Parker And The Gypsy

“No.” Her lips quirked in a wry half smile. “I assure you I don’t want him found.”

“Good! I mean, that’s too bad. I mean—” Hell, Mike wasn’t sure what he meant or why this woman was unnerving him so. Maybe it was because he could usually peg any client within minutes after they’d walked in the door, guess what they wanted before they ever opened their mouths.

But he wasn’t able to do that with her. He didn’t have a clue why she was there. Angels shouldn’t have problems, should they? But something was sure distressing this one. Beyond that serene exterior, he could see it in her eyes. A deep-rooted sadness. If his heart hadn’t been made of shoe leather, it would have moved even him.

“I suppose I should start by telling you a little more about myself,” she said at last. She stood up and paced restlessly to the window. The sunlight filtering through the blinds haloed her hair and rendered her white cotton blouse almost transparent.

“Have you ever had a revelation, Mr. Parker?” she asked.

“No,” Mike croaked. But he was having one now. She wasn’t wearing a bra. He could see the shadow of her small, full breasts quite clearly, down to the pert outline of her nipples.

His response was swift, inevitable and very male. Chewing his gum furiously, Mike forced himself to look away. This surge of attraction was unprofessional, but he couldn’t seem to help it. The life of a private detective was far from glamorous. It was pretty mundane most of the time. After months of pot-bellied men and little old ladies coming through his door, no wonder he was jolted by the sight of a beautiful young woman.

It was like something out of one of those hokey old detective movies that he had a sneaking fondness for. The mysterious dame swishes into the gumshoe’s office, innocent, but alluring, begging for his help.

There would be danger, hairbreadth escapes. Of course, he’d eventually save her life and she would be terribly grateful. Mike got to the point in his imaginings where Miss Sara Holyfield was demonstrating some of that gratitude, slipping that soft blouse off her even-softer shoulders, guiding his hands toward her—

Whoa! This ridiculous fantasy wasn’t doing anything to help his—er—condition. He actually felt beads of sweat gathering on his brow. Sara had finally started talking and he’d hardly registered a word of it.

“...and I realized I’d been wasting my life and talents. After I received the inheritance from my great-aunt Marilla, I walked out of my job at the bank and never looked back. I went to work for myself the very next day.”

Mike risked a peek at her. Mercifully she had stepped out of the revealing pool of sunlight. He didn’t know whether he was more relieved or disappointed.

She turned slowly to face him. “Which brings me to why I’m here. I need to hire you to collaborate with me on a case.”

Mike blinked. Boy, he must have really missed something when he’d been daydreaming. “You are a detective?”

“Of a sort.” Her chin tipped up a notch in an attitude that could have been pride or defiance. “I’m a psychic investigator.”

Mike swallowed his gum and damn near choked. “You—you mean like—like a ghost buster?”

“I don’t bust ghosts, Mr. Parker. I merely explore evidence of supernatural phenomenon.”

“Oh, is that all?”

“I also run a New Age book store and do psychic readings.”

Mike stared at her. She stared back, looking as calm as if she’d just told him she was a dental hygienist. He expelled his breath in a long sigh. Great. He’d finally gotten his alluring, mysterious dame, and with his usual luck, she turned out to be a nut case. Or else she was planning to pull off some incredible hustle on him. Life was so damned unfair.

Swiveling glumly back to the desk, he said, “Sorry, Miss Holyfield, but I don’t think I can help you. I always confine my investigations to this side of the grave.”

“I don’t expect you to go ghost hunting with me, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I have no trouble with that.”

“I’ll bet,” Mike mumbled under his breath.

Bracing her hands upon his desk, she leaned forward. Mike was assaulted again by the scent of her perfume, the soft rise and fall of her breasts.

What a waste. He stifled a groan.

She peered down at him earnestly. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I haven’t been making myself all that clear. I’m here on behalf of a Miss Mamie Patrick. She’s trying to find her son.”

“Oh. A missing-persons case. Why didn’t you say so to begin with? That’s different. That’s—” Normal Mike almost added. It wasn’t the first time someone like this Patrick woman was misguided or desperate enough to consult a psychic to recover their missing child. Mike wasn’t sure he wanted to get mixed-up in this business. But his interest was piqued enough to reach for his notepad again.

“Okay, sit down,” he said to Sara. “And this time give-it to me straight without the psychic bull—that is, just give me the cold, hard facts.”

Sara sank back into her chair, folding her hands primly. “Well, Mamie—Miss Patrick—first made contact with me about two weeks ago. Her only son, John Francis, was put up for adoption when he was six years old. For her own peace of mind, she desperately needs to see him again.”

Mike noted the name of the Patrick kid on his pad. “And how long has it been since she last saw the boy?”

“John Patrick would be somewhere in his late thirties by now.” Sara added anxiously, “Do you think there’s any real hope that you can find him after all this time, Mr. Parker?”

“Anything’s possible. Although I have to warn you, adoption records in New Jersey are sealed.” Mike shrugged. “I’ll have to talk to this Miss Patrick myself and see what leads she can give me, but frankly, I think you should make sure she really wants this matter pursued. These tender family reunions you watch on the talk shows are not always what they’re cracked up to be. After all this time, Mamie Patrick might be better off forgetting about her son and getting on with her life.”

“That would be difficult,” Sara said quietly. “She’s dead.”

“What!” Mike pressed down so hard with the pen, he punctured the paper.

“Mamie Patrick died over thirty years ago.”

“You mean...you’re telling me this client of yours is—is a—”

“A supernatural manifestation.”

“Let’s use plain English here. You mean a ghost.”

“Well... yes.”

“Ah, jeez!” Mike ripped off the sheet of notebook paper he’d been filling out and crumpled it into a ball that he arced into his metal waste can. Shoving to his feet, he stalked around the desk.

Sara shrank back, looking mildly alarmed as Mike’s hands closed around her arms. He tugged her to her feet.

“Mr. Parker! Mike, what—what are you doing?”

“It’s not what I’m doing, doll. It’s what you’re doing. Leaving.”

He started hustling her toward the door, but Sara dug in her heels. “What’s the matter? Have I said something wrong?”

Mike rolled his eyes. “No, nothing much. You just waltzed in here and asked me to go to work for some woman who kicked the bucket over a quarter of a century ago.”

“Oh, so that’s it.” Sara managed to wriggle free of his grasp. She angled a challenging glance up at him. “You don’t believe in ghosts?”

“No, I sure as hell don’t.”

“But you just said a moment ago that anything’s possible.”

“I meant anything normal, not things that go bump in the night. I don’t believe in anything that I can’t see, hear, smell or feel.”

“Then that means that you don’t believe in intuition. Or faith. Or even love.” She exuded a soft sigh. “That’s very sad.”