When The Spirit Moves You (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries) Read Online Free Page A

and that guy in the plaid shirt. I was sure it was him buried in a shallow grave alongside the house. Had I really seen a ghost? Had whatever was left of the man been hanging around the place in hopes that someone would uncover his fate—find him—and finally see that he was properly laid to rest? Had Madam Zahara killed him or had her seldom-home son done the deed? And what was the dead man’s relationship with the two of them? Lover? Husband? Father? Hapless mark?
    Richard raised his glass, gazing at the amber liquid within it. “There’s no time like the present. Let’s have dinner and then go find your evidence,” he said to me. He lowered his glass, took a sip, and then shifted his gaze toward Brenda. “You could come with us.”
    She shook her head. “Not on your life. I’ll be here, keeping the home fires burning. And if you aren’t home at a reasonable hour, I’ll call the cops and report you as missing persons.”
    “ You’re overreacting,” I told her.
    “ Oh yeah? We’ll see,” she said, glowering at me.
    Since Brenda was a kindred spirit, and I meant that literally—she had a limited sixth sense about such things—I took her warning seriously and wished to God I hadn’t mentioned anything about this mess to them. Richard felt some kind of misplaced guilt about my teenaged years spent in his home, and the lack of understanding and concern his grandparents felt on my behalf. In retrospect, I didn’t blame them. I reminded them of our mother, a woman they’d disapproved of—despised, actually. That they’d allowed me to live in their home after our mother’s death, and for the better part of four years, had to gall them. They had loved Richard enough to put up with me.
    No one had loved me .
    I shook my head to dislodge all the crap from so long ago, but somehow it always seemed to come back to haunt me at the worst moments.
    Brenda got up and put a big skillet on the stove before she took a stick of butter out of the fridge to sauté the shrimp. She’d make sure her troops were well fed before they marched off to . . . battle? No, we weren’t looking for a fight. But what we found might be a casualty of a domestic war. I was pretty sure if we dug in just the right spot, we’d find bones—and maybe the remnants of a plaid flannel shirt.
    I drained my Makers Mark and got up to make another. I had a feeling I’d better fortify myself. What lay ahead could be pretty gruesome. Or was I being overly melodramatic? After all, I had no evidence—nothing but a gut feeling to go by. Still, gut feelings had served me well in the recent past.
    I poured that fine bourbon and took a sip. This would be my last drink before we hit the road, but I had a feeling that bottle might run dry upon our return.
    #
    The clouds had dissipated, but thanks to Buffalo’s light-polluted sky, no stars broke through the artificial haze. Richard had had a glass or two of wine with his scampi, so I elected to drive us to the psychic’s neighborhood.
    I parked my car on a side street four blocks from the house and took out a shovel from the trunk of my car. I carried it while Richard hefted the large orange flashlight that usually lived under his kitchen sink.
    “ So how did the guy die?” Richard asked as we headed west on the cracked and weed-studded sidewalk.
    “ Blunt trauma to the skull,” I said and realized that the phrase perfectly described my own injury five months before. Was that the common denominator that connected me with the flannel-clad victim?
    The streetlamps cast bluish shadows. We walked the rest of the way—side-by-side—in silence. If anyone saw me with that shovel, what would they think? Would they call 911 or just assume I was a nutcase on the loose? Luckily traffic was light and none of the cars that passed seemed to notice us as we trekked down the concrete path.
    Finally I grabbed Richard’s arm, pulling him to a stop, and we took in the psychic’s residence. Except for a flickering