Deadly Forecast: A Psychic Eye Mystery Read online

  Deadly Forecast

  THE PSYCHIC EYE MYSTERY SERIES

  Abby Cooper, Psychic Eye

  Better Read Than Dead

  A Vision of Murder

  Killer Insight

  Crime Seen

  Death Perception

  Doom with a View

  A Glimpse of Evil

  Vision Impossible

  Lethal Outlook

  THE GHOST HUNTER MYSTERY SERIES

  What’s a Ghoul to Do?

  Demons Are a Ghoul’s Best Friend

  Ghouls Just Haunt to Have Fun

  Ghouls Gone Wild

  Ghouls, Ghouls, Ghouls

  Ghoul Interrupted

  What a Ghoul Wants

  Deadly Frecast

  A Psychic Eye Mystery

  Victoria Laurie

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com.

  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Victoria Laurie, 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Laurie, Victoria.

  Deadly forecast: a psychic eye mystery/Victoria Laurie.

  p. cm

  ISBN 978-1-101-61419-8

  1. Women detectives—Fiction. 2. Paranormal fiction. 3. Psychics—Fiction.

  4. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3612.A94423D43 2013

  813.6—dc23 2013005754

  Designed by Alissa Amell

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  For my sister Sandy,

  who is the Cat to my Abby,

  minus the bullhorn and bulldozer, of course…

  Acknowledgments

  I’ve wanted to get Abby and M.J. together for years. One of the great joys about having multiple series is playing around with the idea of having them team up to solve a mystery together someday. This particular challenge, however, came with its own set of obstacles. Which series to set the story in was the first decision to make, and since M.J. had her roots in A Vision of Murder, I thought it only natural to bring her back for another Psychic Eye mystery.

  Then I had to decide how to give clear voice to both Abby and M.J., who are each always written in the first person. Sort of by accident I decided to give M.J. a third-person perspective. Timing was also a tough decision—should I bring M.J. in at the beginning? Or allow her to ease into the story a bit later? I chose the former because I’ve always wanted to try a double-time-line scenario, and this seemed like the perfect vehicle.

  Mostly, I wanted to share a little space with my two favorite girls, who’ve served me so well over the past nine years. And this task truly could not have been accomplished without the support of some very special people. How wonderful that we authors are given the space to acknowledge all the special people who make each book possible.

  First, I’d like to give my heartfelt thanks to my fabulous editor, Mrs. Sandra Harding-Hull, who has in her fan club many a devoted coworker, author, and friend. In a word, Sandy is amazeballs. She makes a wonderful collaborative partner and I’m deeply, deeply grateful to have her as an editor and friend. Sandy, thank you for all your hard work and insight. I’m deeply, deeply grateful.

  Next, my schmabulous agent, Jim McCarthy, who has opened this book, skimmed past the first part of these acknowledgments, discovered his name, and is right now reading at breakneck speed to find out what lovely new things I will say about him this time. (Waves) Hi, Jim! Gotcha! Heh, heh. Truthfully, though, the very best compliment I could possibly pay him is that I know in my bones that there is no other person on EARTH who could be a better agent and advocate for me. Thank God Jim is one of a kind. Thank God he’s my agent. Thank God he’s delightful, and charming, and witty, and funny, and oh so wise. Thank God I lurves him enough to tell him the truth. Thank God he lurves me enough to listen, and tell me the truth too. Most of all, thank God he and I are still together and strong as ever nine years into the mix.

  I also must acknowledge my wonderful team at NAL, from fabulous editorial assistant Elizabeth Bistrow, to publicist Kayleigh Clark, to Sharon Gamboa, and my most favorite copy editor of all time, Michele Alpern. Oh, and of course editorial director Claire Zion. I’m so blessed to have the benefit of each and every one of your talents, and I humbly thank you.

  Katie Coppedge, my Webmaster/personal assistant/BFF. Kay-Kay, you are often the brightest ray of sunshine in my day, and I love you sooooo much! Thank you for being such a wonderful person and dear, dear friend.

  My sister Sandy Upham, to whom this book is dedicated. You are so lovely and so amazing. I’m crazy proud of you, and all of my good days begin with a phone call from you. If only the rest of the world knew how hilarious and entertaining we are together! (“Shut up—we’re awesome!”) ;)

  Allow me also to mention the rest of my inner circle, who are seriously the best cheerleading squad on the planet. Nicole Gray, Karen Ditmars, Leanne Tierney, Steve McGrory, Matt and Mike Morrill, Hilary Laurie, Jackie and Will Barrett, Jo Agnelli, Nora, Bob, Liz, Katie, Mike, and Nick Brosseau, Silas Hudson, Thomas Robinson, Laurie Proux, Drue Rowean, Suzanne Parsons, Betty and Pippa Stocking, John Kwaitkowski, Matt McDougall, Sally Woods, Anne Kimbol, McKenna Jordan, Jennifer Melkonian, Shannon Anderson, Juan Tamayo, Rick Michael, Molly Boyle, Martha Bushko, Juliet Blackwell, Nicole Peeler, and Sophie Littlefield.

  Deepest gratitude to each of you for your generous hearts and kindred spirits.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Abby & Dutch’s Wedding Day—T-Minus 02:00:00

  Chapter 2

  Abby & Dutch’s Wedding Day—T-Minus 01:40

  Chapter 3

  T-Minus 01:20

  Chapter 4

  T-Minus 01:13

  Chapter 5

  T-Minus 01:05:48

  Chapter 6

  T-Minus 00:53:15

  Chapter 7

  T-Minus 00:46:45

  Chapter 8

  T-Minus 00:40:32

  Chapter 9

  T-Minus 00:34:15

  Chapter 10

  T-Minus 00:28:15

  Chapter 11

  T-Minus 00:25:48

  Chapter 12

  T-Minus 00:19:23

  Chapter 13

  T-Minus 00:14:51

  Chapter 14

  T-Minus 00:10:32

  Chapter 15

  T-Minus 00:01:57

  Chapter 16

  Chapter One

  The first thing I noticed after regaining consciousness was a splitting headache
and how uncomfortable I was. My head throbbed, but more than that, my body felt wrapped in iron. With effort I tried to sit up, and so many realizations sprinted into my brain that it made the ache in my head even worse.

  The ensuing dump of adrenaline quashed much of the headache, but I was hardly relieved. My fingers found the metal cage wrapped around my torso, and also the wires poking out from a device centered over my heart.

  I knew exactly what that device was—I’d seen the havoc it could wreak firsthand, and I also knew I had very little time left to live. Feeling a sob bubble up from the center of my chest, I did my best to quell it—I had to think!

  But thinking proved nearly impossible. “Oh, God!” I whispered, as tears filled my eyes. Carefully, and I do mean carefully, I moved my fingers along the metal, hunting for a way out. It was then that I realized I was wearing a bundle of cloth that made movement even more cumbersome. Lifting my chin, I looked down at myself. I was wrapped in metal and white silk.

  Raising my right arm, I saw the ornate lace of the cuff and I could feel the puffy fabric around my arms, but I could also feel that my shoulders were nearly exposed, and as I turned my head from side to side, I could see that the wedding dress I’d been wrapped in was about four sizes too big.

  This wasn’t my wedding dress, though, so why would it fit? I knew to whom it belonged, and also who’d dressed me in it and strapped the metal, wires, and timepiece to my chest.

  Looking around the room, I was shocked to register where I actually was. As I lay on a large king-sized four-poster bed with soft linens, romantic lighting, and a painting on the wall of the manor home where I was to be married, I knew this had to be the little cottage my sister had told me about. Dutch and I would have come here after the reception and fallen into this bed to begin our life together as man and wife, but instead, I was strapped to a bomb that would likely go off before all the wedding guests had arrived.

  And then my breath caught again. Had the countdown already begun? How long had I been out? I swallowed hard and summoned the courage to slowly prop myself up on my elbows, searching out the digital numbers and hoping for time.

  “Hello, Banes,” said a voice, and my gaze snapped to the other side of the room, where a figure sat speaking into a disposable cell phone. “The clock is now ticking. You have two hours.”

  And then, as if on cue, there was a little beep from the device strapped to my chest and as I looked down, I could see a digital display come to life. Even though it was upside down, I could tell the countdown had begun. I had two hours to live.

  My thoughts railed against the reality of it. How could this have happened to me? And how was it that I hadn’t seen it coming?

  But as I stared in shock at the digital display counting down the final moments of my life, I realized the clues had been there all along. I’d simply failed to put them together. I’d been focused in another direction entirely, and it’d never occurred to me that I would end up as the target.

  My thoughts darted back to when fate had turned against me—a mere two weeks earlier—to the day I’d gotten involved in a case and I’d unwittingly altered everything.

  I remembered the start of that day well. It’d been a beautiful fall morning, with temps in the low seventies. My fiancé had brought me breakfast in bed. He’d looked so worried as he set the tray of pancakes down next to me. “How’re you feeling?”

  “I’m fine,” I’d assured him, moving my legs under the covers to show him they were functioning properly. His worry over my health had been the result of a nasty encounter with a murderer in a case I’d solved just a few days earlier involving a missing woman. In the process, I’d gotten pretty beat up, and I’d then taken it very easy for a week, doing little more than resting on the couch and catching up on my sleep.

  “Any pain?” Dutch asked.

  “No, no real pain,” I assured him. “But I am still a little sore from the beating.”

  Dutch pulled down the comforter to eye my right thigh with concern. It was covered in purple and black bruises. “I’ll bring you up an ice pack.”

  I put a hand on his arm to keep him from leaving me. “Later, cowboy. Right now I just want to look at you.”

  My fiancé, Dutch Rivers, is about the most gorgeous hunk’a man you’ve ever seen. He’s tall, blond, and muscular, with midnight blue eyes, a firm jaw, and a beautifully straight nose.

  He’s just as handsome on the inside too. And for whatever reason, he’s crazy about me. Which is his only fault, because I’m a handful. Just ask him, and he’ll tell you. Heck, just ask anyone in my inner circle about how much of a pain in the ass I can be, and they’ll likely ask you how much time you have.

  Still, for whatever reason, the Dutch and Abby partnership has always worked, and after three and a half years together, we were about to make it official with a walk down the aisle. “Your physical therapist called,” Dutch said, scooting onto the bed to help me eat the pancakes. (And by “help” I mean one bite for me, five bites for him….)

  “Ugh. I forgot I had an appointment with her today.”

  “I told her you were canceling.”

  I eyed him with surprise. “Why?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No. I can make the appointment, sweetie.”

  “Edgar,” he said, using his pet name for me, after famed psychic Edgar Cayce. “There’s no way you can go to physical therapy with a leg that looks like that.”

  You’d think by now Dutch would know better than to tell me what I could and couldn’t do. “Oh, please,” I said, throwing the covers to the side and easing my legs gingerly out from under them. “It looks way worse than it is. Besides, we’re getting married at the end of the month, cowboy. There’s no way I’m giving up on the idea of walking down that aisle without my cane.”

  Several months earlier I’d been in a really bad accident, and my pelvis had been broken in several places. My recovery had been very slow, frustrating, and painful. (But mostly for my friends and family. For me, it’d been that times a hundred.) Still, I was determined to at least gimp my way down the aisle.

  Dutch responded to my declaration with a skeptically raised eyebrow.

  I glared at him. “Challenge accepted,” I said, before carefully planting my feet and standing up. Very slowly I took one small step, mentally crossing my fingers that I wouldn’t fall. To my surprise, the step didn’t hurt or feel weak; it felt sure and steady. Encouraged, I took another step. Then another. And another. And another. Then one more for good measure.

  When I looked behind me, Dutch was sitting straight up and staring at me in shock. “How long have you been able to walk that far without your cane?”

  I glanced down at my toes gleefully. I hadn’t taken more than three steps on my own since the accident. I’d just doubled my long-distance record. “I haven’t been able to do more than three steps until today! Holy freakballs, honey! I can walk!” And then my hip gave out and I fell face-first into the wing chair by the window.

  Dutch was at my side in a hot second. “You okay?” he asked, picking me up into his arms.

  Embarrassed, I swiped at my hair, which had fallen over my eyes, and tried to play it off. “I meant to do that.”

  Dutch chuckled. “Sure you did.”

  “No, really. I did. How else could I get you to sweep me off my feet?”

  Dutch leaned forward to give me a kiss, but I stopped him because now that I’d actually walked several steps, I wanted some reassurance. “Honey, do you think I’ll really be able to make it down the aisle without the cane?”

  “Have you given any thought to an escort?” he asked.

  I frowned. I’m not close with my parents, and by that, I mean I don’t speak to them and haven’t in years, so I’d always planned on walking down the aisle alone at my wedding.

  “Abs, I only say that because, if you’re determined to leave the cane behind, having someone at your side to lean on would help steady you, and if you choose the right guy, t
hey’ll protect you from falling if you trip or one of your hips gives out.”

  I eyed him with interest. “Who volunteered?”

  “Milo, Brice, Dave, and—curiously—Director Gaston.”

  That got me to smile. “Brice is out,” I said right away. “He’s Candice’s groomsman. And Dave will be so nervous he’ll trip over his own two feet and take me down with him. I couldn’t walk with Director Gaston, because walking down the aisle with your boss’s boss would make me so nervous I’d trip for sure.”

  “So it’s Milo?” Dutch asked hopefully.

  I frowned again and shook my head. “He’s your best man. I can’t take him away from you.”

  “He’s willing to do double duty, dollface.”

  “You five guys have already talked about this, huh?”

  “We have.”

  “Who’s your pick?”

  “Milo. I trust him to take care of you.”

  “You really think I should walk with someone?”

  Dutch leaned in for his kiss and did his best Humphrey Bogart impression. “I do, I do, I do, sweethot.”

  In a flash I had the most horrible feeling wash over me in a strange sort of déjà vu. The sensation was so intense that I actually gasped.