Deadly Forecast: A Psychic Eye Mystery (29 page)

But Dutch didn’t look back, because he was already out of the car and hurrying to
the front of the store. Brody, M.J., and Candice scrambled after him and the four
of them entered the space with heads pivoting back and forth, looking for anyone who
might work there.

“Can I help you?” a woman with straw-colored hair and makeup that made her look like
a cheap prostitute asked.

“Are you Margo?” M.J. asked. The woman shook her head. “We need to see Margo,” she
told the woman, who only stared at her blankly.
“Right now!”
M.J. yelled. The tension was starting to get to her too.

The woman jumped at the outburst but she didn’t immediately offer up any more information.
Candice then moved to the register and grabbed hold of the woman’s shoulders.
“Where is Margo?”

The woman let out a terrified squeak, but no words came out of her mouth, and M.J.
knew she’d be useless for at least another minute or two. So she focused all her intuitive
powers on finding Margo within the confines of the walls, but try as she might, nothing
came back to her, and she knew that the five people gathered at the front of the small
store were the only ones there. “She’s not here,” M.J. said just as the clerk was
trying to form words. “Where is she?”

“She’s coming in late,” the clerk blurted out at last. “What do you want with her?”

“Call her,” Dutch said, his voice low and dangerous. “Now.”

The woman’s face had already drained of color and she was shaking so badly that M.J.
feared she might crumple into a heap and be of no use to them. Stepping forward, she
said, “Let her go, Candice. Let me try.”

Candice looked ready to punch the woman, but she did let go of her and stepped back.
“Ma’am,” M.J. said in her most reasonable tone. “This is literally a matter of life
and death. We need you to call your boss for us, okay? We think that Margo may be
a witness to a kidnapping, and we need to speak with her right away.”

The clerk’s eyes were huge and M.J. heard her gulp audibly. “Are you the police?”

“Yes,” said Dutch, his fists clenching and unclenching with impatience.

“Can I see your badge?” the woman said next. M.J. felt her chest tighten. She knew
Dutch didn’t have his badge on him.

“No,” Dutch replied, his brow darkening to a dangerous degree. “Now make the goddamn—”

“Ma’am!” M.J. interrupted, regaining the clerk’s attention. “Please! You have to believe
us. This is a matter of life and death! Please call your boss for us, okay? We just
want to talk with her over the phone, then we’ll be on our way. I promise.”

Still, the clerk hesitated.

“Please!” M.J. begged.

At last the clerk’s eyes shifted to the phone on the counter and she moved there warily.
Lifting the receiver, she dialed a number and they all waited those tense few seconds
to see if anyone would answer the ring. M.J. knew immediately that they weren’t going
to be successful, because the clerk held up the phone and said, “Voice mail.”

Candice snatched the phone and practically shouted into it. “Margo! This is Candice
Fusco! I’m with the FBI working on your friend Rita Watson’s murder. It is
vitally
important that you contact us
immediately
! My number is…”

After leaving her number, Candice hung up and they all stood there for several seconds
waiting for the phone to ring. M.J. truly didn’t know what else to do, but then Dutch
said to the clerk, “What’s your name?”

“Ellen,” she said, and under Dutch’s commanding stare she added, “Rhodes. Ellen Rhodes.”

“Ellen, do you know where Margo lives?”

The clerk’s eyes got buggy again. “Uh…,” she said. “No. No, I don’t.” She was completely
unconvincing.

Dutch’s brow furrowed to the danger zone again and he took out of his pocket a pair
of the handcuffs he’d pulled off the utility belt of the cop he’d tied up with a zip
tie back at the house
they’d just left. “We can’t,” Candice said sharply, moving to intercept him. “Dutch,
we can’t!”

Dutch’s gaze drifted meaningfully to the round clock above the clerk’s head. “What
choice do we have, Candice? She’ll die if we don’t…” His words drifted off and M.J.
knew in that moment that he would go to any length to get to Abby in time, even if
it involved breaking every law on the books.

Nudging Candice to the side when she refused to move, Dutch reached out to grab Ellen
and she squealed, jerking away to blurt out, “Margo lives two blocks down! The red
house! I don’t know the address, but she’s in the red house on the right side at the
corner next to the stop sign!”

Without a word Dutch pocketed the handcuffs, turned, and ran toward the exit. M.J.
didn’t waste time apologizing to the clerk; she, Brody, and Candice headed out the
door after him.

“S
omeone’s at the door,” Dutch mumbled in my ear early Sunday morning. He and I were
curled up with each other in bed, which had been moved to the living room not far
from the door. The TV was propped up on Dutch’s suitcase and other than that, the
house was essentially bare and freezing. A cold snap had hit during the night and
our down comforter had been diligently packed by yours truly, leaving us only a thin
summer blanket for warmth. Coming fully awake, I then heard three loud raps against
our front door. “Mmmph,” Dutch muttered, curling himself closer around me and shivering
a little. “Who the hell is that at this hour?”

My teeth chattered against his neck. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

The doorbell rang.

“Who is it?” Dutch called, his voice rich with a huskiness that I found super sexy.
(Maybe that’s why I’m always a little more frisky in the mornings?)

“It’s Candice,” my BFF replied. “You guys still sleeping?”

“Yes!” we both yelled back.

“I have coffee!” she sang.

I lifted my head with interest. I was really cold and coffee could go a long way to
warming up my bones. “Open the door, would you, cowboy?”

“She’s your friend.”

“Yes, and she’s just brought
you
coffee.”

“And bagels!” Candice said through the door.

Dutch lifted one lid and cocked an eyebrow. “You’re closer,” he said.

“Yes, but I have less on.”

Dutch lifted the bedsheet and took a peek. “You’re wearing a tank top and shorts.
How exactly is that less?” Dutch was wearing his usual bedtime attire— pajama bottoms
and sex appeal.

“Less material overall,” I told him.

“Hey, guys? It’s cold out here!”

“If I get up, I’m taking the blanket with me,” Dutch said.

I put my arms out and tucked the blanket around me. “Don’t you dare.”

“Do you want coffee or not?” Candice called through the door.

“Can’t you just dart out, flip the lock, and run back to bed?” I asked Dutch.

There was a clicking sound and the door swung open to reveal Candice, eyeing us with
irritation as she tried to balance a set of keys, a tray full of coffee cups, and
a bag from the bagel shop.
“Really?”
she growled, coming in and kicking the door closed behind her.

“Morning!” Dutch and I sang.

Candice sent us a sharp look and her bootheels echoed loudly across the floor on her
way to the kitchen. “It’s freezing in here,” she said, dropping our much coveted coffee
on the counter before heading to the thermostat in the hallway. I looked at Dutch
and waved toward the kitchen. “Go get the coffee!”

“Why me?”

“You’re closer!”

“She’s
your
friend.”

“Who has just brought
you
coffee!”

Candice stopped fiddling with the thermostat and came to stand in the doorway of the
kitchen, hands on hips and looking at us with marked disapproval. “You two are pathetic,
you know that?”

“We’re cold,” I said, shivering anew.

Candice frowned and looked around on the floor, tossing me my hoodie and Dutch his
shirt. We both donned them quickly and thanked her, but neither of us moved to get
out of bed. With a roll of her eyes Candice brought over our coffees. “Thank you,
thank you, thank you!” I said, relishing the warmth of the coffee and the click of
the furnace coming on.

Candice then went into the kitchen to retrieve one of the chairs there and came out
to sit down with her own coffee and a really delicious-looking bagel. I wasn’t about
to ask her to bring me one (okay, so it did cross my mind, but then, I didn’t think
I should push it), and with a bit of a groan I got out of bed and hurried to the kitchen,
bringing back the bag for Dutch and me to share.

“What brings you by, Candice?” Dutch asked casually.

“Abby asked me to get some dish on the explosion at Mary’s.”

Dutch ran a hand through his bedhead and blinked tiredly. “What explosion at whose?”

“Mimi, aka Mary Greene,” Candice said.

I swallowed a bite of the bagel and said, “I’m assuming you found something good?”

“Well, I started looking into Mary’s death. Guess how she really died?”

I made a face. Sensing a trick of some kind, I flipped on my
radar and tuned in. I sensed smoke and heat and something explosive. The same as we’d
been told. “According to my radar, she died in an explosion caused by a gas leak.”

“You’re only half-right,” Candice said. “There was a fire, and an explosion, but that’s
only the method. Mimi was the cause. She committed suicide.”

I gasped. “Wait…what?”

Dutch sat forward. “The coroner’s report indicated accidental death, Candice. I saw
it for myself.”

“Would that coroner be Dr. Nelson Eppley, who retired early six months ago due to
illness?”

Dutch shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Candice pulled out a manila folder from her purse, and opened it to sort through the
papers it contained. “I’m familiar with this particular coroner, Dutch, because I
was approached about four months ago by a woman who swore that the coroner’s report
on her brother’s death was incorrect. Eppley labeled it an accident, but she was convinced
her brother committed suicide. She wanted me to dig into the coroner’s record because
she needed to know the truth. She suspected that her brother had gone to the extreme
of taking his own life as a direct result of a drug he’d been prescribed to help him
quit smoking, a drug now off the market due to its mood-altering properties in some
patients, and if I could show her that her brother’s death was the result of a depression
brought on by this drug—a suicide—then she could move forward with a civil suit against
the pharmaceutical company.”

“What’d you find?” I asked.

Candice pulled out several more sheets of paper. “Dr. Nelson Eppley is a pretty troubled
guy. His illness landed him a few weeks in a mental health facility, shortly after
which he put in for early retirement. He now spends most of his days at a local community
garden pulling up weeds and tending to the plants.
I tried talking to him on a few occasions just to get the feel of the man, but he
avoids casual conversation with strangers, and mostly I found him to be a painfully
shy, very sad, and perhaps even paranoid man. For my client’s sake, I did a little
digging. I discovered that Eppley’s eldest son committed suicide at the tender age
of sixteen. Three years later, so did his wife. Thereafter, literally in the first
week after his return to work after a short leave of absence following his wife’s
death, Eppley began labeling suspected suicides ‘accidents.’ Any case where there
was no suicide note or witness, he’d write up as an accidental death. He labeled several
hangings accidental autoerotic asphyxiation, several jumps from high places accidental
falls, and then of course, my client’s brother was tagged an accidental shooting probably
while the victim was cleaning his gun, which completely contradicts the evidence left
at the scene and written up in the police report.”

“But why?” I asked. “Why would Eppley do that?”

Candice smiled sadly. “Who would know the devastating aftermath of living with a loved
one’s suicide better than this man? I believe he was attempting to spare the families
the anguish of dealing with the kind of terrible loss and unanswered questions he
was all too familiar with.”

“You’re positive it’s the same coroner?” Dutch asked.

“Yep.”

“But how can you be sure Mimi’s death wasn’t an accident? How can you be sure she
intended to cause the explosion?” I asked.

Candice produced one last piece of paper and handed it to Dutch. I leaned forward
and saw that it was a report from the arson inspector. I skimmed it over Dutch’s shoulder,
my eyes widening as the facts of the investigation became clear. “All four burners
on the gas stove were set to high?” I asked.

“Yep. Mimi plugged up the pilot lights, turned up the gas, filled the apartment with
gas, lit a match, then…”

“Kaboom,” Dutch said.

Candice nodded.

I sat back, stunned. “That’s a pretty dramatic way to kill yourself.”

“It is,” Candice agreed.

I pointed to the report still in Dutch’s hand. “Why didn’t the arson investigator
or the police fight the coroner’s report? I mean, clearly Eppley got it wrong.”