Ghosts and Goblins and Murder Page 3
“I’m going to a séance tonight,” she gushed, rushing over my inevitable groan of denial. “It’s going to be a blast. We can giggle over the utter patheticness of it all and go drink after.” She winked, thick, dark lashes brushing her cheek as she did, white teeth flashing. How had she never decided to model? Then again, I would have hated for her amazingness to be tarnished by anything, including the fashion industry. “Just us girls.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, stomach in knots all over again. “At Sadie’s.” Not a question. And utterly out of the question.
Her smile faded more slowly this time. “Fee, what happened?” She hesitated. “You’re not okay, are you?”
I exhaled heavily, dropping my hands to my sides, shrugged. “I’m sorry, Day,” I said, feeling on the edge of tears again and wishing I could just shake this funk I’d found myself in. Seriously, could I not get over myself already?
She steered me abruptly into the sitting room, planted me next to her on the sofa and stared into my eyes, hands holding mine. “You dump all of it right now,” she said, crisp and no nonsense. “Hit me.”
My lower lip trembled. This was stupid. “Daisy—”
“I meant right now, missy,” she said. “No one hurts my Fee-Fee.”
I choked out a laugh. Decided this was a terrible idea. Ended up unloading a bunch of sobbing, snotty, bitterness onto my best friend for the next ten minutes despite myself.
She nodded in the perfect places, made choice comments that finally lured out a few giggles and hugged me hard when I was done. I snuffled, wiping my face and nose on the hem of my t-shirt, feeling better and leaning back into the cushions, faintly smiling at her while she fetched the box of tissues on the other side of the room before rejoining me.
“Thanks, Daisy,” I said. “I have no idea what’s wrong with me.” I helped myself to a square and blew my nose. Gross, I hated crying.
My best friend squeezed my hand when I was done, her own expression soft and understanding. “I wish sometimes you could see yourself the way others see you,” she said. “You’re pretty awesome, Fee. That makes Vivian jealous. Robert, too. As for Sadie, she wants you to pay her to find your perfect mate.” She rolled her eyes, laughed. “Crew, on the other hand…” Daisy shrugged at last, sitting back, staring out the window into the dark street like she didn’t see it at all. “That man needs a prod in the ass. If you dating creates a solution either way, what’s the harm?” She met my eyes again, hers serious. “Either you find someone you can love and who loves you like you deserve it, or you make him realize he’s missing out on what he really wants and he’ll do something about it.”
So smart, my Daisy. Guess I was claiming a lot of people as mine lately.
“Now,” she patted my knee with one hand before rising, beaming all over again, “let’s get decorating so we have lots of time to drink wine before we head to the séance.”
And that’s how I found myself at Sadie Hatch’s door two hours later, doing my best not to scowl, positive this was a terrible idea but unable to let Daisy down.
***
Chapter Five
I don’t know what I was expecting. Hoodoo and a show, for sure, a bit of over-the-topness and a whole lot of you can’t be serious. But I simply wasn’t prepared for the level of commitment this woman went to in order to sell her shtick.
From the moment we set foot on her narrow cobbled walkway, the bushes looming toward us, untrimmed and spooky, I confirmed in my own mind I’d made a terrible choice coming here, Daisy downer or not. I mean, come on. How did Olivia let this crazy lady get away with such unkempt shrubbery when she called me out for an errant twig at every opportunity? I’d had to pull out the big arborist guns from the next town over when one of my maples leaned too far out over the street. Because tourists were all anti-twig, I guess. Pfft.
This place, though? Reeked of the kind of overdone with the intention of artful neglect one would likely expect to find in the house of a fortune teller. That was, if Hollywood designed the set. Maybe that’s why Olivia wasn’t standing at the foot of the walk right now, scowling at the looming foliage as if it offended her sensibilities.
So unfair. I should take up reading Tarot and see if that kept her away from my trees.
In any case, fake creepy with a dash of mwahaha was exactly the impression Sadie’s gave me. Clearly, her choice of décor and personal dress was all tied into an elaborate front meant to add to the show. From the creaking old rocking chair that started up as we set foot on her dark porch, a single, dim bulb lighting the screen door, to the whispering of a distant voice as if piped in from a sound system just to give us goosebumps—it succeeded, if briefly—to the squeal inducing patter of the faintest touch of cobwebs that turned out to be a fine mist of water from an automated head above the door, she’d gone all out.
I convinced myself this was her Halloween persona. Not the real front for her business. Yeah, okay, sure. Except I was certain this whole dog and pony was her full time gig’s normal.
I shivered despite myself inside my gold sweater, running my hands down the soft arms of the fluffy weave. The last time I’d worn this—the only time, actually—had been the day of the parade in April. The same day Skip Anderson died in my lap. I’d been saving it for a date with Crew, had stuffed it into the back of the closet after a brief laundering and a shudder. Somehow wearing it tonight fit not only my mood but was the perfect choice for a séance if I did say so myself.
If Skip came back to haunt me, I’d have no one to blame but myself.
The door whipped open before my best friend could knock, the steady stare on the face of the old woman on the other side shutting me up more effectively than anything else ever had. Not that I was scared of her, not really. It was just the way she looked at me, like she knew everything about me. Again I decided this was about the worst life choice I could have made today of all days, still vulnerable from the hit she’d delivered yesterday, but I was out of options. Daisy had a firm grasp on my arm and was hauling me physically inside after her, past the watchful eyes of Sadie Hatch in her typical blindness inducing riot of colorful clothing.
The woman needed a session with a paint chip pallet and a shrink.
“Welcome,” she said in her grating voice, iron gray hair in a soft bun on the top of her head, riot of mix and match, I decided as I stepped past her, more than likely from utter lack of giving a crap what anyone thought. I could learn a thing from her after all, though the shrink thing was sounding more like my need than hers. “The others have gathered.” She gestured into the house, the narrow entry bisected by a set of stairs heading upward and two doorways, one to a small sitting room on the left, the other into a large dining area on the right, with the hall leading deeper inside. I could hear chatter from the dining room and skirted Sadie, keeping my head down and letting Daisy lead the way into the room, breathing a faint sigh of relief we were past our host while my friend waved and chirped hello to the others.
I recognized the couple from yesterday at the party, the ones Sadie’s grandson led her away to meet, saving me from more of her attention. Not that it helped. To my surprise, I found myself waving at Pamela Shard and her partner, Aundrea Wilkens, who both waved back, though the newswoman’s rather embarrassed gesture had nothing on her girlfriend’s enthusiasm.
Daisy was shaking hands with the couple and I caught their introductions as I copied her, happy to let her lead.
“Amos Cortez,” the tall, wide-shouldered man said in a cultured voice. His dark hair had started to gray at the temples, full beard and mustache covering his strong features somewhat. But his handsome face seemed like he’d aged well, faint lines lending him gravity and a confident kind of attractiveness inside his gray suit. “My wife, Emelia.”
I shook her hand too, murmuring the usual pleasantries as the woman offered her hand, her fingers trembling slightly. It was apparent from the redness of her own
brown eyes, the puffiness of her thin face, that she’d been crying recently. Well, I knew how that felt, had taken a shower to do my best and wash away the ravages of my personal fit. It was pretty clear to me her hurt ran deeper than mine, that she was here at the séance likely to reach a lost loved one who touched her deeply.
Really put my own mood in perspective.
I circled the table and accepted a hug from Pamela, one from Aundrea. Both women had become good friends of mine since the murder of Aundrea’s husband—a boon to her, it turned out—and they had finally been able to declare their love for each other. It was nice to see them both happy.
Way to trigger my funk all over again. And yet, they’d been forced to wait decades to be together. I had options. So my little downer nosedive could take a hike.
The other female guest seemed nervous as she hugged herself, a thin blue sweater tight around her as if to protect her from what was to come. A believer? Possibly, though her expression was unreadable past her seemingly anxious personal embrace. Beside her, his lined face settled into a deep and abiding scowl, sat Oliver Watters, our local historian. We’d met a few times, though never socially, in passing more than any real association. His books about Reading were a staple in most tourist places, his strong opinions making them more fiction than researched truth. I don’t think I’d made a friend when he’d come to insist I carry copies in the foyer of Petunia’s and turned him down.
Hey, I tried to be nice. Honest. Some people didn’t like to take no for an answer and ended up slamming their way out my front door. Shrug.
I waved to both despite the fact Oliver’s eyes tightened when he spotted me, not sure if the young woman was local or not, though she didn’t look familiar.
“Alice,” she said, unwinding enough to take her turn shaking my hand. She stared at me a long moment after she touched me before shaking her head, laughing a little, hazel eyes big behind her glasses. “Alice Moore.”
“Fiona Fleming.” I bobbed a nod, then tried a quick smile for Oliver. “Mr. Watters.” Not that it was a requirement, but my parents raised me to be polite even if the old fart was a pompous ass. The old antique store owner and storyteller fit the profile.
He seemed to find my form of address flattering and preened a little in his tweed jacket, white hair in need of a trim wavering in thin, wisping strands around his ears. Crap. Did I just invite another visit from him with his box of books bent at the edges and that determined need he had to spread the Word of Oliver?
“Miss Fleming,” he said, voice deep and gruff. “How’s your father?”
Typical small town chatter. At least he kept his confrontation with me quiet for now. Maybe he forgot I’d sent him packing? “Fine, thank you,” I said. “I’ll tell him you asked.”
“Good man, Sheriff Fleming,” he said. “Even with all the Malcolm Murray nonsense.”
I stiffened, heart skipping a moment before I managed to inhale. The very Irish owner of The Orange, a local bar known for illegal poker games and what amounted to our very own mob right here in Reading (of all places) had alluded to the fact my father shared a history with him that I’d been at times eager and then fearful to discover. The fact that Oliver mentioned it in passing made me wonder if I was making too much of something that was common knowledge.
Before I could inquire, hands shaking a little as I drew a breath to ask, the final guest swept her way into the room in a waft of vanilla perfume and with a cold, blue stare that shut down my voice and my train of thought.
No. Not tonight of all nights, when I was still on edge and doing enough damage to myself without her being here. Anyone, I’d take anyone but Vivian French.
Guess that wasn’t up to me.
***
Chapter Six
Daisy. She had to have known Vivian was going to be here. Except, when I glanced sideways at my best friend, the frown on her face told me she hadn’t. Or that this was, at the very least, an irritating development.
I’d forgive her, then. Just as soon as I turned around and got myself out of there. Because no way was I hanging out for the evening with the woman who’d done everything she could yesterday to smear me into the ground under her teeny, pointed heel.
Before I could march myself to the door and back home for another dose of cake and likely a bottle of wine for a chaser, Daisy came to my side, hand on my elbow, a big smile on her face. “Don’t let her see you flinch.” How did she do that? She spoke so quietly I’m sure I was the only one who heard while her lips didn’t even move.
Talented, if triggering. She was right, though. I could stomp my way home and let Vivian win. She would have to know my exit was due to her arrival. Could I give that victory to her after our encounter yesterday? Maybe if she hadn’t been so horrible and her need to cut me down hadn’t been so fresh, I might have shrugged off the fact I cared and made off for happier spaces. More likely, I wouldn’t have been in a position to let her bother me at all. The best outcome, of course, was along the line of Daisy’s suggestion. Show Vivian in no uncertain terms not one thing she said or did could get to me. Not now, not then, not ever.
In fact, the more I thought about it, sitting down, calm and composed and in control while she stewed over the fact I gave not one single crap about her or her little campaign to make me feel like I was nothing really was the only way to go.
Except, of course, that was the hardest choice, requiring the most strength. But I made it. And I upped the ante, pushing myself to not only show her I was fine but sat firmly down directly across from where she stood, next to Amos who shifted closer to his wife when I did. I ignored his reaction, instead focusing on Vivian who watched me with her mouth twisted into a bitter line. I crossed my arms over my chest and hoped I could make it through the next little while without lunging over the table at her.
Yes, that was better. There was my redheaded temper, my fiery refusal to be trod on like garbage. Screw her and the designer heels she strode in on. Her pathetic small girl tactics might work on others, but I was a Fleming and she was so transparent in her need to be better than me it was nothing short of laughable.
Take that, Vivs.
If she sensed the shift in me, she didn’t show it, though she just as firmly sat, jerking the chair away from the table with the kind of squealing wood-on-wood that made me cringe, everyone falling silent while she took her seat, setting her expensive square of a handbag on the table, manicured nails in perfect ovals tapping the wooden surface in obvious agitation.
Huh, not like her to show emotion. Unless me being here was as much of a surprise to her as her arrival had been for me. Well, if that was the case, if my attendance shook Vivian from her miserable plans, I was happy to stay. Sure, fine. Maybe bitter resentment didn’t look good on me, but I’d take it for now and feel badly about it later.
Just kidding. No way I’d feel bad over turning the uncomfortable tables on Vivian French.
“Are we going to do this or not?” She looked down at the expensive watch glittering on her wrist before she sat back, mimicking my move by crossing her arms over her narrow chest, her cream blouse wrinkling from the pressure of her unhappy clenching. The tiny gold cross on the thin chain around her neck surprised me. I’d never known her to be religious.
“Indeed.” Sadie strode into the room with measured steps before turning and pulling on the tab of the pocket door she slowly, methodically slid closed, cutting us off from the rest of the house. When she spun back toward us she smiled, though it was a long, narrow smile, full of mystery and gave me a sense she observed us like a predator hunting a meal. “Welcome to my parlor and this evening of connection.”
“Whatever,” Oliver snapped, as grumpy on the outside as I felt on the inside, cutting through my own need to use bravado to lighten the mood. Daisy promised me this would be fun, that we’d laugh and drink wine and be silly. So far, her plan was sorely lacking in the any kind of amusement or alcohol department. “I’m here to see the show, nothing more. And to pro
ve you’re a fraud.”
Huh. That was rather blunt. The look that passed between them had an edge to it, old hurt and anger on his side, disdain on hers. How well did these two know each other, then? I wasn’t aware that Sadie might, in fact, be from Reading originally. Interesting.
Alice gently reached out, touched his arm and he grunted as if she’d spoken before falling still.
“Thank you for welcoming us,” the young woman said, plain face reposed, unjudging. “I’m interested to see what’s to come.”
“I welcome unbelievers,” Sadie said, a rather pointed glare passing between them, too, mostly from the old woman’s side. “I have nothing to hide or to prove to those who have their own agenda.” She gestured at the Cortez’s who seemed startled to be singled out. “I am here to bring comfort and answers to those in need. Take from this experience what you will. The spirits will judge you where I will not.”
Alice bowed her head to Sadie. “I’m only here to observe,” she said.
Sadie didn’t comment and Alice fell still, just watching as our host paced toward the far end of the table, taking a seat there. Alice showed no sign she didn’t believe, aside from a careful scrutiny of Sadie while the woman settled into her own chair. Aundrea wiggled slightly on the psychic’s right side, Pamela scowling at the tabletop. So she’d been dragged here, too, had she? I didn’t miss the quick glare she shot at the old woman, though, nor the way her lips pursed like she wanted to say something. Even more interesting, with no time to comment or ask questions. That would have to come later. Because as soon as Sadie settled, the lights dimmed to murky near darkness.
Amos Cortez whispered something to his wife, Emelia sandwiched between him and Sadie, the tall man curving away from me, almost protectively around her as the room faded to dim illumination. Our host likely had controls we couldn’t see, somewhere under the table. Typical chicanery and nothing to be impressed by. I settled in to absorb the performance while she spoke again. “The spirits come to those in need, but their messages are their own, and not always what we want or expect.” She nodded slowly to the Cortez couple. Only Emelia nodded back, sniffing into a tissue.