Free Three Sisters by James D. Doss

the shiver-shudders. That would take something more than your ordinary, run-of-the-mill spirit. Ghosts from ancient times were old hat. And so she would put on a brand-new thinking cap.
    Thus resolved to come up with some really nifty notion—something that would make even Nicky Moxon sit up and listen—the psychic installed the blue shades over her luminous eyes, turned, and listened to the click-click of her high heels on the floor as she headed for the atrium. She was unaware of the eruption of human cargo currently being disgorged by the flight from Albuquerque. But soon enough, it would catch up with her.
    A Hazard of the Profession
    Cassandra Spencer was approaching the exit side of the security portal when she heard the shout behind her.
    “Hey, you—hold on there!”
    She stopped abruptly, turned.
    A spry, snowy-haired old lady in a black dress spotted with tiny white polka dots was fairly tripping along, attempting to wave, which was a difficult maneuver with a heavy purse in one hand, a black canvas bag in the other. “I thought so—you’re Cassandra. The spooky lady on TV!”
    Oh, no. A fan . Which was, Bea had once informed her, an abbreviation for fanatic . The television personality was about to deny her identity when the enthusiast laughed and said: “And don’t say you ain’t, because I watch you practically every week!”
    Trapped, Cassandra decided to make the best of it. I’ll autograph something for her, make an excuse about an urgent appointment, then hurry away . She forced a smile, and was about to say that she was always pleased to meet a viewer, when the fanatical fan cornered her victim, gushed, “I flew in from the Duke City just to see you and tell you about poor April. I’d planned to ride a bus all the way over to Granite Creek and rent a motel room that’d probably cost me at least eighty-five dollars a night and me trying to live on Social Security and what little money my daughters—the two who are still alive—send me every once in a while—” She paused to gasp a breath. “But the very minute I get off the airplane, who do I see—just like she was meant to be here waiting for me?”
    “Myself?”
    “Well of course. Which means I don’t have to pay for all that extra transportation, or a big motel bill, and what it’d cost to eat three times a day in the coffee shop—” Another breath. “Well, you know how much it costs; I expect you travel a lot.”
    The psychic’s full, sensuous lips had gone thin. “I’m in quite a hurry at the moment, so—”
    “Well of course you are, dearie—big TV star like you must have oodles of things to do. So I’ll get right to the point.” She lowered her voice. “My name is Florence Valentine.”
    She’s probably sent me e-mails. Or letters . “Do I know you?”
    “Oh, no, honey, we’ve never met before right now—and this is my first time in Colorado. I’ve only been in New Mexico for about a year. It was after poor April’s death that I come out here to live with my first cousin, who has a cute little adobe house in Taos. Well, it’s actually in El Prado, but that’s just north of—”
    “I’m really in quite a hurry.” Cassandra made a point of glancing at her wristwatch.
    “Don’t fret, this’ll just take a minute. But I’ve got to sit down—I’ve got arthritis in my hips and knees and my old feet are just killing me.” Collapsing onto a cushioned seat, she patted the vacant one beside her. “Now you sit down too, and I’ll tell you what this is all about.”
    Her other options being limited, Cassandra sat.
    Florence Valentine explained that she knew that Cassandra had lost a sister because she had read “everything I could get my hands on about how poor Astrid had been attacked by bears—” gasp for breath, “and right there in her own bedroom. Well, I say!”
    The psychic listened with increasing tension. Somehow, I must disentangle myself from this goofball .
    But as is so often the case, there