes glared at Mr. Grasso. “The spirit is upset.” His tone was harsh.

  “The spirit is upset? Come on, give us a break!” Mr. Grasso shot back in a harsher tone.

  I looked at Rick, expecting him to join Mr. Grasso and say something acerbic to the phony psychic, but he was just observing Mr. Grasso snickering at Mr. Barnes.

  The psychic went on, completely ignoring the banker. “Look, the spirit seems to want to tell us something. Look at the planchette. It’s vibrating. Mr. Tillard, shall we?”

  He glanced at Ken, who was frowning as he looked at the little piece of trembling heart-shaped wood.

  “What would you like to tell us, Mr. Rosenberg?”

  The moment Mr. Barnes asked, the planchette slid straight to the letter M. After that, it went to U, R, D, E, and another R.

  “Murder?” Karen gasped. “Did he just say murder?”

  “As in, was murdered?” I mumbled.

  “Or else in the context of killing someone,” Mr. Macomber whispered.

  “Mr. Rosenberg, do you want to tell us that you were murdered?” Mr. Grasso asked. His voice was sharper than ever.

  Immediately, the planchette moved to “Yes.”

  “Oh my.” Karen clutched her chest, breathing hard.

  “It’s beyond ridiculous!” Mr. Grasso bashed the table.

  “Still, what if everything is true?” Ken looked around the table, apparently stunned. “If that’s the case, that will be so huge.”

  “Oh my God, was Mr. Rosenberg murdered?” shrieked Jackie, who had been actively dissing Mr. Barnes as a fraud until just moments before. Placing her palms on both sides of her face, a la The Scream by Munch, she went on. “Could it be possible for the spirit of Mr. Rosenberg to actually be visiting here? He might be hiding somewhere in this house. After all, I didn’t break the glass, and if anyone could have done that, it would be another ghost!”

  I half wanted to roll my eyes as she overreacted, but a part of me was beginning to think she might be right.

  “Still, Karen, I heard Michael died of an accident,” Mrs. Prescott said breathlessly.

  “Yes, the detective in charge of Michael’s death concluded that he crashed down the stairs while attempting to come down the steps while tipsy.” Karen’s hands were visibly shaking. “He had been using a condo in Gramercy as his personal office. Michael was a workaholic, and he not only worked fulltime as the CEO of Rose and Roses but was investing in other businesses. He liked to have a little drink to wind down between tasks. He especially liked the studio den in that condo, and he fell down the stairs connecting the den with the living room. He’d also hurt his left knee just a few weeks before the incident. The injury itself wasn’t that serious, as he was able to walk around without using crutches, though he had pain when he took certain postures. Michael, darling, your death has been ruled as accidental.”

  Karen’s voice was husky as she recalled that time, but the planchette indicated “No” over and over.

  “Oh my God! I can’t tear my fingers from the planchette!” Ken shrieked.

  On the other hand, I was having a shocking moment of my own. Rose and Roses was one of the biggest healthcare conglomerates and practically ruled the world in terms of pharmaceuticals, medical devices, healthcare services, and health-related consumer goods. When I was in med school, I used to wish my surname was Rose or Roses—mostly because whenever the surnames that could have ties with big pharma/medical devices/consumer goods companies were uttered, normally mean-spirited attending physicians used to turn as sweet as saccharine and st
op yelling, just to appear to be Dr. Nice Guy in hopes of obtaining a precious little crumb of a huge golden pie called the medical industry. I’d had a hunch that Mrs. Rosenberg was someone with a very high profile, but I didn’t expect that high of a profile.

  “Ken, are you kidding? If that’s the case….” Karen narrowed her eyes at the actor, but the planchette circled around the word “No” over and over.

  “Mr. Barnes, please help! Can’t you do something about it!” At that point, the Ken Tillard I’d known as the alpha male who was always composed and in the lead was completely gone.

  “Is it true? Are you sure it’s not a prank?” Mr. Macomber asked, shuddering.

  “It should be a prank!” Mr. Grasso declared. “A truly sick one! What are you, a high school student? Shame on you!” He cast an accusatory glance at the psychic.

  Without acknowledging Mr. Grasso, Mr. Barnes asked, “So, you were murdered, right?”

  As he said that, the planchette stopped moving for a brief moment, then slid to the word “Yes.”

  “Did you see your killer?” Mr. Barnes asked, looking at the planchette, which again indicated “Yes.”

  “Was your killer someone you knew?” he went on.

  That time, the planchette practically vibrated over the word “Yes.”

  “Was it a man or a woman?” When the psychic asked, the planchette moved to the letter A. After that, it moved to M, A, and then stopped at N.

  At that point, Mr. Barnes was the only person talking, except for the occasional yelp from Ken. Karen was holding her breath, intensely watching the interaction between the psychic and the planchette.

  “Are you still angry about him?”

  “Yes,” the planchette indicated. No, indicated was an understatement. Indeed, the planchette started circling around the word “Yes” over and over, and in no time, it was practically jumping on that word, as if desperately trying to make a statement.

  “Ow!” Ken grimaced. “My arm… it’s moving so violently…. Hey, I have roles to perform the next month, and I desperately need two arms!”

  Mr. Barnes seemed preoccupied talking to the spirit. “Are you plotting revenge?” he asked, prompting the planchette to practically bounce on the word “Yes” again.

  “Are you going to haunt him to his death?”

  The planchette started jumping on “Yes” over and over.

  “Ouch!” Ken groaned, finally prompting Mr. Barnes to notice his séance mate was in trouble.

  “Oh my goodness… the negative, hateful energy is going off the chart,” he mumbled. “It’s getting dangerous.” He reached for Ken’s right arm. At first, he seemed confident that he’d be able to stop the actor’s arm from being manipulated by the haunted planchette in no time, but he hissed as he lost control of his own limb.

  “All right, it looks like Mr. Rosenberg is infuriated. Now let me ask you the final question!” Mr. Barnes said breathlessly while Ken screamed, “Help! Help!”

  “Do you see the person who killed you in this room?”

  The moment Mr. Barnes asked that, the planchette moved to the “Yes” with a swift move. Then it stopped suddenly, as if finally satisfied to convey the most important thing it wanted to tell.

  For a while, everyone in the salon fell silent.

  “Holy mother of…,” Mr. Macomber mumbled, almost to himself.

  Mrs. Prescott stood up abruptly. “I think I’ve got to leave… I mean, I suddenly had a vision of my David groaning in serious pain. As the loving wife, I’ve got to stay with him when he’s suffering, right?” she babbled, taking wobbly steps toward the exit.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Prescott, but are you trying to get away from here?” Karen demanded, standing to her feet.

  Yes, her tone was seriously demanding.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Karen!” Mrs. Prescott snapped. “You know what? This is insane. I’m telling you, you’ve got to stop listening to such a phony psychic.”

  “But Michael says one of you is his killer!” Karen insisted.

  Mrs. Prescott blanched. “Excuse me? Are you treating me as a suspect? I was expecting something fun for the holiday season, but this is so out of control. If you want to stay out of the psych ward, you’ll want to stop trying to connect with dead people. I know it’s hard for you, but dead people are dead, and it’s a crime against the universe to try to communicate with the dead!” Pushing Karen away, Mrs. Prescott hurried out of the salon.

  “Ow!” Karen slumped as she was pushed back to her chair.

  I was stunned and speechless, my mouth hanging wide open. Mrs. Prescott knew nothing about my skill of communicating with dead people, or that I had friends on the other side, such as Jackie, and Rick’s late stepmom, but… had I been committing a crime against the universe?

  I was losing my confidence and felt my sanity wobbling. Then Jackie yelled at the door Mrs. Prescott had just exited from.

  “Hello, lady! Just because you can’t see or hear us doesn’t mean you’re entitled to discriminate against us! You’ll see what it’s like when you’re dead!” Then she turned back to me. “Oops, perhaps I’ve lost a bit of my cool. You know I tend to get angry when I’m discriminated against. I can’t help it.”

  My lips quivered into a smile as my confidence, which was almost gone, baby gone, got boosted. Rick clasped my hand, whispering, “Don’t worry, she’s never been involved in a criminal investigation, and she has no idea how desperately the cops wish they could communicate with the victims and dead witnesses, if only judges would accept dead witnesses’ words as evidence.”

  So, my mood had a serious boost, but Karen wasn’t that lucky. Slumped in her chair, she sighed, covering her face with both hands.

  “You don’t need to worry about Mrs. Prescott’s leaving,” Mr. Barnes assured her. “After all, the spirit of the late Mr. Rosenberg told us that the killer was a man, not a woman. She shouldn’t be the killer.”

  “So… it’s a man who killed Michael….” Lips quivering, Karen looked around the table.

  Again, everyone fell silent. Karen looked at each man in the salon with brimming eyes. Ken Tillard appeared tired as he bit his lower lip. Mr. Macomber was nervously glancing around, as if bracing himself. As for Mr. Grasso, he was irritably tapping on the table while Alexandra murmured something in his ear. Rick was still holding my hand while discreetly observing everyone.

  “Hmm… it looks like I’m the only audience here.” Jackie tilted her head to the side. “That’s because no one realizes Mandy sees me as a person. And from the viewer’s perspective, it all looks so out of the ordinary with this pounding tension and everything. But at the same time, a part of me is expecting the director to say, ‘Cut!’ or for the scene to transition to the next one.”

  “Ha.” Mr. Grasso snorted, standing up. “I’ve had enough absurdity for the night. We’re leaving,” he spat, helping Alexandra to her feet.

  “Mr. Grasso… you’re a man,” Karen said defiantly.

  “Karen, do you believe his words?” he seethed, glancing at Mr. Barnes like a piece of rotten garbage he’d encountered on the street. “He’s a joke. Everything is a total absurdity.”

  “I don’t know… I’m not sure, but….” Karen tried, but she seemed to be at a loss for a good argument. She stared at Mr. Grasso with intense eyes, as if she was determined to stop him from leaving with just her look.

  Mr. Grasso didn’t budge either. He glared back at her without words.

  CHAPTER 6

  “I agree with Mr. Grasso about everything being absurd,” Rick chimed in.

  “Rick, but—” Karen and I said in unison.

  “The mighty spirit that manipulated not just one man but two men’s arms? Come on, give me a break. That wasn’t even a prank. I’d rather call it a joke.” He snorted.

  “That was no joke! Every part of what I went through just moments ago was true,” Ken protested. “You witnessed it with your own eyes. I was indeed manipulated by the spirit. When the planchette forcibly
took my arm to where it wanted to go, Mr. Barnes wasn’t touching it. I swear I wasn’t moving my arm. It was definitely the planchette that moved.”

  “No part of those ridiculous antics was caused by our invisible friends,” Rick denied the actor’s words. “Everything was caused by a human.”

  “How can you be so sure about that?” Ken demanded. “In my life, I’ve seen a smorgasbord of phenomena that couldn’t bear logical explanation. Still, you can’t dismiss anything as rubbish just because you can’t provide an immediate explanation. So, I heard you’re a former FBI agent. In my opinion, the feds nowadays have way too many mishaps for us tax payers’ comfort. And I now know why that happens. You don’t listen to others since you’re too busy judging without checking the facts.”

  As Tillard grimaced angrily, Rick shrugged nonchalantly.

  “Okay, so I can see you’re a big hater of the FBI—not that there’s anything wrong with that, as we’re in a free country where everyone’s entitled to express their opinions. Indeed, I don’t really care if you discriminate against approximately thirty-five thousand men and women out there, working their asses off to serve and protect this country. Then again, I didn’t deny the spiritual involvement today just out of discrimination. Indeed, I can provide logical explanations to everything that happened during the so-called séance.” Arms crossed, Rick snorted. “Okay, let’s start with the one that disabled you and Mrs. Rosenberg here to stand up from the chair. When you’re sitting on a chair, you’ve got to move your center of gravity to the front. So when the head is kept from moving to the front, the center of your gravity wouldn’t move, and hence you can’t stand up. By the way, you don’t have to apply powerful restraints to keep the head from moving. You don’t even need restraints to see it yourself. Just try not to move your head and attempt to stand up. As for Karen, she could have stood had she moved her head to the side, or if she’d moved her head backward before attempting to stand.”

  “Center of gravity?” As I muttered, he lightly placed his index finger on my forehead, just like Mr. Barnes did to Karen.