Read Ghost Hunter (The Middle-aged Ghost Whisperer Book 2): (Ghost Cozy Mystery series) for Free Online Page B

idea what form a wife’s grief would take.
    I followed her down the gravel pathway flanked on one side by crimson roses, and onto her front porch. The house was a low slung brick building with large cream aluminum windows all across the front. The entrance was tiny, and I followed her through to an open concept kitchen and living room. The floors were polished pine, and the walls were white. The furniture was sparse and also white, apart from two cushions sporting white leaves on a brown background. The only color, if it could be called a color, was the black of the bulky curtains on the back wall.
    The woman—I did not yet know her name—crossed at once to the curtains and pulled them open. “Tea? Coffee?”
    I was delighted to be offered a drink. This was going much better than I had expected. I looked around to see if I could see a coffee machine, but I could not. That meant the coffee would be the dreaded instant stuff, which was against my religion. “A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you.”
    She opened a white cupboard door. “Herbal tea?”
    “No, just ordinary tea, please. Any tea that has caffeine in it,” I added in desperation. As an afterthought, I said, “Sorry, I don’t know your name.”
    “It’s Christine.” She placed two white porcelain cups on the counter. The kitchen countertops were white, as were the kitchen cabinet doors and even the handles. There were intricate white lace curtains at the kitchen windows, and they seemed quite out of place in such an ultramodern house, as did the black curtains I had just seen.
    There was an awkward silence between us. I took advantage of the silence to see if I could pick up any impression from the deceased, but I could not. The whole house smelled of bleach. I wondered why someone would bleach a house within an inch of its life after there had been a death in the family, but again, I suppose everyone handles grief differently.
    When Christine had prepared the tea, she handed me the white cup on a saucer. “Let’s go outside,” she said.
    I followed her outside to a black outdoor table surrounded by four chairs. The yard was huge, level and green in places although it looked as if it could do with a good watering and perhaps some fertilizer. It was quite bare, not like the front garden. I swatted at a fly and took a sip of my tea.
    “Are you an undercover cop?” Christine said. She was looking down at her tea when she asked the question.
    “No,” I said firmly. “Seriously, I am Prudence Wallflower. Why don’t you google me?”
    She looked hesitant for a moment before she spoke. “All right, I’ll do that.” She left the entertaining area hastily, and returned moments later clutching an iPad, which she placed on the black table in front of her. She opened the case. “How do you spell it?” she asked.
    “Just as it sounds,” I said. “Prudence, wall, flower.”
    She nodded, although it seemed to me that she was trying not to smirk, and tapped away. She looked up from the screen at me and then down the screen again. “Yes, you do look just like your photos. You really are a medium?” she said. “Does that mean you know what I’m thinking?”
    I sighed. I should’ve been prepared for the question. The public, in general, thought that all clairvoyant mediums were psychic as well. “No, I am definitely not psychic,” I said. “I’m a clairvoyant medium, which means that I can get impressions from the spirits of those who have died. I can’t call them up at will. For example, if you wanted me to contact a deceased uncle, I would not be able to call him to come forward. The spirits themselves choose whether or not they will come through, and I can’t influence that. And as for being psychic, I’m not the slightest bit psychic at all. So I don’t know what you or anyone else is thinking, and I can’t predict anything, and I don’t have premonitions. I’m no more psychic than a bar of soap.”
    Christine appeared to be thinking