by Patrice Lyle
"Were they competitors?"
"For a gazillion years now." She laughed. "They're practically brothers. Charles's real name is Ching. He grew up in the same neighborhood as Ming in Newark."
I knew that was Jersey in his bogus accent.
"This may be off topic," I said. "But why did Ming fake his accent?"
"Why did Ming do anything?" She gave me a moment. When I didn't answer she said, "For money."
That surprised me. "I never thought of psychics as bottom-line business people."
"Ming was all bottom-line, and so is Ching, which is why they were always neck and neck in everything they did."
"But I never saw them talking. Charles-slash-Ching sat alone in his booth."
"They hated each other." She placed her hand on the edge of the doorway and nodded at the journal with glee glimmering in her eyes. "It's all in there. Trust me."
CHAPTER TWELVE
A Texan Port in the Break-Up Storm
"Hi, Brownie." I shut my hotel room door and flipped all the locks. Couldn't be too careful with a potential killer on the loose and a dead psychic texting me.
Not that a lock would stop Mystic Ming.
Weeee. Brownie looked up from his fuzzy blue bed and flashed me his sweet pig smile that said, Hey Mom. Where ya been?
"How'd you get so cute?" I rubbed his head and pressed a quick kiss onto the bridge of his snout. "That's from Auntie Alfa."
Weeee.
I kissed his snout again. "That's from me. 'Night."
He rested his head on his bed and closed his eyes. Aw. So adorable.
The chair near the table wasn't the most comfortable, but it was practical. I spread out the PI flashcards and sorted through hundreds of tips. One section caught my eye, Collecting and Preserving Evidence.
Coordinate evidence collection procedures, such as appropriate packaging and marking. Document receipt of evidence in the Evidence Control Log. Be sure to indicate the time, location, and identity of the collector.
Well, I'd blown that one. I'd left the burrito bag with a woman who was a proven liar. Sparkle O sister or not, I still wasn't sure about her. But I had gotten a huge piece of important evidence from her.
Mystic Ming's journal.
I flipped through several pages of his post-reading rants. I need better hair color. This pink washing out too fast. Should not have gone to Cheap Cuts.
Duh. No disrespect to the deceased, but rule number one of hair color maintenance was to avoid discount salons. Big mistake. I also found it funny that he wrote in his fake accent. What a character. I shook my head and kept reading.
Today lady ask me if she be pretty after nose job. I tell her, lady, you need whole head job. And I tell college kid his acne get worse, like boulders on his jaw. He never have clear skin.
It was a wonder he wasn't killed sooner.
Then I came to an interesting passage dated yesterday.
Norman give check to Ming today. He want me to tell his fat wife that Spirit Guide say to go on pizza cruise with pig husband. Ming take fat dummy's money, but I no tell Babette tomorrow morning. In fact, I tell her that her concrete-truck weight will sink cruise ship along with all her lies. Ha-ha. Somebody coming so Mystic Ming hide check in hot pink boot.
My pulse hastened. The check. What if Norman had found out that Mystic Ming didn't plan to hold up his end of the bargain? Could be a motive for murder. If I could find the check, that might put Detective Fifi onto Stormy Normy's trail instead of Aunt Alfa's.
A quick scan of the vendor list provided me Mystic Ming's room number. Wonder if I could get inside? I stood up at the same time my cell phone rang.
I glanced at the Caller ID. Floyd.
I'm not sure why, but hope swelled in my heart that he would reassure me everything would be all right. "Hey."
"A new-age patient of mine called in a panic, telling me about some famous psychic's death at your expo," Floyd rattled off in his clinical tone.
So much for asking how I was.
"She's devastated about it," he continued.
Wow. Word traveled fast. I filled him in on the story, including the detective's suspicion about Aunt Alfa. "So I ordered some PI flashcards to figure out who killed him. Poor Aunt Alfa. She didn't do it."
A stretch of silence as awkward as discussing carob versus cocoa ensued.
Finally Floyd said, "I've always told you Aunt Alfa was bad news."
What? His words were like a hammer to my hot pink Sparkle O makeup case. "How can you say that? She's my great auntie." My pitch elevated several decibels.
"Family ties don't require your involvement in a murder case, Piper. Leave that to the professionals. You're a naturopathic doctor about to join a respectable practice."
I sucked in a breath. Not this again. Not now.
Something in me snapped like a strand of rice pasta. The contrast between him and Tattoo Tex—even if Tattoo Tex did have access to the alleged murder weapon—was like a choice between carob brownies and dark chocolate brownies.
A no-brainer.
No stye fear, I told myself. Then I gripped the phone and prepared the words I'd been longing to say. "Floyd, we need some time away."
"I couldn't agree more." Papers rustled in the background. "Why don't I buy you a ticket home tonight? You don't need to sell that silly Health Nuts Rock book anyway. We'll go somewhere nice, just you and me, and outline a serious health book. How does Aruba sound?"
I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my hand to my forehead. "Awful." Didn't he get it?
"Odd thing to say, so what about St. Lucia?"
That was such a Floyd response. On to the next thing without acknowledging what I'd said. A question I'd been avoiding bubbled to the surface.
And I had to ask him.
I braced myself. "Why do you keep hanging on to us?"
"What do you mean?" For once, he sounded hurt instead of snippy.
"I'm not the kind of woman you want." I reminded him of all my sparkly and non-nature-muffin qualities. "And you're always complaining about my chocolate addiction and my highlights."
He sniffed. Was he crying?
"It's hard to give up on four years together," he said. "This is the longest relationship of my life."
Now I felt bad.
"Despite your appearance, I know deep down you're not some high maintenance, chocolate scarfing, glam diva." He paused and more papers rustled over the airwaves. "Your heart's in the right place."
No it wasn't. Not as long as I was with him.
"Floyd—"
"No more of this ridiculous nonsense." Snippy Floyd was back. "I want you to come home and get serious about life."
"I am serious about life. I'm living the life I want."
He let out a gusty, sarcastic sigh. "I've invested four years with you. Do you realize that's the length of naturopathic medical school?"
"Invested? What am I? A note about to mature?" Was that why he wouldn't move on from something obviously not working?
Because of the time he'd invested?
"Piper, please. My eye's starting to throb, and I have a busy week of patients ahead of me at the clinic."
Not the stupid stye thing again. For once, however, I wouldn't be deterred by the threat of a bulbous formation growing on his eyelid.
"This isn't healthy for either of us, Floyd." I took in a long breath and pushed it out, along with my guilt.
"If you'd come home, we'll be fine," he said. "We'll work through this."
"No, we won't."
"Just say yes to marrying me, Piper, and we'll take on the world together." He hesitated for a moment and then whispered, "I've got your ring right here."
Not that blasted pear-shaped ring.
I knew Babette was right. Floyd wasn't the one, and it was time to say the words simmering in my heart.
"Our relationship isn't working." I rubbed my forehead, gathering the courage to finally set myself free. "We've been over for a long time, so let's part ways peacefully
."
Floyd didn't say a word. His silence unnerved me, but it was typical of him to try to make me squirm. So I refused to spew unnecessary words to fill the dead air.
Then wham. He slammed his office phone down. I clutched my cell phone as a wallop of regret hit me like a category-five hurricane. Major storm alert. My eyes stung, and a feeling of sadness overcame me. Had I done the right thing? I set my cell on the table and pleaded with the universe to send me a sign.
Brrnngg. My hotel telephone blasted off a ring so loud that I jumped, my pulse racing. Was Floyd calling back to apologize? If so, what kind of sign was that? I stared at the phone, uncertain if I wanted to answer.
Brrnngg.
Pick up, the universe seemed to command.
I lifted the receiver and slowly brought it to my ear. "Hello?"
"Hey thar."
Now this is the kind of sign I need. My eyes instantly ceased burning. "Hi." I wrapped the cord around my hand and realized Tattoo Tex's timing was perfect, potential suspect or not.
"You hear about Babette's séance tonight?"
"Yes, and I'm planning on attending." I glanced at my clock. After nine already. Then my gaze landed on my PI flashcards. Preserve the evidence, one card had stated. I really needed to preserve that check from Norman.
Should I invite him along on the break-in into Mystic Ming's room? The cards hadn't warned against investigating with a potential suspect.
"What're you doing?" he asked.
"Reviewing my PI flashcards."
"You want company?"
Why not? I was single now, so I couldn't afford to turn down the chance to hang out with a hot guy. Plus he wasn't my main suspect.
"Do you want to join me on a little PI fieldtrip?" Hopefully I sounded cute and not psychotic. Or stupid. Or lame. Panic jolted through me. Maybe staying with Floyd would have been easier.
There was comfort in familiarity, no matter how dysfunctional it was.
A deep masculine chuckle sounded over the phone. "I'll do anythang for the woman who inspired the most incredible tat I've ever designed."
Holy chocolate babka. My fear seeped out, and excitement seeped in. "Wow. I've never inspired artwork before." Unless you counted Floyd's garlic-lemon-artichoke-sardine hummus, which he claimed was a culinary work of art.
I thought it made his breath smell like the fermented cabbage dish, kimchi.
"Ma'am, you've sparked more creativity in me than the juiciest piece of prime rib in the entire state of Texas."
"That's quite a compliment, even for someone who doesn't eat red meat," I said with a smile. "What does the tattoo look like?"
"I'm calling it Cocoa Bliss Bombshell. It's the side profile of a delicate woman, neck up, looking at the heavens. Her head's crowned with green gemstones and she's holding a chocolate bar and that medical stick."
Medical stick? Then it hit me. "You mean the caduceus, the staff carried by Hermes in Greek mythology? The medical symbol?"
"That's the one. With the wings at the top," he said. "Cocoa Bliss Bombshell symbolizes hope, health, and beauty."
The image of his tattoo danced in my mind, and two things occurred to me. Tattoo Tex didn't have the heart of a killer (if killers had hearts). He had the heart of an artist.
"I don't know what to say." I pressed my hand against my chest. My heart was pounding faster than it did during step aerobics. "Your tattoo sounds amazing."
"I might have to put you on the payroll." He cleared his throat. "So what's up with the PI fieldtrip?"
All my worries about him being a potential suspect drained out like an overturned bottle of essential oil. "Want to meet by the elevators on the twelfth floor?"
* * *
Tattoo Tex was the perfect remedy for a woman who'd just dumped her lame boyfriend and was hoping to meet the love of her life ASAP.
He waited across from the elevators, one foot against the wall, his arms pressed against his brick-of-Parmesan-cheese-firm chest. The instant my gaze landed on his six-foot lusciousness, I knew ending it with Floyd was the right thing. In our four years together, seeing Floyd had never stoked the kind of lust I was feeling right now.
I was a lady, however, and would not act out my carnal urge to drag Tattoo Tex into the elevator and put my love attack moves on him.
Wait a second. Did I have any decent moves? Another pang of worry hit me. Post break-up was not an easy place to be.
"Hey thar, Doc Meadows." He eyed me up and down, his gaze a perfect combination of sweet and throw-you-down-on-the-bed sexy.
On second thought, maybe I could be a lady once I turned ninety. Why start now? Then I thought about Aunt Alfa and Mervyn. Or I could just bag the whole lady thing for good.
It was rather old-fashioned.
"Hi." I stared at his face and bit my lip. How was I going to bust into Mystic Ming's room when all I wanted to do was bust into Tattoo Tex's shirt?
"Glad you were free tonight." He offered me his hand, and because I was officially a single girl (I hated how that sounded), I accepted.
Our hands merged, sending a jolt of romantic chemistry down to my toes. How had I lived so long without this kind of male companionship? His touch made my concerns about his run-in with Mystic Ming and his access to peanut oil seem silly. And besides, it wasn't like he traveled with the stuff.
I gestured at the sign pointing the way to rooms 1200-1218. "Mystic Ming's room is number twelve-sixteen."
He gently directed me toward our destination. "Think the room number means anythang?"
The thought hadn't occurred to me. "I don't know."
"I went to the front desk to get a paper and saw some people from the show. One of them was Babette, that large psychic with a booth by yours. She was telling someone about, um, not sure how you say it. Maybe number-ala-ology?"
I smiled. How seriously cute was that? "You mean numerology?"
He nodded, looking a bit sheepish. "Guess I never aced English."
Aw. "Don't feel bad. I never aced psychic stuff."
"We have something in common." He winked, his voice sounding chipper. "Babette said the date of Ming's death could mean something."
"Seems unlikely, but I don't know anything about numerology. She could be trying to throw suspicion off herself." I told him about her phone conversation with her ma in the bathroom earlier today. "Babette said, 'They'll never find out.'"
"What do you think she meant?"
"I have no idea, but we need to get to the bottom of it." Uh-oh. I was amazed how easy the word we slipped from my mouth. Wonder if he noticed?
If he did, he didn't develop that wild-eyed, uncomfortable look most men get at the first mention of anything even remotely related to a relationship.
He squeezed my hand and flashed me a Texas-sized smile. "Babette's secret with her mama could be important to our case."
How cute. He our'ed me. If hearts had legs, mine so would have done cartwheels down the hall. And a couple of back flips too.
He pulled us to a stop outside room twelve-sixteen. "Here we are."
A wave of unease swept through me when I looked at the doorway. I'd never done anything illegal before. Was breaking into a dead psychic's room a good idea? "Think it's okay to go in?"
We stared at each other for a moment. Questions flickered across his face, and I wondered how many were related to the case. Or us.
"It'd be fine if we had a key." He was the voice of reason.
"I know." In the safety of my room, breaking and entering hadn't seemed like such a bad idea. But the reality of crossing into a crime scene made me nervous. What if Detective Fifi found out?
Tattoo Tex wiggled the doorknob, but it was locked. "Would have been cool if it'd been open."
I laughed. "That would've been too easy." My mind reeled with ideas. I needed to find that check. It was possible the police had discovered it already. But would Detective Fifi have thought to peek into Mystic Ming's hot pink boots?
Hot pink and me were like moth and
flames, obviously. But the police? Doubtful.
I had to get into that room. Think, Piper. I could use a paper clip to bust in, but that would be illegal. I could find a housekeeper and tell her I lost my key, but that would be lying.
Then it hit me.
Vesta and Mystic Ming were in a relationship, however rocky it was, and I bet she had a key. I could tell her to give it to me as part of my keeping her pork burrito addiction a secret.
"I know what to do. Wait here and make sure no one gets in, Tattoo Tex. I'll be right back." I didn't want him to see the pushy blackmailing side of me.
"No problem, Doc Meadows." He released my hand and stood guard in front of the door.
I hustled toward the stairs and jogged down two flights. A few seconds later, I entered the tenth floor, and my gaze landed on someone loitering in the hallway. The woman from the parking lot, wearing the yellow dress and Sparkle O sandals. Was she here to see Ching?
"I know you're in there, Babette. Open up." She banged on a guest room door with both of her bony fists. "I want my money." Her freakishly angry tone made my arm hairs arch.
Why's she mad at the bejeweled psychic? And what money?
"Hey," I called out, striding down the hall. "Can I talk to you for a second? I love those sandals you're wearing." That was a ploy, but maybe it would work. I'd fall for it.
The woman whirled around, saw me, and clutched her chest. Her eyes went as wide as dark chocolate almond clusters, and her square-ish jaw tightened. She took a few steps backward and spun around as fast as her Sparkle O sandals would let her.
Then she ran away from me.
WTF? (Piper-speak for what the fennel.)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mini Ming
"Wait," I called out to the fleeing woman, but she wouldn't stop. She yanked open the exit door and disappeared. I rushed after her, but once I entered the stairwell, the only trace of her was the sound of the yellow Sparkle O sandals pounding on concrete.
How bizarre. Why would she bolt when she saw me? Only one person would be able to answer my question.