Superstition by Karen Robards Page A

mother, signaling for Bob to keep the camera on her. Whatever was riling Leonora—and Nicky was pretty sure she knew what it was—the time to find out about it was in exactly twenty-seven seconds—in other words, after they were off the air.
    “As always, we go the extra mile to try to solve cases that have left other investigators baffled. We’ll take the information provided by Leonora tonight and see if it opens up any new leads, and we’ll keep you updated on our progress on subsequent shows. For now, I’m Nicole Sullivan. Thank you from all of us here for joining us tonight on this special live edition of Twenty-four Hours Investigates .”
    A beat passed, during which Nicky determinedly smiled into the camera, and then the red light that warned them they were on the air blinked off. Bob pulled out his earpiece and grinned at her. The monitor showed the credits rolling. A quick glance at the sensors told Nicky that the readings were back to normal: Any and all ghosts had apparently vacated the premises. There was a smattering of applause from the onlookers crowding the door, and she glanced toward them with a smile that froze on her face as her gaze encountered her mother’s.
    An explosion was clearly imminent. Thank God they were off the air.
    “Nicky. That was awesome,” someone called. Nicky thought the voice might have been Mario’s. He had been looking on from the hallway and was probably now one of the group streaming into the room, but she was too busy bracing herself for what she knew was coming to definitively identify the speaker or do more than acknowledge the compliment with a wave.
    Leonora’s eyes blazed into hers. Her lips parted. . . .
    “I have to tell you, everything you said tonight was exactly on target.” Andrea Schultz saved her. Nicky had been so focused on her mother that she hadn’t even noticed that people were forming a knot around them. Slender in jeans and an embroidered vest over a pale green T-shirt, Mrs. Schultz looked far older than her fifty-five years. Her face was pale, and her eyes were bright with unshed tears. She took Leonora’s hand and clung to it. “Lauren’s room—the way it was—you described it perfectly. How did you know ? And the blood in the kitchen. There was blood on the floor, just where you said.”
    Leonora refocused on Mrs. Schultz. Faced with someone who had suffered a loss, someone who was turning to her for help, she was always on, always compassionate. As angry as Nicky could tell she was, this was no exception.
    “I’m sorry for your pain.” Leonora gripped Mrs. Schultz’s hand. “I wish I could do more to help you.”
    “Just . . . tell me one thing.” Mike Schultz, looking slightly out of place in a navy business suit, white dress shirt, and striped tie, stood behind his wife. Based on her previous dealings with the couple, Nicky would have described him as stolid: the rock supporting his wife through her grief. But his shoulders were slumped now, and his face seemed to have crumpled during the course of the broadcast. Where before he had appeared comfortably middle-aged, he now looked impossibly old. “Where is my daughter? You seemed to see Tara—what about Lauren? Where is Lauren ?”
    The pain in his voice was palpable. Nicky felt her throat constrict in the face of such obvious grief. That was the thing about the line of work she was in: It was easy—too easy sometimes—to forget that real people and real heartbreak lay behind these shows.
    Leonora shook her head. “I can’t tell you that. I’m sorry. It wasn’t shown to me.”
    “Oh, God . . .” His face turned red and tears formed in his eyes. He abruptly turned away, covering his face with his hands.
    “Excuse us. Mike . . .” His wife went to him, sliding an arm around his waist and murmuring something to him. Together, they moved toward the door.
    Marisa, who’d been hovering around the edges of the room, had joined them in time to hear that last