Parker And The Gypsy (6 page)

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Authors: Susan Carroll

BOOK: Parker And The Gypsy
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Sara nodded, showing she understood quite clearly. Then she floored him by demanding, “Why?”
“Why? Why. what?”
“Why did you change your mind so suddenly?”
Mike stifled a grimace. He should have guessed she might ask that, but he was not prepared to tell her that he was out to nail Xavier Storm. That he thought John Patrick might be the key. Somehow Mike couldn't picture his angel going in for revenge as a good motive, so he hedged, saying, “I told you, I've got some time to kill and your case sounded...um, interesting. And I can use the extra work. That's all there is to it.”
“Is it?” She gave him one of those looks he didn't like, soft and clear and searching. He didn't know if there was really anything to this psychic business, but he did his best to block his thoughts until Sara averted her gaze.
“Yes, those are my reasons,” he insisted. “Now if you've got the time to fill me in on some stuff, I'd like to get started today.”
Sara didn't reply immediately. A tiny furrow marred her brow and then she said, “I'm very sorry, Michael. But I'm afraid you've driven a long way for nothing. I don't need your services any longer.”
“Why? Have you already hired another detective?” Mike was surprised to feel a stab of jealousy tear through him.
But to his relief, Sara shook her head. “No, I've simply decided that I can handle finding John Patrick on my own. I checked this book out of our local library yesterday evening.”
“Book? What kind of book?”
Sara turned back to the counter and reluctantly produced for his inspection the book she'd been reading.
“You Too can Be a Detective: Find Anyone in ten Days or Less.
By John L. Geyser.” Mike read the title aloud and snorted with contempt. “Oh, yeah, and I'll bet it took this Geezer almost a whole week to write this thing.”
Sara whisked the book out of his sight. “I might have known you'd make fun of it.”
“Hey, no, I think it's great. I wish you'd show me where this library is and maybe I can find me a book.
How To become a Psychic Overnight.”
“Don't be ridiculous,” she said with a trace of annoyance in her voice. “Of course, everyone does have some psychic ability, but it can take years to develop, that is unless you have a strong natural aptitude for it.”
“Kind of like the ability to be a good detective, hmm?” Mike drawled.
She sighed. “Point taken, but that doesn't change anything. I still don't think I should hire you.”
“Why not? You sure were convinced yesterday that I was the man for the job.”
“But that was before...”
When she hesitated, Mike supplied flatly, “Before you'd been exposed to the full force of my charming personality.”
“I don't want to hurt your feelings, Michael,” she continued solemnly. “But you do have a very disturbing aura. You're such a cynical man and I'm afraid I've dealt with too much cynicism. Even when I was a little girl, I remember the whispers.
“There goes Sara Holyfield, the goofy kid who thinks she has ESP, the nut who imagines that she can talk to ghosts,”
she mimicked bitterly. ”And those were the people who were being kind. You can't even imagine some of the other remarks.”
Oh, yes, Mike could. All too well. The world was full of wise asses, just like himself. He recalled some of the quips he'd tossed at Sara. And here she was, worried about hurting his feelings.
Squirming a little, he rubbed the line of his jaw. “Look, Sara, about some of those things I said to you yesterday. I didn't mean anything personal. It's just...you're right. I am a cynic. I don't believe in much of anything, not even myself. Hell, I've always been that way. Even as a kid.
“When my foster mom dragged me off to see
Peter Pan,
there was this part where everyone was supposed to clap to save that fairy, Stinker Bell or whatever her name was. Well, if it had been up to me, I'm afraid the little sprite would have died.”
Sara laughed, but she gave him one of those looks he was both coming to like and dread, brimful of sympathy and understanding, as though she were seeing things about him he didn't even see himself.
“That, I fear, is the great difference between us, Michael,” she said. “I've struggled for a very long time to keep my fairies alive. So while I do appreciate your offer to take my case, I think it would probably be better for both of us if I declined. But thank you, anyway, for stopping by.”
Her rejection was sweet but firm, and Mike should have let it go at that. Hell, she was right. He didn't believe in any of her psychic or supernatural nonsense and he never would. Even without her cooperation, he could dredge up enough information himself to find this Patrick guy and make him a permanent thorn in Storm's multimillion-dollar behind.
But Sara's refusal to work with him bugged Mike on a level he couldn't explain. He caught himself trailing after her around the shop while she watered her plants.
“Listen,” he said, “what if I was able to keep my negative vibes to myself?”
Sara cast him a doubtful glance.
“No, really, you said yourself you didn't need me to handle the—er—ghost hunting part of this case, just to conduct the search for John Patrick. So you take care of the more... spiritual things and I'll deal with the nitty-gritty realities. It'd be the perfect marriage.” Mike winced as though he'd said a dirty word. “The perfect partnership, I mean.”
Sara hesitated, her watering can suspended over the next fem. Mike rushed on to press his advantage. “We wouldn't even have to work that closely. I could give you my reports over the phone.”
She fretted her lower lip, then conceded, “That might work.”
“And you really don't honestly think you can track down Patrick yourself, using that book, do you?”
“N-o-oo,” Sara answered slowly, setting down her watering can. She was weakening. She was definitely weakening. But Mike was careful not to let any signs of triumph escape him. Like a good hunter, a skilled detective knew how not to spook his quarry.
“I'd have to know what your rates are,” Sara said.
“Oh, we don't need to worry about those just now.”
“Yes, we do. We never got around to discussing it yesterday, but I have to be certain I can afford you.”
Mike started to sidestep the question, then shrugged. What the hell difference did it make? She was never going to see a bill from him anyway.
“Um...” He paused, then rattled off the lowest possible figure he thought she'd believe. “I work for ten dollars a day, plus expenses.”
“Ten dollars a day?” Sara's eyes widened. “That's very reasonable.”
“I'm a very reasonable fellow. So do we have a deal?”
“I suppose we'll have to draw up some kind of contract?” she asked.
“Nah, I'm not much of a guy for paperwork. A simple verbal agreement will do. And a handshake.”
He extended his palm toward her. After another brief hesitation, she slipped her small slender hand into his grasp. He felt a burst of strange, warm and wonderful feeling, as though he'd suddenly been doused in sunshine. And then a jolt of pure panic.
What the hell was he doing? This was still the same sweet, slightly scatty gypsy lady he'd run off yesterday. And yet, here he stood, pumping her hand and grinning like an idiot who'd just won first prize in the lottery.
It was a soft, silky hand that he didn't seem to be in any hurry to let go of. Her fingers curled around his, striking off those unexpected sparks of desire he'd experienced yesterday, along with sensations that were far more alarming. Like the urge to look deep into those big blue eyes of hers and raise that delicate hand of hers to his lips.
Dropping Sara's hand as though he'd suddenly seized hold of the smoking hot barrel of a pistol, Mike retreated a wary step. He tried to reassure himself that he hadn't just gone off his rocker. He had a good reason for striking up this bargain with Sara. It was the best way to gain her confidence and to get what he wanted from her. Using her to get the goods on Storm was his only interest in little Miss Blue Eyes.
Sure it is, Parker and every chump that wanders into Storm's casino comes away a winner, Mike's inner voice scoffed.
But Mike ignored it.
“So, okay,” he said briskly, rubbing his hands together. “I'd like to get started on the case right away, Sara. Do you have any facts that I can use to begin tracing Patrick? Cold hard facts, evidence, not any crystal ball stuff.”
“Well, there are some old photographs and things in a jewel box out at the old Pine Top Inn.”
“Good, let's go get them.”
“All right.” Sara nodded, but an uneasy expression crossed her face. “Michael, I know you don't want to be involved with the more spiritual side of this case. But if you want to take any information away from the Pine Top Inn, there is someone's approval you're going to have to get.”
“Who's that?”
“Mamie.”
“No problem. I'm sure I can get around any dame—” Mike froze, his jaw dropping as he suddenly remembered who Sara was talking about.
Mamie Patrick.
The ghost.
Four
M
ike's red Mustang sped past the outskirts of Aurora Falls, heading down the winding road that led toward Old Pine Lake. The rush of wind through the open top of the convertible tugged strands of Sara's hair loose from her ponytail and left her feeling slightly breathless.
Or perhaps that last phenomenon could be more accurately attributed to the man seated behind the wheel, his determined male aura capable of filling the interior of this tiny car and then some.
There'd been a brief moment when Sara had thought she'd lost him, as soon as the subject of Mamie's ghost had come up again. But whatever smart-aleck remark had hovered on the tip of his tongue, for once, Mike had been able to swallow it.
He'd hardly waited long enough for her shop assistant to return from lunch before whisking Sara out the door and into his car.
As the Mustang raced down the road, the roar of the wind in their ears made conversation difficult and Sara was glad of it. She needed time to think. Unlike Mike, she wasn't used to rushing into anything. Before she had ever decided to visit his detective agency, she'd spent a whole afternoon meditating over the rightness of her choice. And last night, she'd convinced herself that she really was not disappointed she'd been unable to hire Mike, that she was better off without ever seeing him again.
That was why it had been very disconcerting to have him pop up in her shop today, like a genie uncorked from a bottle. And if genies looked the way he did, no woman would bother rubbing the lamp again to wish for anything more.
Sara's eyes strayed to where Mike's tall frame lounged behind the wheel, his attention focused on the road ahead. They were cramped so close together, she couldn't help being aware of the lean, hard muscle encased in the tight legs of his jeans, the broad reach of shoulders that made him seem all solid male. The rumpled lion of yesterday was gone, his tawny hair obviously freshly trimmed, his rock-hard jaw clean shaven. It should have made him look tamer, but somehow it didn't.
Noticing such things was a new and disturbing sensation for Sara. The man exuded enough sensuality to tempt a nun to set aside her veil, and for some reason, Sara found the tune of an old country tune running through her head. Something about the devil and never realizing he'd have blue eyes and blue jeans.
But Mike's eyes were a very wicked brown. Sara wished she knew what was going on behind them, but he'd shielded himself behind a pair of dark sunglasses. It made her a little uneasy. It wasn't her nature to be suspicious, but she wasn't certain she completely trusted Mike Parker.
A part of her was glad, even grateful he'd decided to take on her case after all. As much as she pretended, she hadn't been fully confident about her ability to find John Patrick on her own. It would be a relief to leave that up to Mike, and yet...
She would have felt better if she knew the real reason behind his sudden change of heart. He was holding something back. She had been able to sense it from the moment he appeared in her shop. But for a man who placed no faith in mind readers, Mike was doing a damned fine job screening his thoughts.
As though becoming aware of her intense regard, Mike angled his head slightly in her direction and smiled. “I don't mind you sitting there admiring my manly profile, angel, but I hope you're paying some attention to the road, because I don't have a clue where we're going.”
“You're doing okay,” Sara called back above the wind. “Just keep heading straight. In another mile or so, fork to the right past the lake and then we'll be there.”
“Do you think Miss Mamie will be at home to callers this afternoon?”
“It's not as though she has anywhere else to go, Michael,” Sara replied dryly.
Mike's smile widened into a grin. He was humoring her about her belief in the ghost. Sara realized it, but his teasing had a more gentle edge to it than yesterday.
All the same, she couldn't help wondering what was going to happen when Mike Parker, skeptic extraordinaire, crossed the threshold into Mamie Patrick's domain. Sara had to admit she was anticipating the encounter with something approaching an unholy glee.
The fork in the road appeared and Mike steered toward the right, smooth macadam giving way to gravel. When a spray of pebbles chunked off the side of the Mustang, he swore under his breath and slowed the car down.
A forest of straggly pines closed in about them. Between the dark, weathered trunks, Sara caught glimpses of shimmering blue-green water. On the far side of the lake, echoed the laughter and squeals of summer day camp children swimming on the west shore.
But on this side all was shadows and silence. Even the calls of the bobolinks and chittering squirrels seemed more subdued here.
Mike eased the car almost to a crawl as the road narrowed to little more than a dirt track with a tall sign post pointing the way. A wooden placard hung from the rusted pole, looking like something that should be perpetually creaking in the wind or illuminated by jagged flashes of lightning. Ye Old Pine Top Inn, it proclaimed in well-worn letters.
It was the perfect herald for the deserted building set back amongst the stand of pines. The old clapboard inn was a large, rambling structure with as many turrets and towers as a medieval fortress. Paint cracked and peeling, shutters hanging askew, the broad veranda appeared neglected and unwelcoming.
Braking the car to a halt in front of the porch steps, Mike shut off the ignition. He peeked over the rims of his glasses at the inn and let out a long low whistle.
“So this is it, huh? Ye Old Pine Top Inn. I'll have to put it on my list of favorite overnight stops, right up there with the Bates Motel.”
“The present owner, the Jorgensen Realty Co., is trying to fix the place up a bit,” Sara said. “They're hoping to restore it into one of those quaint little out-of-the-way places that would attract the better class of tourist trade.”
“Sounds a little like trying to turn Dracula's castle into a cozy bed and breakfast. But what the hey.” Mike shrugged. “It's not my money.”
He made no move to get out of the car, fishing out a pen and small notebook from his inner breast pocket instead. “You probably better tell me where to find this Jorgensen. I might need to talk to—”
“No!” Sara blurted out in alarm. When Mike glanced toward her, clearly surprised, she struggled to speak more calmly, “I—I mean, no, that won't be necessary. They would be of no help at all. They haven't owned the inn long. Mamie lived here way before their time, when the inn was more of an old boardinghouse. The Jorgensens don't know anything. Nothing at all.”
She must have still sounded too vehement because Mike removed his sunglasses and continued to stare at her.
Sara realized she'd never hold up well under an intense police grilling. Mike didn't even have to question her. One long silent stare and she was ready to spill her guts.
Pleating her hands nervously in the folds of her dress, Sara sighed and confessed, “All right. Mrs. Jorgensen doesn't even know that I've been coming out here to communicate with Mamie. We're not on the best of terms. Me and Ralph and Elaine Jorgensen, that is. Their development company has been one of the prime movers behind the program to refurbish Aurora Falls, turn it into something a little more upmarket. And—and—”
“They don't exactly appreciate the ambience of your little shop?” Mike filled in when Sara floundered.
Sara nodded unhappily. “I would have never dreamed of coming near their inn under normal circumstances. But I kept hearing the rumors about it being haunted and I just couldn't resist stopping by for a peek. Then I discovered Mamie and—well, you know the rest.”
“So in other words, we're trespassing,” Mike said flatly.
“Yes.”
“I wish you'd told me sooner.”
“I'm sorry. I should have warned you that what we are doing is illegal. I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to turn around and go back.”
To her chagrin, Mike seemed prepared to do just that. Without another word, he tossed his sunglasses on the dash and turned on the motor. A look of deep concentration on his face, he put the car in gear. But not in Reverse.
He guided the Mustang carefully along the rutted drive, around the side of the inn, easing the car deep within a stand of pines as gently as a mother tucking her baby in bed.
“There,” he said, switching off the ignition again. “Not exactly hidden. But at least the car won't be sitting out front like a flaming red flag.”
When he realized she was staring at him in astonishment, a deep bark of laughter rumbled from his chest.
“Honey, you really couldn't have imagined I'd go off into a dither at the thought of doing something a teeny bit illegal, did you? I played hookey from the time I was in grade school. The one sure way of getting me to class would have been to tell me it was off-limits.”
Sara felt her cheeks flame with an embarrassment as red as Mike's car. Of course. She might have known he'd be the sort of man used to taking risks and bending the rules. He'd probably done far worse and more dangerous things in his life than mere trespassing. But she still felt daring and guilty over the time she sneaked a cigarette in junior high.
“You must find me incredibly naive,” she said in disgruntled accents.
“No, merely adorable.”
He still looked amused, but the light in his eyes was tender as he bent down and brushed his lips against hers. It was a chaste kiss, quick and almost brotherly. But it was enough to remind her of the far more passionate embrace they'd shared yesterday and leave her feeling completely flustered.
She still hadn't fully recovered by the time Mike eased himself out of the car and came around to open her door.
“Take it easy,” she told her madly thumping heart. It was just a friendly gesture and meant nothing. Mike obviously went around kissing women right, left and center without a second thought. And most of those women were probably as casual about it as he was. Sometimes Sara thought she was the only female left in this century who regarded kissing as something special, a highly personal and intimate contact.
Mike offered her a hand and Sara clambered out of the car, somewhat unsteadily, bringing with her a paper trail of envelopes that Mike had left scattered about. A few days' worth of mail, he hadn't had a chance to go through, Mike had explained before blithely shoving the whole stack onto the floor mat.
Now as she straightened, several of the envelopes tumbled to the grass beside the car. She and Mike nearly bumped heads, swooping to retrieve them. While Mike chased down several that had fluttered near the front tire, Sara went after the one that had landed at her feet.
It was a business-size envelope, thickly padded as though it contained several pages worth of letter. As soon as her fingers closed around it, an odd feeling swept through Sara, as disturbing and powerful as though some sort of dark mist seeped from beneath the seal of the envelope.
She had discovered long ago that she had limited psychosometric powers. Not as strong as some psychics she'd read about but enough to sometimes divine details about the owner of an item or to guess the contents of package. It was an ability that had frequently gotten her into trouble as a child, left her open to accusations of having peeked at Christmas presents early.
But this letter was no Christmas present. It was something black and empty. It felt heavy in her hands, almost threatening. The return address was a little smudged, but still partly readable.
Trenton State
... Sara became aware of Mike beside her, tossing the envelopes he had chased down back into the car.
“Nothing but bills,” he said with a cheerful grimace. “I should have just let them blow away. What have you got there—” he began, then broke off as he focused in on the envelope she held. He tensed as though he'd taken a fist to the gut and then snatched the letter from her. She felt strangely relieved to have it out of her hand.
“I—I'm sorry,” she faltered. “I didn't mean to pry into your mail. I just picked it up and then—”
“Don't sweat it, sugar. It's nothing important,” Mike said, but the edge in his voice told her otherwise. His mouth set in a hard line, an odd look stealing into his eyes. If it had been any other man, Sara would have thought it was fear.
And suddenly, inexplicably, she felt afraid for him.
“It—it's not any kind of bad news, I hope?” she asked.
“Nah,” he said tersely. “Just a little fan mail from Trenton State.”
“The university?”
“No, the prison.”
“Oh.” Sara flinched.
Noticing her reaction, Mike angled a sarcastic glance in her direction. “Beg your pardon. I guess prison is too blunt for most people these days.
The correctional facility
. Bet you've never known anyone who's had to be
corrected
, have you, angel?”

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