by Valerie Clay
The 7th Tarot Card
By Valerie Clay
The 7th Tarot Card
Copyright © 2014 by Valerie Clay. All Rights Reserved
Cover Design by Christopher Clay. All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Connect with me on-line at www.valerieclay.com
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My immense gratitude and heartfelt appreciation goes out to the following people:
The wonderful women who inspired this book: Col. Judy Turcotte, Jeana Hawkes, and Penny Nelson
Kristy Bartlett, for her fine editing skills, insightful suggestions, and loving support
The real Frank Caporale, whose bigger-than-life personality inspired my tough, Boston detective
Laini, a truly gifted psychic in Bellevue, Washington, after whom I named one of my characters
My sisters, Anita Foust, Nancy Plum, and Judy Wages for cheering me on, regardless of the pity they tried valiantly to hide
My son, Christopher Clay, for his brilliant cover design and non-stop encouragement, pulling me back from the edge after every agent rejection
And finally, to my Mother, Donna Plum, for reading all my earlier, pathetic attempts at writing, but blindly encouraging me in spite of them. Only a Mother could do that.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
PROLOGUE
AP – January 11, 2014 Boston, MA – In a daring early morning escape amid heavy security, mob boss, Vincent LaRusso, overcame guards as he was being transported to the Massachusetts Correctional Institution—Cedar Junction, one of two extremely high security prisons for male offenders in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. In what appeared to be an inside job, he gained access to a gun and shot and killed two prison guards. He exited the police van and fled in what witnesses at the scene described as a black SUV that had been waiting for him. LaRusso had been sentenced to life in prison without parole for murder, extortion, and narcotics trafficking.
CHAPTER ONE
“What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson, American Author
*******
Sometimes the calls come in the daytime, but others, like this one, on the stroke of midnight. When I answer, there’s never a response—just the sound of someone’s slow, steady breathing. At first I picked up all the calls. My son Spencer, newly graduated from the University of Idaho, is backpacking around the world with friends. What if he’s in trouble? What if he needs me? But, after several unnerving days of it, I signed up for Caller ID and let all my calls go directly to voicemail. Eventually they died away. Whoever was playing this sick little game must have given up and moved on to torment some other poor soul. Or, so I thought.
I rolled over, fumbled for the switch on the side of my pink princess phone and turned off the ringer, then sat up on the edge of my four-poster bed. A shiver passed through me as I stared into the darkness. It would be futile to try and go back to sleep now, so I slipped on my gray fleece robe, wrapped it tightly around me, and padded out to the kitchen to make some warm cocoa. Hopefully Spence wouldn’t have any emergencies tonight. After a while, with the help of the cocoa and the rhythmic ocean waves from the sound machine on my bombé chest nightstand, I finally dozed off into a fitful sleep.
~
It was a soggy spring morning in Redmond, Washington, a suburb of Emerald City, AKA Seattle, and the beginning of my long-awaited vacation. Standing barefoot in my kitchen, a small room with cherry wood cabinets, chocolate brown and copper speckled countertops, and walls painted creamy white with just a hint of yellow, I sipped from a mug of steaming coffee. The strident ringing from the phone on the counter next to me was giving me a headache. I was growing to hate that sound. The caller, whose identification was ‘unknown,’ hung up just as the answering machine clicked on. I set the black and gold U of I mug down on the counter, a leftover from Spencer’s dorm days, brushed back a lock of bed-head hair from my eyes, and sighed. This whole thing was probably nothing more than a troubled kid playing phone games. What I needed now was an attitude adjustment. I would not worry about this ever again. Or, at least until tomorrow. There were far more important things to focus on this morning, like my blind date later today, and my Action Plan.
My name is Vic—short for Victoria—Morgan and I am a seeker. I’m on a perpetual quest for self-improvement, the meaning of life, the perfect man, inner joy, and a bigger condo. Every woman should have a blueprint for her life, and each day I do something to bring me closer to my goals. I call it my VMAP (Victoria Morgan Action Plan). The way I see it, you can give up, stagnate, and die a slow, boring death as the years roll by, or you can push yourself to live life to the fullest, no matter how old you are. Think of women who have improved over the years, becoming more powerful as they aged: Eleanor Roosevelt, Mother Teresa, Tina Turner . . . .
I choose life.
Primary objective of the day: boost brain power. According to recent studies, using your left hand if you’re right-handed encourages your brain to use alternate pathways, generating increased neuronal connections and cell growth. This new research data brings me hope, since I may have killed off a couple thousand brain cells at a divorce party last Friday. All was going well for the first fifteen minutes of the day, until I tried to brush my shoulder-length, chestnut brown hair with my left hand and smacked myself in the eye with my wooden brush. At least it’s a start—let’s look at it that way. The swelling should go down in a few days. Note to self: Allow extra time for leg shaving this morning.
My age is . . . let’s just say I’m forty-something. The French have a wonderful expression, “A woman of a certain age.” It evokes mystery, sophistication, and a certain je ne sais quoi, which is French for “I can’t come up with the right English word to use here.” Adhering to a quasi-sensible diet, I’ve managed to keep my weight down, but that means I’m usually starving. There’s always a price to pay. Elizabeth Taylor once said, “Show me a girl with a good figure, and I’ll show you a hungry girl.”
As a seeker, I feel it’s essential to take stock from time to time—assess where you are, where you’ve been, and where you’re going. And, after some intense soul searching during a weekend vision quest at a luxury seaside resort, I’ve come to the grim conclusion that my life is in critical need of a makeover. Yes, I’m aware a true Native American vision quest requires one to spend several days—and nights—alone, out in the woods, but let’s get real.
Anyway, to jump-start my life and get out of a rut the size of the Grand Canyon, I’ve begun dail
y meditation, visualizing an exciting, new life filled with adventure and romance. Any day now that should be kicking in. Meanwhile, I’m a legal secretary by day, couch potato by night. This demanding schedule is occasionally punctuated by dates with men from an online dating service, lunches with girlfriends, and now apparently a psycho phone-breather.
As the caffeine took effect, lifting my spirits, I pushed the nuisance calls out of my head. I found myself smiling at the thought of my impending coffee date with ‘Soul Daddy,’ a man I met online. He describes himself as a macho guy with a sensitive side, whose turn-ons include movies, travel to erotic places, and walks on the beach at sunset. I’m pretty sure it was a typo and he meant to say exotic. Nevertheless, based on our correspondence over the last few weeks, I have to say I’m feeling pretty good about him. Tall, dark, and handsome and, as near as I can tell, reasonably sane, he may just be The One.
My determined foray into online dating has returned less than stellar results so far. The trick is finding a single man in my age category who is intelligent, has done at least some amount of exercising in recent years, and doesn’t spend most of the conversation complaining about how his evil ex-wife took all his money, or left him for another man, or both. But, I’m not giving up. I keep thinking Prince Charming really does exist, and he’s out there somewhere. I blame Disney for that.
In the midst of pouring a second cup of coffee, the sudden, shrill ring from my kitchen phone jolted me from my daydreams. I flung a couple of paper towels at the spill on the floor then leaned nervously across the counter to read the caller ID. Relief flooded through me as I reached for the receiver and greeted my old friend Amanda.
A former model and current owner of her own stunningly successful modeling/talent agency, Amanda was calling to ask if I’d joined Facebook yet. She is relentlessly on the cutting edge of what’s hot and new and finally convinced me to join because, after all, you can’t be a complete person these days without considering technology. I assured her that yes, I was hip and complete, and joined a few weeks ago, although truthfully, I haven’t spent a lot of time figuring it out.
We discussed tomorrow’s lunch with the girls, former school chums and sorority sisters. Once a month we gather at our favorite restaurant to visit and solve the world’s problems with verve, with style, with critical insights, and with cocktails.
After we hung up I looked at the clock on my stove and gasped. It was high noon—time to get ready for my date with destiny. My heart rate ratcheted up a couple of notches. Who knows, this could be it. Soul Daddy may be the man of my dreams. I could fall deeply in love and live happily ever after. It could happen.
Following a shower and several changes of clothes, I went with my standard uniform: black slacks, black open toed heels, and a light-weight, white cotton sweater. I have at least five sweaters in my closet in varying degrees of white, and about the same amount of black slacks. Note to self: Opening up to new experiences grows neurons. As soon as my date is over, I’m going straight to the mall to buy a pink sweater and beef up my brain.
On the way out of my condo, I grabbed my powder blue rain jacket and matching polka-dot umbrella, then locked the door behind me and walked down the short flight of stairs leading to the parking lot and my unattached garage.
My next-door neighbor and I share a common front porch and, as luck would have it, we passed each other as he ascended the steps. “Who is this shadowy guy?” I constantly wonder, possibly bordering on obsession. He’s undeniably good looking, seems busy, but doesn’t appear to have any kind of a job. I’ve noticed him coming and going at all different times of the day and night, but then sometimes I don’t see him for weeks at a time. I’m guessing he’s in his early forties, and he obviously works out a lot, based on his tight, muscular body. Today, I observed with feigned disinterest, he was dressed in jeans and a gray T-shirt, his usual attire, but occasionally I’ve seen him in expensive suits. He stands about six-foot-one, has tan skin and wavy, longish black hair with a touch of graying at the temples. As we passed each other he gave me a sexy smile, said, “Hey,” then breezed up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Now, I don’t know a thing about this mystery man except that he is one big, hot slice of sexy. His dark, liquid eyes are like pools of melted chocolate, and the few times that I’ve gazed into them made me stop and catch my breath. Additionally intriguing is the sweet, jet-black Porsche Boxster he drives. Wonder how an unemployed guy can afford a car like that. What does he do? Is he a male escort? A model? A hit man? A drug dealer? Does he have a girlfriend? Does he have a boyfriend? Maybe he’s living on an inheritance. No, if he were rich he wouldn’t be living in the condo next to mine. This is one of life’s little mysteries that I plan on resolving someday soon.
I shook it off. There was no time for shameless fantasizing. Not when Prince Charming awaited me. I raised the door to my one-car garage and climbed into my old silver Subaru station wagon. A relic from my divorce five years ago, it doesn’t exactly scream ‘hip’ but it’s paid for and gets me over the mountains in the wintertime, and that counts for something. After carefully backing out of the narrow bay, I closed the door, glanced at my watch, then lead-footed it to my rendezvous at the coffee shop.
En route, the sun momentarily popped its head out of the overcast sky and I decided that was a good sign. Light traffic was an additional bonus and I actually arrived a couple of minutes early. With calculated nonchalance and an elevated heart rate I entered the Starbucks on Northeast Eighth Street in Bellevue, and took a quick gander around. Luscious aromas of freshly brewed coffee, and pastries warming in the oven infused the air of the cozy espresso shop, making my mouth water. Fortunately the sparse crowd at this time of day would make it easier to spot my date. Near the fireplace, a man with a strong resemblance to Frasier’s dad turned the pages of his newspaper. A few tables away two women in pastel jogging suits chatted over their lattes, and not far from them, a freckle-faced teen with a tall iced tea and a half-eaten sandwich was hunched over his laptop, typing briskly, oblivious to the rest of the world.
Fairly confident that none of them was Soul Daddy, I took a seat at a small table near the window, a discrete distance from the other patrons, and tried to conjure up some clever opening lines. I nervously checked my watch, touched up my lipstick, and double-checked my swollen eye. The makeup was holding up well and, based on the artful way I’d applied my concealer and eye shadow, I was positive he wouldn’t even notice. In an effort to appear casual and self-assured I crossed my legs and pasted an enigmatic smile on my face, then awaited the new love of my life. Exactly two minutes later the door slowly opened and he entered the room.
CHAPTER TWO
“When you discover you are riding a dead horse, the best strategy is to dismount.” —Dakota proverb
*******
Soul Daddy had three great pictures on e-soulmate, and one bad one. He looked worse than the bad one. He seemed much older than he indicated in his bio, but maybe it was his stooped shoulders and shuffling gait that gave me that impression. Let’s try and have an open mind here—looks aren’t everything—I should find out who he is as a person. I vowed not to be shallow; give him a chance to sweep me off my feet. I waved him over, we said our hellos, and I shook his frail, liver-spotted hand. He gently lowered himself into the seat across from me, leaned in and squinted at me.
“What happened to your eye?”
“Just a slight hair brush incident this morning,” I replied breezily and angled my uninjured side towards him. “The swelling should go down any time now.”
He pursed his lips. “Looks painful. What can I get you to drink?” He stood up again, pulled a faded brown wallet from the back pocket of his plaid Bermuda shorts and withdrew a folded slip of pink paper. The edges were raggedy and worn and he carefully unfolded the paper to avoid tearing it.
Regarding him curiously, I replied, “A small mocha would be very nice. What’re you going to have?”
“I think I’
ll go with a cup of hot water.”
“Just hot water?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.
“Yes.” He smiled with satisfaction. “I’ve been saving this coupon from my dentist for a special occasion, and this will just about cover it all.” He held it up proudly for me to see.
Mental sigh.
This is the guy who claims he loves to travel to exotic places. Clearly, he doesn’t do that. Unless he considers Tacoma exotic.
As we chatted and sipped our beverages, I learned that Soul Daddy’s real name was Ronald Schrencker. Ronald asked me how my mocha was and I told him it was just right. Then I asked him how his hot water was and he reported that it was good and not too hot. Evidently he didn’t recognize my smart-aleck attempt at humor.
Ronald’s into horticulture and knows all the Latin names of flowers and plants. I told him the flowers in the pots on my front porch were red ones. At least they used to be before they died. Not sure if I watered them too much, or too little. It’s a fine line really.
After thirty minutes of scintillating plant talk and hearing how his ex-wife ripped him off, my cell phone rang. It was my sister, Nikki J coming to my rescue. Nikki’s real name is Susan, but she feels that name doesn’t reflect her true essence. A free spirit, she often reinvents herself, and her usually long brown hair is now short, spiky, and blonde. Nikki and I have an arrangement: whenever one of us has a blind date, the other one calls thirty minutes into the date. If the date is going well, we ignore the call. It the date is tanking, we answer the call and hear about an emergency that requires us to take immediate action and depart at once.
I quickly answered and Nikki told me, in a monotone voice, that her imaginary cat, Ramone, was stuck in a tree, and she was beside herself, beside the tree. In the background, I could just make out a rhythmic little scraping sound. Probably filing her fingernails. I told her to calm down, call the fire department and I’d be there right away. Admittedly, it wasn’t the best emergency excuse. Obviously Nikki was not feeling very creative today—but what can you do?
