Free The Hitwoman and the Neurotic Witness by J. B. Lynn Page B

Aaron said, inclining his head in the direction of his brother.
    “I thought you were going to talk to her.” Susan arched her eyebrows at me to better convey her displeasure at my failure to control her sister.
    “I thought you wanted me to talk to Marlene,” I countered.
    “Have you?” Susan asked.
    “No. I took a nap.”
    “Avoiding a problem isn’t the same as solving a problem,” Susan lectured.
    I rolled my eyes, having heard that bit of advice numerous times growing up.
    “Very mature,” Susan groused.
    The shrill beeping of the kitchen timer saved me from yet another oft-repeated lecture. Jumping out of her seat, Susan hurried into the kitchen. Bob followed close behind.
    “I hear beeping,” Leslie announced.
    “It’s better than seeing dead people,” I told her.
    “I see dead people,” Gypsy said from the doorway.
    We all turned to look at her. Most of us wrinkled our noses as the pungent aroma of patchouli drowned out the scent of silver polish and potpourri.
    “You see dead people?” Leslie asked, wide-eyed.
    The Griswald brothers shared a loaded look across the table.
    “Zeke’s looking for you,” I interjected, not wanting the conversation to go any further considering an FBI agent and U.S. Marshal were listening.
    “I like Zeke!” Leslie crowed triumphantly.
    “Bully for you,” I muttered, desperately hoping for some sort of divine intervention to save me from this dinner from Hell.
    “Hey, Chiquita!” a familiar voice called.
    I should have known things could only get weirder.

Chapter Nine
     
    It’s a sad state of affairs when I think of Armani as my savior, but that was exactly the thought I had as she limped into the room.
    Leslie stared at her disfigured hand in horror. “What happened to you?”
    Armani gave me a questioning look. After all, they’d met before. More than once.
    I twirled a finger near my ear indicating that Aunt Leslie was a whack-a-doodle. I figured that was safer than pointing out to the law enforcement officials at the table that she was doped up on some illegal substance.
    “I had a run-in with a Zamboni machine,” Armani answered my aunt.
    Leslie shivered.
    “It was my own fault,” Armani continued cheerily. “If I’d paid attention to my own psychic prediction, none of it would have happened.”
    “You’re a psychic?” Gypsy asked.
    “Uh huh,” Armani said, settling into the seat beside me. “Tell ‘em, Maggie.”
    Despite the cynical glances of the Griswald brothers, I said, “She reads Scrabble tiles.” Without prompting, I drew seven tiles from the purple cloth bag she held out to me. I placed them letter-side-up and in alphabetical order (DEEIRRW) in front of her and watched as she shuffled them around on the table like a street hustler playing Three Card Monte.
    “I like Scrabble!” Leslie declared a tad too enthusiastically.
    “Scrabble tiles?” Gypsy asked, shuffling closer to the table.
    My eyes watered and I wondered if it was possible to asphyxiate on patchouli fumes. “Like tea leaves,” I choked out. “You pull seven and she predicts your future.”
    “Drew ire,” Armani declared in her best all-seeing-psychic voice.
    “That’s past tense,” I told her.
    “But you have pissed a bunch of people off lately,” she countered quickly.
    “By definition past tense is not a prediction,” I groused.
    Armani, who didn’t seem to be affected by the stench, swung her purple bag o’ tiles enticingly to the rest of table. “Go ahead. Give it a try.”
    “Me first!” Leslie cried, flying across the room, almost knocking Gypsy over in her haste to reach the bag.
    “Seven,” Armani instructed dramatically.
    Leslie nodded and with great concentration pulled a tile from the bag.
    “Six more,” Armani coached.
    Slowly and deliberately, Leslie pulled out the rest of the tiles.
    “Place them face-up on the table,” Armani intoned in her best ninety-nine-cents-per-minute-phone-psychic voice.
    I fought the urge to giggle,