ABOUT THIS BOOK

EVERY HUNTER NEEDS A GUIDE. Homicide detective Webb Hannis lives for the hunt. His success is the stuff of legends. Yet while attending the Fourth of July fireworks, Webb’s world changes in a flash when his car is hit and he suffers a head injury. A stranger who calls himself Samuel comforts Webb at the accident scene. In short order, Webb learns of a grisly discovery. The president of the Lazare Fireworks empire is found among the mortar tubes with half his head blown off. When a bullet is found in what’s left of the victim’s brain, the death quickly transforms from a gruesome accident to murder.

Even more unsettling is Webb’s Good Samaritan, the mysterious Samuel, who knows far too much about the killing. After one too many tips proves unerringly accurate, Samuel delivers an arresting revelation: he is a spirit guide who has been advising the detective throughout his life and career. The head injury enabled Webb to finally see and hear him.

Initially Webb angrily dismisses the idea of the supernatural. Before long, however, Samuel’s spellbinding admission coalesces into an unshakeable truth – and just in time. The detective’s case is heating up with break-ins, explosions and more murder. It’s up to Webb to learn how to utilize both his new found guide and his growing understanding of a miraculous force called synchronicity to stop an uncontrollable madness.

Chapter 3

Webb Hannis maneuvered the unmarked police car north on Lake Shore Road toward Grosse Pointe, his window open just to get a breeze moving. Instead of cool comfort, a steamy blast spewed from the air conditioner. “Damn, why don’t they fix these things?” He pounded on the dashboard.

Yanking on his noose of a tie, he loosened it enough to wipe his clammy neck with a handkerchief. Gallister’s rigid dress code tortured Webb. He soured at the sight of his navy blue suit coat tossed over the back of the passenger seat. “No way am I wearing that in this heat and humidity.”

The beauty of Lake St. Clair on his right was the only thing keeping him from going ballistic. The subtle blue waves oddly calmed him. Lake St. Clair was a pond compared to the Great Lakes. But to Webb, accustomed to the muddy Ohio River in Cincinnati, Lake St. Clair was a dazzling ocean. He understood why the wealthy chose to settle near its peaceful shoreline.

Daisy Farrell’s voice sounded from the tiny recorder on the seat beside him, summarizing Rubel’s tedious report. He grinned at the memory of her waving him away from her desk as she dictated onto the tape. Daisy presented the completed tape fifteen minutes later, along with driving directions printed off the Internet. Then she pointed to the clock and told him to hit the road if he wanted to reach the Lazare home before Rubel arrived.

The clock on the dash read one-fifteen. Webb turned left according to Daisy’s driving instructions, crossing over the four-lane road and onto a side street. Majestic beech trees, white oaks and sugar maples lined both sides of the lane. Some were probably older than the multi-million dollar mansions tucked behind the privacy of their green boughs.

The detective noted the faded house numbers stenciled on the curb at the end of each driveway. They were barely legible. He slowed the car to a crawl as he tried to find the right address.

“Sure would be nice to know where I’m going,” he muttered.

Motion in the passenger side mirror caught his eye. He pulled toward the curb and waved out the window for the car behind him to go around.

A silver Mercedes, with an angry blare of the horn, screeched past him.

The detective glanced at the rearview mirror to check for other motorists. Suddenly, he slammed on the brakes. Twisting in the seat, he stared out the back window, gaping in disbelief. “What the hell?”

A midnight-black stallion reared in the middle of the street, forehooves lashing angrily at the muggy air. The rider on its back raised a massive sword, brandishing it wildly before slashing it downward as he loosened the reins.

Steel-shod hooves crashed onto the concrete street. The harness jingled as the horse cantered toward the police car in an odd three-beat rhythm.

The rider’s bright blue silk shirt, full-length sleeves ballooning in the air, commanded Webb’s attention. The front of the shirt hid behind a shiny steel breastplate. He wore a hat of matching blue, the left side of the brim pinned up and plumed with thick white feathers. A long gray cape caught the wind behind him as he kneed the horse’s flanks.

Canter perked to gallop as the stallion charged toward the car. The rider thrust his sword forward in the age-old signal of a cavalry charge. At the last minute he touched the reins and the giant horse veered to the left, sweeping past the police officer’s window.

Webb caught a brief glimpse of the rider’s face and shook his head, bewildered. “Samuel?”

Horse and rider continued to the end of the street where the stallion reared again as Samuel pointed his sword toward a three-story brown and red brick mansion. Tan stone outlined the six-foot bay windows on each side of the house. Numerous chimneys broke the roofline.

Then, as if acknowledging that Webb was looking at the right house, the rider cued his steed to drop back down to the ground. With a flick of the reins, the black war-horse sprang forward and leapt the row of bushes lining the sidewalk in front of the house.

“Okay, buddy, enough games! Are you some kind of wacko?”

The detective whipped the car into the circle drive and slammed on the brakes, barely missing the rear bumper of the silver Mercedes. He threw the gear into park, jumped out of the car, and dashed to where the swordsman stood beside the giant horse. “Hold it!”

The flamboyant creature slipped the large broadsword into its scabbard and smiled innocently at the giant policeman. “Och, wha hae we here? ’Tis Laird Hannis!”

The Scottish accent stopped Webb cold. “Huh?”

“Come now, laddie. Willnae ye enter yon hoose an tak’ the varlets?”

“What?”

The colorful character pointed toward Webb’s forehead. “’Tis the knot on yer ’ead, a’right. Cannae e’en un’erstan the King’s tongue?”

Webb held up his right hand. “What in the hell? I don’t understand a word you’re saying!”

“An it please ye, m’laird. In this form, Samuel Graeme, loyal cavalier ta ’is majesty King Charles.”

“Samuel the nutcase!”

“Aye, m’laird.”

Webb pressed a palm against his aching head. “The same Samuel at the accident last night and the precinct this morning?”

“Aye.”

“What are you doing here? And what’s with the crazy get-up?”

“Dinnae ye oonerstan, Laird Hannis? I be catchin’ yer attention.”

“You want my attention? For what?”

“So you will finally start listening to me, Bud,” the man replied. Now he spoke perfect English without any accent. “I thought that was obvious. Hmm, not quite a believer yet, I see…and seeing is believing, as they say.”

Samuel wrapped his arms around the black stallion’s neck in an affectionate hug. He whispered into its ear, then swatted the horse on the rump. It bolted toward the tall row of privacy bushes lining the side yard, easily jumped over the six-foot barrier...and vanished in midair.

“Do I have your attention now, Bud?” asked Samuel in a gentle tone.

The detective stared where the horse disappeared, his jaw hanging. “What the…what the hell just happened?”

“I sent Ahearn home. I needed him for only a little while. Next question?”

“I’m hallucinating. Right? You’re not real…it’s the accident. You’re some wild fantasy my battered mind is imagining.”

Samuel pushed down on the hilt of his sword and stepped back. The tip of the scabbard pressed against the doorbell. A chime sounded from within the house. “Can a hallucination do that, Webb? Don’t worry, they can’t see me.”

The detective shook his head. “I’m losing it. That’s what it is. I’m completely and totally bonkers.”

“Really?” Samuel grinned. “Well, I suggest you pull yourself together because someone is going to answer the bell right…now.”

The front door opened. An elderly gentleman, pink scalp glowing through wispy white hair, glared at Webb. “Yes? What is it?”

“Detective Webb Hannis with the Detroit Police Department. I have a one-thirty appointment with Pierre Lazare.”

“I’m Pierre Lazare,” the man announced. Wrinkled skin pillowed beneath red rimmed eyes. Despite his height, withered shoulders curled forward like a falling wave.

Webb pointed to Samuel. “And this is—”

“He can’t see me, Bud,” Samuel interrupted. The cavalier removed his plumed hat and brushed away bits of lint. “Don’t embarrass yourself.”

The officer shook his head in frustration. “Uh, this is…certainly a hot day.”

“Yes, Detective, it is.” The older man spoke as though the right side of his face was frozen. “Will you come inside?”

Webb, light blue shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, nodded and stepped into the house. The door closed behind him and cold air immediately embraced his large frame. He mopped sweat from his brow as he glanced around the entryway. The two men were alone in the elegant foyer. An elaborate winding staircase with a hand-carved newel post swept up to the second floor. Flowered wallpaper, straight out of the fifties, needed updating.

“We need to begin,” the detective said and nodded toward the living room.

Webb heard a voice from above. He looked up with wide eyes.

Samuel stood on the landing, left hand resting on the rail. The detective watched in bafflement as the Cavalier leapt onto the banister. With sword dangling over the edge and gray cloak beneath him, he slid sideways down the handrail.

Samuel jumped off at the last moment before reaching the newel post. He removed his plumed hat and bowed.

Webb quickly looked away. This guy is not really here, he assured himself.

“Come into the living room, Detective,” Pierre said and walked slowly toward the doorway on the right.

Webb shook his head and followed Lazare. He noticed the elderly man’s right wrist curved back, the hand balled into a fist. The stooped figure dragged his right leg. All definite indicators of a stroke.

Sofas and occasional pieces, covered in gold brocades and brown velvets, were scattered about the large room. The fabric on one chair was faded, while the velvet settee exposed thinning nap.

A petite woman, stunning waves of white hair framing her genteel face, offered a strained smile from across the room. She was dressed in a peach blouse and white linen skirt. A rope of pearls surrounded her wrinkled neck and spilled down over her bosom.

“Detective Hannis, this is my wife Katherine,” Lazare said, and gestured toward a young man standing beside the fireplace. “Our son, Conrad. He’s manning the office for now.”

“Running the business,” Conrad said through clenched teeth. “And cleaning up the sloppy bookkeeping,” he muttered under his breath.

Webb studied the son. He remembered seeing him on the fireworks barge two days ago, but now he could really focus on Pierre’s third son. Dark, wavy hair expertly cut and styled, sculpted cheekbones under tanned skin, too pretty for a man. Preppy in khaki slacks and a white polo shirt, he was a younger version of his father. Webb guessed him in his mid-thirties.

Katherine gestured for Webb to sit down. “Would you care for coffee?” she asked, her demeanor morose.

Webb saw it many times before. The family, gripped by grief, denied their loved one’s death by engrossing in ritual. Offering coffee was the most common. Hands moved while the mind idled in denial.

“Yes, coffee.” He watched the grateful smile cross her face as she turned and walked toward the kitchen.

Pierre Lazare carefully lowered himself into a winged-back chair, bracing his back against a pillow. He sighed heavily, but spoke with authority. “What is this all about, Detective?”

Webb watched with apprehension as Samuel moved about the room, examining the bric-a-brac on various tables. The cavalier’s sword seemed to move of its own volition, rising or falling in time to barely miss the expensive knickknacks.

He forced himself to turn away from the fanciful mirage and focused on Pierre Lazare. “Let’s get started.”

“Yes, yes,” Pierre said, motioning impatiently with his left hand. “I expect you have some questions about the accident.”

Webb pulled a small notebook and pen from his shirt pocket. “Did Marc have any enemies?”

“Of course not. Everyone loved him.”

He turned to Conrad. “When did you last see Marc?”

“I don’t remember. Things were awfully busy, you know.” Conrad shifted his eyes away from the detective. He stood with head bowed beside the fireplace, slowly twisting a ring around his finger. He grabbed an ashtray off the mantle and began turning it over and over in his hands.

An expert at body language, Webb watched him closely. This guy isn’t mourning. He’s nervous about something. “I see Marc was president of Lazare Fireworks. Did he have business problems?”

“Marc ran a tight ship,” Pierre said. “Business is the best in years and we have a new innovation ready for release this fall. Sales will boom.”

Webb heard someone clear their throat near the fireplace. He turned to Conrad. Samuel stood opposite the sharply dressed man, right elbow cradled in his left hand

as he stroked his clean-shaven chin.

“That’s not quite right, Father,” Conrad stated. “The records are in shambles, just as I suspected.”

Pierre heaved a deep breath. “I don’t understand.”

Conrad focused his gaze on the detective, ignoring his father. “I checked the books this morning. More than half our customers have outstanding bills. Some are a year overdue.”

Pierre rested his chin on his hand. “I’m surprised to hear that. Marc never mentioned it to me.”

Conrad scowled at Pierre. “It appears he doctored some figures to make it look like the company has more cash flow, too. I told you, Father, Red wasn’t a businessman and he hated handling customers. Oh, he was good with chemicals…but you should’ve let me run the business end from the beginning.”

Webb's head pounded from the rising anger in Conrad’s voice. “Red?”

Conrad leaned against the fireplace. “We called Marc ‘Red’ because he used to manage the bunker that produced red fireworks. We also have workers named Pinky, Purp, Blue Boy, and Goldie.”

“I can’t believe Marc would do anything to jeopardize our business,” Pierre said, his voice shaky.

“Marc was great at fireworks, Father,” Conrad argued. “He just didn’t know how to solve the business problems. Don't you see he was losing it? Maybe he was so ashamed he committed suicide.”

Pierre struggled up from his seat, nearly losing his balance, and waved his fist in the air. “How can you say that about your brother?”

“Because there’s three quarters of a million in past-due payables, Father. And a million dollars in last year’s receivables that Marc didn’t bother to collect!” Conrad slammed his fist against the mantle. “He sat on the invoices so damn long, we’ll probably have to write off most of them!”

“I trusted Marc with the family business,” Pierre said, a haunted tinge in his eyes as he grasped the meaning of Conrad’s words. “My grandfather created Lazare Fireworks almost one hundred years ago. Do you mean now we could lose everything?”

Conrad stretched a hand toward his patriarch, his voice both accusing and pleading. “Well, Father, you trusted the wrong son. Give me some time and I'll get the business back in order.”

“Your brother Luc is next in line to run the business.” Pierre’s voice was heavy iron. “I will honor family tradition.”

Bitter pain and fury whipped across Conrad’s face. He dropped his hand to his side, fingers clenched. The two men locked glares for several moments before Conrad turned away. He crossed in front of his father and walked right through Samuel.

Webb sucked in a shocked and disbelieving breath.

Conrad slammed the front door with such force it echoed throughout the room. Webb’s eyes and thoughts were on the strange Cavalier who casually moseyed over

to the fireplace.

Unfazed, Samuel simply crossed one ankle over the other and folded his arms. He grinned at Webb, and winked. The picture of contentment.

The detective turned away, swallowing heavily. I’m definitely cracking up.

Across from him, Pierre Lazare covered his face with his hands. His back bowed, as if in defeat. “Oh, Conrad,” he mumbled through his fingers, “tradition is what makes us family. Can’t you see that?”

“How do you like your coffee, Detective?” Katherine asked from the doorway. She held a silver serving tray in her hands, the china cups and silverware rattling as she trembled. Her head turned slowly in confusion. “What happened to Conrad?”

“Guess he had to leave,” Webb said. “Black coffee for me.” He glanced up and noticed Samuel pointing toward the foyer.

The doorbell rang.

Pierre Lazare, with little enthusiasm, excused himself to answer it. A few seconds later, a familiar voice sounded from the foyer.

“Sorry I’m late. I hate being late,” Jake Rubel blared. “Damn road construction. I left the station on time, but I was stuck in a traffic jam on the way. You must be Pierre Lazare. Detective Rubel, Detroit PD. Let’s get started.”

Webb ignored the scrawny dwarf as he entered the living room.

Rubel’s eyes shot daggers at Webb. “How long have you been here? You better not have started without me.”

Webb glanced at his wristwatch. “You said one-thirty, right? That was twenty minutes ago.”

“Well, I’m taking it from here.” Rubel settled onto the couch. “You just sit back and shut up,” he muttered under his breath.

Pierre resumed his seat. “Why does an accident require two detectives?”

Rubel leaned forward in his seat. “It wasn’t an accident,” he pronounced bluntly. “We found a bullet in the victim’s brain. Your son was murdered.”

Katherine Lazare gasped, rose on unsteady legs, and went to sit close to her husband. Fingering her pearls with one hand, she unconsciously patted Pierre’s arm with the other. “Murdered? My child murdered? Who would kill our son?”

“It wasn't suicide,” Rubel stated. “We didn’t find a gun at the scene, and his body was over the mortar tube.”

“I can’t believe this,” Pierre said, his voice quivering. He wiped his eyes and pulled himself up straight. “I thought one of the bombs misfired. Everyone admired Marc.”

“We need to start working the case immediately while the evidence is fresh,” Webb said. “Who was the last to see Marc the night of the show?”

“He usually worked in the office,” Pierre replied. “The others handled the actual launch.”

Rubel jotted furiously in his notebook.

Webb continued. “Was he with the crew that night, maybe helping set up?”

Katherine grabbed a tissue and wiped her eyes. “I can’t believe Marc is gone,” she cried. “Murdered.”

Webb watched Samuel step from his position at the fireplace and move behind Katherine. The gray-caped figure wrapped his arms around the grieving mother and held her tenderly as she sobbed.

“Gentlemen, can we finish this another time?” Pierre’s eyes painfully pleaded as he stroked Katherine’s arm. “This is too much for my wife.”

“Not yet,” Jake replied. “I have several more questions. Who do you think wanted to kill –”

“Mrs. Lazare,” Webb interrupted firmly. “What can you tell us about Marc?”

Rubel scowled at him and continued writing in his notebook.

Samuel supported Katherine by the arms and helped her rise. The elderly lady stepped toward the fireplace.

“Our Marc was the kindest, most decent human being on this earth.” As Katherine spoke, Samuel placed his hand beneath hers and guided it to a photograph on the mantel. “His family was everything to him.”

Katherine carried the picture to Webb, holding it out gingerly toward him. “Here he is with his wife Laura. Such a lovely couple,” she sighed. “And that’s their precious three-year-old son Austin. Marc adored the child.”

Marc, dapper in a navy suit and dark tie, bore a close resemblance to Conrad. So, how did this supposedly nice guy get a bullet in his brain? Webb wondered. He focused on the woman in the picture. Laura Lazare was earthy, with long curly red hair and tan freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose. She appeared self-assured and poised.

Rubel grabbed the frame from Webb’s hand. “Yeah, that’s nice,” Rubel said, glancing briefly at the picture before directing his attention back to Pierre. “As I was saying, do you know anyone –”

The front door slammed, interrupting the younger detective. A fellow, dressed in a T-shirt and camouflage pants bloused in black combat boots, strode into the room. Without so much as a nod to anyone, he threw himself into a chair and propped his boots on the coffee table.

“Luc. You should’ve been here an hour ago.” Pierre waved a hand toward his son. “Detectives, this is my second son, Luc.”

“Luc is a genius at pyrotechnics, just like Marc and his father,” Katherine announced proudly. “You haven’t met Teddy, our youngest, yet. He’ll be home soon. He’s at college, studying to take his place in the business with his brothers.”

Luc was shorter, yet heavy compared to the other Lazare men. Acne scars pocked fleshy cheeks. He spotted Webb and tossed his head. Long dark hair lay in greasy strings over his eyes. He looked away quickly.

Webb frowned as a sense of déjà vu struck him. “Do I know you?”

Rubel snapped to attention.

Luc looked bored. “No.”

Searching his aching brain, Webb tried to recall the previous night’s events. The pounding in his head muddled the picture. “Did I see you at the Fourth of July show?”

“I was on the barge all night,” Luc said without looking at Webb.

Webb eyed Luc. “So you handled the bombs?”

“Yeah, I set off a few guns. We have a crew to man the show.”

“Why would anyone be out near the guns during a show?”

“Usually no one is allowed beyond the barriers. Only the technicians are permitted out there after the show starts. But Marc could go anywhere he damn well pleased. He was the pres-i-dent.” Luc drew out the word in emphasis.

“Sounds like you hated that,” Rubel declared, “Unhappy enough to kill him, maybe?”

Pierre Lazare stiffened. He pushed himself up from the chair, trembling with weakness and anger. “That’s all, gentlemen. You will leave my house now.”

“This is a police investigation,” Hannis stated. “If you want to know who killed your son, you must cooperate with us.”

“From now on, all information comes though my attorney. Good day, detectives.”

“I need your lawyer’s name and phone number,” Webb declared. “We also need a list of the addresses and phone numbers for all employees at Lazare Fireworks.”

“Leave your card, Detective Hannis,” Pierre said. “I’ll see that you get a list.”

Webb, stretching almost a foot taller than the shrunken Lazare, extended the card to the older man.

Rubel stood, red faced. “I’m not finished yet. Where were you last night, Mr. Lazare?”

Pierre glared at the detective’s narrow face. He raised one shaky arm and pointed toward the door. “I’m telling you to leave my home now. I know my rights. Contact our attorney.”

Webb was already halfway to his car before Rubel stepped out of the house.

***

“Okay, Father, I won’t tell them anything,” Conrad said into his car phone. He turned into his driveway, relieved to be home. Clicking off the phone, he steered the car into the garage and turned off the ignition. Exhausted, he rested his head against the seat. “At least Father is keeping the cops at arm’s length,” he sighed.

As Conrad stepped through the interior garage door and into the kitchen, his wife Jade called out from the family room. “Darling, come and see what Tristan chose for the new house.”

Just hearing the name made Conrad Lazare bristle. Jutting his long jaw forward, as he always did when his wife used her high-toned lilt, he dragged himself through the kitchen, stopping in the doorway to the family room to leaf through the mail.

“Conrad,” Jade said tersely. “Tristan’s time is precious.”

Conrad looked up to see his wife, her slender body outlined in a manila pants set, seated next to an effeminate creature. Tristan’s most striking feature was his hair, moussed into a curly pyramid on top of his perfumed head. Goddamn fag. Conrad gritted his teeth.

His wife’s long golden hair sparkled, illuminated by the skylight Tristan insisted they install last year. Like we needed a skylight in this place when we were already planning to build a new house, Conrad thought.

“Come sit and look at these samples.” Jade patted the creamy sofa.

Instead, Conrad carried the mail to the caned rocker across the room.

“Isn’t this color yummy?” Tristan drooled in a conjured British accent, holding up a peachy fabric. “Jade will positively glow surrounded by this warm hue. Note how the fabric drapes.”

Conrad felt his stomach turn as the fellow pleated the silky material adoringly across his chest.

“Tristan’s doing color in the new house,” Jade said. “He’s bored with the monochromatic beige he did in this one.”

Conrad’s eyes darted up from the mail. “Damn it, Jade. My brother died last night and I had to tell my father his precious first-born was a coward. I don’t need this decorating shit today.”

Jumping up from the couch, Jade rushed to her husband’s side, kneeling down next to the rocker. “I know you’re upset about Marc, sweetheart, but we can’t just drop the house plans. I’ll handle the decorating, but I want you to be excited too.”

The decorator adjusted his funky glasses and flipped through a leather notebook. “Jade, darling, I’m completely booked through Christmas next year. I’m fitting you in because I love you, and I want to work with your new hair color. You will radiate with the peach tones.”

Conrad wanted to grab the fellow by his skinny neck and squeeze.

“Honey, you know Tristan’s a legend in Detroit,” Jade pleaded with him. “People beg for his time. Just look at these colors.”

“I don’t want this crap in my life right now,” Conrad said as he pushed up from the chair.

Tristan drew his mouth into a fluted circle.

Jade hurried to him. “Tristan, darling. I love the peach.” She whispered something in his ear.

Conrad loosened his tie and left the room, retreating up the cream carpeted stairs.

So the police suspect Marc was murdered, he thought as he pulled off his starched shirt, tossing it in the dry cleaning bin. Jade was too busy keeping up with the jet set to iron his shirts.

Ten minutes later Jade bounded into the room, removed her jeweled strap sandals and dropped on the bed. She rested her chin on her hands.

Oh, no, the pout. He steeled himself. Conrad looked into his wife’s eyes, florescent from the green contacts Tristan suggested, to match her name. A beauty, Jade was the kind of woman any man would want on his arm.

“Gillian and Richard joined the country club,” she said, etching doodles with her finger on the spread.

Conrad pulled on a pair of Dockers. “Good for them,” he said.

“We really need to join,” she said in that little girl tone that irritated him. “If I want to take golf lessons from that fabulous pro, I have to be a member.”

“We don’t have the money right now,” he snapped. “And you can forget about Trisket—”

“It’s Tristan, dear.”

Conrad, buttoning a shirt, turned to her. She looked so sexy with those long tanned arms and rounded derriere. He felt a wave of arousal. “The house is this year. Maybe we can join the club next summer.”

Jade rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. “All my new friends belong to the club.”

Conrad dove onto the bed, nuzzling next to her. “We’re on our way, honey. The house plans are set, and I’m president of Lazare Fireworks now.”

“Oh? Did your dad make it official?”

“Official or not, who else could run it? Luc? He can’t even organize his wardrobe.” He kissed her shoulder tenderly. “Soon money will pour in.”

Jade laughed and tugged at Conrad’s zipper.

He grabbed her hand. “I promised Laura I’d be there in fifteen minutes to help with last minute arrangements. The funeral is tomorrow.”

Jade straddled his waist. “Laura can wait. I can’t.”

***

Teddy, the youngest Lazare brother, gently rapped on Laura’s front door. Half hoping nobody would answer, his pulse quickened. He longed to flee. This was a house of death, and a place filled with memories. Was he ready to face the truth? Marc, his big brother, was gone.

The door opened and Rosa Perez, Laura’s hired girl appeared. Her eyes were misty. Beside her a cherubic face with dazzling Lazare brown eyes beamed at him. “Hi, Unca Teddy.”

Teddy reached out and pulled the little boy into his arms. “Austin! Is your Mommy home?” He stepped into the front entry and looked about.

“Mrs. Lazare is upstairs,” Rosa said and headed back to the kitchen.

The little boy wriggled free. Austin, dressed in denim shorts and a red shirt that set off his dark features, scrambled up the carpeted steps.

Teddy hesitated, peering into the cluttered living room. Clothes littered the sofa and chairs, boots and shoes tossed about on the floor. This wasn’t like Laura, the meticulous housewife.

“Austin, who was at the door?”

Teddy stiffened when he heard Laura’s voice from upstairs.

“Unca’ Teddy,” the young boy bubbled.

Teddy studied the clothes in the living room. They belonged to Marc. Suits, jackets, shoes, a few scarves and hats were all that was left of his brother. He reached down and fingered a leather glove. The sight sickened him.

A hand touched his back. He whirled around. Laura stood there.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” she said wryly.

“Come on. I’m not a total oaf. My brother died.” He pointed to the clothes. “What’s going on here?”

“His things remind me of him,” Laura said, picking up a jacket. “I want them out of the house. They’ll go to Goodwill after the funeral. You can go through them, and if you want anything—”

“Laura.” He cleared his throat. “You’re moving too fast.”

Laura threw the jacket onto a chair. “I’m the one who has to live with the memories. This part of my life is over.”

“Damn it, Laura.” Teddy grabbed his sister-in-law by the shoulders. “He was a human being. He lived on this earth for thirty-eight years. You can’t wipe away his existence.”

“Aren’t you the loving brother.” Laura pulled away from him and headed up the stairs.

Teddy followed her. The spacious hallway led to the master bedroom where more of Marc’s clothing was piled on the bed. Austin jumped onto the spread and tossed Polo shirts into the air. Teddy caught him around the waist, lifting him down to the floor. “Don’t mess up your daddy’s things.”

“Where’s my daddy?” Austin said.

Teddy cuddled the three-year-old, placing him on his lap and smoothing the silky dark hair. Poor kid.

Laura pulled men’s socks and underwear from a drawer and stuffed them into a corrugated box. “Austin, run downstairs to Rosa. She just made cookies.”

Tumbling from Teddy’s arms, the child charged out of the room and pounded down the stairs.

Laura wadded up white tube socks. “Can you believe all this? Pierre called. The police found a damn bullet in Marc’s brain.”

“I’m so confused,” Teddy said. He watched Laura bend over the bureau. “Why is this happening?”

“God, Teddy. He was so devastated that afternoon. I feel guilty about that, but I didn’t want him dead.”

“Somebody obviously did.”

“Austin is oblivious. He thinks Marc is on a trip.”

“A three-year-old doesn’t understand the finality of death,” Teddy said. “I feel guilty too. I should’ve stayed here to help after Dad’s stroke. Marc was a gentle soul. Never hurt anybody.”

“He was milk toast,” Laura declared, pulling dress shirts from hangers. “Everyone walked all over him.”

“I won’t let you talk like that about my brother,” Teddy bristled. He darted across the room and dumped the box of Marc’s socks on the bed. “Put these things back in the drawers and mourn like a normal wife. This isn’t fair to my family.”

He stormed down the stairs and out of the house.

***

Webb winced at the sharp explosion of pain as the door slammed. He sat at his desk, hands cradling his aching head. A muffled, angry voice – Rubel’s, of course – sounded from the Chief’s office. The little runt wasted no time voicing his opinion, Webb had to give him that. Gallister’s response was brief and terse, followed by momentary silence. The office door banged open again a few minutes later. Muttered cursing faded slowly as Rubel stormed through the department.

Webb grabbed the orange medicine vial off the desk and leaned back in his chair. He wanted to call it a day. His head throbbed from the steamy drive back to the precinct, Rubel’s door-clanging tantrum, and the glaring sunlight that stabbed through his window.

It took several seconds – and a hand over one eye – before he could focus on the prescription that cautioned him not to operate heavy machinery. A grunt was the closest he could get to laugh off the warning.

Suddenly Samuel appeared with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Webb watched the Cavalier sniff the fragrant roses.

“Nice, huh?’ Samuel said. “Divine gifts.” He turned and held the blooms toward the detective. “Plants are loaded with spiritual energy. Want some?”

The officer swiveled his chair to face the blue-clad figure in the gray cape. “No, I don’t need any flowers and I don’t need you!”

“Oh, really?”

“Okay, I’m sick of talking to a loony illusion,” Webb snapped. “What do you want?”

Samuel smiled innocently, as if to a child. “What do you want?”

“I want to get on with my life without you tagging along. It’s nuts to deal with a sword-wielding ghost in rusty armor. God, you probably stink in that thing.”

“God probably stinks?”

“No!” Webb tugged his hair. “That’s not what I said!”

“You said, ‘God, you probably stink.’”

“God! I was talking about you!”

“You said it again.”

Webb let out a throaty growl. “I don’t have all day to play word games with you.” He turned away. “You don’t even exist!”

“Think before you speak, Bud. Spoken words are strong.” In a flash, Samuel’s archaic wardrobe disappeared and was replaced by his brown jacket and jeans. “Since you don’t like this outfit, I might as well be comfortable.”

“You’re playing games again.”

Samuel began arranging the bouquet of flowers into a vase on the windowsill. “I’m just following what you said. I asked what you want. Just be careful what you ask for.”

“What does that mean?”

“Thoughts are things, Bud. You create your own reality with your thoughts.”

“Oh, yeah?” Webb stood. “Then I’ll think about getting you out of my life!”

“No chance, Bud. I’m your spirit guide. We have a pact. I’ve always been here. You couldn’t see me before, but you were pretty good at following my guidance. You know, those brainstorms you call hunches?”

“Spirit guide? Guidance? You’re not even the hell really here.”

Samuel nodded. “It’s always hard for earthlings to accept at first. Your ego is telling you to ignore me.”

“Ego? Dammit, Samuel, what are you talking about?” Webb groaned and looked at the floor. “I’m out of my mind. I’m talking to a mirage that doesn’t even exist!”

Samuel tsked. “Language, Bud, you really must watch your language. You’re a tough guy, but you came to earth with an agenda. Time to start working on it.”

“What in the hell do you mean?”

Samuel began rolling the sleeves on his brown jacket. “You’ll understand eventually.”

Daisy Farrell stood at the doorway. She paused, eyebrows furrowed in deep concern as she scanned Webb’s face. “Are you okay? You look like a coronary candidate.”

“Yeah.” Webb focused on the vial in his hand. The cap still wouldn’t budge. He longed to throw it against the wall, but Daisy stood in the way. “Can’t get this damn thing open.”

She extended her hand. “From what I saw from you and Rubel today, I’m not surprised. It’s childproof, you know.”

Reluctantly he placed the vial in the slender outstretched hand. “Don’t start, Daiz. It’s been one helluva day.”

Daisy glanced at the label, then shook her head. “Must’ve been, if you’re going to take these. That chair doesn’t look like the most comfortable bed…this will put you out like a light.”

“I have to do something. This headache is killing me!”

“Oh, my,” said Samuel. “Better treat it before it kills you. Watch your words, Bud.”

Webb moaned.

Daisy smoothed her free hand over Webb’s shoulder. “Let me take you home. Gallister will understand.”

“Can’t.” The brawny detective started to shake his head, then stopped. Even that simple motion was painful.

“You should listen to her, Bud,” Samuel’s voice sounded from the windowsill behind him.

Hannis scrunched his eyes shut and slammed his hand against the arm of his chair. “I told you before to shut up!”

Daisy’s eyes widened.

Samuel smiled.

“You’re starting to scare me, Webb.” Daisy backed toward the hallway. “I offered to help you. I don’t need your rage.”

He raised his head and opened his eyes.

Daisy’s brow narrowed.

“I’m okay, really. It’s just…. You’ll think I’m nuts, Daiz. Hell, I think I’m nuts, but there’s someone else in this room.”

“You’re not nuts,” her voice softened. “You have a concussion, that’s all. Aggressive outbursts are perfectly normal. Just to be safe, let me call a cab. Okay?”

Webb opened his mouth to reply, then chuckled instead. “You don’t need to talk down to me, Detective. I still have my wits. It’s just that my head feels like it’s splitting, and I’m….”

“Hearing voices?”

He wagged his head. “Just one. You remember that guy I told you about? The one who was in here earlier today?”

Slowly she nodded. “The same one you saw at the hospital. Samuel, right?”

“Right.” The detective pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “He’s standing by the window.”

Daisy glanced that way, and smiled. “Oh, really?” She curtsied. “I’m sorry, Samuel. I’d really like to see you. Anyway it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Detective Farrell,” Samuel responded courteously.

Daisy tried to suppress a smile. “So, what did the invisible man say?”

“He’s pleased to meet you,” Webb said gruffly. “Of course, you didn’t hear it because he isn’t really there. Right? He’s just a figment of my bruised brain.”

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Bud,” Samuel said as he chuckled from the windowsill, “than are dreamt of in your philosophy. I borrowed that from an incredible writer who listened to his spirit guide. You might’ve heard of him…William Shakespeare?”

“Oh, God,” Webb moaned. His eyebrows furrowed as he glared at Daisy. “Now you did it. He’s quoting Shakespeare. Or my brain is quoting him. But I don’t know shit about Shakespeare. Ah, the hell with it. I’m going home.”

“Good idea ,” Daisy hastened to say. “If you’re quoting Shakespeare, there’s definitely something wrong.”

His frown darkened. “Go ahead, Farrell. Laugh all you want, I don’t give a crap.”

“I apologize. It’s just…I picture you more as the brain-dead action-adventure movie type.”

“My life is an action-adventure movie,” Webb retorted. Fury flared at the thought of her mocking him. He stood rigidly, then grabbed his forehead and groaned. Waves of dizziness crashed over him as the pounding in his temples doubled.

Soft, firm hands steadied him, and guided him back to the chair. “Here, sit down and rest a minute,” Daisy said gently. “Take a breath and let it out slowly.”

“I’m not a kid, Daiz.” Webb’s anger intensified the throbbing in his skull.

“No, you’re a grown detective who needs to lower his blood pressure. I’ve seen tomatoes paler than you.”

“Listen to her, Bud,” Samuel whispered in Webb’s ear. “She can help you.”

“Go away, Samuel!” Webb roared but quickly groaned. “Oh, God, I wish this headache would quit!”

Strong hands pressed against the side of his head. A moment later the thumping disappeared. He turned his head and gazed directly into Samuel’s iridescent blue eyes.

“Tell Daisy that Phoebe can help this situation,” Samuel instructed.

“Phoebe? What?”

A startled look crossed Daisy’s face. “What did you say?”

“Samuel says to tell you I need to see Phoebe. Who in the hell is that?”

She knelt beside him. “Phoebe is my aunt.”

“What Aunt? How did she get into the act?”

“Phoebe’s a psychic and swears we’re surrounded by spirits.”

Webb glared at her. “I don’t believe in that bull.”

“Phoebe’s clairvoyant, and says these spirits are with her all the time.”

“But Samuel’s an hallucination. He has to be. No one else can see him.”

“I’ll make an appointment with her,” Daisy said, smiling. “She’s a medium and takes clients.”

“Hold on. I’m not ready for that weird crap.”

“Webb, if you’re seeing spirits, you’re already into the weird stuff. My aunt can see auras and predict the future. You may have a gift here.” Daisy turned to the window.

“Okay. Whatever,” Webb said with a groan. “At this point, I don’t care who this character is. I just want to get rid of him!”

“He must be here for a reason,” Daisy said, removing her glasses, her eyes wide with wonder.

“There’s more. I had this…I guess you would call it a…vision of some sort. I saw a bullet in Marc Lazare’s brain.”

Daisy leaned back in her chair. “Oh, Webb, that was all over the station.”

“No. I had the vision before Rubel reported back from the coroner.” He looked away from her. “How would I know about the bullet?”

Daisy’s brown eyes gazed deep into Webb’s. “I don’t know what to say except maybe Phoebe can explain it.”

Webb glanced at his watch. “I have to get this report going before Rubel has a shit fit. Thanks for listening, Daiz, and for God's sake, don't tell anyone about this.”

“You can trust me.” She took a deep breath. “Believe it, I wouldn’t tell a soul.”

© Jill Wellington, Edna Mae Holm, 2004

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jill Wellington, and her mother Edna Mae Holm are the authors of Fireworks, a mystery novel that teaches the concept of synchronicity. You can read more about them and order Fireworks by visiting their website at www.stargatepress.com . Fireworks is also available on Amazon.com.

Jill Wellington was a journalist for more than eighteen years, starting in radio and eventually reporting television news for fourteen years. The recipient of two Michigan Emmy nominations and numerous reporting awards, she also wrote a weekly humor column for two local newspapers.

Edna Mae Holm was a professional singer for twenty-five years. She taught modeling for eight years before opening a women’s specialty clothing shop. While a successful business owner for twenty years, she wrote a humorous newspaper column for three local newspapers.