by Anne Canadeo
“Gee . . . that would be a trauma. But why not hire a private investigator if you want to find someone from your past?” Suzanne asked.
“Perhaps she’d tried that and it didn’t work.” Maggie shrugged, helping herself to another spoonful of vegetables. “People do turn to psychics as a last resort sometimes. When logical solutions fail.”
“Very true, Maggie,” Lucy said. “I’m not sure of the details here, but it seems that this event was a secret, one the woman kept from her family. Cassandra used that secret to manipulate the client, first wheedling money out of her to ‘cleanse the bad karma,’ and then trying to blackmail her. Her husband was a prominent minister in the area and it would have been a huge scandal for the couple if this information came out.
“The woman finally called in the police,” Lucy added, “but never wanted to testify in court. She was afraid of embarrassing her husband. So the case fell apart.”
“I wonder what happened to her marriage,” Suzanne said.
Maggie sighed. “How heartless. How did Cassandra face herself every morning, that’s what I’d like to know. She must have had no conscience at all.”
“One salient trait of a sociopath,” Dana agreed.
“Good job, Lucy.” Suzanne looked up from her dinner, sounding quite impressed. “Lucy has held the floor tonight, Dana. Jack is going to lose his title as our favorite inside source if he doesn’t step up his game.”
“I can see that. I’d better warn him. He’s left for a conference in California on Tuesday night. Conferencing on a golf course, mainly,” Dana said, laughing. “He’d better get back in the loop with his law enforcement pals soon. I’m missing out on all the good stuff.”
“At least we have Lucy,” Suzanne replied. “But if you found all that out so easily,” she said to Lucy, “I guess the police have uncovered it, too.”
“In one-tenth the time,” Lucy said. “Who knows, maybe it wasn’t anyone from around here who ended Cassandra’s long, sordid career. I bet there are dozens of clients in her past who still feel burned and would have loved some revenge.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Dana said. “Personally, I have a strong feeling it was someone from around here. But the police still have to comb through all that out of state history and look for possible leads.”
Maggie sighed and sipped her wine. “At this rate, Charles won’t have a weekend off until Christmas.”
“Take heart, Mag,” Suzanne said, trying to cheer her. “I know Cassandra’s dirty laundry is overwhelming. But maybe it’s just what it looked like, a robbery gone bad. And the police will figure it out pretty quickly.”
“Possibly . . . except that there was no sign of forced entry, or a struggle,” Dana reminded them. “The police have said from the start that Cassandra most likely knew her attacker. Or had no reason to fear them. Which probably eliminates most of the burned and bitter clients from her past.”
“The murder came calling and she let them in, without any concern. Same as Jimmy Hubbard,” Lucy noted.
“That’s right. . . . Do the police think there’s any connection between the two murders? Even Charles should be able to tell you that, Maggie,” Suzanne said.
“He should be . . . but he hasn’t,” Maggie said.
“At least I can jump in here,” Dana said. “Jack did say something about that investigation before he left. The police found Jimmy’s name on Cassandra’s client list, too. It seems he visited her for at least two appointments.”
“That’s interesting.” Suzanne had cleared off their dishes and was setting out bowls for dessert. “Maybe she was connected in some way with his drug dealing. It sounds like Cassandra Waters knew no limits when it came to predatory behavior.”
A sobering point, but very true, Lucy thought.
“I’m just curious, Lucy. You said Mullens was her married name. Where’s her husband now, does it say? And were there any children?” Suzanne asked.
Lucy leafed through the pile of pages again. “Let me check. Barry Mullens was her husband’s name. They divorced in 1995 and it says here he died a few years ago. But there was a daughter, Daphne. About twenty-two years old by now. She lives in Arizona, too. In Sedona.” Lucy looked up at her friends.
“Sedona? Isn’t that a real New Age hot spot?” Suzanne replied. “People say the mountains give off vibrations that make you dizzy, and space aliens are hanging around all over the place.”
“Were you a travel agent in your past life?” Dana said, laughing. “That was some sales pitch.”
“I’ve been there. The red rock mountains are very beautiful,” Maggie said wistfully. “There are some New Age spas and all that. But wonderful hiking in the red hills, too. It is the perfect address for a psychic’s daughter.”
“I wonder if she’ll come east to claim her mother’s body,” Lucy mused.
“Hard to say,” Maggie said. “Even though they lived in the same state, I’m guessing that the self-serving Cassandra was not a model mother.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” Suzanne’s eyes rolled back as she dished out scoops of gelato. “Can you imagine it? Your mother is some sleazy, hustling psychic? Alexis is mortified if her friends catch me wearing mom jeans.”
Lucy made a face. “Sorry, but those jeans are bad.”
She didn’t really think so, but couldn’t resist a chance to get back at Suzanne for all the teasing she doled out.
“Seriously? I’m getting fashion advice from a woman whose shopping checklist is comfort, cheapness, and how well does this fabric wick perspiration during a workout?”
“Point made,” Lucy said with a laugh. Those weren’t her main criteria . . . but close enough.
“I like the way Lucy dresses. She definitely has her own style,” Dana said, quickly coming to her defense. “But what you said about Cassandra is true, Maggie. Her sad history doesn’t bode well for a mother-daughter relationship. I guess we’ll just have to see if Daphne Mullens turns up.”
Chapter Nine
As she had promised, Dana joined Lucy for another early morning bike ride on Saturday. They met at Lucy’s house, planning to ride along the beach road, then down to the village.
“There’s Ivy Lane,” Dana called out soon after they started. “I just want to see where Cassandra lived.”
Something in Lucy balked at the idea. She hated to be another lookie-look, and what was there to see anyway, but a run-down rented cottage? Most likely, still ringed by yellow police tape.
But when Dana swung around the corner, Lucy followed. Dana quickly picked out Cassandra’s house—the unmistakable yellow tape was still up—and slowly circled in front. Lucy pulled up to the curb across the street and balanced there, waiting for Dana to glide over.
“There it is. The scene of the crime. Not much to see.”
“Nothing,” Dana agreed. “But I was curious. I wonder what the neighbors are saying. They must be very upset by what went on here.”
“Upset . . . and maybe relieved that she’s gone,” Lucy said bluntly.
As the truth slowly emerged about the psychic, the way she’d manipulated and exploited the Gordons and the trail of ill deeds in her wake, Lucy felt she had escaped a close brush with a truly dangerous person.
“Look, a police car.” Lucy followed Dana’s glance to see a police cruiser coming down the street. A small green compact followed. As the vehicles turned into Cassandra’s driveway, Lucy and Dana looked at each other.
“Let’s go down the block a bit and watch,” Dana said. “I don’t want to stand here gawking.”
“Good plan. We’ll gawk from down the street,” Lucy mumbled as she pushed off from the curb.
At a wooded stretch of vacant land, halfway down the block, Dana got off her bike and began fiddling with the clamp on her seat, moving the height up and down.
“Something wrong with your seat?” Lucy asked.
“Just acting like there is so the police don’t come over and ask why we’re hanging around h
ere.”
“Oh, right. I’ll try to look thirsty.” Lucy already had her water bottle in hand and took a long sip. She doubted the police even noticed them. “They’re probably going back inside to check something. Or maybe take the tape down. They must be done holding it as a crime scene by now.”
“Not necessarily.”
Two uniformed officers had gotten out of the cruiser. One walked up to the front door and unfastened the large lockbox that was fixed to the doorknob, pulling down a strip of yellow tape or two in the process.
The other was talking to the driver of the green car, through the driver’s-side window. Finally he stepped back and the car door opened. A young woman emerged. Slim and petite, she had smooth dark hair, bobbed to her chin in a stylish, ragged cut. She wore large sunglasses and a white sundress.
It was impossible to spot a true resemblance from that distance, but something in the girl’s build, the way she walked—her posture and the tilt of her chin—made Lucy feel absolutely certain that she was Cassandra’s daughter.
“Daphne Mullens?” she said quietly, glancing at Dana.
“Highly likely.” Dana was transfixed and didn’t look back at Lucy until the door of the house closed tight. “She must have asked to see the house where her mother was living. Maybe the police will let her look through her mother’s belongings while they supervise. If they don’t need the house anymore as a crime scene.”
“How sad. Can you imagine that? That poor girl.”
Lucy sat on her bike again and started off. Dana did the same. There was nothing left to see.
“It is very sad. I guess they had some relationship, if she came all this way to sort out Cassandra’s affairs,” Dana said as she followed Lucy.
“What about Cassandra’s belongings? Maybe her daughter is here to collect all her property.”
“Yes, that, too,” Dana agreed. “Though in light of the news articles you found, there’re probably a lot of valuables in that cottage that didn’t belong to Cassandra. And are probably logged in as evidence by now.”
“Cash and jewelry with bad energy, in the midst of spiritual cleansing, you mean?” Lucy couldn’t help her sardonic tone.
“Exactly. She was a regular spiritual money laundress, wasn’t she? Only there were no claim tickets, and only her clients’ wallets got cleaned out,” Dana added.
“How do the police handle that? I mean, if they found a lot of jewelry and cash in her house? Or, maybe she kept her stash in a safe-deposit box. How can they say what was legally hers and belongs to her estate, and what was stolen from clients?”
“That’s a good question. I suppose any valuables are suspect. But clients have to come forward and admit that they gave things to her for that cleansing scam. As you noticed in those news articles, a lot of people are embarrassed to admit they’ve been taken advantage of that way and they never go to the police. But the police must have a list that includes some of those items. I don’t think people like the Gordons, who paid for sessions and advice, can get any money back. I’m going to ask Jack about that,” Dana added.
They had come to a steep hill and both women bore down on the pedals with greater intensity. Dana’s smooth, superior gears and lighter bike helped her move quickly into the lead.
But Lucy took pride in the fact that she was barely a bike length behind, owing mainly to her muscle power.
At the top of the hill, Dana pulled over and took a sip of water. “That was a tough one. Now for the fun part.”
Lucy eyed the perilous downhill slope that faced them and smiled. “Right . . . the fun part,” she said, forcing herself to agree.
They rode on as they had planned and didn’t talk about Daphne Mullens or Cassandra Waters again. When they reached the village, they decided to grab smoothies at the farmers’ market, which was set up near the harbor every Saturday. Lucy chose fresh berries and yogurt, Dana ordered wheatgrass and greens. Balancing oversize cups on their handles, they pedaled up Main Street to the knitting shop and left their bikes in the driveway.
Knitting Camp had just finished and a pack of harried, perspiring parents had collected on the porch and path, waiting for the students to emerge.
Lucy always found the young knitters amazingly adorable, girls around Dara’s age or slightly older, with soft, bouncing ponytails and braids, knobby knees, and here or there a smile full of braces.
They all seemed very cheerful and pleased with their projects—colorful knitted creatures, with ears, tails, wings, and funny fangs—stuffed and ready to be admired immediately by moms and dads.
Maggie had followed the flock and stood in the doorway, looking satisfied, but definitely tired—much more than she did after an adult class.
As the group drifted off, Dana and Lucy were able to make their way to the porch. “The cyclists have landed,” Maggie declared. “Did you have a good ride?”
“We did.” Lucy nodded and flopped in a wicker chair.
“A very good workout. Lots of hills. Lucy is going to kill in Boston, in her little blue dress.” Dana took a chair nearby. She had remembered to pack her knitting and had stowed it in a small saddlebag that hung from her rear wheel. She set it on a table and started on her smoothie first.
Lucy had not brought her knitting, though she was eager to finish her tote bag project. She felt too hot to knit now anyway.
She wanted to tell Maggie about spotting Daphne Mullens, Cassandra’s daughter. Possibly Cassandra’s daughter, she corrected herself. They didn’t know that for sure.
Just as she was about to bring it up, Edie called from the gate. “Hey, girls . . . I just had a minute, thought I’d run over.”
“Hi, Edie. Do you need anything?” Maggie watched her walk up the path. “How’s that baby jacket coming?”
“That little sucker is done. Working on the booties now.” Edie sat in the porch swing, just about filling the love seat width. She fanned herself with a pattern sheet, left over from Knitting Camp.
“Want some iced tea?” Maggie turned to a large pitcher set up on a table nearby, along with some glasses and thin butter cookies.
“That would be delightful. I never get such good service back at the Schooner. Water, water everywhere. Never a spare minute for a drink,” Edie murmured, mangling the famous scrap of poetry. She sipped gratefully on the cold tea, ice cubes, and lemon slices bobbing in her glass and then set it down.
“Well, I’ve got some news,” Edie said finally. “You girls aren’t the only ones in town with your ears to the ground.”
Lucy smiled at her. “I think you caught the bug from us.”
“Not from me,” Maggie interjected. “I’m no longer contagious.” She pressed a hand to her chest and offered an innocent look.
“What did you hear, Edie? Something about the investigation into the psychic’s death?” Dana asked.
Edie shook her head. “Nope. About Jimmy Hubbard. You’ve all heard he was probably dealing drugs out of the theater, right? Charlene Vertucci, that reporter for the Plum Harbor Times, was just eating lunch at the counter. She told me the police have brought in a guy for questioning who may have killed him. They’re calling him ‘a person of interest,’ but we all know what that means. They’re only ‘interested’ when they think you’re guilty.”
“Not necessarily. But fairly often,” Dana conceded. “Who is it? Did Charlene know?”
“I can’t remember the guy’s name. It’s some fellow who works at a Quik-Stop sub shop near the highway. The police are looking for him right now. They say this guy was coming around a lot to see Jimmy, always at the back door. The boy who worked there told them that. They think the drugs were involved in some way. Either buying or selling them. And something went sour between them.”
“Sounds like a strong lead,” Dana said. “I guess we’ll hear more on the local news tonight, if it pans out to anything.”
“Do the police think this sub shop clerk is connected to Cassandra’s murder, too?” Lucy asked.
“Th
e reporter didn’t say. But I hope so.” Edie shook her head and put her glass aside. “I don’t care who killed Jimmy,” she said bluntly. “He was no good, getting kids hooked on drugs, and got just what he deserved, in my book. I just want the police to find the person who killed Cassandra. They’re starting to ask my poor niece too many questions. I don’t like it. It makes me very nervous.”
With a hand pressed to her chest, she took a fast sharp breath. Lucy glanced at Dana, ready to spring into some emergency CPR.
But Edie soon sat back and sighed, swinging back and forth and fanning herself again.
“There’s been a development there . . . between Nora and Richard. Very bad,” she said quietly, shaking her head. “I don’t know how they’ll ever come back from this.”
Lucy knew immediately what she meant. A knot of nerves massed in her stomach. She stared at Maggie but her friend didn’t turn her head to meet her gaze, her attention focused on Edie.
Edie sighed and stopped the porch swing. “Richard was telling Cassandra things about Kyle. Things the boy might say and do. So that Nora would believe her. To make her feel happier, Richard says,” Edie slowly explained. “Did you ever hear of such a thing?”
She stared around at the women, who stared back with blank expressions.
“We know, Edie,” Maggie replied finally. She glanced at Lucy. “Richard told Lucy the other day. It’s a long story why. But Lucy told us the other night, at our meeting. I intended to tell you. But frankly, I think it’s better that you heard it from Nora first.”
“So you all knew before me?” Edie seemed shocked and maybe even angry. She stared back at Maggie.
