I went back to where the installer was working. “Do you happen to know of any good electricians? And by good, I mean cheap.”
“I could give you a few names, but don’t count on them being cheap or fast. With all the old houses around here, it will be at least a few weeks to get anybody out, especially if it’s a small job.”
Maybe Curtis would have a connection—an electrical connection. In the meantime, I was curious to know more about the death of Harold Attwood. Beverly had told the truth. Harold had fallen and hit his head on the corner of the fireplace. But what about the other spot on the floor? It looked identical to the bloodstain. Could it have really been spaghetti sauce or was it already there before the party? Ugh. Now I was calling it a party, too.
Curtis had implied Beverly wanted her husband dead. Surely he wasn’t suggesting Beverly killed Harold. I could feel my face flush as blood rushed to my head. That poor woman. She comes home to find her husband dead, and then someone starts whispering she’s a killer. My gut told me she wasn’t. But that meant someone else was.
A clattering noise drew my attention to the kitchen. Cricket sat on the floor next to the bowl of water. I could have sworn she was smiling.
AS SOON AS THE CABLE guy left, I hooked up the router and jumped on the internet to do a search for Harold Attwood from Cascada. Cricket made herself at home on my desk as I clicked away on my laptop. As expected, I found an obituary with all the usual information.
Harold had been an engineer and had owned several construction companies. He was a member of the Cascada Methodist Church and the Cascada Falls Golf Association. Penelope was his only child. He had two grandchildren, presumably from Penelope and Dale, and one great-grandchild. Nothing stood out as unusual or relevant to his death.
I didn’t see any articles about him being found dead in his home. Back in Maycroft, it would have been front-page news.
The internet is such a time suck. Before I knew it, I had spent several hours chasing rabbits down cyber holes. It was time to get out of the house. I wanted to go to the pet store and buy a litter box and a few cat supplies. Apparently, I now owned a cat.
Years ago, my grandparents had expanded the original detached carport into a two-car garage. Cricket followed me out the back door and across the driveway to my car. She sat at the edge of the pavement, looking at me suspiciously, the way only a cat can.
For some reason, I felt the need to explain myself. “You have to wait here. I’ll be back in a while. I’ll bring you a treat.”
She meowed a response as I got in the car. I could have sworn I heard her say, “Okay.”
So, it’s one thing to be single and living in my grandparents’ house. It’s another thing altogether to turn into the crazy cat lady. Maybe it was a caffeine rush. Might be time to switch to decaf.
I quickly backed out and headed toward the town square, trying to bury my mind in a Keith Urban ballad. It didn’t work. It was bad enough that I was imagining a cat talking to me, but then I conjured up a murder next door. What was next, a crazy stalker coming after me? I tried to shake it off.
Still, I looked in the rearview mirror just to make sure I wasn’t being followed.
Chapter 7
Although I’d always thought I’d been a little psychic, I never really believed in ghosts or spirits or witches.
Okay, not never, but not since I was little. There were those few times I dreamed about my Aunt DeeDee and woke up to see her standing at the foot of my bed. I never told anyone, though. Even at that young age, I knew people would say I was just being silly or lying.
Now, I was either hallucinating or going crazy. Maybe it was the stress of the move so soon after the disaster in Maycroft. I tried to put it out of my mind.
The Peterson’s Pet-Pourri was like a small zoo. Mr. Peterson remembered me from years ago and helped load up my car with every conceivable cat supply I could find. Did Cricket really need her own kitty condo? Whatever. It was adorable.
Cascada was one of those small towns that grew up around a body of water that had formed a small lake and then snaked its way through the mountains. The name itself is Spanish for “waterfall,” which is why it was redundant to add “falls” to the name, like the Cascada Falls Golf Association. The waterfall was smallish but still a favorite tourist attraction for visitors willing to hike there.
The business district centered around the library, which had originally been the site of a saloon. But when the silver mines dried up, the missionaries replaced it with a church that eventually became the library sitting on a piece of land designated as the Park at Town Square. Yeah, our ancestors were creative with names like that.
Eventually, there grew to be a pecking order of sorts, with the older, more successful businesses on the streets adjacent to the square and the newer, less popular establishments being on the blocks farther away. It was a commercial survival of the fittest. Eventually, businesses popped up even farther from the square around the factories and highway.
That’s where I found myself after making a wrong turn on my way home from the pet shop. Even though there wasn’t much crime on the mean streets of Cascada, it was the sketchier part of town. I felt inside my purse for the pepper spray. Old habits die hard.
Wedged between a tattoo parlor and a vape shop was a place that caught my eye. The sign read “Sister Sophia’s Spiritual Shoppe.” Catchy name. I considered stopping but thought better of it. After all, I had been to a psychic reader once before. She said I would find my true love. Which I thought I did, but apparently, I didn’t. If David had indeed been my true love, I was out of luck and destined to be single. At least I would have a cat.
I came to a stoplight and dodged my eyes from a homeless guy with a skinny, pathetic dog. I drove on. But less than a block later, I made a u-turn, not because of the man but because of the dog. I could never resist an animal in need. Besides, I could use all the good karma I could get.
The man seemed confused when I reached in a bag and handed him a box of cat treats, but he smiled at the ten-dollar bill. I drove on until—you guessed it—I pulled up to Sister Sophia’s.
The inside looked like a magic shop and reeked of jasmine. Shelves and racks held everything from tarot cards to crystals to blacklight posters. Incense and candles filled an entire wall.
“May I help you?” The girl behind the counter smacked gum as she filed her bright red nails. Her gypsy get-up was complete with braided hair, bangle bracelets, and bright blue eye shadow.
If she were a psychic, wouldn’t she know if I needed help? I frowned. No reason to beat around the bush. “I’m interested in a reading.”
“Ahh, you have troubles. Sister Sophia can help.”
“Are you Sophia?”
“I wish. That’s my mother. I’m Harmony.” She pointed to a menu-like sign on the wall. “Do you want a card reading or a palm reading?”
It was like being at the spa where they asked you if you want the basic pedicure or the deluxe. “Which is the most...accurate?” As soon as I said it, I felt ridiculous.
“Well, that all depends. Are you interested in knowing about the future or the past?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer since I wanted to know if my dead grandmother was talking to me through a stray cat and if my neighbor’s husband had been murdered. “Let’s just say I have questions about some weird things that have been going on.”
“I see. I’ll be right back.” She disappeared behind a beaded curtain.
I looked around. For twenty bucks, I could buy my own crystal ball, just like I told Jake I needed. I thought about leaving. This was going to be a waste of time. Before I could back out, Harmony returned.
“Sister Sophia will see you now.” She held open the curtain. We walked down a dark hallway into a small room illuminated only by candles. A woman dressed in a black caftan sat in the corner behind a small table.
“Come in, please,” she said. “Have a seat.”
I did as instructed.
&nb
sp; The candlelight danced across her face. Her dark eyes seemed to stare right through me. She reached across the table and took my hands in hers.
“You have a strong spirit around you. But I believe you know that already.”
“What do you mean? What kind of spirit?”
She closed her eyes and rocked gently. “Someone is with you. Someone from the other side. A woman. You were close to this woman in life, and now she is close to you in death as well.”
I could feel myself tremble. “Who is it?”
“An older woman. A friend or a grandmother perhaps. Has she come to you? In a dream, maybe?”
I heard myself answer, but my voice sounded far away. “I think so.”
“You have a strong intuition. I can feel the energy through your hands. This woman is trying to tell you something. Something you already know.”
I waited. Part of me wanted to believe her. Part of me wanted to slap her upside the head. After all, I was just another sucker, a vulnerable girl desperate for guidance. She could tell me anything, and in the state I was in, I’d probably believe it.
The combination of the jasmine, the candles, and Sister Sophia’s rocking was making me seasick. I readied myself for the generic, fortune-cookie advice I was about to receive. If the words “tall, handsome stranger” came out of her mouth, I was out of there.
“She has a message for you.”
What? Stay away from phony fortune tellers?
Sophia squeezed my hands. “The woman, she says, ‘Go confidently in the direction of your dreams.’”
Oh. My. Gosh. How could this stranger have known that? Gran used to quote that line from Thoreau to me all the time. The room seemed to spin around me.
Sister Sophia opened her eyes. “She says she wants you to follow your instincts. To listen to your own mind. If you have a hunch, go with it. You are in this place to find the truth, and she is here to help you.”
Find the truth? Did Sister Sophia know about my brother and the accident? That was so many years ago. I jerked my hands away.
“Don’t be afraid, child. You are blessed.”
I didn’t feel blessed. I felt bewitched or conned or on one of those shows where you get punked.
“I believe she is speaking to you through someone or something else besides your dreams. Am I right?”
My heart was beating fast. “Maybe.” I had gone this far, I might as well go the rest of the way. “Is it possible she is communicating through a cat?”
“Yes, of course. Those from the other side often choose a different life form through which to send their message. Are you hearing actual voices as though the cat is speaking to you?”
“No. It’s more like...transference of thought, if that makes sense.”
“It makes perfect sense. Again, she just wants you to listen to your internal voice. The one that tells you right from wrong, that drives you to follow a certain path. She trusts that if you listen, you will know what is right to do.”
That didn’t seem so crazy. It was sound advice. Whether it actually came from my grandmother through Cricket or not, who knows. The bottom line is that I wanted to believe that my grandmother was my guardian angel watching over me. Sometimes it’s easier to believe the impossible than to deny the improbable.
Relief replaced doubt. Comfort replaced fear. I thought I had been going crazy and should either see a psychic or a psychiatrist. Hopefully, I just saved myself a trip to the doctor. I thanked her and stood up to leave.
As I walked away, she spoke again. “Actually, I’m surprised you mentioned a cat. I envisioned your messenger as an insect. A cricket, perhaps.”
Chapter 8
Gran was the kind of person who would do anything for anyone. If you needed to borrow money, she was there with her checkbook open. If you needed a shoulder to cry on, hers were always available. And if you needed advice, she always dished it out with a lump of sugar.
Cricket. Could she really be channeling Gran’s spirit? She once told me she would always watch over me. Maybe this is what she meant. It was a strangely comforting thought. Who was I to fight the forces of nature? It’s not like Gran had taken over the cat’s body, although they were both gray-haired.
As I pulled onto my street, a slew of vehicles were parked in front of Beverly’s house, including a pickup truck with a flatbed trailer behind it. In the trailer were Beverly’s plaid sofa and high-back chairs. Could her children be moving her out this quick?
As I got closer, I saw a sheriff’s car, a beige sedan, and a van marked Crime Scene Investigator. Something other than moving was happening here. I drove slowly past and pulled into my driveway just as a uniformed officer began stringing crime scene tape across the front of Beverly’s house.
Had something happened to her? Bile rose in my throat as I jumped out of the car. I took several long strides toward the officer. “What’s going on? Is Mrs. Attwood okay?”
He held out his arms to block my entry to the house. “Ma’am, you’ll need to stay back.”
I tried to peek through the open front door, but he shooed me away.
“Wendy.” Jake stood in the street looking toward the house.
I hurried to his side. “What’s going on?”
“I have no idea. I just heard the police siren and came outside.”
A few of the other neighbors began walking toward us.
“What’s happened to Beverly?” an elderly woman clutching a toy poodle asked.
Speculation ranged from “she died of grief due to missing Harold” to “she went nuts and shot her son-in-law for trying to steal her house.” My money was on the latter.
A man in his golf cart drove down the path between the houses and stopped when he saw the cars from the sheriff’s department.
“Bert! Over here,” one of the neighbors yelled.
It was Bow Tie Man who’d made the toast at Harold’s funeral reception. He drove up to where we were all huddled. I wondered if he would choose now to take a few verbal jabs at Beverly like he had done with Harold. He didn’t disappoint.
“Where’s the fire?” he asked. “Did Beverly decide to torch the place?”
“Of course not,” I heard myself say. “She’d never do something like that.”
There was a general gasp as the crowd looked at me as though I’d just challenged the king to a duel. Surely I wasn’t the only one ready to stand up for my neighbor.
“Well, young lady, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Bert Crosby, president of the Cascada Falls Golf Association.” He held out his hand. “And you are...”
Not impressed by you and your title. I walked up closer to shake his hand. “I’m Wendy Fairmont.” I felt like I was in Oz and getting to meet the wizard.
Much to my surprise, he leaned over and kissed the top of my hand. That pushed him ten points up on the ick-scale.
“You must be the granddaughter of Dorothy and Charlie Fairmont. I’ve heard a lot about you. Welcome to Cascada, or should I say, welcome back.”
Well, great. How could I be rude to him when he was acting so polite? I looked at Jake, wondering if he would be on Team Wendy. He was.
“We haven’t been able to find out anything about what’s going on,” Jake said. “We’re worried something might have happened to Beverly.”
“Ah, I doubt that,” he said with a wave of his hand. “She’s a tough broad. Just like that daughter of hers.”
As though ordered to do so by the crown, the bystanders seemed to let out a sigh and relax.
I shook my head. He admittedly knew less about the situation than we did, so why would they just take his word for it?
Bert stepped out of his golf cart and adjusted his shirt, yanking it down over his large frame. “I have a little pull with the sheriff; why don’t you let me see what I can find out.” He winked at me as though we were now best friends and walked up to the door where he was met by the same officer who had stopped me. From where we stood, we couldn’t hear what he said, but sure enough,
the officer let him inside.
Jake and I exchanged astonished looks and waited along with everyone else. A few minutes passed when the door opened and Bert reappeared. The smile was gone, replaced by tight lips and an uneasy stare. He climbed back in the golf cart without saying a word.
Jake put his hand on the edge of the cart. “What is it, Bert? Is it Beverly?”
“It’s Beverly, all right. It’s definitely Beverly.” With that, he drove off, leaving us more concerned than before.
“What do you think he meant by that, Jake?” Poodle-Lady asked.
Before he could reply, the gathering of onlookers again turned in unison. I followed their stares up to the house.
Curtis Meeks walked out the front door accompanied by two other men. They were all wearing those blue paper shoe covers like the CSI people do on television crime shows. They exchanged a few words and the two guys walked toward the truck. Curtis stayed on the porch, purposely it seemed, avoiding eye contact with the rest of us.
I wasn’t about to let him get away without offering up some explanation. “Curtis,” I yelled. “What’s going on? What’s happened?”
He waved me off and hurried back inside.
The two guys unstrapped the furniture from the truck and unloaded it onto the sidewalk.
Jake walked over to them. “Hey, man, what’s going on? Did somebody die?”
“Looks that way,” one of the men answered.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd, me included.
“Who? Mrs. Attwood?”
The men each took an end of the sofa and started back toward the house. “No. Some dude.” They disappeared inside and returned for the two chairs.
A uniformed officer walked them back out to the truck and the two men drove off with the empty trailer.
Curtis reappeared on the front porch with a big man wearing a Stetson. I assumed he was the sheriff. He had a potbelly, and under his cheap, faux leather jacket, he wore a navy-blue uniform. I was surprised that he didn’t look that much older than me. I would have expected the sheriff of Cascada to be more like Andy Griffith than Woody from Toy Story.
Negative Exposure Page 5
