Abby Cooper, Psychic Eye

by Victoria Laurie

  Switching to authoritative. "Cat—"

  "And you're going to crime scenes?! What are you thinking Abby?"

  Trying reasonable. "Cat—"

  "And the police are just letting you go pell-mell all over town just asking for trouble?! What the hell kind of a town are you living in?!"

  Moving to exasperated. "Cat—"

  "Well I have heard ENOUGH Abby! You get your butt on a plane to Boston IMMEDIATELY or I will fly to Michigan and bring you back here myself!"

  Last resort, pissy. "Cat—"

  "Don't you, 'Cat' me, missy! You will see reason if I have anything to do with it!"

  Sometimes, especially with my sister, all you can do is stand back, cover your ears, and wait for the hurricane to blow itself out. I sighed and sat down, propping my feet up on the kitchen counter. After another ten minutes, Cat still wasn't willing to let me get a word in edgewise, but her voice was starting to go hoarse so she put my brother-in-law on the phone. "Hey, Abby, what's going on?" he asked, his voice somewhere between reason and alarm.

  "Hi, Tommy. Nothing, just Cat being Cat. How's the golf game?" I asked, hoping for a little distraction.

  "Good, got a big tournament in two weeks." My brother-in-law was a professional golfer.

  "In Texas?"

  "Dallas," he said, laughing at my hit.

  "Are you thinking of switching caddies?" I asked.

  "Yeah, actually I was. Any thoughts?"

  "Is it to a guy with red hair and lots of freckles?"

  "He's one of the selections."

  "He's your man, Tommy. Good luck."

  In the background I could hear a struggle for the phone before my brother-in-law had a chance to say anything further. I heard my sister say, "Why are you talking about your damn golf game when your sister-in-law is trying to get herself killed! Am I the only sane person left in this family?!" Recovering the phone, Cat said in a voice that had calmed just a teeny bit, "Abby, please, be reasonable. This is insane! You could be in mortal peril!"

  I loved my sister's flair for the dramatic. "Cat," I said, "listen to me. I'm fine, really. Dave installed a burglar alarm and I've got Eggy here to protect me—"

  "You have a guinea pig that barks. A psychopath intent on killing you is not going to be intimidated by a pygmy of a dog."

  I bit back the smarty-pants reply I had for her assessment of my pooch. "Cat, I'm fine. My radar is up and running, sweetie, and the moment I sense I'm in real danger I'll be on that plane. I promise," I said through somewhat gritted teeth.

  "But what if it doesn't warn you in time? What if you don't know until it's too late?"

  She had me there, and for the first time, I actually did feel nervous. I shook the feeling off and said, "I won't take any more chances, okay?"

  "Promise me."

  "I promise." Liar, liar, pants on fire…

  "Okay, but I don't see how I'll be able to sleep at night knowing someone could be after you."

  Ah, what was a conversation with my sister without a heaping plateful of good old guilt? "I'm sure you'll be fine, Cat. I'll call you tomorrow, all right?"

  "Fine. But Abby, please, please be careful."

  "I will, Cat. Love you."

  I went to bed that night with thoughts of Marco, Allison, and Alyssa swimming in my head. I didn't know why the puzzle wouldn't come together, but I couldn't let go of the feeling that a piece was still missing. There was a link I was overlooking, and that was what would make the whole thing make sense. Sleep came late, and my dreams were again filled with Allison sitting in my chair telling me to be careful.

  Chapter Eight

  Wednesday morning I arrived early as I had a lot of work ahead of me. A regular client had booked the entire day for her whole family, which meant I had seven appointments lined up back-to-back. I knew there wouldn't be much of a break in between, so I wanted to make sure I was stocked up with enough tapes, water, and incense. The phone rang almost immediately after I set my purse in my desk drawer, and I checked my watch wondering who could be calling at eight a.m. "Abigail Cooper," I said.

  "Oh, Abby, thank God I caught you. This is Elaine Steinberg—I left you a voice mail late last night. Did you happen to get it?"

  "No, I just got in."

  "Oh, no. I'm so sorry, Abby, but my mom is in the hospital," she said, sounding worried.

  "Oh my goodness! What happened?"

  "We had a big family dinner last night, and we were all talking about coming to see you today. I think Mom just had a little too much excitement because she started having chest pains. I remembered that you'd told me in my last reading to watch for heart trouble, so we rushed her right over to Beaumont Hospital."

  "Is she all right?" I asked, not really knowing what else to say.

  "No, not really," she said and began to cry. "Abby, I'm so sorry, but we're going to have to cancel all of our appointments for today."

  "Of course, Elaine, of course," I said, rushing to ease her mind. "Listen, is there something about a tube the doctors are thinking of inserting near her heart?"

  "Oh! Yes, they are. She's in surgery right now and they're putting in a shunt to drain some of the fluid around her heart. That's what's causing her the trouble—she's got some excess fluid around her heart and it can't beat properly."

  "The feeling I'm getting is that it may be a little touchy for the next couple of days with your mom, but I feel that she's going to pull through. This tube is really going to help her, but there may be an infection that could set in,"

  "The doctor warned us about that. He said it happens sometimes with older patients. Do you think she might die, Abby?" she asked me, her voice breaking into a sob.

  "Elaine, I'm not a medical expert, but I strongly believe in the power of prayer. I believe it can work miracles. I want your entire family to pray for your mother to recover quickly, and every time you visit her, you tell her I said she's not finished yet, that there's a lot more life for her to live, okay?"

  "Okay, thank you, Abby. I'll go get my brothers and sisters together right now, and I'll tell them what you said."

  I hung up with Elaine and penciled a large X in the middle of my appointment book. The loss of seven appointments was going to hurt my pocketbook something fierce. I sighed and thought about calling people to see if someone wanted to move an appointment up, but faced with an unexpected day off I was leaning hard on the side of playing hooky, no matter how much it cost me.

  The question was what I should do with myself. I could go to the mall, or the movies or maybe the bookstore. I thrummed my fingers on my desk as I thought about each of those activities; nothing sounded interesting, and all required money, the thing I'd already realized was in short supply. Absently I picked up a pen and began tapping it on my desk blotter as I tried to decide what to do. Suddenly my intuitive phone began ringing loudly. I answered it and got an image of Perry Mason in my mind's eye. My pen stopped tapping as I followed the train of thought, and as a faint memory connected itself to the image of Perry, I knew I had the answer about what to do with my day.

  I tossed the pen to the side and began rummaging through the clutter on my desk looking for a particular piece of scratch paper with a name and phone number scribbled on it. Locating the small paper square, I picked up the phone and dialed. After two rings I was rewarded with a "Hello?"

  "Connie?" I asked.

  "Yes?"

  "Hi, it's Abigail Cooper. So sorry to bother you so early." My face reddened slightly as I realized it was only eight thirty.

  "No problem, I was just on my way to work. What's up?"

  "I have a question for you. You mentioned something about a lawyer for Allison making the arrangements for her funeral, and I was wondering if you knew his name and possibly his phone number?"

  Connie laughed at me. "You still playing private investigator?"

  "Yeah, I guess. Abigail Cooper, Psychic Eye, at your service," I deadpanned.

  She politely giggled at my pun. "Hold on a sec
and I'll get you the name," she said and I could hear paper rustling. After a moment she was back on the phone. "Okay, got it. The attorney handling Allison's estate is a guy named Parker Gish. He's in Birmingham on Merrill Street, but the phone number is smudged out—the paper must have gotten wet or something."

  "No problem. I'll look him up in the phone book. Oh, by the way," I said, remembering something that had been bothering me. "Connie, do you know why Allison padlocked her sister's bedroom door shut?"

  "You've been to the house?"

  "Uh, yeah … I wanted to see if my intuition could pick up anything for the police investigation. I thought if I went to the house maybe I could hone in on the energy there," I explained, suddenly feeling like I'd been caught doing something I shouldn't have.

  There was a slight pause before she spoke again. "I think it's a good thing the police have you on their side, Abby. Now then, back to your question. Allison padlocked Alyssa's door closed when she put the house up for sale. She was afraid that some real estate agent wouldn't respect her wish that no one go into that room. She said that she could still feel Alyssa's spirit in there, and she didn't want anyone to ruin it by walking around and invading that room. I hope you don't get the wrong impression of her, Abby. Allison really was a good person, but Alyssa's death did something to her. It made her do things a rational person might not, you know?"

  "I understand—everyone handles grief in their own way. Thanks again for your help. I'll see you Saturday?"

  "I'll be there. Good luck."

  After hanging up the phone, I reached into the big bottom drawer of my desk and pulled out the phone book. I turned to the business section and located Mr. Gish right away. I called the number wondering if anyone would answer since it wasn't even nine yet.

  A crisp female voice answered the line with "Parker Gish Law Offices, this is Jeannette speaking. How may I help you?"

  "Uh, hi, Jeannette. My name is Abigail Cooper. I was wondering if I could schedule an appointment with Mr. Gish."

  "Are you planning on setting up a trust? Or did you need some estate planning?"

  "Estate planning." Liar, liar, pants on fire…

  "I have an appointment for next Tuesday. How will that work for you?"

  I hadn't even entertained the thought that Mr. Gish might not be immediately available. "Unfortunately, I'm headed out of town tomorrow morning"—Liar, liar, pants on fire—"uh, to Europe, and I'll be gone for the next few months. I really was hoping I could meet Mr. Gish and get the paperwork started. I had to fire my other attorney, you see, and I'm willing to pay extra if he can possibly squeeze me in."

  "Hold on a moment," she said and clicked off the line. A few seconds later she was back with a curt question. "Ms. Cooper, whom did you say referred you?"

  "Allison Pierce."

  "Hold, please," and she put me on hold again. In a few moments, she was back on the line. "Mr. Gish can fit you in at one o'clock this afternoon if that's acceptable."

  "Perfect," I said.

  "His hourly rate is two hundred and fifty dollars, and he will expect a five-thousand-dollar retainer up front. Please bring your checkbook with you."

  My eyes bugged out in spite of myself, as much for the hourly rate as for the rudeness at being told to bring my checkbook. I didn't like Jeannette much, and I wondered what Mr. Gish was like if this was the voice representing him. "No problem," I said breezily.

  "We'll see you at one, Ms. Cooper," and she hung up before I'd said my good-byes.

  I replaced the receiver and thought about what to do between now and my appointment with Mr. Gish. I really didn't feel like sticking around the office— the temptation to play hooky was just too strong. So now what?

  I decided that since I was already devoting part of the day to running down leads on Allison's murderer, it made sense to devote the whole day to the endeavor. I pulled the phone book back toward me and began sifting through the local index. I found the number for the Oakland County Jail and called the operator there. I explained that I wanted to arrange a visit with one of the prisoners and asked about the process. I was told visiting hours were ten to noon and one to three and that all I had to do was come down, submit my name and whom I wished to visit, and if the prisoner was agreeable, we would meet in the visitation room.

  A thought occurred to me, and I asked the operator if I could bring the inmate anything, like books or perishable items. She suggested I visit the jail's Web site to check the approved list of items listed there. I thanked the woman, hung up and turned on the computer. In a few minutes I had jotted down several grocery items and made some other notations about acceptable gifts and hurried out the door. I stopped at the grocery store first and purchased peanut butter, jelly, bread, cookies, potato chips, candy bars and pop. I had no idea what Marco liked to eat, but I figured if I was in jail I'd be craving comfort food.

  Next I went to the magazine section and picked up every periodical I could find on cars, motorcycles, and hot rods. I avoided the porn section, but got a copy of MAXIM just to show I'm a good sport.

  When I'd finished my shopping I headed over to the jail, a twenty-minute drive from Royal Oak. When I came to the colossal set of buildings that represent Oakland County's judicial process, I followed the signs that wound through long stretches of side streets, finally locating the jail. I parked my car in one of the monster lots and walked over to the front entrance.

  After climbing several stairs, my grocery bags in tow, I entered through a revolving door and onto the Formica floor of a dismal gray interior. There were people lined up one by one in front of a security team and a metal detector. Everyone got the same careful treatment: Empty your pockets, take off your shoes and put all personal items on the conveyor belt; step through the metal detector, hold your arms out and spread your legs while a guard ran a hand-held detector along your body; open your mouth for the guard, then walk forward to put yourself back together. I groaned inwardly—there were half a dozen people in front of me, and this was taking forever.

  After what seemed like an eternity, it was my turn and I went through the process without incident. I was directed to another line that was thankfully moving much faster.

  Ten minutes later I stood facing a woman behind a bulletproof plastic barrier who asked for my ID and which prisoner I was there to see.

  "Marco Ammarretti," I answered.

  She typed something into the computer, waited a few seconds, then gave me a clip-on badge with the word "VISITOR" in large capital letters. I was instructed to wear this at all times while inside the jail, and told that my ID would be returned to me when I turned in the badge. I was to enter through door C, and wait until my name was called. If I had brought any gift items, I was to give them to the guard after my name was called, and he would bring them to the inmate.

  I nodded and walked quickly through door C into a rather large waiting room, with plastic chairs and blue industrial carpet. I sat down, wishing I had brought something other than Marco's magazines to read. About twenty minutes later my name was called, and I was led through another door, down a long corridor, and into a large room cut in half by a giant divider. A long set of chairs set close to small countertops was arranged symmetrically along the divider. I was told to wait at one of the countertops, and I was relieved of my grocery bags.

  I sat down and stared through a thick pane of Plexiglas that had a small grated window set roughly at mouth level. I waited another ten minutes until every seat was filled, then a door on the other side of the wall opened and prisoners walked in, single file. We were told we had half an hour, and I felt the pressure of making the most of my time.

  I spotted Marco right away, and my heart went out to him. He ambled over, the leg shackles making his movements slow and calculated. He took a seat and the smallest hint of a smile reached his eyes.

  "Hi, Abigail," he said shyly.

  "Hey there," I said, leaning in so he could hear me.

  "Thanks for the food and magazines. That was
really nice of you."

  "You're welcome—it was the least I could do. How are you holding up?" I asked, concerned for him in more ways than one.

  "Okay, I guess. Just bored for the most part. I've got a decent lawyer, and my bond hearing is next week, so maybe I'll be able to get out of here before the trial."

  I nodded encouragingly, suddenly at a loss for words. Marco helped by asking, "So, what did you want?"

  "As you know, I'm trying to help the police with their investigation, and I've been to the crime scene." Marco flinched. For him it would always be Alyssa's place, so I moved on quickly. "Anyway, I have a few questions about what I picked up there and I was hoping you could help me out."

  "Shoot," he said.

  "First of all, do you know what happened to Alyssa's belongings? All of her personal things were missing."

  Marco looked sheepishly at the ground, avoiding eye contact. He sighed heavily before answering. "Allison was really angry at Alyssa. I guess we all were. It just took us all by surprise, and Allison really wanted to blame someone, so she picked me. She found out a few days after the funeral that I was named as Alyssa's beneficiary and went nuts. Alyssa left everything to me, except a few small items. I had no idea, but Allison was bent on making a big deal out of it. So she hired a moving company, packed up all of Alyssa's things and had them sent over to my house. I was still really out of it at that point, so I called a couple of storage places, found one close by and had the stuff sent there. I haven't been able to go over there yet to look through it all—I don't know if I ever will."

  "Did you know that Alyssa had named you her beneficiary?"

  "I had no idea until her lawyer called me. It wouldn't have mattered to me one way or the other, though. I make a decent living, own my home, my car is paid for, and I've been socking away money in my 401(k) since I was twenty-one. It wasn't her money that I was interested in. I knew she and her sister had some, but I never knew how much. I haven't even claimed the dough yet, Abby," he said. His eyes pleaded with me to believe him. My lie detector hadn't gone off once since we'd sat down, so I was inclined to trust what he was saying. I nodded encouragingly and he continued. "Alyssa was my whole world. I didn't care if she was flat broke. I loved her—." His voice broke off, and he turned his head to one side, raising both cuffed hands to swipe a tear.