Love Charms (108 page)

I couldn't really blame her, though. I
had considered killing me too, but knew the afterlife wouldn't provide the
revenge Marjorie sought or the escape I needed.

I had the ghost haunting me to prove it.

Chapter Two

The next evening, Mark floated into the
bathroom just as I finished lathering my legs in preparation for a close shave.
It'd been a long day at the shop with too few paying customers and a
never-ending chorus of 'just looking'. All I wanted was to relax, but Mark had
other plans.

“Someone's coming,” he said coming to
hover at my side and watching my twice-weekly hair removal ritual with
interest-- something I had never let him see in the year we dated. Being able
to pass through walls and doors provided him carte blanche access into the
realm of female beauty secrets. Not exactly what I would call an on-the-haunt
perk, but he seemed to enjoy it.

I had liked it better when he couldn't
walk through closed doors.

I glanced down at my legs which were
covered with cucumber melon scented foam and the purple towel wrapped around my
body. I was not ready for company. “Who?”

“He wants to hire you as an
investigator.” A gleam of anticipation shone in his eyes and made the white
streaks in his aura shine extra bright. He loved clients. “Hurry, or you won't
have time to get dressed.”

I frowned. I didn't want to investigate
anything. Moonlighting as a psychic PI was part of the reason my boyfriend was
now a ghost. “Mark, we discussed this.”

“I know, but this guy really needs your
help.”

“How do you know?”

“Look, just hear him out. It took
everything I had to get him here.”

“What do you mean by that? You've been
guiding people my way?” My voice rose as I spoke and I looked at Mark through
narrowed eyes.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets with
a shrug, and leaned against the wall, only to disappear into the linen closet
before he could respond. I rolled my eyes at the interruption and ran more bath
water to rinse off my legs while I waited for him to reappear.

He popped into the tub a few moments
later, brushing against my foot. I jumped, not expecting an ice-cold draft to
hit me through the warm water. “Hey, careful!”

“Sorry.” He stepped out of the tub, his
exit marked by just the faintest ripple in the water. “I didn't mean to scare
you.”

“I could have cut myself with the razor.”
I set the razor in question on the edge of the tub, and finished washing the
cream off my legs. Shaving would have to wait and a loud knock at my front door
confirmed it. “They're here?
Now?”

I ran out of the bathroom in search of
clothes, leaving Mark to drift behind me. In response to another series of knocks
I called, “Hang on. I'll be there in a minute.”

In my bedroom, I located the laundry
basket and upended the clean clothes I hadn't had a chance to fold yet onto the
bed. I snatched up a pair of underwear, some jeans, and a T-shirt, throwing
them on in record time, but I still wasn't fast enough for whoever was waiting
at the door. They knocked again, much harder this time. The doorframe rattled
from the force of my 'customer's' pounding.

“I'm coming.” I grabbed a towel and
tousled my hair with it on the way to the front door.

Releasing the dead bolt, I muttered the
magic word that would turn off the wards on the entrance to my apartment and
opened the door mid-knock. A man of medium build with sable brown hair and dark
gloom-filled pools for eyes stood in my doorway. He wore a smartly cut navy
suit that outlined his trim frame--very GQ in a brooding
probably-should-be-taking-anti-depressants way. Cute enough that I felt the
pull of attraction despite his angsty vibe, a feeling that was quickly replaced
by guilt at my reaction. I had no business looking at other men. Not with Mark
hovering over my shoulder.

Lowering his hand, He looked me up and
down, eyes widening slightly at my appearance. “You're Sofia Parker, the
psychic?”

With my sopping hair and rumpled outfit,
I admit, I didn't look the part. My jeans were faded and I'd had the bad luck
to grab my rattiest T-shirt out of the pile, the one with a hole in the
shoulder. Definitely not how I liked to dress for clients, but, then again, I
didn't want clients and planned on making that very clear to the man standing
in front of me. Even so, I flushed at the judgment in his eyes.

“Yeah, that's me. You might as well come
in.” I spotted my favorite fleece top hanging on the back of a kitchen chair,
and, not waiting to see if he accepted my invitation, I grabbed it and yanked
over my head. It would be too warm, but at least the hole would be covered.

Off to my right, Mark laughed. “You
should see the look on your face. Like a troll who's just sucked a moldy lemon.”

I glared at him and resisted the urge to
say something nasty. Talking to Mark in front of other people made me look like
a crazy woman. Instead, I addressed my unwanted client who now stood just
inside the front door. “Have a seat.” I gestured to my small living room and
tried to sound pleasant. I would listen to what he had to say and then refer
him to someone else. Someone who liked investigative work and managed to do it
without killing people.

He crossed the living room to sit on my
battered leather sofa. Being an antique dealer meant my apartment was filled to
capacity with 'finds' I hadn't been able to part with. The sofa had been owned
by the Kennedy's in the 1950s. Across from it sat an oversized armchair covered
in red paisley fabric that had once graced the New York Ritz Carlton's
President Suite. It had been used by various rock stars, politicians and even
the crown prince of the Sidhe during his state visit in the 1970s. Using the
chair as inspiration, I had painted the walls a deep red-- I loved deep, strong
colors. My collection of vintage Film Noir posters with their dark hued artwork
and black frames kept the red from overwhelming the rest of the room.

An eclectic mix of wood pieces: some
Queen Anne, some Shaker, and one water-damaged Chippendale table sat on either
side of the sofa and extended along the hallway leading back to my bedroom,
shoved together like mismatched puzzle pieces. Truthfully, they were too much
for my little apartment, but I had always been a sucker for the patina of aged
wood. I loved the faint memories they carried of eras long past -- so long as
they weren't my own.

My uninvited client settled into the
sofa, looking a bit surprised at how much it sank under his weight. Old
furniture tended to have weak springs. “You knew I was coming?”

I shut the door and reset the wards
before plopping into the faded armchair. “Yes. I'm psychic, remember?” I didn't
mention Mark. It only led to questions I didn't like to answer. I checked
behind me, wondering if Mark was still in the room, only to see empty space.
He'd probably fallen through the floor or lost his concentration and
dissipated. He'd come back sooner or later. He always did. The only uncertainty
was the timing of his appearance.

The man tilted his head to the side and
studied me. “Do you make a point of being in the shower when you know someone
is on the way?”

I ran a hand through my wet hair and
tugged at the hem of my fleece top. “I didn't have that much advance notice.” I
flushed again at the critical look he gave me. I might not have been at my
best, but I wasn't a candidate for a paper bag over the head either. With
enough notice, I cleaned up pretty well with my long, black hair and toffee
eyes. My hourglass figure, while on the wrong side of thin, garnered me more
compliments than diet tips.

“I see. Well, do you at least know why
I'm here?”

“I haven't gotten that far.” I picked at
the frayed piping that traced the outline of the chair, reluctant to get
involved.

He leaned back and crossed his arms in
obvious disappointment. “I thought you would already know. I was told you were
some big-name psychic.”

I grimaced at the 'big-name psychic' part
and the expectations inherent in the moniker. “These things rarely work the way
people think they do. I could read you, but it's much easier if you just tell
me. Sometimes I give people headaches.” My clairvoyance required contact, and I
didn't want to get that close to him yet. I was careful to always keep my
shields up and use my abilities only when there was no other option--the
headaches went both ways. I avoided reading people unless it was absolutely
necessary or something somehow slipped beneath my shields.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. It's better if you just
tell me.” I pulled my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, glad
the chair was big enough with its overstuffed pillows to allow me to do so.
Setting my chin on my knees, I looked at my client and watched as he noticed my
pedicured feet.

I liked my feet. My toenails were painted
a cheerful red. What I didn't like was this stranger looking at them, so I
moved until my legs were curled underneath me. I didn't like people who stared.
Not since the media started stalking me after Mark died. I'd been dissected in
the newspapers, cross-examined in court, and gossiped about everywhere I went
for the past year. Scrutiny of any kind made me uncomfortable. Sometimes I
thought Mark was the lucky one, no one could see him but me.

“Okay, then. My name is Jacob Sanders. My
twin brother and his family were recently murdered.” He closed his eyes on the
last word and a shudder worked through his body.

“You felt it when he died.”

He nodded, his hands clenched into fists.

“I'm sorry.”

“Everyone says that. It doesn't fix
anything.” He opened his eyes and met mine with a hard and angry look.

“I know.” I held his gaze and let him see
the pain I carried. Good thing Mark had left us or else I don't think I could
have prevented myself from crying. It was easier to bury the pain when he
wasn't there reminding me of what I had lost and that it was all my fault.

“That's right. I remember reading about
you in the paper. Your boyfriend passed away a couple months ago.”

I said nothing. I didn't want to talk
about it, but Jacob didn't notice.

“What was it, a car accident or something?”

Or something. I had been the driver. The
manslaughter charges had just been dropped a few weeks ago. It was my turn to
shudder. Hot tears burned my eyelids and I squeezed my eyes shut to keep them
contained. I drew in a ragged breath and said, “Let's talk about what you want
me to do for you. I assume, since you're here, the police haven't found the
murderer?”

“There was a gas explosion at my
brother's house, and everything, including his wife and children, went up in
flames.”

“And your brother?”

“Missing. The police think he killed his
family and stole millions of dollars from the bank he worked at.”

“But you think differently?” I risked
opening my eyes and noticed a small chip in the nail polish on one of my big
toes. Damn, I had paid extra for the so-called chip-proof formula too.

“I had a dream the night he died. Someone
stabbed him. The gas explosion was just a cover. He was...” Jacob trailed off,
a catch in his voice.

I peeked at him from under my eyelashes
as he tried to rub a frown out of his forehead. “I can only imagine how
terrible this must be for you, but dreams are not reliable.” The court system
barely tolerated testimony from psychics, dreams being admitted as evidence
wasn’t going to happen. Not in this lifetime.

“I know. I'm a lawyer. I've read the case
history. There's something else, though.”

“What?” I looked directly at Jacob now.

“He was dead before the bank was even
robbed. At least, according to what I dreamed.” He took a deep breath. “We had
a connection. I could always feel him, like a shadow in the back of my mind.
Now I can't feel anything. I stopped feeling him a day before the bank was
robbed.”

“Which blows holes in the cops' theory
then.”

Jacob nodded. “Except I have no proof,
and they don't believe me when I tell them he couldn't have robbed the bank.”

“So you want me to find the murderer?”

“Yes, and my brother's body.”

“I don't apprehend criminals.” Or touch
dead bodies, I added silently.

“Could you just read things for me? Tell
me if I'm right or wrong. Help me convince the police to consider other
suspects. Please.”

I pulled harder at the frayed piping on
the chair and worried my bottom lip trying not to let the pleading note in
Jacob's voice get to me. The extensive media coverage on the car accident never
failed to talk up my psychic abilities. Not a day went by where I wasn't
recognized or asked to take a case.

So far, much to Mark's disappointment, I
had been able to direct people to local non-psychic private detectives. People
didn't always need a psychic and I wouldn't take cases where simple, mundane
investigative work would do the job. As much as I didn't want the business
though, this time I couldn't say no. Not based on Jacob's story. There was no
way a normal PI could help him. Oh, they would take his money and make a few
calls, but that would be it. The honest ones would probably call me and try to
hire me anyway. I was one of few freelance psychics in the area, might as well
cut out the middleman. Mark had been right, Jacob really did need me. Only I
could give a time and cause of death with any certainty. Damn.