When The Spirit Moves You (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries) by LL Bartlett Page A

disconcerting. I’d only decided to drop in on a whim. Or maybe that was part of her shtick.
    I opened the wooden screen door and stepped inside. The interior didn’t look much better than the exterior, but at least it was neat and tidy. A broad staircase wound up to the second floor. Only a few of its balusters were missing. The entry’s floor was in desperate need of sanding and refinishing, and some of the old oak was warped and a large portion of it was discolored from water. A glance at the stained ceiling told me where the problem had originated. Probably from a bathroom.
    “ In here,” the female voice called again.
    I crossed the entryway to a side parlor and shuddered. Something in that room was not right. From her position behind a small square table, the woman could see straight through the window should any customers pull up the drive and approach the steps.
    The room had little charm. The cracked and chipped brick hearth was in as sad a shape as the mantle, which had once been painted white. Instead of a fire, seven or eight white vanilla-scented pillar candles of different heights glowed in the old fireplace, and appeared to be the only source of heat or light in the gloomy room.
    Two sheet-covered side chairs flanked the mantle, but instead of shabby chic, they just looked shabby—as did the faded wallpaper which, like the ceiling in the entryway, had its share of water stains around the windows. A tall, newish cabinet held up the wall behind me. No doubt a TV was stashed behind the closed doors. I’d bet the days were long and the customers few and far between, and soap operas and game shows helped to the pass the hours.
    “ Please, sit,” she invited, and waved a hand at the worn upholstered chair before her.
    I did as asked and, apart from feeling foolish, a growing disquiet seemed to radiate through me. I tried to shake it off and concentrated on the woman before me.
    Talk about adopting a stereotype. The table was covered in a couple of layers of jewel-toned tablecloths and what looked like a lacy white shawl draped on top. A massive crystal ball sat in the middle of the table, and in front of the woman was a neatly stacked deck of worn Tarot cards.
    I looked up into the woman’s piercing blue eyes. She must have been in her early fifties, overweight, with a lined face and jet-black, shoulder-length wavy hair held back from her left ear by a rhinestone dragonfly clip. Seated behind the table like that, I could only see that she had on a white blouse with a black shawl drawn over her shoulders. But I suspected her outfit included a long dark skirt hidden beneath the table. Despite the candles, the pong of cigarette smoke still hung in the air. A trace of white on the edge of the table told me she’d hastily ditched her ashtray—probably onto her lap.
    “ I ask that my clients pay in advance, if you wouldn’t mind.”
    “ Sure.” I grabbed the wallet from my left back pocket, withdrew the ten-dollar bill and offered it to her. She grabbed the money and stowed it under the table.
    “ Now, how can I help you, Mister—?”
    Help me?
    “ Resnick. Jeffrey Resnick,” I supplied.
    Her eyes flashed and seemed to give me a quick once-over—evaluating me, and perhaps my stupidity factor.
    “ I saw your sign and wondered what you could tell me about . . . things.”
    That sounded lame, but I really didn’t know what I expected. Probably just to find out what kind of cock-n-bull story she’d hand me. I get vibes from people, and so far the only vibe I got from this lady was that she had just robbed me of ten bucks.
    “ I can contact the spirit world in a number of ways. Via the crystal, the Tarot, or through my animal guide. How would you like me to proceed, Mr. Resnick?”
    Animal guide? Cat? Horse? Rhinoceros? “I have no preference.”
    She nodded, moved the cards to one side, and pulled the crystal ball toward her. Leaning forward, she held her hands inches over the glass orb and gazed into