Justine and the Psychic Connections

by Ruth Hay

  Justine and the Psychic Connections

  Cat Clues Book 1

  Ruth Hay

  Contents

  Justine and the Psychic Connections

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Afterword

  Also by Ruth Hay

  Justine and the Psychic Connections

  Cat Clues Book 1

  Everyone has secrets.

  Nothing stays secret forever.

  Justine Jordan arrives in the small village of Lenzie hoping to find peace and quiet. Instead she finds a Siamese cat on her new doorstep, a clear sign she’s about to be pulled into a mystery that must be solved. Can she help her new neighbour whilst protecting her own secrets and adjusting to her new life?

  One

  I knew as soon as I saw it.

  I felt it was right as soon as I stepped inside.

  Whoever lived before in this house was content.

  Above all the things I needed at this point in my life, a sense of peace and contentment was paramount.

  So many miles I had travelled. So many sleepless nights of seeking and here, at long last, was the answer.

  There were furnishings in place. I walked slowly around the main floor and touched the fabric of the sofa and matching chairs. It was soft, a velvety green with a diamond pattern incised into it. The rug by the fireplace was old and had been hand-made on a frame. The cut ends of its wool were flattened in the centre where feet had rested to get direct heat from the fire. I stood in the prints and saw they were made by a man. The sensation of warmth rose up through my feet.

  This was good.

  This was all good.

  * * *

  I dismissed the real estate agent with a cursory promise to meet her outside in a few minutes.

  I needed to confirm my first impressions before I committed to this small house, on the edge of a small village, on the edge of a big city.

  A downstairs cloakroom with toilet and washbasin, essential since my leg was not perfect and never again would be. A galley-type kitchen with a door leading onto a well-maintained garden, surrounded by a ring of fencing, concealed behind a variety of climbing plants.

  Privacy. A thing I craved almost as much as peace and contentment.

  Then, up a short staircase I went, helped by a handrail on each side. The more I saw, the more I was led to believe the former resident, or residents, were older rather than younger than I.

  The bathroom had a shower instead of a bath and an extractor fan in the window to remove excess steam.

  Last of all, there were two bedrooms, with windows overlooking the garden. One room must have belonged to a woman, as I judged from the wallpaper and the drapes. The second was more sparsely furnished. Possibly intended for a man, or a visitor? I appointed this room as my dressing room and storage facility. Undoubtedly, there would be extra space above in the attic, but my chances of getting up there safely, were next to nothing.

  I stood and breathed in the atmosphere and noticed nothing of concern. A faint hint of lavender assured me of my safety. Lavender has always been near me wherever I have settled for any length of time.

  * * *

  The agent was seated on the low wall by the front gate. She was delighted to hear my decision and began to provide details about the former residents and the village amenities. I cut her off abruptly and asked her to let me keep the keys in exchange for a deposit. She agreed, and went off happily to her car to make up the rental agreement.

  As I closed the front door, I noticed the house number. 23 was always a lucky number for me.

  I stood there and looked around. The afternoon sun was sliding behind the hills in the distance. I could hear no sound apart from a dog barking. A car drove slowly along the street but made hardly any noise.

  I could feel the tension in my muscles melt away. The headache that had been my constant companion for so long now, began, at last, to dissipate.

  This was it. This was my place. Here I could be safe, and content, and free.

  I slept so soundly that when my eyes opened I felt completely disoriented and could not recognize my surroundings. My heart began to race, then I saw my cases piled against the door to ward off invaders, and the bright, comfortable, knitted blanket I travelled with everywhere covering my body. I was safe in my new home.

  I sat up and stretched. This was the first day of my new life and there was much to be done.

  Dressing gown. Slippers. Heating system?

  The air felt cool for an early summer morning. I hesitated to set a fire in the fireplace since I had not yet thought what my plan for the day would be. I knew enough not to leave a house with a fire burning away unguarded. A mental list of things to be checked on, or purchased, began to form in my head.

  Coffee.

  I searched the cupboards for the means to make a hot drink and found at last a small sachet of powdered coffee and two cups or two mugs to choose from. Definitely two persons lived here before me. There was no kettle but a small saucepan would serve to boil water.

  I let the tap run for a minute in case anything had accumulated in the pipes.

  When the water was bubbling away, I remembered a sugar packet from the plane and fetched it from my coat pocket. Passing the front door, I felt the impulse to open it and review the front garden for a moment. To my surprise, there, on the doorstep, stood a bottle of milk.

  I did not stop to question my luck, just grabbed the bottle and took it into the kitchen. It was perhaps one of the best cups of coffee I have ever drunk in my life and it was not because of the powdered stuff. Rather it was the sense of delight that a Canada goose must feel having journeyed so far from the north and found itself in pleasant, restful, southern pastures at last.

  Carrying the hot mug, I opened the back door and walked out onto a pathway that wound around the sheltered back garden. I could tell from the condition of the flowerbeds that the previous owners had not been long gone. A mere half an hour of gentle weeding was all that was required to return the garden to perfection. I blessed the work of the hands that cared this much for growing things and for creating beautiful surroundings.

  Back in the kitchen again, I stowed the milk bottle inside a tiny fridge set under the countertop, and after opening a few more cupboard doors, I discovered an equally-tiny washing machine installed there also.

  Mirabile dictu! Number 23 was getting better and better.

  Two

  An hour later I was dressed and ready to venture forth. My mental list of necessities was now quite lengthy. I had hopes of finding some food nearby but larger items, like new bedding, might have to wait for a shopping expedition to the nearest town centre.

  The decision about which direction to take was simple, as my cottage was on the edge of the village with a field beyond it. I could see a cluster of buildings further along the road so I set out with high hopes and the excitement that only the first day in a new location can bring. Everything was noticed and admired. There were houses on both sides of the road now with pretty gardens to the front and tall trees shading the roofs. I could see the spire of a church in the distance but I came to the local
shop well before that and entered, to find myself the only customer.

  “Good morning! How can I help you?”

  Accustomed as I was to huge supermarkets where the customer is independent, I startled at this unexpected request but summoned a half-smile and asked the shopkeeper behind the counter if I could just take a look around first.

  “Would you be the new resident at number 23? I says to Bernie last night that I could see a light on upstairs and I hoped it wasn’t burglars breaking in.”

  “Yes, that must have been me. I need some supplies.”

  I knew I was being dismissive, but it was not my intention to be the chatty neighbour and the time to start was now.

  “I’ll just take one of your baskets and see what I can find.”

  There was the sound of a disappointed sigh behind me and I knew I would be reported as ‘a snooty madam’ but that was a price I was willing to pay.

  “Let me know if you can’t see what you want. I can ask my supplier to bring it here on his next trip. I am Sadie Turner, by the way.”

  I was hidden behind a row of shelves by then and keen to make my escape. I had to be mindful of the limited shelf and fridge space in the cottage, so I tried to choose wisely among dry packaged goods rather than frozen. It soon became apparent that visits to the Turner shop, or some other further away, would need to be done on a regular basis. I did find a shelf of appliances and chose a kettle and a toaster and a frying pan. These I would pay for and collect in my car later in the day, along with other heavy items like potatoes and bottles of milk and cream.

  While busy at the cash register, I knew the owner was registering more than prices. She noted the name and details on my credit card, but because she dared not discourage a future good customer, she refrained from asking any further questions. I made my way out with two heavy bags to carry and headed back to my cottage. Further exploration of Lenzie village would have to wait.

  I spent a happy hour stowing away my purchases and generally unpacking my two cases. By then the thought of fresh bread with country butter and a slice of farmhouse cheese was calling my name. In the kitchen again, I thought to open up the back door and let in some fresh air while the kettle of water boiled for tea.

  I did not call out, but my entire body went into shock at what I saw on the doorstep.

  No, not again!

  Not so soon, surely!

  It was a cat. Not just any cat, but a handsome Siamese of the chocolate point variety with dark ears and muzzle and a magnificent dark tail, now waving confidently at me. Every cream coloured hair on its chest and body beckoned to me but it was the stare from its incredible blue eyes that affected me the most.

  I tried to be decisive in the tone of my voice.

  “You do not live here. Please go home. I am not your person.”

  I shut the door and dropped into the kitchen chair beside the wooden table and felt my heart beating as if to escape my chest.

  This could not be happening again. I was not even twenty-four hours in the village. I was in another country far removed from my last home. I was about to start living an entirely different life, quiet and contained, keeping myself to myself with few contacts with the outside world. It was what I wanted. It was what I needed.

  No more drama. Please.

  I made the cup of tea and sat down again to think about my next move. Was it too late to renege on my rental contract and take off on another home search? My legs shook at the thought.

  The inescapable truth was that I was tired in my very bones. I doubted there was enough strength in me to keep going.

  There was one hope left.

  I slowly and cautiously opened the back door, just wide enough to see the doorstep. Not enough to offer a welcome.

  He was still there in the exact same position.

  It was not in my being to kick a cat or shout at it in anger. The presence of the Siamese was an inescapable sign that my past had followed me.

  I sighed deeply and opened the door wider. The cat walked inside in what could only be called a stately manner. Tail held high, it deigned to enter and proceeded to inspect the property with nary a glance at me.

  I was defeated and I knew it.

  This cat was taking over.

  My rational mind returned in time to prepare my defence.

  The cat was well cared for, unmarked by fights or lack of food. He or she…… I suspected the strong personality indicated a male, most definitely was not a stray. Not only that, but Siamese are expensive to buy and have a number of characteristics that make them less than the ideal pet. Whosoever owned this animal must live nearby. I must find the owners and return their property as soon as possible.

  It never entered my mind that the cottage’s previous owners could have left the cat to fend for itself. I strongly sensed the good vibes from them. They were simply not that kind of people.

  I had two choices.

  Follow the cat to its home or set about finding out where it lived by other means.

  I knew enough about the breed to know they are wanders. In some ways much more like tigers with a territory to maintain, than the common or ordinary house cat.

  I opened up the back door again and he sallied out without a sound. No begging for food or for a warm lap. He had completed his initial inspection and I was approved.

  I was in no mood to go traipsing across fields and through woods unknown to me in pursuit, so I decided on my second option. I needed to return to the shop to collect my heavy items. There must be a notice board there where I could leave an enquiry if Mrs. Turner was unable to help me out.

  Three

  I drove to the shop and parked at the front. Sadie Turner was glad to see me and willing to give me another try.

  “Looking to be a good day, don’t you think, Mrs. Jordan?

  Will your husband be joining you in number 23?

  Can I help you with any information about our fine wee village?”

  She already knew too much and I was not about to provide more. I ignored her questions, said a general “Yes” in response and moved on to the topic of my remaining purchases.

  When I had these safely stowed in my car, I returned to look for the noticeboard I was sure must be on one of the walls. Sadie Turner was busy chatting to a couple of customers. I suspected I was the subject of their conversation by the way there was an abrupt silence when I appeared.

  “I’m looking for a bulletin board for local notices,” I said.

  “Oh, it’s in the front window display. I can fetch it in for you if you wish.”

  “No thank you. I will look there for a notice about a missing cat.”

  The two women by the counter grew animated. Here was a matter in which they could contribute in hopes of discovering more information about the stranger in their midst.

  “A lost cat is it? My wee moggie runs away all the time. She usually comes back for her supper.”

  The speaker was a small round woman with a face and body to match. Her shiny red cheeks betrayed an outdoor country life. Her straggling grey hair was folded into a net to keep it off her face.

  “No, it’s not my cat. It’s a cat that appeared on my back doorstep this morning. I was wondering if someone had lost their pet?”

  The three women immediately took on my concern and began a rapid discussion about cat owners in the neighbourhood which left me waiting impatiently.

  “Was it a big black and white tom cat?”

  “Was it a white kitten, by any chance?”

  “Was it a red tabby?”

  I shook my head. Clearly there were many cats in Lenzie village.

  “This was definitely a Siamese cat,” I responded.

  Three faces dissolved into laughter at this.

  Sadie added, “You should have said so right away. Everybody around here knows that cat!

  They call it Bossy Boots. It’s always nosing around other folks’ places which suits Miriam Mackenzie right fine with that brood of little ones she has on her
hands.”

  The third woman of the group, taller and better dressed, pursed her lips and suggested Miriam Mackenzie would likely pay me to take that animal off her hands.

  This comment brought the shop to hilarious laughter again. I decided there was no point in explaining myself further. I asked for directions to the Mackenzie house and left the shop promptly, in the full knowledge that an account of this interaction would race around the village in a matter of hours.

  So much for solitude and secrecy in a quiet life!

  The Mackenzie house was further along the High Street. I parked by the kerb and walked toward the front door cautiously, rehearsing my speech over and over again. I did not want to lay claim to this cat but neither could I lay down the law about its wandering nature.

  As I drew closer, I saw a pram in the front garden. The baby inside the pram was bawling its head off. Two small boys playing a game nearby were completely ignoring the baby’s cries.

  The front door was open but there was no sign of the mother of these children.

  I hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. I was almost turning back when a figure arrived at the open door, ran forward and with her one free hand began to rock the pram. Her other hand and arm were occupied in holding a young child to her chest and supporting a bottle upright in that child’s mouth.

  Miriam Mackenzie never saw me as I turned on my heel and fled.