Double, Double, Nothing But Trouble (A Mellow Summers Paranormal Mystery Book 10)

by Janet McNulty

  “I’m going to have a look,” I replied.

  “I’m coming with you,” said Greg.

  “No,” I stopped him, “you should stay here. If we all go over there, it will attract attention. I’ll only be a minute. I just want to know if our suspicions are correct.”

  “All right,” said Greg. “Be quick. The longer we’re parked here, the more attention we’ll attract.”

  I jumped out of the car, wrapping my coat tight around me as the sleet seemed to soak right through it, and hurried across the street, doing my best not to slip and slide on the thin layer of ice, blending into the small crowd that had gathered. As I watched the police dart about in the freezing rain—none too pleased either—I saw that Jackie’s guess had been correct; the little hobby store had been broken into this time. Detective Shorts stood in the rain, his coat soaked just like everyone here, directing the officers and questioning the owner of the store.

  “Was anything taken, do you know?” I asked the man next to me in an innocent tone, hoping that I came across as a curious bystander.

  “Blundering little waif,” said the man, “the film is safe.”

  Huh? Did he just speak in a rhyme? I turned and looked at the man next to me, jumping back in surprise. It was the same man that I had seen loitering around. Sure, I had seen him before since I started working at the Candle Shoppe, but he never stuck around, and I don’t think I had seen him this many times in just a few days, much less hear him speak. A few taunts and jeers from some teenagers on their way to the school bus stop peeled my attention away from the man standing next to me. When I looked back, he had gone.

  That was odd. What was it with this guy and disappearing so quickly? And why was it he only showed up to watch the police conduct another investigation into another break-in? Before I had time to think about it, a honking horn pulled me from my musing. Greg and Jackie were ready to go. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to get away with searching the Candle Shoppe on my own, I started for the car, but as I took a second step, Detective Shorts called my name.

  “Miss Summers!” He hurried away from the entrance of the hobby store and shoved his way through the crowd to me. “Miss Summers, I need to speak with you.”

  “I wasn’t snooping,” I said. “I was just coming to work when I noticed all of this.”

  Detective Shorts gave me a disbelieving look. Oh, yeah, he knew me too well. “Let’s just say I actually believe you, even though I had talked to Mr. Stilton about ten minutes ago and he informed me that he had decided to not open today.”

  He caught me. “What can I do for you?” I asked him, changing the subject and curious as to why he singled me out of the crowd, since it was obvious that he wasn’t there to chastise me.

  Detective Shorts took my arm and led me away from the others to a somewhat empty area of the sidewalk, next to waist high plant boxes with the shriveled remains of the flowers that used to thrive in them. He showed me his phone with another article posted about me online by none other than Jillian Modsen. Oh no, I thought, this could not be good.

  Robberies of Local Businesses. Where is Our Psychic?

  Jillian Modsen

  The past two days has seen two break-ins of locally owned stores (The Candle Shoppe and the Flower Boutique) which have the police baffled as, rumor has it, nothing was taken. The detective on the case, Detective Shorts, was seen talking to Mellow Summers, our resident psychic, on the mornings that both stores were found ransacked. One wonders how much help the self-proclaimed psychic will be since she failed to predict that her own place of employment would be targeted by the thief/thieves.

  Though, there has been speculation that perhaps Mellow Summers herself is behind these break-ins. She has been seen at both places where the incidents took place. Indeed, since the two break-ins, witnesses have spotted Miss Summers talking to the detective in charge, though it is still unknown if she has been brought in as a consultant, or is a prime suspect.

  If another incident should occur, can the police truly call themselves responsible by consulting with a psychic who cannot tell them about the robberies before they happen?

  Detective Shorts took his phone before I had a chance to smash it on the icy ground in disgust. That little… What did I ever do to her?

  “That was posted at around four this morning, online, and printed in this morning’s local paper.”

  “Why is she doing this?”

  “Miss Summers,” said the detective, “I urge you to be careful.”

  “I never even spoke to her yesterday!”

  Detective Shorts pulled me further away from the crowd, urging me to keep my voice low and to not let my anger get the better of me. “I never accused you of doing so, but this woman has fixated on you.”

  “But why?”

  “There have been cases of individuals claiming to be mediums or psychics, but were later proven to be frauds merely wanting their 15 minutes of fame.”

  “So she thinks I’m a fake?”

  “I think she intends to put the idea in people’s minds that you are and make a name for herself. This Jillian Modsen is a shrewd woman who wants to make her mark on the world, starting with you. I want you to be careful. This kind of notoriety puts a target on your back.”

  “Target?”

  “Yes. Not everyone is open to the idea of mediums and psychics, but also, someone who might have a grudge to settle, because of a case you helped solve, may get the idea to do something about it. I think you ought to not go out as much.”

  I lowered my head, mulling over Detective Shorts’ concerns, wishing that I had never met Jillian Modsen. “Do you think I’m a fake?” I asked.

  “No… I…” Detective Shorts’ voice trailed off as his eyes drifted away from me and to a slow moving black sedan. I didn’t think much of it, figuring that the driver was just being careful, considering all of the people that had gathered to watch the police and assuage their curiosity; but Detective Shorts kept his eyes fixed on the car and the driver’s side window that rolled down.

  Before I could react, Detective Shorts grabbed me, flinging me to the frozen cement of the sidewalk, covering me with his body as three shots rang out. The glass of the store window above us shattered, raining shards of would-be-knives around us. Squealing tires filled the air, their high pitch hurting my ears, as the black sedan sped off. I didn’t get the license plate. I hoped someone had. The distinct sound of sirens cut through the commotion when an officer reached his car and took off after the sedan.

  Screams surrounded us as people shrieked in fear and ran off, afraid that they might be targeted next and ignoring the detective and I as we lay on the ground. Once I had made certain that the sedan would not return, I shuffled out from underneath Detective Shorts. He didn’t move.

  “Detective?” I said, shaking him. My coat felt wet. I pulled it tight and found blobs of blood on its bottom. I didn’t feel any pain so it wasn’t mine. “Detective?”

  As I turned him over onto his back, I saw the blood on his partially open coat. Adrenaline and panic rushed through me as I pulled out my phone, fumbling with it and dropping it on the wet sidewalk. Just as I started dialing 911, two officers reached us, one speaking into his radio and the other pulling me away from the detective.

  “Mel!”

  Both Jackie and Greg screamed my name, running up to me, but the officers pushed them back, while three others arrived. “I’m sorry, but you can’t be here,” said one.

  “She’s my girlfriend!” shouted Greg, ramming his way through, but two more officers seized him and held him back.

  “Sir, I need you to calm down. Please! You need to let us and the paramedics do their jobs.”

  Jackie grabbed Greg’s wrist and pulled him back, calming him down. She knew that there was nothing they could do, except let the paramedics, when they arrived, do their work. I caught her eye while she and Greg stepped away, hoping that she got my message: I was fine. She nodded in response.

  “Ma’am. Ma’a
m,” said the officer that had pulled me away from Detective Shorts, “are you hurt?”

  I shook my head.

  “Are you sure?”

  I nodded. While the officer looked away for a second, I sent a quick text to Greg’s and Jackie’s phone (I’m fine.), reinforcing that I was okay physically. Jackie sent me a happy face, while Greg watched me with a worried expression.

  The police officer that had asked me if I was okay, led me to the side, telling me to stay there until the ambulance arrived. I obeyed. My mind flooded with questions and different scenarios, each worse than the one before, as I watched, stone-faced, the scene unfold before me, the only noise in my head being the sirens of the ambulance as it pulled up.

  Chapter 7

  I sat in the waiting room at the hospital with both Jackie and Greg seated on each side of me, all of us quiet. What could we say? The paramedics had me ride in the ambulance with Detective Shorts—Greg and Jackie followed—to make sure that I wasn’t injured as well. I thought back to how they worked on Detective Shorts, but he remained unconscious, while one paramedic asked me questions, doing his best to be patient with my inaudible whispers for answers. Once we had arrived at the hospital, I was checked over by a doctor, while the detective was wheeled into surgery, and cleared. It turned out that the bullets missed me and the detective took the full impact. All I suffered was few bumps and bruises.

  Detective Shorts had no immediate family in the area, so I decided to wait in the waiting room. Someone ought to wait for him. I replayed the incident over and over in my mind. Why would someone try to kill Detective Shorts? If the attempt had been connected to the break-ins, it didn’t make sense, since nothing had been taken, there were no prints, and the police had no leads. Taking a potshot at a detective was the surest way to make sure you got caught, if it was, in fact, the one who was responsible for the break-ins who did the shooting.

  And where was Rachel? Why wasn’t she there? Why didn’t she stop the whole thing from happening? Don’t blame her, Mel, I scolded myself, Rachel can’t know everything. But I was curious as to why she had rushed off before we left for the Candle Shoppe.

  “Here,” said Greg, breaking the silence.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “The information you wanted me to look up. I had Jack do some digging and he said that this should be Tom’s number. I know this isn’t really a good time, but Rachel isn’t here right now and you said you wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “It’s fine,” I said, taking the slip of paper with the number on it and shoving it in my pocket.

  The doctor walked into the waiting room. We all rose to our feet in nervous anticipation.

  “He’s out of surgery,” said the doctor. “The bullet hit no major arteries and barring any post-surgery complications, I expect him to make a full recovery. He is still unconscious, but if you wish to see him, you can. The nurse, here, will take you to him.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” said Greg.

  The nurse led us into his hospital room and I cringed, seeing him lying there hooked up to tubes. I placed the bag of his personal effects on the tray next to his bed, A nurse had given them to me and I accepted them for safekeeping. Who else was going to hang onto his stuff?

  “Someone should stay here with him,” I said. “It wouldn’t be right not to.”

  “I’ll stay,” Greg volunteered. “You should go home and rest.”

  “I don’t think I can,” I said.

  “Come on, Mel,” said Jackie, “you’ve got to be tired.”

  More shaken up than tired. I didn’t think I could sleep, even if I wanted to. I shivered. Greg wrapped me in his arms and held me close. Now that the adrenaline from earlier had worn off, everything hit me at once and my body felt cold.

  “Here”—Greg handed Jackie his car keys—“take her home.”

  “What about you?” I asked.

  “I’ll take a cab if I need to, but for now, I’ll stay here until he wakes up.”

  “Come on, hun,” said Jackie, urging me out the door. “There isn’t anything else you can do here.”

  I allowed myself to be led outside. She and Greg were both right: there was nothing else I could do at the moment and I was in no position to do anything anyway. As we walked into the main lobby of the hospital, we met a familiar face that I did not want to see: Jillian.

  “Mel,” she greeted with a pasty smile.

  “Only my friends call me that,” I spat.

  “There’s no need to get nasty,” said Jillian.

  “No need?” I said, but Jackie cut in.

  “Leave her alone! How dare you write those articles about her. Do you delight in destroying someone’s life?”

  “You brought it upon yourself,” said Jillian.

  “Excuse me?” I said. “I was just trying to help you and you stabbed me in the back.”

  “You’re the one who claims to be psychic,” said Jillian.

  “I never made any such…” I began.

  “Get away from us,” Jackie’s voice took on a dangerous tone and pushed me towards the door.

  “I noticed that your abilities failed to save your detective friend,” said Jillian.

  I turned to say something, but at that precise moment, Rachel popped into the room, shoving Jillian out of her way, and barreled into me, embracing me in a giant hug.

  “MEL!” she yelled, causing a few of the hospital staff to look in our direction, while almost knocking me off my feet from the force of her impact. “I just found out! I can’t believe… are you all right? You must be totally shaken up.”

  Jillian watched me with interest as Rachel turned me about, looking me over; though, it looked as though I was being manipulated by thin air.

  “Rachel,” I whispered, nodding in Jillian’s direction.

  “So this is the little tramp that’s been writing all of those dishonest articles about you.” Rachel crossed her arms and looked Jillian over, not that Jillian could see her. “What’s your problem with my friend, huh?”

  Jillian’s face indicated that she either hadn’t heard Rachel, or didn’t want to acknowledge that she had.

  “What is your problem with me, Jillian?” I asked. “What did I ever do to you?”

  “Nothing personally,” answered Jillian, “but I know your type.”

  “Her type?” said Jackie; her eyes narrowed.

  “I’ve run into people like you,” said Jillian, closing the distance between us. “You pretend to have special mediumistic abilities, preying upon the innocent, but you’re nothing special. You’re no psychic, Mellow Summers, and I intend to prove it.”

  “You don’t want to go down this road,” I said.

  “Is that a threat?” asked Jillian. “You know, someone tampered with my car soon after the first article I wrote was published.”

  “That’s it,” said Jackie, tearing me away from Jillian. “We’re leaving.”

  “You’re a fraud!” shouted Jillian after us. “And I’m going to prove…” Rachel shoved Jillian to the floor, silencing her. Jillian glanced around, but could find no explanation for what had happened, and Jackie and I were several yards away, heading towards the parking lot.

  “I don’t like her,” said Rachel, so we both could hear her, as we climbed into Greg’s car.

  “You and me both,” Jackie replied through gritted teeth.

  “Where were you this morning?” I asked Rachel once we started down the road.

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  “But…” I began.

  “Later,” said Rachel, cutting me off. “You need some rest first.”

  And that was that. Rachel and Jackie were in agreement and there was nothing I could do to change their minds. Once we got back to the apartment, they put me in bed and I fell asleep as my body finally relaxed from the day’s horrifying events.

  Chapter 8

  Nightmares plagued me as I tossed and turned in a vain attempt to sleep, dreaming about what had happened a
nd about hearing the gunfire and being pushed to the ground with Detective Shorts’ dead weight. I woke up, bolting upright in my bed, sweat covering me, making my pajamas cling to my skin. As I tried to calm my breathing, I realized I wasn’t alone.

  “You must be having some terrible dreams to make you wake up like that,” said Rachel, standing in the far corner of my room.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, not trying to be rude, but was curious.

  “Jackie thought that someone should keep an eye on you, but she was yawning so much that I told her to go to bed. I’d ask you what you were dreaming about, but I can probably guess.”

  “Did anyone see the car?” I asked.

  “No, though Greg got a partial license plate, which he gave to the cops.”

  “What did Jillian mean when she said that someone had tampered with her car?” I asked.

  Rachel shifted, avoiding my gaze and my question.

  “Rachel?”

  “Well…” began Rachel, “she had a little, teeny, tiny bit of car trouble.”

  “And that bit of car trouble had some help, didn’t it?”

  “Well she deserved it!”

  “Rachel…”

  “I’m not sorry!”

  “What did you do to her car, anyway?” I asked.

  “Sugar in the gas tank.”

  A part of me laughed. That would ruin a car.

  “By the way, I owe you a bag of sugar.”

  “Jackie was wondering what had happened to it.”

  “And while she waited for the tow truck,” continued Rachel, speaking about Jillian, “I threw snowballs at her. If she doesn’t believe in ghosts now, she will by the time I’m through with her.”

  I gave her a reproachful look, though a part of me was pleased that she had done that, since Jillian had made me a laughing stock around town with her scathing articles.

  “You should go back to sleep,” said Rachel.

  “I don’t think I can.”

  “Tell you what, you lay down and close your eyes while I go get you some warm milk. That was my mother’s cure-all for sleeplessness. If you are still awake when I get back, then I’ll let you get up and I’ll accompany you on your investigation.”