The Ambitious Card (An Eli Marks Mystery)

by Gaspard, John

  The leader looked around the church hopefully, as I’m sure Nova’s speech was not, in his mind, the ideal closing act. No one else stepped forward, so he finally got up and returned to the microphone.

  “Thank you,” he said, smiling in Nova’s direction, “for sharing your feelings. And for those of you who enjoyed Arianna’s performance on the harp, she wanted me to remind you that her CDs are available out in our lobby, at her shop, Akashic Records, and at the Akashic Records website. And finally, before we conclude, I want to remind you that a reception will take place, starting immediately, just down the street, at the home of Dr. Maurice Bitterman.”

  That name rang a bell with me. A few years back there had been a football player with the Minnesota Vikings named Maurice Bitterman. There had been a lot of confusion during his arrival in the Twin Cities, because he insisted that his first name be pronounced using the British pronunciation, Morris.

  It seemed unlikely that there would be two identically-named men in the same city, but it seemed just as unlikely that a former Viking defensive end would be attending Grey’s funeral.

  On the main floor people began to get up and shuffle toward the exit. The folks in the balcony were filing out even more slowly, so I stood and watched the crowd below as they made their way out of the sanctuary, trying to see if there was anyone large enough to be a former football player. As they walked down the main aisle, it was now abundantly clear that the woman I thought might be Megan was, in fact, Megan. And Pete was Pete.

  I was just stepping back to get clear of their line of sight when Pete spotted me. A big smile washed across his face and he waved up to me, then turned to Megan and pointed me out to her. It was too late for me to step out of sight, so I waved wanly at them.

  Pete used some rough sign language to indicate that we should meet outside the building. I bobbed my head in agreement, trying to appear happy about it. From that distance, it might have even looked convincing.

  Although I felt like I was stalling, and in many ways I was, it really did take a long time to get out of that skinny balcony and down the narrow, twisty steps to the church’s foyer. By the time I made my way down, most of the crowd had exited the church and the remaining attendees were standing in conversational groups of two and three right outside the front door on the concrete steps leading to the sidewalk. I quickly scanned the groups before I spotted Pete and Megan standing on the sidewalk, talking to a small, bird-like woman. Once again Pete noticed me before I could duck out of view. He gave me an enthusiastic wave and I waved back as I headed down the steps toward them.

  I hadn’t seen the two of them together very often, but when I had, I was always struck with the same, cruel thought: How did such a doughy, average-looking guy like Pete hook up with a woman like Megan?

  It wasn’t that Pete was unattractive. It was that his bland averageness was put into sharp relief whenever he was standing next to Megan. On the other hand, I realized, people would probably be saying the same thing about me if Megan and I were a couple.

  “I’m surprised to see you two here,” I said. “Really surprised.”

  Pete shrugged. “Megan’s trying to get more involved in the psychic community, and I thought I would just tag along. To be supportive.”

  I smiled and looked toward Megan, who was of course stunning, in a light winter coat over a dark blouse and skirt combination. Then I noticed that her smile seemed even more forced than my own. There was an awkward silence and then Megan quickly filled the gap by turning to the tiny, gray-haired woman next to her.

  “Eli, do you know Franny? Franny Higgins? This is Eli Marks.”

  “I don’t believe we’ve met.” I turned and put out my hand to the woman, who was at most a speck over five feet and probably in her late sixties.

  She seemed to take no notice of me, but instead rummaged in her purse. She finally found what she was searching for and wrestled it out of the bag. It was a pair of glasses with almost comically thick lenses. She pulled them onto her face and peered up at me.

  “So, you’re the one they say killed Grey?” she stated more than queried in a thin, raspy voice. She had a sharp, pointed nose and the glasses magnified her deep blue eyes, throwing them out of proportion with the rest of her face.

  Before I could answer, she had taken my outstretched hand, but not in a handshake. She grabbed my fingers roughly and began to knead them like a pile of bread dough, rolling my fingers around in her tiny hands while looking up at the sky thoughtfully.

  After a few moments, she clucked her tongue and shook her head. “No, no. It wasn’t you. You didn’t do it.”

  She patted my hand warmly and then released it, turning her attention to Pete and Megan. “I’m hungry. Are you two going to the reception?”

  The sudden change of topic seemed to take them by surprise. They looked at each other, obviously with no pre-arranged game plan in place.

  “Yes,” Megan said without assurance. “I was going to go. It’s just down the street. I thought I’d walk.”

  “That sounds nice,” Pete said. He looked to Megan for confirmation and her non-reaction was taken as assent.

  “Too far for my old feet,” Franny said, turning back to me. “Are you going, and more importantly, are you driving?”

  “I could go and I could drive,” I said. “I’m parked just over there,” I added, gesturing to the lot directly across the street.

  “Rock star parking. I like you better already,” Franny said, giving me a slap on the arm as she turned and headed toward the corner. She spun back and looked at Megan and Pete. “We’ll see you there.”

  She started to cross the street without waiting for me. I looked to Pete and Megan.

  “I guess I’ll see you there,” I said, as I hurried to catch up with Franny, who moved with remarkable speed for someone who was both old and tiny.

  “Does this thing have heated seats?” Franny asked once she had settled into the front passenger seat.

  “Yes, yes it does,” I said. “But we’re only going a block...”

  “Crank it up,” she said, cutting me off. “I’ve been chilled since my mid-forties.”

  I started the car and turned the seat warmer on for the passenger side, and then turned the car’s heater to high for good measure. She settled back with a sigh as the warmth began to seep through the upholstery.

  “Nice,” she said with a satisfied sigh. “I could get used to this.”

  I shifted the car into gear and we moved out of the parking lot, following the small parade of cars that had chosen to drive the short distance to the reception.

  After a few moments, we passed Pete and Megan, walking together down the sidewalk. Pete’s hands were stuck deep into his pockets, while Megan was looking up at the houses they were passing. I watched them for just a moment too long.

  “I’d stay away from that pair,” Franny said suddenly. “They’re doomed.”

  “Pardon me?” I turned my attention back to my driving. “Who’s doomed?”

  “That couple. The end is near. You can feel it on them, like a stink.”

  “Really? So, is that a psychic prediction?” I asked, trying to sound light and conversational.

  “Simple intuition. Plus I’ve been married three times, so I recognize the signs.” Franny put her hands up in front of one of the air vents and let the warming air envelop her fingers. “I saw the way you looked at her. It’s only going to end in tears my friend, only going to end in tears.”

  She began to fiddle with the radio knob. “Do you have satellite?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “That’s a shame. They say it helps the resale value of the car,” she added. “This car warms up quick, though. I’ll give you that.”

  “Good thing, since it’s supposed to snow tonight.”

  Franny shook her head. “No snow. Not tonight.”

  I glanced over at her as she adjusted the vent that was pointing at me, turning it so that it blew in her direction. “The weatherm
an said we’re getting a big snowstorm,” I said. “Six to eight inches by morning.”

  Franny shook her head again. “Not going to happen.”

  “Even the National Weather Service predicts a big storm,” I added, not really knowing why I was being so adamant about the weather forecast.

  “Like they’ve never been wrong before?” she said, turning her hands over and warming the other sides.

  We had arrived at our destination and now it was just a matter of finding a place to park. I slowed my speed and began to look for an opening.

  “There’s a space right around the corner,” Franny said.

  “No, I’ve seen a lot of cars turn there, I don’t think so.”

  “Trust me, there’s a parking space.”

  It was such a definitive statement that it was hard to ignore, so I did as instructed. Just as I had suspected, there weren’t any spots. And then a parked car suddenly pulled out into the street, leaving a prime parking spot in its wake. I glanced over at Franny, who shrugged.

  “Told you,” was all she said. “Now let’s get something to eat.”

  The second I stopped the car she shoved open the passenger door with a surprising amount of gusto and moments later had moved quickly toward the house. I hurried to catch up with her.

  Chapter 9

  The house was massive, too big for the lot it sat on. Like an increasing number of houses that overlooked Lake Harriet, it was a McMansion—a smaller house that had been purchased and renovated so that not only did it no longer resemble its former self, but it actually looked a silly when compared to the surrounding homes.

  Whoever had renovated this house had gone all out, building up and out, pushing the footprint to the very edge of the lot. It might at one time have been a charming two-story colonial-style home, but so much glass had been added—along with porches, decks and balconies—that it now resembled a house designed by MC Escher on a bender.

  Although not everyone from the memorial service had made their way down the street for the reception, there were still a healthy flow of people streaming in as Franny and I made our way up the stone steps to the main door.

  As we approached I could see straight through the mostly-glass structure, from the front through the back to its view of Lake Harriet and the downtown skyline beyond. We worked our way into the stream of people and as we entered the two-story foyer, I looked ahead into the wide, open living room, which was lined on three sides with floor-to-ceiling windows.

  Suddenly a shadow fell across me and my view was entirely obscured by something very large and dark blue. A hand fell upon my shoulder, nearly making my knees buckle from the impact.

  “Eli Marks, isn’t it?” a deep, booming voice said. I looked up to see the smiling face of Maurice Bitterman, an impressively large, beautifully-groomed black man. He stood about six-foot five and must have tipped the scales at over two hundred and eighty. He was wearing an elegantly-tailored dark blue suit, with a white pressed linen shirt open at the neck. Gold bracelets adorned both wrists and at least one tooth in his smile appeared to be gold as well. He was completely bald.

  This was a man who made a stunning first impression.

  “That’s me,” I said, shifting my weight to help maintain my balance. “And you’re Maurice Bitterman, right?”

  His smile, which was large to begin with, grew even wider, possibly because I had pronounced his first name correctly.

  “Guilty as charged,” he replied, and then his hand flew up and covered his mouth in mock surprise. “I’m sorry. Perhaps the wrong choice of words to use around you, under the circumstances. No offense, I hope.”

  “None taken. No charges have been filed and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “I’m sure you would.” His gaze moved from me to something next to me, even closer to the ground. I followed his eyes to see that he was looking down at Franny. “Franny, don’t even ask. The food is in the kitchen, down that hall to your left.”

  She darted away without a word and bulldozed her way through the crowd toward the kitchen, quickly disappearing from sight. Maurice wrapped a mammoth arm around my shoulder and guided me toward the living room. “Let’s talk for a minute,” he said.

  A bar had been set up on one side of the immense living room and Maurice ordered two beers from the bartender. He waved away glasses and instead effortlessly clasped both bottles in one large hand. He offered one to me as he directed me toward a huge couch that offered a beautiful view of the lake.

  The couch was occupied, but by the time we had crossed the room, everyone who was seated there had found a reason to go sit somewhere else. Maurice didn’t seem to notice and I suspect that it was a common occurrence for a man of his size and commanding presence.

  I settled in and looked out at the view. The day was at the tipping point between dusk and darkness. Most of the leaves had fallen from the trees and it was beginning to look and feel like November. A couple of die-hard runners plodded past on the leaf-strewn path below, while a flock of ducks out on the water decided at that moment to decamp and perhaps head toward a warmer climate. The glass walls made you feel like you were sitting outside, although the new-age music playing on the invisible sound system and the hubbub of multiple conversations in the room reminded me that we were, in fact, very much indoors.

  “I saw you on television,” Maurice said, settling into the comfy sofa and putting his feet up on a matching ottoman. “That trick you did at the end, with the knife through the card, that’s a good one. You’ll have to show me how you did it some time.”

  “I think I may retire the knife trick,” I said. “At least for the foreseeable future.”

  “Prudent choice,” he agreed, taking a long sip from the bottle.

  I took a sip from my own and then got up the nerve to ask the question that had been bugging me for the last thirty minutes. “So, what’s a former All-Star football player doing at the memorial service for a well-known, if somewhat dubious, psychic?”

  He stopped mid-sip and for an instant I thought I might have taken a potentially dangerous conversational turn. But then he broke into that wide, bright grin again and I relaxed, at least for the moment.

  “That, my friend, is an interesting story.” He took his feet off the ottoman and leaned forward. “It started because I couldn’t get a good night’s sleep. For love or money, I couldn’t. I’d wake up exhausted. I was two years out of the game, still trying to find my feet, career-wise. I didn’t want to end up as a casino greeter or worse, and man, I was floundering. Or foundering. Which one is it?”

  “In the context that you’re using it, I think they both mean roughly the same thing,” I said helpfully. “Although I’m sure there are people who would argue the point.”

  “The same thing? Like flammable and inflammable?”

  “Same thing.”

  “Well, that’s just stupid.”

  “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  “Anyway, I couldn’t get a good night’s sleep. I tried everything.” He leaned back in the chair, tapping the side of his beer bottle thoughtfully. “Let me tell you, a man doesn’t appreciate sleep until he can’t.”

  “You don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone.”

  “Amen, brother.” Another sip, followed by a thoughtful sigh. “Anyway, someone recommended hypnotherapy and, at that point, I figured what the hell. I called the guy and went in for one session with no level of enthusiasm. And within one week I was sleeping like a baby.”

  “Because of hypnotherapy? Interesting.”

  He surprised me by shaking his head. “Nope. The hypnotherapist took one look at me and said I probably had sleep apnea. It’s common in men with large necks, which you may have noticed I have.”

  I nodded. His neck was roughly the same diameter as my thighs, combined.

  “But something about hypnotherapy intrigued me, so I started looking into it. And it turned out I had an aptitude for it. Two years of schooling later, I was Dr. Bitterman, which
would have thrilled my mother no end, God rest her soul. Then I got turned onto past life regression, via our mutual friend, the late Mr. Grey. That’s our primary business now.”

  “Our?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I have clinic out in Wayzata and two satellite clinics, one in Rosemount and another one downtown. We’ve got a staff of about twelve people. And then of course there’s the online component, which is, frankly, the lion’s share of our business. People are endlessly fascinated about their past life experiences, and there are thousands out there willing to drop $29.95 a pop for a little insight. It adds up, let me tell you; it adds up mightily.” He looked past me and his smile widened to twice its size. “And speaking of past lives, here’s one of my favorite clients, past, present, or future.”

  I turned to see Megan moving through the crowded room toward us, with Pete in tow. Pete was holding two clear plastic cups full of some form of alcohol, while Megan was balancing a couple small plates layered high with exotic-looking appetizers.

  Megan’s smile rivaled Maurice’s in intensity, and when she arrived at our couch, she and the good doctor exchanged as much of a hug as they could, given the cargo she was carrying. Maurice half pulled, half lifted her over me, placing her gently between us on the couch.

  Having nowhere else to sit, Pete sat next to me, balancing awkwardly on the arm of the couch, a slightly forced smile on his face. He raised one of the plastic cups in a mock toast toward me, and then handed the other cup to Megan.

  “Eli, I didn’t know that you knew Dr. Bitterman,” Megan said to me as she took the drink from Pete. “Isn’t he the best?”

  “Actually, we just met about five minutes ago. We were talking about past life regressions,” I began, but she cut me off, grabbing onto my leg with her free hand to demonstrate the intensity of her excitement about the topic.