Parker And The Gypsy

by Susan Carroll

  Better get down to the business he came for before the damned mutt started answering him back. Mike fed several dimes and a nickel into the meter before turning to the building behind him. City hall. A place where he finally hoped to have some success with his inquiries. So far his luck hadn’t been so good. He hadn’t been able to locate a soul who had ever heard of the late Mamie Patrick or her kid. No child welfare bureau, no adoption agency, no family, friends, not even anyone who’d worked with her.

  He had found a woman who’d once waited tables out at the Pine Top Inn, but that had been after Mamie’s time. She had, however, imparted to Mike the startling information that the old caretaker, Albert Kiefer was still alive. The fellow must be in his eighties by now. Unfortunately Mrs. Mcaffee didn’t know exactly where Albert was living. The last she’d heard, he owned a little place somewhere just outside Aurora Falls.

  Which led Mike on his quest to city hall. The old geezer might have chosen to cut himself off from the world, no longer owning a phone or a motor vehicle, but not even a hermit could escape taxes.

  It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for among the musty records in the building’s basement. One Albert Kiefer had been faithfully paying property taxes on his small patch of ground for the past twenty-five years. If Mike was lucky, he could find this place and be grilling Kiefer about Mamie and her kid, all before lunch. He only hoped the old guy’s memory was still good.

  Mike quickly jotted down the address and headed back up to the building’s main floor, his sneakers thudding on the concrete steps. The place had a real institutional feel about it. Mike would have wagered his last cent it was a converted school building.

  The smell of chalk dust and sweaty gym socks still hung in the air. As Mike paused by one of the white basin drinking fountains to swallow a few mouthfuls of tepid water, the door to one of the former classrooms swung open. Mike half expected the recess bell to clang, but it wasn’t a mob of unruly school kids who spilled out. Rather a sedate bunch of middle-aged men wearing conservative suits and an air of self-importance.

  Some of the local bigwigs, Mike guessed, winding down an early-morning council meeting. A little coffee, a lot of jawing and a good time was had by all.

  Except maybe for the woman who trailed after the men. While the collection of suits disappeared down the hall, she lingered near the door, a pale little thing in a pale pink suit.

  Familiar somehow and yet not familiar until sunlight skating through the window outlined her delicate profile.

  Sara.

  Mike almost choked and spewed out his mouthful of water. His first panicked impulse was to dive for cover, anywhere to escape Sara’s uncanny gaze. What the hell was she doing here? Why wasn’t she in her shop selling psychic doodads?

  But although Mike stood frozen just at the end of the same hall, she didn’t even glance in his direction. His gypsy lady was looking most ungypsylike in a tailored suit, her rioting mob of golden curls tamed into a tight bun. She appeared miserably uncomfortable and out of place as she was corraled into conversation with a tall woman who also emerged from the classroom.

  Conversation, hell! The tall broad appeared to be doing most of the talking, and for some reason he couldn’t say, Mike took an instant dislike to her.

  Maybe because she was the sort of female that had always turned him off—too thin and angular, no soft curves, her platinum-colored hair styled as stiff as a wad of cotton candy, her skin perfectly bronzed with a country-club tan. And maybe he just didn’t like the way she was in Sara’s face, wagging her diamond ring like a rattler shaking its tail.

  Mike should have been glad of the diversion. He reminded himself that the one thing he wanted above all else was to avoid running into Sara again. But the more he caught of the conversation drifting down the hall, the more he felt his hackles start to rise.

  The woman had a muddy aura. Sara could feel it oppressing her the longer Elaine Jorgensen droned on. She was the kind of person Sara had never understood or known how to deal with. The kind that felt the world had a right to its own opinion as long as it matched with Elaine Jorgensen’s. No tolerance for anything unique or different, just the immediate urge to crush it. In another time and place, Sara believed that Elaine would have been the first to point a finger in Sara’s direction. and cry “Witch.”

  “...and you must appreciate our point of view, Miss Holyfield,” Elaine was insisting.

  “I always try to understand everyone’s point of view,” Sara said quietly. “But—”

  “I founded the redevelopment council to give Aurora Falls a much-needed face-lift. No one wants to close your shop down exactly.” Elaine’s patronizing tone sent Sara quite the opposite message. “Frankly, for your own good, you simply need to try to be a bit more...upmarket.”

  Sara’s grip tightened on her handbag, hanging on to both her pride and her patience. “My great-aunt successfully operated the Omniscent Eye for years, just as it is.”

  “Er—yes. But frankly, my dear, your great aunt was a wee bit—shall we say—eccentric?”

  Shall we just say crazy and be done with it, Sara thought bitterly.

  Elaine’s lips stretched in her version of a coaxing smile. “Your family loyalty is touching, Miss Holy field, but you can’t be doing all that well. We’re attracting a better class of tourist here, the kind that doesn’t want odd books and cheap glass necklaces. And frankly, fortune-telling belongs in the carnival not Aurora Falls. No one would blame you if you wanted to sell out and find yourself a decent job. I have always been prepared to make you a very good offer—”

  “Frankly, she’s not the least damn bit interested.”

  The blunt refusal cut Elaine off before Sara could even begin to frame a more tactful response.

  Sara whirled around, coming almost nose to nose with Mike Parker, a soft gasp escaping her. So much for her sixth sense. How could that much solid male have crept up on her without making a sound? And in that shirt, too. Tropical flowers in all the bold, bright colors of a sunset gone insane.

  He loomed behind her, hands planted at his side, lean hips thrust slightly forward in a very aggressive masculine stance. Like a man come looking for trouble and knowing just how to find it, a dangerous glint in his deceptively soft brown eyes.

  For a moment, she felt glad to see him, ridiculously glad, as foolish and flustered as a teenage girl with a hopeless crush on the class bad boy. But as she remembered the way they had last parted, Sara quelled the emotion. Salvaging her dignity, she took a step back, putting breathing space between them.

  Elaine was the first to recover from her shock. Her cold gray eyes raked over Mike, absorbing the details of his shirt with an expressive shudder.

  “And just who might you be, young man, that you presume to speak for Miss Holyfield?” she demanded.

  “Just one of those tacky tourists who likes weird books and cheap glass,” Mike drawled. “And who thinks Sara’s shop is just swell. A great place to go get your aura fluffed up.” He angled a wicked glance at Elaine’s flat figure. “Frankly, you look like you could use it.”

  Elaine stiffened with indignation. Although completely stunned by this unexpected championship, Sara gathered her wits enough to leap into the breach before Mike said anything even more outrageous.

  “Uh, Mrs. Jorgensen, this is my—my—” Sara faltered. What should she call him? Her friend? The detective that she’d hired to poke around in Elaine’s inn behind her back? The man who might have become her lover were it not for the intervention of a ghost?

  Sara felt her face firing red. “This is my...my Michael,” she stammered. “Michael Parker. Mike, this—this is Elaine Jorgensen of Jorgensen’s Realty.

  “You know. The company that’s renovating the old Pine Top Inn,” she added by way of warning, hoping Mike would take the hint to watch what he said. She might as well have saved her breath.

  Mike let out a long low whistle. “Jorgensen’s Realty, huh? The proud owner of Spook Central.” />
  “If you are referring to the story that Pine Top Inn is supposed to be haunted,” Elaine said icily, “that’s nothing but a scurrilous rumor.”

  “Yeah, damned nuisance those rumors. Chasing off contractors and throwing paint cans!” Mike grunted as Sara cut him off the only way she knew how, a desperate jab of her elbow straight to his solar plexus.

  Elaine’s mouth thinned. She made a great show of checking the expensive gold watch banding her wrist.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, Miss Holyfield. But I’m afraid we’ll have to continue this discussion another time.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Mike muttered.

  Doing her best to ignore Mike, Elaine said, “I have so much to do this morning.” She opened the tote bag dangling from her wrist to display a pile of cream-colored envelopes. “The local business association is having its end-of-summer dance again. This year we’re hoping to host it out at the Pine Top Inn when the renovations are finished.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that, either.” Mike chuckled.

  Elaine shot him an arctic look and started to move away, but she was stopped by Mike grabbing the handle of the tote bag. “So why don’t you save the postage and just give Sara hers right now?”

  Because, Sara thought, it was humiliatingly clear that Elaine did not intend for Sara to be invited.

  Caught off guard by Mike’s direct challenge, the woman colored a little and then blustered, “Well, I—I just assumed Miss Holyfield wouldn’t be interested.”

  “Why not? She’s a local businessman—er—woman, isn’t she?”

  “It’s all right, Mike,” Sara insisted in an agony of embarrassment. “I really don’t—”

  But Mike was already diving into Elaine’s tote and helping himself. He dragged out one of the invitations and short of engaging in an undignified struggle to snatch it back, there was little Elaine Jorgensen could do about the matter.

  Glaring at him, she snapped her tote closed and stalked off down the hall. As she marched off, her heels clicked out an angry staccato rhythm. Mike watched with a broad grin.

  No knight who had just successfully defended the honor of his lady love could have looked more smug or pleased with himself. But before she became too entranced by the image, Sara forced herself to remember a few things. One, she wasn’t Mike Parker’s lady love. And two, her chivalrous “knight” was the same man who’d been avoiding her for the past seven days.

  Mike turned to triumphantly hand Sara the envelope. “Here,” he said. “Your invitation to the ball, Cinderella.”

  Sara shook her head, refusing to take it. “How could you do that, Michael?”

  “Do what?”

  “Force Mrs. Jorgensen to give me that invitation. I don’t make a habit of going where I know I’m not wanted.”

  “No? Well, you should try it sometime. It can be a lot of fun.” But when Sara didn’t answer his grin with one of her own, Mike’s smile slowly faded.

  With a disgruntled look, he crushed the invitation, peering around for a trash can. Finding none, he stuffed it into his own pocket. “Sorry for butting in,” he said. “You weren’t actually trying to cut a deal with that—er—Mrs. Jorgensen to sell your store, were you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then why didn’t you just tell her to go to hell?”

  “Because I’ve never been particularly good at that, even with people who deserve it.”

  “Like me?” Mike demanded.

  “I didn’t say that.” But Sara was surprised to discover how much she wanted to, that she was still hurt and, yes, a little angry over the way Mike had walked out on her at the inn that day.

  “What are you doing back here in Aurora Falls anyway?” she asked.

  “I’m working for you, remember? You did hire me to take on the Patrick case.”

  “I remember. But I wasn’t sure you did. I haven’t heard anything from you for over a week.” She didn’t mean to sound reproachful or even accusing, but somehow it came out that way, immediately putting Mike on the defensive.

  “I told you I’d get in touch when I had something to report, didn’t I?” he snapped.

  “Yes, you did. So that’s why you came to city hall, looking for me?”

  “Not exactly. I had to do some digging in the records here.”

  “And then you were going to come around to my shop?”

  “Er—well.” Mike squirmed. “Yeah. Sure.” But his eyes had difficulty meeting hers.

  “What a dreadful liar you are, Mike Parker,” she said softly.

  “Look. angel, I—” he began, starting to reach toward her, then both his words and his hand freezing in midair. He was obviously unwilling to risk touching her again. After what had happened at the inn, she understood why. What she didn’t understand was why it should hurt so much.

  “It’s okay, Michael,” she said with a tired sigh. “I wouldn’t want to end up—what was the word?—‘weirding’ you out again. Maybe you better just call me from a pay phone a nice safe distance away.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Sara,” Mike groaned, but Sara had already started moving toward the exit. Mike cut her off, barricading the door.

  “Listen, angel, I didn’t—oh, hell, all right, yes, it’s true.” He raked one hand back through tawny gold hair that was already a little wild and windblown. “I was planning to duck out without seeing you. It’s just that—”

  “You don’t have to explain,” she interrupted. “I’m used to that kind of reaction from people. At the council meeting this morning, all the chairs around me were pointedly vacant. You see, you’re not the only one who thinks I should be taken out and burned at the stake.”

  “Then they’re all jerks. And so am I.” Mike shook his head in self-disgust. “I’ve never been any Sir Galahad where women are concerned, but I seem to end up giving you a harder time than most.”

  “I guess it’s more my fault than yours. It’s this cursed talent of mine for getting into other people’s heads, invading their privacy. I must make you very uncomfortable.”

  “Uncomfortable?” Mike snorted a laugh. After what appeared to be a mighty inner struggle, he blurted out, “Woman, you scare the living daylights out of me.”

  This frank confession caught Sara completely off guard. She gaped at him, wondering when the last time was Mike Parker had ever admitted being frightened by anything.

  “That’s—that’s ridiculous,” she said at last. “You couldn’t possibly be scared of me. You don’t even really believe in my psychic abilities...do you?”

  “I don’t know what the hell I believe anymore, doll. If you’d have asked me about this psychic stuff a week ago, I’d have told you it was all a bunch of bull. Then you come along and I’m not so sure. I’ve been going half-crazy wondering if you could be the real thing.”

  “Would it be so terrible if I was?” Sara asked wistfully.

  “Yeah, because if you’re for real, what else is? Ghosts? Angels? Santa Claus?” Mike gave an uneasy laugh. “Pretty unnerving ideas for a guy like me whose always had the world figured out in cold, hard concrete. Black and white.”

  “Yes, I remember. You said you didn’t believe in anything even when you were a little boy. You wouldn’t clap to save Tinker Bell.”

  “Hell! I even sat on my hands so I wouldn’t be tempted.” Mike jammed his fists deep in his pants pockets as though afraid someone might demand of him some great leap of faith.

  The sight moved Sara in a way she couldn’t explain, tugging at her with images of a small, stubborn boy, lost and unhappy amidst a crowd of excited, applauding children. The boy who’d grown up into the equally stubborn man standing before her with the pugnacious tilt to his jaw and the empty look in his eyes.

  Mike Parker with his brash smile and hard-case attitude, obviously well able to handle himself in any situation. So why, then, did he inspire in her these urges to brush back the strands of hair from that obstinate brow, kiss him and make it all better? Even though she wasn’t
exactly sure what “it” was.

  “I guess I’ve been sitting on my hands for so long, it’s damned hard to get off them now,” he concluded with a shrug and lopsided smile that somehow went straight to her heart.

  “It might not be as hard as you think, Michael.” Impulsively she stepped forward and tugged at his wrist.

  He resisted, saying in a half-nervous, half-joking growl, “You’re not going to go messing with my aura again, are you, angel?”

  “No, I promise that from now on, I’ll do my best to stay out of your head. Unless you invite me in.”

  He continued to eye her askance, but he let her pull his hand from his pocket. She curled her fingers around his tough, callused ones.

  “See?” she coaxed. “You’re touching me and nothing bad’s happening.”

  “Yet” he said, but he allowed his fingers to relax just a little beneath hers. Her hand was soft, warm, silky, but not so different from any other dame’s. Maybe he really had been behaving like an idiot this past week, dodging Sara, acting like she had some kind of voodoo power over him.

  “Of course,” he said, warning himself as much as her, “we don’t want anything happening again like out at the inn, when we were on the bed and we almost—well—you know.”

  From the way Sara’s face fired bright red, it was obvious she remembered quite well what they had almost you knowed

  “Oh, no,” she agreed quickly. “We wouldn’t want that.”

  “But if you can keep your psychic radar to yourself, I guess there’s no reason we can’t be friends.”

  “Friends would be very nice, Michael.” She smiled.

  Maybe he could be all right around Sara, Mike thought. But damned if he wasn’t starting to feel that crazy, wild tingling again, sparking from her fingertips to his, creeping all the way up his arm.

  He would’ve drawn back his hand, but the thing seemed to have a mind of its own, like his fingers were possessed or something. Clinging to Sara as if he couldn’t let go, stroking a slow sensual rhythm on the palm of her hand.