Abby Cooper, Psychic Eye

by Victoria Laurie

  I gave him a moment to collect himself, then asked, "Can you tell me anything about Alyssa's behavior right before she passed away? Did anything seem out of sorts? Was there anything that might have warned you guys that she was leaning toward taking her life?"

  Marco shut his eyes tightly and struggled with something, I wasn't sure what. In a barely audible voice he said, "Maybe, yeah…" That surprised me. I was so convinced that Alyssa hadn't killed herself that I wanted him to say there'd been no sign, nothing out of the ordinary, confirming my belief that she hadn't done it.

  "Like what?" I asked gently.

  "About two weeks before she did it, she was different, not quite herself. It was little things, like we'd go out and she'd just cling to me, you know? We usually held hands, but she started holding my entire arm with both hands, and she didn't let me out of her sight. Like this one night we went to a movie, and afterward I had to go to the restroom and she begged me to hold it until we got home. She wouldn't let me out of her sight. And then she stopped wanting to go out. We had all this stuff planned leading up to the wedding, and she didn't want to do any of it. She just wanted to stay home. I also noticed that she wasn't sleeping much. I tried to talk to her about it, but she kept telling me nothing was wrong. I figured the whole thing was just pre-wedding jitters, but apparently it was a lot more."

  "What happened the day she died?" I asked as I pondered the change in Alyssa's behavior.

  Marco took a deep breath and said, "I was at work and I called her at lunchtime. She said she wasn't feeling well and was going to take a nap. I called her a couple hours later, but she didn't answer. Something didn't feel right, so I left work early and headed over to her house—that's when I found her." He reached up to wipe another tear away.

  I figured I should ease up about Alyssa if I wanted Marco to keep talking to me. He was kindly indulging me, but pretty soon I would push too hard on this topic and he might bolt. "So tell me about Allison," I said. You had dinner with her the night she died— what brought that on?"

  He shook his head a little, "I'm not really sure. A couple of days before she was killed she called me out of the blue and apologized for acting the way she did at Alyssa's funeral. She also said she was sorry about the movers showing up on my doorstep and asked me if I still had any of Alyssa's belongings. I told her that they were at the storage company, gave her the pass code to the front gate and told her that I'd already given her name to the manager. I figured one day she'd regret sending away all of Alyssa's stuff, so I'd made sure she would have access whenever she was ready. She thanked me, and then I didn't hear from her again until the night before she died.

  "I was surprised when she called and even more so when she asked if I was free for dinner the following evening. I was suspicious since it was such an about-face, you know? But I met her for dinner anyway and all she could talk about was you—that's how I knew who you were when you came to see me at the dealership. She said she had proof that Alyssa didn't kill herself and she wanted me to hear it, but the whole thing was freaking me out. I told her I couldn't handle what she was saying, and then I left. I know that was really rude of me, but she looked so much like Alyssa, and seeing her there, talking this crazy talk, I just couldn't handle it, so I left."

  Again, my lie detector remained silent. He was telling the truth, "So what did you do between the time you left the restaurant and the time you got home?" I needed to know this one last piece of the puzzle.

  "I was really upset when I left the restaurant. I missed Alyssa so much right then, so I went around to all of our favorite places. I drove to our favorite restaurant, then to the movie theater, and the park— a long trip down memory lane. I wanted to connect with her. So that's where I was, and by the time I got home it was midnight, and I bumped into my neighbor. I guess he saw how upset I was, and so now I'm in here."

  We looked at each other through the Plexiglas for a long moment. We both knew he didn't belong here, and I hesitated before speaking again, unsure I could deliver on the promise I was about to make. Finally I worked up the nerve and said, "Marco, I believe you. And somehow, some way, I'm going to get you out of here."

  At that moment a buzzer sounded and several guards stepped forward from behind the inmates, indicating that visiting time was over. As Marco stood up, I thought of something and asked quickly, "Marco, what's the name of the storage place?"

  "Millpond Storage," he answered. "Over on Franklin by Northwestern Highway."

  But before I could ask anything else, he'd been shuffled away.

  At twelve forty-five I was winding down Old Woodward Avenue in downtown Birmingham. Birmingham is a town I'm uncomfortably familiar with. I grew up here with my parents and went to school here.

  The small city borders Royal Oak, but the energy and texture here is woven of completely different thread. Snooty is the only acceptable attitude in Birmingham, an enclave of wealth that hugs its larger, less opulent neighbor to the south with all the warmth of an evil stepmother.

  In Birmingham, the women are maintained, the men are greedily lustful, and the children are named after high-end automobiles. You are just as likely to run into a Bentley, Mercedes, Porsche, and Lexus walking on the sidewalk as you are cruising the downtown streets.

  I had no love for the town as most of my memories were uncomfortable ones of being ostracized for my gifts and being looked askance at for my fashion tastes. I had never fit in here and never wanted to.

  So now I was driving the main strip through downtown, with an ever-increasing sneer on my face as people glanced sideways at my frugal and outdated choice of transportation. I passed small shops carrying fine china, soft linens, couture fashions, and gourmet foods that I couldn't afford.

  I turned left onto Merrill and miraculously found a parking space with a little time left on the meter. I got out, poked another buck fifty into the meter, which netted me all of one hour, and hurried to the address I'd scribbled on my bit of paper. I walked into a two-story office building and up a marble staircase, passing expensive oil paintings with gilded frames.

  Pushing through the wooden door of suite number two, I entered a richly decorated lobby, with cranberry wallpaper, plush leather love seats, glossy end tables and expensive magazines. I walked forward to the receptionist who sat behind a half wall, eyeing me expectantly. "Miss Cooper?" she asked.

  "Jeannette?" I answered.

  "Mr. Gish will see you in just a moment. Please take a seat."

  Even though her words were polite, I could feel the ice falling from her like so much arctic wind. I sat down obediently and waited. Within five minutes I was told to come through the doorway, and Jeannette led me down a short hallway to a magnificent office, where a giant bear of a man stepped around his desk to greet me with outstretched hand.

  Parker Gish was at least six five, with tanned olive skin, dark brown eyes and salt-and-pepper hair. He wore a custom-made suit of fine black silk and a tie that looked like it had been woven out of gold. His legs were long, his shoes were shined and his mouth held itself in a permanent grin. I liked him immediately.

  "Miss Cooper, it's nice to meet you," he said.

  "Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Gish," I said as my hand was swallowed by his.

  "Please, call me Parker," he said and gestured toward a leather chair.

  As I sat down, I took in his office. The wall behind Parker was one gigantic window of tinted glass, lending a voyeuristic aspect to the comings and goings of the downtown area. Parker's desk was a massive block of carved wood, with small leaves and berries expertly trimming the sides and corners. Expensive oil paintings hung in stylish groupings along one of the deep navy blue walls. To the right of the paintings was an enormous bookcase that housed row upon row of legal reference texts.

  I could feel the richness of the carpet tickling my toes over the edge of my sandals, and I seriously considered hiring Parker for something just so I could visit this office.

  Parker took his seat and pulled out a
legal pad, preparing for our meeting. I felt a wave of guilt as I realized I'd have to come clean with this man, and in a flash of uncertainty I wondered what his reaction would be. "So, Miss Cooper, you knew Allison Pierce?"

  "Please, call me Abby. And actually, I did know Allison but not well. In fact, that's really why I'm here today."

  "Yes?" he said expectantly.

  "You see … uh … the truth of the matter is that I really don't need your assistance with an estate," I said, my nervousness making me stammer out my words.

  "I see," he said, holding that mocking grin for my benefit.

  "Allison Pierce was also a client of mine. I'm a psychic intuitive."

  I waited for him to laugh or throw me out of his office, but to my surprise he simply said, "Yes. Allison mentioned you."

  "I'm sorry? She mentioned me?"

  "Yes. I got a call from her about a week before she died, a week or so after her visit to you and she was very excited about what you'd told her. She was a real fan of yours," he said kindly.

  That sentence cut me like a knife. Allison had spoken nicely about me to a lot of people, and I had been awful to her. My guilt was back, flogging my ego with self-recrimination. "Yes, I've heard that from a few other people," I said and looked down at my hands.

  Obviously confused by my sudden mood change, Parker offered, "My wife reads her horoscope every day. It's been part of her morning ritual for years now, and she swears by it."

  I smiled at that. This man had no idea what I was about but his ignorance on the topic was somehow innocent and sweet, not offensive. "Anyway, as I was saying, the police have asked me to offer them any assistance I can in apprehending Allison's killer, and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about Allison."

  "This is about the cassette tape, isn't it?"

  "How did you know about that?"

  "I talked to the police a week ago. They filled me in on the details and pumped me for information. I'm not sure what else I can tell you. Besides, I thought they already arrested a suspect. Marco Ammarretti, I believe, has been charged with her death. Correct?"

  Parker Gish was a shrewd poker player. His manner was warm, even fuzzy, but behind that beguiling façade turned the gears of a very keen mind. I had no doubt he was worth every penny of his two hundred fifty an hour. "Yes, Marco's been arrested," I said, "but I'm coming at this from a different angle."

  "You don't think he did it."

  "No, I don't."

  Parker looked at me intently for a minute, no doubt assessing my mental acumen. I was pretty sure he didn't believe in psychic phenomena but was perhaps that rare individual who suspends judgment until he's investigated it fully for himself. Finally his grin widened and he said, "To be honest Abby, I don't believe he did it either."

  This surprised me and I asked, "Really? Why?"

  "I met Marco at Alyssa's funeral. That man was devastated. I know Allison blamed him for Alyssa's passing, but then something odd happened," he said.

  "What?" I asked.

  "Allison was originally trying to contest her sister's will. She didn't want Marco to have anything, and she called me to find out how to go about doing that. I advised her against it, but she was insistent. I was stuck in the middle, as both girls were my clients, and I represented them in two different ways. The bulk of their money was held in the trust set up by their parents, and as executor of the trust I oversaw this for both of them. However, they had each drawn up separate last will and testaments, and these I administered individually.

  "If Allison wanted to contest Alyssa's will she was going to have to find a different attorney to do it because my interests were intermixed. About a week before she was killed, Allison called me and said that she no longer wished to fight Alyssa's will, that she was happy Marco would be taken care of. Then she started talking about you, and how, at first, she thought you were talking about Marco but then she realized you were talking about someone else. I'll admit that I didn't have a clue what she was talking about, and I was worried that she might have bigger psychological issues than just getting over the loss of her sister. I remember making a suggestion that she try and get some counseling to help her get through her grief, but she didn't want to hear it and honestly that was the extent of our conversation."

  "And you told this to the police?" I asked, annoyed that Dutch hadn't filled me in on this little tidbit.

  "Yes, of course."

  I took a deep breath and mentally counted to ten. "Are you all right?" Parker asked.

  "Fine," I said, recovering. "Sorry, just got distracted for a moment. Now can you tell me a little bit about Alyssa and Allison's background? Like how long you had represented them, and anything about their past that comes to mind, as long as it doesn't interfere with your attorney client privilege here of course," I added.

  Parker waved his hand like he was shooing a fly. "Privilege is waived once the client has died, and since I don't represent Mr. Ammarretti, I can talk freely about the girls' estate. Let's see," he said rubbing his chin and thinking back, "The girls came to me about six years ago. They had just come up from Ohio, and they were living at a hotel at the time."

  "A hotel?"

  "Yes. I know it sounds strange, but they said they didn't want to rent; they wanted to find the right home and purchase it for cash. Their parents' trust had been set up by an attorney in Cleveland, and I took over the estate. Within a week or two they found the house they owned up until their deaths, and I worked with the real estate agent to purchase it for them. The girls were very private about all their financial transactions. They insisted on keeping the house in the name of their parents' trust, which had an odd name of its own."

  "Oh?" I asked, curiously.

  "Yes, the girls' parents had formed the trust fund years earlier and named it after the college where they met. The 'Cornell Trust' was the official name for the girls' financial holdings."

  "Hmmm," I said, my mind spinning with this new revelation.

  Parker nodded and continued, "The girls also asked me to administer the care of any property-related financial obligations, so I was the one who made sure that their property taxes, insurance and water bills got paid. I also set up auto pays for their utilities and made sure they had a weekly cash allowance."

  Something struck me about that and I asked, "You mean you took care of all their bills?"

  "Neither girl seemed very interested in keeping track of their accounts, so yes, for a fee I did it for them."

  "So let me get this straight. The house wasn't technically in their names."

  "Correct. It was in the name of the trust."

  "And no bills were in their names," I said, getting excited.

  "Correct—also in the name of the trust."

  "Did they have any checking or savings accounts?"

  "Each girl had a debit card that was attached to the liquid cash of the trust."

  "Didn't that strike you as odd?" I asked.

  "What?" asked Parker, not following me.

  "These two sisters move up from Ohio, live in a hotel, buy a house that's not in their name, hide all their financial records behind the name of their parents' trust and avoid any public trace of themselves for six years."

  Parker looked at me curiously. "You may be on to something, Abby. I remember Allison telling me once that she needed to go to Ohio for a quick visit. She said she needed to check on some property her parents owned and to renew her driver's license. I thought it was very odd indeed that Allison wanted to retain her Ohio driver's license, but she's my client, and I have a few others who are a little on the eccentric side."

  "Very weird, but then Allison had a job, right? So she would have had some W-2's in her name."

  Parker gave me an odd look, then said, "Actually, no."

  "No?"

  "She worked part-time at the Art Institute as an instructor, but she wouldn't let them pay her. She told them she didn't need the IRS headache every year. They never paid her a dime."


  "So as far as you know, there were no public records that would place the girls in Michigan at all," I said, amazed that they had taken such measures to hide any trace of themselves.

  "Just one," Parker said, looking at me with meaning. "Alyssa's application for her marriage license last May."

  Cold chills rippled down my backbone, making me shudder. It made sense. The girls had been on the run. They had successfully hidden from someone for six years, and then Alyssa thought she was in the clear and applied for a marriage license.

  Parker seemed to have the same thought, as his smile faded for the first time since meeting me. "You will be careful, Abby, won't you?" he asked unexpectedly.

  "Yes, of course," I said quickly. "I think I've taken enough of your time, Parker. Thank you so much for all your assistance."

  "You're welcome. Will we see you on Saturday?"

  "Yes," I said, as I stood. "I'll be there—oh, and by the way," I went on as a thought and an image flashed in my head, "Maui or Kauai?"

  "Pardon me?" he asked, startled.

  "Hawaii. Are you going to Maui or Kauai in November?"

  Parker looked at me with eyebrows lowered and a disbelieving smirk on his face. "Uh, both," he answered, sounding slightly unsure.

  "It's a surprise for your wife, isn't it?"

  "Have you been talking to my secretary?" he asked, trying to figure out how I'd gotten my info.

  "Jeannette? I'd have better luck getting blood from a turnip." I said, then added quickly, "Your wife is going to love it. It's for something special, isn't it, some big anniversary?"

  "The big three-oh," he said as he shook my hand, looking a little awed.

  "When you look at time-shares, go for the one on Kauai with the white stucco and brown shutters. You can trust that one will be a good deal. Also you need to see a doctor about your knee. The arthritis is really starting to set in, and you shouldn't have to grin and bear it—that's what corrective surgery is for."