by Eileen Brady
Was this some kind of trap? A quick look around confirmed no one with a camera lurking nearby, only fellow shoppers.
Eager to pay and leave, I confessed. “That’s me, and no one staged anything. Just a stupid moment in my life forever playing on YouTube.”
The girl agreed vigorously, her holiday earrings swaying and jingling. “You are sooooo lucky,” she said, printing up a receipt. “Maybe you’ll go viral. Like that would be sooooo slick.” Christmas-inspired red, green, and polka-dotted fingernails on a graceful hand gave me back my credit card.
For some unknown reason I felt a need to explain. “You don’t understand. I don’t want to be on YouTube. It’s embarrassing.”
An incredulous look came my way. “No, it’s you that doesn’t understand. It’s the medium you focus on, not the message. This is your fifteen minutes of fame, like my professor always says.”
Not wanting to be quoted or lectured, I started to leave.
“Thanks for coming in,” she said as I began moving toward the door. “Loved the litter box cake. You should post the recipe.”
My first reaction of annoyance from having no privacy gave way to a revelation. This salesperson had a point. The only one likely to feel embarrassment about that video was me. How did the average person react? Most likely with laughter, very happy it wasn’t them on the video doing something stupid. Then it was on to the next video of a cat knocking things off the countertop, or person trying to parallel-park an RV or some goofy moment in someone else’s life.
I recognized how for some people it was all about the medium. The more people who clicked on your website the better. It didn’t matter why. Sheer numbers and keeping your name out there became paramount to staying successful in this new type of society.
Even Aaron, a kennel worker, provided a link on his Facebook page to the video—ultimately shared with how many others?
You might look at it as a certain kind of power.
As I passed the bookstore I paused, then ducked in. I realized I didn’t know much about wishful thinking and decided to pick up a book about it. Once inside, I noticed the self-help area packed with books on mind over matter, make your own future, and inspirational memoirs.
By wishing out loud, one book suggested, I might have released an energy whose only purpose was to make the wish come true.
I put that one back on the shelf.
I was tired of being blamed for the consequences of my wish.
* * *
Hands now stiff with cold from wandering through town, I deserved a break. Most of my presents were bought, except something for Jeremy. It was impossible to shop for someone who had everything. I talked myself out of a one-of-a-kind hand-forged silver tie clip, went back to buy it, but it had sold. Tired, I decided to get a late dinner and made a beeline for my favorite spot in town, Judy’s Place. It was packed with shoppers. I spotted an empty space at the counter and gladly rushed over, put my packages down, and got off my feet.
Judy’s was a hangout for local residents as well as tourists. Normally closed at five, it stayed open late during the holiday season, along with most of the shops on Main Street. Her homemade soups and sandwiches were deservedly popular for being delicious and easy on the wallet.
“Coffee, Doc?” I looked up to see Judy herself waiting on customers. Seasonal help came and went with surprising regularity in Oak Falls.
“No thanks, Judy. I’ve been drinking that stuff all day. Can I get decaf tea instead?”
“Sure thing.” She slid the one-page menu over to me and handed the fellow on the next stool his party’s bill. I’d arrived just as things were winding down, so one by one the crowd began to thin out.
I ordered a soup and rye toast. While I waited, I checked my hospital email.
“You can move to a table if you like,” Judy said. She held my bowl of mushroom barley soup. “There’s one open by the window.”
“No thanks,” I replied. “It’s just me tonight. This is fine.”
She nodded and walked back toward the open kitchen.
I tucked into my soup. The thick, warm broth felt great going down after being outside in the cold.
“Surprised seeing you here so late. How’s it going?” Judy had returned with her own cup of coffee. She leaned against the countertop, arms pressed to the wood, and took a sip.
“It’s been better.” I bit into the crunchy toast. “What about yourself?”
She laughed. “Way less stressful thanks to your magic wand wish. Don’t you love Facebook and YouTube?”
“Yes and no.”
“I know what you mean. Those Yelp and Tripadvisor reviews can make or break us.”
I took another spoonful of soup. “It’s tough being critiqued every day of the week. Did Frank post something about the restaurant?”
“Frank had two nuisance lawsuits running against me,” Judy explained. “First, he fell at lunchtime getting up from one of my chairs, claimed the seat was greasy because I didn’t clean it—and refused to pay his bill. A week later he came in during the lunch rush and claimed I refused to serve him. Crazy thing is, I wasn’t even working that day. The whole thing was just bull.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“Who ratted you out, by the way?” Judy asked.
“Mari, sorry to say. She took a video at our Christmas party of the litter box cake, and my stupid wish got captured at the end of the recording.”
A couple leaving wished us happy holidays and vanished into the night. That’s when I noticed the blessed quiet. “No Christmas music,” I noted, completely surprised. “You’re not playing any music?”
“Nope,” she admitted. “There’s enough of that everywhere else in town. I need a break this time of year. Heck, they start putting up Christmas decorations right after Halloween. No one even waits until after Thanksgiving anymore. I’ve got one wreath on the front door and we update the community billboard over there with holiday stuff—and that’s it.”
“Thank you,” I said. “A little decorating goes a long way.”
“I agree.”
Done for the night, I asked for the bill. But Judy wasn’t finished with her questions.
“Did you know Raeleen very well?” she asked me.
An odd question I thought, but I answered, “Not at all. How about you?”
“She picked up some part-time work waitressing this summer,” Judy confessed. “Not the best server but not the worst. Smart girl but for some reason she had a big chip on her shoulder. Her fiancé kept trying to get her to go back to school. Or maybe he was her ex-fiancé by then—it was hard to keep up. Fight and make up, fight and make up all the time. Exhausting to watch.”
Asking a direct question usually pays off. “What can you tell me about her boyfriend?”
“Devin Popovitch? A very good-looking guy. He’s a student at the community college and works part-time at Mr. Fix-it’s Auto Repair out past the supermarket on Route 10. He’s got an alibi for the murder, though, I hear, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Ashamed of being so obvious, I handed her my credit card and the bill. Only two other customers remained, both finishing their coffee and getting ready to go. I decided to take a chance and asked, “Who do you think killed Raeleen, Judy?”
A deep chuckle escaped. “Well, here in town, we all think you did it.”
“Me?” The breath stuck in my throat.
“Just kidding,” she said and handed me back my receipt. “Merry Christmas, Doc.”
* * *
After putting my coat and hat back on and organizing my packages, I opened the café’s front door and braved the cold. Wind whipped around the corner, carrying tiny shards of ice. I’d parked in front of the jewelry store on Main Street, now closed for the night. One or two shops stayed open, trying to catch the last-minute stragglers, their lights blending w
ith the Christmas lights twinkling on the storefronts and streetlights. As I walked I heard Judy bid someone good night then pull down her security shutter. The sound of grating metal hitting the ground clattered behind me.
Only a few people, mostly couples, strolled along Main Street. Bustling with packages, I made my way to the truck, thinking about my conversation with Judy. Her description of Devin and Raeleen’s relationship echoed their other friends’ impressions.
With all the presents securely stowed, I thought of how domestic violence cut a swath among so many couples. When I first started dating, Gramps told me there was never any excuse for a man to hit me. That’s not love, he said. That’s bullying.
When the truck hesitated on starting up, an idea hatched. I’d stop at Mr. Fix-it’s Auto Repair sometime tomorrow and meet Raeleen’s ex-fiancé, Devin Popovitch, face to face.
Question is, would his handsome face be the face of a killer?
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mari and I were driving back to the animal hospital after a long day when she sprung it on me.
“So, that’s settled. We’re both going tonight, around eight thirty.”
Dragged back from my daydreaming, I said, “What do you mean ‘we’?”
“You said you’d come along,” she protested. “To the reading.”
“Your appointment with the psychic? Is that tonight? I’ve got things to do.” My voice sort of spluttered in frustration.
Mari didn’t answer but instead opened up our laptop and began to update the day’s computer record. We drove in silence, the frozen landscape gliding past the truck window, ice crystals glistening in the headlights.
I hated to upset Mari. This posed a dilemma. I wanted to go with her, but I’d planned on researching the psychic, Delphina, a bit before meeting her. When I explained that to Mari, she called me on it.
“You research everything. Why don’t you just go with your gut instinct this time?”
It sounded like a challenge, but the more I thought about it the more I realized she was right. I did research everything. Google had me wrapped around its search engine. Maybe I should walk in blind and concentrate on the experience, without any preconceived ideas.
Mari’s fingers clicked angrily on the keyboard.
“Okay,” I agreed. “Are you going to prepare a list of questions at the least?”
“There you go again,” she pointed out. “No. I’m going to wing it. Just go with the flow.”
Our turnoff approaching, I said, “Excuse me. Did we just enter a time warp? You’re the second person this week who quoted the sixties to me.”
My friend rose to the bait. “That’s right. Tune in, turn off, drop out.”
* * *
As I made the turn into the parking lot, the truck acted up a little as if on cue, giving me the perfect excuse to check with a mechanic.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Mari said. “Maybe you have gunk in your fuel line. Cindy’s husband can take a look at it for you. He’s always complaining about bad gas with his tow truck.”
I kept quiet about my plan to meet Raeleen’s ex-fiancé, using the F-150 as bait.
Luckily, Cindy had already left when we arrived. As soon as we parked, Mari took off to run home and take care of her dogs.
“Don’t forget I’m picking you up at eight thirty,” she reminded me. “We’ve got a date with a psychic.”
“Looking forward to it,” I yelled back to her.
Once her SUV was out of sight I backed up and drove in the opposite direction toward Mr. Fix-it’s
* * *
Unlike the employees at the big-name car dealerships, the two fellows laboring on cars at Mr. Fix-it’s were streaked with grease and oil. Nor did they wear matching overalls with their names embroidered on the pocket. I doubted things had changed much here since the late sixties, which seemed to be the year of the vintage pin-up calendar on the wall.
Although the time approached five thirty, the little garage was still open. As soon as I pulled in, someone without a coat walked out of the office.
The man heading toward me could have graced one of those ripped-guys-at-work calendars. Tall, with broad cheekbones, thick black hair, and a build that kept on giving. I believed I’d stumbled on Raeleen’s ex-fiancé.
“Can I help you?” His voice betrayed a trace of an accent.
This must be Devin Popovitch. Just to be sure I asked. “Are you Devin?”
“Yes.” This time he seemed a bit wary.
I quickly started telling him all about the F-150, and how I needed it for work. After I described the engine hesitation, he pulled on work gloves and asked me to pop the hood.
For the life of me I couldn’t figure out how to segue into questions about a deceased loved one from discussing car problems. Then he surprised me.
“Do you work at the animal hospital?”
I’d forgotten the prominent magnetic signs displayed on both front doors. After I told him I did he explained that his girlfriend had died and left him with all her animals.
“The oldest one isn’t eating, and she’s having accidents. I need to make an appointment with the doctor.”
Was he the only one in town who hadn’t seen that YouTube video? Since he looked directly at me with no sign of recognition, I guessed he hadn’t. “No problem. Call our receptionist, Cindy, in the morning and she’ll book you in.”
Devin took a picture of our logo and phone number with his phone before shoving it back into his pocket. “So,” he said, wiping his hands on a towel, “you probably have a clogged fuel line from a delivery of crappy gas. We’ve got some additive I can put in now, or you can buy some. Your choice.”
“If you could do it now, that will save me a trip.”
He disappeared into the small office attached to the garage area. Meanwhile, another mechanic under a car remained oblivious to my no-appointment transaction. I wondered how he stayed warm until I saw two heaters glowing red, suspended from the ceiling. A devious thought came into my brain. What was to stop Devin from pocketing my money?
The answer turned out to be an extremely old-fashioned numbered paper receipt that also produced a yellow copy, which he left in the pad.
When I glanced at the bill, I was surprised at how reasonable it was. By the look of the many cars waiting for service, Mr. Fix-it’s had a good business here. Part of me wanted to ask Devin if there really was a Mr. Fix-it.
The other part wondered who had supplied him with his alibi for murder.
* * *
All the way back I thought about Devin and how shaky his alibi might be. What exactly did it mean to be a “person of interest”? I heard this phrase more and more, and it didn’t always lead to an arrest. Perhaps law enforcement used it to get the media off their backs or lull a criminal into thinking they’d gotten away with something.
By the time I’d finished walking and feeding Buddy and changed out of my scrubs, Mari arrived—a little early, as usual. Our big night had begun.
Mari’s SUV drove much more comfortably than the work truck, the interior luxuriously appointed with plush leather seats and plenty of cup holders. She’d acquired it used, well-maintained, but with quite a bit of mileage on the odometer. So far, the older-model vehicle had performed perfectly. Of course it helped when the owner took excellent care and garaged it. Our poor F-150 sat outside in all kinds of weather, scratched up and dented, but a real workhorse.
A gray-paneled van pulled in behind us from a side road.
“That guy should turn his lights down,” Mari complained.
* * *
I hadn’t paid much attention as she drove, so when the GPS told us we had arrived, I was a little surprised.
“Are you sure this is the right address?” I asked Mari for the second time. I was glad we hadn’t gone in my truck with the animal hospital sig
ns on the doors. There was no way I wanted a picture of us parked in front of a Psychic Readings sign linked to that YouTube video.
She double-checked her coupon. “This is it. Not much to look at.”
Understatement of the year. This dirty white trailer set off from the road had seen much better days. There was no evidence of any attempt to landscape the property, nor was there any garage space. Like me, these residents had to clear off their car after every snowstorm and ice storm and hailstorm or any other winter storm thrown at them by Mother Nature.
“You’d think a psychic would make enough money to get a better place,” Mari said, unbuckling her seat belt and buttoning up her coat. “I mean, they’re psychic, right? Can’t they figure out what the stock market is going to do?”
“I don’t think it works that way,” I answered. “At least that’s what one of the mediums told someone on television.”
Before we opened the SUV doors, an outdoor light clicked on, illuminating the entrance, which consisted of a sloped wooden handicap ramp.
“Here goes nothing,” my assistant said, her former enthusiasm gone.
The brightly lit front made the trailer look even worse. “You wanted an adventure. You got an adventure. Hold on tight.”
* * *
The woman who answered the door appeared to be a normal housewife, no veils, no bangles or flashy gold jewelry—quite the opposite. She wore a flowered apron with a spaghetti sauce stain over a housedress. The modest interior smelled like cabbage and sausages.
In the kitchen a man in a t-shirt with broad shoulders and curly black hair sat hunched over with his back to us, finishing his dinner. A bottle of red wine with two glasses, one empty and one half-full, sat in front of him.
“I’m sorry. Did we interrupt your dinner?” Mari asked.
“We’re finished,” she stated with a raspy smoker’s voice. “I’m Delphina. You must be Daffy’s friend, Mari. Come this way.”
Together we followed her down a dim hallway toward a pale blue curtain embroidered with sparkly golden stars. She pushed the curtain aside to reveal a dimly lit room and a round wooden table with four chairs.
