Deadly Forecast: A Psychic Eye Mystery

by Victoria Laurie

  As I sat there pouting into my prickly pear margarita, ranting about Cat, Candice didn’t once interrupt my little pity party. She simply picked at the nachos, nodded kindly, and waited out the storm. At last I fell silent and Candice said, “So what are you going to do?”

  “Bail,” I said with a smirk to hide the truth of how badly I wanted out of Cat’s Cirque du Ceremony.

  “Why can’t you just stand up to her?” Candice offered.

  I leveled a look at her. “Why can’t you stand up to her? You know you hate that bridesmaid’s dress she’s got you wearing.”

  Candice stirred her drink with her straw. “Point taken.”

  I sighed heavily. No one stood up to Cat because Cat simply refused to hear it. Oh, she’d nod, and say, “Yes, yes, I understand,” and then you’d be run over by six white stallions and a runaway carriage driven by a mad little person in a pink cupid’s outfit.

  “So, Sundance, what’re you going to do?” Candice repeated, motioning to our server for another round.

  I waited for her to look at me, and I said, “I don’t know, and I also don’t know that I can go through with it, Cassidy.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I shook my head and looked away. “Do Dutch and I really have to get married to be happy? I mean, we’ve been so good together for three and a half years as just boyfriend and girlfriend. Why isn’t that enough?”

  Candice didn’t say anything and I finally lifted my gaze back to her. She was staring at me intently. “You made a promise, Abs,” she said, reaching out to squeeze my wrist. “Dutch proposed and you accepted, and he’s counting on you to keep your end of the deal. If you start talking seriously about bailing on him now, he’ll be crushed.”

  I felt my shoulders sag. “Dammit,” I muttered.

  Candice let go of my wrist and reached into her pocket. Pulling out a quarter, she pushed it toward me and said, “That one’s on me.”

  * * *

  We arrived at my place about an hour later. Dutch still wasn’t home, but Brice was in the driveway, talking earnestly into his phone. Candice and I sent him a little wave as we headed up the stairs, and he came inside just a short time later. “We brought dinner,” Candice said, giving him a sweet peck before handing him an ice-cold beer.

  Brice took it gratefully. “Where’s Dutch?”

  “He’s still with Cat,” I said, reading the text my fiancé had just sent me. “But he says they’re wrapping it up and he’ll be home in twenty minutes.”

  “Should we wait for him?” Brice asked as I handed him a plate filled with pasta from the restaurant.

  “Naw. It’s almost eight. Go on. Eat. We’ll be there in a minute.”

  Brice took his food and Candice and I continued to plate and serve the pasta for ourselves and put one in the oven for Dutch. He arrived home about fifteen minutes later looking haggard and worn-out.

  “How’d it go?” Candice asked him (when I didn’t).

  Dutch took the beer she offered him and sucked the whole thing down. He then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sat down heavily in the chair next to me. “I want a divorce.”

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “We’re not married yet, cowboy.”

  “Fine. When we are married, I want to go on record that I get to divorce your sister.”

  I smirked. “Only if I get to divorce her first.”

  Candice handed Dutch another beer from the bucket keeping the six-pack cool. “Can I get in on that action?”

  “Sure!” Dutch and I sang together.

  “I’ve never met her,” Brice said.

  “Trust us,” I told him. “When we get to the dress rehearsals, you’ll want to divorce her too.”

  We all toasted to divorcing Cat before I asked Dutch, “So where do we stand?”

  “I got her to agree to take out the carriage and the horses.”

  I waited for more, but Dutch only nursed his beer and stared dumbly at the table. “Annnnnd?”

  He shook his head. “That’s all she’d agree to nix, and it was only after I told her that a team of runaway stallions might wreak havoc on guests and venue alike.”

  “So the little people cupids?” I asked.

  “In.”

  “Swans?”

  “In.”

  “Swarming butterflies?”

  “In.”

  “Eggy and Tuttle ring bearers?”

  Dutch sighed and rubbed his face with his hand. “In. But no miniature carriage. They’ll waddle down with the rings on pillows strapped to their backs. And Cat wants you and me to learn the Hustle and exit the podium dancing. I say if we survive to that point that we just make a run for it.”

  Brice laughed like he thought we were joking, and we all turned to stare at him. He sobered pretty quickly. “Seriously?” he asked.

  We nodded as one.

  Brice gulped. “She sent me an e-mail the other day that she wants to meet with the groomsmen individually next week.”

  I tipped my beer at him. “Good luck, buddy. You’re gonna need it.”

  We toasted to divorcing Cat again before we got down to more serious business. “Fill us in on your meeting with the ex-cop,” Brice said.

  “He’s telling the truth,” I began. “The guy’s not anybody that I’d put my trust in, but as far as I can tell, he’s not lying. He did receive two calls, but the message the caller left him was pretty cryptic. Still, I think there is some validity to the fact that there’s a link between the call and the explosions. What that link is, I couldn’t tell you, but my radar says it’s there.”

  “There’s no caller ID,” Candice added, “but you guys can probably get his permission or a warrant to search Banes’s phone records.”

  “I’ll call him tomorrow and get the paperwork started for a warrant and wiretap. If there’s another one of these coming, I want to be prepared.”

  I shuddered, and I didn’t express the terrible feeling I had that we’d see another one of these. “You cold?” Dutch asked me, reaching for my hand under the table.

  “I’m okay,” I assured him, but I knew he knew different.

  “You’re fine,” he said, and I looked at him to see him wink.

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes. I’m fine. Pinkie swear.”

  Dutch got up and went to the couch to bring back an afghan and drape it over my shoulders. “Don’t want you getting sick before the big day,” he said.

  Sick? Why hadn’t I thought of that?! My eyes flashed to Candice, and I knew she read my expression. She shook her head subtly, and mouthed, “No!”

  I scowled at her as Dutch took his seat again. “Did you get anything more out of Mrs. Padilla?” I asked him.

  He picked at the label on his beer bottle. “Nothing other than the name of Michelle’s dentist. I got his office to send over Michelle’s last dental X-ray and the coroner’s going to have the results to us by tomorrow.”

  “How was Mrs. Padilla when you left her?” I pressed, concerned over the poor woman.

  Dutch sighed like he carried the whole world on his shoulders. “Not good,” he admitted. “I think it was starting to sink in that her daughter could’ve been in the salon at the time of the explosion.”

  Candice’s gaze dropped to the table. “Wait till it’s confirmed that her daughter was the one wearing the bomb.”

  We were all quiet for a bit until Brice said, “I’m interested in this lead you came up with at Michelle Padilla’s house. You think the sliding glass door was tampered with?”

  Dutch nodded. “Looks that way. The catch was jimmied so that the lock could be set without its actually locking the door. If the girls didn’t frequently go out on the back patio, they’d never know. We also found no prints on the door handle itself.”

  Brice’s brow furrowed. “None?”

  “Nada,” Dutch said. “Which means the door had to have been wiped down. There were prints everywhere else from the girls and at least ten unknowns, but the handle was clean, so whoeve
r tampered with the lock also wiped it down.”

  “So what’s your theory, Cooper?” Brice asked me.

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure. But if I had to guess, I’d say that Michelle Padilla and Taylor Greene didn’t volunteer for bomb duty. And if that’s the case, then we’ve got a serious mother of a problem on our hands. Way bigger than just two suicide bombers blowing themselves up. We could have a serial killer who’s just warming up with these two. The destruction, fear, and panic he could cause…”

  My voice trailed off, and in the room you could hear a pin drop.

  T-Minus 00:53:15

  The interior of the car was so quiet that M.J. could hear the sound of Gilley’s heavy breathing next to her. She eyed him as he clutched the armrest when Dutch took a turn way too fast for it to be safe. Somehow, they managed to keep from rolling, and once around the turn, they were racing forward again. Gil leaned over when the car had straightened out and whispered, “I think I’m gonna be sick!”

  M.J. squeezed Gilley’s hand. “Don’t you dare!”

  “Can he let me out?” Gil asked, and M.J. noticed that Gilley was looking a bit like Candice had when she’d first emerged from the back of the ambulance.

  “No! Just take deeper breaths and focus on something pleasant.”

  Gil stared hard at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “It’s that house!” Candice suddenly called from the front seat. M.J. looked to where she was pointing and saw a modest-sized redbrick house with black shutters and matching door.

  Dutch stomped on the brakes and everyone in the car pitched forward. He was out of the Audi almost before it’d come to a complete stop and running for the front door. He began pounding on it even as M.J. was trying to get herself untangled from the seat belt.

  At last she managed to free herself from the car at the same time that two young men appeared in the doorway. Dutch grabbed the boy with black wavy hair and pulled him roughly outside, only to throw him up against the wall of the house and yell, “Where is she, you son of a bitch?”

  “Stop!” M.J. shouted. “Dutch, stop! He didn’t take her!”

  Dutch continued to hold the young man up against the wall, but at least he wasn’t throwing punches at the poor frightened boy. Candice reached Dutch first and pulled on his arm to get him to back off, but he was resisting her. “Dutch, let him go!” she demanded. “Let Brody go!”

  M.J. ran over and both she and Candice finally got Dutch to release Brody and take a step back. “What the hell, man?” Brody yelled fiercely once he was free, but M.J. could see the real fear in his eyes.

  “Where’s Abby?” Dutch demanded. “If you hurt her, Brody, I’ll kill you! Do you understand me? I’ll kill you!”

  Brody flattened himself against the brick again, and he looked truly scared. M.J. stepped in between Dutch and Brody and put her hands on the groom’s chest. “Dutch, please! You have to let me figure this out, okay? Let me talk to him—”

  “There’s no time!” he roared, and she could tell he was really close to losing it.

  “There is,” she told him, only half believing it. “Please, trust me on this, okay?”

  Dutch was breathing hard through his nose, and his fists were clenched, but at last he gave one reluctant nod and stepped back. M.J. turned to Brody and said, “You all right?” The young man was literally shaking with fear, and his buddy—who’d appeared in the doorway with him—had gone back inside and slammed the door. M.J. could hear him on the phone calling the police.

  “Brody, are you all right?” M.J. repeated when he didn’t answer her. His gaze was locked on Dutch. Still the boy said nothing, so M.J. plowed ahead. “Brody, listen to me; I’m a spirit medium. I talk to dead people. And a little while ago, right after we discovered that Abby was missing, a woman named Rita pushed her way into my energy and insisted that we come talk to you. Did you know this woman?”

  Brody’s gaze shifted to her and his eyes narrowed, but he made no further comment.

  “She feels very motherly toward you,” M.J. went on, feeling Rita’s energy surround her, and M.J. also felt the intense and sudden urge to give Brody a fierce hug. She needed Brody to acknowledge the link before getting more information from Rita.

  But instead the glint of anger in Brody’s eyes intensified. “Is this a joke?”

  Candice stepped up to M.J.’s side. “Brody’s mother was killed in an explosion two weeks ago. Her name was Rita.”

  M.J. let out a sigh of relief. Dead people almost always demanded to be recognized before they got to their message, and she felt a sort of release of pressure in her mind once Rita was identified. “I didn’t know, I swear,” she told Brody when he continued to glare at her suspiciously. But then he appeared to take in their formal attire, and something seemed to click for him.

  “Wait…isn’t today the wedding?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Candice. “And Abby’s missing. We think she’s been abducted. Possibly by the same person responsible for abducting Michelle Padilla. The woman who wore the bomb into your mom’s shop.”

  Brody’s face drained of color. “The lady that killed my mom?” he asked meekly.

  “Yes,” Candice told him, and M.J. noticed for the first time that Candice’s hands were shaking. She was scared to death for Abby, but trying very hard to remain calm while they talked to Brody.

  At that moment Rita began communicating with M.J. in earnest. “Brody,” she said, “I think you may know something that can help us. Your mom says that something happened at her shop that’s connected to all this. She’s talking about a fight that took place where she worked. I think your mom and another person got into it—”

  “My mom never hurt a fly,” he said defensively.

  M.J. took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Listening to the dead required patience and interpretation, because it wasn’t like they spoke to her in full sentences. It was more like trying to hear someone talk to her through a wall—she’d be able to catch about every third or fourth word. But there was another tool at her disposal; the dead could impart feelings, emotions, and imagery to M.J., and she felt Rita do this now. “Brody,” she said, “your mom needs you to listen carefully to me. She says she told you about an argument that took place at a…a hair salon, I think that’s what she’s showing me.”

  “Rita owned a salon,” Candice interjected softly.

  M.J. nodded. That was a piece of the puzzle she’d been trying to figure out. “Your mom wasn’t the first owner of the shop, though, right?”

  M.J. opened her eyes to see Brody sort of nod at her. She knew then that she was on the right track. “Before your mom took over the shop, was it called something different? Something with an…M?”

  Brody gasped. “Yeah. My mom bought it from the lady who taught her how to cut hair. Her name was Margo. The salon was originally called Margo’s.”

  “Okay, how long ago did your mom buy the shop?”

  Brody shrugged, and in the distance M.J. could hear the sound of sirens approaching. “Almost two years ago.”

  “Did your mom and Margo keep in touch after she bought the shop?” M.J. asked.

  Brody shrugged again. “Yeah, I think so but not, like, every day.”

  The sirens were getting closer, and M.J. could feel Dutch’s impatience and mounting anxiety. Focusing intently on Brody, she said, “Honey, your mom is insisting that there was a fight or an argument or something that occurred involving Margo. She thinks there’s a link between that and how she died.”

  But Brody was shaking his head. “My mom got along with everybody,” he insisted. “She was really nice, I swear. And everybody liked her. She and Margo were tight, I swear. My mom wasn’t in a fight with her.”

  M.J. could now feel Rita’s frustration. The dead woman wasn’t wrong—there had been some sort of argument involving Margo—the former owner—and Rita, and M.J. was certain that she’d mentioned this to her son, but either he’d forgotten it or he wasn’t letting on because he didn’
t want them to think badly about Rita. “Brody,” M.J. tried again. “This is a matter of life and death. If you don’t help us figure this out, Abby could die. Please, think!”

  But just then two police cars roared up the street, screeched to a halt, and out jumped two officers, guns drawn. “Hands behind your heads!” one shouted. “Now!”

  Chapter Seven

  “Now, Edgar,” Dutch called impatiently up the stairs to me. “You’re gonna make us late.”

  I groaned. Dutch hated to be late, especially to work, but I was struggling to get it in gear the day after meeting with my sister for Cirque du Ceremony, because he and I had been up late talking over the case with Brice and Candice. During the rest of that discussion, I’d reaffirmed my belief that Michelle hadn’t committed suicide. I believed she’d been forced to wear the bomb, and some sick fecker had blown her and three other women up. I also felt strongly that the two girls forced to wear the bombs—Taylor Greene and Michelle Padilla—had some sort of connection to each other, but I couldn’t think how. They were different ages, had lived in different places, went to different schools, and had never worked in the same places.

  Still, in my gut I knew there was a connection between them; the other thing that I knew in my gut was that whatever that connection was, it was the key to figuring this case out and catching the mastermind behind the bombings. I felt deep in my bones that I had to figure out the connection between the girls, and soon, if I was going to prevent another explosion and more lives lost—and make no mistake, I knew we were dealing with a psycho intent on murdering more people.

  “Coming. I’m coming,” I called down to Dutch, angling to get my boots on. Just then I heard the doorbell ring. It wasn’t even eight thirty, so I hurried to the top of the stairs and saw that our landlord had come over.

  “Hey, Bruce,” Dutch said in that way that suggested he was annoyed by our landlord’s sudden appearance.

  I could hardly blame him. I didn’t like Bruce either, but my reasons weren’t necessarily super specific.