Praise for the Abby Cooper, Psychic Eye Mysteries
“Victoria Laurie has crafted a fantastic tale in this latest Psychic Eye Mystery. There are few things in life that upset Abby Cooper, but ghosts and her parents feature high on her list…giving the reader a few real frights and a lot of laughs.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Fabulous…. Fans will highly praise this fine ghostly murder mystery.”
—The Best Reviews
“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
“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.”
—All About Romance
“A fun, light read, and a promising beginning to an original series.”
—The Romance Reader’s Connection
“A fresh, exciting addition to the amateur sleuth genre.”
—J. A. Konrath, author of Dirty Martini
“Worth reading over and over again.”
—Bookviews
The Ghost Hunter Mystery Series
What’s a Ghoul to Do?
The Psychic Eye Mystery Series
Abby Cooper, Psychic Eye
Better Read than Dead
A Vision of Murder
Killer Insight
Crime Seen
DEMONS ARE A GHOUL’S BEST FRIEND
A GHOST HUNTER MYSTERY
Victoria Laurie
AN OBSIDIAN MYSTERY
OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi-110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
ISBN: 978-1-1012-1171-7
Copyright © Victoria Laurie, 2008
All rights reserved
OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
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For Jim McCarthy,
my agent, muse, and friend
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Acknowledgments
I’m often asked where I get my ideas for story lines. Here is the tale of where this idea came from.
Picture it: Arlington, Massachusetts, late April of ’06. It’s a beautiful spring day, and I’m walking to the post office when a thought occurs to me. I reach for my cell phone and call my agent, Jim McCarthy. “Hey,” I say when he answers the phone.
“What’s up?”
“Just wanted to double-check when the outline for the M.J. sequel is due.”
There is some tapping of keys in the background; then Jim says, “That would be tomorrow.”
“Ah,” I say. “Okay. Cool.”
There is a pause, then: “Tell me you’re almost done with it.”
“I’m almost done with it.”
“Really?”
“No. Haven’t even started it.”
There is a heavy sigh, followed by some thumping noises—I assume it’s Jim knocking his head against his desk. “Okay,” he says after a bit. “Tell me what it’s about and I’ll call your editor and tell her it’s going to be late.”
I stop at the curb and tap my finger against my chin. “Well,” I say, trying to think fast. “There’s this ghost….”
“Uh-huh?” Jim says, scribbling notes in the background.
“And M.J. hunts it down and busts it….”
Pause.
Pause.
Pause.
“You’re kidding me,” he says.
“It’s a work in progress,” I say brightly.
“Tell me you at least have some idea what this one’s about!” he says, his voice panicky.
“I have some idea what this is about.”
“Really?”
“No, Jim. No idea at all.”
There is more sighing and more thumping. I imagine Jim is gonna have one hell of a headache later. Finally he says,
“Okay, okay, okay. We can fix this. I’ve got this book at home. It’s full of weird ghost stories about New York. I’ll go home and read it, and maybe there will be an idea in there that you can use.”
“Cool!”
“Promise me you’ll go home and think of something on your end,” he demands.
“I promise I’ll go home and think of something on my end.”
There is another pause. I think Jim wants to say, “Really?” again, but by this time he’s caught on and doesn’t ask. “Call you tomorrow,” he says, and clicks off.
Fast-forward a few hours. I am “thinking” really hard in my comfy chair with a bowl of popcorn and the telly tuned to my favorite show. The phone rings. It’s Jim. “What’s up?” I ask, noting that the time is after eight.
“I’m reading this book,” he says nervously.
“Uh-huh,” I say, muting the TV.
“It’s dark out.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m all alone.”
“Okay?”
“And I’m creeped out,” he admits. I should have mentioned this earlier—Jim is a big wuss when it comes to things that go bump in the night.
“How can I help?”
“Listen to some of these stories so I don’t have to keep reading this
book!”
And so I did. I listened, and none of them impressed me very much until Jim mentioned a ghost that was rumored to haunt some remote wooded area in upstate New York. This ghost was said to wield an ax, and he liked to chase people through the woods with it.
From that story, this one was born. So if you read this novel and are happy with it, send a kind thought to Jim, who took one for the team and for me—otherwise, you might have ended up with some dull story about a girl ghost eating popcorn and watching the telly.
Special thanks, adoration, and love go to the following people:
My fabulous editor, Kristen Weber, who is beginning to understand why they call me “Last-minute Laurie.” My amazing agent and friend, Jim McCarthy, who gave me the gift of this story and all of Gilley Gillespie’s best lines. My wonderful friends Karen Ditmars and Leanne Tierney, who gave me Teeko and her sister-in-law. My sistah, Sandy Upham, who gives me love, support, and encouragement and who is “livin’ the dream!” with me every day. My fabulous brother and sister-in-law, Jon and Naoko Upham. My amazing aunties, Mary Jane Humphreys and Betty Laurie. My fantastic friends who read my stuff and are quick to pat me on the back: Tess Rodriguez, Nora Brosseau, Dell Chase, Suzanne Parsons, Maureen Feebo, Debbie Huntley, Janice Murray (we’re all pulling for you, J-Lo!), Molly Boyle (and her mum!), Jaa Nawtaisong, Silas and Nicole Hudson, Betty Stocking, and Pippa Terry. I couldn’t do it without you guys, and I’m so grateful for each and every one of you.
Chapter 1
“He’s late,” snapped Gilley, my business partner and best friend, as he stared gloomily out the window. “I tip him generously every day, and this is the thanks I get?”
I looked away from the magazine article I was reading at my desk and glanced at my watch. It was two minutes past ten. “Wow,” I said sarcastically. “He’s two whole minutes late! My God, man! How do you hang on?”
Gil turned away from the window, his irritation with the deliveryman now focused on me. “M.J.,” he growled. “I make one small request from this guy, and that is to deliver me a Diet Coke and a bagel with cream cheese every morning by ten a.m. Not around ten. Not after ten. Not somewhere in the vicinity of ten. By ten, as in no later than…”
I rolled my eyes and went back to reading the article. There was no use in trying to carry on a civil conversation with Gil until he’d had a few sips of his Diet Coke. And there was also no use in offering some suggestions concerning the withdrawal he went through every time the delivery guy was late, like having a stockpile of Diet Coke in the closet or picking one up on his way to work in the morning. Nope, Gil liked his morning routine just the way it was, and that included the hissy fit he’d throw when his breakfast wasn’t on time. It was my strong belief that Gilley hung on to this routine due to the fact that the delivery guy was a hottie. Didn’t matter that he clearly wasn’t gay; Gil liked to flirt with him anyway.
With another growl, Gil began to pace back and forth across my office, which was annoying, but there was no way I was going to say anything.
“Doc’s a pretty boy!” squawked my African Gray parrot.
“Doc’s cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs!” I smiled as I read the article. Doc sure knew how to break the tension. “Dr. Delicious! Dr. Delicious!” he squawked excitedly.
I glanced up and looked at Doc. “He’s here?” I asked, and in answer the front door to our suite opened and we heard a “Good morning!” from the lobby.
Gil stopped his pacing and visibly tried to look more relaxed. “We’re in here,” he called.
I quickly put the magazine I’d been reading in a drawer and pulled my laptop closer, resting my fingers on the keyboard. After a moment, in walked six feet or so of tall, dark, and really delicious, or Dr. Steven Sable, the third partner in our ghostbusting business. “Hello, team,” he said in a deep, gravelly baritone laced with an accent that is an odd blend of German and Spanish.
“Morning,” Gil and I said in unison. “I didn’t expect you this morning,” I added. “I thought you had a lecture.” Steven had just begun working at the University of Massachusetts as the summer semester’s guest lecturer on cardiovascular thoracic surgery.
“It was canceled. A pipe burst in the lecture hall. There was water everywhere, and the administration called off classes until further notice.”
“It’s June,” Gil pointed out. “How does a pipe burst in June?”
“I am not knowing this,” said Steven, taking a seat across from me. Our eyes met, and I felt a little zing of electricity pass between us.
“You got your bandage off,” I said, noticing his swollen and scarred hand, now free of the thick bandage he’d been walking around with since he’d been shot in the hand on a ghostbust that had gone bad several weeks earlier.
“Good and new,” Steven said, turning his hand this way and that.
“Good for you,” I said to him. “And it’s nice to see you, but there’s not much going on today. No ghostbusting to be done, I’m afraid.”
“No new cases?”
“Not a one,” said Gil. “It looks like we’ve hit a dry spell.”
“What about the Hendersons?” Steven asked, referring to the last case we’d worked. “Have they had any more trouble?”
“Nope,” I said. “In fact, Mrs. Henderson sent over a fruit basket with her thanks. The house has been totally quiet for over two weeks now.”
“This is a major bumming,” said Steven. I should mention that English is his fifth language, and not one that he’s even remotely mastered yet.
I glanced at Gil and noticed that he’d started sweating. By the clock on the wall his Diet Coke was now officially ten minutes late. “Gil,” I said gently. “Why don’t you just drive to the deli and get your breakfast?”
Gilley gave me a curt nod and bolted out of the office suite. “What is his problem?” asked Steven.
“He’s gotta have his caffeine fix by ten a.m. or we all suffer for it,” I said.
“At least now we have some time alone,” Steven said, with a bounce of his eyebrows.
I squirmed in my chair. “Now, now,” I said, wagging a finger at him as he got up from his chair and came around the desk. “Steven,” I protested as he twirled my chair around to face him and leaned down to hover his lips over mine.
“What is the harm, M.J.?” he asked. “We are alone. Gilley is off getting fixed, and there are no clients coming in….” And that was when we heard the front door open.
Steven sighed as his lips brushed mine, and then he straightened up and took a glance out into the lobby.
“Hello?” I called.
“It is your friend,” Steven whispered. “The one who knocks out the men.”
I gave him a quizzical look, but understood what he meant when my good friend Karen O’Neal came into the office. When Gilley first met Karen he noted what a knockout she was—blond, blue-eyed, and boobs out to there. He nicknamed her TKO for total knockout, and that evolved into Teeko.
“Hey, M.J.,” she said when she saw me. “And hello, Dr. Sable,” she added.
I noticed right away that Karen seemed upset about something, which was alarming, because in all the time I’d known her I’d never seen her look anything other than cool as a cucumber. “Hey, Teek,” I said as I stood up. “What’s happened?”
Karen smiled tightly. “It’s that obvious, huh?” Steven moved to pull out a chair for her, and then he took a seat as well. “I need your help,” she said, getting straight to the point.
“Of course,” I said. “Anything. You name it and I’ll help.”
“It’s about my niece,” she said, wringing her hands and referring to her niece, fourteen-year-old Evie O’Neal.
“She’s been attacked.”
“Oh, my God!” I gasped. “Teeko, that’s horrible! I’m so sorry!”
Karen nodded, and I could tell she was struggling with her emotions. “It happened at her school,” she said raggedly, looking down at her lap. “She can barely talk about it.”
&n
bsp; “Is she all right?”
Karen looked up at me, her eyes haunted by the trauma that her niece had been through. “God, I hope so, M.J.,” she said.
“Did they catch the guy who attacked her?”
Karen shook her head no. “That’s why I need your help. All Evie could tell us was that shortly after first period began this morning, around seven thirty, a man wielding an ax chased her through the hallway at school. He cornered her in one of the old classrooms, and as he came at her she closed her eyes and screamed. And then she felt something strike the chalkboard right next to her, but when she opened her eyes, no one was there.”
I cocked my head to the side. “How long was the time between the strike she heard and when she opened her eyes?” I asked.
“Instantaneous,” Karen said. “She said the sound made her snap her eyes open.”
“Was there a mark on the chalkboard?”
“I don’t know. My brother was called to the school to collect her. She’s hysterical. She insists she saw what she saw, but…” Karen’s voice drifted off.
“But what, sweetie?” I asked softly.
Karen sighed. “At the beginning of the school year the school had security cameras installed in every hallway and in the classrooms, just in case an intruder ever entered the school. They played the tapes back to see who this guy was. My brother says that you can clearly see Evie running down the hall as if she’s being chased, and into a classroom, where she appears to see someone who terrifies her. But there’s no man with an ax on the tape. There is no man at all. She’s completely alone.”
“Have you seen this tape?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.
“No. Not yet. I just got off the phone with Evie. She called me from the car as Kevin was bringing her home, and she was crying so hard I could barely make sense of what she was saying. When I couldn’t calm her down I asked to speak to Kevin. He’s lost all patience with her,” Karen said with a sigh. “Of course, he never really had that in abundance anyway.”