by Teri Barnett
“Of course,” he said, his feet braced apart. “Most everyone here knew Edna.” He turned toward the gathered attendees and said in a booming voice, “Edna was one of us. She was our dear, dear friend and taken much too soon.”
The psychics applauded. A few whistled or cheered. Rocky Banks — Edna’s now former protégé—sobbed, while Davey Rocket leaned back in his chair and rearranged his ponytail, and Daisy shot Jack a glare that could freeze Lake Michigan in August. Morgan duly catalogued the notable reactions. She’d ponder them later. Turning back to Jack she asked, “And why would you say she was murdered? Did you know of anyone who had a problem with Madame Marisol?”
“I said what I did because of a premonition, of course.” He addressed both Morgan and the gathering, his expression solemn. “Edna came to me in a dream and I knew at that very moment she was gone from this plane of existence.”
“Your evidence is a dream?” Morgan suppressed an eye roll and simply shook her head. “I don’t mean to disparage your beliefs — or whatever you call them — but I’m looking for real information.”
“Oh, his premonitions are always real,” Rocky offered from his seat in the front row. He wiped at his eyes with a hanky, leaving a streak of black mascara across each cheek. “Edna always trusted whatever Mr. Steve had to say.” He smiled up at the older man and Jack went over to him and patted his shoulder.
“Poppycock!”
Everyone looked toward the back of the room where a man had just entered. Morgan took in his appearance. Late sixty-something, medium height, buzzed silver hair, goatee, a tee shirt emblazoned with ‘Power to the People’ and a protest fist, jeans, black Chucks. “And who would you be, Mr. Poppycock?” Who even says poppycock anymore?
Rennie ran over to the man and hugged him. They walked up to the podium, arm in arm. When he reached Morgan, he extended a hand. “Starman McGee.” He shot Jack Steve a look that told Morgan there was no love lost there. “Also, at your service.”
Jack harrumphed and crossed his arms over his chest again.
“I’m guessing Starman isn’t your real name?” Morgan asked.
“Not from birth, but I had it legally changed in the ‘80s.”
“Starman is my…paramour,” Rennie offered with a slight blush. “He’s here to help me with the pop-up shop I’m setting up over at Cal’s place for the psychic fair.”
Rennie leaned into Starman’s chest and wrapped her arms around him. Starman gave her a squeeze in return as he threw a frown at Jack over the top of her head.
“What’s going on here?” Morgan asked.
“I’m hugging my man,” Rennie said.
“Not that.” Her chin pointed back and forth between the two men. “You two don’t like each other.” She looked at Starman. “And you didn’t like Edna, based on your ‘poppycock’ comment. So, I ask again, what’s going on here?”
Jack laughed a little. “Just a friendly rivalry amongst psychics. Nothing more.”
“And nothing you need to worry about,” Starman added. “Jack here is just an old windbag. As was Edna. Two peas in that old-timey pod, so it’s no surprise he’s defending her. Plus, she always gave him free readings.” Starman rolled his eyes. “Dude lives for free readings.”
Morgan held up a hand. “I get it. No love lost.” And we’ll continue this conversation later in private, down at the station. For the moment, she’d wait to see if any other tidbits popped up.
“None whatsoever,” Jack said with a frown of his own. He turned to Morgan. “Look, I’ve worked with the L.A. police force for many years. I offer you my investigative services to help solve this egregious crime.”
“Thank you, but no.” Aside from the mustache, Jack looked like an older version of Caleb; good looking and irritating and likely to completely ignore anything she said.
Cal motioned the universal ‘call me’ hand signal to Jack. Morgan gave him a sharp glance. Cal shrugged. Morgan shook her head and turned to address the entire gathering.
“Please let me know if anyone sees or hears anything unusual. Or if you have any information about Edna Marisol which may help further the investigation. Cal has my contact info, or you can reach me at the police station in town.”
“Do you mean unusual like the 19th century pirate ghost standing behind you?” Daisy offered. She shook her head. “No, no, I suppose that’s not all that odd, given the history of this town.”
The crowd murmured their agreement.
“By the way, Morgan dear, it’s nice to meet you. Zoe has told me so much about the wonderful job you’re doing here in Bijoux,” Rennie said with a warm smile. “Also, there’s an older woman next to the pirate who looks a lot like you. Your mother, perhaps? I think she wants to tell you something.”
Morgan stiffened. Pirates were one thing, the possibility of her mom hanging out behind her was another. It was all she could do not to look over her shoulder. Even though she knew Billie was always with her on some level, there was still no such thing as ghosts. Not even a chance of them existing, she reminded herself as the Ghostbusters theme song rang through her head. She handed the microphone back to Cal. “On that note, they’re all yours.” She turned to leave, then stopped and said over her shoulder, “Oh, and I’m on my way to pick up the cat, so you’re officially off cat duty.”
“Huh.” Cal looked dejected.
Morgan pursed her lips. “Fine, you can have visitation rights.”
He perked back up. “Excellent. I have some special treats for her.”
Before Morgan could respond, Rocky said, “Griselda knew all of Madame’s secrets. If anyone knows what happened, it’ll be that cat.” He pulled his shawl tight around his shoulders and frowned. “Griselda and I never really saw eye to eye on most things, but I can keep her if you want. I’m probably the closest to family she has.”
“I might be able to communicate with her,” Daisy offered. “I’m also a pet psychic. Cats are my specialty. I’ll come by and see her tomorrow, determine if she’s hiding anything. Cats can be that way, you know. Very private and secretive.”
Morgan stared at Daisy and Rocky. He acted like the cat was his sister or something and she seemed to think Griselda would talk to her. I’m done here. “Thanks, but we’re good. I’m keeping Griselda in custody until the case is solved.” She turned to the small crowd. “Again, if any of you think of anything, please reach out to me or my deputy, JJ. And please also know we’re doing everything we can to assure a safe and productive weekend for all of you.”
Chapter Seven
Morgan slid into the driver’s seat of her truck in the parking lot of the Firefly, her stomach growled. Loudly. She checked her smart watch. How was it 5:30 already? All she’d eaten today was that muffin for breakfast, didn’t even get to enjoy the decadence of Zoe’s cinnamon butter coffee cake. While investigating a murder was the priority, she reminded herself she had to do better about keeping herself fed and her energy up. She patted her stomach. “Fine, fine. I’ll feed you, but we have to get Griselda first.” Morgan pulled away from the sunset pink B&B and headed toward Doctor Pete’s Veterinary Clinic.
Twenty minutes later, Morgan parked along Main Street, just across from the vet office. It was housed in one of the old board and batten buildings sitting on the edge of Progress. ‘Progress’ is what the locals disparagingly called the gentrified area. Doc Pete was one of the Hold Outs the mayor had recently begun criticizing during one of his stump speeches.
Morgan pulled open the heavy oak and glass door to the vet clinic and a bell chimed overhead. “Be right with you,” a male voice called out. The doc, late thirties, blond hair, short stocky build, walked out of one of the two exam rooms, wiping his hands on a paper towel. “Oh, hi Captain. How are you this evening?”
“I’m good.” Her stomach growled loudly. “Well, apparently I’ll be better after I get some food in me. Do you have Griselda ready to go?”
“I certainly do.” He disappeared to the back and returned with the large c
at in her carrier, placing it gently on the front desk. “This one here is in excellent health. She doesn’t seem to be carrying any long-term trauma from the attack on her owner.” He shrugged. “But it is a cat, so who can tell. They’re not like dogs, who wear their hearts on their furry little sleeves.”
Morgan peered into the cage. Griselda stared back with her large gold eyes. “What a beauty you are,” she whispered. She straightened. “Did you find anything out of the ordinary? From the state of van, we’ve concluded there was a struggle. I wondered if she may have picked up something during the commission of the crime.”
“Actually, yes. There was blood on her nails. I took scrapings and sent them off for DNA testing. Then my assistant cleaned her up and gave her a good brushing. We’ll go through the fur collected to see if there’s anything out of the ordinary.” He scratched the cat’s nose through the cage grate. “I’ll let you know if we find something. Also, when the DNA results come in.”
“Perfect. What do I owe you?”
He waved a hand. “Oh, nothing. I don’t mind supporting our police.” He took a breath. “Although, I wouldn’t mind grabbing a cup of coffee sometime...?”
“Coffee?”
“Would beer be better?” he quickly added.
“I’m sorry. Are you asking me out?”
Doc Pete froze. Before he could answer, Griselda batted at Morgan’s hand through the cage and howled. “I’d better get her some food, too. Thanks for helping us out.” She gathered up the cage and opened the front door. “And please let me or JJ know as soon as you get the results in.”
“Will do,” Doc called after her. “And let me know about coffee. Or beer,” he said, but Morgan was already out the door.
Morgan carried Griselda down the street and into The Perch Mouth Bar and Grille. Not much to look at, with its narrow shotgun design and rustic — read: worn — exterior, but it was the local dive and she loved it. Plus, her oldest friend in the world now owned it. She sat down at the old oak bar with its aged and faded yellow linoleum counter. People had autographed it over the years with Sharpies of every color.
“Hey, sweet thing.” Her friend, bartender, and bar owner, Francesca ‘Frankie’ Whitaker hugged her across the bar then pulled a draft of Motor City Mustang Stout and placed it in front of Morgan. Frankie nodded toward the cat. “A bowl of water for your friend there?”
“Water and cat chow, please. I know you have some, with that clowder you feed in the alley. I’m going to park her behind the bar, though, okay?” Morgan smiled. “I don’t want to upset any of your customers, but I also didn’t want to leave her in the truck.”
“Sure. Over there is fine.” Frankie motioned to an empty corner. “Tell me how things are going, how you’re doing. Connie’s been all over the news with her claims of another Detroit Killer in our midst.”
“Of course, she has. And of course, there’s no Detroit Killer.” Morgan inhaled deeply and sighed at the scent of rich coffee, chocolate, and hops. She took a long drink. Almost as good as food. “There’s absolutely no ‘Detroit Killer.’ It’s true, though, there was another murder out at the Preserve. I’m also working through some other news dropped on me today: Dad and Zoe are getting married this weekend. Well, on Monday.”
“What?!? When did this happen? Scoop me!”
“They just told me this morning. Apparently decided to go through with it while so many of Zoe’s psychic friends are in town.”
Frankie opened a bottled beer and handed it to a customer a couple of seats down, then put a bowl of water and cat food in Griselda’s cage and reclosed it. “And how are you feeling about this?”
Morgan sighed. “Honestly, it’s a little challenging. Even though Dad and Mom were divorced for such a long time, it’s still weird to think of him married to someone else.” She took a sip of her beer. “But that’s my issue, not theirs, and I’m happy for Zoe and Dad.” She smiled. “We have to find happiness when and where we can, right?”
Frankie patted Morgan’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Of course, you’re happy for them. And you’d do well to take your own advice.”
“Maybe someday.” Morgan scrunched up her face. “Once I solve the mystery of Ian’s murder, maybe then I’ll be able to start over.”
“Is this seat taken?”
Morgan glanced over at the guy who was asking. Medium height, medium build, medium thirties, medium coloring, lots of mediums, lots of khaki. Like he bought his clothes at an adult Garanimal store. “Nope, help yourself.”
He pulled the stool up to the counter and ordered one of the local IPAs before turning to Morgan. “Trent.”
She didn’t look at him. “And?”
“Trent. It’s my name.”
She raised her glass. “Nice to meet you. Are you a psychic? If so, please keep any predictions to yourself. I’m done today.”
He laughed. “No, no. I’m not psychic.” He paused. “Not that I can tell, anyway. How does one even know if they’re psychic? Or have powers of any kind?”
Morgan glanced over at him again. There was absolutely nothing powerful emanating from him. “Maybe you should be asking one of the many psychics in town for the weekend.
“Maybe.” He angled his head toward her. “Honestly, though, I think it’s a bunch of bunk. But my dad believed in them so I thought it might be interesting to check it out as long as I’m here, visiting Bijoux.”
Bunk. She could accept that. Morgan turned back to her beer. “Okay, then.”
“You’re not very chatty, are you,” Trent said.
“You got that right,” Frankie offered with a chuckle as she placed a plate of fish and chips with homemade coleslaw in front of Morgan.
“Frankie here is the real psychic.” Morgan quirked a smile at her friend. “She knew what I wanted without even telling her.”
Trent considered the bartender. Frankie held up her hands. “Nope, not psychic. Just twenty five years of friendship.” She laughed. “And that cop brain of hers is always ticking away, even when she’s quiet.”
“Cop? You don’t look like a cop.”
Not the first time she’d heard that. People always underestimated her on that front. She didn’t mind so much, though. Sometimes it worked to her advantage. “I’m going to assume you meant that in a good way.”
“The town’s best captain,” Cal said as he dropped into the seat on the other side of Morgan.
“Only captain,” Morgan said. And why is everyone crowding around me?
“Which makes you the best.” Cal jostled her shoulder with his.
Morgan’s stomach fluttered at the unexpected touch. Traitor.
Frankie shook her head and filled a glass of Traverse City Cherry Hard Cider for him. “You are walking into dangerous territory tonight, my friend.”
“Always am.” He toasted Frankie and took a sip. “Keeps life interesting.” Cal turned to the guy on the other side of Morgan. “Catching a vacation before the season ends?” he asked.
“Yeah, something like that.”
Rocky walked in the door and sat on the stool next to Trent. “Hi Captain, Caleb,” he said with a little wave.
Morgan looked over. There was a definite shift in the air around Edna’s old protégé. “You seem happier than the last time I saw you.”
Rocky grinned. “Honestly, I feel happier. Lighter. I’ve decided to step into full-on psychic reader this weekend and wear the title proudly. No more apprenticing, no more giant cat bossing me around. I’m free.” He looked at Frankie. “I’ll have whatever Cal’s having. It looks delicious. A grilled cheese, too, please. Extra pickles.”
“What was holding you back?” Trent asked.
“The Mystical Madame Edna Marisol. She was mentoring me, but she’s gone now. After two years of kowtowing in servitude to her, it’s my time to shine and share my abilities with the world.” Rocky glanced at Morgan. “Not that I don’t miss her. Edna will always have a special place in my heart. She was like a grumpy grandmother to me.�
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Morgan nodded as she added Rocky to the very short list of suspects she’d been mentally tabulating. Actually, she had no suspects on her radar, but Rocky just made a spectacular appearance.
“Tell me, how unhappy were you, exactly?” Morgan leaned on the counter and looked past Trent.
“Oh, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. Or calloused, for that matter. I felt ready to spread my energetic wings for a while now, but Edna kept telling me I wasn’t ready.” Rocky took a sip of his hard cider. He turned and looked Morgan directly in the eye. “I tell you, I was ready.”
“I’m a big fan of your look.” Everyone at the bar turned toward the man who dropped into the seat on the other side of Rocky. Morgan took in his stats: mid-late twenties; longish red hair, thick build. “You’re one of the psychics, aren’t you?” He extended his hand to Rocky. “I’m Jimmy. Jimmy Canard.”
Rocky smiled. “Nice to meet you, Jimmy Canard. Yes, I am one of the psychics.” He shook the other man’s hand. “And thank you. It’s taken me years to get to a place where I’m happy with my professional appearance.” He looked around at everyone at the bar. “What? It’s not like there’s a handbook telling you how to dress, you know.”
“Are there handbooks for other things?” Trent asked.
Rocky seemed to consider the question, then replied, “No, I suppose not. It’s why us young mystical-types try to get someone with experience to mentor us.”
“So, back to your mentor,” Morgan said. “Talk some more about how dissatisfied you were with Edna’s coaching.”
“This seems more like an interrogation than a conversation. Nice to meet all of you, but I’m outta here,” Trent said. He dropped a ten on the bar and headed out the door.
Morgan gave Trent a slight wave and continued to stare at Rocky. Rocky stared back.
Frankie brought the grilled cheese. Rocky picked up his plate and cider and stood. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to sit elsewhere. I’m really too exhausted to talk about this right now. I need to get my head on so I’m ready to take my place at the psychic fair when it opens.”
