Slow Hands

by Debra Dixon

  “I’m Lillian Anderson,” she said without extending her hand. “I knew you were coming.”

  “I imagine so, ma’am. I rang the doorbell.”

  “Yes. But you rang the wrong one.”

  Sully laughed in spite of himself as he showed her his identification. “I did?”

  “Don’t worry.” She stepped back and ushered him inside. “It’s not your fault, Detective.”

  “No?”

  “I don’t have a bell for inner peace.”

  That wiped the smile off Sully’s face before he realized it was only a lucky guess from a clever pro. He admired her irony, though—a peace officer without peace. Nice touch.

  When she closed the door, she led the way into a modern living room with a stained glass panel-screen shielding one corner. A mythical dragon fought its way across the sections, fire roaring from its mouth.

  “I was expecting you,” she told him, “because Georgia Petrovich called. You interviewed her this morning, and—it seems—every other palmist, card reader, and psychic on the island.”

  “Yes, ma’am, that I have.” And I’ve got the incense headache to prove it. “I’m trying to locate a psychic who may be able to help us in an investigation.”

  “I see.”

  Behind the screen was a small oak table with claw feet. One shelving unit was filled with a dragon collection, the other with crystals, geodes, and gem stones. He was pleasantly surprised to find there wasn’t a crystal ball in sight. Lillian sat down across from him and reached for a silk-wrapped rectangle, which rested at the center of the table.

  As she undid the ribbon and fished a deck of tarot cards from the silk, she asked, “I hope you don’t mind if I shuffle while we talk? The cards help me concentrate.”

  He shrugged. Anything was better than another incense assault.

  “Good,” she said. “Now, ask me your questions about this psychic. What has she done to draw the hunter?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You pursue her.” Lillian casually flipped a couple of cards onto the table in an east-west arrangement, and shuffled again. “Doesn’t that make you a hunter?”

  Sully glanced at the cards, noticing the gilded edges and rich detail. These weren’t mass-produced like the others he’d seen today. No, like the woman who handled them, they looked old and felt real. That bothered him. She was too good at probing weak spots.

  Ignoring her question, Sully verified her personal information and background before he finally asked, “Do you practice your … art under any other pseudonyms?”

  “Like Madame Evangeline?” She smiled. “Georgia told me. No, I don’t.”

  “Have you ever used the name?”

  “No.”

  She added two more cards to complete the compass points. This time raising her eyebrow in concern as the cards fell. Sully didn’t take the bait, although she wiggled the hook better than most of the psychics he’d visited that day. Instead he asked, “Do you know anyone in the business who goes by that name?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe someone retired or even an amateur who dabbles in the occult?”

  “No.” She placed one card in the center of the others and set the deck aside. Looking him in the eye, she asked, “Have you considered the possibility that Madame Evangeline doesn’t exist on the physical plane?”

  Sully’s lips twitched, and he had to contemplate the toe of his cowboy boots. “Can’t say that I have. She did use the telephone to contact us.”

  “Perhaps she called from the spirit world. I could try and reach her.”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary just yet, but I appreciate the offer and your time.”

  Sully got up to leave. He’d had all the New Age babble he could take for one day. Even when they looked normal, they were living in an alternate universe. At least this one hadn’t warned him in hushed, dramatic tones about his dark “aura.” Now that was a psychic news flash.

  “You never did say what this psychic wanted, Detective.”

  Since his chief wanted Phillip Munro’s name kept out of the interviews, Sully said, “She thinks someone might be in danger. We’re just trying to check it out, but she didn’t leave her phone number last night.” He pulled a business card out of his wallet. “If you remember anything, give me a call.”

  Lillian took the card. As he turned away she whispered, “It won’t help.”

  “Excuse me?” Sully wheeled back around.

  “Running from the past that consumes you.”

  Raising a skeptical brow, he asked, “Is this the part where you talk about my dark aura?”

  Lillian shook her head with a tolerant smile. “Georgia sees auras, not me.”

  “Oh? And what do you see?”

  “The occasional angel.” She paused a half beat as if debating with herself. Then she added, “Yours is weeping.”

  Jessica’s doubts about coming to Jericho Island multiplied the moment she pulled the rental car into the cul-de-sac. Who called the police? She told Iris to sit tight, say nothing, and wait for her arrival. So what the hell had gone wrong?

  “Everything obviously.”

  She sighed as she looked at the bubble light on the dash of the unmarked police car parked in front of the high-security wall around Munro’s beach house. Slowing, she turned into an adjacent driveway and reversed directions. The next block over, she pulled to the side. Now what? If Phil Munro was truly missing as Iris claimed, the last thing she needed was the involvement of bumbling backwater cops.

  Jessica swore softly. Leaning back against the headrest, she considered going home to Utopia. She would have except for three things: The little black book, the damned file, and a scared little girl who needed her. No one had needed Jessica in a long time. No one had believed in Jessica for a long time. She couldn’t walk away.

  Resigned, Jessica picked up the mobile phone she’d gotten when she rented the sedan. The piece of paper with Iris’s phone number and address was on the passenger seat, sandwiched between her purse and the map. She checked the number and dialed.

  Before the phone could ring a second time, it was snatched up. “The Munro residence!”

  “Iris?”

  “Aunt Jessica! A policeman just got here. He wants to talk to Daddy. Are you lost again?”

  Aunt Jessica? Are you lost again? Iris had struck her as many things during the phone call last night, but stupid was not one of them.

  “Yes, honey. I’m on—” Jessica grabbed for the map, which was neatly folded to this section of the island, and said the first street name she could make out. “I’m on Chandler. How far away is that?”

  “Five minutes.” Iris gave her directions, which Jessica pretended to be writing down, and the code to the gate. Then the girl whispered a quick good-bye and broke the connection.

  Jessica pulled the phone away from her ear and whispered, “Congratulations, Jessie … you’re an aunt.”

  It was supposed to be a joke, but it didn’t come out that way. Her voice caught in the middle. Those were words she had never expected to hear. Or deserved to hear.

  As Iris Munro hung up the phone, Sully decided the setting around her—pastel colors and expensive bleached wood—was the perfect complement for a drop-dead blonde. Little Iris was definitely going to be one of those. Right now she was Goldilocks with Elizabeth Taylor eyes that were much too serious. She wore short faded overalls and a green T-shirt. Only one of the straps was fastened. He wasn’t sure if it was a statement or an omission.

  “Well, that was my aunt,” Iris explained unnecessarily as she fell gracefully back into the profusion of cushions on the white sofa. Her feet, encased in clunky combat boots, looked too big for the rest of her. “I told you she was coming. She’ll be here soon. You can wait if you want.”

  “Thanks.”

  Iris brightened suddenly. “Unless you want to leave your card? I can have her call you tomorrow.”

  “That’s okay. I think I’ll wait.”


  Iris shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Sully fought laughter. The kid already had the I’m-a-teenager-I-could-care-less look nailed.

  Taking a seat in one of the pale-blue-and-white-striped chairs across from the couch, Sully loosened his tie. Thank God the aunt was on her way. His questions would only have alarmed Phil Munro’s daughter. She might talk tough, but she was still a little girl. The aunt would be better. It had been one helluva day, and he was ready for it to be over.

  More than ready.

  If Munro had returned any of his calls, Sully would have closed the case, cursed his new chief for sending him on a wild-goose chase, and happily gone home to his wood shop. Turning a few more spindles for his chair backs was preferable to sitting here with the sick feeling he’d stumbled into bad news. Yessiree, buddy. One brief phone conversation with Munro, and he could have been knee-deep in sawdust right now instead of knee-deep in suspicion.

  Sully tugged his fingers through his hair, smiled at the kid and hoped his instincts were wrong for once. The odds were against it. Munro couldn’t be reached, and no one knew where he was—not his secretary, his vice president, his pilot, or his daughter. Wherever the man was, he wasn’t on a scheduled business trip or a family vacation. The man’s associates agreed it wasn’t unusual for Munro to disappear for a few days, but Sully didn’t like coincidences. Not even ones as farfetched as a psychic warning about an incommunicado executive.

  Iris heard the gate buzzer before he did and bounced off the couch. “She’s here!”

  Although Sully had a good view of the foyer, he stood up and moved closer. The butler, who had been hovering in the hallway, halted Iris with a hand on her arm and went to let in the aunt. He checked the peephole first and then cracked the door. Sully figured he was more bodyguard than butler.

  “Aunt Jessica!” Iris went flying toward her, barreling into her and sending the woman back a step. “I’m so glad you’re going to stay while Daddy’s gone!”

  Sully didn’t move. Other than to close his mouth.

  He had imagined a blonde. He had expected pretty. Rich women could usually manage pretty, and he could usually manage them. He’d had plenty of practice; Houston had more than its share of rich, attractive women who liked to flirt with danger.

  So much for expectations.

  Aunt Jessica was a sensual brunette whose genetic makeup could just as easily have been Italian as Spanish. The woman wore simple and very short khaki shorts, a red silk T-shirt, and running shoes. Her legs were a shade longer than the Texas legal limit and had probably caused more than one bar brawl—assuming she frequented bars.

  Instinct told Sully she’d seen the inside of one or two. She didn’t have the look of an ivory tower princess. This was a woman who could call a spade a spade and bring a man to his knees. In fact, most men would be perfectly happy to hit their knees in front of that body. Sully wondered how many already had.

  Nothing about her dovetailed with his expectations of Phil Munro’s sister. And then there was the startling white streak in her long dark hair, and the way she reacted to her niece. She patted the girl awkwardly on the shoulders as if unsure of how to hug the kid. Finally she set Iris away and turned to the butler.

  “Would you get my bags out of the car?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Sully’s eyebrow rose at the sarcasm in the man’s tone. He wasn’t certain if the distaste was for the woman or for the task Iris volunteered to help with the bags, and suddenly they were left alone. When Aunt Jessica looked at him for the first time, Sully added dangerous to the list of things he hadn’t expected.

  Trouble had arrived in Jericho.

  Read on for an excerpt from Linda Cajio’s Rescuing Diana

  One

  “What’s your latest game?”

  “Will you go to the highest bidder?”

  Backed up against the buffet table, Diana Windsor forced herself to tune out the almost rude questions the reporters surrounding her were asking. At the moment she owed herself a small celebration. Smiling privately, she toasted the end of her long search with a sip of champagne. The expensive wine had an odd sharpness she knew she’d never acquire a taste for, and the bubbles tickled her nose, making her want to sneeze. It was worth drinking the stuff, though, Diana thought as she absently adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses on her nose. She’d just found the perfect face. Now all she had to do was persuade its owner to loan it to her.

  “Is your appearance here an indication that Princess Di is on the market for the software companies?” a persistent reporter asked.

  Diana wrinkled her nose at the nickname. A few years ago someone in the press had christened her with it, as she not only had the same first name as the Princess of Wales, but also the royal British family was the House of Windsor. She was well aware that the nickname was a nasty inside joke too. The last person she resembled was the elegantly cool blonde princess. Glancing down at her navy skirt and white blouse, she decided she probably looked just like the out-of-touch hermit everyone in the computer industry thought she was. Should she have bought a new blouse or something for this reception? she wondered as she gazed around the luxurious, three-storied, glass-enclosed room. Everyone was more dressed up than she. It had been a long time since she’d attended a social event in the computer industry. Years ago the correct dress had been T-shirts and jeans, and this morning she had feared she would be overdressed in a skirt and blouse.…

  The Face! Diana realized she was forgetting about the man whose face she needed. Rising on tiptoe, she tried to catch a second glimpse of the man, but it was impossible to see over the heads of the reporters, who kept her crowded against the buffet table.

  “Darn it!” she muttered under her breath, wishing the pesky journalists would go bother someone else. She just had to have that face to study so she could get it exactly right. The Face was her Sir Morbid.

  It really was odd, she thought, that the Face didn’t resemble the type she’d originally been searching for. But the moment she had seen it, something inside her had known this was it. From her first glimpse of the man standing in a quiet spot by a window, she’d been inexplicably drawn to his craggy, virile features and his crooked smile.

  She wondered what kind of man was behind that smile.…

  “Excuse me,” she murmured, setting her glass down on the buffet table. She began to gently squeeze her way between a man and a woman who were firing questions at her.

  They jostled her back.

  As she was pushed into the table, Diana realized two things at the same moment. One was that the reporters wouldn’t allow her to escape without answering their questions. And two was that she was practically sitting on a large platter of shrimp pâté. She knew it had to be the shrimp, since she’d been standing next to the gooey stuff when the reporters had surrounded her. Now she could feel the wet mass beginning to seep through her skirt.

  She tried to shove herself away from the table, but the reporters, almost shouting their questions now, had drawn even closer. One more time she attempted to move, but failed again:

  Firmly settling onto the shrimp dish, Diana sighed. Something told her she was better off sitting unobtrusively in the hors d’oeuvres and answering a few questions. She certainly wasn’t getting any closer to the Face and its owner by fighting the reporters.

  “I’m here,” she finally said to them, “because this is a reception to introduce the Omega computer to the public. Its chief designer, Bill Osmond, is an old friend of mine, and the computer’s extraordinary breakthrough graphics and multitasking capabilities are a giant step forward in the industry—”

  “Are you designing software for the Omega?” one reporter interrupted, and shoved a microphone in her face.

  She blinked at the microphone, then began a cautious reply. “Probably—”

  The reaction was instant and complete. Shouting to one another, the reporters turned with cattlelike grace and stampeded across the enormous reception room toward a small group o
f men, one of whom was Bill Osmond.

  Diana blinked again, having no idea what she had said to make them so excited. She couldn’t remember having said anything, and certainly nothing important. She’d only intended to say that the software companies who bought her programs would probably port them over to the Omega. Oh, well, at least she wouldn’t be bothered by them anymore. Maybe shrimp pâté was an as yet undocumented lucky charm. And now that the reporters had left she could concentrate on the Face and the completion of her latest adventure game.

  She grinned, pleased she’d finally be finishing months of concentrated and painstaking work. With each game she had created, she had challenged herself and, she hoped, the future players, by using new and different devices. But this time she’d done something no one had ever done before. She’d added voices that replied to the players’ questions, and even gave hints when necessary. But she’d never been able to “draw” human features very well on the computer, so she’d hit upon the idea of using real faces for the program graphics. The face for Sir Morbid, her hero, had eluded her, though … until now.

  Suddenly she remembered she still hadn’t made contact with the man whose face she wanted to use. Groaning at her worse-than-usual absent-mindedness, she began to look around the crowds of people, trying to spot him again.

  “Excuse me.” said a deep, gravelly voice.

  Startled, Diana glanced up, then gaped in astonishment as she stared into the Face’s deep brown eyes.

  The man stared back at her, his straight, nearly black brows drawn together in a frown. As she’d first noticed, he was not truly handsome, but was extremely virile. His face was lean, rugged. Up close, she could see he was in his thirties. There was a cleft in his chin and his nose had a little bump that marred its straightness, indicating it had once been broken. The smile lines at the comers of his eyes and bracketing his mouth stood out sharply against his tan. His brown hair, brushed back from his forehead, had red and gold highlights.

  As Diana gazed at the Face, a potent sensation sizzled along her nerve endings, accompanied by an awareness she’d never before felt. She found her attention focusing on the man’s faintly musky scent, his tall, hard body under the three-piece beige suit, his fingers gently clasping the wineglass.…