Parker And The Gypsy. Susan Carroll
“Please. Mr. Parker was my father.” Or at least it was until the old man traded his name for the number stamped across his prison inmate’s uniform. Mike shoved the grim thought aside before adding, “Call me ‘Mike.’”
“Mike,” she repeated, her smile gone suddenly shy. Her golden-tipped lashes drifted down. “It’s very hard for me to know where to begin.”
“Then why don’t we start with something easy? Like your name.”
“It’s Sara Holyfield. And no h. In Sara, that is.”
“Sara with no h,” Mike murmured, but he was distracted by the silvery glint of her earrings. To his complete fascination, he saw that she was wearing naked fairies dangling off each ear. Very nubile fairies with delicate wings.
And there appeared to be another one suspended from a chain around her neck. This creature poised on top of some kind of crystal. Mike started to lean forward, tracing the path of the fairy where it danced down the front of her blouse, but he caught himself just in time.
Shoving aside the stack of paper that littered his desk—several days’ worth of unopened mail—Mike attempted to assume a more professional stance. He managed to locate a notepad and a pen that actually worked. Jotting down Sara’s name, he pressed her for a few more basic facts such as her address and phone number.
“Aurora Falls, New Jersey, huh?” he commented as he scrawled the information on his pad. “You drove a long way to find yourself a detective.”
“There was no one back there who could help me.”
“Suppose you tell me what the problem is and I’ll see what I can do.”
Sara nodded, but she still appeared reluctant to proceed. Mike had encountered this before in first-time clients—the nervousness, the embarrassment to talk of what were often highly personal difficulties. Usually he lost patience and ordered his customers to cut to the chase.
But something about Sara Holyfield inspired an unaccustomed gentleness in him. Mike tried to set her at her ease by offering her a piece of his favorite peppermint gum. When she declined, he popped a stick in his own mouth, then settled back in his chair with what he hoped was a father-confessor type of expression.
“Just relax and take your time,” he soothed.
She started to speak and ended up fretting with her purse strings instead. She had smooth graceful fingers with neat, well-trimmed nails—nothing like those red-painted talons his ex-wife, Darcy, had sported. Mike had a notion Sara’s hands would feel all warm and silky, just like the rest of her ivory-toned skin.
He clicked the peppermint gum against his teeth, annoyed that he had let his mind go skipping off like that again. After an awkward silence, he probed delicately, “There’s some trouble with your husband perhaps?”
She shook her head vigorously, the fairies swinging with her hair. “I’ve never been married.”
“A boyfriend, then?”
“He’s moved to Texas.”
“And you want me to trace him?”
“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.