A Bump in the Night

By Carol Wakefield

Catt Russell, an ordinary suburban mom with unreliable psychic powers, has a dilemma. Her best friend, Jilly, is getting married to CSIS agent Morris Ali. Her society snob sister, Micky, insists on being the wedding planner, the antique wedding ring goes missing in a rash of robberies and an extremely strange woman claims that Catt’s husband, Jack, is her betrothed. What could possibly go wrong?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carol Wakefield
• Release date: Jan 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311102447

Carol Wakefield

As far as biographies go, I am probably like you, the reader - a suburban housewife, who loves a good read to pass some spare time. If you want to know my whole story, go to www.carolwakefield.com but the short version is I live a pretty ordinary life in Richmond Hill, Ontario, with my husband and son and a whole lot of cats and I love to write about adventures that I hope I never experience for real (except for the fact that I really wish I could do the things Catt does).

Book preview

Chapter One

Who’s the weird lady in the guest room? Josh asks, sliding into his chair at the breakfast table.

There’s a weird lady in the guest room? Jack says, equally puzzled. He looks at me.

I sigh. Then I remind myself that if Jack had gotten up in the night, as he should have done, since it was probably his turn to get up anyway, he would know who she is. So this Johnny-come-lately attitude is not scoring any brownie points with me.

Yeah, Josh says, smearing way too much jam on his toast and dribbling sticky splotches across the table, she’s singing all this crazy stuff and making lots of noise. Like maybe she’s moving furniture or something.

Jack frowns at me. I stare back at him. I can’t believe he’s forgotten about his little ‘bump in the night’.

That reminds me– I start to say, just as a huge crash comes from upstairs.

See, I told you, Josh mutters, with reproach in his voice. Reproach that should have been mine. "She’s doing stuff."

Correction. It sounds like she’s breaking stuff. Our stuff. Terrific.

This is what I get for letting a perfect stranger stay in my house. Okay, maybe not quite a perfect stranger, since she is apparently betrothed to one or more preteen boy, one of whom is my son. And, as far as I’m aware, they haven’t even gone on a first date.

But that can wait. Right now, I’ve got to make sure she’s not destroying the guest room.

I rap on the door. Um... Gilda? I call. No answer. I rap again. Hello? I say a little bit louder. Then I rattle the door knob. Locked. Hmmm.

This is worrisome. But even more worrisome is the fact that I can hear her loud breathing on the other side of the door. Like she’s listening, too. And not very surreptitiously either.

I could probably play this game all day long, but frankly, after the night I’ve had, I’m not really in the mood for games. I bang, bang, bang on the door.

Open the door, I say, with more than a little pique in my voice. Then I sigh. After all, she is a guest in my house. Unwanted or not. Uh...please?

Good morn-ink! Gilda warbles, opening the door a crack. I try to see past her, but that’s not easy because she’s a big woman. Especially, uh, in certain departments, such as those that are currently filling the doorway.

I gulp and step back. Uh, just checking to see if you are okay, I say. We, uh... heard a noise.

"No! No noise! she states stoutly, frowning now. I am think-ink I be-ink of the hear-ink noise if there be-ink noise, she declares, glaring at me in an accusatory manner. No noise!"

Uh, okay. No noise.

Well, uh, in that case... I pause. I’ve heard more believable lies from Josh, but this is probably not the time to press the point. There might be something salvageable in there. Maybe some breakfast–

I no break-ink noth-ink! she protests angrily. I am be-inkof the tell-ink to you this already! Is only little scratch!

Before I can process exactly what might be meant by ‘little scratch’, a wisp of smoke escapes through the door opening. She smokes? In my house? Uh-uh. That’s not happening. Nobody smokes in our house. I’m about to tell her this when the smoke alarm in the hallway suddenly starts shrieking.

"Is be-ink of polizie! Gilda screams, yanking me to her like some kind of body armor. I wish. As a human shield goes, I’m about as effective as a leaf in a wind storm. You be-ink of the tell-ink them I not be-ink here!"

This is where things get complicated. Even if I understood her, I wouldn’t understand her.

What’s going on? Jack demands as he tears up the stairs, fire extinguisher in hand. Is the house on fire?

No! Gilda says indignantly, still clutching me to her as though Jack might just be there to drag her off in chains. Is be-ink just little fire.

Well, that’s too much ‘little’ for me. Guest or no guest.

"What do you mean, fire? I shout. Then I hear the definite snap, crackle, pop of something burning behind her in the room. Are you nuts? You started a fire in the bedroom?"

So, okay, maybe I’m kind of overdoing it a bit with the italics. But it’s not every day that my guest bedroom gets turned into a barbecue pit. I’m hoping that’s all. This is the exact moment that I realize it’s far, far worse.

Oh, God! I glare at her, but I’m actually seeing an image in my mind. It’s not a happy image. "You didn’t – you couldn’t–"

I push past her and stop. She could and she did.

Gramma’s chair!

But maybe I was wrong about the not happy bit. The flames seem quite happy indeed as they lick greedily at pieces of what used to be my Gramma Fletcher’s rocking chair. The one heirloom Gramps had saved from the house we all grew up in.

Is be-ink of the no vood, Gilda pouts defensively. How I am to be-ink of the mak-ink room varm?

"Who is this lunatic?" Jack yells, his head swiveling from Gilda to me and back again. I sigh. Such a short memory.

Gilda thinks so too. Vy, you are be-ink my Ramod! she exclaims in delight. She flings me to one side and embraces Jack in a suffocating bear hug. I have so be-ink the miss-ink of you! You be-ink of the now giv-ink me the kiss of love. I have be-ink of the vait-ink a much long time!

The what? Jack squawks, struggling to escape. No dice. She’s got a pretty tight grip on him. What is she talking about?

I consider mouthing ‘bump in the night’ to him, but then think better of it. Sometimes Jack has no sense of humor. So I shrug instead.

I think I’ll leave that to you lovebirds to work out, I tell him, relieving him of the fire extinguisher. I have a fire to put out.

What does she want? Jack croaks. This proves just a tad more difficult than normal, since his face is smushed up close and personal, and he can only talk out of one side of his mouth.

Vy, my Ramod, you are of be-ink of the only my one true love! Gilda purrs. You must be-ink of the remember-ink. You are be-ink of the betroth-ed of me.

"I what? Jack says, shaking his head back and forth. This produces a rather unfortunate result. Well, for Jack at least. Gilda seems quite pleased, but she pops her boob back inside her blouse anyway. It’s clear she’s thinking there will be time enough for that later. Cheeks flaming, Jack protests, Sorry, lady, you’ve got the wrong guy."

No, that is no be-ink of truth. I am hav-ink picture, Gilda assures us. Then without warning, she gropes deep between her girls. Jack looks at me in terror. Before we can send for the lifeboats to be lowered, she yanks out a small silver locket. Here. Here is be-ink picture of my Ramod! she says proudly, holding it up for us to see.

Yup, that’s Jack. It’s the photo from his website, Jack Russell Designs.

You are be-ink of the send-ink to me this, Gilda says, bestowing a mushy smile on Jack. On computer, at same time ven you be-ink of the send-ink to me letter.

Jack looks completely flummoxed. That’s because I haven’t had time to tell him yet about Josh and Omar’s part in this whole thing. Well, that should teach him to sleep through a life altering experience.

Fortunately for all concerned, the fire chooses this moment to go a little crazy. That’s the thing when you bring bonfires inside; you just can’t trust them to behave. You also can’t trust your fire extinguisher to work all the time.

Or at all.

I glance worriedly at the flames leaping up out of the metal wastebasket towards the curtains.

I’ll call 9-1-1! Jack yells, doing his own version of leaping, this time out of the room and away from Gilda. I’m pretty sure they don’t deal with hot, unrequited romance, but there will be plenty of time to figure that out later. Right now, I have a fire to put out. But Gilda steps in front of me and blocks my way.

You are be-ink of the rude to my Ramod! she accuses. The flames begin lapping at her swirling skirts. She ignores them. This probably explains the other charred holes I am noticing for the first time. It seems Gilda and fire are also an item.

But frankly, I don’t have time for this nonsense right now.

And I’m pretty sure we can’t wait for the fire engines to get here either.

"Move it! I scream. She doesn’t budge. So I appeal to reason. I’ve got to put the fire out!"

This is when I realize that it will take more than reason to move Gilda. Like maybe a forklift or a giant earth mover. Right. I can do that.

Suddenly Gilda finds herself sailing across the room backwards onto the bed. I consider softening her landing, and then decide, what the heck?, and drop her unceremoniously, and, okay, maybe a little rudely, on her great big fanny. Well, she had it coming.

Then I blow out the fire. Since this is the first time I`ve actually done this sort of thing, I get perhaps a bit too enthusiastic and end up torching her cardboard suitcase also. Oops.

Gilda is staring at me, mouth open. This makes a nice change from her other look, which is obstinate ferocity.

How you are be-ink of the do-ink that? she demands.

Doing what? I ask coolly, daring her with my eyes to say out loud what she has just seen. Or thinks she might have seen.

Even Gilda is not that dumb.

I am see-ink this think before, she says. Is be-ink of the magic.

Magic, huh? Well maybe. But not in this case. Nope. This is just me.

Catt Russell. Freak of nature.

Chapter Two

"He what?" Jack explodes. I shoot him a dangerous look past Gilda’s head. Maybe I should have explained this somewhere else. Like over the phone. From France.

I told you, I say, hoping he gets my furious eye signal to keep a lid on it. Jack frowns. It wasn’t just Josh.

Yeah, Josh mutters, sensing reprieve and maybe even absolution for his actions, Omar helped.

I had hoped that, now that we’ve all had a chance to calm down and think about things, we could come to a quick solution. Josh looks cornered. Gilda, on the other hand, looks belligerent. And disbelieving.

"Who is be-ink this Omar? she asks. Then her face softens as she looks at Jack. Is he be-ink like maker for the matches? It is be-ink him I must be-ink of the thank-ink for bring-ink me to my Ramod!"

There is no Ramod! I say for what’s got to be the twentieth time. Honestly, how difficult is this to understand? I’ve explained this to you.

You are be-ink of the no truth! Gilda protests defiantly. I be-ink of the see-ink my Ramod with very my own eyes. He is be-ink there!

She points at Jack. As she does so, her blouse slips perilously low as she crushes her bosom against the place mat.

I catch Josh sneaking a peek at her cleavage and send him a mind flash that’s more like a mild electro-shock. Well, it works for farm animals. I also make a mental note to scrub that placemat within an inch of its life.

"That’s Jack, I tell her evenly. My husband."

Gilda shakes her head firmly. No! This is not be-ink of the truth. You are be-ink of the hav-ink the fun vith me.

I consider telling her that this is no fun at all. Reminding her that she broke into my house. Okay, so she thought it was the house of her ‘Ramod’. And, yes, ‘Ramod’, a.k.a. Josh and Omar, did sort of propose – well, more like, how had they put it? Oh, yes.

"‘I so loving you, my little rutabaga’, Josh had read haltingly, and not without some warranted embarrassment, from his last e-mail. Uh...‘My heart is not be waiting for to making you of my family. You are part being of my precious love. I soon hoping to being see you. The big kisses and the much hugging of you for always’."

See! Gilda had said, sitting back, vindicated. "Is be-ink of the right there! Ramod is be-ink of the bethroth-ed to me."

Now she stares at me with defiance in her eyes. And maybe, unless I miss my guess, a smidge of cunning in her gaze. This does not bode well.

Maybe so, but Jack is my husband, I say. And then, because I’m a bear for punishment, I repeat, "There is no Ramod. This is Jack."

"No Jack! she spits out. I be-ink of the knov-ink my Ramod ven I be-ink of the see-ink him! I be-ink of the hav-ink picture!"

She thrusts the locket in my face. Out of the corner of my eye,

I see Josh slide his eyes towards her again. I’m pretty sure he’s not looking at the locket.

I can see where you might think that, I begin, evil-eyeing Josh first, and then Jack. But the boys got that picture from Jack’s website. Then they attached it to the e-mail.

No! Gilda shakes her head. "I not be-ink of the this believ-ink. I knov-ink here, she pounds her chest energetically. Josh’s eyes widen. So do Jack’s, he is be-ink of my true love!"

I shake my head wearily. This should have been fairly easy, if somewhat embarrassing to clear up. I am this close to giving up. I sigh. Maybe it’s time to try another approach.

Josh, I tell him, I think you should apologize.

No way, Josh says. She’s not even the person we were writing to. Then he realizes this might be construed to be rude, or at least of little consequence, given that he’s still in the wrong. He fishes in his pocket and withdraws a much folded sheet of paper. Here, he says, thumping it on the table, face up. "This is our Gilda."

The page shows several shots of a lovely young woman, with sparkling eyes and shiny chestnut hair. I look at the Gilda in front of me. Not even close. This Gilda is closer to forty, with squinty dark eyes, and her wild rats nest hair is a bright platinum.

Vell, Gilda sniffs, dismissing the sheet, and the obvious fact that she is neither young nor lovely, I be-ink of the knov-ink that men most be-ink of the lik-ink the yellow hair. So I becom-ink of the blonde. I be-ink of the this do-ink for just my Ramod, she gushes.

Uh-uh. I don’t think so. I glance at Ramod. He’s not sold either. Jack never liked blondes.

Your turn, I tell Jack. I’m half expecting him to try to slip out of it, but Jack surprises me. He pulls a 180. I’m impressed.

So, how did you get here? he asks. And how did you get inside the house? The door was locked.

Gilda favors him with a goofy grin. You not be-ink of the silly! There is not be-ink of the any door that can be-ink of the keep-ink me from my Ramod, she says. She taps her forehead. I be-ink of the hav-ink my vays.

Oh? Like lock picking? I think. And how much can we really trust someone who breaks into our house in the middle of the night?

I not be-ink of pick-ink of the lock, Gilda says. This startles me. Did she just read my mind? She narrows her eyes at me. And I not be-ink of the read-ink your head.

This startles me even more. Well, that’s good. Because I’m the mind reader around here. This is kind of what I meant by ‘freak of nature’. It’s just something I inherited from my father. Most people get money, or art, or vacation cottages. I got psychic abilities. I can read minds. I can do other things too. But not all the time. Sometimes they just decide to take a leave of absence, so I never know what to expect, or when. And mostly, they`re not so easy to control. I’m not exactly sure what the trigger is, but I have noticed that it seems to happen most during periods of stress. This is why I try to remain calm. For the most part, that’s not too difficult.

But this whole Gilda thing is beginning to get on my nerves.

So you still haven’t told us how you got here, Jack reminds her. And where you came from.

It strikes me this might be a bit too much at once. After all, we’ve been working on the Jack-not-Ramod thing for at least an hour without success.

But, of course, I am not Ramod. What Ramod wants, Ramod gets. Sort of.

I am be-ink of the com-ink from my village. I am tak-ink the many roads.

Well, yes, but that’s fairly inconclusive. That could be said of any journey. We want some hard data. And maybe a butterfly net, or a strait-jacket. We want to send her back.

As if she senses this, Gilda becomes instantly wary.

Vy you be-ink of the ask-ink of me this questions? she demands. I not be-ink of the go-ink back. I am be-ink of the here now. Is be-ink of the my nev home!

Jack looks stricken. Josh seems oddly enthusiastic. It’s almost as though a National Geographic article has come to life in his very home.

But you can’t stay here, I protest.

No, you are be-ink of the vrong, Gilda says, settling back in her chair. I be-ink of the much lik-ink here. I am think-ink I am be-ink of the here stay-ink. In this house. To be-ink near my Ramod. Be-ink vith my new family.

Well, I be-ink think-ink she has another thought coming. One that says ‘Vamoose, bye-bye, don’t bang the door on the way out, so long, and good riddance!’

But, of course, the cosmos have another thought for me. Delivered by their newest messenger. Gilda from Hell.

Besides, she says slyly, murmuring in a threatening undertone for my ears only, I could be-ink of the tell-ink the peoples you be-ink of do-ink the many strange thinks. She winks. You be-ink of the knov-ink of vat I be-ink of the say-ink?

Yeah, I think I do. She tells me anyway.

The magic.

Chapter Three

"He what?" Jilly snorts some tea through her nose.

It’s not funny, I admonish. I shoot her a peevish glare. I thought Jilly, of all people, would be a bit more sympathetic. Okay, a lot more sympathetic.

No, of course not, she agrees soberly. Then she snorts some more.

I’m glad you’re having so much fun at my expense, I tell her. Then I relent a bit. Well, I guess it is pretty funny. And don’t forget, Omar was involved too.

That sobers her. Jilly is engaged to Omar’s father, Morris. So, in a way, that makes this her problem too. I smile to myself. Then I stick it to her.

So tell me, then, what are we going to do?

Jilly and I have been friends forever so, since I figure we’re in this together, it won’t be nearly so bad. What I am forgetting is that Jilly is also a little headstrong. This doesn’t mean she is selfish; just that she has her own way of doing things. And that doesn’t always include tact.

We? she says. "I have a wedding to arrange. Remember? Just tell her to buzz off. She sounds like a flake anyway."

Right. That should work. I picture Gilda, as I had left her this morning, darting knowing little smirks in my direction as she followed Jack to his downstairs office. I know without suggesting it that ‘buzzing off’ is not in the cards. I flash her this thought. This is when I remember that Jilly really hates it when I do this. I immediately flash her an apology.

Okay, okay! Jilly says, reading my glum expression. Get out of my head, and let me think!

I sigh. Jilly is intrigued by my abilities, but not thrilled when I accidentally peek into her thoughts. I can only imagine what she would do if she knew I sometimes, well, uh, directed them. And, okay, I also sometimes plant ideas. Like now.

Oh, I know! We can kidnap her and drive her somewhere far away, she says. Then she frowns, as though she’s wondering where that came from. Then she has to go and get logical. But wouldn’t she just come back?

She’s right. I knew this idea was doomed to fail. That’s kind of why I made it come from her lips, not mine. So she comes at me again with the logic.

And it’s also illegal, she reminds me.

Oh, right. Like breaking into someone’s house and hijacking the husband is okay?

Look, Jilly says, "I know you’re really ticked off. I just don’t think that’s the way to go. Wouldn’t it just be easier if Jack set her straight?"

I almost laugh out loud. Jack is absolutely terrified of her. That’s why he lets her come and watch him while he works. Of course, this also accounts for why he’s not actually getting any work done. A watched Jack doesn’t create.

No, you’re right, I say, shaking my head. This is my problem. I’ll deal with it. Who knows? Maybe she’ll be gone by the time I get home.

Well, I can hope, can’t I?

The house is strangely silent when I get home. This is unusual on so many levels, but primarily because we have five cats and Riley. Riley believes the cats are all his