Abby Cooper, Psychic Eye

by Victoria Laurie

  "The big bad wolf," replied a husky baritone.

  Snickering, I opened the door and smiled, genuinely glad to see Dutch. "Hey, sailor, just get into port?"

  "Yes ma'am, and I thought I'd bring by a little present," he said, holding up a brown paper bag that looked like it had possibilities. I smiled at him in the doorway, wondering what he had in the bag.

  He surveyed me for a moment and said, "You look better. How ya feeling?"

  "Better. What's in the goody bag?" I asked hopefully.

  "Ice cream."

  "What kind?" I'm particular.

  "Vanilla."

  "Oh," I said, disappointed. "Story of my life."

  "What?"

  "Nothing. It's just that I'm really in the mood for some chocolate."

  "Got that too, sweet-hot," he said, doing Bogey and holding up a container of fudge topping.

  "Well, are you going to make me a dish of that, or do I have to whistle?" I asked, doing Bacall.

  "Go sit on the porch and I'll be right with you," he said, stepping past me into my living room and coming up short.

  I was closing the door and as I turned back toward him, I had to laugh out loud at the expression on his face. "Holy cow! How?" he asked, sweeping his hand in a sideways motion to indicate the room.

  "Cat," I said. No further explanation necessary.

  "Ah," he said, nodding. "Yeah, that woman's got moxie. I remember when I first met her. I just wanted to get out of her way."

  We both laughed. That was my sister. "Come on, I'll show you the rest." I took Dutch on a tour of the new furnishings, and he politely whistled at all the new decor. We moved out to the porch after he'd scooped us both some ice cream and liberally applied the fudge. We sat down at the new table, close to each other, just enjoying the company.

  We talked about little things for a while. Dutch had been wrapping up the case on Frank Milford; the press had run wild with the story and Dutch asked if I'd seen the article in the paper yet with the headline POLICE PSYCHIC ATTACKED BY SERIAL KILLER!

  I had.

  The article had favored me with all sorts of abilities I'd never known I had, including levitation and bending spoons. The reporter had gone so far as to look up several clients, who had all testified to my accuracy and said they weren't surprised I was working with the police to solve crimes. Dutch had been quoted too, saying only that he had been able to glean important clues from my intuition that had in fact helped lead the police to Frank Milford.

  Cat, who had rearranged all of my appointments for the next several weeks, had even gone so far as to recruit a fellow psychic, Kendal Adams, to handle the overflow while I recovered. Kendal was a good friend of mine, and I wondered what I'd owe him for agreeing to work double time over the next few weeks.

  Meanwhile, the deluge of phone calls into my office generated from the article was keeping Cat busy. I'd only recently found out she'd flown in her own personal assistant to help with the flood of new business. According to Cat, I was now booked solid for the rest of my life.

  "Soooo," I asked, stirring the last of my melted ice cream, "are we going to talk about Fenia?"

  Dutch grimaced. "I knew that was coming. Yeah, okay, Abby, what do you want to know?"

  I looked at him like he was stupid, but gave him credit for perhaps just being simple. "Uh, how about you tell me how it is that you're still married?"

  "Okay, I can see that I'd better start from the beginning," he sighed. I nodded encouragingly. "As you know, I was in the marines many moons ago, and I was stationed in Holland for a couple of years before coming back stateside. That's actually how I got my nickname. I speak fluent Dutch." He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts, then he continued. "Anyway, I met Fenia, who was born in Holland, while I was stationed there, and we dated on and off for a while. A couple of years after I came back to the States and after I'd left the service I got a call from her saying that she really wanted to come for a visit. I wasn't seeing anyone at the time, so I told her she was welcome. She was only supposed to stay for a couple of weeks, and she ended up staying a year. I was never in love with her, and I know she was never in love with me, and just about the time I was hinting that she needed to go back home she told me she was pregnant."

  There was a long pause and I waited, holding my breath and stirring rings in the bottom of my bowl.

  Dutch continued, "Well, I was really caught off guard by the pregnancy thing, and I guess I panicked. I ended up popping the question to her and of course she jumped on it. We got married in Vegas about two weeks later. So then a few months go by, and I'm thinking, 'Wow, for a pregnant woman she really is hiding it well,' and then a few more months go by and it finally dawns on me that she's not pregnant and that this whole thing was just a way for her to stay in the country. We talked about it, and she finally came clean and begged me not to divorce her. Apparently there's some INS thing that states that an alien resident who gets married and claims citizenship that way can't divorce for three years without getting deported."

  "So how long ago was all this?" I asked.

  "Well, we got married eight years ago."

  "You have got to be kidding me!"

  "I know it looks bad, Abby, but she left the house pretty much after I agreed not to divorce her, and I really haven't seen that much of her since. I figured that when I was ready to commit to someone again I would file and that would be that."

  "And when do you think that will be?" I demanded a little too harshly. I was angry, or jealous, or something.

  "Yesterday."

  "I'm sorry?" I asked, making eye contact with him for the first time.

  "I filed yesterday. It should be final in about three months, and I've had a long talk with Fenia. She's not welcome in my home or my life ever again."

  "I see," I said, a little too stunned to say anything else.

  "No, you don't, but you will," Dutch answered, and reached over to squeeze my hand.

  I squeezed his back, looking him full in those midnight blues, a silent truce growing between us, and the first strong threads of trust finally taking root.

  After another hour of talking, we got up and moved into the kitchen to deposit our bowls in the kitchen sink. Thinking of something suddenly, I asked, "Hey, Dutch?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Where's Milo been? I haven't seen him since the day you guys left for Toledo."

  "Oh, yeah. He's in Hawaii," Dutch answered, a mischievous smile playing across his lips.

  "Hawaii?"

  "Yeah, and he had a special message for you."

  "For me?"

  "Yeah, he said, 'Tell Abby thanks for the numbers.' "

  "What numbers?" I asked.

  "The lotto numbers. Milo won the Michigan lotto last Friday."

  "No joke?!"

  "No joke."

  "Damn!"

  "Damn toot'n, Abby," and with that he carefully pulled me close, stroked my cheek, then kissed me softly.

  "Mmmmm," he said as our kiss deepened.

  "You like?" I giggled, relishing his skilled lips.

  "You taste like a hot fudge sundae," he mumbled against my lips. "It's yummy."

  I laughed and answered, "And like I've told you before, Detective, you have excellent taste!"