BEVERLY BARTON - If Looks Could Kill

Apparently sensing he’d inadvertently upset Dodd, Max began talking about this and that, doing his best to lighten the mood. Maxwell presented a jovial face to the world, even to family and friends. Farlan knew Max as few others did, knew the demons that plagued him.

“What are you jabbering about, Max?” Brian asked teasingly as he and Wade walked in, both ruddy-cheeked from having played a round of golf in the crisp October weather.

“Did I hear someone say something about another prostitute being found in the Tennessee River?” Wade inquired.

Farlan looked at the young man and thought not for the first time that the boy was too damned good-looking. Too pretty to be a man. “The prostitute’s murder was just something Max mentioned in passing. We’ve been shooting the bull for a couple of hours waiting on you boys to show up.”

Wade meandered over toward the windows where Dodd still stood with his back to the room. “How are you, Judge?”

“Well enough,” Dodd replied in a quiet, stilted voice.

“What did you mean when you said another prostitute?” Max asked. “Has there been more than one murdered?”

Wade turned around and faced the others. “Several in the past couple of years. All in the eastern part of the state, all the bodies dumped into the river. One was as recent as six months ago. That body was recovered downstream from Watts Barr. I believe I took note of a similar case for the first time only a couple of years ago, and if I recall correctly, there have been four cases with practically the same MO.”

“And that MO would be?” Brian asked as he turned to accept a glass of bourbon from Cyrus, who’d just offered him a drink.

Dodd whirled around, his eyes overly bright, his facial features drawn. “If y’all will excuse me, I’m not feeling well.”

“Do you need me to drive you home?” Farlan asked.

“No need for that,” Dodd replied. “I’ll just go to the men’s room and throw a little cold water in my face, then I’ll see if Cyrus can rustle me up a bite to eat. I skipped lunch. I’m sure that’s the problem.”

Poor Dodd. Brilliant man, but far too sensitive. People said that combination made him an excellent judge.

Once Dodd left the room, Farlan motioned for Wade and Brian to sit. “As much as y’all find the gruesome murders of several young women fascinating, let’s set aside the gossip and get down to business.”

Brian shrugged. “And that business would be?”

“Choosing a new Democratic candidate for mayor.”

“Joe Duffy,” Wade and Brian said practically simultaneously.

Chuckling, Farlan eyed Max, who nodded. It would seem this meeting was over before it began. By unanimous agreement, they had their candidate. All that remained was putting the idea into Duffy’s head and promising him not only Farlan’s full support, but the backing of MacKinnon Media.

Genny sensed Reve Sorrell’s uneasiness and did all she could to make the woman feel comfortable. Although Reve had eventually drunk a cup of tea and eaten a slice of cake, she still seemed tense, as if she were afraid of something. What was she so afraid of? The moment the question came to Genny’s mind, the answer appeared seconds later. The wealthy and powerful Ms. Sorrell was afraid of being taken advantage of, afraid of being used. She believed that anyone professing to possess a sixth sense had to be a fake. Was that what vast wealth had done to her? Made her distrust everyone? How sad, Genny thought, and decided at that very moment to make this lonely woman her friend.

“I’d love for y’all to stay for supper,” Genny said, while the threesome sat around the kitchen table, their crumb- dappled plates and empty, tea-stained cups sitting in front of them. “And I will not take no for an answer.” Not giving Reve a chance to refuse, she turned to Jazzy. “Call Caleb and tell him to grab a ride in from town with Dallas.”

“That’s a wonderful idea.” Jazzy lifted her small red- leather shoulder bag from where she’d hung it on the back of her chair. “I’ll call him right now. This supper will give Reve a chance to get better acquainted with the most important people in my life.”

“I’m not sure—” Reve looked like an animal caught in a trap, her brown eyes wide open and filled with uncertainty.

“As I said, I won’t take no for an answer.” Genny scooted back her chair. “Have you ever done any cooking, Reve?”

“No, not really,” she replied. “When I was a child, I occasionally watched our cook when she prepared dinner. And sometimes she allowed me to help her frost a cake or bake cookies.”

“Well, I intend to put you and Jazzy to work helping me fix tonight’s supper. Nothing fancy. Just some fried chicken, fried potatoes, butter beans, cornbread and deviled eggs.” Genny eyed the glass-domed cake plate sitting atop an antique sideboard at the far end of the room. “We still have plenty of cake left for dessert. And I froze a half gallon of homemade vanilla ice cream the last time we made some, so there should be more than enough for a couple of scoops each.”

Jazzy punched in Caleb’s cell number and while the phone rang, she asked Genny, “Will we have time for you to give us a reading before we start supper?”

“I really don’t want to participate in any kind of reading,” Reve said.

Jazzy frowned, but quickly recovered from the disappointment. “Okay, then, just give me a reading. Reve can be an observer.”

“If you’re sure that’s what you want.” Genny didn’t often give readings, only under special circumstances and for special people. She had learned that most people only thought they wanted to delve into the supernatural realm, and when confronted by predications they didn’t like, they wanted to shoot the messenger.

“I’m sure it’s what I want.” Jazzy slid back her chair, stood and gathered up their empty plates, stacked them and put them in the sink at the same time Genny picked up their cups. “Do we need to go into Granny Butler’s room the way we did the last time?”

“I’d prefer to do it there. I always feel closer to Granny and her powers in her old room.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Genny caught a glimpse of Reve’s furrowed brow, her wrinkled nose, her pursed lips. The expression of skepticism and disapproval. “Give me a couple of minutes to prepare, then you two come on up.” She looked right at Reve. “I know you don’t believe, but come upstairs anyway. Consider it an adventure. Or perhaps a learning experience.”

“She’ll become a believer,” Jazzy said. “Just give her time.”

Genny offered them both an understanding smile, then left them to go upstairs. The moment she entered the semi-dark bedroom, the scent of roses assailed her. Granny had always worn rose-scented powder, and although she’d been gone for a good many years, her scent lingered. Of course there were times, when the scent was very strong the way it was today, that Genny felt her grandmother’s presence.

You’re here, aren’t you? She didn’t expect a reply.

Hurriedly she lit the array of white candles situated throughout the room, then pulled the curtains to darken the room completely, except for the positive light given off by the candles. After arranging two chairs at a small, antique table, she sat in one of the chairs, folded her hands in her lap and waited, her mind settling into a meditative state. Readings were not like visions. During a vision, the images were clearer, sometimes so clear it was as if she were watching them through the lens of a movie camera. But when she did a reading, she seldom received clear pictures. She usually simply felt things, sensed things and sometimes heard a voice inside her head.

While she waited for Jazzy and Reve—she knew that despite her misgivings, Reve would come—Genny concentrated, all her thoughts on the look-alike redheads. Almost immediately she sensed a deep yearning to protect the twins. Protect the babies.