Storm Crazy

by Livia Quinn

  “There were some good times before Dutch died, but I can’t recall them. I have the sense that they were happy before… I guess that’s why it hurt so much when she withdrew from us afterward.” I spread my hands out and raised my teacup. “That’s it. That’s all I know. Not much considering how many supernatural beings I’ve known, but…”

  “You’ve blocked it like you blocked the mindlink. It’s all you cared to know,” Aurora said, sitting forward over the counter… “until now. You’ve been closed off for so long that now you must practice being ‘open’. Engage with the past, trust in your heritage to take you where you need to go, and to see the truth.”

  Like a giant wave that churns up everything from the deep—the past, my anxieties and frustrations were brought to the surface and about to crash over me. Was I ready?

  Aurora nodded. “Controlling your power doesn’t just happen. River probably experienced symptoms other people attributed to hormones, but Phoebe recognized them and knew that his birthday was going to be a trigger for a first event, and it was. That wasn’t the end of it though. Dylan spent a couple of years guiding River along, making sure he grew into his Djinni potential, giving him a controlled environment to grow and explore, even providing him with his first amphora. It was as your father wished.”

  My mind raced. This was news to me. Dear old dad had provided a mentor for River. What about me? I slammed down on that thought at once.

  Aurora said, “I was chosen as your mentor when you were ready,” she paused. “If you are done with denial and ready to learn how to harness the gift and responsibilities of being a Paramortal, we will begin.” She turned toward the kitchenette placing our cups in the sink. Turning around, she leaned back against the sink and crossed her arms. Apparently, she needed my verbal assent.

  “So… you mean now?”

  A silent, short nod.

  I licked my lips. “All right. How much can you teach me tonight?”

  Chapter 26

  Twilbeck was going to make me crack my molars.

  * * *

  Tempe

  Remember I mentioned humans needing attitude adjustments? Such was Dervil Twilbeck, the trainee I was blessed with Thursday after a late night of instruction by Aurora.

  Twilbeck was at least two numbers short of a zip code. How he got through the testing process, I couldn’t guess. We hadn’t even left the mail center before he suggested leaving the heavy tubs of Ad-mail behind.

  While I loaded the truck, Dervil pointed to the mail under his legs and on his lap, between his poochy belly and the steering wheel. “Can’t you put this junk somewhere else?”

  “Keeping the mail dry is more important than your comfort. And for the record, you are not to so much as toot my horn, unless I tell you to. Keep your hands off the wheel and your feet out of the way of the pedals.” I put my face in his and said, “You keep it up and you’ll wind up like the ash in that jar hanging from my mirror.”

  He didn’t look frightened.

  I must not have done it right.

  Aurora had tried to give me pointers on how to make the power happen, without words like I’d used Monday morning. She said I should try to “relive” the moment when I created the fire in my palm, to feel it “in my soul”. The important thing, she said, was not to let it just happen or even worse take over control, but to reign in the emotions and try to connect with that well inside me from “whence it came”. Okay, so those hadn’t been her words, but you get the picture.

  As practice, I’d sent a message to Marty about someone to initiate the new bottle. He didn’t answer.

  I requested the first packet of mail from the trainee at 9:45, admonishing him to keep the strap around the bundle so the letters didn’t fall out. “They allot only a small amount of time at each box, so avoiding issues that cut into your routine is crucial.” I quoted the manual’s one-minute-per-box rule.

  “That’s a long time,” Dervil said, looking at me like I was an idiot.

  “Just wait until you have a problem delivery, or you lose mail out the window and have to chase it down. That can eat up those precious minutes.”

  He waved his hands, “So, if you drop a box of mail, just take it back to the center.”

  “Where you’d be met at the back door by an inspector who would make you re-case it and deliver it before going home.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You could throw it in a collection box and let it go back through distribution.”

  Twilbeck was going to make me crack my molars. His prime directive seemed to be getting out of responsibility. “Then…” stay calm, Tempe, “it’s a day late to the recipient—and if you get caught, you’re gone.”

  He snorted, crossing his arms. “Look, this isn’t breaking down the genetic code or anything. I could do it in my sleep. Why don’t you handle it? If I have any questions, I’ll ask.”

  I heard him mimicking me under his breath, “avoid issues that cut into your routine…”

  My Tempestaerie thunder rumbled. “Let me ask you something. What made you decide to become a mailman?”

  Bushy eyebrows dove toward squinty dark eyes. “Isn’t it obvious? The money’s great; you’re out here in the sunshine, nobody to bother you.” He waved his hand at me like some blue-blooded matron motioning her limo driver to ‘mosey along’ then leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes!

  Biting back a curse, I decided to take the path of least resistance, since I wasn’t getting anywhere. I knew ways to end our relationship, and I’d make it happen.

  I ditched him at the diner while I called Montana and Kat to see if they’d heard anything. Kat didn’t answer—daylight—and Montana was on a call. I finished my tuna sandwich, walked back into the diner, and found Dervil and Dick sitting with their heads together. Perfect. Remembering Sheriff Lang’s admonition, I called from the door. “Load up, Twilbeck.”

  We turned into Enchanted Glen and Twilbeck said, “Show me where you found the body.” He whispered, “I bet there’s still blood on the floor.”

  That did it.

  “Do you remember asking me earlier what that little vial contained?” His eyes went to the tiny glass bottle still bouncing from the sudden stop. I pointed to the horsefly on the hump that had been as persistent in his efforts to annoy me as the trainee. As Dervil looked on, I murmured, “Come here, bug.”

  It was a simple task to use menori to move the big fly onto my palm where the mere contact with my skin and its slight charge made him stagger, shiver, and then plop over dramatically onto his back. Good job, little guy. This time I didn’t imagine my trainee’s uncomfortable squirm. It gained me a whole thirty minutes of peace.

  It wasn’t meant to last.

  * * *

  At one thirty I got a call from the Shone Pet Clinic. A bad feeling coincided with the sky unloading a frog strangler of a downpour.

  “Ms. Pomeroy, Dr. Shone was wondering if you could come by and get your dog? He’s wreaking havoc over here.”

  My dog. Now have you heard me mention a dog? “Um, could you describe him?”

  A whispered exclamation came across the phone. “A standard red and sable Pomeranian?”

  “How did you know he was mine?”

  “Well, duh. His collar says, ‘I’m Rogue, Tempest Pomeroy’s little man’.”

  I groaned. “Oh, right. I’ll be there in five.”

  Marty had heard me. Why else would the charade have been necessary?

  I made a quick three point turn in the street and headed to Shone’s Clinic. Dervil woke from his nap. “Hey, where you goin’?”

  “We need to take a detour,” I said. I parked at the curb and dashed through the rain to the front door. Too bad there were witnesses. I could have split the rain in two and walked in dry as Moses. I’d done really well with that exercise last night.

  The Imp was in rare form in the reception room of the clinic as he circled the large center bench in the waiting room hair flying, then took off through an open
exam room door into the back and sprang out from behind the receptionist’s desk again. Customers and techs ran behind him like a Latin dance chain, and kids came from every direction. A cooing toddler tried to catch him and slipped, landing on his padded rump in a fit of giggles. One vet tech threw a looped cable, attempting to lasso him like a calf in a steer wrestling competition. All those attempts failed.

  “Rogue” gnashed his teeth at anyone who got close and managed to pick up some compadres along the way. When I stepped through the front door, his motley pack included a Dachshund, a German Shepherd, a recently groomed Standard Poodle, and an elegant but determined Persian, who gave the impression she was too good for this but having too much fun to quit.

  I planted myself in Marty’s path on his next pass through the main room and put up my palm, “Rogue, sit.”

  Marty slid to a halt at my feet, with two of his pals sliding into him from behind, the rest wondering why all the fun had stopped. Their “parents” quickly grabbed each one and took them away while I dealt with the bad boy.

  Dr. Shone walked in as I scooped the Rogue into my arms. No matter the trauma or excitement, Chris Shone never seemed to rattle. She was blonde, around five-six and pleasantly plump. I’d never seen an animal growl at her. A baby raccoon peaked out from her cleavage. Did I mention she was brave?

  “I appreciate you coming so quickly, Tempe. Your… dog seems to have a burr up his hiney.”

  Having grown up in a Paramortal family, Chris didn’t hold me responsible for Marty’s actions. “I’m glad you called, Chris.” I wanted to hit the little Imp across his “hiney” but I’d probably get strung up in the front lobby, so I settled for looking into Marty’s eyes and saying, “Bad, bad dog, Rogue. Shame.” The look he gave me lacked remorse and everyone laughed as a sprinkle of pee hit my t-shirt. That’ll teach you to shame me in public, the haughty fake-dog-look he gave me said.

  I left with Rogue in an enclosed carrier to transport him in the bed of my truck. If it weren’t for the humans, that would have been entirely unnecessary, but what would I say to the trainee and the customers in Dr. Shone’s office to explain riding him in a downpour? So I went along with the charade. Pretending I was taking custody of my “little man”, I placed the carrier down on the bed of the truck.

  Marty had used the situation to convey a message. He spoke just five words before he poofed that added a chill to my wet clothing.

  “It’s about wishes and power.”

  As clues went, that one sucked.

  Chapter 27

  Do the words “gossip columnist” tell you what I’m thinking?

  * * *

  Jack

  I left the parent teacher meeting with Jordie’s biology instructor and swung by the DMV to get a picture of Ray Meeker from his record. Tempe’s friend was working at one of the windows. Once again, she was dressed like a Quaker out of the 1800s. She pushed black frames up on the bridge of her nose and asked if she could help me.

  “It’s Bailey Duplessis right? I’m Sheriff Lang. We met at Bons Amis Tuesday night?”

  She looked puzzled so I passed the victim’s name and license number to her. “I need a DL photo of this man.” She pulled up the record and printed the photo out, handing it over. “Is there anything else, Sheriff Lang?”

  “No, that’ll do it.”

  Bailey’s expression went blank and she directed her smile at the next customer. “Hi, I’m Bailey….”

  I slipped the picture back into the folder, thinking my initial assessment of this woman had been correct.

  I found the little strip mall two blocks from Phoebe’s house brimming with business. I showed Meeker’s picture at the bank, the drug store, the Big T gas station and finally hit pay dirt at the Jitney Jungle.

  It was some more good news, bad news. Jordie’s friend Melissa’s mom, the 1-900 psychic and gossip columnist, had been working the weekend before when Meeker came through the line.

  Her expression struck me as a little too eager. “It had to be Sunday because I didn’t work Saturday. I work at the paper, you know, during the week.” She cracked her gum noisily and persisted at scratching her head, which moved her wig a half-inch clockwise with each scratch. I held back a smile.

  “What time Sunday?” I noticed a few curious glances from nearby shoppers. “Can we talk somewhere with a little more privacy?” Though now that she was involved… do the words “gossip columnist” tell you what I’m thinking?

  “Sure, Sheriff Lang.” She linked an arm through mine and pulled me to the manager’s office. “Ben, can the sheriff and I use the office for just a couple minutes. He needs to debrief me.”

  Oh, brother. I addressed the manager. “I just have a couple questions for both of you. Mrs. Fortune said this man was in your store Sunday.” I handed him the picture of Ray.

  Ben leaned forward squinting at the picture. “Yeah,” he drawled, “that looks like one of the men with Mrs. Pomeroy.”

  The gossip cut in, “Not the extinguished looking one.” She directed that at Ben. Used to interpreting Fortune’s columns, I automatically translated that to “distinguished”.

  “Phoebe and your guy there—Ray?—they had a hell of a fight in the produce department. She threw an umbrella at him. We couldn’t figure out where it came from. I mean it wasn’t raining or anything. And there was—” she looked at Ben and lifted her shoulders, “like…exploded fruit everywhere. Ben had to ask them to leave.” Ben shrugged his shoulders in silent agreement.

  I thanked them and headed to the parking lot when it struck me what they’d said. I tapped on the door of the office where they still stood, no doubt discussing my visit.

  “Ben, could you explain what you meant when you said, ‘One of the men’?” I asked.

  Fortune answered. “The three of them, sometimes four, come in every weekend.”

  I gazed at her.

  The gossip looked at me exasperated. She said very slowly and distinctly, like I was a child or spoke another language. “This isn’t the first time Phoebe has visited the store with her accomplices—”

  “Accomplices?” I asked. I looked at Ben, who just rolled his eyes and shrugged.

  She started again, “The men who accompliced her,” Jane swore, nearly yelling, “They go everywhere with her.”

  Ah, missed that one—the men who “accompany” her.

  “No doubt her roommates, or lovers.” Her eyes were alight with the potential story.

  “Do you have names to go with these… friends?”

  They looked at each other. Fortune said, “Phoebe never introduced them.” Her head tilted and she looked at me sideways, brows bouncing, “That’s kind of strange, don’t you think?”

  Did I think it was strange that Phoebe Pomeroy didn’t introduce her male “friends” to the local gossip? Uh… negative.

  I drove straight to Tempe’s mother’s house. The grass was high, especially for someone with three male roommates. After getting no response at the door, I walked around the house to check for lights. One of the blinds was open on what appeared to be a bedroom, and I saw nothing except a room that looked like it hadn’t been lived in.

  I headed back toward Destiny. This new information added a whole new dimension to my investigation. And two new nameless suspects.

  Tempe

  Phoebe, what are you up to? Can you read me? If you can, we need to talk.

  If she’d answer I could tell her the sheriff wanted to question her about River and some phone records he found at the victim’s apartment. I didn’t remember what a mindlink felt like, but surely I could figure out how to receive an incoming message.

  Our family link relied on two things—proximity and well being. Maybe Mother was just out of range, or maybe she’d shut me out as she’d done in the past. But with River missing, her continued absence had me worried as well. No, we had not been close since Dutch died, but I did…love her?

  For the first time in a long time, I considered my feelings for her, and n
ot anger or distain. Now they were both missing. And they were all I had. I would drive over to her house again tomorrow if she hadn’t returned my call or shown up on my genie radar, and if I didn’t find her, I’d fill out another Missing Persons report. My heart skipped a beat.

  I detoured to Harmony Plantation to change out of my wet clothes. An old red Ford F-150 sat next to the house.

  “Zeus’ boney knees!”

  The Unhandyman was here, off his leash and without supervision. You know how some people just really, really, really, really want to make it big as a professional performer or athlete? Well, Freddie is Storm Lake’s answer to Home Improvement. When you hire Fred, you have to take the breaking with the fixing.

  And here he was. On my roof! The liability of it made cold sweat gather between my shoulder blades and nausea threaten.

  “Freddie,” I called quietly. I didn’t want to startle him and have him shoot down the slick tin roof and break his neck.

  He didn’t look up.

  I cleared my throat and tried again. “Freddie, you up there?”

  I heard heavy unsteady clomping and Freddie peeked out over the edge of the roof waving. “Hi, Tempest. I know I was supposed to wait for River to call, but I didn’t hear from him Monday or Tuesday like he said, and this roof really needs to be finished before the next rain. There are a couple of new leaks, but don’t worry,” he held up the roll of silver tape. “I fixed it.”

  I tilted my head back and studied the darkening sky, every pore sucking in the humidity. What’s a little sticky goo compared to a leak? I mean, who would be able to see it but God?

  “Thanks, Freddie. I don’t know what we’d do without you. I’ve been too busy to think about the roof leaking. Could I talk to you for a sec?”

  “You…betcha.” He clambered down the ladder. “Whoa,” he said as his wet boots slipped and skidded causing him to miss a couple rungs, but he landed safely. Sauntering over to his truck he grabbed a tub of Orange goop. I’d watched River clean his hands with the stuff hundreds of times, but for Freddie it was a spiritual ritual. I guess if you needed to use it to clean up, then you were doing work that was worthy of notice.