Truly, Madly

by Heather Webber

  “Black.”

  A few minutes later, I brought him a mug. I sat on the couch.

  He took a sip. “It’s good. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” His blond hair was disheveled—bed head—and dark circles marred the skin around his blue eyes. “Are you here on official business?”

  “Technically, no.”

  “Then why are you?”

  The bathroom door creaked open and Em came out, dripping wet, wrapped in a towel. “Is that coffee I smell?” She froze when she spotted Holliday. Her gaze darted to mine.

  “Em, this is Detective Lieutenant Aiden Holliday.” To him, I said, “And this is Emerson Baumbach.”

  “Uh, hi,” she said, slowly backtracking to the bedroom.

  The detective smiled, his eyes glued to her. “pleasure.”

  “I’ll just, um, be, ah, right back.” Droplets of water flew as she spun around.

  Even after she’d left, his gaze remained fixed on the doorway. He blinked slowly, as if he were questioning whether Em had been real.

  I decided to burst his bubble. “Em’s staying with me for a few days—she needed a break in between planning her wedding and working nonstop.”

  “Wedding?” he asked, finally turning to look at me.

  “On Valentine’s Day.”

  “How sweet,” he said, sounding as if it was anything but.

  “Why are you here again? It’s early, you know.”

  “I’m here because contrary to what you may believe, I’m not a jerk.”

  Coffee burned the back of my throat. “I never said you were a jerk.”

  “You thought it.”

  I smiled into my mug. “Once or twice.”

  “I suppose I deserved it, but you have to admit, you came across as a crazy loon.”

  “Is that professional cop-speak?”

  He laughed. “Yes.”

  I leaned forward. “What made you change your opinion?”

  “First, you found Max. Second, I met you.”

  “Third?”

  His face crumbled into a frown. “Let’s just say I feel as though it’s my turn to help you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He unfolded the paper he’d been holding—the morning’s Herald. The headline filled the whole left side of the page.

  MATCHMAKER’S PSYCHIC DAUGHTER FINDS LITTLE BOY

  On the left side, there was a picture of me in my wraparound dress and heels, with an inset showing they were the same heels found at Wompatuck State Park.

  Preston Bailey had gotten her byline.

  EIGHTEEN

  Somehow I managed not to drop my coffee. I slowly set it on the table and picked up the paper. Preston Bailey had written the whole article with little to go on but assumptions and circumstantial evidence.

  She had, in fact, overheard my conversation with Raphael at the Porcupine—she’d referenced what she heard in the article, with my words about having a vision in quotes.

  Once the composite of the person who’d found Max came out, she’d put two and two together, using the snapshots of me leaving work as further proof.

  The way the article was written cast doubt on whether my abilities were real while also hailing me as some kind of hero. The juxtaposition was confusing to say the least.

  “You could have told me you were psychic. I’ve worked with people like you before. It would have saved a lot of trouble.”

  People like you. As if I were some kind of mutant. I dropped my head into my hands, stared at the words in the article, the print blurring. “The point was no one was supposed to know I found Max. I didn’t want people to know it was me.”

  Turmoil churned in my stomach.

  “I figured that out on my own, Cinderella. That’s why I’m here. I came as soon as I saw the headline to warn you. Why not just acknowledge you found him?”

  I wrapped my arms around my stomach, trying to hold the pain at bay. “Not many people know I have psychic abilities.”

  “Why? Why not tell? Think of all the good you could do. You found Max.”

  I jumped up, paced, trying not to wince at the pain in my feet. “It’s not that easy! I wish it were; really I do. The reasons are complicated. And contrary to what this article leads people to believe, I don’t have random visions. My gift is very specific.”

  “How so?”

  “I can only find lost objects. Inanimate objects. Not people. Not pets. And there are rules,” I fairly cried. “The object has to belong to the person who lost it, and only that person can ask me to find it.”

  He set down his coffee. “But you found Max—”

  “No. I found his father’s sweatshirt.”

  “Ah. That’s why you asked John O’Brien to think about his shirt.”

  “Exactly. I feel the objects’ energy through people’s palms. I can’t explain it. I don’t know why it happens. It just is. I hate shaking hands, because I don’t ever know what I’m going to see. Like the other night when I met Butch and saw his car keys in his couch.”

  “Wow.”

  Tears welled in my eyes. The phone rang. I answered without thinking. It was a reporter from the Globe wanting a comment.

  “I have none,” I said, hanging up.

  Not a second later, the phone rang again. I disconnected it from the wall; no doubt about it, I’d need a new phone number.

  “Lucy?” Em came out from the bedroom dressed in a light blue sweater and gray trousers. Her hair had been towel-dried and her curls left loose and wild. Her blue eyes widened when she took a good look at me. “What’s wrong?”

  What could I say? Do? Em had known me for almost my whole life and I’d kept this from her. Would she ever forgive me? Would Marisol?

  “I don’t know where to begin,” I said softly, my emotions thickening my words.

  She turned on Holliday. “Does this have to do with you?”

  “No, Em. It’s not him. It’s me. I . . . I’m—”

  “What?” she asked.

  Holliday rose. “Here,” he said, handing her the paper.

  Em sank onto the couch.

  “The media are gathering at the bottom of the drive,” Holliday said, peeking out the window. “And there’s an older woman running across the lawn from the main house.”

  A second later, the front door flew open. Dovie rushed in, arms wide. I went into them willingly.

  “There, there,” she said, stroking my hair. “It’ll be okay. We’ll get through it.”

  “Mom and Dad are going to have a fit.”

  “Let them,” Dovie said.

  Em finally looked up from the paper. “Is this true, Lucy?”

  “A lot of it is hogwash,” Dovie said, letting me go.

  “But most of it is true,” I said. Once again I went through what had happened when I was fourteen, how I could only find lost objects. By the time I was done, I was sick of hearing myself talk. “Are you mad at me?” I asked Em, my heart in my throat.

  “Mad? No!” Em said, hugging me. “How could I be?”

  “I never told you. Or Marisol.”

  “Or anyone,” Dovie added, scooping up Grendel, who finally had decided to leave the warmth of the bed to see what the ruckus was about.

  “Oh, Lucy. Didn’t we just talk about this yesterday? We all have secrets. Yours, though, is a cool one. I always wondered how you knew where I left my driver’s license that one time. . . .”

  I was so relieved I couldn’t speak.

  “I warned the reporters not to trespass or they’ll be charged,” Dovie said. “But I don’t think they’re going anywhere any time soon. I’ve called the Cohasset police—perhaps they can do some crowd control.”

  Em looked out the window. “There’s a car coming up the drive.”

  Two doors slammed in tandem. I looked out and groaned. Could this day get any worse?

  * * *

  I plastered myself against the door. “We are not opening this door.”

  “Who is it?” Dovie ask
ed.

  “No one I want to talk to.”

  One of the Weymouth detectives pounded on the front door, the knock vibrating against my back.

  “Do you want me to get rid of them?” Holliday asked.

  “More than anything,” I whispered.

  “Ms. Valentine,” one of them shouted, “it’s Detective Kolchowski. We’d like to speak with you.”

  “A detective?” Holliday glanced out the window. “With which department?”

  “Weymouth,” I answered, my back vibrating again with the force of the detective’s knock.

  “What do they want with you?” Dovie asked.

  “It might have something to do with a dead body I found.”

  “What!” Em screeched.

  “We know you’re in there, Ms. Valentine! Let us in or we’ll come back with a warrant.”

  I reluctantly pulled open the door. The two men stood on my wraparound porch, peering into my living room. “Are we interrupting?” the detective with glasses asked.

  “If I said yes, would you go away?”

  “No.”

  “Then come on in.”

  “I’ll be right back,” Em said, grabbing her purse and heading toward my bedroom. “I have to make a phone call.”

  “Detectives, this is my grandmother, Dovie Valentine, and this is Detective Lieutenant Holliday, Massachusetts State Police.”

  “Plymouth County,” he said.

  “A little out of your jurisdiction,” the tall one said.

  “I’m not here on business,” Holliday said tightly. “What’s this about a dead body? You working with the Norfolk County detectives?”

  The Norfolk County State Police detectives. Weymouth, like Cohasset, was situated in Norfolk County, while Hingham, sandwiched in the middle, was in Plymouth County. Massachusetts was known for roads and boundaries that didn’t make any sense—it extended to counties as well.

  “Yeah. I’m Curt Kolchowski,” the balding one with the chipped tooth said.

  “I’m Patrick Chapman.” The chubby one with the mustache and glasses shifted his weight.

  “I’m sure you’re here about the Herald article, Detectives.”

  “We saw it. But we’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday. Didn’t you get our messages?”

  “No,” I said truthfully.

  “What is this about?” Holliday asked.

  “She didn’t tell you?” Kolchowski raised his eyebrows.

  “Tell me what?”

  “She and her boyfriend dug up a body in Great Esker.”

  “That was you?” he asked.

  I sank into the couch. My feet were killing me. I put them up on the table. Grendel hopped in my lap.

  “Boyfriend?” Dovie asked hopefully.

  Yes. Yes, this day could, in fact, get worse.

  “Seems awfully coincidental you’re suddenly psychic after becoming a person of interest in a murder case.”

  “A person of interest! I found the body, if you haven’t forgotten. I didn’t put it there.”

  “Is it just coincidence you found your client’s dead ex-girlfriend?”

  “Client?” Dovie squeaked.

  “Michael Lafferty,” I said to her. “And Rachel wasn’t his girlfriend.”

  “What is this, Lucy?”

  I closed my eyes. “Here’s what happened.” I told them the whole story, from when Michael walked into my office to when I shook his hand and saw the vision of the ring. And of how that led me to do a little digging in Great Esker.

  “Convenient,” Chapman said.

  “What are you implying?” Dovie demanded.

  “I’m implying you’re a phony, Ms. Valentine,” he said to me.

  I gritted my teeth, sat up. “Have you two ever lost anything?”

  “What?”

  “Have you ever lost anything? Keys, wallet, et cetera?”

  “Yeah,” Chapman said hesitantly.

  “Think about that object. Don’t tell me what it is. Just think about it. Are you thinking?”

  “I don’t see what this has to do—”

  I grabbed his hand. It was as big as a catcher’s mitt and just as leathery. Images whirled through my head, a tornado of information. Pulling my hand away, I looked at him. “Your wedding ring.” I tsked. “I’m not sure where you lost it, but it’s currently in a pawnshop in Southie.”

  His mouth tightened.

  “You?” I said to Kolchowski.

  He held out his hand. After a dizzying second, I shook my head clear. “The item you lost is a shirt. Looks to be an old Aerosmith concert shirt, but it’s seen better days. It looks like someone hacked at it with a pair of scissors.”

  “I knew she did something to it! Where is it?”

  “In a black garbage bag with dozens of ripped-up baseball cards in the Holbrook landfill.”

  “Son of a bitch!” he mumbled. “I didn’t know about the baseball cards. Man, that hurts.”

  “Phony, my ass,” Dovie said.

  The two detectives stared at me as if not quite believing, but believing just the same.

  “Michael can’t be guilty. He didn’t know where the ring was.” I gave them a second to process. “He’s innocent. You see that, right? You only went after him because of me—because he was my client. But now you know how I found Rachel’s body.”

  Chapman shook his head as if trying to sort it all out. “If you two don’t mind,” he said to Dovie and Holliday, “we’d like to ask Ms. Valentine some questions in private.”

  “No,” Dovie said.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but it’s not up to you.”

  “Lucy,” Em said, coming from the bedroom, “Marshall says not to say another word. Oh my God! What happened to your feet?” She crouched down and looked at my wounds. “Holy shit, you did a number on them.”

  “Detectives, it’s time for you to leave,” Dovie said, in full protective mode.

  “Who’s Marshall?” Kolchowski asked, not budging.

  Marshall was suddenly my savior. He was also Joseph’s father, Em’s future father-in-law. And one of the best attorneys in the city.

  “Marshall Betancourt,” Em answered. “Lucy’s lawyer. If you want to speak with Lucy, you’ll need to go through him first. Here’s his number.” She handed Kolchowski a scrap of paper.

  It didn’t escape my attention the way Holliday looked at her, impressed.

  “You sure that’s the route you want to go?” Kolchowski asked me.

  “Yes,” I said. It was obvious they didn’t want to release Michael as a suspect. Maybe because he was the only one they had. Had they tried to find Elena at all?

  Dovie marched to the door, held it open. “Good day, Detectives.”

  As the two detectives walked toward the door, Chapman looked back at Holliday. It wasn’t a friendly look that passed between them.

  As soon as the door closed, Holliday said, “I don’t think I’ll be getting a Christmas card from them.”

  “Will they cause trouble for you, Lieutenant?” I asked.

  “Please call me Aiden. And nothing I can’t handle.”

  Em rooted around her bag and came up with a prescription pad. “You need antibiotics, Lucy.” She looked at her watch. “I can go get them.”

  I glanced at the clock. “You’re going to be late for work.”

  “I’ll go,” Dovie said, taking the prescription.

  “Could you get some fresh bandages and some Polysporin, too? Lucy, stay off your feet today. Doctor’s orders.” Em gathered up her things.

  I fished through my bag, tossed her my car keys. “Thanks, Em, for everything. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “I’m going to go, too.” Aiden strode to the door. “I’ll run interference for you at the street,” he said to Em.

  She gazed up at him and smiled. “Thanks.”

  “I’m going to let you rest today, Cinderella, but I’ll need to take a statement from you,” Aiden said. “If you want to have your lawyer with you, that’s fi
ne, but it’s mostly just tying up loose ends. I don’t know what’s going on with this other case—and honestly, I don’t want to—but I suggest you listen to your lawyer. And stay out of the detectives’ way. They’re gunning for you.”

  As Em drove off, Dovie waved, then closed the door. She looked at me expectantly and smiled. “What boyfriend?” she asked. “Details!”

  NINETEEN

  It was a day of firsts.

  It was the first time I’d “lawyered up.”

  The first time I’d been outed as a psychic.

  My first time riding in the trunk of a car.

  Fortunately, I was way past the age of losing my virginity—good thing, too, since Sean was in close proximity. He was just the kind of boy Raphael had warned me about.

  Slivers of light cut through the darkness of the trunk. My legs were bent to my chest, and I rested my head on an old musty blanket. Every time the car bounced over a dip in the road, pain radiated from my spine and I sucked in gasping breaths traced with mold spores. It had been just five minutes since the trunk had closed, and already my heart raced, my palms dampened.

  To say I wasn’t a happy camper would be a complete understatement.

  “Three times three is nine,” I said, trying to distract myself.

  Sneaking away in the trunk of Sean’s car had seemed like a great idea ten minutes ago.

  Until I realized I might be the slightest bit claustrophobic. Who knew? It wasn’t as though I was trapped in trunks every day.

  “The square root of one-forty-four is twelve.”

  “Are you talking to yourself?” Sean shouted.

  “How much longer?” I yelled back.

  The car slowed, then stopped. A second later, the trunk popped and Sean was there, holding out his hand. “You don’t look so well.”

  I looked at his palm. No way. My heart was already palpitating—it would probably go into complete arrest if I saw more images of Sean and me in bed together. “Don’t want to zap you,” I said, hauling myself out.

  Sean had parked in the empty lot at Sandy Beach. The dark gray whitecapped ocean stretched out before us as far as eye could see. Hungry seagulls squawked overhead, circling beneath ominous storm clouds. The sharp briny smell of low tide stung my nose as angry waves slapped at the rocky shore.