Black-Eyed Moon (A Guinan Jones Paranormal Mystery #1)

by Callista Foley

  Zeke sauntered in holding Jacob and joined his father at the table. I stood near my chair, gazing around at them. I felt like an intruder.

  "You and my son seem to be friendlier these days," Tessa said.

  My face was on fire. I pointedly avoided looking at Zeke. "We're friends again, I guess."

  Jacob giggled as Zeke bounced him on his lap.

  I wanted to know more, but I didn't want to ask. Instead, I asked Tessa what else she was cooking for dinner. As she spoke about the menu, I sensed her blurred emotions. As suddenly as they appeared, they dissipated like smoke.

  She broke eye contact and flushed. "You're reading me, aren't you?" You know I don't like that, Guinan."

  "Nobody does," I said. My face felt like it had been stuck in the oven. "I'm sorry."

  I looked over at Tim, who was staring at the table and rubbing the top of Jude's head. Zeke gave me a sympathetic look.

  "You're wondering if I killed Kate?" Tessa said.

  I shook my head like a little kid denying she stole cookies. "Of course not. I just—"

  "Tell your mother I said hello," she said. "I've been meaning to call, but I've had a lot to deal with."

  I'd been dismissed. "I better go."

  Nobody tried to stop me. A few days ago, I'd have been invited to stay for dinner. I closed the front door behind me and allowed the tears to flow freely and silently. When I arrived home, I turned off the car, leaned my head back against the seat, and let the heat envelope me.

  "Grandma, I need you."

  I hoped I'd get the help I wanted, the help I desperately needed, from her journals. I closed my eyes. Maybe they wouldn't help at all. Maybe I'd end up getting my feelings hurt, reading about how much she resented having a clairvoyant grandchild. When sweat started to roll down my face, I got out of the car. I ran into the house, found my mother, and cried some more.

  The only thing she'd asked was if anyone had hurt me. Yes. I shook my head.

  "It's okay," she said, patting me on the back. "It'll all be over soon. I promise."

  Chapter Twenty

  Dean fumbled for my hand in the dark. He gave it a light squeeze, and I smiled in spite of how I felt. I'd soon leave Ridge Grove and its problems behind. For the first time since my parents brought it up, I was looking forward to leaving.

  "We should have done this a long time ago," he said.

  A similar sentiment echoed in my head.

  "Yeah," I said, trying to get comfortable in my seat. The movie previews were over. Dean sunk lower in his seat and stared at the screen.

  All through the movie, I glanced at his profile and at the hand holding mine. I pretended I was a normal girl with no "witchy" powers or visions of death who didn't betray her friends. And a boyfriend who belonged only to me. Part of being that normal girl included living with my parents instead of my grandfather. Maybe I could have everything I wanted once I got to D.C.

  That was the hope, anyway.

  After the movie, Dean and I lingered in the empty theater.

  "When will you come back?"

  "Good question," I said, frowning. "My grandfather's coming up for Thanksgiving, so maybe Christmas."

  "Is this a permanent move?"

  I'd deluded myself into thinking I'd return to Ridge Grove after the murder was solved. I had a feeling I wouldn't be home again until next summer.

  "I think it is," I said.

  Dean held my hand in front of his face and studied it.

  "What do you want to do now?" I said quickly, sliding to the edge of the seat.

  He gave me a sideways glance. "What do you want to do?"

  "Are you hungry?"

  "I could eat."

  "Busby's?"

  Dean frowned and shook his head. "Too many kids."

  I laughed.

  "I've always wanted to try that barbecue place over on Dotson," he said. "How about it?"

  I nodded my approval. My mood improved. The anticipation of good food tended to do that.

  We'd barely pulled into the restaurant parking lot when my cell phone buzzed. I hadn't planned to answer it until I saw Granddad's number.

  "Sorry to interrupt your date, hon."

  Tiny needles pricked under my skin. "Is Mom okay?"

  "She's fine," he said quickly.

  The kind of relief I didn't know existed washed over me. Whatever else he told wouldn't be half as bad.

  "Something's happened," he said. "I need you to come to Skeeter's trailer right away."

  I gripped the phone so tightly, my hand ached. I gazed at Dean's quizzical expression. "Why?"

  "Just come to the trailer."

  Another dead body.

  ***

  I'd seen Skeeter Thursday morning. Now he was dead.

  Granddad had told Rory to wave me through when I arrived. He was waving, but I wasn't moving.

  "You want me to come with you?" Dean said.

  A police car light flashed across his face. I wanted to tell him to take me home. Take me anywhere but here.

  "You can't come with her," Rory said. "Chief said Guinan only."

  I didn't have to do this. My grandfather couldn't force me to do this. But instead of leaving, I stared at the broken-down trailer and found myself wondering, oddly, if Caesar was okay.

  Rory waited with his head down, as if giving me privacy to decide. Dean threw his arm around my shoulder. Several seconds later, Granddad came out of the trailer and scanned the area, hands on his hips. He saw me and waved frantically for me to come forward. I started to comply, but Dean held me back.

  "You could say no."

  "I could, but I want to help if I can." I have him a weak smile. "I'm leaving tomorrow anyway, right?"

  He nodded and released me. I followed Rory across the dog-poop-covered, grassless yard, not caring whether I stepped in it. I climbed the concrete steps and walked inside the trailer. The smell assaulted me—a combination of dog excrement, trash, spoiled food, and the odor of the dead rat I'd fallen on in a field when I was a kid. I retched. My grandfather grabbed my arm and guided me to the bathroom. I vomited in the toilet and retched again when I realized I was in Skeeter's nasty bathroom. I kept my eyes closed as I rinsed out my mouth in the sink.

  My grandfather stared at me. "The smell never made you throw up before."

  I blinked, wiping a hand across my mouth.

  "I know this is hard, hon, and I'm sorry. But this isn't natural causes, and I need you to—"

  "I'm fine." My voice shook. "Let's get this over with."

  I'm glad he held on to me. I felt that any moment, my knees would give out. As he steered me closer to the smell, I heard a faint buzzing sound. It took a few seconds for me to realize it was the voices of the people around me. My head ached, and I wanted to throw up again.

  We stopped at the bedroom door. I peered inside the room. Skeeter lay on the bed on his stomach, the back of his head a bloody mess. I wobbled.

  "Okay, that's it," Granddad said, pulling me out of the room. "You don't need to do this."

  Breathing through my mouth, I inhaled and exhaled slowly until I felt steady. I went back inside the room and toward the bed. Someone standing on the opposite side—it could have been a cop, the coroner, or the president of the United States for all I knew—turned over the body with gloved hands. I can do this. Death is as natural as life.

  But death by murder isn't natural, and Skeeter had been murdered.

  "How long as he been dead?"

  "At least twenty-four hours."

  I looked at my grandfather. "Who found the body?"

  "That's the strange thing. Someone called in anonymously and told us he was dead. Given what happened last Sunday, we can't be too careful. We sent a car over, and, well."

  I nodded and reluctantly looked at Skeeter again. One of his eyelids drooped. "Can you open his lid?" I said to whoever stood on the other side of the bed. More buzzing, then a gloved hand appeared over Skeeter's face and brushed the lid back.

  Clo
udy, dead eyes.

  I realized I'd have to lean over him to do this properly. "Have the...uh, forensics guys—"

  "Already done."

  I adjusted my body until my face was directly over his. It started immediately.

  Sorry, Keeg. So sorry, sorry, sorry. Me and you gonna have one for old time's sake. Me and you fishing and drinking. Crazy bitch. Sweet Jesus, my head. Better not hurt my dog. Evil eyes...

  Then it stopped. I told my grandfather everything I'd heard.

  He frowned. "Crazy bitch...evil eyes?" He looked at Rory. "Bev Watson still live in Florida?"

  "I'll check," he said, writing in his notebook.

  I looked at my grandfather. "You think his ex-wife did this?"

  He blew out air and shrugged. "No stone unturned."

  Skeeter's thoughts were gone, and my role in the drama ended. I backed out of the room and gestured for my grandfather to follow. I stumbled out the front door and sucked in the night air. The stench from the trailer lingered. The whole thing felt like a dream. I looked up at a sky studded with stars. Two murders in Ridge Grove in the same month. The same week.

  "Why would his ex-wife come to South Carolina to kill him?"

  "If she hadn't killed him years ago" Granddad said, "I don't know why she'd bother now. But I need to find out where she was yesterday."

  I covered my face with my hands, then raked them through my hair. I needed a long, hot shower with lots of shampoo and soap. "I just talked to him the other day. I can't believe he's dead."

  My grandfather's face was unreadable. Unlike me, he had little sympathy for the drug dealer. "Skeeter had named his supplier. Sheriff's boys on working that angle."

  "Do you know he took Eric's money without delivering?"

  He stared at me. "How do you know about that?"

  "I think Skeeter wanted to turn his life around," I said quickly.

  My grandfather started to roll his eyes but looked up at the sky and rubbed his chin.

  "Do you think it was the same killer?" I said.

  "That's a good guess. I think Skeeter knew more about what happened to Kate than he told us. He hung around those woods. He either saw the killer or something that could identify the killer."

  We walked toward the road. "Why would he keep it to himself?"

  He stopped and furrowed his brow. "Maybe he was blackmailing the killer."

  I could see it. Thinking he was smarter than everybody else, Skeeter held back just enough to conceal the killer's identity, not counting on the killer getting rid of him.

  Then I remembered something he'd told me before the car accident. Beware of the evil eyes. Did "evil eyes" refer to Kate's murderer and his?

  "I can't understand why he'd take the risk," I said.

  Granddad whistled through his teeth and steered me toward Dean. "He was half crazy, anyway, but he apparently didn't consider the killer much of a threat."

  "What was the murder weapon?"

  "Obviously something blunt."

  We looked at each other. The same weapon used to kill Kate? A tree branch. Or a bat. I told him about Eric's missing bat and how he'd suspected Skeeter might have stolen it. Granddad stopped again and held up his hand.

  "You mean to tell me you had a conversation with the fool who ran you off the road?"

  Before he got really riled up, I explained that Zeke had gone with me.

  "I wanted to know if he thought Kate was pregnant and if he knew what BH stood for."

  He peered down at me, his mouth set in a tight line. "I've created a monster."

  "That's not fair," I said. "You want me to just read for you, then go on home like a good little girl and keep my nose out of it?"

  He raised his eyebrows. "As a matter of fact, I do." I stared to say something, but he held up a hand. "I'll look into this business about a stolen bat. Meanwhile..."

  As if one cue, Dean spoke up. "Ready to go?"

  "Get her home safely, son."

  "I will."

  "But—"

  "See you at home, Guinan."

  I watched him go back inside the trailer, which was lit up like a Christmas tree. Two paramedics entered behind him carrying a stretcher and a body bag.

  "I can't believe I'm saying this," Dean said, opening the door for me. "But I'm glad you're leaving tomorrow."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  While my mother waited for my grandfather to get home, I had to endure all her questions and recriminations. She'd called him a few choice names as I sat on the couch in my robe and towel-dried my hair. I half listened. My mind was still at the trailer.

  Skeeter Watson was dead. Twenty-eight years old. A sad life. A wasted life. He hadn't gotten over accidentally killing his wife's father, and he died feeling that guilt. Did his murderer, likely the same one who murdered Kate, feel guilty?

  "I will be praying for morning to come quickly," my mother said, pouring herself a glass of wine. "Get you away from all this."

  I told her about Skeeter's final thoughts. She shivered.

  "'There is an evil which I have seen under the sun, and it is common among men.'"

  I raised my eyebrows. I'd never heard her quote the Bible before.

  "My father wants you to look at corpses," she said. She drank half the glass in one gulp. "But he won't be doing it anymore."

  "You know it's more than just looking at corpses," I said. "I can do something to help him. Me. How can that be bad?"

  She kept her head straight as she spoke. "You're my daughter, that's how, and he has no right...Mama had to deal with this. Now he's doing it to you."

  I shook my head. "He's not doing anything to me, Mom. Grandma and I made the choice to help him."

  She scoffed. I didn't want to say anything else. I hated saying and doing anything I'd end up regretting. Funny thing was, I ended up regretting a lot, anyway. I suspected that someday, I'd regret not telling her and my father I'd dreamed of someone's death other than Kate's.

  Maybe my own.

  ***

  I hadn't intended to move at a snail's pace climbing out of bed, showering, and dressing. Gazing in the mirror and brushing my hair and daydreaming for half an hour hadn't been in the plan. I wanted to see Zeke and Tessa. I wanted to make amends with Tamzen. I wanted to call the station and find out if the police had arrested anybody for Skeeter's murder.

  I wanted so much.

  Granddad insisted on making a big breakfast that morning. "For old times' sake," he'd said.

  I didn't want to upset him, so I cried silently in the bathroom. I cried again in Grandma's sewing room. A part of me hated my parents for doing this to me, but another part, a growing part, wanted to deal with what we were avoiding.

  I brushed my hands across my forearms, covered with goose bumps. It wasn't the cold. I'd gotten used to my grandfather's penchant for a constantly roaring air conditioner a long time ago. My skin tingled all morning as though something lurked beneath the surface. I couldn't name it. I doubt it had a name.

  I arrived downstairs and stopped in the kitchen doorway. Granddad had set the table with Grandma's "company" china.

  He looked up when I entered the room.

  "Bacon and eggs on these?" I said, pointing at the dishes. "The only thing these plates should hold is prime rib or lobster."

  His face spread into a huge grin that I knew was taking some effort. "Well, if it helps, they'll also hold pancakes."

  I bit my lip. "Granddad, I really don't have to—"

  "Yes, you do. I don't want you anywhere near this place for a while." He pointed at my usual chair. "Sit."

  I did as I was told, and I ate quickly. The food was tasteless. I glanced at him every now and then. His movements were slow, and he was pale.

  "You okay?"

  He nodded. "Just trying to do too much." His breathing sounded strange.

  I decided to give him some good news. "I think I changed the future like Grandma did."

  "Meaning?"

  I took a deep breath and exhaled
loudly. "Now that I'm leaving, I need to tell you something."

  His jaw tensed and blew out a long breath of his own.

  "It's about the dream I had."

  He sat down. "The precog dream about Kate's death?"

  "I think the dream was about me."

  I expected him to look confused and ask what I meant, but he surprised me.

  "What didn't you tell me this before?"

  "I wasn't sure. I'm still not. It's just that in my dream, the moon looked different. Brighter than the night Kate died. And remember what I told you about the head wound?"

  He stared at me, rubbing his chin.

  "And I'm eighty-percent certain the weapon was a bat, not a branch or anything else."

  He sat back in his chair. "Your grandmother withheld things from me, too. Things I needed to know."

  "But I—"

  "You should have told me all this up front, Guinan." He shook his head. "Your mother's right. I'm a selfish old bastard."

  "That's not true," I blurted out. It triggered a memory. I once heard my grandmother call him that. "You know how I am."

  He pressed his lips together. "Yeah, I do. And I played a part in making you that way." He rose from the table and started preparing the pancake mix.

  "Will you tell me one more thing?" I said.

  He stopped stirring the batter but didn't turn around.

  "Did Grandma say how far into the future the dreams were?"

  He wiped his hands with a dishtowel and faced me. "Whatever happened in your grandmother's dreams weren't distant events. They tended to occur within two weeks."

  I dreamed about my mother's miscarriage, and it happened a week later. That meant the precog dream about death-by-bat would happen soon or not at all.

  "You know what this means? If the dream was about me, I changed the future. The full moon isn't until Monday, and I'll be in D.C."

  He gave me a weak smile and went back to the pancake batter.

  My chest felt lighter. "What are your plans today after you drop us at the airport?"

  "Probably go down to the station to see how the investigation's going."

  "Why don't you stay home? Chill out. Put your feet up. Read the paper."