Dark Demon Rising: Whisperings Paranormal Mystery book seven

by Linda Welch

  My hand went to my neck. And this. My engagement ring and a tiny crucifix on a silver chain.

  “Guys, time’s a ticking,” Jack said. “We want to find Madam today, not tomorrow.”

  We snagged another ride who headed north. I looked at the space Irving Prentice occupied for ten years as we moved along Temple. Irving was the third person Mel, Jack and I taught how to travel and one of the most difficult, for Irving stood in a prominent part of downtown. We went to him early in the morning when not many autos and only the occasional wino or homeless person was abroad. There was traffic, and each time a car approached I hurried along the sidewalk as if to a destination, then streaked back to Irving when the coast was clear. Took us two nights to teach him.

  I see Irving traveling in Clarion. He loves his new ability to move, watch people in other parts of town, listen to their conversations. He has been to the opera, seen plays and movies, hobbled through the art gallery. He’s having the time of his life. Um . . . I mean death.

  Two hours later we moved along Pennsylvania attached to a mailman. Not the swiftest transportation as he parked, trudged through the slush for a block delivering mail, returned to his van and drove to the next block. But grabbing him was fortunate, the best prospect of locating Madam Magenta. We read the name on each batch of mail over his shoulder before he slid it in the box, hoping to see Magenta on the envelopes.

  Pennsylvania became a residential area as we went west. Perhaps the clairvoyant lived and conducted business in her home, but did she use her real name? If she received mail addressed to Madam Magenta, with my luck none came today. Personal mail bearing her real name and an envelope might read M. Smith or some such.

  Approaching West Pennsylvania, the small houses and yards on this end of the street were on the whole well kept, but they became dilapidated in the next block. Another four blocks would take us across the railroad tracks and into gang territory.

  Then, plain as day, an envelope read: Ms. Magenta Benson.

  I let go, and we found ourselves on a concrete step while the mailman walked away.

  “Has to be her,” said Mel.

  “Can’t be many Magentas,” I agreed. “Now, how do we get inside?”

  Mel heaved a sigh. “We wait.”

  As luck had it, twenty minutes or so later a silver sedan pulled to the curb and a short, plump woman who looked to be in her sixties climbed out and headed along the path. She wore black from head to toe: shoes, hose, skirt and mid-length coat, and a black beret perched atop her shoulder-length gray hair. Feet skidding in the slush, she hustled along the path and up the step through the now ferocious sleet. But she made it and stood beneath the small porch, brushing at her damp shoulders.

  “This is it,” Jack said, and latched on her.

  She knocked on the door as I made my move, and I missed. Cursing, I grabbed again and felt the silky-soft aura in my hand. I got it the same time as Mel attached herself.

  After a moment, the door opened to reveal a startling figure, a tall woman clad in a long-sleeved, high-necked turquoise blouse tucked in a floor-length black skirt. A fringed silk shawl of dazzling metallic colors in a Slavic pattern draped her shoulders. With a ring on every finger, her hand rested on a walking stick ending in a snake’s head instead of a knob. A mass of tousled black hair, from which big gold hoop earrings poked, fell on the shawl and tangled over her back. Dark eyes, thickly lashed and shadowed with purple, stared haughtily from beneath slashing black eyebrows in an oval face. Her complexion could be olive or darkly tanned. Mauve blush highlighted her cheeks too well and dark-purple lipstick plastered her mouth.

  “Good god,” Jack exclaimed.

  Mel said, “She could be a gypsy from a Fifties movie.”

  “I bet she has a crystal ball on a fringed velvet tablecloth.”

  “And tarot cards.”

  “Sorry I’m early, Madam Magenta,” the visitor said. “I allowed extra time for the drive in this awful weather and didn’t need it.”

  “No matter, my dear Mrs. Villiams.” Madam’s low, throaty, accented voice was as exotic as her appearance. “Come in.”

  Magenta turned and led Mrs. Villiams inside. She shut the door and continued along a narrow corridor where a small table lamp provided minimal illumination. The first door on the right took us into a parlor.

  “Please, take a seat,” Magenta said, wafting one hand at a wood chair with a seat padded in dark plum velvet. “Vould you like tea?”

  “I’d love some.” Mrs. Villiams settled in the chair.

  “I think her name’s Williams,” Mel suggested. “Madam is one of those foreigners who can’t pronounce W.”

  Madam leaned heavily on her cane as she left the room.

  I agreed with Mel, Magenta resembled a Roma in an old 1950s movie and her chosen décor might have been pulled out of one which included séances. Heavy plum-colored velvet curtains on the windows made the room dim; a ceiling lamp with a tasseled shade sent a muted glow over a round table covered with a cloth which matched the curtains. In three corners, dusty artificial plants sat on tables with small tops and long curved legs. Equally dusty knickknacks dotted a set of glass shelves with a tasseled shawl draped on one edge. But no crystal ball and no tarot cards.

  Magenta returned with a tray balanced on one hand. Mrs. Williams quickly stood to take it and set it near the table’s edge. “Shall I pour?”

  “If you vould be so kind.”

  Mrs. Williams poured tea from a china pot into two china cups and handed one to Magenta, who propped her cane on the table’s rim so she could take it in both hands.

  Jack stepped away from Mrs. Williams and circled the room. Mel moved nearer the tray and eyed a small plate of plain cookies.

  “You can let go, Tiff,” Jack said.

  “Okay.” With a sigh, I moved away from Mrs. Williams.

  Magenta’s hand trembled and tea slopped in the saucer. She glared past Mrs. Williams.

  Mrs. Williams sounded concerned. “Is anything wrong, Madam?”

  “No, nothing,” Magenta said after a moment. She carefully placed her cup in the saucer. “Shall we begin?”

  Mrs. Williams swallowed the rest of her tea in one gulp. “Please.”

  And without further ado, Magenta went into her spiel. She closed her eyes and murmured, “David is glad little Vernon is on the mend.”

  Mrs. Williams perked up. “Has he been watching over Vernon?”

  “He was fond of Veron in life and remains so in death.”

  Jack spat out the words. “Nobody’s here except us. She’s a fake.”

  Magenta’s eyes sprang open, her shoulders tensed. She didn’t move her head but her gaze zipped from side to side.

  Did she hear us? If she did, she wasn’t a fake. But we were the only shades in the room, so where was David? I wasn’t sure how clairvoyants operated, maybe she heard David’s message from beyond. I put a finger to my mouth and mimed shush. Mel and Jack nodded.

  Magenta sucked in a deep breath and continued. “David says you must not feel guilty about selling the house and moving to Colorado to be near Randolph, Sarah and Vernon. He understands your home holds dear memories of your life together, as it does for him, but you must think of your future.”

  Mrs. Williams’ chin trembled. “You don’t know how relieved I am to hear dear David understands. Sentimentality has held me back, and leaving will be difficult, but I am so lonely without him. In Colorado, I can watch my grandchildren grow.”

  “And David vill be there vith you.”

  Mrs. Williams smiled, and the session continued.

  How did Magenta know all this stuff about Mr. and Mrs. Williams? She must be the real thing.

  At long last, Magenta saw Mrs. Williams to the door, where the happy lady passed her an envelope.

  We watched from the parlor doorway. Mel took a hesitant step into the hall and grinned. “We can move in this house.”

  “The entire house?” I asked.

  “Guess we’l
l find out,” said Jack.

  Magenta leaned her cane against the wall and tottered through the hall, past us to a staircase. Yes, tottered. She didn’t look sure of her balance. We followed, and found her lowering to the bottom step. She hoisted her skirt, kicked off her shoes and massaged one foot with an audible groan of relief.

  The shoes had three-inch platform soles and six-inch heels. She needed the cane to help her walk in the ugly things.

  After working on her other foot, Magenta got upright, hiked up her skirt and climbed the steps. We followed her. The staircase opened to a landing at the top and Magenta went left and in a room. We peered around the frame to see her toss the envelope on a couch, cross the room and disappear into another. She shut the door.

  We edged inside. The décor in this room was the opposite of the dim, musty the parlor.

  Jack pressed his knuckles to his mouth. “Oh, good golly Miss Molly.”

  “It is . . . bright.” Mel shaded her eyes with her hands.

  Jack spoke in the tone you use when you’re trying to see the upside of something. “Yes, cheerful.”

  Red blinds half covered two windows. The overhead lamp and two standing lamps glowed bright white. A long gold, plush-velvet couch sat against the green north wall. The other walls were dark-blue. A lavender-colored plastic desk with laptop, printer and stack of paper stood under one window. A red beanbag faced a forty-two-inch plasma television on a black console with stereo units on the lower shelves. A small wooden table with seashells set into the trim sat next to the couch and a blue leather armchair completed the décor. A fire smoldered in a small fireplace surrounded by black and white tiles.

  Glass beads in shades of orange, tied back either side, hung over the door Magenta had used. Travel posters of tropical paradises fought for wall space with pictures of movie and music idols. Yellow sticky notes dotted a mirror above the fireplace.

  It was worse than the worst coed dorm room imaginable. I wanted to close my eyes.

  A toilet flushed in the adjoining room, followed by water running. Jack looked a question at me. I shook my head and mimed no. Neither of us should watch Magenta at her ablutions.

  We waited ten minutes. Jack and Mel prowled the room. I wanted to chew my fingernails but could I? I decided against trying.

  Magenta did not emerge from the bathroom when the door finally opened. Nope. Someone else did.

  Shorter than Magenta, this gal wore her hair cropped short and teal-blue, partly damp and partly fluffy from being rubbed with a towel. Black jeans and a tight green T-shirt hugged a trim figure. The shirt almost matched eyes fringed with long, thick blond lashes. With those eyes, a pert little nose, wide mouth and the hair color, she could be a high-schooler.

  But she must be Magenta, unless someone else hid in the bathroom all along.

  Mel stood nearest the bathroom. I got her attention and jerked my head. She gave me a puzzled look. I head-jerked again. Wide-eyed, she nodded and stuck her head through the bathroom wall.

  She popped out. “A wig and a ton of makeup.”

  “Okay, I heard you,” Magenta said. “Who’s there?”

  She sounded different, too, her accent decidedly American Northwest.

  “Are you Magenta?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Her eyes widened; she stuttered, “Who are you?”

  “I’m Tiff.”

  Chapter Six

  “Wow!” Magenta backed across the room and landed sprawled on the couch. She bent over her knees, dug fingers in her blue hair and repeated, “Wow!”

  Her head jerked up, her gaze sharpened. “Are you still here?”

  “We are. Can you see us?”

  “We?” She squinted. “Kind of. I see a . . . you’re hazy, wavering. Are you a tall woman with pale hair? And a couple blurs, kind of smoky columns.” Her gaze shot to Jack and Mel. “Three of you?”

  “Nice,” Jack huffed. “She sees you okay but Mel and I are blurs.”

  “Oh boy.” Magenta put her fingers over her mouth and laughed through them.

  “She’s hysterical,” Jack said.

  “Not.” She let her hands flop at her sides and looked at the ceiling. “This is huge!”

  “Pull yourself together, honey,” said Mel.

  Magenta’s gaze shot to Mel. “I’m sorry, it’s just . . . you’re ghosts, in my living room, talking to me!”

  “Not for much longer if you keep this up,” Jack said.

  She muffled a chuckle with one hand, then pasted a serious expression on her face. “You’re right. I suppose we should introduce ourselves?”

  “I’m Tiff.” My hand swept the room. “They’re Jack and Mel.”

  “Why are you astounded to see us?” Mel asked.

  Jack disappeared into the bathroom.

  “I’ve seen hazy shapes, now and then,” said Magenta. “And I heard voices chattering when I was thinking of something else, though they stopped when I concentrated. It led me to dream up Madam Magenta. Real ghosts have never come to my house. Why are you here?”

  “Just one second.” I strode to her. “What do you mean, dream up Madam Magenta?”

  Jack strutted into the room. “Dark makeup, the wig, the clothes, the accent. Colored contact lenses? You are good, girl!”

  “Magenta is an act?” I said. “But what you told Mrs. Williams . . . you do speak to the departed.”

  She threw her arms wide. “I’m a big fake.” Frowning, she scratched her nose with one finger. “I thought I was.”

  Bouncing to her feet, she paced the room with fingers dug in her hair. “This is positively creepy.” She spun on her heel; her gaze drifted until it focused on me. “You are real.”

  “You’d prefer we weren’t?” Mel asked.

  Magenta splayed her fingers on her mouth and grinned behind them. “Well, what do you know!”

  “So you didn’t communicate with David Williams?” I asked.

  Magenta snorted. “No.”

  “She’s a scam artist,” Mel huffed.

  The girl’s brow puckered, so did her mouth. “I tell them what they want to hear, and yeah, I do take advantage of them. But I’m not the worst thing out there.”

  As if that vindicated her.

  “How do you do it?” Mel sunk in the beanbag.

  “Not as hard as you’d think. I can get a lot from the newspaper and public records, and I make an appointment with a client at least a week beforehand, and follow them from a distance. They meet friends or family sooner or later. If they’re in a public place, a restaurant or café, or maybe a park, I move in and listen. No one’s gonna recognize me as Madam Magenta.” She crossed the room and opened a cupboard set flush with the wall. “If I can’t get close, I use this.” She hauled out a long range, sound amplifying listening device.

  “You stalk your clients?”

  She exaggerated a wince. “Stalk sounds so . . . dirty. Can we say I investigate?”

  With Royal’s supersensitive hearing, we didn’t need to use a device to listen in when we were on a stakeout, but the police, FBI and other agencies did. And yeah, we called it investigation.

  “You and Royal follow people and pry into their lives,” Jack said sarcastically. “But it’s not stalking when you do it.”

  Whatever she was, she could help us. “It’s like this, Magenta. Jack—” I began.

  She interrupted. “Maggie.”

  “Maggie. Jack and Mel are . . . ghosts. They’re my friends, we’ve known one another a long time. I’m not a ghost. I got separated from my body but I’m not dead.”

  “No way.”

  “Yes, way.”

  “Where’s your body?”

  “On life support at Clarion General.”

  Her jaw dropped. She snapped her mouth shut and winced as her teeth clacked. “You’re the woman who was shot in the head, the psychic.”

  I didn’t say I’m not a psychic, not as people understand psychics to be. “Yup, that’s me.”

  “You work with Royal Mortensen,” M
aggie said. “He used to be a police detective and now he’s a private eye.”

  “I know what he did and does now,” I snapped out.

  She flushed. “Sorry. It’s just I’ve . . . noticed him.”

  “Who hasn’t?” Jack crooned.

  Oh lord, not another infatuated female. “He’s the reason we came. I’m not dead, Maggie, and I need you to tell Royal what’s happened so he doesn’t give up on me.”

  But a thought hit me. I imagined Maggie, a stranger with claims of psychic ability trying to persuade Royal I gave her a message. With Royal’s cynicism for all things paranormal, and the state he was in, it would be difficult. You’d think a man from another dimension, with his world’s history and the mind-boggling way so much there operated, naturally accepted anything. It doesn’t work like that. What is outrageous and extraordinary to one culture is business as usual to another, and vice versa. The mystical stuff I’ve come to take for granted has never been part of his life and is hard for him to accept.

  And if Maggie got through to him, would he believe the rest, that I existed but was not the shade of a dead person? If he recalled what I told him about shades, he knew they experienced strong denial when they first woke. It was a dream, a hallucination, they were ill and their mind played tricks on them. Anything, except they were dead. He’d think I came up with an offbeat story rather than accept the truth.

  Perhaps the fact alone I communicated with Maggie would, in his mind, confirm the doctors were right, I was beyond saving.

  “No,” I said under my breath.

  “No?”

  “If you say, my shade is—”

  “Shade?”

  “Ghosts. Spirits. I call them shades.” I irritably flipped one hand. “Royal is at the point of letting the doctors take me off life support. If you tell him you have a message from me, it might be a kind of confirmation, that if my spirit has left my body, it’s beyond saving.”