by D. C. Brod
Before I could answer, Gwen smiled and said, “He’s one you’ve got to keep your eye on.”
“Yes,” I said with a sigh. “I worry so.”
Gwen was frowning as I excused myself. I didn’t see any point in continuing a dialogue with her and her friends. I had already staked out the restroom (three beers), and I found it again without a problem. Afterwards, I wandered around, looking for Mick. I knew he wouldn’t leave without me, but I wondered where he’d disappeared to. There’d been that Rudy guy giving off weird vibes, and I didn’t see him anywhere either.
I walked out onto the porch and stood by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on the back of the estate. The cool breeze chilled me a little.
“You’re Mick’s friend.”
I turned to see who the British accent belonged to and was surprised to find Rudy standing behind me.
“Yes,” I said. “Robyn Guthrie.”
He bowed slightly. “A pleasure.”
“And you are.?” I cocked my head.
“Rudy Dresser.”
“Nice to meet you.” On closer inspection, Rudy proved to have a rather nice smile.
“How do you know Mick?” I asked.
“We go way back.” The smile deepened. “Also, he’s my accountant.”
“Mine too.”
I glanced around, looking for Mick. This man’s eyes were disconcerting. Seeing no relief in sight, I said, “Are you a racing fan as well?”
He shrugged, and I saw a trace of amusement in those pale eyes. “Inasmuch as I enjoy beautiful things.” He gave me a nod.
“Yes, thoroughbreds are amazing.” I pushed a strand of damp hair off my forehead and noticed that Rudy’s eyes tracked my hand.
Then he said, “Speaking of beautiful, that’s a lovely ring you’re wearing.”
“Oh.” I glanced down at my hand. “It’s my mother’s.” It was an art deco ring—one of the pieces she had given me when she moved into Dryden. “She doesn’t wear it anymore.”
He placed his fingers under mine, lifting my hand and angling it for a better look. “And it should be worn. Most definitely.”
“Thank you. I like it.”
“It’s charming.” With a dry smile he added, “Could use a bit of cleaning.”
As he released my hand, I took another look at the ring. Clear stones and indigo blue stones combined to resemble a small, bejeweled bow. I’d always loved it but assumed the stones were glass.
“You should get it appraised,” he said.
“Really? I wonder what it’s worth.” The words just fell out of me and must have conveyed the wishful thinking of one who needed a serious influx of cash. Fast.
He laughed. “I doubt it’s enough to retire on, but it’s something you might want to consider insuring.” With a shrug he added, “Perhaps a thousand or two.”
No, that wasn’t enough. Still, it made me wonder where my mother would have gotten such a ring. Not from Wyman. “Thanks, I will have it appraised. Maybe I’ll get it cleaned too.”
“There you are.”
I looked over my shoulder to see Mick approaching. He put his arm around my shoulder—a little awkward given the two inches I had on him—and said, “I see you’ve met Rudy.”
“Yes,” I turned to Mick and saw he was eyeing Rudy. “I’ve just learned the ring I’ve been tossing on the kitchen counter when I make turkey meatballs should be insured.”
That got Mick’s attention. “Nice,” he said as I flashed the ring. Then he took my hand and said, “Why don’t we take you and that ring home?”
Was it just me or was Mick getting a little possessive? I decided to play along. “Can’t wait to see that ferret of yours.”
Mick rolled his eyes and then nodded to Rudy. “Talk to you tomorrow,” he said.
“Nice to meet you, Robyn.”
“Likewise.”
When Mick pulled the Porsche up to my apartment, he turned toward me, his hand resting on the shift knob, and said, “You inviting me up?” He sounded hopeful.
“No,” I answered after a moment. The beers’ effect had abated and sanity had returned. Still, I remembered the taste of his mouth and his touch that was both deft and gentle, and it was with some regret that I stifled those second thoughts. I’d been in my apartment for two years and the only men who had been in it had been there to repair a fixture or to deliver a package. I knew if I invited him up we would have sex—not a bad thing—but then he would want to talk about the Sassy affair, and I would have to tell him that it was the beer talking. And then I’d have to ask myself if everything that followed had also been the talking suds. If I ever invited him into my bed it would be with a head not muddied by booze.
He pressed his lips together and sighed. “How come?”
“I’m not ready to complicate my life—not in that way.”
“You were ready in the barn.”
“I know.” I smiled and added, “Having a horse and a goat for an audience turns me on.”
“You’re an exhibitionist.” He nodded to himself as though confirming a thought.
“I guess I am.”
“I’ve got a friend who raises goats.” He shrugged. “Bet I could be back with one in a half hour.”
I laughed, and he lifted his hand off the steering wheel in a can’t-say-I-didn’t-try gesture.
“Okay, so how about I come by tomorrow, and we can talk about your idea.”
“It was a three-beer idea. Worth about that much.”
He frowned, squinted as he cocked his head. “If Edison thought that, we wouldn’t have electricity.”
“Edison drank?”
“I’d bet on it.”
I leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek, which he didn’t respond to, but continued to hold onto my gaze when I drew away. In the dim light provided by the setting sun, I couldn’t read his eyes, but I didn’t think I needed to.
“Thank you,” I said, and then added, “I didn’t go just because of Bull.”
“Sure,” he said.
I changed into my walking shoes and after taking Bix around the block, I checked my voice mail. None of the Mary Waltners had called, and the only message was the one from Jane Goodwin, which, for some reason, I had saved. I deleted it.
I sat down and poured myself a scotch and thought about my mother’s situation. If I told Jane Goodwin yes, I would have to move my mother in two weeks—after explaining it all to her. If I told her no, I would either have to come up with the money or I would have to move to a larger place. I couldn’t do that again. Could I? If that possibility—however remote—didn’t give me impetus to steal, kidnap, whatever, then nothing would.
Tomorrow morning I would reevaluate the scheme. In the daylight, with my sanity and sobriety returned, I was sure it wouldn’t be worth considering any longer. But I would wait until then to decide.
I watched Bix, splayed on the floor chewing a dog biscuit I’d given him. Sassy was three times the size of my dog, and probably wouldn’t stop at dog biscuits. It didn’t take much to imagine him feasting on furniture and peeling off the wallpaper in the kitchen. And when I considered what a goat would do to Bix’s sensitive psyche, well, I knew it wasn’t worth considering further.
By the time I’d worked that out, I had finished my drink. I almost poured myself another, but I try to set my limit at one, although I will admit to pouring a rather dark scotch.
I changed into a T-shirt and slipped into bed. The storm had cooled the air and it was nice sleeping with the window open. I lay my hand in the space beside me on the bed and tried to decide if I was sorry I’d rejected Mick’s advances. Maybe a little. He’d kissed with passion and took his time. And, given the situation—being in someone else’s barn and all, that had to take something—either incredible concentration or a complete disregard for consequences. He’d been a jockey. He probably had a bit of both.
I rolled over on my side and tucked one hand into the cool underside of my pillow. But when I clos
ed my eyes, sleep was the last thing my body wanted to do. Images rioted in my mind—my mother, Willoway, cigarettes, Mick, Bull and Gwen, Blood, Sassy—and I didn’t know how to turn them off.
I sighed into my pillow. If Mick were here, I wouldn’t be counting leaping goats. That’s for damned sure.
CHAPTER 11
I woke with a mild hangover: Not the searing headache precipitated by consuming too much red wine, but that “my head is stuffed with cotton” feeling and a stomach doing flip flops, thanks to the combination of beer and scotch. The scotch god is a jealous one—the unfaithful are punished. I turned off the radio and rolled over, seeking oblivion. But my brain picked right up on the looping thread from last night—my mother... Mick... goats—and I knew I stood a better chance of putting these thoughts out of my mind by getting out of bed and doing something.
So I got up, threw on a T-shirt and jeans and drank a large glass of orange juice, followed with a bowl of Cheerios and a banana.
While walking Bix, I ticked off my tasks. I had an article to finish. I had to handle my mother’s demand for a séance, I had to give Jane Goodwin my answer, and then I had to deal with that decision because, in the sobering light of day, I realized the one thing I was not going to do today was steal a goat.
I decided to finish the article first because, frankly, that was the easiest to face. This meant I had to visit Erika at her shop to ask some follow-up questions, so at the same time I could talk to her about another séance.
While I took a quick shower, I thought back on that insane discussion Mick and I had had in the barn. (Not to mention the lapse of self-control.) It was a parlor game, really. Stealing a goat and holding it for ransom. Ridiculous. I would not bring it up again and hoped that Mick would do the same. And maybe it was time to change accountants.
When I arrived at Erika’s shop, there was a man sitting at the desk in the reception area. He was in his late forties with broad shoulders, which contrasted with a narrow nose that was the centerpiece of an outstanding face. When he looked up from his cell phone, I had to remind myself to keep moving. I’m not usually bowled over by a man’s looks, sensing, perhaps unfairly, that a gorgeous man was apt to be as faithless, and as preening, as a rooster. But his rather sharp features were offset by kind eyes, and the slight smile he gave me produced a set of dimples. His brows rose a fraction of an inch and he raised a finger as though asking me to wait a moment. Then he said into the phone, “Yeah, I know, but...”
I wondered if he was Erika’s receptionist. He wore a rust-colored T-shirt that accentuated the cut of his arms. The conversation he was conducting didn’t sound work-related. Although he wasn’t talking loudly, and I wasn’t straining to listen, I picked up words such as “next week” and “Dallas.”
Nevertheless, if he wanted to give me his attention, I decided I would be grateful for it.
I felt those friendly eyes follow me as I walked past the desk, seeking some distraction that would allow me to refocus. I’d noticed the smell when I’d walked in—a mix of fruits and spices—and I saw that, since Friday, Erika had begun peddling psychic paraphernalia. I walked over to the shelves to see what was for sale. Aside from candles, incense and crystals, there were also sets of Tarot cards and a small tray of amulets ranging from pentagrams to bats. A single shelf was filled with books on Tarot cards, crystal balls and one on the psychic power of animals. I picked up the latter, thinking perhaps I was a mere 189 pages away from learning why Bix attacked the vacuum.
I was skimming a paragraph on reading a dog’s body language, when the rooster spoke. “Are you here to see Erika?”
I glanced over my shoulder. “Yes. I’m Robyn Guthrie. Are you the receptionist?”
A quick smile. “No, I’m Jack Landis. Her brother.” He stood and walked around the desk—I just knew he’d look amazing in a pair of jeans—leaning his butt against its edge and crossing his arms over his chest.
“So Starwise must be her married name.”
That made him laugh and, although it was a little on the high-pitched side, it fit the rest of him. Then, with a sheepish shrug, he crossed one ankle over the other, grinned and said, “I’m afraid that was my idea. Not the Starwise. Just that Erika Landis didn’t sound... authentic.” He finished with a half-hearted shrug and then locked his gaze onto mine. “Name withstanding, she is the real thing.”
I nodded agreeably.
His brows drew together as if something about me had belatedly sparked a memory. “Are you that reporter who’s doing the story on
Erika?”
“I am.”
“Oh.” He drew the word out to two syllables and just nodded, looking me over.
I glanced to either side. “Am I infamous?”
“Not really. She said it was an interesting session.”
“I guess you could say that.”
“She’s got a client now. Shouldn’t be long.”
I cocked my chin. “Are you psychic?”
He laughed and shook his head. “No. I’m afraid Erika is the only one who inherited our grandmother’s gift.”
“Your grandmother?”
“Yeah. She could predict the gender of a child six months before it was born.”
“I guess ultrasounds put her out of business.”
That earned me an amused grin, and Jack looked like he was about to respond when the first few notes from the James Bond theme erupted from his phone. He flipped it open to answer the call.
I went back to the book, silently cursing the inventors of all annoying conveniences, and attempted to focus on the words before me. But that proved difficult because the paragraph I read made no sense—something about using a Ouija board with your dog. Still, I kept skimming the page. I wanted to keep busy because I figured if Jack and I continued to talk, I would blather, and he would know that maturity didn’t necessarily have anything to do with social grace. As it was, he was eyeing me, I thought, with some interest, and I didn’t want to disillusion him too early. I was nothing, if not patient.
Out of the corner of my eye, an item on the countertop caught my attention. I set the book down and picked up a small, gold-colored metal bowl containing a wooden stick that was padded at one end in an embroidered red and turquoise material. I lifted the stick from the bowl and stood there for a moment, not sure whether I should whack the bowl’s side or just return it to the shelf before I embarrassed myself.
“It’s a Tibetan singing bowl.”
I looked up to find Jack standing right behind me. His eyes were a tawny shade of brown and he had long, feminine lashes. He blinked once.
“Really,” I said.
“It’s used for meditation.”
“It sings?”
“You have to make it sing.”
“Ah.” I lifted the stick out of the bowl. “Does it do requests?” I asked, then instantly regretted the sarcasm.
One of those dimples flashed in his left cheek. “Just let it sit on your palm. So you’re not touching the bowl part. Then rub the outside rim with the stick.”
I tried, but I was holding the stick like a fork and not having much success.
“Like this,” he said and took my hand, adjusting my grip so the padded part of the wooden stick circled the outside of the bowl, barely touching its rim. “A gentle touch on the rim...” He guided my hand around it. His hand was soft, but his fingertips rough, calloused. “Keep the pressure even.”
After a turn around the rim, he released my hand and I kept going. The bowl began to hum.
“Increase the speed as it begins to vibrate.”
Behind me, his voice was a whisper in my ear, and I believe I began to vibrate before the bowl did. But the sound grew, filling my head and then every crevice in the room with the hum and vibration. It was an all-consuming sound, but mellow. The bowl trembled in my hand.
A door clicked. “Robyn Guthrie.”
I clamped my hand on the bowl—the room went silent—and lost my grip on the stick. It fell to the car
pet and Jack scooped it up and handed it to me with a little smile. He then returned to his perch on the desk.
Erika now stood at the door to the back of the shop, arms crossed over her chest, watching me. “I’d like to buy this,” I said, raising the bowl.
She glanced from Jack to me and then turned to the young woman standing just behind her who had purple-and-white-streaked hair and a stud in her left nostril.
“Thank you so much, Erika,” the young woman said as she gripped the strap of her hemp bag with both hands.
“I’ll see you next week,” Erika told her.
The young woman cast more than a casual glance in Jack’s direction as she walked past us and out the door.
Then the three of us stood looking at each other in the silence for several moments. Erika’s arms were crossed over her chest and her posture was quite rigid. She wore a thick, gold bangle bracelet on one wrist and a ring with a large black stone.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Erika,” I began. “But the other night I left in kind of a hurry. There were a few background questions I needed to ask you. And I also need to get a photo.”
She shook her head. “That won’t be necessary.”
“It’ll go with the story.”
“I don’t like having my picture taken.”
I thought of those primitive people who, when first introduced to the camera, believed it would steal their souls. I wondered what Erika’s problem was.
I slipped my hand into my satchel and pulled out a small digital camera. “I’ll let you see it before I use it.”
“No.” Erika wore her stern look—it was one she favored, but then I guess I didn’t expect someone who regularly communed with the dead to project a warm and fuzzy aura.
“You don’t have to pose or anything,” I added. “In fact, it would be better if you were doing something.” I stepped back and looked around the office. There really wasn’t much to work with here. I knew better than to suggest I get a shot of her face cast in the eerie glow of a crystal ball. “Maybe standing beside the counter with the curtain behind you. It would help the article. An article with a photo gets a larger percentage of readers than one without.” While this was logical, it had nothing to do with why I wanted the photo anymore. And the more she balked, the more determined I became. I wasn’t going home without a photo of this woman.
