Mischief in Mudbug (Ghost-in-Law, #2)(29)

Beau studied Raissa for a moment. “In your bones? No visions, no ghostly warnings?”

“The phenomenon doesn’t work that way. It’s usually very obscure, unplanned, and certainly not scheduled. To make matters worse, the dead are often confused and even when trying to help they can give mixed signals or the wrong information entirely. It’s not an exact science.”

“Some would argue that it’s not a science at all.”

Raissa inclined her head and studied him. “Some would also argue that the Holocaust didn’t happen and that we never landed on the moon.”

“Touché.”

“Regardless of its fantastic nature, I still feel I should have picked up on something before things got that out of control for Maryse.”

“How? Who would have thought those kind of things were going on in such a quiet little place? Who would ever have believed that such hideous secrets were hidden in a small town? Easier to hide in a crowded city where everyone isn’t constantly in your business.”

Raissa nodded. “There is some truth to that, of course. And people often migrate to large cities to ‘disappear,’ but in a small town, if you’ve very good, you can disappear in plain sight.”

“What do you mean?”

“In the small town I grew up in, there was a drunk. He was upper forties to early fifties and everyone called him Walker because he was usually so drunk he couldn’t even find his car keys, much less operate his car, so he walked everywhere he went. His house was at the end of an otherwise tidy little street of bungalows. But Walker’s house was rundown—the roof sagging on one end, paint peeling from every square inch of wood. He didn’t do much—picked up odd construction jobs from time to time, when he was sober enough. Then he usually went on a bender after that. Left town for a couple of days and came back snookered as ever.”

Beau shrugged. “Okay, so almost every town has a drunk like Walker. Nothing special about that.”

Raissa smiled. “No one in the town thought so either, until the day he disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“His mail started piling up and people began to realize that no one had seen him for a while, although no one could put their finger on exactly when. A group of people went to his house and knocked on the doors and windows, but he never answered. His car was in the driveway, so he wasn’t off on a bender. Finally, they called the fire department and had them break down the door, afraid he was dead.”

“But he wasn’t?”

“Not even close. The house inside was neat as a pin, although a layer of dust had settled over everything. There was no sign of Walker anywhere, and even more interesting, there was no sign of a bottle. The house was completely empty of booze. In fact, he didn’t even own a shot glass, a bottle opener, or a corkscrew. When they went to leave, one of the men tripped over the kitchen rug and discovered a door in the floor beneath it. You’ll never guess what they found in that makeshift basement.”

Beau leaned toward Raissa, fascinated. “Bodies?”

Raissa laughed. “Nothing so evil. No, they found a printing press. Walker had been counterfeiting money. It took a while for the local police to sort it all out, but finally the truth emerged. No one knew exactly how long Walker had been manufacturing money, but a couple of people remembered when the ‘benders’ began.”

“And they weren’t benders?”

“Not at all. Walker waited until he had a good bit of the fake money ready, then took a trip to Las Vegas to launder it through the casinos. The police finally tracked down banking records where he’d transferred large sums of money from a bank in Las Vegas to the Cayman Islands. By the time Walker had disappeared, those transfers amounted to over three million dollars.”

“Holy shit! What a story.”

Raissa nodded. “All anyone in town saw was a drunk, and they didn’t look any further.”

“Hiding in plain sight,” Beau said, his mind whirling. “It’s brilliant.”

“And simple. If Walker had been a recluse who rarely spoke and didn’t get out among town, people would have gone poking around.”

“Instead, he invented a personality that was loud enough for people to stop looking any further. They took it at face value and left it at that.”

“Which is exactly what happened in Mudbug,” Raissa pointed out. “And if I had to guess, might be what’s happening with your search for Sabine’s family.”

Beau stared at Raissa for a couple of seconds. “You ‘guess’?” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Exactly how does that psychic thing work? I’m not saying I buy into it, but I’m not so hardheaded as to think I have all the answers, either.”

Raissa studied him for a moment, then smiled. “You’re attracted to Sabine, and you’re worried about this less-than-normal way of life she has.”

Beau sat back and put on his game face. “I didn’t say anything like that.”

“You didn’t have to. And before you think the spirits are telling your secrets, I’ll let you in on one aspect of my ability—a lot of it is simply the talent of reading people extraordinarily well, then putting everything together in one neat little package. Logic, deduction, an innate flair for understanding the psychology of human behavior. Not all is paranormal, Beau. A lot of what I do is no different than your FBI profilers would accomplish with the same information. It’s just that sometimes, I have a little advantage.”