by Mary Bowers
After a minute or two, Michael said, “Do we sit down and wait? She must be with a customer.”
I cocked my head. “I can hear them talking. That’s odd, though. When I run a fortuneteller’s tent at the Halloween fundraiser, you only hear the murmur of the fortuneteller’s voice when you walk by. Camille’s customer is a man, and he’s talking more than she is. That doesn’t sound like a consultation; it sounds more like a business meeting.”
At that moment, Camille proved me wrong by raising her voice and taking over, and it didn’t sound like she was telling him he was about to meet the love of his life on an exotic cruise. It sounded like she was telling him to get the hell out.
The combined voices rose, and Michael and I looked at one another uneasily, wondering if we shouldn’t tiptoe out, but we didn’t get the chance. The door to her consultation chamber burst open suddenly and an elderly man with a gloss of shabby elegance about him walked into the waiting room with Camille yelling at the back of his neck, right behind him.
When they saw us they froze.
“Have we come at a bad time?” I asked. “I’m sorry, Camille, I should have made an appointment.”
“Are you looking for advice?” she asked warily.
“No, I wanted to introduce you to my friend Michael, here. We were passing by. Just an impulse. You know, one of those sudden impulses . . . .” I dried up.
Only the elderly man seemed happy to be there, and he came forward to shake my hand. “I’m no psychic, but I believe I can guess who you are,” he said. “Taylor Verone? Your delightful friend, Edson Darby-Deaver, has been quivering with anticipation for your arrival. So glad to meet you, and you, sir, of course,” he added, reaching to shake Michael’s hand. “I’m Alexander Black.”
“Oh!” I said, remembering somebody’s name for once. “The Professor.”
He bowed slightly. “Washed-up Professor of English Literature and newshound for the local scandal sheet.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “The Keyster?”
I’d told Michael about the underground newspaper already, so he didn’t think I was being rude. He grinned too, and introduced himself quietly as he shook hands.
The Professor smiled broadly. His precisely-cropped salt-and-pepper beard gave handsome lines to his face, and broad streaks of white around the widow’s peak of his graying black hair gave him the look of a stage magician. His gloss of elegance had more to do with his personal presence than his wardrobe or grooming. His hair was slightly too long, his floral shirt was a little too worn, and his khaki slacks had no cargo pockets, unlike every other man on the island. Altogether, he presented the image of a man who had decided exactly what his look should be and carefully cultivated it: neat but unpretentious, informal but not bedraggled. He had striking hazel eyes, and he knew how to use them.
He became chummily confidential. “We like to keep our particular brand of news sub rosa, the tourists being so innocent and so easily shocked, but I’m happy to present a copy of the latest Keyster to you. There’s the real dirt,” he said, tapping the thin tabloid newspaper as he handed it to me. “Leave the devil dolls and the disinterring maniacs to the tourist trade. It keeps them happy. But I’m sure, considering your avocation, that you can take the kind of news that’s in here. Also coupons, restaurant reviews, and gripes from the local peasantry and gentry alike. A healthy mix of what’s-new and what’s-good-for-you, in the tradition of man-in-the-street, guerilla journalism, but, sadly, without advice from the prophetess.”
Camille bristled and made a noise.
“No,” he went on, obviously needling her, “we must all stumble about without the guiding hand we had come to rely upon, because Camille, here, has refused to resume her column. The people,” he said, turning directly to her, “plead in quiet desperation, but does she hear them?”
“Oh, shut up,” Camille said, bumping by The Professor to hold the front door open. “Go talk to the roosters. At least they can crow back at you.”
The Professor registered stately defeat, but he had the last word. “I prefer the iguanas,” he said grandly. “They don’t speak, but they look very wise.”
As he walked around Michael and me, he leaned in and muttered, “The key lime pie shop on Elizabeth Street. One hour.”
As he exited, I completed the act by muttering to Michael, “Mum’s the word.”
“I saw that,” Camille said to us as she slammed the door behind The Professor. “He was making a date with you, wasn’t he? Well, do what you want, but you see how he treats me. If you want to see your secrets exaggerated and splattered around in print, go ahead and talk to him. He likes ruining reputations, and after all, you don’t have to live here.”
“We’ll be sure not to tell him any secrets,” I said, treading carefully. “Like I said, we were just passing by and decided to drop in. I could see that Maryellen was mocking you this morning, and I never got your side of things. If there’s a better time . . . ?”
Camille stared at me doubtfully for a moment, but finally gave in. “I’ve got the rest of the morning free, unless I get a walk-in. Maryellen never lets anybody else give their side of things, if she can help it. The only thing she likes better than reading her own books is hearing the sound of her own voice. Have a seat.”
I was right about her having been in mufti that morning. She had changed into a simple, dark dress and was wearing gently sparkling chains and earrings. Made up, her face was much more attractive, though I thought she’d made her lips too red and her eyeliner too thick. She had pulled her hair away from her face with a broad, black headband, and her hair was much longer now than I remembered it. She had to be wearing a hairpiece, but it matched her own color exactly and looked real.
She had taken a seat in the waiting room, and I was disappointed we weren’t going to see her inner sanctum. I thought I might pick up some details for our own fortunetelling operation back in Tropical Breeze, but I could hardly ask for a tour. The Professor had gotten her worked up, and at this point she might decide I was laughing at her.
She looked at Michael. “This man is in your confidence?”
“Absolutely. If he wasn’t here with me, I’d tell him every word we said to one another later on. I value his impressions. Michael Utley,” I added, presenting him to her again, because I was pretty sure she’d missed it the first time. “My partner.”
Michael smiled and said, “A pleasure, ma’am.”
“Call me Camille. You are her lover?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I see.” She studied him a moment, then looked back at me. I guess it was kind of a knee-jerk reaction for her to give us her insights. “A good pairing. You’re both strong and independent, and yet able to yield when you see that the other one is right. Pride does not stand between you. It’s unusual to achieve such balance. You’ll be together for many years to come.”
“Thank you,” I said. I already knew all that, but it was nice of her anyway, as long as she didn’t bill me for it.
I had already considered my approach to Camille. I hadn’t fooled Maryellen about my paranormal beliefs for a moment, and I didn’t want to make the same mistake twice. I needed to be more focused this time, but while I was getting into character, I realized that it was already too late.
“Don’t try to fool me,” she said gently. “I know you better than you realize. You said it yourself at Maryellen’s: you don’t believe you have any special abilities. How did you put it? You sit down at the séance table and just let it roll. My dear woman, how else do you think it’s done – by any of us? We are all at the mercy of the currents that surround us, and all we can do is open ourselves up and, as you say, let it roll. The thing that’s unusual about people like you and me is that we can open ourselves up, in that very unique way. Michael, here, cannot. His skin contains him like the rigid glass of a bottle, and nothing spiritual can escape or penetrate. You and I, Taylor, can reach beyond our skin, and that is a very special ability. Very few are born
with it, and I disagree with those who say that anyone can be taught. The difference is the skin we’re born with, and you can’t be taught to have a different skin.
“Now,” she said, settling herself into her overstuffed chair and facing the two of us, sitting side-by-side, close together on a loveseat. “You’ve come because you are investigating the cup. But it’s not the cup, really, that’s the problem, is it?”
She waited, like a teacher who’s just challenged a bright student.
“Lydia,” I said.
She smiled. “Exactly.”
“But why,” I asked, frowning, “would Lydia want to kill people? If I’ve got it right, the first victim of the cup was her own cousin.”
“Because Lydia is insane,” she said complacently. “She is the most dangerous type of presence there can be, and apparently, she possesses inter-planal energy. Physical energy. She can . . .” she gestured with her palms toward us, “give somebody a push. She can prevent others from helping.”
“Prevent . . . ?”
“Marnie was dead for at least two days before she was found, according to the Medical Examiner.” She said these chilling things with effortless aplomb. “Why did no one go in and help her?”
“Maryellen said it was because everybody was mad at her.”
“Nonsense. We Conchs take care of one another. Marnie was obnoxious, but all her neighbors watched over her, including The Professor.”
My eyes popped. “The Professor was her neighbor?”
“Of course. We told you. Or maybe we didn’t. We told you about the incident of the rooster being killed by a dog, but we may not have mentioned who was involved. The dog was Sailor, The Professor’s dog, a normally friendly Doberman, but no dog tolerates a rooster on its territory. Sailor went after the bird and managed to catch it in front of Marnie’s house. He killed it there.”
“The Professor lost his hold on the leash?”
“Oh, he never keeps Sailor on a leash. That dog is smarter than most humans, and completely trained.”
“But he killed a rooster,” I persisted.
“Sailor’s a true Conch. We all want to kill the damn roosters. They’re becoming an unsanitary nuisance, but the animal-loving crazies won’t hear of it.”
Being an animal-loving crazy myself, I had to exert some self-control. Problems like the roosters of Key West are tough, and I don’t have all the answers, any more than the Conchs do. I bit my tongue.
Camille didn’t notice, and she went on. “Of course The Professor should have cleaned up the mess, and he would have, but when he went over there, Marnie came out of her house and got into a screaming match with him in front of the whole neighborhood. It ended with her going back inside and slamming the door, and that’s the last anybody saw of her. Alive, that is. Naturally, after that performance, her other neighbors were not inclined to drop in on her.”
“I bet he felt awful when he found out how she died.”
“Well,” Camille said snippily, “he said he did. He wrote a weepy editorial about keeping your eye on the larger things in life and not getting caught up in the little day-to-day upsets. Dripping with guilt and saying a lot of nice things about Marnie that I’m sure he didn’t mean.”
“What’s the harm in that? Nil nisi bonum, right? Say nothing but good things about the dead.”
“Why lie about someone just because they’re dead? Death comes to us all, Taylor. It is a mere transition. In the choice between life and death, it’s living that can be more painful. No human hand pushed Marnie down into that tub and left her to die; it was Lydia’s, and when death came, it was Lydia who pulled her through the barrier, laughing. I told you she was insane. Save your pity for someone worthier than Marnie Carnahan.”
“Come on, Camille. What did Marnie ever do to you?” I asked.
“She laughed at me. When The Professor made a fool of me, she demanded extra copies of that week’s edition so she could spread them around town; she even left copies in the library. She had a cruel streak.” After a silent moment, she said, begrudgingly, “But she died badly, and I’m sorry for that. It was Lydia. You’ve been in Oswald’s shop; you’ve seen that sculpture she kept in her garden. You can’t miss it.”
“I saw it.”
“Then you know all there is to know about Lydia. That box,” she said, suddenly zeroing in on the package with the Christmas house that I had set on a table beside me. “It contains something of hers, doesn’t it? Yes, I feel it. One of her bunnies, or . . . a Christmas house. You may have it. She doesn’t mind. It wasn’t something she loved the way she loved the lavender teacup. She only collected things because she was never complete inside herself. She was trying to fill the emptiness, the holes that riddled her psyche. It was more of a compulsion than a joy. But the teacup you may not have, and Maryellen may not have it, either. Maryellen will die.”
She had gotten a strange light in her eyes, and her voice had started to change. Michael and I exchanged uneasy glances.
“How can we save Maryellen?” I asked.
She riveted her eyes on me and snapped, “You can’t. The die is cast. You must leave now. I don’t want to talk anymore. I don’t want to go any farther. I don’t want any of this.” She began to shake, and showed signs of breaking down.
“Can we get anything for you?” Michael asked gently. “A glass of water?”
She stared at him for long seconds, her face congested. Then, suddenly, her face cleared, as if she were having a vision.
“Go now,” she said in a different voice. “Leave Key West. You are healthy in body and mind, and you belong together. You are strong together. But you must leave Key West. Leave now.”
Michael and I looked at one another wordlessly, and before we could make a move or think of what to say, she added, “But you won’t. I give you this advice out of the depths of my heart, but those who will not see are lost, and they never listen to me. You have your fate.” She stood up. “Go and live it. I wish, though, it could have been different. There is still time to choose another path, and for your own sakes, I hope you will.”
There was nothing left for us to do but leave. We couldn’t even think of how to say good-bye. After all that, “Have a nice day,” wasn’t going to work.
Chapter 10
After we’d walked half a block, Michael said, “What did you make of all that?”
“I think the most important thing in the world to Camille is her psychic ability, and she never stops probing it, hoping for that one big hit. She’s probably back there now, hoping we get hit by a truck, so her prophesy will be fulfilled.”
“She just told us to leave Key West, not that we should prepare to die.”
“I’m not taking any chances,” I said, crossing Fleming Street and keeping a sharp eye out for trucks.
“She also predicted that we were good for one another and would stay together for a long time.”
I chuckled. “Do we get to cherry-pick?”
“You tell me,” he said lightly. “You’re the expert.”
We were still kibitzing about it when we came to a key lime pie shop on Elizabeth Street and went in.
It was past time for us to want lunch, but after all the tea and cookies, my appetite had been spoiled. I wasn’t hungry for food yet, and I really wasn’t hungry for more sweets. When I told Michael that, he went up to the counter and ordered for himself, because he’d been dying to try the frozen key lime pie on a stick.
I kept looking around the shop, where there was no place to hide, and I didn’t see Alexander Black anywhere.
“Looking for The Professor?” the girl behind the counter asked.
I should have known he’d tell her we were coming and ask her to watch for us. “Did we miss him?” I asked.
“Nah. He’s out in the garden. Just go out that door and you’ll find him.”
Michael took his pie-sicle, we both thanked her, and we went out the back door together. The Professor was sitting in the lushly landscaped patio at w
hat looked like a dining room table, next to a large koi pond. Other, smaller tables were scattered around, but he’d taken the biggest one. As we came out, he smiled and waved us over with a plastic fork.
We greeted him and sat down. Very seriously, he said, “The brain runs on sugar, you know. A daily piece of pie is the only thing keeping my I.Q. from crashing. I heard you walking past the fence there, talking about prophesy. Let me guess: by the time I’d left her shop Camille was cranky and she turned around and predicted that you were both going to die soon. Horribly.”
“Something like that,” Michael said.
The Professor waved the fork in the air again and then put it to good use on the pie. “Pay no attention. When she’s in a good mood, she’ll tell you you’re going to be together forever and happy as peaches in a cobbler. Maybe even going to win the lottery.”
“So you don’t believe in prophesy,” I said.
He smirked. “Like everybody else, I believe the prophesies that I want to believe and forget the rest. If every prediction a fortuneteller made was remembered by her customers, they’d all be out of business. Thanks to the selective nature of our memories and a lot of wishful thinking, fortunetellers have been in business for thousands of years – maybe millions – and they always will be.”
“We were just talking about cherry-picking the prophesies. First she gave us a good one, then she gave us a bad one. So we should just believe the good one?”
“Go ahead. Everybody else does.”
“Maryellen tells me Camille had a fiasco last year,” I said. “I’m surprised you’re trying to get her to do a column again so soon.”
“Oh, everybody’s already forgotten about that. There is no such thing as a fiasco in fortunetelling. Like I say, they only remember the hits, not the misses. She’ll come around again. The community needs her.”
“Now you’re being cynical,” I said, “and even worse, you’re letting it show. You’re handling her all wrong. She’s a true believer; her special abilities are everything to her. She won’t give you any more columns until you start showing her a little respect.”
