The Witch and the Gentleman (The Witches Series Book 1) Read online

  There are many possible outcomes, and many of them are known to me, as well, as are they known to the spiritual masters.

  The highly evolved beings.

  Yes. Which is why they are here to help.

  But if they are helping, I asked, then doesn’t that remove our free will?

  A good, question, child. Consider it loving nudges, but only for those who call upon them and seek them out with love.

  This is hurting my head, I said.

  Then I suggest we end this meditation with a dive off my cliff.

  I looked down into the sparkling silvery thread far below.

  Won’t I die?

  You are sitting in your Spirit Chair, are you not?

  True, I said, and laughed.

  Then jump, daughter. I am waiting for you with open arms.

  I hesitated for only a moment, then closed my eyes and leaped off the ledge. I arched up and out, suspended briefly in mid-air, then dropped like a rock. The water approached rapidly, and as it did, I straightened my body and aimed head first, hands together before me, and plunged into the ice-cold water. Bubbles swarmed around me as I sank deeper and deeper.

  I gasped and opened my eyes, and found myself back in my bedroom, in the Spirit Chair, breathing hard and gripping the amethyst charm.

  How it got into my hand, I didn’t know.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I was nervous. Damn nervous.

  It was the next morning, and I was still thinking about my experience with Mother Earth, digesting her concepts, and, most of all, feeling her love, when I pulled up to the last place that Penny Laurie had been seen alive: her elementary school.

  I was here because of a dream. I’d dreamed I was in a clover field, sitting with Penny. She was nearby, painting a cute picture of Ren, from The Ren & Stimpy Show, which was a kind of a dog, I supposed. A chihuahua, I think. We were sitting quietly as she painted. All around us, bees were buzzing and birds were tweeting, and that’s when I woke up.

  But I didn’t get up immediately. No, I’d spent many minutes in bed, thinking long and hard about the meaning of the dream, then finally decided to see what the dream could mean. I went straight to my dream dictionary and did my best to interpret the many images, but nothing seemed to resonate. Not the bees nor the dog nor the clover field. Nothing.

  No, not quite nothing.

  I dashed through my apartment and found the police summary of Penny’s case. In particular, the school she had gone to.

  The last place she had been seen alive.

  Her school was called, of course, Clover Field Elementary.

  * * *

  I parked in the visitor parking and wondered what the hell I was going to do next.

  It made sense to retrace her footsteps to the last place she’d been seen alive. Except the police had done that. Anyone who was anyone, from fellow classmates to teachers, from the principal to the crosswalk guard, had been thoroughly interviewed. In fact, I’d read a summary of all of the interviews, and they all read the same: Penny had left school at the same time she always had to make the two-block walk to her home, which was literally just down the street. She had been in fifth grade, and her parents had deemed her old enough to safely walk home the short distance.

  Of course, she had never made it home.

  I stepped out of my car. The morning had warmed up considerably. The school itself had a high fence around it that looked like serious business. It also looked new. Penny’s murder might have had something to do with that.

  I moved through the parking lot, reaching out psychically, trying to get a feel, a hit, anything. Nothing yet, but I was in the right place, I was sure of it. Lots of Mercedes and BMWs in the parking lot. Since when did teachers get paid so well?

  I followed a footpath that led along the wrought iron fence, and walked toward the nearby residential street. Beyond the fence were rows of school buildings and an open grass field, complete with backstops and baseball diamonds. The school itself was quiet and peaceful. An airplane droned high overhead. That a girl had been abducted from here and murdered and discarded in a nearby playground was nearly incomprehensible.

  Someone knows something.

  At the quiet street, I looked to my left where the road curved slightly. Just two blocks from here was Penny’s home, now presently out of view. In view, however, were dozens of beautiful mini-mansions. Some might have even been full-blown mansions.

  The last witness to see her had been the crossing guard, an elderly woman who had led her, along with two or three other kids, across the street.

  Penny had disappeared around the curve and out of view...and into oblivion.

  As I stood here on the street, with the school behind me, I spied the current crosswalk guard sitting in a foldout chair with a small umbrella attached to it. This crosswalk guard was now a middle-aged man.

  I sighed and chewed my lower lip. Penny had been in fifth grade. Those students would have all moved on to the nearby middle school. That left, of course, only one person who could tell me more about Penny’s last day.

  Her teacher.

  I remembered his name from the report. Mr. Fletcher, or William Fletcher.

  “Mr. Fletcher,” I said aloud.

  Saying the name now sent a small shiver up and down my spine. Seeing the name in the report hadn’t done much for me, although I always had a sense that I would eventually talk to him about the case. The police had been highly interested in him, as well, but he’d fully checked out. He’d been seen at school during the time Penny had walked home, during the time she would have been abducted.

  I closed my eyes, and felt the wind on my face and saw her now in the clover field, picking flowers, not looking at me, her face sullen.

  She looked mad. This was probably how she looked when she last saw her mother. They’d had a fight, of course, and that was the reason for the mother’s guilt, the reason the mother, eventually, had killed herself.

  Perhaps Penny had felt too bad about the quarrel to go straight home? Perhaps she had still been angry with her mother, and wanted to brood about it elsewhere?

  I thought about that as I headed back to my car. I checked the time. Almost eleven. School would be out in four hours. I would come back.

  To talk to Mr. Fletcher.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I was at a Starbucks with a ghost.

  Okay, not a ghost, as she liked to point out, but a spirit. Millicent was standing nearby, her hands properly folded in front of her, looking about as old—or young—as me. That is mid-thirties.

  You’re looking good these days, I thought.

  It is the age and appearance I most closely associate with myself.

  Truth was, she looked nothing like the old photographs in Peter’s house...but also different. In fact, she looked even more tantalizingly familiar.

  It is the form I had when last I was your sister.

  And when was that?

  Two lifetimes ago.

  You’re weird, I thought, and gave her, I supposed, a very sisterly grin.

  Of course, anyone looking at me would have thought I was just grinning at the book, that I had found something in the Wicca primer as funny. That was actually very much not the case. I found the book enchanting, no pun intended. The spells, the potions, the lifestyle, the festivals, the sabbats or holidays, all felt familiar, comfortable, something I knew in my heart I had done before, and had experienced often.

  Although familiar, I had no direct access to my past lives, at least not at this time in my life. Probably a good thing, too. Life was challenging enough as it was.

  Can other people see you? I telepathically asked Millicent.

  One or two can feel me, but that’s about it.

  Indeed, a woman sitting not too far away glanced over at me often, and rubbed her arms. She was, I suspected, a sensitive-in-training, whether she knew it or not.

  That I was about to meet Penny’s teacher later today made me nervous. I wasn’t a traine
d investigator. I didn’t know what I would say to him, or even how to go about saying it. All I knew was that the more I thought about him, the more I didn’t like him.

  I’m meeting Penny’s teacher today.

  I’m well aware that you are about to meet the teacher. We all are.

  We? I asked.

  Your helpers, dear.

  My guides?

  Yes, of course.

  Does he know something?

  There is a natural order to all that is, dear. A natural order to revelation, as well.

  And to justice? I asked.

  Yes, dear. The timing had not been right.

  Until now? I asked, but she remained silent about that. She did that to me, and it was aggravating. And since she was in spirit and not detailed enough for me to read her expressions, I had to accept her silence, although I didn’t like it.

  I sighed and returned to the book, in particular, to a section that had piqued my interest earlier. It discussed telekinesis, and something about the subject sent a jolt through me.

  According to the Wicca primer, few had the ability of telekinesis—that was, to move objects with one’s mind—but, with years of work and arduous study and applying oneself diligently, one could possibly develop a trace of this ability.

  As I read the section again and again, I sensed a growing excitement in me. Now, why was that?

  Because, child, you have put in the work already.

  I looked at Millicent, who was now standing before me, next to a woman in line. The woman kept looking behind herself, rubbing her neck and shivering.

  What do you mean? I asked.

  You have spent lifetimes perfecting telekinesis.

  Little good that does me now.

  Not true, dear. Your higher self remembers all the lessons. It’s imprinted in you, permanently, waiting for you to explore it again. To summon it again. You would be what many call a prodigy.

  Is that why prodigies are so gifted at a young age? I asked, sitting back. This was a new concept for me.

  Exactly, dear. They were masters in previous incarnations. It doesn’t take much to awaken their soul memory. And it won’t take much for you, either.

  I thought about that...and the excitement continued to grow. Was it possible? I didn’t know, but the book pointed out that telekinesis went beyond just moving objects with one’s mind. Advanced telekinesis, as performed by true masters, also involved creating objects from the ether-sphere. No, not quite the ether-sphere. From the God energy that permeated everything. The energy was there, waiting to be used, waiting to be manipulated, waiting to be formed into something new, something powerful, something beautiful.

  This was heavy stuff, and just the thought that I might have mastered some of this stuff was exciting in and of itself.

  Anyway, the book suggested a simple exercise to test one’s current level of telekinesis. But don’t get your hopes up, the book cautioned, as few would see results, and those who did were in a rarefied group.

  Rarefied...I liked that.

  I almost smiled.

  Okay, I did smile.

  Broadly.

  Anyway, the book suggested taking out your keys and placing them before you. Keys held a lot of spirit energy, residual energy, as they were often in contact with people, and held a special connection to home and health and valuables and protection.

  I did so now, taking out my rather thick ring of keys from my oversized handbag. Yes, I’m a girl. I placed the wad of keys on the table before me. The whole shebang clattered loudly, as well they should. It was a big wad.

  Next, I cleared my thoughts, focused my intent, exerted my loving will onto the physical world, and saw in my mind’s eye the atoms and energy rearrange themselves in accordance with my desire.

  At least, that was the plan.

  I did this again and again, and waited for something to happen. Nothing did. Oh, well.

  Patience, child, came Millicent’s words. Now try again. Go deeper.

  But I am at a Starbucks.

  God is in Starbucks, too, don’t you know?

  Well, we all need our coffee, I thought.

  I closed my eyes and tried again, and did my best to tune out the chattering and the tapping of keyboards, of the door opening and closing, of people laughing and kids playing. Yes, it was a busy Starbucks. A minute or two later—or perhaps longer, hard to know with meditation—a peaceful bliss came over me. I was deep. At least, as deep as I could hope for in the land of coffee.

  Now, I saw the keys in my mind’s eye, glowing softly, surrounded by what very easily could have been God energy. Then again, what did I know? With eyes still closed and my physical hands still in my lap, I mentally reached out and took hold of the keys. Why I did this, I didn’t know. Something within me just knew that to do this exercise correctly, I needed to reach out mentally.

  I did so now, seeing my ethereal hand grab hold of the keys, and as I did so in my mind, I heard the keys in the real world move ever so slightly. A small scraping sound on the table.

  Good, child. Good.

  Heart thumping and excitement swelling within me, I held the image of me mentally holding the keys as I opened my eyes. It was this dichotomy of telekinesis, I knew, that tripped up so many would-be practitioners: that of holding a mental image of the object...and also seeing it in real time.

  But I seemed to hold the image easily enough.

  And now, in my mind, I turned the keys...and on the table, as if manipulated by an invisible hand, the keys turned in real-time, too. In fact, they performed a perfect 360-degree turn.

  I broke the connection and sat back. “Holy shit,” I whispered.

  Watch your language, dear, said Millicent in my head, but you can say that again.

  I smiled...and then I was laughing.

  Almost hysterically.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  School was out.

  They piled out in droves, laughing and running with their oversized backpacks. An ungodly long line of minivans and SUVs wended its way through school. Yes, some kids even walked home, although I sure as hell wouldn’t have let my own kid walk home. Not from this school, and not with a killer still on the loose.

  I watched it all from the parking lot, from within my humble Honda Accord, looking, no doubt, like just another anxious mother. Of course, I was anxious for an entirely different reason. Perhaps even an unwarranted reason. I was going to speak to Penny’s fifth-grade teacher, Mr. Fletcher, and I was nervous as hell.

  No, I hadn’t received a strong psychic hit that he was actually involved. But I knew I needed to speak to him, and I would.

  I just didn’t like it.

  I was, after all, just a telephone psychic and part-time personal trainer. I didn’t confront people, especially about murder. Yes, I could have called my private eye friend, Samantha Moon. She would have come out here for me. But it was afternoon, and she would have been picking up her own kids slathered in sunscreen and dressed in a lot of clothes to protect her from the sun. Besides, I wanted to talk to the bastard here, now, in the classroom. I wanted to size him up for myself, get a feel of him for myself, and then take it from there. Wherever there would lead.

  Feeling strongly that there was a good chance Penny hadn’t headed home, that she had gone somewhere to sulk about Mommy being mean that day opened up the possibility that anyone could have come across her. Even Mr. Fletcher, whose alibi was airtight.

  So, where were my friendly spirits now? Why did I suddenly feel so alone?

  I knew the answer, of course.

  They were nearby. They were watching me with extreme interest. The Universe wanted justice, needed justice. A karmic balance needed to be met. A girl had been murdered and a family had been torn apart. Karmic suffering had been great and the world, quite literally, was out of balance because of it.

  Whether or not I could provide that balance, I didn’t know. Had no clue, in fact. But one thing was certain: I was going to have to go about this mostly
on my own, using as many psychic hits as I could to help me along the way.

  I drummed my polished nails on the hot steering wheel. My nails looked sexy. At least, that’s what I’d always thought. My nails were also expensive, and rooted in materialism and appearance.

  Well, dammit, I certainly wasn’t as flashy as the other girls out here. And, well, I liked nice nails. Nails made me feel good about myself, and, I figured, feeling good about oneself should be paramount. Plus, I had a famous zip code to live up to.

  So be it.

  My car was heating up so I rolled down the windows. Buses came and went, and so did moms in SUVs. Some dads, too, in bigger trucks. Of course, the SUVs here were Porsches and Range Rovers and Escalades. Everything was big and polished, much like many of the moms. Everyone wore sunglasses. I did, too, of course. Hey, it was bright in Beverly Hills!

  When the parade of polished cars and people were over, when most of the students had been picked up and as a smattering of teachers talked together, laughing, clearly relieved that another day had come and gone, I stepped out of my Accord, locked it with a beep, adjusted my sunglasses, and took a deep breath, And then, I went looking for Mr. Fletcher.

  Thanks to the police summary, I knew just where to find him.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “Hi, are you Mr. Fletcher?”

  A man in his early thirties turned from the dry-erase board where he’d just written tomorrow’s date. Very efficient. He was also very handsome. He was not much bigger than my own 5’7”, although he had broad shoulders and clearly worked out. He was dressed in a light blue polo shirt and snug jeans. He wore designer Timberland boots that probably stopped somewhere at the ankle. He looked at once dashing and relaxed.

  “You got him,” he said, recapping his dry-erase pen and setting it in the grooved metal slot at the base of the board. He next picked up an eraser. Had I not been standing in the doorway, he would have gone to town erasing various mathematical problems that looked, sad to say, too difficult even for me to puzzle out at first blush. Since when did kids get so damned smart? Instead, he waited for me with a pleasant smile on his handsome face. “How can I help you?”