Free Three Sisters by James D. Doss Page A

was considerably more to this dotty old lady than one might expect. As the words fairly poured from her mouth, what she had to say became more interesting.
    Florence Valentine’s finger tapped Cassandra on the arm. “Lately, poor April has been coming to me in my dreams and telling me I should contact you and tell you all about how she died.”
    Cassandra was pulled in opposite directions. The weary sister of the bride wanted to go home. The TV psychic, who loved to hear about such stuff as was her stock in trade, was inclined to stay—if only for another minute.
    “The sheriff back in Clay County, North Carolina, said it was an accident. Said April must’ve slipped in the mud when she was slopping her prize hogs, and fell into the pen with ’em and she must’ve hit her head on the hollowed-out log feed trough and got knocked out and then the pigs et her!”
    Cassandra heard herself saying, “The pigs…actually ate your daughter?” That is really icky. Triple icky . She would have gone further, but quadruple was not in her vocabulary.
    “Oh, they et poor April all right. Pigs’ll swaller anything.” The black eyes were flashing with anger. “But it wasn’t no accident.”
    “It wasn’t?”
    “Shoot no. April’s bastard of a husband knocked her on the head and pitched her into the pigpen.”
    “And how do you know this?”
    Florence stared at the psychic. She seems a lot more clever on the TV. “Why, because April told me, of course.”
    “Oh. When she appeared in your dreams.”
    “That’s right. And I told the sheriff what she told me, but Poke Unthank—that’s the sheriff’s name—Poke’s as dumb as a poplar stump.” She paused, calling to mind a long list of Mr. Unthank’s shortcomings. “When I think about him, I almost wish I was still back in North Carolina, so’s I could vote against the big tub of lard!”
    “Mrs. Valentine, that is quite an interesting story.” Another glance at the wristwatch. “But I really must run, so—”
    “I understand, honey.” She patted Cassandra’s pale hand. “And I guess it would take way too long to tell you the whole, sorry tale.” The woman in the polka-dot dress got a firm grip on her black canvas shopping bag and plopped it into the psychic’s lap. “So you take this home with you—it’s alla my research. There’s some newspaper stories about poor April’s death. Read it when you get a chance and you’ll see why—out of all the spooky ladies in the whole U.S. of A.—my daughter picked you to help her.” The tired traveler got to her feet. “After you’ve read it, I’m sure you’ll be able to make contact with poor April, who’s just bustin’ a gut to tell you lots of stuff.” Florence V. found a small notebook in her purse, wrote down a telephone number and her cousin’s address in El Prado. “And if you want to talk to me again, here’s how you can get in touch.” She shot an anxious glance at the departure schedule on the monitors. “Now, I guess I’d best see if I can get myself on a plane back to Albuquerque.”
    As she lugged the heavy canvas bag to her black 1957 Cadillac Eldorado Brougham sedan, Cassandra Spencer considered tossing it into a trash can. She decided against this course of action, for two reasons. First, such an act in an airport might have appeared suspicious, and she did not wish to be taken aside, questioned by one of those hard-eyed Homeland Security types who might conclude that she was a disgruntled Arab in disguise. Second, the psychic had that feeling —which conveyed the strong impression that it would be unwise to discard the daffy old woman’s “research.” And so she carried it to her car, carted it all the way home, and dropped it in the hallway between Daddy’s ancient grandfather clock and Momma’s hideous elephant-foot umbrella stand. And there the shopping bag might have remained until cobwebs covered it. Except for the fact that Cassandra was an occasional insomniac.
    Let us