Psychic Storm: Ten Dangerously Sexy Tales of Psychic Witches, Vampires, Mediums, Empaths and Seers

by Deanna Chase

  He couldn’t help himself, he leaned forward and put his hand on her knee. “Hey, what is it?”

  “It’s just, she was so sweet, you know?” She sniffled. “I don’t understand how anyone could be so mean to someone. She was one of those people beautiful inside and out. You know?”

  He nodded, but didn’t want to interrupt.

  “God, these girls.” She shook her head. “Women, actually, they’re worse than high school bullies. Like I said before, cutthroat.” Angie dried her eyes and composed herself. When her head came back up she had a look of steely determination. Jon-Luc sat back and waited.

  “Melody did get the perfume ad. They were going with a complete unknown, the company liked her that much. A full-on launch was planned. Millions of dollars riding on it. She got to the studio on time, had her make-up and hair done. She was a sultry brunette with deep green eyes, a deadly combination.”

  Jon-Luc swallowed hard. He’d seen that combination recently, no wonder this Lamont woman felt threatened. This girl was a younger version of herself. She must have seen that her days at the top were numbered.

  “They’d put her in an emerald green satin Valentino gown. The photographer had just started snapping shots when suddenly Melody grabbed her stomach, groaned and doubled over. She made an abrupt turn, and tried to run, but her heel caught in the hem of the gown. She fell flat on her face and soiled herself. She got up on her hands and knees crawling toward the bathroom.

  “People tried to help her to her feet, but she fought them off. When she finally was able to get up, she lifted the front of the gown and ran to the toilet trailing feces all the way. I heard she was in there for a long time. When they finally tried to reach her, she wouldn't answer, so they broke the door down. They found her passed out on the floor and called an ambulance. The hospital took her blood and did a complete battery of tests.

  “Originally they thought it must be food poisoning, but she swore she hadn’t eaten anything since the morning before. She said she’d been too nervous. Then the blood work came back and they found a high concentration of liquid laxative in her system that some girls use the night before a shoot to make sure they’re as thin as possible. The dress was ruined. The perfume company was furious and they fired her.

  “Melody swore she hadn't taken any laxatives, but they found an empty bottle in her trash. Melody told anyone that would listen that the only thing she had ingested was coffee there at the studio. That someone must have slipped it into her cup. But when they went back to check, there was no coffee cup. Both the make-up artist and hairstylist said they'd seen her drinking something. But without the missing mug, there was no evidence. Just her word.”

  Jon-Luc ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “I can understand that was a bad break for the poor kid, but I still don’t understand her killing herself over it. I mean, with her looks and all, I’m sure she would have gotten other jobs.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What aren’t you telling me, you mean there’s more?”

  “Yeah, it didn’t quite end there. The next day I noticed a few of the models crowded around an iPhone and giggling. I walked over and asked what was so funny? They handed me the device. I’m thinking, another silly cat video. But what I saw made me sick." Angie took a deep breath before continuing.

  "It was Melody and the entire event unfolding before my eyes. The person taking the video was making whispered commentary and laughing. It was on YouTube and racking up a lot of hits. I shoved the phone back at the girls and yelled they should be ashamed of themselves. That night Melody took her life.”

  “Whoa, vicious.” Jon-Luc scrubbed his hands down his face, then sat back in the hard folding chair. He felt that familiar buzz he got when he was onto something. He stared at Angie a moment, then something caught his eye over her shoulder. No doubt in his mind, it was Melody. She was in an emerald green ball gown, the ruby red shading her full lips matched the blood dripping from her wrists, staining the dress at her sides. Her sad green eyes were indeed electric. But under all that make-up and the sophisticated hairdo stood a little girl. What a waste.

  Without taking his eyes off the girl he asked, “How old was this Melody?”

  “Nineteen, maybe twenty.”

  Immediately Jon-Luc patted his pockets, searching for his pad and pen. Sometime while Angie was talking he had become so engrossed he must have put them away because they were no longer in his hands. He found them, then asked,

  “Last name?”

  “Waterston, Melody Waterston.”

  “Okay, where was she from?”

  “I don’t know, somewhere in the South. She had a Southern accent. Madame might know.”

  “Southern, as in the south of France, or the States?”

  “Oh, sorry. No, she was American. I do know she came from a small town; she talked about it all the time. She was real homesick. Can’t remember the name though.”

  “Boyfriend? Brothers or sisters?”

  “Don’t know about a boyfriend, she never mentioned one. I do know she had two sisters that were younger. She mentioned once how they wished they could go to France too. Of course, that was in the beginning, when she’d just gotten here. You should have seen her then, she was so bubbly and cute. Just like her name. But the longer she stayed, the light in her eyes slowly faded.”

  “Shit.” He jumped to his feet, Angie flinched. “Oh, sorry." He started to pace. "I just can’t understand how any parent could let their child go to another country all by herself?”

  “Her father was against it, but her mother convinced him it would be good for her. I got the impression they could use the money. She mentioned her father had been laid off three years ago. I’m sure his loss of income had something to do with it.”

  He stopped pacing. “Yeah, that's rough.” Jon-Luc stared down at Angie, trying to gauge whether she was leaving anything out, her big blue eyes gazed back and for a moment he lost his train of thought. He cleared his throat. “Uh, is there anything else?”

  “I don't think so.”

  “Yeah. Okay. I guess I'm done here." He started to put his pad and pen away, then stopped. "Oh, can I get your phone number and address?” He jotted both down. “When is the best time to reach you?”

  “Anytime, that’s my cell number.”

  His mind was reeling at the moment. “All right, thanks for talking to me. I’m really sorry about all this. I’ll call you if I have any other questions.” He reached out to shake her hand. He felt her hand in his, but suddenly he couldn’t see her anymore. It was happening again.

  9

  Jon-Luc found himself outside, walking down a crowded street. He was following the blonde in the tight jeans and shiny purple blouse. She had an oversized purse slung over her shoulder and appeared to be wiping her face as if crying. Abruptly she stopped and did an about-face, scanning the crowd.

  A man bumped into her and started yelling in some foreign language, and his arms waved about to make his point. She ignored him. The moment Jon-Luc saw her face he recognized her. It was that model, the one Claude was interviewing.

  He heard a scream. Instantly the vision disappeared and he was back in the room at the hotel. It was Angie screaming. He looked down and noticed he was crushing her hand. Immediately, he let go. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

  Angie backed away, holding her hand, her eyes wide. He realized she was afraid of him. “Shit.” He swiped his forehead and realized his face was drenched in sweat. “Look, I really am sorry. I, uh. . .I can’t explain what just happened.”

  Jon-Luc surveyed the room and found his friend standing by the door, staring at him. “Claude!” He darted across the room. “Claude where’s that model you were interviewing?”

  “Claira? She left. She was very upset. I guess she and the victim were pretty close. Why?”

  “How long ago?” Jon-Luc was in his face, but couldn’t help it.

  “I don’t know, uh.” He looked at his watch.

>   Jon-Luc grabbed Claude by the shoulders. “How long?” he screamed.

  “My friend, you are acting like a mad person. What is wrong with you?”

  “Dammit! How long has she been gone?”

  “I don’t know, ten minutes or so?”

  “Do you know where she was heading?”

  “Home I would guess.”

  Jon-Luc grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the door. “We have to find her. She’s in trouble.”

  “What?” Claude shook his arm free and ran alongside Jon-Luc out to the street. He fumbled in his jacket for the keys.

  Jon-Luc hit the top of the car, Claude jumped. “Hurry!” Jon-Luc yelled.

  Claude swore in rapid French, then in English, he yelled back, “I am.”

  At last he got the door unlocked and they jumped in. “What did this woman tell you that has you so agitated?” Claude started the car.

  “It wasn’t Angie. Look, I can’t explain right now. I just know it’s urgent we get to her.”

  Claude stared at him a moment, then said, “Okay, where are we going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What? You rush me out of the hotel like your ass is on fire and you do not know where were we are going?” More French swear words followed.

  “Don’t you have her home address?”

  “Oui, it is here in my jacket.” Claude took out his notepad and thumbed through the book.

  “That’s where we're going, but we have to watch the streets. She’s walking. Is the address close?”

  “Luc, how do you know this?”

  “Is it close?” Jon-Luc yelled over him.

  “No," Claude yelled back. "She would have to take the Metro.”

  “Fine, just drive. I’ll search the sidewalks.”

  Claude pulled into traffic while Jon-Luc scoured the streets. It was a busy time of day, so he didn’t have to worry they were driving too fast. After ten minutes and no sign of her, he felt like he was going to jump out of his skin.

  “Where is the metro station she would take?”

  “Just over there.” Claude pointed.

  Jon-Luc jumped out of the car and ran toward the red sign up ahead. Within seconds, he was flying down the stairs, weaving in and out of pedestrians. Once he could see the underground station, he stopped a few steps short of the platform and scanned the crowd above their heads. Claira was at least six feet tall; her blonde head should be easy to spot.

  A few minutes later, Claude was at his side. “Anything?”

  “No. She’s wearing a dark purple blouse. I’ll take the right, you go left. Call me on my cell if you find her.”

  With that, they too entered the throng of people trying to get home after a long day at work. Jon-Luc caught a flash of purple and started pushing his way through the crowd, eliciting angry protests around him. He didn’t have time to be polite. He caught up with the girl in the purple shirt, but it wasn’t Claira. “Dammit!”

  He stood still and scanned the crowd again. A train had just arrived. The doors opened and a flood of people washed through them. No one wanted to be left behind. No one wanted to have to wait for next train. That’s when he saw her. She’d just entered the train. The platform was wall-to-wall people. He didn’t know if he could reach her in time.

  Frantically, he shoved his way forward. A yelp came from his left. That’s when he noticed the very pregnant woman about to go down. Jon-Luc grabbed her and set her right, apologizing profusely. When he looked up again, the train was leaving the station.

  He pulled out his cell and called Claude. He picked up on the forth ring. “She’s gone,” he said without preamble. “Meet me on the street.”

  Jon-Luc breathed deeply the moment he made it above ground. The heat, the smell of stale air and body odor had gotten to him more than he’d realized. Before long, Claude appeared.

  “Now what?” Claude asked, huffing as if he’d just ran a marathon.

  “Put a pair of uniforms at her metro stop and we'll stake out her home.”

  “Fine, but then you have a lot of explaining to do, my friend.”

  Back in the car, Claude navigated the busy streets of Paris, and Jon-Luc tried to analyze this new gift of his. He didn’t know how or why, but he seemed to be viewing the world through the killer’s eyes. He closed his own and tried to conjure up a vision. Maybe if he visualized Claira, he could make it happen again. He concentrated hard, but nothing materialized.

  Claude’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you?”

  Jon-Luc turned toward his friend. “I don’t know how I can in a way you could understand.”

  “Try. You have me very worried about you. Who was that woman you were interviewing?”

  “Her name is Angie Henderson and she's an assistant designer for the House de Beauchamp. She told me a very interesting tale.”

  Jon-Luc told Claude the entire story all the way to Melody Waterston’s suicide.

  “So, you think this Claira could be on the killer’s radar?” Claude asked as he watched the road ahead.

  “You did say she was close to Genevieve Lamont, so it’s a possibility. I really haven’t had time to put it all together. Let’s just say I have a gut feeling and leave it at that.” Jon-Luc ran a hand through his hair.

  Claude glanced at him. “Okay, for now. But soon you will have to tell me more about this gut of yours, my friend. What does this entire thing have to do with Lamont’s death? You said it happened a year ago.”

  “I know. I really haven’t had time to analyze it, but while Angie was telling the story, my head started buzzing. There’s something there, I can feel it.”

  “That is good enough for me. It’s the first lead we’ve had since I caught this case.” Claude pulled the Peugeot into a parking space along the street and turned off the car. Pointing he said, “That is her building.”

  Jon-Luc looked up at the old Gothic-style structure. Each corner had a turret like a castle. He unbuckled his seat belt and opened the car door. “Come on, let’s check it out.”

  “I do not think she will have arrived home yet.”

  “No, but she might have a roommate we can talk to.”

  “Good thinking.”

  Once through the front doors, Jon-Luc took in the richly decorated lobby and was impressed. Runway models made a lot better money than he’d thought. Upon entering the elevator, he noticed the building had nine floors. The apartment they sought was on the seventh. The elevator came to a grinding halt and the ancient metal doors creaked open slowly.

  Before long they were ringing the bell at apartment 707. When no one answered, Jon-Luc started banging on the door. A neighbor across the hall poked his head out. “Either she doesn’t want to see you or she’s not home.”

  “Claira Raines lives alone?” Jon-Luc asked.

  “What business is it of yours?”

  Claude pulled out his shield. “Police business.”

  The man chuckled. “What did she do this time?”

  Claude stepped forward and introduced himself and Jon-Luc. “May we come in and ask you a few questions?”

  The man’s face fell. He sighed. Opening the door wider, he motioned the men inside. The apartment was small. An easel was set up by a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, a half-finished painting of the Eiffel Tower stood upon it. They had obviously interrupted the man while he was working.

  Jon-Luc noticed a stack of finished art leaning against the wall and sifted through them. “These are really good.”

  “Yeah, I pay my mortgage by selling them to tourists. What do you want? I need to get back to work. I’ve promised this batch to my dealer and I’m running behind on my deadline.”

  Jon-Luc gauged the guy to be around forty, forty-five years old. His dark hair was graying at the temples and stood up on top like he’d been running his hands through it in frustration. For the first time Jon-Luc noticed the paint splotches on his shirt and jeans.

  He scanned
the small living space, and saw a ladder that ran up to a loft. “So, is this a studio apartment?”

  “Yeah, I sleep up there.” The guy pointed.

  “Can we sit?” Claude asked.

  “Suit yourself.” The man pointed to a worn couch, then sat on a stool in front of his stretched canvas and waited.

  Claude took out a pad and pen. “So, your name is?”

  “James Hollis.”

  “And you are American, yes?”

  “What was your first clue?” James crossed his legs.

  “You could be Canadian,” Claude answered in a neutral tone.

  “I could, but I’m not,” James said.

  “And you are from?”

  “Minnesota. Look, what does this have to do with whatever Claira has done?”

  Claude ignored his question. “You have been here how long?”

  “Five years. I moved here after my divorce. Once our house sold, I quit my job as a software engineer and moved to Paris to paint. It’s something I always wanted to do, but life got in the way. Anything else?”

  “Have you lived in this apartment all that time?”

  “Yes, I bought it for the light and the view. Obviously.” He pointed out the window where the Eiffel Tower was seen in the distance.

  Jon-Luc leaned forward. “Is Claira’s apartment the same layout?”

  “Yeah, this entire floor is studio apartments with lofts.” James said.

  “How many square feet are we talking here?” Claude jumped in.

  “Three hundred, plus the loft which is about thirty.” James re-crossed his leg.

  “Wow. And what did that set you back?” Jon-Luc asked.

  “399,000 euro's. Why, you interested in buying one?” James sat up straighter, his snarky tone not the only thing showing his annoyance.

  Jon-Luc looked at Claude, then back to James. “Maybe."

  “Can we get this thing over with? I’m losing my light.” James tapped his leg with the end of a paintbrush.

  Jon-Luc glanced outside and noticed the sun had gone down behind the neighboring building. “You asked us what Claira had done this time. What were you referring to?”

  James huffed. “You ought to know, you’re the cops.”