Deadly Forecast: A Psychic Eye Mystery (19 page)

“Soon?”

“Over cocktails.”

“Oooo. Them’s some big problems, then, pardner.” With a light chuckle, Candice put
the car into gear and sped out of the drive.

“You don’t know the half of it,” I muttered.

Candice drove straight to our favorite happy hour retreat and I ordered a prickly
pear margarita almost before getting completely settled into the booth. Candice thoughtfully
ordered a plate of nachos to soak up some of the alcohol she knew I’d be throwing
down, and one prickly pear for herself.

What I love about Candice is that she’s very good at reading me. Most people can’t—I
seem to surprise them with my thoughts, observations, and insights. But Candice just
goes with the flow, never really questioning or second-guessing me. She brings great
balance to the equation too; I can be pretty emotive (some might even say childish),
but Candice never seems put off by my outbursts or reactions. In fact, I would say
she often finds them humorous. And that is probably what says the most about why she’s
such a great friend; she accepts me for me, without judgment, criticism, or backstabbing.
She’s a kindred spirit, and she has my back through thick and thin. All women should
be so lucky to have a BFF like that. In fact, if you ask me, all women should be as
genuine, supportive, and accepting of one another…period.

As I sat there pouting into my prickly pear margarita, ranting about Cat, Candice
didn’t once interrupt my little pity party. She simply picked at the nachos, nodded
kindly, and waited out the storm. At last I fell silent and Candice said, “So what
are you going to do?”

“Bail,” I said with a smirk to hide the truth of how badly I wanted out of Cat’s Cirque
du Ceremony.

“Why can’t you just stand up to her?” Candice offered.

I leveled a look at her. “Why can’t
you
stand up to her? You know you hate that bridesmaid’s dress she’s got you wearing.”

Candice stirred her drink with her straw. “Point taken.”

I sighed heavily. No one stood up to Cat because Cat simply refused to hear it. Oh,
she’d nod, and say, “Yes, yes, I understand,” and then you’d be run over by six white
stallions and a runaway carriage driven by a mad little person in a pink cupid’s outfit.

“So, Sundance, what’re you going to do?” Candice repeated, motioning to our server
for another round.

I waited for her to look at me, and I said, “I don’t know, and I also don’t know that
I can go through with it, Cassidy.”

“What does
that
mean?”

I shook my head and looked away. “Do Dutch and I
really
have to get married to be happy? I mean, we’ve been so good together for three and
a half years as just boyfriend and girlfriend. Why isn’t that enough?”

Candice didn’t say anything and I finally lifted my gaze back to her. She was staring
at me intently. “You made a promise, Abs,” she said, reaching out to squeeze my wrist.
“Dutch proposed and you accepted, and he’s counting on you to keep your end of the
deal. If you start talking seriously about bailing on him now, he’ll be crushed.”

I felt my shoulders sag. “Dammit,” I muttered.

Candice let go of my wrist and reached into her pocket. Pulling out a quarter, she
pushed it toward me and said, “That one’s on me.”

*   *   *

W
e arrived at my place about an hour later. Dutch still wasn’t home, but Brice was
in the driveway, talking earnestly into his phone. Candice and I sent him a little
wave as we headed up the stairs, and he came inside just a short time later. “We brought
dinner,” Candice said, giving him a sweet peck before handing him an ice-cold beer.

Brice took it gratefully. “Where’s Dutch?”

“He’s still with Cat,” I said, reading the text my fiancé had just sent me. “But he
says they’re wrapping it up and he’ll be home in twenty minutes.”

“Should we wait for him?” Brice asked as I handed him a plate filled with pasta from
the restaurant.

“Naw. It’s almost eight. Go on. Eat. We’ll be there in a minute.”

Brice took his food and Candice and I continued to plate and serve the pasta for ourselves
and put one in the oven for Dutch. He arrived home about fifteen minutes later looking
haggard and worn-out.

“How’d it go?” Candice asked him (when I didn’t).

Dutch took the beer she offered him and sucked the whole thing down. He then wiped
his mouth with the back of his hand and sat down heavily in the chair next to me.
“I want a divorce.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “We’re not married yet, cowboy.”

“Fine. When we
are
married, I want to go on record that I get to divorce your sister.”

I smirked. “Only if I get to divorce her first.”

Candice handed Dutch another beer from the bucket keeping the six-pack cool. “Can
I get in on that action?”

“Sure!” Dutch and I sang together.

“I’ve never met her,” Brice said.

“Trust us,” I told him. “When we get to the dress rehearsals, you’ll want to divorce
her too.”

We all toasted to divorcing Cat before I asked Dutch, “So where do we stand?”

“I got her to agree to take out the carriage and the horses.”

I waited for more, but Dutch only nursed his beer and stared dumbly at the table.
“Annnnnd?”

He shook his head. “That’s all she’d agree to nix, and it was only after I told her
that a team of runaway stallions might wreak havoc on guests and venue alike.”

“So the little people cupids?” I asked.

“In.”

“Swans?”

“In.”

“Swarming butterflies?”

“In.”

“Eggy and Tuttle ring bearers?”

Dutch sighed and rubbed his face with his hand. “In. But no miniature carriage. They’ll
waddle down with the rings on pillows strapped to their backs. And Cat wants you and
me to learn the Hustle and exit the podium dancing. I say if we survive to that point
that we just make a run for it.”

Brice laughed like he thought we were joking, and we all turned to stare at him. He
sobered pretty quickly.
“Seriously?”
he asked.

We nodded as one.

Brice gulped. “She sent me an e-mail the other day that she wants to meet with the
groomsmen individually next week.”

I tipped my beer at him. “Good luck, buddy. You’re gonna need it.”

We toasted to divorcing Cat again before we got down to more serious business. “Fill
us in on your meeting with the ex-cop,” Brice said.

“He’s telling the truth,” I began. “The guy’s not anybody that I’d put my trust in,
but as far as I can tell, he’s not lying. He did receive two calls, but the message
the caller left him was pretty cryptic. Still, I think there is some validity to the
fact that there’s a link between the call and the explosions. What that link is, I
couldn’t tell you, but my radar says it’s there.”

“There’s no caller ID,” Candice added, “but you guys can probably get his permission
or a warrant to search Banes’s phone records.”

“I’ll call him tomorrow and get the paperwork started for a warrant and wiretap. If
there’s another one of these coming, I want to be prepared.”

I shuddered, and I didn’t express the terrible feeling I had that we’d see another
one of these. “You cold?” Dutch asked me, reaching for my hand under the table.

“I’m okay,” I assured him, but I knew he knew different.

“You’re fine,” he said, and I looked at him to see him wink.

I rolled my eyes. “Yes. I’m fine. Pinkie swear.”

Dutch got up and went to the couch to bring back an afghan and drape it over my shoulders.
“Don’t want you getting sick before the big day,” he said.

Sick? Why hadn’t I thought of that?! My eyes flashed to Candice, and I knew she read
my expression. She shook her head subtly, and mouthed, “No!”

I scowled at her as Dutch took his seat again. “Did you get anything more out of Mrs.
Padilla?” I asked him.

He picked at the label on his beer bottle. “Nothing other than the name of Michelle’s
dentist. I got his office to send over Michelle’s last dental X-ray and the coroner’s
going to have the results to us by tomorrow.”

“How was Mrs. Padilla when you left her?” I pressed, concerned over the poor woman.

Dutch sighed like he carried the whole world on his shoulders. “Not good,” he admitted.
“I think it was starting to sink in that her daughter could’ve been in the salon at
the time of the explosion.”

Candice’s gaze dropped to the table. “Wait till it’s confirmed that her daughter was
the one wearing the bomb.”

We were all quiet for a bit until Brice said, “I’m interested in this lead you came
up with at Michelle Padilla’s house. You think the sliding glass door was tampered
with?”

Dutch nodded. “Looks that way. The catch was jimmied so that the lock could be set
without its actually locking the door. If the girls didn’t frequently go out on the
back patio, they’d never know. We also found no prints on the door handle itself.”

Brice’s brow furrowed. “None?”

“Nada,” Dutch said. “Which means the door had to have
been wiped down. There were prints everywhere else from the girls and at least ten
unknowns, but the handle was clean, so whoever tampered with the lock also wiped it
down.”

“So what’s your theory, Cooper?” Brice asked me.

I shrugged. “I’m not sure. But if I had to guess, I’d say that Michelle Padilla and
Taylor Greene didn’t volunteer for bomb duty. And if that’s the case, then we’ve got
a serious
mother
of a problem on our hands. Way bigger than just two suicide bombers blowing themselves
up. We could have a serial killer who’s just warming up with these two. The destruction,
fear, and panic he could cause…”

My voice trailed off, and in the room you could hear a pin drop.

T
he interior of the car was so quiet that M.J. could hear the sound of Gilley’s heavy
breathing next to her. She eyed him as he clutched the armrest when Dutch took a turn
way too fast for it to be safe. Somehow, they managed to keep from rolling, and once
around the turn, they were racing forward again. Gil leaned over when the car had
straightened out and whispered, “I think I’m gonna be sick!”

M.J. squeezed Gilley’s hand. “Don’t you dare!”

“Can he let me out?” Gil asked, and M.J. noticed that Gilley was looking a bit like
Candice had when she’d first emerged from the back of the ambulance.

“No! Just take deeper breaths and focus on something pleasant.”

Gil stared hard at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

“It’s that house!” Candice suddenly called from the front seat. M.J. looked to where
she was pointing and saw a modest-sized redbrick house with black shutters and matching
door.

Dutch stomped on the brakes and everyone in the car pitched forward. He was out of
the Audi almost before it’d come to a
complete stop and running for the front door. He began pounding on it even as M.J.
was trying to get herself untangled from the seat belt.

At last she managed to free herself from the car at the same time that two young men
appeared in the doorway. Dutch grabbed the boy with black wavy hair and pulled him
roughly outside, only to throw him up against the wall of the house and yell,
“Where is she, you son of a bitch?”

“Stop!”
M.J. shouted. “Dutch, stop! He didn’t take her!”

Dutch continued to hold the young man up against the wall, but at least he wasn’t
throwing punches at the poor frightened boy. Candice reached Dutch first and pulled
on his arm to get him to back off, but he was resisting her. “Dutch, let him go!”
she demanded. “Let Brody go!”

M.J. ran over and both she and Candice finally got Dutch to release Brody and take
a step back. “What the hell, man?” Brody yelled fiercely once he was free, but M.J.
could see the real fear in his eyes.

“Where’s Abby?” Dutch demanded. “If you hurt her, Brody, I’ll kill you! Do you understand
me? I’ll
kill
you!”

Brody flattened himself against the brick again, and he looked truly scared. M.J.
stepped in between Dutch and Brody and put her hands on the groom’s chest. “Dutch,
please! You have to let me figure this out, okay? Let me talk to him—”

“There’s no time!” he roared, and she could tell he was really close to losing it.

“There is,” she told him, only half believing it. “Please, trust me on this, okay?”

Dutch was breathing hard through his nose, and his fists were clenched, but at last
he gave one reluctant nod and stepped back. M.J. turned to Brody and said, “You all
right?” The young man was literally shaking with fear, and his buddy—who’d appeared
in the doorway with him—had gone back inside and slammed the door. M.J. could hear
him on the phone calling the police.

“
Brody
, are you all right?” M.J. repeated when he didn’t answer her. His gaze was locked
on Dutch. Still the boy said nothing, so M.J. plowed ahead. “Brody, listen to me;
I’m a spirit medium. I talk to dead people. And a little while ago, right after we
discovered that Abby was missing, a woman named Rita pushed her way into my energy
and insisted that we come talk to you. Did you know this woman?”