"We ain't leaving," he said. "And I ain't gonna be bought off so cheap as a coffee."
I forced another smile. "I just want to talk. No harm in that, is there?"
Scruffy looked around. "Oh what the hell," he said. "Nowhere else I gotta be."
As he followed me into the store, I asked, "You ever try a mocha?"
"No, and I ain't gonna start now," he said. "I see what you done. Those drinks of yours are turning my guys into pansies."
I laughed, a nervous reflex. Scruffy took it as encouragement.
"You think I don't see 'em sipping those sissy drinks all day long like a bunch of party-girls," he said. "Pretty soon, they gonna be parading by in high heels and sun-dresses."
In my mind's eye, I saw Darren in a sun-dress. I shuddered. "Coffee then?" I suggested.
"So long as it's black," he said. "None of that flavored stuff."
I popped behind the counter and poured him a large black coffee.
"I'm curious," I said when we settled into our seats. "Why are you paying those guys to picket?"
His eyes narrowed. "Who told you that?"
"I saw it with my own eyes," I said.
"I ain't telling you nothin'."
"Aww come on," I said with a friendly smile. "I don't see you freezing your ass off in the cold."
"So?"
"So it’s obvious you're the one in charge," I said. "I just thought we'd talk a little. See what you're really after."
"I ain't after nothin'," he said.
"But you're the boss man," I said, using a term I heard from Darren. "Sure, I could ask the other guys. But why, when I can ask the man in charge."
Scruffy sat back with a smile. "Yeah, I see your point."
"So what's your story?" I said. "You paying those guys with your own money?"
The pleased expression faded. "None of your damn business."
Bingo, I thought. Someone else was pulling the strings. I tried for a recovery. "Know what I think?"
"Huh?"
"I think you're too smart to use your own money," I said. "I bet you got someone else to foot the bill. Like an investor. Am I right?"
Scruffy gave a small nod, happy with this line of thinking.
I pressed on. "I bet you don't even care about fortune telling," I said. "Guy like you, what do you care if a few ladies get their palms read."
"Yeah, like I give a shit."
"You got bigger fish to fry I bet."
Scruffy smiled. Again, he leaned back in his chair. "I got me some plans."
"Here's what I want to know," I said. "How long are your guys gonna be out there?"
"Here's what I want to know," Scruffy said. "What's a high-class broad like you doin' tellin' fortunes for a living?"
Did he really call me a broad? At least he said I was high-class. I reminded myself to focus. "Fortune telling runs in the family," I said. "My mom works really hard to keep up the store." I gave him a friendly smile. "Sad thing is, your guys aren't helping."
"You think I'm stupid?" Scruffy said. "You think I don't know those dumbshits are in and outta here all day long, spending half of what they make on your fancy coffee, cookies and fuck-knows-what else."
The fuck-knows-what else would be every type of fortune telling we offered. This, I figured, was best left unsaid.
"Shit," Scruffy continued, "you oughta give me a commission."
"If you really think those guys are helping us out," I said, "why don't you just give up, call it quits?"
"Why don't you just mind your own business," he said.
"Oh, don't be that way," I said. "The store is my business."
"Just make sure you keep it that way," Scruffy said. "You poke too much around my business, you might find yourself, or your ol' lady wishin' you hadn't fucked with the wrong people."
I heard myself gasp. Scruffy heard it too. He reeled himself back in. "Look," he said. "You're not a bad sort. A good judge of character too."
"So are you," I mumbled.
"Don't bother us," he said. "We won't bother you. In a few weeks, it'll be over. But you poke around too much, and something bad could happen. But you didn't hear it from me."
He stood, and I followed suit.
"Thanks for the coffee," he said.
After the door closed behind him, I sank back into the chair and groped for my mocha. My hands were shaking. So Scruffy wasn't the person I really needed to fear. But who was?
Chapter 61
On Thursday, I returned from upstairs to find Gary in the book room, his back to me. Silently, I eased around for a closer look. He was using a tape measure to check the dimensions of the floor space.
I snuck up behind him. "Whatcha doin'?"
He gave a little squeak and whirled around. He hit a button, and the tape retracted with a whirl and a snap. "I ain't doin' nothin'."
"Cut the crap," I said. "I saw you." I took a step toward him.
Gary took a step backward. "You're seeing things."
I took another step. "What are you doing here anyway?"
He dove behind an oak library table and shrieked, "You get away from me!"
Around the corner, Barb and Rae Ann appeared carrying coffee cups. They looked toward the ruckus. Gary whirled to face them. "She's going berserk!" he hollered. "Run!"
I turned toward the women. "I am not going berserk."
"Save yourselves!" Gary screamed.
Barb turned to Rae Ann. "Talk about berserk."
"Let's go see if they have any new picketers," Rae Ann said. "One of the witches looked kind of cute."
"I think they're called warlocks," Barb said. Sipping their drinks, the two women wandered back into the coffee area.
I turned to Gary. "Get out," I told him.
He gripped the edge of the table. "Make me."
I started around the table. He circled to the other side. I stooped to remove my loafer. Shoe in hand, I headed toward Gary again. He flung the tape measure into the air and took off at a dead run, heading toward the exit. A moment later, he was gone.
I returned the loafer to my foot and walked to the coffee area where Crystal was chatting with Barb and Rae Ann. I joined them at the coffee bar.
"Gee, coffee and a show," Barb said. "You should charge extra."
Around noon, I'd just finished giving a Tarot reading when I returned to the coffee area to spot a familiar figure standing at the coffee bar.
It was Bishop, who watched me with wary eyes as I stalked toward him.
Silently, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the tapes. He held them out, and I snatched them from his hand.
"Got somewhere we can talk?" he said.
"No."
He made a show of looking around. "So you wanna talk out here?"
"I don't want to talk at all."
"We're talking," he said. "Here. Or someplace private. Your choice."
With a sigh, I turned, leaving him to follow me into the small reading room where I'd just given the Tarot reading. I shut the door behind us and looked up at him. "Alright," I said. "What do you want to say?"
"I'm sorry," he said. "The other night, I was an asshole. It won't happen again."
Somehow, that wasn't what I'd been expecting. "What exactly are you sorry for?" I asked. "Storming off? Stealing my tapes? All of it?"
"For leaving like I did. But about those tapes, no, I'm not sorry."
"Why not?"
"Because I wanted to know what was on them."
"What a weird coincidence," I said. "Me too."
"There's nothing on them. Just reggae."
"Are you lying to me?"
"No."
I studied his face. There was a time I'd been so sure he'd never lie to me. That time was long past.
In front of me, Bishop pointed to the tapes. "Go ahead. Listen for yourself. You'll see."
My gaze narrowed. "How do I know you haven't switched them?"
"You don't," he said. "But I didn't."
"Uh-huh."
"So why'd you freak out on me?" I asked.
"I don't know."
"You must know."
"I owed you an apology," he said, "not an explanation."
"That's what you think."
"Are we still on for that Valentine's thing?" he asked.
"Oh, so that's what this is about? You're worried about losing your pretend psycho girlfriend?"
"Fiancée," he said.
"Whatever."
"No," he said. "I'd have apologized anyway."
"Sure you would've."
He pointed to the tapes. "You owe me for those. And I mean to collect."
I made a scoffing sound. "Why do I owe you?"
He gave me a look.
"Oh, alright," I said. "I guess you did get them for me. So maybe I owe you a little something."
"Good," he said. "Because I'd hate to get a replacement psycho."
I rolled my eyes. "Thanks."
He turned and walked out of the reading room without a second glance. He was doing that a lot lately. And somehow, I didn't like it.
But I had no time to dwell on it. That evening was the charity dinner Conrad had mentioned. If he was right, it might be my last chance to corner those elusive city council members.
Late afternoon, I dashed upstairs to change. When I returned to the coffee shop, Crystal whistled. "You look hot," she said. "He'll want to get you naked for sure."
"This isn't a date," I said.
"Sure it is."
"He had an extra ticket," I said.
"You're awful silly for a smart girl."
I shivered. "If I were that smart, I'd have shopped for warmer clothes."
"Nothing like a hot date to keep you warm," she said.
Through the window, I saw Conrad pull up in a black sports sedan. He opened the car door and got out. Without thinking, I compared his appearance to Bishop's.
Both men were tall and lean, but that's where the similarities ended. Conrad had the casual good looks of a catalog model, with the perfect shade of blonde hair, immaculate attire and an easy smile. As for Bishop, well, there was nothing easy about him.
I met Conrad at the door.
"You look fabulous," he said.
From behind the counter, Crystal called out, "Tell him he looks fabulous too."
I turned to Conrad. "Crystal said you look fabulous too."
Crystal called out again. "That's not what I meant!"
At the country club, a valet parked Conrad's car, and we made our way inside. I looked around, surprised to realize I felt a little out of place.
Why was that?
I'd dined, danced and mingled in nicer establishments south of the Mason-Dixon Line. So why did I feel uncomfortable here? Was it because in Michigan, I simply didn't travel in those circles? I shook off the discomfort and turned to Conrad.
"I should've asked," I said. "What charity is the event supporting?"
"Angels of Mercy," he said. "The brain-child of Nicholas Armstrong's wife."
"The state senator?" I asked.
"The very same."
"I've been calling him for weeks," I said. "He won't return my calls."
Conrad grinned. "We'll catch him tonight." He grabbed a couple of wine glasses from a passing tray. He handed me a glass. "Once he gets a look at you in that dress, he'll agree to anything."
I laughed. "I don't believe that for one minute." I took a sip of the wine. "But keep telling me that. At this point, I need all the help I can get."
"I’ll make a note of that."
I cleared my throat. "I don't know how to say this, but–"
He looked concerned. "What?"
"I know this is a working function for you."
"So?" he asked.
"So, you don't have to worry about me."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," I said, "that if there are people you want to mingle with, or talk to, or whatever, don't feel like you have to lug me along with you."
He stared at me a few seconds and then burst out laughing.
"What?" I asked.
"Oh my God," he said. "You're serious."
"You already did me a favor by bringing me," I said. "But I don't want to get in your way."
He shook his head. "I bought the extra ticket, hoping you'd come."
"I thought the tickets were per couple."
He took a sip of his wine. "You underestimate your appeal."
I squinted at him. "Did Crystal put you up to this?"
"If this were about Crystal," he said, "I'd have brought her instead." He took my hand. "Now, come on." He pulled me toward a small crowd conversing near an ice sculpture.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"To catch your quarry."
We approached the small crowd, and Conrad eased us onto the outskirts. When there was a lull in conversation, we made our way toward a beefy, middle-aged man in a tuxedo jacket.
"Nicholas," Conrad said. "How the heck are you?"
Before Nicholas could respond, Conrad turned to me. "This is Nicholas Armstrong," he said.
Nicholas turned toward me. His smile faltered.
Conrad continued the introductions. "This is Selena Moon."
Nicholas took a step backward, scowling like he'd been tricked. I looked to Conrad for a clue. He seemed as confused as I was. In a low voice, Conrad asked Nicholas, "Is something wrong?"
Nicholas gave me a withering look. "Why'd you bring her here?"
Chapter 62
Conrad glanced my way. I felt myself flush. I knew we were disgraced fortune tellers, but I didn't realize things were that bad.
Nicholas turned to face me. "Get out," he said.
I felt my gaze narrow. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," he said, his voice echoing through the crowd. A few people turned to stare.
Conrad stepped between us. To Nicholas, he said, "I think you need to calm down."
"The hell I do," Nicholas said. "It's my party." He flicked his head toward me. "And if she's with you, you can both get the hell out."
Conrad took a step closer to Nicholas. "We're paid guests," he said, "and unless you're giving refunds, we're not leaving."
I touched Conrad's sleeve. "It's alright."
"No, it's not alright," Conrad said. He reached for my hand and pulled me to his side. He turned back to Nicholas. "I think your hospitality needs a little work."
A few people began to whisper. Nicholas looked around the room.
"Have it your way," Nicholas muttered. "Eat. Drink. Be fucking merry for all I care. But this isn't over."
He stormed past us, and I stared after him. I felt like throwing up.
Next to me, Conrad said, "That went well."
My hands were shaking. "Let's just leave," I said.
Conrad put an arm around my shoulders. "Don't worry about him. He’s not fit for human company."
"But it's his event," I said.
"Nah, it's his wife's," Conrad said. "She's got the class. He's got the cash." He gave me a reassuring smile. "Sounds like a match made in heaven."
I refused to be teased out of it. "I'll call for a ride," I said.
Conrad turned to face me. "If you really want to go," he said, "I understand. But I'm not letting you leave alone."
I looked around. The normal tempo of the room had returned. I couldn’t let Conrad leave on my account. But I couldn’t stay another minute. I looked toward the exit.
"You can't run now," Conrad said. "If they smell weakness, you're done for."
I looked at Conrad. I looked at the exit again. I considered what was at stake, and not just for me. For him too.
"If you really think so," I said.
"Trust me," he said. "I've been at this a long time."
We made our way to the bar, and I grabbed a glass of white wine. I gulped it down and reached for another. We walked into the ballroom and took seats at a table for eight. We settled into our seats, saying brief hello
s to the four people already there – a distinguished-looking couple in their sixties, and a couple of thirty-something business types.
Next to me, two seats remained empty. If I were lucky, they'd remain empty. If I had to make small talk with anyone, I'm pretty sure my brain would explode. I looked around. Edgar Kreezak was nowhere in sight.
At the head table, I saw Nicholas Armstrong sitting with an attractive blonde. I caught my breath. I'd seen her before. Many times.
It was Carolyn, the woman who'd sought Gabriel's advice about her marriage. I prayed I was mistaken.
To Conrad, I whispered, "Who's the woman with Nicholas?"
Conrad looked toward the head table. "Carolyn?" he said. "That's his wife. Didn't you see her name on the program?"
I shook my head. I felt sick.
Conrad reached for my hand. "You okay?"
I nodded and took another gulp of wine, and then another. Before I knew it, the glass was half-empty. "I think I need more wine," I said.
He gave me a sympathetic smile. "Wait here. I'll be right back."
As he stood and made his way toward the bar, I took another long gulp, feeling a pleasant numbness settle over my jangled nerves. I was downing the last drop when I heard a female voice over my shoulder hiss, "Well, looky here, if it isn't the slut."
I whirled around in my seat, and there she was, Cat Randolph, Bishop's old flame. Her long dark hair was as sleek as ever, and she wore a tight black evening gown with long slit cut up the left side. My gaze darted to her chest, looking for that familiar tattoo.
It was still there, but had morphed into something completely different. Where it used to be Bishop's name surrounded by butterflies or who-knows-what, it was now an elaborate floral bouquet with vivid colors and black swirls.
It was way too big, and actually, kind of ugly. But the design had served its apparent purpose. Bishop's name was no longer visible.
She threw back her shoulders. "You still can't keep your eyes off me, can you?"
"Oh please," I said. "I was looking at your tattoo."
"Sure you were."
Around us, the table had grown quiet. Behind Cat, I saw a stocky blonde man in a dark gray business suit approach our table. I stifled a groan. This couldn’t be happening.
It was Russell, the guy who'd left me stranded all those years ago. Frowning in my direction, he joined Cat and said, "Is she bothering you, honey?"
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