by Cassie Page
Richards tried to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but she brushed it away. “You outsiders are all alike. Coming into Darling Valley and disrupting what we built here . . . “
Richards visibly bristled. He turned to the desk. “Officer Ridley, will you escort Mrs. Blackman and Dr. Chandler to the conference room and make them comfortable.” He turned to the couple. “Can we get you some coffee or tea?”
Mrs. Blackman snapped, “I want nothing from you but the killer brought to justice. Oh dear. I feel faint again.”
She began fanning her face with the tissue. The doctor leaned over. “Please, Greta, don’t upset yourself any more than necessary. Did you take your blood pressure medication this morning?”
Mrs. Blackman waved him away. “Oh, I can’t remember. I can’t think anymore. What that woman has done . . . she has ruined my life. I will never be the same. My dear John. How can I go on without him? How could she have been so brutal? He was the sweetest, gentlest man. You know that, Ross. Wasn’t he?”
She became incoherent after than, sobbing uncontrollably.
The doctor put his arm around her. “Of course he was. Everyone knows that. But you must collect yourself, or I’ll have to give you another sedative. Here, let me help you up. We’ll go into another room until Detective Richards is ready for us. ”
He looked at Richards and gave him a pleading look. Olivia caught the doctor’s profile and thought of Swiss ski instructors in 1940’s films, impossibly blond and competent.
Richards and the doctor each took an arm and eased Mrs. Blackman up and out of her seat. Officer Ridley came over and took her handbag. She braced the grief-stricken widow around the waist when she threatened to sag. Then Mrs. Blackman gathered herself and the trio limped and shuffled down the hall, in time to Mrs. Blackman’s heart-rending moans. Richards returned to his office and addressed Olivia.
“I’m sorry you had to witness that.” He sat down at his desk. “Did you hear Mrs. Blackman?”
Olivia nodded that she had.
“Do you have any idea what she meant by accusing you of trying to ruin her husband?”
Olivia spluttered, “I couldn’t believe my ears. I’ve told you. I didn’t actually know him. Why would I try to ruin him? We weren’t in competition with each other. He provided a valuable service. Antique dealers depend on crafts people to repair and restore their valuable pieces. I don’t even know anyone who is interested in leaving LA for, for, . . .” She looked incredulous. “Darling Valley?”
Richards said gently, “But you did.”
“Yes, but I had personal reasons. I gave up a lot to come here, Detective, I assure you. I left my family, friends, business connections to start over. I don’t know anyone who would leave the excitement of the LA scene for the country. I assure you, LA has its share of multimillionaires and billionaires.”
Tuesday broke in. “And far better restaurants.”
Olivia kicked Tuesday under the chair.
Richards settled into questioning Olivia again. “But you haven’t explained to me why you did that, gave up a successful life to go it on your own in out of the way Darling Valley.”
Olivia looked at her watch. “Is this part of your interrogation, Detective? Am I required to answer that? I’m beginning to feel like I should have a lawyer with me?”
“Oh, do you need a lawyer?”
“No, of course not. I haven’t done anything wrong. Except maybe pick Darling Valley in the first place.”
“Miss Granville. It’s my job to find out everything I can that will help me solve this case. Naturally, you are a person of interest because of the circumstances of Mr. Blackman’s death. So, yes, I do need to know why you picked Darling Valley. It would seem to be an unusual choice for someone of your interests. This is a town where people of means come to live out of the limelight. It is a bit of a closed community in that sense. People have the luxury here of living a lifestyle that is comfortable and private. Very private. How did you find us?”
Olivia stopped to think for a moment and answered literally. “Well, as I recall, I took a wrong turn coming back from Mendocino. I had driven down the coast and was looking for the road to Highway 101. I turned too soon and found myself winding my way through Darling Valley. I’d heard of it of course. Wall Street calls it, what? Billionaire Hollow? Hard to keep that under wraps. And then I saw the lake, the hills shielding it from the ocean fog, the perfect weather and the most scenic town outside of the south of France. I had a personal situation in LA that I needed to remove myself from and the timing coincided with my long range plans to start my own business. I stood on Mountain Road overlooking the lake and the town and knew this was it.”
“Was that personal situation named Brooks Baker by any chance?”
Olivia’s looked at Tuesday and spoke through clenched teeth. “Have you been talking . . . how could you? You haven’t been out of my sight since you got here.”
Richards interrupted her. “Miss Granville. Mr. Baker is the most famous architect working in America. The boy wonder. Commissioned to do his first museum at age 19. He has looks, money, prestige. The paparazzi are all over him. I just did a Google search for your name and according to some pictures on E TV News, you two were apparently an item up until four months ago. He’s down there, you’re up here. What kind of detective would I be if I couldn’t put two and two together and come up with celebrity break up?”
“Well, then,” said Olivia, fussing with a button on her jacket to cover her embarrassment, “there you have it. But you have the time wrong. It’s been almost seven months since we broke up. If you can’t trust Wikipedia who can you trust? Any more questions? Can I file my theft complaint and go? I have to deliver an Imari bowl to Sabrina Chase for a charity auction tonight.”
Richards gave her an appraising look and said, “Certainly. If I have anymore questions I know where to find you.”
“Yes you do.”
Richards escorted Olivia and Tuesday to Officer Ridley’s desk. He asked her if Mrs. Blackman was okay, and she shook her head up and down, intent on chewing her gum.
To Olivia, “Now if you’ll excuse me, . . ..” and he took off down the hall in the direction of the conference room where Mrs. Blackman waited.
Olivia filled out a form and then she and Tuesday pushed their way past the wall of microphones outside the police station, and, as it was past eleven now, they half jogged back to the house. Tuesday said she wished she had the widow’s shoes.
“Why’s that,” Olivia wheezed.
“Didn’t you see the outfit she was wearing? English housekeeper chic, circa 1920. She was a vision in sensible shoes. Hashtag bor-ing! But they’d be comfy on this hike. Slow down for a minute. I can’t breathe.”
Chapter Sixteen: Reading Tea Leaves
Tuesday ran ahead of Olivia up the walk to the house, her colorful long dress fanning out behind her like a kite.
“Tues?” Olivia waved the keys in front of her. “Hold your horses. Do you have to pee?”
“I’m getting a hit,” she said impatiently while Olivia found the right key from the dozen or so on her key chain and wrestled the ancient lock open. “Tea time.”
Tuesday rushed upstairs and into the kitchen. She searched through the cupboards and whined, “Ollie, where are your real china cups?”
Olivia dumped her purse and keys on the counter and slumped onto the stool. “Finally, but we have to make this fast. I have to open the shop. You never know. Someone with a taste for the macabre might walk in.”
Tuesday was at work opening and closing cabinet doors. “Surely with all the treasures in this place you have a china cup. Real china. And your good pot.”
Olivia opened a cupboard under the center island and retrieved a bubble-wrapped blob, unpeeled the plastic and handed a Wedgewood cup and saucer to Tuesday. The matching pot was featured on the lower shelf of her china closet, just below eye level rather than dead on, the better for people to find it in the natural downward swe
ep of their eyes as they sought out the various treasures on display. Everything was for sale at Olivia’s, even some of her personal belongings.
She retrieved the teapot and handed it to Tuesday with a warning. “Rinse them out. I haven’t used my good stuff since I arrived.”
Tuesday pointed to the shelves displaying the yellow and black Villeroy and Boch pottery that Olivia used for everyday meals. “What are they, plastic plates?”
But she knew what Olivia meant. In LA Olivia threw weekly, sought after dinner parties. Gourmet had featured her in a spread when the magazine was still alive and well. Just before she pulled up stakes and slipped out of Montrose, she was starting to trend on Twitter. When she and Brooks became an item, there was talk of her joining the Real Housewives of Los Angeles. After the sudden breakup, however, Bravo stopped taking her calls. So Olivia had the dining room bling and she knew how to show it off. But she needed a social network to do the kind of entertaining her possessions deserved and that was not happening in Darling Valley.
Tuesday poured water from the boiling tap, swirled it in the cup, then emptied it. “What’s your poison? Darjeeling, smoky Lapsang Suchong? Orange Crescent?”
Olivia handed her a black tin of Mariage Freres.
Tuesday examined the label. “Ah. Wedding Imperial. A good omen.”
Tuesday prepared the tea and while it steeped, Olivia set a placemat on the table. “You having tea?”
“Not while I work.”
Olivia knew the drill from the hundreds of times she had sat at a table while Tuesday pored over the meaning of the scattered fragments of leaves and stems in the bottom of a cup. But the habit of hospitality was too hard to break and she always asked.
Tuesday would only use china cups for her readings. Mugs did not have the sloping bottom that allowed the bits to drift and slide and form the messages. She did not believe in drinking tea while she did a reading. “It dilutes the information.” Though it was essential for the questioner to drink the tea they wished to query.
The two made themselves comfortable in the cane chairs at the wrought iron table topped with an old slab of zinc from a bar in Paris. The window overlooked the back garden. To the left was the parking area still held off limits by yellow crime scene tape. Olivia adjusted her chair to block that view. Now she could admire the fuchsia Bougainvillea beginning to climb the back fence.
“I wonder if it will make it through the cold winters here,” she mused while Tuesday poured her tea.
“What?” Tuesday looked up to see what Olivia meant. “Oh, yeah. It wouldn’t be your house if it didn’t have a wall of Bougainvillea.”
Olivia’s mission in life, one of them anyway, was to recreate a swag of Bougainvillea she once saw on the balcony of a house in Monaco, a trip she made when she did her gap year in Paris. That balcony encouraged her to work harder at her French so she could track down gardeners who could tell her how they managed to drape the lush pink vine all over Provence and the Riviera. Her gardener in LA, whose efforts came close to the Monaco prize, warned her that the winters in Northern California were too cold for Bougainvillea. She must make sure to wrap them in plastic when the temperatures dropped.
“Small price,” Olivia had said at the time, though the thin strands of green leaves had few blossoms. She wasn’t sure they would make it to November. Unwittingly, she had planted them directly in the path of a sharp wind that came off the Pacific and whistled through her yard.
Olivia blew on her tea to cool it, musing over her garden to take her mind off less pleasant and more immediate subjects, such as murder and theft. Finally, she said, “Done,” and placed the cup in its saucer.
Tuesday asked, “Did you leave a little for me?”
Like a little girl at show and tell, Olivia pushed the cup in front of Tuesday, who peered into the cup. “Perfecto.”
She pulled her chair closer to the table and began her ritual, which started with a worn silk scarf that she withdrew from her purse. She carried it with her at all times, claiming it kept the spirit energy flowing. Olivia almost caused their first fight by curling her lip and asking, what energy. Now she knew better.
Tuesday noted where Olivia had left the spoon, which was critical to her interpretation of the leaves. Then she took the cup and turned the handle towards Olivia, swirled the cup several times to distribute the tea leaves evenly and upended the cup. Each of them watched transfixed as the last spoonful of tea dribbled out, completing the pattern of leaves in the bottom and along the sides of the Wedgewood. Last, she replaced the cup in the saucer and encircled the pale blue silk around it.
Olivia’s pulse raced and her heart thrummed in her ears, but she knew better than to rush Tuesday, so she quashed her impatience and waited for Tuesday to begin.
It was the differences between the two friends that made the friendship work. Olivia needed Tuesday’s free spirit to loosen her up. In fact, she suspected that one of the reasons Brooks departed so abruptly was that she was too straight-laced, too business focused. Olivia was talented and creative and in the beginning that drew them together. And the sex, of course. But he was the consummate artist and needed someone who would encourage his free-ranging imagination. Olivia claimed he was too impractical. Not in his vision of buildings, but in their day to day life. She once found him trying to create a sculpture out of garbage scraps, and when he saw the disgust on her face. stormed out of the room, snarling, “You never let me see where things will go. You live in a box. I live on the wind.”
But Tuesday was the right blend of ingénue and explorer for Olivia. Her friends, struggling under the weight of professional pressures and the need for social dominance, couldn’t see the flow between them. They thought Tuesday’s cockamamie wardrobe and absorption with the occult too scary oddball. Tres unprofessional, one of the partners at her firm observed when Olivia invited Tuesday to a groundbreaking ceremony for a building she had helped design. Brooks questioned the friendship outright. How can you link yourself with someone who will do NOTHING for your career? But, despite their fashion disputes, it was Tuesday’s unconditional acceptance of Olivia that cemented her loyalty to her madcap friend. In turn, over time, Olivia anchored Tuesday. She believed her when Tuesday first offered to do a reading, admitting that her grandmother had been a sensitive. And despite her strong pragmatic bent, Olivia believed it as well when Tuesday said that she, like her grandmother, also could sense things others could not. You didn’t always have to understand something to believe in it.
Whether or not she took the readings seriously, Olivia pressed Tuesday to perfect ’her knowledge of her calling. Recognizing that Tuesday would always color outside the lines, she said, “If you’re going to be a tasseomancer, whatever that is, be the best blinking one on the planet.”
So, with Olivia’s encouragement and United miles, Tuesday studied with a British reader in London who boasted a long list of celebrity clients. The next year she even wrote a book on the subject. Sales tanked, despite her marketing efforts, but the book landed her the gig at the pricey café where she now earned a satisfying living and ballooned her Facebook page to 1,673 followers. In addition, Olivia convinced her that the fact that she could sit still long enough to produce a book was proof she was evolving. That was the magic word. Tuesday wanted to evolve. So it was a serious Tuesday that pondered the spray of leaves across Olivia’s cup, looking for symbols that would help Tuesday guide Olivia’s own evolution.
“Okay, c’MON. What do you see?” As much as Olivia needed to get downstairs and set up the showroom for customers, should an unsuspecting stray appear, she could not resist the lure of the tea leaves. As far as Olivia was concerned, Tuesday’s accuracy was greater than fifty percent and that was good enough for her. Why resist a reading that invariably told her she was on the right path, which was how Tuesday ended their sessions, with probably the same prescience that allowed her to tell Carrie a new man was on the horizon. Everybody’s on the right path, whether they know it or not.
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br /> Tuesday studied the cup and without looking up, asked, “Are you expecting company?”
Oh no, was it going to be one of those readings? “Tuesday. You’re here already.”
Tuesday pointed to the leaves. “Someone’s coming to see you.”
“Duh. I run a business that’s open to the public. People are always coming to see me. Well, sometimes they do. On a good day. Are they going to give me money, that’s what I want to know?”
Tuesday shook her head, her hair accessories floating from side to side. “No, I think this is personal. A man. And he has dark skin.”
“So Detective Richards is coming back? I should hope so. To return my armoire and shoes.”
Tuesday spoke in a caricature of a fortuneteller, assuming a trance-like voice and a fake Transylvanian accent. “You will disappoint him. And there is a problem on the horizon of your own making.”
Just because she was doing a reading didn’t mean she couldn’t laugh. It was her sense of humor that made her readings so popular.
“What kind of problem?”
“I can only tell you what I see, sweet pea. A clump of leaves at the bottom near the handle.”
Olivia threw up her hands. “Stop. I can’t listen any more. I’m too nervous. I don’t want to know bad things. And don’t give me your spiel about bad things are opportunities. I’ve had all the opportunities I can stand since I moved here. A failing business, a tenant who hates me, a town that won’t accept me, a murder in my armoire and a thief in my showroom. Give me some good news or let me get on with my day.”
“Well, you’ll like this. You’re going to get a nice surprise.”
Olivia brightened.
Tuesday scrutinized the bottom of the cup again. “Hmm. Or is it a disappointment?”
“Oh Tues! Enough. Where is the instruction that I’m on the right path and doing what I was born to do?”
Tuesday sat back and folded her arms. “If you’re going to insult me, I can’t concentrate.”
