Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Praise for the Psychic Eye Mysteries Better Read Than Dead
“This tense and suspenseful novel, based on a true story, sets a fast pace that never lags. And, in a perfectly designed conclusion, the pieces fall together in an utterly satisfying way.”
—Romantic Times
“This catchy plot has it all—love, death, laughs, and action. Don’t miss this terrific read.”
—Rendezvous
“Victoria Laurie has done it again! This is a book that mystery fans will want to read over and over again. As with her first book, this one kept me guessing until the very end. Laurie is a very talented writer, with a knack for creating characters so real they practically jump off the page.”
—BookReview.com
Abby Cooper, Psychic Eye
“A great new series . . . plenty of action.”
—Midwest Book Review
“An invigorating entry into the cozy mystery realm. . . . I cannot wait for the next book.”
—Roundtable Reviews
“Well written and unpredictable. Everything about this book is highly original . . . a fun protagonist with just enough bravado to keep her going.”
—Romantic Times
“The characters are all realistically drawn and the situations go from interesting, to amusing, to laugh-out-loud funny. The best thing a person can do to while away the cold winter is to cuddle up in front of a fire with this wonderful book.”
—The Best Reviews
“A fresh, exciting addition to the amateur sleuth genre.”
—J. A. Konrath, Anthony Award-nominated author of Whisky Sour
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
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First Printing, December 2005
Copyright © Victoria Laurie, 2005
All rights reserved
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eISBN : 978-1-101-08812-8
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For Jim McCarthy and Martha Bushko.
Simply by saying yes, you changed my life and
made so many dreams come true.
I am forever grateful.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
More than any other manuscript I’ve written thus far, this one relied upon the help and generosity of so many people. In December of ’04, while walking down three snowy steps, I slipped and broke my hand. At the time, I was one hundred pages into this very manuscript—with two hundred more due in less than thirty days.
I didn’t make that deadline; in fact, had it not been for the understanding, kindness and assistance of so many dear friends and family, I’m not sure I would have finished at all. To that end, I can’t tell you what it means to me that all of you offered so much time, advice, research, love, support and care. I’m so humbled by it all, and I hope that you’re just as proud of this work as I am, because truly this is yours as much as it is mine.
So, I would like to thank the following people who stepped forward and gave of themselves so that this story could reach bookshelves on time:
My sister, Sandy, who cared for me after surgery with patience and love, and became my Google goddess! Thomas Robinson, you amazing man, you! Where would this story even be if not for all your efforts, knowledge and expertise? Dr. Stephen Pap, aka “Dr. Delicious,” who mended my hand and got me through a very painful ten days with heavy doses of laughter and one silky accent. Martha Bushko, who went through a similar experience and understood exactly what I needed. I’m thankful for the fact that you put no pressure on me to finish and the amazing editing job you did means the world to me. Jim McCarthy, how do I even tell you how grateful I am for all your encouragement, support and enthusiasm? You’re so one of my favorite people on earth! This one’s for you, my friend.
Rebecca Rosen, merci for helping me to understand that connection between you and The Other Side, and making the character of Theresa come alive. Silas Hudson—I adore you, sugar. Thank you for checking in on me to see how I’m doing. You always boost my day. Dell Chase and Karen Orkney, my friends and cheering squad—I’m so grateful to you for your kindness, wisdom and laughter! Jon and Naoko Upham, my brother and sister-in-law, merci for your love and support. Lisa Madgwick . . . Liza, this is your story, sweetie—rest in peace my friend, I miss you so! And, of course, all of you out there who wrote letters and e-mailed me to tell me that you were enjoying the series. Your continued support and encouragement blow me away. I humbly thank you all.
Chapter One
I consider myself a professional; a psychic intuitive who is proud of how she makes a living; confident that the skills and abilities I innately possess give me a unique advantage to deal with just about any quirky, strange, bizarre or unusual situation that may crop up in my line of work.
Having said all that, however, I
’ll have to admit that I’m the first to say, “Eeeek!” and run screaming like a little girl when it comes to even the thought of a ghostly encounter. Hypocritical as that may sound, I’m a big fat yellowbelly when it comes to things that go bump in the night.
I’m so afraid of ghosts and the places they inhabit, in fact, that I can’t even watch a movie about them, let alone hang out in a home they might occupy. That I would come to own a house haunted by a ghost trapped and reliving the night she was murdered over and over never even occurred to me on the day after Christmas as Cat—my sister—and I sat lazily in her living room sipping snifters of Grand Marnier and chewing the postholiday fat.
“I’m telling you, Abby, it’s a great idea. I’ve always wanted to get into real estate, but—let’s face it—the housing market here in Massachusetts is ridiculously overpriced. I understand that the market in Michigan is so much more affordable. I mean, look at your neighborhood. People are heading there in droves. This is a good idea, I just know it.”
I sighed as I swirled the peachy amber liquid in the bottom of my snifter. I had no one to blame but myself for the current track of the conversation. After all, I’d brought the topic up myself when I’d casually mentioned that right before Christmas my handyman, Dave, had told me about an old house in my neighborhood that had been on the market for years, and was selling for a song. “What’s wrong with it?” I’d asked him skeptically.
“Nothing a little TLC from yours truly couldn’t fix,” he’d answered, pumping his eyebrows up and down like he was all that and a bag of chips.
“So buy it,” I’d said easily.
“I’d love to, but my credit wouldn’t support the purchase.”
“Oh? What’s wrong with your credit?”
“I don’t have any.”
“Ah,” I said flatly, already knowing where this was heading.
“See, that’s why I’m talking to you about it. You’re the one with the banking background. What would you say about going into business together? You and I could buy homes that need some work, then we could fix them up and sell them at a profit. You make the purchase and the payments, while I buy all the raw materials and supply the labor. After we’re finished, we sell the house and split the profits, fifty-fifty.”
Dave, of course, was hitting me at a vulnerable time. I’d just closed on a new house, having financed the down payment with part of the check I’d received from the insurance agency for the settlement on my old home—which had recently burnt to the ground. There was still a substantial amount of money left and I’d been feeling pretty good about a bank account that now had a few more zeros in front of the decimal.
So I had the money to invest, but I wasn’t so sure about the soundness of the idea. Besides, investment properties typically required a twenty percent down payment, which would effectively reduce the bank balance by a whole zero.
I took another sip from my snifter as Cat continued. “Really, Abby, I’ve seen the kind of work Dave does, and I trust him to do a terrific job. If I supply the down payment, you manage the mortgage payments, and Dave handles the construction—where’s the risk?” she asked confidently.
I sighed and swirled the amber liquid around a few times mulling over the opportunity. After a moment I asked, “So how would this partnership work—specifically?”
“It’s simple,” she began, “The three of us should start a real estate investment firm. My lawyers can draw up the paperwork so that we are all equally represented, and as a group we can invest in properties that have potential. I can help identify the hottest neighborhoods and put up the down payment, you can arrange and manage the financing and Dave can work his construction magic.”
I squirmed in my chair; it sounded like a lot of work.
Sensing my hesitancy, my sister offered, “Why don’t we just try it on this first house, and see how it goes. We can always call it quits if it doesn’t work out on this deal.”
“Well . . .” I hemmed, “I’m just not sure, Cat. It’s a big commitment.”
“Oh, get over it,” Cat said looking sternly at me. “This isn’t charity, this is an investment. This could be very lucrative for all three of us.”
Cat obviously thought I was hesitating because I was reluctant to take her money—which she had gobs and gobs of. But taking her money hadn’t bothered me nearly as much as the thought of being her business partner.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my sister dearly. But I also know her and know how she operates. Cat is a financial genius and single-handedly runs a multimillion-dollar corporation she built on little more than chutzpah, but she is also a tyrant when it comes to being the boss. It isn’t just that my sister knows best . . . it’s that Cat knows she knows best. By going into business with her I’d be saying yes to Patton.
“I don’t know . . .” I hemmed again.
“Okay,” she persisted, going for a different angle, “what does your intuition say?”
“I haven’t checked with it yet,” I answered sheepishly.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, it just didn’t occur to me,” I said, trying to dodge the bullet. The truth was that I hadn’t checked with my intuition on the subject because I was afraid of the answer—namely, that I should go for it.
For once I wanted the decision to be a logical, rational choice and not one that I’d arrived at after pestering my spirit guides about it. They wouldn’t steer me wrong of course, but sometimes it’s just nice to be able to make a decision that is, for better or for worse, solely my own.
“So, why don’t you ask now?” Cat persisted.
I scowled at her, “Not right now, honey, I’m tired—”
“Oh pish-posh!” she snapped. “God, Abby, sometimes you are so indecisive. Trust me, this is a good business opportunity, and if you don’t take Dave and I up on this, then he and I will just do it together . . . without you.”
My eyes grew large. “So, if I don’t agree, then you’ll just go around me to Dave?”
“In a heartbeat,” she said firmly. “If for nothing else than to say ‘I told you so’ six months from now.”
I scowled at her reply. I had little doubt that Cat would move forward with this idea if I didn’t hop on board. She was like that; the moment her mind was made up it was made up, and I didn’t think I could let Dave try to “manage” Cat on his own. He’d definitely need a buffer. “Fine,” I said with an exasperated sigh.
“Really?” she asked, leaning forward in the overstuffed chair she was sitting in. “Oh, Abby, that’s great! See? Isn’t this exciting?” She beamed.
“Thrilling,” I said, my voice a monotone. “I’ll call Dave tomorrow and get the ball rolling. We’ll probably want to finance through my bank since I still have connections in the mortgage department and can probably get us a good deal on the closing costs.” I was referring to the bank I used to work for before becoming a professional psychic.
Cat continued to smile hugely at me as she lifted her glass in a toasting gesture. “Good for you! See? That wasn’t so hard, now was it?”
Later that night, as I was packing for my return home the next morning, the phone rang and in a few moments, Donna, Cat’s housekeeper, came to my bedroom door. “The telephone is for you,” she said stiffly.
“Did you bring the cordless up with you?” I asked, looking at her empty hands. Everyone knew that the phone in Cat’s room had terrible reception.
“No,” she answered, with a small smile that reminded me of a crocodile.
I didn’t like Donna, and it bothered me that Cat wouldn’t listen to my suggestion that she replace the woman. “After you then,” I said tersely as I followed her out the door and down the stairs. As I walked behind her, I was troubled by the icky feeling I got every time the woman was within ten feet of me. I couldn’t really put my finger on it, but this woman was up to something, and I didn’t trust her as far as I could throw her, which, given her portly size, was one dislocated disc away from a millimeter.
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At the bottom of the stairs I made a quick dash around her—the only person calling me at night here was my boyfriend, Dutch, and even though I’d see him in the morning when he picked me up from the airport I still looked forward to talking with my favorite baritone. Reaching the phone I snatched it up and said in the silkiest voice I could muster, “Hello, sexy, guess who’s not wearing any underwear?”
“Excuse me?!” came a shocked and indignant female voice on the other end.
“Uh . . . uh . . . uh . . .” I sputtered, immediately recognizing that the voice belonged to my very own Mommy Dearest.
“Abigail, is that you?” my mother demanded.
“Uh . . . ha, ha . . . hello, Claire, merry Christmas!” I stammered as my face grew hot and my palms began to sweat.
“Yes . . . to you as well, dear,” she replied, her tone clipped and cold just like always. “Is your sister there? I’d like to speak with her if I could.”
“Of course, I’ll get her for you, and tell Sam I said merry Christmas too,” I offered, still trying to collect myself.
When my mother didn’t reply I set the phone down gently on the counter and looked around the kitchen. Donna was in the corner by the cupboard with a satisfied smirk on her face. I knew immediately that she had gotten revenge on me for an incident that happened Christmas Eve, when I’d been telling Cat she needed to keep a close eye on her housekeeper and Donna had walked into the room. From the look of death I’d gotten Christmas morning, it had been quite obvious she’d overheard the entire conversation.
And, it was no secret that my parents considered me the black sheep of the family, and that I’d only agreed to spend Christmas with my sister this year because my parents, who lived in South Carolina and had originally promised to visit over the holidays, had opted instead to visit my aunt in California.