Free Parker And The Gypsy by Susan Carroll Page B

imagination or was his cocksure manner already a bit subdued?
    â€œCan you feel it?” she asked in hushed tones.
    â€œFeel what?”
    â€œThe inn’s atmosphere. The air is thick with the aura of broken hearts and broken dreams.”
    â€œThat’s dust, honey,” Mike said, and promptly sneezed as if to prove his point. “And stale paint fumes.”
    He bent down to inspect an overturned paint can that had left a dried crust on the inn’s battered wood flooring. “What the hell is this? Eggshell cream,” he said, reading the paint label. “Yecch! Looks more the color of baby puke.”
    â€œMamie didn’t like it, either. When the painters tried to paint over that lovely old oak wainscoting, she started slapping them with their own paintbrushes. The realty company hasn’t been able to get another work crew near the place ever since.”
    â€œSounds like your Mamie has a lot better decorating taste than the Jorgensens.” Mike straightened, dusting off his hands and giving her a challenging smile. “So when do I get to meet the old gal?”
    Sara frowned at him. “I usually can sense Mamie’s whereabouts right away when everything is quiet and still.”
    â€œWell, go ahead.”
    Sara folded her hands, took a deep breath and tried to concentrate. But to her annoyance, she could sense nothing but Mike’s overwhelmingly masculine presence.
    The word still didn’t seem to be in the man’s vocabulary. He prowled about like a hunting panther, poking into everything. Ducking down behind the front desk, he snooped through all the drawers, then proceeded to rattle his way through the pigeonholes.
    â€œMichael,” Sara said at last with an exasperated sigh.
    â€œWhat?” he asked, glancing back at her.
    â€œI can’t sense anything with you being so—so twitchy.”
    â€œSorry.” But he didn’t even pause as he continued his inspection, yanking open a door, brushing cobwebs aside as he peeked into a broom closet. “Why don’t you just call the old girl and see if she answers you?”
    He was being facetious of course, but that was what Sara usually did when she visited the inn alone. Feeling a little embarrassed to do so in Mike’s cynical presence, nonetheless, she turned her back on him and called out, “Mamie? Mamie, it’s Sara. I’ve come back and I’ve brought Mr. Parker with me. You know. The detective I told you might be able to find your son.”
    â€œSure, Mamie,” Mike added in a loud voice. “Come on out and we’ll chew the old ectoplasm.”
    Sara whipped around and glared at him.
    â€œHey,” Mike protested with a twinkle in his eye, “I was only trying to help.”
    â€œYou’re going to make her mad. She doesn’t like ghost jokes.”
    â€œA sensitive spook, huh?”
    â€œAnd when Mamie’s temper is really aroused, she has a tendency to throw furniture at people’s heads.”
    â€œSo did my ex-wife.”
    He’d been married? Sara was momentarily distracted, wondering if the ex Mrs. Parker was the one responsible for putting that jaded look in his eyes? No, she sensed that Mike’s cynical shell had begun forming years ago when—
    â€œStop it, Sara,” she chided herself fiercely. “It’s none of your business.”
    She should be worrying more about what the reckless Mr. Parker was doing right now. Sauntering over to the stairs that angled upward to the shadowy landing above, he called out playfully, “Hey, Mamie, if you want to meet me, you better get down here or I’m going to start painting the wainscoting again.”
    â€œOh, Mike,” Sara groaned. “I really wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
    With a wicked grin at her, Mike continued to coax. “C’mon, Mamie. Not all of us have eternity to wait around. I could die of old age and turn into a spook