Parker And The Gypsy by Susan Carroll

it for him one Christmas because he could never have a real dog here at the inn.”
    Mike held the ragged, moth-eaten dog up by one ear and grimaced, “I don’t think this mutt is going to be much help unless he can talk.”
    â€œWell...” Sara began, then stopped, biting down on her lip in a guilty embarrassed fashion that filled Mike with foreboding.
    He stifled a groan. “I can almost handle the fact that you think ghosts whisper in your ear, Sara, but please, please don’t tell me this dog talks to you, too.”
    â€œOf course not.” Her cheeks colored bright red. “But there are other ways, Michael. Haven’t you ever heard of a thing called psychometry?”
    â€œPsycho-what?”
    â€œ Psychometry . The ability to touch an object and gain impressions or feelings about its owner.”
    â€œOh, that. Yeah, I remember one of the other detectives in the department was always calling in some psychic to fondle the evidence in murder cases.” The scorn in his voice showed clearly what he’d thought about such proceedings.
    â€œYou used to be a police detective?” But Sara’s surprise faded as quickly as it had come. She nodded to herself, murmuring. “Yes, of course you were.”
    Mike scowled. He hated when she seemed to know things about him without him really telling her. Deflecting the subject away from himself, he demanded, “And you claim to have some of these psychojigger powers?”
    Her chin came up in defiance. “A little.”
    A moment of unease surged through Mike as he recalled the way she’d touched his letter from prison out in the parking lot. Was it possible that she’d been able to tell—
    No! She couldn’t. Because nobody could do things like that. It was a lot of mumbo jumbo. And to prove it to himself as much as to her, he startled Sara by tossing the toy dog at her.
    She caught it awkwardly as he said, “All right. Go for it.”
    Sara blinked in confusion. “Go for what?”
    â€œPractice your voodoo powers on the stuffed mutt. Use him to tell me what happened to John Patrick.”
    Sara paled a little when she realized what he wanted. “It’s not something that I like to do very often, Michael. It can be rather frightening. And besides, you don’t believe in such things anyway.”
    â€œWhat does it matter what I believe?” Mike shrugged. “Maybe I should try to be more open-minded. Go ahead.”
    Sara’s troubled gaze dropped down to the toy she clutched in her hands.
    â€œUnless, of course, you really don’t think you can do it?” Mike taunted.
    She shot him a reproachful look and her mouth set in a stubborn line. “All right. I’ll try. But you have to stay still and be quiet for once.”
    â€œNo problem.” Mike leaned back against the bedroom door and folded his arms, waiting.
    Looking decidedly uncomfortable, Sara sank down on the edge of the bed. Taking in a deep breath, she held the little dog tight to her breast and closed her eyes.
    Mike experienced a brief twinge of guilt. He didn’t know what he was doing, goading her into such a thing. Maybe it was because she was starting to get to him with all this psychic nonsense. Maybe, if nothing else, he needed to make sure he kept his own head screwed on straight.
    Any minute now, he was certain she’d open her eyes and offer one of the usual fake excuses. His negative vibes were interfering with her concentration. The moon wasn’t in conjunction with the right stars, or some rot like that.
    But instead she just sat there, the time ticking by, beginning to tell on his nerves. He was just about to tell her to forget it when a violent shudder wracked through her.
    â€œSara?” he called uncertainly.
    â€œAfraid,” she said in a small voice. “He’s so afraid.”
    â€œWho is?” Mike demanded.
    â€œJohn Patrick. There—there’s a