Extra Sensory Deception

by Allison Kingsley

  “We haven’t had dinner guests since your father died.” Jessie glanced over her shoulder at Clara. “How about inviting Rick here for dinner some night?”

  It wasn’t the first time Jessie had suggested she invite Rick for dinner. So far Clara had managed to avoid the issue. She knew it was only a matter of time before she would have to either give in or deal with a barrage of questions from her mother.

  In spite of Jessie’s good intentions, she would no doubt want to know every intimate detail about Rick’s life, both past and present. She’d be interrogating him all through the evening, and Clara wasn’t ready to face that embarrassment.

  “We’ll see,” she said, and rummaged noisily in the cutlery drawer, hoping to distract her mother.

  Jessie must have taken the hint, as she said no more, and Clara was able to enjoy a fairly peaceful meal. She offered to do the dishes while her mother settled in front of the TV to watch the news.

  When Clara walked out of the kitchen, Jessie waved a hand at her. “Look at this. They’re talking about the rodeo.”

  Clara gave the TV a wary glance. So far, whenever she’d seen a picture of the rodeo or it had been mentioned in detail, her mind had been whisked away somewhere. She was very much afraid that the clown in the poster was in danger, and she felt obligated to warn him. She just couldn’t figure out how to do that. Even if she could explain how she knew he was in harm’s way, it was totally unlikely he would believe her.

  It was a problem she’d faced more than once in the past, and no matter what she did, the outcome had usually been awkward at best and downright unnerving at times.

  Rick had told her that Wes had offered them a tour before the show. Perhaps, if she met the clown, she could say something that would put him on his guard. Considering how she felt about clowns, she was looking forward to that possibility with a certain amount of dread.

  —

  “Clara’s going to the rodeo tomorrow,” Stephanie said, nodding at the TV. The video of a cowboy thrashing around on the back of a bull was accompanied by roars of approval from the spectators in the stands, while blaring country music tried to drown them out.

  Her husband sat on the couch next to her, apparently oblivious to the noise. His focus was on the phone in his hand, which emitted burps and bleeps with annoying regularity. So intense was his concentration, he failed to acknowledge his wife’s comment.

  Stephanie leaned over and punched him in the arm.

  The phone squawked, and George looked up. “You killed my avatar.”

  Stephanie compressed her lips for a moment. “I didn’t kill anything, but if you keep ignoring me for that silly phone that might change.”

  George sighed and leaned back. “Sorry. I was trying to relax my brain. It’s been a tough day.”

  “How about relaxing it with some intelligent conversation?”

  George looked around the room. “Your father is here?”

  She punched him on the arm again. “Enough of the smart mouth. I want to talk about the rodeo.”

  “What rodeo?”

  Stephanie looked at the TV, only to see a news story about a protest at the town hall. “It was on the news just now. Clara’s going.”

  “Good for her.”

  “I’d like to go.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think it would be fun.”

  “For whom?”

  She sighed. “You don’t like rodeos?”

  “I don’t dislike them. I just think that if we’re going to fork out money for babysitters, there are better places I’d rather take you.” He stretched his arms over his head and yawned. “Like a fancy romantic restaurant and a movie?”

  She thought about it. “We could take the kids.”

  “Seriously? You want to sit in the stands at the fairgrounds for two and a half hours watching the kids fight over seats, beg for ice cream, throw popcorn at one another and—”

  “Okay, okay,” Stephanie broke in. “It was just an idea.”

  “A bad one.”

  “So we’re not going to the rodeo?”

  “Why don’t you go with Clara?”

  “She’s going with Rick.”

  “Ah.” George nodded as if he’d just realized something important. “Those two getting serious?”

  Stephanie shrugged. “I have no idea. Clara doesn’t talk about it much.”

  George gave her a sympathetic look. “What you mean is she won’t answer your probing questions.”

  “Something like that.”

  George reached out and pulled her close. “How about you and I plan a date night out? Somewhere quiet and romantic? Anywhere you want to go.”

  Stephanie smiled. “Now I know why I married you.” She snuggled closer to her husband. Who needed a rodeo when she had all she really needed right there next to her? She pictured Clara sitting in the stands with Rick. That was what she wanted for her cousin—the kind of happiness she had with George.

  Clara had some issues, though, that could ruin everything. What happened to her in New York had changed her. She had trouble trusting people. Then there was the Quinn Sense, making her feel like a freak. Yep, Clara had some work to do before she could be really happy.

  “Is that a sigh of happiness, I hope?” George asked, breaking into her thoughts.

  “Of course.” She grinned up at him. “Now, where shall we go for our date night?”

  —

  The following afternoon Clara had trouble concentrating on anything. Molly had happily agreed to stay and close up the bookstore. Almost ten years younger than Clara, the energetic redhead was into new clothes, makeup and a vast collection of CDs, all of which took money, so she usually jumped at the chance to make a little extra pay.

  “I have tickets for the rodeo, too,” she said, when she learned why Clara needed the time off. “I’m going with Brad. You remember him—he worked up on the construction site.”

  “Of course I remember.” Clara smiled. Molly had talked about little else for weeks. “What’s he doing now that the new resort hotel is open?”

  “He was working at the fairgrounds, handling the stuff they needed done for the rodeo.” Molly’s pretty face clouded over. “Now that’s finished, Brad will have to find work on another construction site, and it’s not likely to be in Finn’s Harbor.”

  “Well, I’m sure he’ll look for something close by.”

  Molly stared gloomily at the pile of cookbooks displayed on a table near the door. “He might look, but that doesn’t mean he’ll find something.”

  A customer passed by them, heading for the counter with three books under her arm. Saved from answering Molly, Clara hurried over to the cash register. She felt sorry for her friend. Construction jobs were hard to find in the coastal areas of Maine.

  After chatting a few moments with her customer, Clara scanned the books and bagged them. Handing them over, she glanced at the clock. Another five hours to go before her date. It was going to be a long afternoon.

  Time dragged as she restocked shelves, talked to a sales rep and tidied up displays. A few tourists strolled in, but they were mostly lookers. Most of their regular customers visited the bookstore in the mornings, when the coffee was brewing and a plate of donuts and pastries awaited them in the Reading Nook. The afternoons were generally quiet. In the winter months hardly anyone shopped on Main Street after dark, but now that the tourist season had begun, more visitors wandered in during the evening hours.

  Clara had just finished serving a customer when Rick walked through the door. Surprised that the last hour had snuck up on her, she greeted him with a hasty wave of her hand. “Be right with you!”

  He nodded in answer and strolled over to the cookbook table. Watching him out of the corner of her eye, Clara had to smile. Rick loved to cook, and had served up a couple of great meals for her. He was
always on the lookout for new recipes and different ideas for dinners.

  She grabbed her purse and went looking for Molly, who was down one of the aisles helping a customer find the newest book in the Hunger Games series. After telling her she was leaving, Clara joined Rick at the front of the store.

  “Ready to go watch some bucking broncos?” he asked, opening the door with a grin.

  She wasn’t, but she nodded anyway. “Lead on, Macduff.”

  “Ah, Shakespeare, I believe.”

  “Not exactly.” She stepped out into the street, and waited for him to join her. “Actually, the correct quote is ‘Lay on, Macduff.’ It was spoken by Macbeth, when he refused to quit fighting and challenged Macduff to fight to the death. So originally the phrase meant to go to battle. Someone changed it along the way and now it means lead and I will follow.”

  Rick raised his eyebrows as they started down the hill. “Wow, I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be. It’s one of the few bits of literary knowledge I own. Stephanie is the whiz kid of books. She practically grew up with her head in one.”

  Rick laughed. “But you work in the bookstore. You must know something about the books.”

  “Not as much as I should, I guess. I’m not a huge fan of the paranormal stuff. I do like to read, but my taste runs more into a good thriller, or maybe a hard-boiled mystery. Especially the classics.”

  “A Dashiell Hammett fan?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Ah, so that’s why you like playing detective.”

  “I don’t get involved intentionally. Somehow these things just happen.”

  “Well, whatever the reason, you saved my neck once and I’ll always be in your debt for that.”

  She smiled, remembering the time Rick had been accused of murder. In order to help clear his name, she and Stephanie had launched a full-blown investigation, much to the disgust and irritation of Dan Petersen, Finn’s Harbor’s stalwart police chief. He’d been only slightly appeased when the cousins had helped solve the crime, since it wasn’t the first time they had “interfered in police business,” as he put it.

  Exchanging a warm glance with Rick, she said lightly, “You’ve done some rescuing of your own in the past. In fact, you always seem to turn up at the right moment whenever I’m in danger.”

  “Then let’s call it even.”

  “Done.” She turned her face to the sun. Most of the tourists had disappeared, no doubt enjoying dinner somewhere. The light breeze from the sea below drifted up to cool her skin. This was the time of year she loved best—before the sultry heat of summer made walking a misery of sweat and fatigue.

  They reached the parking lot where Rick’s truck was parked. He’d cracked the windows, but the sun had heated the cab, and Clara inched onto the leather seat, conscious of the warmth through her light cotton capris.

  Once they were on the coast road the air conditioner kicked in, and by the time they reached the turn heading inland, she felt comfortably cool.

  During the ten minutes it took to get to the fairgrounds, they had a lively discussion on the differences between the early hard-boiled mysteries and the contemporary ones. They both finally agreed that it was all a matter of taste, and had switched to talking about the new Hill Top Resort by the time they arrived at the fairgrounds where the rodeo was being held.

  Rick parked the truck and opened the door for her to climb out. “Wes told me to ask for him at the box office. It’s over there.” He nudged his head at a booth that stood near the entrance.

  Clara followed him, taking in her surroundings. She had been to the fairgrounds many times. The Memorial Day weekend festival had been held each year since long before she was born. She and Stephanie had looked forward to it every spring, originally with their parents, then later by themselves—until Clara had left to attend college in New York in a vain attempt to escape the infamous Quinn curse, as she called it.

  She was teaching students with the intention of becoming a professor when she met Matt. She fell hard, and when he proposed, she was quick to accept. On the evening of her wedding she was devastated to learn he’d left town with his young assistant. She’d returned to Finn’s Harbor, and it had taken her over a year to come to terms with her mistake.

  Even now, she felt an ache when an unbidden memory surfaced, which prodded her to take things slowly with Rick. She had been so sure of Matt, and even the Quinn Sense hadn’t warned her of his betrayal. Or maybe it had and she just hadn’t listened, which would account for the fact that she had told no one, not even her mother, that she’d planned to get married.

  Glancing at Rick’s sturdy shoulders, she felt warmth erasing the memories. Rick was a far cry from the man who had treated her so badly. She was happy to be with him, and happy to be sharing this first performance of what would probably be an annual event at the Memorial Day festival.

  Prepared to see big changes to the fairgrounds, at first all she could see was the familiar large building that housed the merchandise vendors. As usual, a scattering of booths alongside offered cotton candy, ice cream and soft pretzels, among other tasty snacks.

  As they rounded the corner of the building, she could see the arena and the stands. The sight reminded her of her vision, and she suppressed her shiver of apprehension. The original stadium, often used for sporting events, had been widened, and she could see where a row of chutes had been added in front of the entrance.

  Clara’s pulse quickened. She wasn’t sure how she felt about the evening’s entertainment. Watching men risk their necks on the backs of angry bulls wasn’t exactly her idea of a good time. Yet she couldn’t ignore the tingle of anticipation at the thought. It would be interesting, to say the least.

  Apparently Rick had been given some directions by his friend, as he beckoned to her and started walking toward the chutes. She followed, trying not to think about a chubby clown tumbling headfirst down the steps.

  On the other side of the arena stood a large stage where concerts were held. Clara smiled, thinking of the warm nights she and her cousin had sat listening to the music of local bands hoping to make it big.

  The aroma of smoked meats and barbecue sauce wafting from the food tent made her feel hungry. She dodged between spectators, some of whom munched on corn dogs and pretzels, while others carried tubs of popcorn and cups of beer.

  As she approached the back of the chutes, the stink of sawdust and manure made her forget about food. Reaching a large fenced area, she paused next to Rick and gazed at the men in jeans, checkered shirts and cowboy hats trotting around on horseback.

  “Welcome to the warm-up corral,” a voice said behind them.

  Clara spun around.

  The man facing them wore a wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his forehead. Blue eyes in a darkly tanned face smiled at her. “You must be Clara. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Clara smiled back. “I hope it was complimentary.”

  “Yes, ma’am. You’d be flattered, I promise.”

  “This is Wes,” Rick said hurriedly, sounding a bit rattled. “He’s going to show us around. Right?”

  This last was directed at the cowboy, with a warning scowl.

  Wes’s grin widened. “Sure. Follow me.” He fell into step beside Clara as they walked toward the holding pens. “So how long have you been dating Crafty?”

  Clara glanced at him. “Who?”

  On the other side of her, Rick grunted. “It was my nickname in high school.”

  “Oh! Is that where you guys met?”

  “Yeah.” He exchanged glances with Wes. “We met our freshman year and graduated together.”

  “Crafty?” Clara raised her eyebrows at Rick. “Was that a compliment, or were you devious when you were young?”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  Wes laughed. “We called him that because he was the best craf
tsman in the class. When the rest of us were goofing off our senior year, he spent most of his time in woodshop.”

  Intrigued, she wanted to ask them more about their high school days, but decided this probably wasn’t a good time. They’d reached an area fenced off into several squares, with large gates at one end.

  “This is the rough stock area,” Wes said, waving at the empty stalls. “This is where the broncs and bulls wait to go into the arena. They’ll be out here soon.” He pointed at the gates. “See how sturdy they are? When those are opened, they form a safe passageway for the stock to pass through to the chutes.” He looked at Rick. “You’ve heard of the world’s most dangerous bull?”

  Rick nodded. “Bodacious. He was around in the nineties, right?”

  “Right. That bull could leap six feet in the air with all four feet off the ground. He was wily as a fox—used to buck his riders forward, then bring his head up to smash into their faces. More than one rider ended up with a broken nose. That bull was one mean dude.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ve got one of his offspring. Ferocious. Just as mean. Make sure you keep out of his way.”

  Clara shivered. It was unlike anything she’d experienced before. She could imagine the bull, snorting and stamping impatiently while he waited for his turn. Looking at the gates, she hoped Wes was right and they were strong enough to hold a raging bull if things got out of hand.

  Wes was talking about the bronc riders, and how some used saddles and some rode bareback. He paused to wave at a couple of women strolling by, explaining that they were barrel racers. “You gotta know how to really handle a horse in that event,” he said, watching the two women depart. “It’s fast-paced, and a lot depends on the horse’s strength and ability. Those gals gotta know how to follow the pattern and hug that barrel as they go around it.”

  Clara concentrated on what he was saying, beginning to feel a tingle of excitement at the prospect of watching the competition. “It sounds dangerous.”