Abby Cooper, Psychic Eye Read online

  After dressing I went downstairs and greeted my very spoiled, very adorable dog, Eggy. Eggy is a four-year-old chocolate-brown dachshund whom I had purchased shortly after my breakup with Ben. I came to the conclusion rather quickly that I got the better end of the deal; Eggy never hogs the remote, doesn't leave the toilet seat up and has the decency to leave the room when he farts, niceties that Ben had never mastered.

  Eggy gets his name from his absolute love of eggs. To this day his breakfast always includes one fried egg, which he somehow manages to devour first even when I mash it into the rest of his dog food.

  As I set out Eggy's breakfast, I heard a familiar truck rumble into my driveway. Climbing over the various tools, stray pieces of wood and cabinets that littered my living room, I opened the front door to greet one of my greatest pieces of good fortune, Dave-the-Handyman.

  Dave is a throwback to the sixties and looks like he'd be mighty comfortable riding down the highway looking for adventure. He has very long blond hair, going gray and braided into a ponytail that snakes down his back, ending in a fine point. He's a pretty big guy, around six two, in his early fifties and extremely easy going. Very talented too. And did I mention that he works for a paltry fifteen dollars an hour?

  About six months ago I'd looked around the tiny studio apartment I'd been squished into for years and had come to the conclusion that I finally needed to act like a grown-up and dive into the mature world of homeownership. I'd gone right out and signed up with a realtor who gave me the cold hard facts: Based on my income, credit history and the fact that I insisted on living close to my office—a rather expensive neighborhood—the best I could hope for was a handyman's special.

  To my naïve mind, that sounded pretty good. I mean, I could be handy. Being the proud owner of both a hammer and a screwdriver made me feel brave enough to throw caution to the wind. "Bring it on," I'd said to my agent confidently.

  In hindsight I probably should have paid a little more attention to her reaction, which involved some "tisking" noises and a head shake or two, but I was too excited to be reasonable and watched the real estate listings diligently, waiting for my dream home to pop up.

  After three months of looking, a house finally came on the market that fit perfectly for me. It had the right location, the right price and, like my agent repeated over and over again, "potential." As I signed the mortgage papers I couldn't wait to put my hammer and screwdriver to work.

  I'd come to my senses about two days later, standing in the middle of crumbling walls, a dilapidated kitchen, missing floorboards and smells emanating from the upstairs who's origin I didn't even want to guess at. The only updates to the house in forty years had been a new roof and central air, otherwise, I was in home-sweet-hell.

  Dave had been recommended to me by one of my clients, and his arrival to my front door had been a Godsend. Although he was cheap, I quickly discovered that the repairs weren't, and all the savings I'd tucked away to furnish my new home had quickly vanished once Dave got to work.

  I found myself cramming more and more readings into the workweek, trying to keep pace with all the repairs. There was no furniture downstairs save a small computer desk and chair in the second bedroom, off of the living room. My kitchen, which sat in the back of the house behind the living room, had only a card table and a couple of folding chairs, which didn't go very far in making it look homey.

  I watched as Dave lugged his toolbox and various drills, saws, buckets and extension cords up the front walk and considered once again how lucky I was to have found him. I made it a point never to rush him, or appear impatient. He tended to be slow and meticulous, and his work was sheer genius. So far he had replaced the hardwood floor upstairs, fixed my stairway, laid a tile floor in the bathroom, installed a new front door and re-screened my back porch. Now he was working on installing new cabinets and recessed lighting in the kitchen. The hardwood floors in the living/dining room were next, along with new windows, but years of working in a bank on a salary just above poverty level had trained me to be cautious with debt.

  "Good morning, honey!" Dave said jovially as I held the screen door open for him.

  "Hey, Dave. How's it hanging?"

  "Low and to the left, if you really want to know," he said chuckling, and bent down to get a face full of wet tongue from Eggy, who, I was beginning to believe, liked Dave better than he liked me. "You going to work?"

  "Yeah, got a full list today. There's a check on the counter for all the supplies for this week, and another one for your labor from last week. I should be home by five thirty, but let me know if you need me to stop at the Depot on the way home to pick up anything else."

  "Will do. Have a good day!"

  As I drove to the office I thought about my date. I ran through my wardrobe choices again and tugged at my lower lip with my teeth, worrying over the two selections I'd resigned myself to. I'd made a firm commitment on dressing my lower half, deciding on a pair of hip-hugging black cotton pants that were painted onto my thighs and flared out with a little bell at the bottom. I had strappy sandals and a new pedicure, so I was fairly confident with these items.

  What to wear with the black pants was the dilemma. My date and I were slated to meet at a restaurant not far from my office in downtown Royal Oak, which suited me on two counts. One, I'd been to the restaurant before and felt confident about the atmosphere and acceptable attire, and two, if the date was a total disaster there would be no uncomfortable walk to my front door, because I could simply get in my car and drive home.

  The debate I was having with myself this morning was whether to go slightly sexy or slightly conservative. I had a choice of two tops: The first was a black halter top with built-in bra that wrapped around my neck and left my shoulders bare. I have good shoulders, and I hoped they would divert attention from my barely B-cup cleavage.

  The alternate choice was a silky peasant blouse with a V-neck and long sleeves that fell open a little past the elbows, making the sleeve hang wide when I moved my arm upward. Not the sexiest shirt; however it would allow me to wear the push-up bra and enhance the barely B cup to something more like "I got boobs, and I know how to use 'em!" The debate continued straight to the office and endured through breaks between readings.

  At exactly five thirty I walked through my front door again, to see Dave packing his toolbox for the night. "Hey there," I said.

  "How was your day, honey?"

  The fact that Dave called me "honey" never bothered me in the slightest. I knew he was deeply devoted to his "old lady" at home and called every woman he liked "honey." I actually enjoyed the endearment; from anyone else it would have bugged the crap out of me.

  "It was good, paid the rent, you know…the usual. I'm ready for a shower and a glass of wine."

  "My cue to leave," Dave said, winking at me as he patted Eggy and scooted out the door.

  Alone again, I looked around the corner at what was slowly but surely becoming a kitchen and smiled again at my good luck in finding Dave. I fed Eggy, and while he was happily munching, headed upstairs for a much-needed shower and pre-date primping.

  When I was a little kid, my mother decided that I would look adorable with a Dorothy Hamill—the famous ice-skater's haircut. She said she was tired of keeping up with my long, often tangled hair and that this was what every pretty little girl was wearing. Effectively, what my mother did was turn her eight-year-old daughter into a son. My round face, freckled cheeks and penchant for climbing trees made every stranger think I was a boy, which forced a lifelong hatred of Miss-Goody-Two-Skates. The saga continued for years, my mother always insisting that I keep my hair short, that long hair was too much to keep up with. Throughout my twenties I'd kept it only shoulder length; working at a conservative bank dictated no long hair, open blouses, short skirts or personality. How I lasted so long there remains a mystery.

  For the past four years, however, I've only trimmed the very ends of my hair once every couple of months, letting it grow as long as it li
ked. It hung now all the way to my waist, and I loved it. It framed my angled features in a complimentary way and left me feeling feminine when it swished across my back. Tonight, I blew it dry, then rolled it in hot rollers to add body, a slight curl and some bounce for the evening. Wearing a well-worn flannel robe I walked to my closet and surveyed my choice of outfits. I pulled out the pants and grabbed the black halter top first, holding it up to my full-length mirror. I made several pouty faces and bent my knees in a pose that magazines suggested was alluring. Looking critically in the mirror I thought I just looked silly.

  I switched to the peasant blouse, but after checking out the effect I went back to the halter top. I had no idea what this guy preferred, so I just decided to go with what I liked, and I liked bare shoulders better than pushed-up boobs.

  While I was getting ready I turned on the TV in my room for background noise and caught the lead story on the local news. A distraught young woman surrounded by microphones stood crying into the face of the camera and pleading for her little boy's safe return.

  The camera switched back to the reporter, who explained that four-year-old Nathaniel Davies had been abducted at the Oakland Mall while his mother had her back turned to him and was looking in a store window. The screen switched to a very grainy image of security cameras capturing the shadowy image of a large man in a baseball hat, long sleeves and big jeans grabbing the hand of a little boy and ushering him out the mall's door. The police were unable to make a positive ID and the public was being asked to come forward with any information on little Nathaniel. The broadcast then plastered across the screen a picture of a smiling little boy holding a rubber ball, and my heart did a little thud in my chest.

  One of the very odd talents I have is being able to look at a photograph and immediately know if the person pictured is alive or dead. I can't explain how I know, other than that when I look at regular photos of people who are still alive, they look almost three-dimensional to me; people who are dead appear flat and plastic. Little Nathaniel was sadly the latter as he smiled at me from the TV screen, and I mentally said a prayer that he was being well looked after wherever he was now.

  The screen flashed back once again to Nathaniel's mother, and as she sobbed, the phrase Liar, liar, pants on fire danced through my head. Focusing on my intuition for a moment I sent out a question: "The mother's lying?"

  Yes. My right side felt light and airy.

  "But what about the video?"

  Liar, liar, pants on fire…and then I knew. I knew that the video was fabricated somehow and that whoever was at the mall knew they were being taped and that Nathaniel was already dead. I got the word brother in my mind, and then a flash of an old abandoned house and the image of a lily. There was another flash, and I saw a hint of blue fabric poking out from some rubble. Not only was Nathaniel dead, but he was buried under some rubble in an abandoned house and either there were lilies nearby or a lily had something to do with the location.

  I walked over to the TV and switched it off, hanging my head for a moment. I hated the news, and in general refused to watch it because often, like tonight, I got more of the story—much more—then I ever wanted. It was so frustrating because I knew without a doubt that people were terrified that what had happened to Nathaniel could happen to their child. It further angered me because I was sure there were other people who cared about Nathaniel that were still hoping he was alive and were worried that he was alone, scared and suffering. Mostly, however, it bothered me because Nathaniel's mother was a child killer and was likely going to get away with it. I struggled with the thought of going to the police with my suspicions, and then I remembered the story of Monica Madden.

  Monica Madden was a very gifted, albeit undeveloped, clairvoyant who lived in a small town in Colorado and one day had a nearly debilitating vision of a woman being raped and murdered, then left in the hills surrounding the town. She had gone to the police with her vision, and they only laughed in her face. She was so overwrought by the vision, which continued to plague her, that she and her daughter went looking for the body up in the hills. After two days of searching, led by Monica's intuition they found the body of a woman who'd been missing for several weeks. The pair scrambled away from the scene and called 911.

  When the police arrived they were skeptical of Monica's story and kept her for questioning. They were convinced that she must have had something to do with the homicide, as she'd been the only one to locate the body and she had intimate details of how the murder had unfolded. Eventually she was even charged with murder and spent several months in jail pleading her innocence while her seventeen-year-old daughter was left to fend for herself until the real killer was finally caught and brought to justice.

  As I remembered this story, I came to the same old conclusion I had in the past—that the world was not ready to take intuitives seriously, and there was no way I wanted to be held under suspicion for something I'd had nothing to do with. I sent up a prayer that the police would find Nathaniel's body quickly and bring his mother to justice. Then with a slightly heavy heart went back to the business of getting ready.

  At seven o'clock I took one last long look in the mirror and winked at my reflection. "Oh yeah, you got it goin on, baby!" I said as I made my finger and thumb into an imaginary gun. "Pow!" I said, following that by more winking. The phone rang just then, and if I'd had a real gun I would have shot myself in the foot. Laughing nervously, I picked up the phone and heard my sister's voice on the other end of the line.

  Catherine can only be described as a force of nature. She is as different from me as night is from day: Petite, dainty and blond, with a mind that can cut steel, she is a self-made gazillionare, lives in a huge, completely furnished house in an affluent suburb outside Boston, owns her own successful multinational company, is the happily married mother of two kids and has an obedient dog that can do fourteen separate tricks and is surrounded by a slue of people who formally call her, "Yes-ma'am."

  She is organized to the point of fanaticism, utilizes every nanosecond of every waking moment and accomplishes more by six a.m. than the entire United States Armed Forces. She is the double-decker banana split to my one plain scoop of vanilla.

  Oh, and Catherine always acts her age.

  Oddly, with so many differences between us, we never get tired of talking to each other. I couldn't remember a day I'd had in the last ten years that we hadn't spoken at least once. She is my biggest supporter, my closest confidante and my Rock of Gibraltar.

  "So which top did you pick?"

  "The black halter."

  "How's it look?"

  "Me liiiiikes it!" I sang, smiling into the phone.

  "Wonderful. I just called to wish you good luck and to tell you to be careful. And of course, I will be calling you early tomorrow morning to make sure you didn't sleep with him."

  "Cat!" My sister the booty police.

  "Oh, and I read in this magazine that you're not supposed to compliment him on his clothes or his looks, but on the restaurant he chooses. So if you like him make a big deal about how much you like the restaurant and the food."

  "Yeah, right, got it, Cat. Gotta go!"

  "Okay, love you and we'll talk first thing tomorrow."

  "Love you too. Good night."

  I clicked the phone off, let Eggy out one last time, then headed out the front door, pausing to check my purse for the three essentials: money-keys-ID. I locked the front door, then eased into my Mazda and fastened the seat belt before turning the ignition. I'd had my car for a couple of years, and I loved it like the dickens. The fact that it was paid for made me love it all the more.

  I arrived at the restaurant, parked and went around to the front. Dutch and I had agreed to meet at seven fifteen, and I was right on time. I walked into the lobby and was met by the host, a young man with tousled blond hair, an earring and an attitude. I told him that I was there to meet a gentleman named Dutch and that I wasn't sure if he'd arrived yet. The young man looked down at his seating
chart and said that my dinner partner had just been seated and that he would have someone take me back to our table in just a moment. He then turned to one of the less important hostesses and asked her to show me to table twenty-nine.

  I worked hard not to laugh out loud at that, because my crew was so obviously at work. Twenty-nine is my number. I was born on the twenty-ninth of the month, and ever since I was a little kid I'd had a special affection for the number.

  It's more than just my birthday, twenty-nine is also a way for my guides to send me a message that they approve of something I'm doing or thinking. For example, take the day I decided to join the Internet dating service. While I was filling out my profile online my eye drifted to the clock at the bottom of the computer and at the exact moment I looked, it was twenty-nine minutes past the hour. It was their way of giving me the thumbs-up.

  The hostess walked me out of the lobby and toward a quartered section of the restaurant. Sitting in the booth that we approached was one of the most attractive men I'd ever seen in my life, and I nearly wet myself with relief. He won extra points for standing up as I approached the table.

  The hostess left us to ourselves and as we smiled gamely at each other and shook hands, I'll have to admit that mine had suddenly gone sweaty. I sat with as much grace as I could muster given my heels and the butterflies doing the whoop-de-doo in my stomach.

  "Wow!" Dutch exclaimed as he took a gander at me. "You are a beautiful woman, Abby."

  "And you have excellent taste!" I deadpanned. I'd waited for years to say that line.

  Dutch threw his head back and laughed, a sound I thought I'd fall in love with. His voice was deep and throaty, smoke through velvet. His features lit up when he smiled, like a house aglow with Christmas lights. I compared him in person to the picture that had caught my interest on the computer and I had to admit that he was way better-looking in real life; I could hardly resist the urge to fan myself with the menu.