Foods, Fools and a Dead Psychic

by Maria Grazia Swan

  “Sorry miss,” he mumbled. He looked vaguely familiar. Ah, a cop. Not officer Clarke, him I would know for sure. I dawdled before going in and watched the plain clothes cop go to one of the black sedans, open the front passenger door and search for something in the glove compartment and front seat. When he slammed the door shut I quickly let myself into the lobby and closed the door behind me. Didn’t want Mister Cop to think I was snooping. After all, that’s his job.

  A sense of excitement hovered over the office.

  Kassandra’s welcoming, “There you are,” bolstered my spirits and then the cop came back from the parking lot and stopped by Kassandra’s desk.

  I could see Sunny standing by her office door, talking to... oh no, the two detectives, Adam and Eve I called them. The ones investigating the death of Miss Fortune. Somehow the excitement in the air took a dark turn as a little voice kept repeating, investigating the murder of Miss Fortune. I was done trying to eavesdrop, and without a word, I headed toward my cubicle. Obviously not fast enough because Sunny called out to and waved me over.

  What now? This day was growing weirder by the minute. I could see a young woman in the back of the bullpen; she must be new, and shy from what I could see of the top of her head as she bent low in front of her computer. That explained the fifth vehicle in the parking lot. I should go say hi, make her feel at ease.

  “Monica.” Sunny’s voice changed my mind and I headed her way.

  Kassandra and the other cop were right behind me, headed in the same direction. What was going on? We all stood by my old desk, in front of Sunny’s glass office. And to say I felt a little uncomfortable was like saying Godzilla was a little monkey.

  “Monica, the detectives are here to show us some photos of the person or persons who may have — hurt — the uh, psychic. What I mean is, they are here to show the photos to Kassandra and...” She paused, cleared her throat. “Kassandra and Celine, to see if they remember or recognize or...”

  Her eyes traveled back and forth from the front door to the desk, and then I got it. Celine was a no show. Poor Sunny, trying to keep the charade going until her daughter arrived.

  “Anyway, I was wondering if you would mind taking Kassandra’s place for about fifteen minutes, while...”

  “Yes... sure, absolutely,” I said in a gentle tone. Couldn’t wait to get the hell away from that crowded group. Just then the door cop dropped a folder on my old desk too close to the edge and it slid right off, landing on the floor. A few large black and white photos fell out. Both Kassandra and I bent to help pick them up.

  The strangest thing happened. We accidentally picked up the same photo, “Shit, that’s him,” Kassandra cried out.

  “Oh, I know him,” I said. “That’s the guy who chased me the other day.” We were both looking at the same face: the face of J.S.’s dad.

  After that there was no way Sunny was going to send me to mind the front desk. The three detectives were more excited than three blind mice sitting on top of a wheel of Parmigiano Reggiano. Of course I had to tell the whole story about my borrowing Kassandra’s Kia and my not so good driving habits. Well, that didn’t go over well with Kassandra, who wanted to know why I didn’t tell her. Duh! Seems pretty self-explanatory judging by the way she looked at me. I could swear at some point she foamed a little at the mouth.

  It quickly became apparent that the man in the photo followed the Kia, not the driver; he was trying to find Kassandra.

  “I may have saved your life,” I proclaimed. All I got was an eye roll. What an ingrate friend. So J.S.’s dad was the perp who hosted the séance, attacked Kassandra, and probably stole the money collected to pay for the psychic. At that point I related how the man was trying to steal from the R.E. Assist’s van and his daughter caught him.

  “Do you know where this J.S. lives?” Detective Eve asked me.

  “No idea, but she works for R.E Assist as a photographer, and a very good one at that.”

  Sunny moved her hand by her lips to tell me to zip it. My mouth, she meant. So I did.

  Meanwhile, Detective Adam was already on the phone with R.E. Assist, but got a recording. He didn’t look too happy. That’s when, in spite of Sunny’s warning. I shouted, “By George, I think I’ve got it.”

  When all heads turned my way I explained, “My Fair Lady... the scene...”

  If looks could kill, I would have died a quick and lasting death thanks to the five pair of eyes.

  “Sorry.” I toned it down a notch. “I like old movies. But I meant, Kassandra said the man from the séance went by Bill Smith? Well J.S.’s last name is Smith, so you see, she may well have been telling the truth.”

  More eye rolls and heads shaking. No one took me seriously, too concerned about Kassandra.

  Detective Adam furrowed his brow and said, “It’s obvious the man is after you, so you must know something. We need to have someone keep you safe 24/7.”

  Detectives Adam and Eve exchanged glances. Then Eve said, “We’ll follow you home. Park in your usual spot and we’ll have surveillance set up.”

  “Does she get to pick?” I asked.

  “Pick? Pick what Miss Baker?” Detective Eve mocked me.

  “Not what, whom? The officer spending time with her I mean.”

  “Oh, brother,” Kassandra puffed and turned her back on me. How rude.

  “No, Miss Baker the surveillance is done from an unmarked car.”

  Apparently no one was concerned about my well being, because everyone was busy talking a mile a minute to Kassandra and Sunny. Why Sunny? She didn’t even go to the fair. Well, neither did I. After a bit, I picked up my stuff, sneaked out of the office and headed home.

  SEVENTEEN

  BITE THE BULLET, Monica, bite the bullet. I had been sitting in my parked car, watching the entrance to the Walgreen’s closest to my house for the last fifteen minutes. Waiting for my Catholic upbringing to give me a break so I could buy the pregnancy test kit and find out just how much trouble I was in. How hard could it be? Go in, grab the kit from the shelf, go to the cashier, pay cash, and voilà. Untraceable. Untraceable? Seriously, I was losing it. Like buying a pregnancy test was illegal or something. I was well over twenty-one, in case there was an age restriction. I could always say it was for a friend. Who’s going to ask? Besides, if I kept sitting there and staring at the entrance someone was bound to assume I was casing the joint. Oh, to steal a pregnancy test kit? Sheeesh.

  I got out of the car and walked to the drug store with the same ease as Sean Penn’s last stroll in the movie Dead Man Walking. I could use Susan Sarandon’s words of encouragement.

  A side glance to the cashier’s counter – an unknown older woman. Perfect. I kept on moving trying to read the signs describing the products on the aisles. Ah, there it was. Feminine products. Few people in the store. A man in the greeting cards aisle; a young woman looking at garden products. I quickened my pace, turned to Aisle 5... and bumped into the forever over-perfumed widow from across the street. NO!

  “Oh, hi Monica, I think I’m confused. I’m looking for shampoo. This one.” She flashed a discount coupon under my nose.

  “Aw, shucks. Can you believe it? So am I, but I forgot my coupon. Anyway, I think it’s on the next aisle, under Hair Products. Well, better run home and get my coupon. See you.”

  And like the coward I am, I rushed past the distracted cashier, back to my car and home.

  My mood improved when I realized Brenda was home alone. I didn’t take the time to run by my place to change, I let myself in through the back door so quickly I even surprised Dior. That was a first.

  “Someone has been busy,” I declared loudly, making Brenda jump. She, who always relied on her dog’s alerts, reacted quickly, and not in a good way. I mean, the Dane was sleeping on the job. Bad doggie. And look at that. Someone cleaned the house. I could clearly see the floors. Hmmm. What happened to the home gym project?

  “Hey, Monica, come here.”

  Brenda walked to her pantry to die
for. The place where her famous catered parties always came to life first. On paper I mean. It was like a ritual. Brenda standing at the center of her pantry, backed by her five corkboards, channeling her inner — chef? Nah, it was a lot more than that. She had a talent for taking the tritest of recipes and turning them into delicious new culinary creations. Often with the same ingredients. In part thanks to her Registered Dietitian background and the rest thanks to her genuine love of nutrition, food, or whatever you want to call it.

  “Brenda, last evening your place looked like a disaster area. And now, it’s like a miracle.”

  “Yeah, a $150 miracle. I hired some of the busboys from work and decided I would be better off with my treadmill and weights in my bedroom instead of messing with the perfect pantry.”

  I nodded. “Wise investment. Hey, did you lose weight?”

  “Hmmm, only two pounds. But it’s a start. By the way, I’m working on Kay’s Christmas party. It’s going to be a sit down affair, very elegant. I stopped by her place on my way home. Do you know she lives in one of the top floors of that tall building at the corner of Camelback and 24th street? The place is over 2,000 square feet with breathtaking views from every window. Unfortunately, the kitchen is a galley type, too inconvenient for us to do all the cooking there. I already spoke to Leta, my trusted, wonderful right-hand assistant, and we’ll do the main cooking here and finish up the details at Kay’s. Oh, and Leta says hi.”

  “Thanks, I love Leta, too. But what’s a galley kitchen? Sounds awful.”

  Brenda laughed, that raspy laugh I had missed so much. “A galley kitchen is a narrow space, characterized by two parallel countertops that incorporate a walking area in between. So while it’s a good layout under normal circumstances, it won’t do when you have several people working together. Especially cooks with wide hips,” she added, in self-mocking mode.

  “Anyway, Kay is pretty set on the menu, which is a blessing and a curse. As we know, not all taste buds perform the same way.”

  “Are you cooking something?” An interesting smell wafted from the kitchen.

  “You just now noticed? What’s wrong with your nose? Do you have a cold?” Brenda chided me.

  “What’s cooking, what’s cooking?” Dior’s ears perked up for an instant, then he went back to sleep. Must not be anything involving meat or he’d be sleeping sprawled in front of the stove.

  “I’m trying out fat-free recipes, per Angelique Dumont’s request.”

  Puff went my happy evening. No matter how hard I tried, I kept bumping into some Dumont-related news. Maledizione. At least we managed to avoid the Tommy subject.

  “Tell me more, tell me more,” I hummed.

  “I’m trying out a banana bread made with gluten free flour and apple sauce instead of oil. I’m also baking boneless pork chops brushed with mustard and mayonnaise as a substitute for oil and salt. That’s a brand new concoction I came up with. We’ll see. You’re welcome to stay and try out the results.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” I said, kicking off my shoes and heading for the couch, with a little detour to the refrigerator where the Pinot Grigio always waited patiently. Meanwhile, my mind churned away at all the news, good or bad, I should probably share with Brenda, especially about the man who may have killed Miss Fortune. Wait, her buddy officer Clarke had probably already told her all about it. What if he hadn’t? Proceed with caution?

  “Hey Brenda, how is your friend, Bob?” There, that was neutral enough,

  “Let me finish my notes for Kay’s party before I forget.”

  “OK.” The oven bell went off.

  “Perfect timing,” Brenda announced from the pantry. I didn’t move. It suddenly dawned on me that in spite of all the detectives’ good will, how could they be sure Smith, the creep, was after Kassandra? He followed me once when I drove the Kia. However, our second encounter at my listing, I was driving... nothing. J.S. had given me a ride in her van. Whoa! Big sigh of relief.

  “What was that all about?”

  I hadn’t seen Brenda coming from the kitchen, oven mittens on, showing me the wonderful golden crusty top of the banana bread hot from the stove. The smell alone had me drooling.

  “We can have a slice for dessert. How about a pork chop and a salad first?”

  “Yes, yes, yes.” Do I tell her about Mr. Smith or do I keep my mouth shut?

  This felt like casual night. We ate in the living room. I sat on the floor, my plate on the low coffee table and Dior slouching by my feet, looking at me with hungry eyes. What an actor.

  “How is Officer Clarke?” I asked again between bites.

  She stopped eating, fork in midair and turned to look at me square in the eyes, “Young lady, let’s get this out of the way once for all. Bob is a good friend. We are both single, never married. He knows my story, spent hours cheering me up and sharing his own troubles. He lives with his elderly mother who suffers from dementia. While we are good friend there is nothing romantic between us. Got it? Can we move past this?”

  I found myself gulping air. Dior must have assumed I lost my appetite because he swiftly grabbed the last bite of meat left on my plate and rushed toward the kitchen. Brenda and I had to hide our surprised grins. She did say something to him, but by then he was probably hiding under the kitchen table, licking his chops. Bandit.

  That was my cue to tell Brenda about the detectives’ visit to the office, the photo of the perp and Kassandra’s and my unplanned contribution to solving the identity of the mysterious man walking away from the Psychic Fair with Miss Fortune. In retrospect, my shared news killed the mood. The rest of the evening was spent with Brenda worrying about me and offering her guest room for the night. Let’s see, do I take a chance on Mr. Smith finding his way into my own bedroom or do I spend the night at Brenda’s hoping my ex doesn’t find his way back and into the guest room? The choice came easy. I walked home with two slices of banana bread in a sandwich bag.

  I had barely changed into my pajamas when my cell chimed. My heart skipped a beat as the name Tristan lit up the corner of my heart where hope flourished. Not for long, as it was only Kassandra calling.

  “Once again, I didn’t get you the pregnancy kit. How pissed at me are you? Oh, and before you answer, be aware that the good guys may be listening to our conversation. They are bugging my phone in case that creep calls.” Needless to say, I felt... speechless.

  “Is that why you called? To tell me about the cops listening in?”

  “Oh, no, no. I’ve been doing my Tarot cards for you and this is rather strange. I keep coming up with the wheel of fortune. Maybe you’ll sell that new listing yourself or maybe something unexpected is coming your way. I’m going to sleep on this and do it again in the morning. I was hoping to have an answer regarding, you know, being late but it’s not telling me a thing.”

  What got into her? Calling me late in the evening to tell me basically nothing? “Kassandra, are you scared?”

  “Scared? Why should I be scared? There’s a cop watching my place. And really, I can take that sick fool. The detective told me that Miss Fortune was dead before she hit the water. Something about head trauma. The bra around the neck was more for show than anything else. Shit, why are we talking about this stuff anyhow? Okay, see you at the office in the morning. I’ll bring the test kit. Going to take a bubble bath. Night. ”

  I hated myself for mentioning being scared to Kassandra. It sounded like I was more concerned about her than she was about herself. Well, she was a risk taker. Buying pregnancy test kits by the dozen? Wasn’t she practicing safe sex? Shoot, I did and look at me. I may be pregnant. Damn.

  EIGHTEEN

  HOLIDAY SEASON OR not, I had to accelerate my efforts to drum up business. With January around the corner, all the yearly fees and dues had to be paid, and that accounted for a nice chunk of money. Plus, because of Brenda’s incident, we hadn’t done much catering. Not much? My last paid gig was the Dumont’s fall party. Way back before Thanksgiving. The little voic
e inside my head kept reminding me about the $10,000 settlement coming soon to a bank near my checking account. Let’s see, I could use the money due from Tristan for his wrecked car and his injuries to pay my real estate dues? That was wrong in so many ways.

  I brushed my teeth and glanced at myself in the mirror. Yuck. Thank God I had a haircut appointment today at eleven-thirty. And once again, nothing else for the rest of the day. Unless I wanted to go take up room at the office. I missed the busy days, the chatty bullpen where we gathered mostly to gossip when no clients were around. With nothing important to do, today would be a good day to go gift shopping for Kay and Tristan.

  Kassandra called from the office around ten, just to announce that my luck with Tarot cards had not improved. She also mentioned that she didn’t know if the cops had the office under surveillance or if it was only something they did at night, at her place. But more important, the detectives were still trying to locate J.S. Smith to see if she could help them find her father.

  “What do you mean they can’t locate her? They can’t find her? Surely her boss knows where she’s taking pics. The company supplies all the leads.”

  “True that. Supposedly, she didn’t have any appointments the rest of the week, mainly due to the season. Therefore, she took three days off and headed out of town. Having been with this company only a few weeks and working by appointment only, no one knows much about her and no one answers the door at her place.”

  “She has a cell phone; is anyone calling her?”

  “Why are you asking me? I don’t think I’ve ever met her. Have I?”

  “I bet Tristan Dumont would know where she hangs out,” I said. “They went to the same college. They may even have shared some extracurricular activities, not sure.”

  “Listen to you. For someone who runs the other way when you see dream boy approach, you sure know a lot about him.”

  I kept quiet. Kassandra had a point. How did I end up collecting all that info about this man? More important, what did he know about me? He knew about my pierced navel... said the devilish voice in my head.