by Ani Gonzalez
"Feeling crabby?" she asked as he sat down next to her.
"It was on sale," he explained.
"Ah," the purple-haired woman next to her sighed. "The official shirt of the Route 50 summer traffic jam." She extended her hand. "I'm Morgana Shaw, by the way. I don't think we've met."
"Although we've seen pictures," the lady in the kimono jacket said, waving. "I'm Rachel Lee."
Sean shook Morgana's hand. She had a good, strong grip. "Sean Stickley, nice to meet you."
But he wondered what Rachel meant by "pictures." Had Luanne been posting on social media again, or was Rachel referring to paranormal stuff? He couldn't tell with Luanne's friends.
And why was she looking at his shirt like that?
"Leslie is outside, trying to make sure the Wi-Fi doesn't go dead on us," Morgana said. "She read some sea shells and got worried about it, you know."
Sean nodded, even though he had no idea what she was talking about. Seashells? You could foretell the future using dead mollusks? Lucky for him, after a few months of dating Luanne, he'd developed an extensive repertoire of knowledgeable expressions he could use to cover up his confusion.
"She also successfully avoided Walter," Luanne said, sipping her lemonade. "Lucky girl."
Morgana nodded. "She has a sixth sense about Walter. I don't think she has spoken a word to him in years. I wish I had that superpower."
Sean was starting to feel almost sorry for Walter Farsight. Yes, he was clownish, but was he really that bad?
"He does have the gift, Morgana," Rachel said. "We can't argue with that."
Morgana sighed. "Fine, I admit that he's one of the best fortune-tellers around. I just wish he was just a tad less arrogant and pompous about it."
"You're his co-chair," Luanne said to Morgana. "You can't avoid him."
Morgana peered over Sean's shoulder. "Apparently not. He's heading this way."
Rachel's eyes narrowed as she stared at Sean's shirt. "Maybe we should change the gala entree too. We picked crab cakes. I could make a call."
Morgana raised a brow. "You're trying to avoid Walter too, aren't you?"
"No," Rachel exclaimed, a little too loudly. "I'm just really worried about the crab cakes."
Morgana shook her head. "They'll be fine. I got a Mercury warning and that has nothing to do with shellfish."
"I got swords," Luanne said.
"And I got clouds and a reversed castle, but"—Rachel pointed at Sean's shirt—"this may be a sign."
"Yes, a sign of bad taste," Luanne muttered.
"Hey," Sean exclaimed. "It was cheap and it doesn't read I went to Maryland and all I got was a bunch of crabs. Be grateful."
"That would have been worse," Luanne admitted.
"I don't know," Rachel fretted. "Grilled chicken is so safe."
"But safety," Walter Farsight exclaimed as he reached the table, "is highly overrated."
Rachel grimaced, her escape attempt thwarted.
"But worry not, my sweets," Walter continued. "The shadows you see are hazy and unclear, to you at least."
Morgana looked like she was fighting a strong instinct to roll her eyes. Luanne and Rachel exchanged exasperated glances.
"But I see all their details." Walter gestured toward a window. "And I thus know you need not fear a mundane tragedy like food poisoning."
"That's a relief," Morgana muttered. "I was looking forward to the crab cakes."
Walter frowned at her.
"What awaits us during our sojourn by the shore..." His voice was now substantially louder, and people in the nearby tables started to turn toward them with curiosity.
Walter clenched his fist dramatically.
"What awaits us is...murder."
CHAPTER SEVEN
"YOU LIKE chicken, don't you?" Luanne asked as she checked her phone messages.
Sean laughed as he maneuvered the Mustang through the traffic. The road to Chesapeake Bay was a lot more manageable now. The rest stop had been a great idea, even if it had resulted in a menu change.
"Yes," he said, sounding disappointed. "I guess crab cakes are out of the question now. Too bad, I was looking forward to the local delicacy."
"Rachel is taking no chances," Luanne replied, hunching over her phone and typing. "She's trying to change the soup to corn chowder, instead of crab."
Sean chuckled. "She thinks the seafood is going on a murder rampage?"
"Well, no," Luanne replied, still not putting down the phone, which kept buzzing with new messages. "But she's still worried about it. After all, Walter saw a death in our future."
Sean's hands tightened on the steering wheel.
"Actually, he saw a murder," he muttered. "And put down the phone. You'll make yourself carsick."
He wasn't wrong. She was already feeling a queasy. Reading and driving did not mix.
Luanne had finally started to relax and enjoy the vacation, but Walter's theatrics had ruined the mood and now she was anxious again. With one overly dramatic statement Walter had morphed from an amusing spectacle to a real annoyance.
She leaned back on her seat and sighed. "This group chat is going to kill me. They're all freaking out because of Walter. Sultana Samira is now giving minute-by-minute updates on her health."
She'd never seen the association in such a state. It was a little weird. Weren't they used to Walter by now? He always pulled one stunt or another, and he had certainly dropped a bombshell at the rest stop. He'd been fully aware of it too. He'd stood there for several minutes, with a little smile, soaking it all in.
He'd done it on purpose. The man was a consummate showman.
"Who is she?" Sean asked.
"The association's oldest member. She's been around forever and has some stories about the seventies that would make your skin crawl." Luanne shook her head. "You must have seen her. She was at the rest stop dressed in her trademark silver caftan. The poor thing is now reassuring everyone because they all think she's going to be the one to kick the bucket. At least she has a sense of humor about it."
"But is this guy worth freaking out about?" Sean asked. "He seems too ridiculous."
Sean, it seemed, was having a hard time taking Walter's warning seriously. This was unusual as he had high situational awareness and usually paid close attention to threats. He was a cop, after all.
But a man in a blue suit and a turban telling people there would soon be a murder and then sniggering probably sounded ludicrous to Sean. It made sense that he couldn't quite believe that Luanne's group was really worried about it. She almost couldn't believe it herself. When Morgana started talking about the ominous readings, their thoughts had all gone to seafood allergies and PowerPoint snafus. No one had been considering murder.
It did sound silly. A murder at the convention?
"Yes and no," Luanne replied, finally putting the phone down on her lap. "Walter has the gift, there's not doubt about it, but he also loves drama. With him, it's hard to tell where the gift ends and the drama begins."
"Hard to tell?" Sean exclaimed. "The guy wears a turban."
Luanne glared at him. He sounded judgmental. What was wrong with a little marketing savvy?
"We all have gimmicks, Sean. My business name is Madame Esmeralda."
"But at least you don't wear a turban."
Oh, who was he to judge? He wore a sheriff's hat and a leather jacket as part of his job. It was basically the same thing, not that she'd say it out loud.
Luanne's eyes narrowed. "Maybe I should. Walter makes a ton of money."
And there was the bottom line. Walter's suits and turbans and outlandish predictions were extremely effective. It was hard to argue with that kind of success.
"And maybe you should be looking at that," Sean said.
"A green turban for my job?"
"No, the money. Walter's money. If he's doing this, it's because he's getting something out of it—maybe money, or maybe something else. He's that kind of person."
Sean's police brain wo
uld be focused on money, wouldn't it? Cherchez the moolah, as he always said.
And his policeman's instincts were probably right. Walter definitely liked money, and he spent a ton of it. Morgana said that he supported his assistant, Viola Van Zandt, his niece and her husband, Lester. He also had a ton of advertising expenses, not to mention the traveling coach and the mansion in Las Vegas. His overhead had to be insane.
Luanne frowned, silently adding the numbers and coming up with ridiculous totals. "But I don't see how you could make money out of this particular drama. Walter likes to brag about how accurate his predictions are, but that would require—"
"A real murder," Sean replied. "And there lies the problem. It's a hard one to get right."
Luanne tapped her chin, thinking hard. "Not really."
"What do you mean? A murder is a murder."
Luanne shrugged. "You can take credit for a vision even if it's not spot on. The tall dark stranger can be a five-foot-six blond man in a black sweater sitting in a tall SUV. The unexpected inheritance can be a letter from a student loan re-financing program. The sunny day can be a rainstorm spent in a tanning booth. I don't throw spaghetti at the wall like that, but some people in my profession do."
She personally hated the exaggerations. They gave fortune-telling a bad name. Thankfully, she didn't have to resort to those.
But some people did.
"Walter," she muttered. "Definitely does it the flashy way. He's not the kind to look a gift horse in the mouth."
"So all he needs is a death this weekend," Sean said. "And he can claim clairvoyance."
"Maybe," Luanne said. "If there were an accidental death, he would just need to cast some doubt about it. He can be very persuasive, so it shouldn't be hard." She frowned. "He still needs a death though."
There was the issue. He wasn't just predicting a catastrophe, like everyone else. He was predicting a dead body and foul play.
She shuddered, wondering what Walter had seen. She'd seen death before, but she had never foretold the murder part. When she read cards or did horoscopes she could feel the power behind the event—the anger or the fear.
Was that how it was for Walter? Had he seen hate and viciousness, or had he made it all up?
"People die every day," Sean said with typical police fatalism.
"In a small group like this? Over a long weekend? Sounds unlikely."
It seemed more than unlikely. She'd been to several conventions over the past few years. No one had ever died, let alone been murdered.
"Would it have to be an association member? Couldn't it be someone from the town?"
Luanne's eyes flew open. Were they really discussing potential corpses? Yes, they were. Walther was very persuasive that way.
"It could be." She grabbed her phone again. "Let me see how big is the town."
"There are one or two deaths every month in Banshee Creek," Sean said. "All due to natural causes."
"But Mystic Bay is much smaller," she said, reading through the town's statistics. "He can't really count on a random death."
"Have they had any casualties lately? Maybe they're due."
Luanne read her phone screen. "No, no deaths in the past couple of weeks."
But would Walter rely on luck? Mystic Bay was a fortune-telling town. Walter likely knew all the village gossip. He would know if someone was sick or ailing.
"Elderly association members?" Sean asked, mirroring her thoughts. "He probably knows who is in ailing health. All he has to do is drop a couple of hints about foul play."
"Several are elderly, but—oh, even he wouldn't do that."
She didn't feel very certain, though. Maybe it was time to ask Rachel or Leslie about the health of their older members. Sultana Samira was obviously thriving, but there were others who were not doing so well.
"Why not?" Sean asked.
The thought left a bad feeling on Luanne's mouth. It was one thing to take advantage or a random event. It was another to use a friend's death for your own gain.
Then again, Walter had few friends—tons of colleagues and competitors, but no friends.
"But the person would still have to die during the convention," she said, "and that's only three days."
"Do they? Farsight didn't say the death would happen at the convention. It could be a slow poisoning, or even the beginning stages of a murder plot." Sean threw his hands up. "All he has to do is act mysterious at the end of the convention and then take credit for anything occurring later. In a way it's foolproof."
"That's not very dramatic," Luanne said. "I don't think Walter's egomania would settle for that."
She put down the phone with a sinking feeling. This wasn't a normal prediction. Walter knew something they didn't and it had nothing to do with precognition.
"Hey, look," Sean said. "The bridge is coming up."
A gleaming arc rose majestically before them, the setting sun shining over the metal beams of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.
They were almost there.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"AT LEAST the town is nice," Sean said as they drove down Main Street.
"But not as nice as Banshee Creek," Luanne replied, glaring at the pastel-colored buildings lining the street.
Sean chuckled. "You sound like Caine. I still have my Banshee Creek is #1 t-shirt. You can borrow it, if you want."
Luanne's eyes narrowed as she inspected the town. "I may do that."
The reason for her grumbling was clear. Mystic Bay was cute, with pastel-colored Victorian cottages and blooming crepe myrtle trees. A picturesque boardwalk with gray wood planks and benches meandered among the houses and shops, and a white sandy beach beckoned behind it.
Various fortune-telling businesses lined the streets, but the town wasn't all about the future. You could chat with your spirit guides, find out about your past lives, and even get your aura photographed. Mermaids seemed to be popular, and the local mascot, Chessie the Chesapeake Bay monster, had a large statue in the town square.
Everything was related to the beach, fortune-telling or both. The donut shop boasted zodiac donuts and there was even an astrological jeweler in town.
He stared at the gold sign. Sophonisba Adams. Custom Jewelry Based on the Stars. By Appointment Only. What would they think of next?
"Not to sound defensive, but we have monsters too," Luanne muttered as they passed the grinning dinosaur statue.
"You mean the paranormal trash pandas?" Seam asked, turning left toward the hotel.
"They are devil monkeys, and they are far superior to a creepy water snake."
Sean drove down the narrow side street, trying not to laugh. She really did sound like Caine right now.
And she had cause. Their hometown was attractive, but Mystic Bay was adorable. Banshee Creek had ghosts, of course, but it was hard to compete with psychics who had a beach and a dinosaur.
Or with the lobster roll truck that was blocking his way. The line was long and the sandwiches looked delicious. He made a mental note to look for the truck later. If the association's shellfish-banning efforts proved successful, he would forage for his own seafood fix.
"Don't even think it," Luanne said, glancing at the lobster truck. "I don't want the mysterious death to be you."
"It should be fine," Sean said. "And they have hush puppies too."
"I don't care if they have gold nuggets," Luanne countered. "We're not taking any chances."
"Oh, c'mon, give this place a break. It's very pretty."
Luanne snorted. "Pretty is only skin deep."
Sean shook his head. Luanne was just being stubborn. This place was gorgeous. "We're almost there. There's the sign."
The yellow and white sign had an intricate scalloped shape and it announced Aquarius Cove Hotel and Resort. Sean made another turn and drove in.
"Let's check out this place—oh, wow."
A tall Victorian building with a sprawling wrap-around porch came into view. The hotel looked old, but it was in impeccable condition
, the white siding and gingerbread moldings giving it the look of an enormous wedding cake. In addition to the porch, it had just about every architectural embellishment one could think of—a cupola, a turret, a gazebo, and a few others he didn't recognize. The white paint was a good choice as it made everything blend together
But the best part of the hotel was the view. Somehow, the winding street had taken them outside of town and onto a cliff, with the hotel port overlooking the sunset above and the waves below. The golden sun sank beneath the clear water as Sean drove up the road, making the foam-tipped waves gleam.
It was breathtaking.
"We need a better hotel," Luanne whispered next to him.
"Are you kidding?" Sean asked, heading straight for the parking lot in the back. "You want to find new lodgings? Why? This place is fantastic."
Luanne sighed. "I mean our town. Banshee Creek needs a new hotel."
"We have the Monster Hunter Motel."
"It's a fifties motel, not a luxury resort like this." Luanne glared at the hotel. "We need an upgrade."
Sean sighed. "You and Caine definitely need to get together, perhaps group therapy for your monster envy."
He parked the Mustang next to Morgana's purple Beetle, wondering how the association president had beaten them to the hotel. She'd still been in the rest stop, gossiping about Walter's pronouncement, when they'd headed out.
The Farsight coach was also parked nearby, but that was no surprise, as its owner, hounded by the rest stop manager, had left right after his dramatic speech. Sean was pretty sure he'd seen a sign at the entrance of the lot that read Cars and Small Trucks Only. RV Parking on Overflow Lot. Farsight must have ignored the parking restrictions. Again.
"Oh, look." Luanne pointed at a bright yellow hatchback. "Kat and Fiona are already here."
"Great," Sean said. "Go get us registered while I get our bags."
Luanne practically leaped out of the car, eager to tell her friends all the Walter Farsight gossip.
He got out of the car more slowly, inhaling the clean, salty air. He still had a presentation to give, but he felt like he was on vacation. Regardless of what the Banshee Creek diehards said, Mystic Bay was quite the place.
