Marnie Reilly Mysteries Book 1, Divine Guidance, Second Edition
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Psychic psychologist Marnie Reilly battles inner demons every day. But when the devil is flesh and blood, will the final analysis be murder?
Marnie Reilly knows trauma: a dead family, an abusive ex-boyfriend, and a gift that won’t let her forget because the ghosts of her past haunt her day and night.
After publicly exposing a crooked group of psychics and healers who peddle false hope for profit, Marnie is a target. They have threatened her before, but when cops discover her ex-boyfriend’s mutilated body in her garden shed, she believes they were dead serious.
Now the prime suspect in a gruesome murder, the small-town psychologist must clear her name while fighting an unseen killer who knows her every move.
Detectives Danny Gregg and Tom Keller risk their careers — and lives — to protect her and her canine companion, Tater. With the body count rising, and a blizzard closing the tiny mountain town of Creekwood, Marnie Reilly must use her gift to get inside the mind of a murderer before she’s his next victim.
Welcome to Creekwood. Where Thanksgiving is murder.
Chapter One
November 17th
5:23 PM, 999 Wildwood Drive, Creekwood, NY
The garrote tightened beneath the man’s Adam’s apple, and each time he tried to resist the inevitable, his assailant wrenched the wire. Unable to flee or scream, knowing no one would hear him anyway, he fought. Kicking back, he missed his attacker but toppled a music stand, scattering sheet music to the cold white marble floor. With a fierce and jerking twist, his killer sliced through the cartilage, severing his trachea and ligaments with a sickening crunch. As a numbing chill raced through his body, Ken Wilder collapsed, not feeling his skull crack against the blood-soaked stone tiles.
7:18 PM, Station Hall, Creekwood, NY
Marnie Reilly raced through the back door of Station Hall—a redbrick Federal-style structure built in 1831. Her office hours ended at five o’clock, but a client had delayed her.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, shaking hands with Serena, the organizer of the event, who glanced at the stage before checking her watch.
“You’re fine. You arrived in plenty of time.”
The current speaker’s saccharine tone raised Marnie’s hackles. She knew him well, but his belief system and ethics were questionable more often than not these days.
She stood in the wings wondering how crumpled her suit was after a day of appointments. A full-length mirror backstage offered her the chance to check her reflection. Her smart black silk jacket and matching trim pencil skirt were presentable. The gray silk camisole that she was wearing gave her eyes the soulful look of the empathetic counselor she knew herself to be. Her understated jewelry and makeup completed the look of a confident, no-nonsense professional.
She peeked through the red velvet side curtains to see the audience. Close to two-hundred women and about a dozen men packed the seats in the front half of the theater. Marnie knew that many of them would bristle at her frank delivery of facts. She was always authentic to herself and to the people who sought her counsel. She would tell them what they needed to hear—not what they wanted to hear. Peering out at the faces, she hoped the audience would trust her candid guidance. Or at least question the drivel they were hearing from the guy on stage, selling hope, not a lasting solution.
He was one of many speakers who made an absolute fortune every year taking people’s money. This scoundrel told them what they wanted to hear so they would get hooked. His half-truths and twisted reality and the promise that someday his fanciful nonsense would come true dragged these poor people back for more. The man was what some people would call a sensitive, a spiritualist, or an energy healer. Marnie thought Carl Parkins was a charlatan—a low-life, money-grubbing, soul-sucking trickster who strung people along.
She wrinkled her nose, and her cheeks flamed as he told a battered woman named April that her husband would stop beating her if she sought divine guidance. If she could surround herself with white light, soon her optimism and giving energy would transform her husband into the loving man she wanted him to be. He advised that a change of perspective and positive thoughts would bring encouraging results. He dangled the bait, telling her she had the power to create the relationship she so wanted. Then with a gentle tug, he set the hook.
“April, you have work to do, and I am happy to teach you how to bring change to your life.”
Carl’s reassuring smile held warmth and confidence. “You can get my contact details at the front desk before you leave. Call me to arrange sessions. I suggest two appointments each week for a few months. I’m sure we can put your life in order in no time.”
The woman nodded, smiled and blinked back tears. Marnie knew she was entering a trap. She would buy hope from a man who would sell it to her at a hundred and fifty dollars per session.
When the man finished speaking and stepped away from his microphone, the crowd rose to their feet, offering thunderous applause. The charlatan held out an arm, welcoming Serena to the mic.
“Thank you, Carl. What insightful readings tonight. I am sure your natural gift amazed our audience. I know I was blown away! How did you share things that no one outside of their circle could know? I hope they take solace in your inspiring predictions for their future.”
Carl nodded his thanks, turned to his audience, placed his hands over his heart and bowed before exiting the stage.
As he walked to the wings, he caught his first glimpse of Marnie. He bristled and eased toward her as the organizer told the attendees about upcoming events.
“Check our schedule online. You won’t want to miss out,” purred Serena.
The faint but familiar aroma of citrus and bergamot mingled with cedar undertones crept under Marnie’s nose as the charlatan slunk up behind her. She put up her hand to keep him at bay, her eyes remaining focused on the crowd through a slit in the curtain.
Without looking at him, she said, “Surprised to see me? Probably not, eh? But you know me. I like to pop up every now and again to keep everyone honest,” she said, pivoting, her eyes locking onto his.
“Ooh! Be careful with your misplaced barbs. No one here is performing. We’re all spiritualists who want to help. I don’t need to tell you how much your being here will sadden this talented group. These people do righteous work, and your interference … This is not a group of people you want to upset. Don’t make enemies of those who are far more powerful than you.”
She leaned in, brushing imaginary lint from his shoulder, and he felt the heat of her breath on his face. “Thanks for the warning, but let’s not confuse power with shenanigans. You may not be aware, but there are a lot of folks out there cheering me on, waiting for me to take you down.”
He pulled back and attempted a laugh. “You? Come on, Marnie. You’re a counselor. You advise the battered, the dreary and the mundane, and yes, you have psychic abilities, but you are not someone any of us need to worry about. It saddens me because you could have been talented, but you gave up too soon. You didn’t believe in yourself enough, and your clients knew it. I’m not worried.” He sneered, shaking his head.
“I wasn’t referring to myself, Carl. I was referring to God, the Universe … the Divine. The souls on the other side of the veil—they are tired of you and your mendacious band of thieves taking money from people who need help of a different kind. Do you believe in Heaven, Carl? People like you don’t ascend. They wander in purgatory for an eternity.” Nudging him aside with a firm hand, she added, “Get out of my way. I’m being introduced.”
His glowering eyes burned into her back as she walked away, and he muttered, “Fuck you, Marnie.”
“You’re not my type, Carl, but when I finish tonight, you will feel screwed. Ciao, ciao. Must go.” With a taunting wave, she walked onto the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, our last speaker tonight is a leading counselor here in Creekwood. She has spent much of her career donating her time at juvenile detention centers and women’s shelters. Many people know her as an angel of mercy, a beacon of light and, yes, a psychic. Please welcome Marnie Reilly.”
The counselor walked from the wings and up to the podium, and the crowd clapped as she adjusted the microphone. The other speakers had worn headsets and dressed in colorful clothing with elaborate crystals around their necks. In contrast, she was professional, elegant and not at all what they were expecting.
“Good evening and thank you so much for the warm welcome. I see so many hopeful faces. Please allow me to clear up one thing. I’m not a psychic. I don’t like that word. It has such a negative connotation. I don’t know about you, but for me it triggers thoughts of trickery, charlatans, and persons of questionable morals who sell hope to good folks like you.”
She pulled the microphone from its stand and crossed to the forestage.
“Serena gave you my credentials, so you already know I am trained to help. I am also a clairvoyant, a claircognizant, a clairaudient, and an empath, also known as clairsentient. That means that I see, hear and feel spirits. An empath picks up other people’s feelings, emotions, worries, and physical pain. But I’m here tonight as a counselor. I’ll listen and offer guidance and share with you places you can go to get help that won’t cost you a ton of money. And these will be certified practices where hope isn’t sold. There are professional environments where you can talk about where you are now and where you would like to be. Safe places where you can learn about the steps you can take to turn your life around.”
Marnie turned to April, who was in the front row, still transfixed after her exchange with Carl.
“Ma’am, I know you are going through a difficult time and what it is like to be in an abusive relationship. Do you feel it’s your fault? I blamed myself. And I thought that if I changed, he would too. I can tell you right here, right now, he won’t. You need to leave the situation. You need to walk away. It isn’t easy, and it will take you time to come to terms with the steps you need to take, but it will be worth it. You don’t need a psychic to tell you the situation will not end well if you stay. Common sense is all you need. I have lived it, and I know what I am talking about. It is a gradual buildup, starting perhaps with verbal abuse, criticism that hurts to your very core. And then one day you wake up and you realize it has gone from cutting comments to emotional abuse. Before long, physical abuse rears its ugly head. Then a moment comes when you realize there is nothing left of the person you were—you are an empty shell of emotions and hurt—you feel trapped and fearful. You think if he doesn’t love me, then no one else ever will either. It took me two years to escape the man who abused me. Twenty-four months on an emotional roller coaster was enough. I lost thirty pounds and didn’t even realize it. My entire world was falling apart, and I couldn’t figure out what had happened.”
The woman looked up, a sob eluding her throat. Marnie reached back and grabbed a box off the podium, passing it to April, who helped herself to a few tissues.
Dropping the microphone to her side, the counselor dipped her hand in a pocket and handed the woman a card. “Call me tomorrow. I will not charge you anything. We can have a chat, and if you are comfortable, we can put your life back together.”
April gave her head a jerk and said, “Thank you.”
Returning to the lectern, Marnie spoke with earnest. “Listen, folks. Readings can be fun and helpful. Heck, I give readings to my friends sometimes, but I do not think they are appropriate for people who are going through critical life choices. You need a professional for the tough stuff. Let me ask you all a question. Would you go to a psychic for a cure if you had cancer? No? Then why would you when you’re depressed or in an abusive relationship? Critical situations need serious consideration. If you can’t find work, don’t call a psychic and spend money you don’t have. Call a recruitment company. Talk to a career counselor. There are many free services available. Pick up the phone and find one. And if you can’t, call my office. My assistant or I will give you a referral. Please don’t go to someone who sells hope. Meet a professional who has the skills to help you. Hope is a wonderful thing. It can help us through the darkest hours, but you must work toward finding a long-term solution. A psychic can’t help with that unless they are trained in specialized areas like career counseling, psychology, relationship counseling, and services of that sort.”
The auditorium filled with chatter as Marnie stepped up to the apron.
“Okay. Who has questions? Throw up your hands. Let’s see if we can find answers. You’ve paid for the evening. Let’s deliver positive results for a few people.”
A tired-looking woman six rows back in the middle aisle put up her hand, and the counselor skipped down the steps and up the aisle, and handed the woman a microphone.
“Can you please tell me your name?”
The woman stood up. “My name is Helen. I have been raising my hand all night, and no one would call on me.” As tears flowed down her cheeks, she took a tissue out of the sleeve of her faded blue cardigan and dabbed her eyes.
“Well, then. I’m the person you were meant to speak with. What can I do to help?”
The woman choked up, struggling to speak through her tears. “My husband died two days ago. There was nothing wrong with him, and no one will give me answers. They did an autopsy, and all they can tell me is that his heart stopped beating, congestive heart failure, and that it was natural causes. But everything was fine. We came home from having dinner with friends and I went upstairs to get ready for bed. He went out to the yard to lock up for the night, as he always does. I was so tired. I fell asleep before he came up. When I woke up, he wasn’t next to me, so I went looking for him. All the lights were still on and I found him lying on the patio, crumpled up in a heap.”
“I’m so sorry you’ve been through such an ordeal,” said the counselor, but before she could ask a question, the woman continued.
“I had two readings the day after he died, and another a day later. A woman, Grace, said he was poisoned. She told me it was at the hands of another—whatever that means, and a man, Bernard, told me my husband took his own life, chewing oleander leaves, and then another man, whose name I can’t remember, told me he had given up on life and died. I don’t understand, and I want you to talk to him. Please ask him what happened?
The heart-wrenching pain on the lady’s face was an angst Marnie had seen before—in her father’s eyes—in her own, and in clients’. Tears stung her eyes, a lump caught in her throat, and her chest ached. As an empath, she could feel the woman’s pain, and she wanted to do everything she could to help. Reaching out, she took her hand.
“I will do everything I can to help you work through your grief. Please understand, while speaking with the people we love who have crossed over is possible, it is important that we don’t disturb them. If they want to speak to us, they find a way, but it is inappropriate for us to seek them out.”
The woman broke down, dropping Marnie’s hand. “I was told that someone here would channel my husband and that he would speak with me! You’re the last one! Why won’t you talk to him?”
“I don’t know who told you that, but let me assure you I would never make that promise.” The counselor paused, pushing away her anger. “Helen, the veil between the living and the spirit world, shouldn’t be crossed. My mother taught me that, and I never attempt contact with people who have passed. I am sorry someone made that commitment to you.”
She turned around, searching for the organizer, and spotted her walking in the wings backstage. “Serena, can you please come here for a moment?”
The woman peered out—eyes darting. Marnie glared and made a blunt request.
“I would like to find out who made this ridiculous promise.”
Turning back to the woman, she did her best to offer sound advice and comfort.
“I’m going to ask you not to spend any more money on psychics or mediums to speak with your husband. I’ll go with you to the medical examiner’s office. He knows me, and I am sure we can find out what happened to your husband if we ask the right questions. Can you tell me your husband’s first name?”
“His name is Ralph. He is such a loving man. Tall and handsome and a wonderful father,” cried Helen, sniffling and dabbing away tears with a worn tissue.
“How old is Ralph?” asked the psychic psychologist, changing tense to match Helen’s.
“He will be ninety-two next week.”
Marnie reached out and took Helen’s hand again. “Have you had a happy life together?”
“Oh, yes. We’ve had a wonderful life. Our platinum anniversary was last week. All of our family was with us. We had a lovely party. Such a wonderful celebration. Our children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and dear friends. We danced and sang and danced some more. Oh, it was so lovely.”
“That sounds brilliant. If you can wait for me to finish up, I will schedule a time to meet you, and we will work together to find out what happened to Ralph. Does that sound okay?”
“I came here to talk to my husband. What about that?” said Helen, standing her ground.
“You can talk to him anytime you like. I’m sure he’s listening. He’ll give you signs you can understand. You don’t need me to speak with Ralph. You know in your heart that he’s listening, and he always will be.”
Marnie locked eyes with Helen, hoping she had gotten through to the grieving widow. With a half-shrug, the older woman nodded as the man next to her comforted her into her chair. Meeting Marnie’s eyes, he mouthed, “thank you.”
The psychologist put a hand in her pocket and held out her card. He accepted it and asked, “Would it be okay if we called in the morning?”
“Yes. That would be fine.”
Climbing the steps to the stage, Marnie sensed a presence in the wings, only to see Carl and his psychic friends backstage, scowling at her through the side curtains. Rather than engage in nonsense, she addressed the audience.
“Okay. Does anyone else have a question?”
Hands shot up, and the psychic psychologist beamed with joy. She had them, and they wanted what she was selling, truth, common sense, and a chance for a better life. Hope is a wonderful elixir if it’s the right kind.
Two figures huddled in the darkness of the theater’s wings, glaring at the woman on the stage.
“Your lack of attention to detail screwed us!” said the one wearing a navy-blue baseball cap.
The other, who wore a knitted green tuque, grumbled, “It’s not my fault. He promised he’d taken care of it!”
“You didn’t think to check? You had the combination,” growled Baseball Cap, lips curled back in a snarl.
Green Tuque’s face dropped. “Not that easy.”
“Nothing ever is with you.”
“What do we do now?”
Baseball Cap said, “We stick to the plan.”
“Remove her from the equation?”
“Of course.”
They leaned against the wall, silent but resolute, as the spotlight lingered too long on Marnie Reilly.