by Patrice Lyle
Gasps rang out like kernels of corn popping, followed by murmurs and whispers. A twinge of unease raced down my spine. Babette's news had upped the seriousness factor of my case.
"There's been a shocking break in the case because a new witness has come forward." Babette smoothed an errant feather on her headpiece and sashayed toward the center of the circle. "The delivery boy who works for China King has provided the police with compelling evidence about the food pick-up today by that geriatric aromatherapist."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A Sham in Sequined Clothing
Oh, for the love of Mississippi Mud Pie. How dare she implicate Aunt Alfa. An eerie hush fell over the room, but I wanted to be anything but quiet.
"The witness has to be lying," I whispered to Tattoo Tex. "Aunt Alfa didn't touch Mystic Ming's lunch except for delivering it to him." Or make that tossing it to him. But whatever.
He tugged me closer, his cheek brushing mine. His lust-inducing cologne made my pulse race. "Don't worry, doc. We'll figure this out."
I smiled inwardly. Another we. My Jock-Cowboy glow was short-lived, however, when Babette's remark replayed in my head. If the China King delivery kid had said something to implicate Aunt Alfa in the killer kung pao, Detective Fifi would be all over it like soy sauce on brown rice.
The solution was obvious, and I wasted no time in sharing it with Tattoo Tex.
"Looks like we need to interrogate this guy tomorrow." Not that I was an expert at interrogation, but I was an expert at winging it. "After my morning beach walk."
"Am I invited on this beach walk?" He shot me an adorable half-smile. "I've never worked out with a doctor before."
And I've never worked out with a guy as hot as you before. Sorry, Floyd.
I stared at the rich brown hair poking out of his cowboy hat and at the masculine angle of his tan jaw line, stunned at fate. Who would have thought I'd find the man of my dreams—not trying to get ahead of myself, but Tattoo Tex was a spectacularly awesome catch—at a psychic fair while in the midst of a murder investigation?
"Of course you're invited. In my opinion, walking daily is a must for living a healthy lifestyle." I was going to add more about the importance of walking, but Babette cleared her throat so loudly I wondered if the Heimlich was in order.
The feathered psychic glared at me, the coldness in her eyes unmistakable. "Will the folks in the back of the room please be quiet? This is a sacred space, and I need to concentrate so I can successfully contact the spirit world."
A few people swiveled their heads toward us, disgust at our lack of regard for proper psychic etiquette etched onto their faces. Ooops. So much for blending in and conducting surveillance. My gaze landed on the psychic surgeon, who crossed his arms and shot me a look that practically screamed, na na na na na.
Oh, please. Like I care that I've been scolded by a feather-brained psychic.
"Mystic Ming's story needs to be told." Babette turned her head side-to-side, reminding me of an aerobics instructor during a post-workout cool down. "I want justice for his murder. The police are following up on this new lead, which sounds promising."
People murmured in agreement, but she didn't shush them. She picked up a silver orb suspended on a thick gold chain and swung it inside the sacred circle. White smoke billowed from the tiny holes in the orb, and soon the scent of sage incense filled the room.
"We can't do anything about the investigation because that's a matter for this sphere." Babette's voice had lost its circus mannerism. "But what we can do is contact the spirit world and ask Mystic Ming about the identity of his killer."
Her last word lingered, gaining a sinister hold on the crowd. People fidgeted, and the buzz of frenzied energy in the room spiked. My chest tightened, and I grasped my KLCS pendant, certain this séance was going to be a diet buster. Luckily I had the perfect remedy.
Turn a calorie consumed into a calorie burned.
The overhead lights flicked off, and the candles' dancing flames formed creepy shadows against the walls. Norman strolled to the edge of the sacred circle and handed Babette the heap of fabric. She gave him the incense orb and carefully draped the purple fabric over the table. Her super long eyelashes (were those fake?) flapped shut while she chanted gibberish. Then she sat on a folding chair that didn't look equipped to hold her.
I flinched, but the chair didn't collapse.
"Will the people inside the sacred circle join hands around me to form a protective shield?" Once they were assembled, Babette turned her hands palms up and shut her eyes again. She lowered her head and said, "Mystic Ming. Are you out there? We seek your wise guidance in solving your murder."
Silence hung in the room like a cloud about to pelt us with a tropical storm. Tattoo Tex leaned against the wall and pulled me close. I rested against him, hoping the rhythm of his heart would calm me.
But it didn't.
Apprehension oozed through me. I opened my purse, grabbed a dark chocolate almond cluster, and popped it into my mouth. Mmm. Heavenly.
I offered one to Tattoo Tex, and he accepted.
"Thanks, doc," he whispered.
Finally, a man who loves chocolate.
"Mystic Ming, are you there?" Babette's voice boomed like an auctioneer. "I'm sending out a call to the spirit world. Mystic Ming, please answer us."
Seconds passed, and nothing happened. The room was so quiet you could have heard a sequin drop. But just when I thought the show was doomed, Babette's head popped upright so fast that her feathered headpiece wobbled. Her eyes widened and rolled upward, making her look as if she had boiled eggs for eyes.
"This is getting weird." Tattoo Tex clutched my arm. "I'm pretty sure nothing like this happens in Texas."
I giggled, thankful for the comic relief.
"Think some more chocolate would help a cowboy cope with a séance?"
Aw. "Of course." I retrieved three clusters and handed him two. I opened one and popped it into my mouth.
He looked freaked as he tore open a wrapper. "Thanks."
I smiled and resisted the urge to cup his face in my hands and tell him everything will be all right because I didn't want to renege on a promise. Who knew what Babette would do next?
"Maybe this is as weird as things will get." He didn't sound convinced.
Whispers danced through the quiet space while Babette shifted side to side, her boiled egg eyeballs still. Suddenly, the silence was broken.
"Aaaaaaahhhhh! Aaaaawwwwwaaahhhhhhhhh!" Babette's body jerked around, as if she were in the throes of a voodoo trance. Her moans emanated deep inside and echoed throughout the room, making the fine hairs on my arms leap to attention.
"Tighten the protective shield." Norman hurried as fast as his pizza-loving body would allow him toward the sacred circle. "Get closer, everyone."
Charles scooted toward Babette as commanded, tugging his circle mates along. Panic marred his face, and he glanced at Norman. "Is she okay? We can't lose her."
What? Hadn't he just said he didn't know Babette?
Norman looked panicked. "She gets like this when contact's being made and the spirits are gaining ground."
"I thought Luther talked to the spirits for her?" Charles asked.
"Not always. Sometimes they take over her body."
"Why can't Luther stop this abduction?" Charles tightened his mouth while he watched Babette's continued seizure. I wanted to look away, but she was the MINI Cooper wreck of the millennium. Her wobbling skull reminded me of a Halloween bobblehead.
Not an appealing sight. I glanced at Tattoo Tex. His eyes were wide, and his lips were pinched. Poor guy.
"I think Luther's spirit energy is worn out." Norman's jaw quivered when he looked at Babette. "He was pretty old when he was killed."
Killed? That caught my sparkle-shadowed eye. I recalled Babette mentioning her deceased husband, Luther, when we first met. But she never mentioned him being murdered. Hmm. I'd be sure to search the Internet later. One never knew where a juicy tidbit
might lead.
"Everyone be berry quiet. Mystic Ming in da house," Babette's mouth said. But it wasn't Babette's sassy southern voice. Her phony accent was worse than Mystic Ming's. She sounded like an actor in a cheesy horror flick. "And I no deserve to die. I repeat—I no deserve to die."
"Mystic Ming, is that you?" A reporter with a pen and notepad yelled out. "Can you tell us who wanted to kill you?"
Babette turned her head slowly to address the reporter. "Mystic Ming get in fight with old lady who make business with essential oil. She the one who put peanut oil in Mystic Ming's kung pao. Crazy old health nut kill me."
Wait a minute. Mystic Ming had just told me he wasn't allowed to interfere in this sphere. Babette was a hoax.
My cell buzzed and sure enough, Mystic Ming confirmed my thoughts.
I not say that. That not me. Fat whale with porker husband a fraud.
I struggled with what to do. Should I broadcast Mystic Ming's message and in the process proclaim Aunt Alfa's innocence? I turned to Tattoo Tex. The poor guy's face was paler than vanilla coconut ice cream.
"Maybe it's my conservative upbringing," he said. "But I don't like this."
"Me neither." I showed him Ming's message. "She's a fake."
"My grandma was right. All this psychic stuff's bogus."
"Sounds like your grandma and Aunt Alfa would get along."
That got a small smile out of him. He released a long breath and said, "What should we do? Out her?"
I mulled it over. "I'm not sure saying Mystic Ming is texting me from beyond the grave is a good idea. Might make me sound like a loon, and I'm supposed to be a naturopathic doctor." The last thing I wanted to do was cast doubt on the field of natural health.
"Maybe we should just leave?" he asked.
I looked at Babette, who was performing another round of vertical convulsions.
"Mystic Ming no deserve to die," she shrieked in her fake Asian voice. "Old lady had no right to kill me."
Cameras snapped, pens clicked open, and cell phone videos were taken. Barbs of anger ran through me. She was purposely implicating Aunt Alfa. But why? I watched another one of her fake seizures.
I'd seen enough. I gestured toward the door. "You're right. Let's go."
As we hurried out of the Late Night Babette Show, one thing was as clear as my skin. Babette was a total fake. She'd lied to everyone about her contact with Mystic Ming, which gave rise to another question quite pertinent to my investigation.
What else was she lying about?
* * *
Jock Cowboy looked exhausted after his inaugural bogus séance, but ever the Texas gentleman, he walked me to my room before retiring for the evening.
He stopped outside my door and pulled me in for a lingering kiss. "You mind if we call it a night, doc? I'm wore out worse than a double shift at the peanut plant."
I smiled. "No worries. I'm tired too." All this PI work was exhausting, but I had a few things to do before obtaining my beauty sleep.
He retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and held his finger above the keys. "What's your number?"
I recited it, and he rang me so his number was stored in my phone and vice versa. Something about the gesture felt intimate, as was the look of happiness on his face when he stored me in his contacts.
I could so get used to having him in my life.
"Want to meet here tomorrow morning?" He brushed a lock of my hair behind my shoulder. "For our beach walk?"
I flashed him a grin. "I'd love to. Six AM okay?"
"Sure thang. I'm an early riser, doc." He eyed me and stepped back. "You sure you're going to get a good night's rest?"
"Yep." Just as soon as I texted Aunt Alfa and did a wee bit of research about Babette's former husband, Luther. Her psychic theatrics had me in a twirl.
He focused his gaze on me. "You look like you're contemplatin' something."
Jock Cowboy was more perceptive than I realized. "Did you hear Norman's comment about Luther being killed?"
"When he was talking to that psychic surgeon numbnuts about his convulsing wife?"
An image of Babette's performance popped into my mind, and I laughed. "You summed up the event perfectly."
"Thanks, doc." He gave me a sweet, albeit tired, smile.
"Don't you think it's interesting that Babette's husband was killed?"
"I reckon so."
Amazing how his cowboyisms were suddenly endearing. "I'm going to see if there's anything online about it."
"Good idear." He planted a kiss on my lips that curled my toes, which was hard to do in my narrow sandals. "If you find anything, text me."
"Will do."
"'Night, doc."
"'Night."
"Lock up," he instructed me. "And call me if you need anything."
I smiled. "Thanks." I closed the door and flipped all the locks. Happiness radiated through every cell. Meeting him was the one good thing that had happened at this stupid psychic fair.
Oh, and the break up with Floyd. Two good things and counting.
I checked on my precious Brownie, who was sleeping like an angelic piglet. After I pressed a light kiss on his snout with my fingers, I retrieved my cell phone. I wouldn't come back to the hotel tonight if I were you, I texted to Aunt Alfa. Stay with Mervyn. The last thing I wanted was for my poor aunt to be blindsided by a crowd frenzied by Babette's bogus accusation.
I sat down at the table. Reaching for the New Beginnings vendor list, I realized something about Luther felt off. Maybe I was having my first PI instinct? How exciting would that be? I scanned the document until I stopped at the entry for Babette, Preferred Psychic to the Greater Miami Area.
She hadn't been lying about her self-proclaimed title.
I reviewed her information and discovered her real name was Barbara Gillette Gage. Where had she gotten the name Babette? Her office was in a strip mall, or at least 101A Ocean Breeze Way sounded like a strip mall. And she lived in Dolphin Heights, which the maps program on my phone quickly told me was a Miami suburb.
I opened my laptop and brought up a browser. I typed in Babette's real name, along with Luther's, and hit search. The little pink lipstick icon (compliments of the friendly IT folks at Sparkle O) spun while cyberspace hunted for my request. The search returned several links. I clicked on the first one, which led me to a newspaper article about the death of Luther Gillette of Dolphin Heights.
The article was short, sweet, and to the point. Unfortunately it wasn't a very sweet point. Quite the opposite, actually. My gaze stuck to a sentence near the beginning of the story.
Luther Gillette died of anaphylactic shock due to accidental consumption of a peanut butter cookie.
Holy chocolate schnitzel. Had I just found the murderer?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Trifecta of Murder
I read the shocking line again. No way was this a coincidence. I recalled Babette's earlier phone call in the bathroom with her ma about what had happened ages ago. The incident she'd been referring to had to be Luther's murder-by-peanut-butter-cookie. Suspicion would undoubtedly fall upon Babette if the police knew. No wonder the bogus psychic had reassured her worried ma that no one would find out.
Sorry thar, Babette. But someone's on to you.
My heart seized. Now I was thinking cowboyisms?
Back to PI business. I tapped my pink-painted nails on the table while my mind reeled. Had Babette cast suspicion on Aunt Alfa merely to keep the police off the Luther trail? Or had she killed Mystic Ming?
The PI flashcards beckoned me like glittery eyeliner on a half-off sale. I thumbed through them, arriving at a card entitled Motive, Means, and Opportunity. The trifecta of murder.
Every murderer had a motive. Why would Babette want to kill Mystic Ming? Hmm. He wanted her feathered hat? Doubtful. He didn't seem to be the hat-wearing type. On to the next suspect. I scanned through the vendor list again, stopping at the psychic surgeon. The man's full name was Charles Wu, and his work address was
101C Ocean Breeze Way.
A very familiar address.
In the name of certainty, I tapped the location into my maps program and discovered his office was two doors down from Babette's…in the same Miami strip mall. So much for them not knowing each other. What a couple of liars. I wondered if Charles could have killed Mystic Ming to protect Babette.
Then the never-ending question came to mind. Why?
This PI business was a lot harder than being a naturopathic doctor. At least in my line of work patients were usually honest.
Suspects were lying to save themselves from going to jail.
I decided a distraction was in order. And I knew the perfect one. Washing off my makeup would free my mind to ponder the suspects. My soft cotton nightgown was a welcome change of attire. I hung up my work clothes and strolled into the bathroom to perform my nightly anti-aging ritual. A close look at the light lines around my eyes made me shudder. If I kept up this PI gig too much longer, I was going to need a different skin routine.
In my opinion, stress was the ultimate anti-youth-retention factor.
After brushing my teeth with my favorite ginger mint toothpaste—a holdover from Floyd that would remain—I doused an organic cotton ball with Sparkle O eye makeup remover. A few swipes turned the cotton ball a pretty iridescent mix of black, silver, and lilac. Then I squirted some Sparkle O Anti-Aging Sensitive Skin Cleanser into my hands and swished the liquid onto my face.
Tiny circles first, then bigger sweeping motions. The scent of grapefruit filled my senses, allowing my mind to relax. Swirl, cleanse, repeat.
Who has the most compelling reason to kill Mystic Ming?
Norman had written a check for services he didn't receive. Was a botched pizza pig-out at sea enough to kill someone? I didn't think so, however, I wasn't a pizza fanatic. Maybe being denied unlimited pepperoni and mozzarella was an offense worthy of a felony?