Lethal Outlook: A Psychic Eye Mystery Read Online Free Page A

dinner, certain that my fiancé had cooked another of his fabulous meals, but she wanted to get home to her own man candy, so I didn’t push it, grateful that I had such an awesome friend. “I love you,” I told her as we said good-bye.
    Candice grinned. “You love prickly pear margaritas too, Sundance.”
    I bobbed my head up and down. “Yes. I love them too.”
    “Say good night, Abby,” she said, waving at me to close the door of the car.
    “G’night, Abby.” I chuckled as I pushed on the door. It closed on my cane. “Crap on a crap heap!” I groused, wobbling unsteadily while I yanked on the cane. It came free a little too easily and I lost my balance, falling back hard against Dutch’s car and setting off the alarm.
    “Oopsy-doopsy,” I mumbled, still struggling to get my balance.
    Dutch was at the front door before I’d managed to steady myself. His raised eyebrows and stern expression were a littletoo judgmental for my taste. “Don’t take that tone with me,” I snapped, waving my cane at him.
    He came down the steps, used his key fob to turn off the alarm, and leaned into the open door of Candice’s car. She, of course, was laughing hysterically. “What’s her poison?”
    “Prickly pear margaritas,” said Candice.
    “How many?” he asked.
    “More than one less than six,” she told him. The traitor. I hated her!
    “She still upset about the wedding present?” Dutch asked, reaching over to latch a hand onto my arm so I wouldn’t fall over.
    “Yes,” Candice said, purposely withholding any information about my client and Kendra Moreno. Discreet of her. Sweet of her. I loved her.
    “Okay, I’ve got it from here,” he said, closing her door firmly and waving good-bye.
    I wobbled on my feet. Damn! What was in those prickly pears anyway? “You want to try the stairs?” Dutch asked me.
    “No way, hoser,” I said with a giggle. For the record, stairs suck when you’ve fractured your pelvis.
    “I figured.” Dutch sighed and reached out his arms. Lifting me easily, he proceeded to carry me up the steps.
    “I luff you,” I told him.
    His baritone laugh rose out of his chest. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “This morning when you called, I thought you were gonna kill me, but as long as we’re okay now…”
    I leaned my head on his shoulder and sighed happily. “I luff prickly pears.”
    The next morning came bright and early. Too bright. Way, way,
way
too early for someone with a prickly pear hangover. Muttering a disgruntled “Mmph!” I shoved myself out of bed and fell right onto the floor. Elegant, I am not.
    “Edgar?” Dutch called from the first floor. Everyone in my life seems to want to give me a nickname. I’m “Sundance” to Candice (her way of suggesting that we’re the female equivalent to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid), and I am “Edgar” to Dutch, who nicknamed me after the only other psychic he’d ever heard of, Edgar Cayce.
    “I’m fine!” I yelled before I realized that yelling wasn’t such a hot idea. I crawled to the bathroom (literally), vowing to never, ever,
ever
drink again. At least, not until I fully recovered (from my hangover).
    While I was in the shower, my radar gave a little warning ping. Even through the fog of my hangover, my intuition was able to get the message through. “Shih tzu!” I hissed, hurrying to wash the suds out of my hair. I figured I had five minutes before my day got off to an even worse start.
    Mindless of the pounding headache and slightly queasy feeling in my stomach, I rushed out of the shower, hardly bothering to dry off, limped painfully to the closet, threw on some jeans and the first shirt I could grab, shook some of the water from my hair, and grabbed my purse, cane, and keys before gimping as quietly as possible down the steps.
    Pausing at the landing, I could hear Dutch in the kitchen. It smelled like he had cinnamon buns in the oven. “Crap on a cracker!” I whispered. I loooove cinnamon buns. I’d even