by Cassie Page
At four o’clock Tuesday said goodbye to her last client of the day and returned the woman’s cup, teapot and sugar bowl to the kitchen. Once again, she briefly witnessed an act of terror. Marco the chef threatening Rowena that she would end up on the street if she made one more batch of cream of spinach soup with lumps in it and promising that the cost of the Kobe beef would be taken out of her paycheck if a customer returned it as overcooked.
Tuesday didn’t hang around the kitchen often enough or long enough to know if Marco made good on his threats. But Tuesday believed that either Rowena should stand up to him or Marco should fire her and find a sous chef who didn’t cause him so much grief. Though, on second thought, maybe that’s why he kept her, as an outlet for his nasty temper.
Tuesday said goodbye and have a good night to all who were aware of her presence, which never included all of the staff. More than once a server would come to her table to take her order, because he or she had not been informed that she was entitled to spend the afternoon working in the prime corner spot. Finally, she left to meet up with Detective Jameson.
Tuesday was born with what she called the happy gene. For the most part she believed that living a life on this green and watery earth was a good thing, though she’d like to have a word with whoever decided she didn’t need a winning lottery ticket, a voice like Reba McEntire’s, or a knack like Jean Paul Gaultier’s for turning a few yards of silk and leather, a couple of industrial strength zippers and a handful of rhinestones into an architecturally significant Little Black Dress that would one day end up in the permanent collection of the Met.
But no matter how peaceful a nature Tuesday possessed, if you wanted to rattle her chains, stick her smack dab in the middle of bumper to bumper traffic. When she finally got to Jameson’s precinct, after a drive she swore was across half the Western Hemisphere, her eyes were popping out from frustration. Fourteen minutes of circling the ‘hood for a parking space soured her even more.
She locked her car and kept her head down as she headed for the precinct headquarters, threading her way through a gaggle of uniforms and, from the tattoos displayed on their shaved heads and necks, gangbangers arguing in front of the building’s doorway.
Inside, a uniformed officer took her name and told her to take a seat along a wall lined with assorted angry, scared, weeping and sullen citizens waiting their turn for a crack at the justice system. She stared around the dreary waiting area, her eyes falling on a cabinet with several shelves and a locked, glass door displaying an array of trophies, medals and photos. They honored, she assumed, members of the department. Wait, was that . . . Tuesday leaned forward then walked over to get a better look. Yes it was him, Detective Butel, all three hundred pounds or so of him in running shorts, singlet and race bib, holding a gold medal. She read the news clippings, astonished to learn that Detective Butel had come in third in his age group in the LA Marathon the year before, and first place three years earlier. No mention if he got a handicap for his girth. Tuesday sat down.
Well, she scolded herself, so much for profiling people. Imagine the shock a burglar received when he took off with the family silver thinking he could outrun the fat bozo coming after him steering that stomach around the corner. Go Butel.
Tuesday looked down the line of seats to get a sense of her neighbors and saw Justin Timberlake walk through the door. He was deep in conversation with one of the officers she remembered passing on the way in. She squinted to get a better look. Well, if Justin Timberlake wore motorcycle leathers, that is, and hooked his sun glasses in the corner of his mouth. No, not Justin Timberlake exactly. More like Steve McQueen after he married the Love Story actress. Nope, not him either. A young Vin Diesel with a sense of humor. That’s it. That’s who he looked like. She cataloged the goods he had that she liked.
Smooth, shaved head? Sleek as a billiard ball. Check Discreet boy bling? A small diamond stud in one ear. Check Bit of an edge? Motorcycle leathers. Check Looked good coming and going? She couldn’t see his rear but from the front, figured it was a no brainer. Check But what sealed the deal? Sense of humor. He radiated laughter. Check, check and check!
Whoever this guy was, crook or cop, Tuesday vowed to meet him.
But then Detective Jameson came through a set of double doors and strode over to Tuesday, blocking her view of Mr. Gorgeous. Jameson had removed her padded suit jacket and displayed her weapon and handcuffs at her waist. She had a lush, feminine figure in contrast to her dominating husky voice. “Miss Tuesday, sorry to keep you waiting. Come with me.”
Tuesday stood up to follow her, annoyance propelling her out of her seat. She turned her head and got another look at the guy. He was coming towards her now. In answer to her prayers, he stopped in front of her, seeming for all the world like he was going to chat her up. Tuesday was primed to give him any opening he needed, but Detective Jameson said, “We have to make this quick. This way. Now, please.”
Tuesday snapped, apropos of nothing, “Why did you make me come all the way over to this precinct? Do you know how long it took me to get here?”
She noticed Mr. G. shooting a grin in her direction.
Jameson snapped back, “If you don’t like traffic, don’t live in LA.”
Tuesday looked Jameson in the eye and said, “That was helpful.”
The guy walked past them and disappeared down a corridor.
Heartbreak at 10 o’clock. She didn’t even know his name.
Chapter Nine: Did The Earth Move For You, Too?
Tuesday turned this way and that in the middle of her living room until a compass she once picked up at a garage sale for a dime told her she faced true north, the ideal orientation to query her pendulum. The location put her smack dab in front of her little used stationary bike, which she continued to ignore. She could not go another minute without finding out if she would ever see MG from the police station again. Mr. Gorgeous.
After a forty-five second meditation to center herself, she stood very still and gripped the pendulum between her thumb and forefinger. She’d found the cloisonné ornament caught on a storm drain in Burbank the previous winter. Something told her it possessed divining powers, so she wrestled it out of the grid and gave it a home. Now it swung freely from an imitation gold chain missing a clasp, but that didn’t matter. For a quick yes or no answer to the thorny problems of every day life, it couldn’t be beat.
Olivia had referred to the pendulum as a meatball because of its size and a patch of rust near the top. That hurt Tuesday’s feelings and she’d hidden it in a kitchen drawer for a while. The meatball crack touched a sore nerve. She almost never had a falling out with Olivia, and she hadn’t wanted to start one over something so silly, so she never said anything. The comment bothered her, though, because it suggested that Olivia, the most important person in her life, didn’t take Tuesday’s preoccupations with the occult seriously.
But one day she couldn’t decide if she should have the air condition repaired in her car or spring for the 1940’s Dior New Look suit with a peplum jacket and long, swinging skirt at the Designer Consider shop owned by the twins, Marci and Darci. It was probably a knockoff. Dior of any vintage was only found in private collections or museum shows these days, but it looked good enough to Tuesday.
To help her with the go/no go decision on the Dior, she manufactured a pendulum by hanging her keys from a long piece of string. The makeshift device gave her practical advice that day, so, with great reluctance she brought her car into the shop. A week later she kicked herself when she saw an academy award nominee on the red carpet in the very suit she had craved. The next time she visited the twins’ shop they gloated about their clothes appearing in People Magazine. Tuesday never trusted the key arrangement again, though she knew that was silly. Any pendulum should work. It merely reflected what your higher self knew to be true.
The pendulum returned to its place of honor on Tuesday’s night table a few weeks later when Olivia agreed to use it to find a pair of opal earrings she
had lost, which Tuesday had warned were bad luck anyway and she should let them go. However, after consulting the meatball, Olivia found the earrings and Tuesday’s pendulum was back in business. But a week later Olivia met Brooks and Tuesday had the last laugh about bad luck, though she never seriously laughed at the disaster that broke her friend’s heart and sent her relocating to Darling Valley.
Right now she opened one eye a tiny slit to make sure the pendulum was absolutely motionless before she asked her question. The wind chime on her balcony tinkled in a sudden breeze, but inside her apartment all was quiet. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes again and repeated, Will I see him again? Will I see him again? Will I see him again?
She had no intention of telling anyone she’d consulted the pendulum about this guy. How silly could she be? She had seen him for maybe fifteen seconds all told. Yet she couldn’t get him out of her mind.
She’d made a joke of it to the three friends she met for a drink after the interview with Detective Jameson. They’d clowned around, coming up with schemes that would get Tuesday arrested so she could bump into the guy, either in a holding cell, or, better luck, if he was a detective who would interrogate her.
Nobody asked her about the real interrogation, which didn’t amount to much. Jameson queried her from every angle about why she came up with symbols for murder in the teacup of a person who turned out to be connected to an actual, possible murder. Jameson was closed mouthed about why they were pushing the murder scenario, but it made sense to Tuesday since Holley had received the phone threats. News outlets had picked it up by now because Ariel had a minor reputation as an actress. Reports were noncommittal other than saying that Ariel’s death was suspicious and under investigation. The calls Holley received had not yet made it to the airwaves, though Tuesday had warned her that she could put good money on someone coming up with that scoop pretty soon. Tuesday advised that if she wanted to keep a low profile and paparazzi off her lawn, she should keep those calls to herself.
Tuesday had explained to Jameson and Butel, who was waiting in the interrogating room, that she had merely seen symbols in Holley’s cup when she’d examined the dregs, the scattering of leaves and stems. Jameson dismissed Tuesday’s powers of divination by saying, “If you see any more bodies, would get names and addresses, please. And preferably before they’re knocked off?”
Tuesday didn’t take the jibes personally. She was used to that reaction from the uninformed. It was just an example of the narrow world Jameson lived in. This was LA, for crying out loud. People claimed to read navel lint for a living. Nothing should surprise them. That’s what Sharrie had said, her neighbor in whom she often confided.
Sharrie read nose hair and predicted the course of relationships by measuring the length of baby toes. Tuesday thought that was a stretch when she first saw the crystal calipers her neighbor used in her readings. But, hey. She was paying her rent with it. Along with the sale of scented body oil she created from her own recipe that she claimed corrected astrological imbalances.
But Sharrie wasn’t any good at predicting the future. So when Tuesday knocked on her door after Apple Margaritas with the girls and said she had to talk, and explained that she’d met the love of her life but didn’t know his name yet, Sharrie had said, “Honey, you gotta give me more than that. At least tell me what size shoe he wears.”
So Tuesday retreated to her apartment and pulled out her trusty pendulum. Sometimes to solve a vexing problem, Tuesday would consult the iChing or Tarot cards. But she was most comfortable with tea leaves. She had studied tasseomancy in more depth and it was her medium of choice, except when she had what she called the deep dark blues. Then she called Doctor Darla, her sandtray psychologist.
A pendulum, though, was something anyone could use. It merely gave the answer to a yes or no question that was locked in a person’s subconscious. If you misplaced your keys, a part of you knew where you set them down. Through a series of yes or no questions, the seeker could discover the lost object. Tuesday knew, though, that sometimes your unconscious, subconscious, higher self, terms Tuesday used interchangeably, didn’t want you to know the answer and then the pendulum would swing in circles, leaving the questioner to figure out the puzzle with the same tool everyone else possessed, common sense. Tuesday found this method of divination particularly useful in calming her beating heart when she was troubled with a vexing problem, needed confirmation or was just too impatient to let her life unfold naturally.
So, eyes closed, pendulum still as a stone, she repeated her question, all the while focusing on the dreamboat’s image. His smile came through clearly, but she was afraid her delight at recalling his broad grin and the twinkle in his eye would influence the results. She needed to bring forth an image to calm her mood and let the pendulum swing independently of her desires. Her mother popped into her mind, which sobered Tuesday’s vibe instantly.
She stood very still. If the pendulum swung back and forth, the answer was yes, side to side indicated no and a circular motion meant her subconscious knew the answer but refused to tell her.
She held her breath. All around her was stillness. She felt enveloped in an almost unearthly quiet, except for Sharrie’s Pomeranian suddenly barking up a storm. Tuesday tried to shut out the yipping. At first there was no movement, then, yes. Ever so slightly, the chain began to vibrate. But still she kept her eyes shut, not wanting to influence the direction of the pendulum by staring at it with a desired outcome in mind.
Yes, there was movement. Wow, was there movement. She felt her whole being swaying from side to side. This must mean she had a powerful connection with this guy. Whoops, she was losing her balance. Something was happening. She opened her eyes and saw the pendulum swinging in a wide circle.
Uh oh. This wasn’t her unconscious moving the pendulum, the earth was moving. She looked at the picture over her mantle sliding back and forth, then heard a glass fall in the kitchen. They were having an earthquake.
Chapter Ten: Rocking and Rolling
Holley called Tuesday almost as soon as the shaking stopped.
“Miss Tuesday, I don’t know what just happened. My house rocked and rocked and I felt so dizzy and then all my perfume bottles fell over. You know, the ones in the bathroom? My nerves are ripped to shreds. I think this murder business is destroying my equilibrium. You know, my balance?”
Tuesday had slumped to the floor and was focusing on breathing from her diaphragm. Earthquakes made her hyperventilate. “Holley, how long have you been in California?” Tuesday knew she hailed from a small town in the northern Great Lakes.
“I think about a year and a half. Why?” Holley’s voice was squeaky, high pitched with nerves.
“We just had an earthquake. It affected everybody’s balance.”
“An earthquake? But I thought earthquakes made buildings fall over and like that.”
“Not small ones. Don’t cry, Holley. Hold it together. Are you hurt? Was anything else broken? I’m turning on the news.”
Tuesday was trying to remember her own centering exercises. She was one of those people gifted at calming others in a crisis, but had to eat a tub of ice cream or down a few martinis to get her own shaky self together. Nobody’s perfect. At least, that’s what she’d tell herself coming out of a sugar hangover. It’s wasn’t as if she resorted to shoplifting as a stress buster. Like a former jobless boyfriend, whom she dumped when she discovered the source of his enviable collection of cashmere socks and upmarket hoodies.
“No.” Holley paused. Tuesday heard her counting to ten. “I think everything else is okay. But that really shook me up.”
“Honey girl, we have them all the time, but if you’re not standing on the epicenter and it isn’t very strong, you may not even feel it.”
Tuesday didn’t love shakers, but they didn’t upset her as much as they did other people she knew. Friends of hers had fled the state the first time they saw their chandelier swinging. Still, a decent size temblor could send her blood press
ure skyrocketing for a few minutes. So, phone in hand, she headed for the freezer and her tub of salted caramel fudge ice cream that she kept on hand for emergencies.
“Why don’t you pour yourself a glass of wine and turn on the TV and watch a movie. That will help you calm down.”
“If you say so. But don’t you think I should clean up the perfume?”
“Oh. Did the bottles break?” She popped the lid on the ice cream quietly so Holley wouldn’t hear.
“Yeah. I had to open all the windows because it sure smells perfumy in here.”
“Okay. Clean up the mess and if you’re still uneasy, pour some wine. Oh, and drink it.” Today it was best to be specific with Holley. “You can call me if you’re still upset.”
“Okay. Oh, wait a minute. Here’s a text from Roger. He wants to come over and see if I’m okay.”
The stalker. “I don’t know, Holley. I think you should practice your centering exercises. Detach from your bodily concerns. You’re gonna feel more earthquakes if you stay in Los Angeles and it would be good practice for you. You know what I always say, they can rattle your walls but they don’t have to rattle your inner self. Meditate. Do your mandala training. By yourself.”
“Well if you say so.”
Fifteen minutes later Holley called back. “Miss Tuesday, we just had another earthquake. I’m afraid the earth is going to open up and swallow me whole. I saw that happen in a movie.”
“No, Holley, it was just an aftershock. You’ll feel a few but they will get smaller and smaller.”
Tuesday herself had recovered with only a small dent in the salted caramel. She was proud of that.
“I tell you what. If you have a bad night, call me first thing in the morning and we’ll go into the Café and do a reading.”
They hung up but Tuesday left the TV on. Her local station had switched from coverage of the temblor, a 3.6 with no reported injury or serious damage, to an interview with Detective Jameson about the Ariel Cuthbert case. A reporter was asking for details. The detective was mum.
