“No, no,” Curt said, jabbing a finger in the air. “We have a Messenger, Rose, and you know it. You persist in this game of yours.”
Rose lifted her eyes from her wine glass. “Curt, I think the reason you haven’t been successful at Messenger before, and let me say this in all kindness—”
“No.” Curt stiffened. “Please don’t say it in all kindness. Say it in any other way.”
“I only mean to help.”
“Unsolicited advice is seldom helpful. Nor is it meant to be.”
“I truly desire to help you.”
“You desire nothing but your own aggrandizement.”
Rose wrapped both hands about her wine glass and leaned toward Curt, her head tilted to one side, her eyebrows raised in supplication. “The craft of Messenger can be learned.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You’re not ready now, but I believe you can be by this time next year, and I can help.”
Exasperated, Curt threw his hands into the air. “Rose, you have to trust me on this—and I say it with all kindness. I’ve seen your work, and you’re not nearly as good as you think you are.”
Anna wondered how long it would be before Dean intervened. But his wife was holding her own, and he seemed to be enjoying the verbal jousting playing out before him.
“Listen to me, Curt. I was once you. Perhaps not even as naturally talented as you. But you’re not ready, just like I wasn’t ready two years ago.”
Despite Rose’s claim to good intentions, Anna thought there was more than a whiff of insincerity in her earnestness. The woman was laying it on thick—the eyebrows, the leaning, the hand fluttering to her breastbone—and like most people who unashamedly practiced manipulation, she had no idea how easily others could see through her.
“The Messenger job is mine,” Curt said, giving his chest a single thump. “I’m owed it.”
Dean made a show of clearing his throat, and all eyes looked his way. “Messenger is an office, not a job. You two realize we have guests, right?”
“Oh my,” Rose said, grimacing and smiling all at once. “So sorry,” she added, turning her smile-grimace on Anna and Liz.
“Yes, sorry,” Curt said. The withering look he gave Rose was completely lost on her as she returned to contemplating her wine glass.
“So . . . ,” Liz said, turning to Curt. “Can I ask a question about your group?”
“By all means,” Curt answered. He rearranged himself in his chair to face Liz, pleased, it seemed, to abandon his squabble with Rose.
“How many members do you have?”
“Except for our officers, the membership fluctuates year to year. People join in January, and they may stay on for a few months or even a few years. Tanner Ostberg, our newest member, joined last January and he’s still a member, so some stay on.”
“I know Tanner a little.”
“Do you?” Rose interjected.
“He works for the Elk Park Herald,” Liz said, “and I own the ElkNews.com website, so I know his name, and I saw him on the job earlier today.”
“He gave Liz’s car a push in the snow,” Anna said. Liz was smart to mention ElkNews.com. Sooner or later the members would find out that she owned the website, so it was best to voluntarily offer the information. That way they would be more likely to open up to her and less likely to suspect her of bad motives.
“He’ll be here any time now,” Dean said. “He works late sometimes. I guess you keep some long hours too, Liz, being in the news business.”
“The news doesn’t sleep, and neither do I.”
Dean forced a pleasant chuckle.
“Have you always been interested in art?” Liz asked.
“Not always. Rose and I bought the galleries about fifteen years ago. We saved every single penny we earned”—he looked to Rose and she gazed admiringly back, nodding her head—“then we both took early retirement.”
“A dream come true,” Rose said. “In our early forties we became our own bosses.”
“What did you do before?” Anna asked.
“Rose was a nurse in Elk Park,” Dean said. Rose gazed and nodded again. “I was a criminal defense investigator for the Colorado State Public Defender’s Office in Loveland, an occupation no one stays with for long if they have any sense.”
“Fantastic,” Liz said, nearly snapping to attention in her seat.
“No, it wasn’t,” Dean said with a laugh. “Fine, for a year or two it was, but it’s the kind of job that grinds you down quickly.”
Unconvinced, Liz said, “But you were a PI for the state. Licensed to investigate.”
“I wasn’t a freelancer, I was assigned cases, and my scope was much more limited than any PI’s. That job was a combination of dull and aggravating.”
As Liz and Dean talked, Anna watched Curt from the corner of her eye. He was fidgeting in his chair, tugging at the neck of his sweater, and several times he opened his mouth as if to interrupt and recapture Liz’s attention. A competitive man, it seemed to her, and it irritated him that Dean had taken the attention that a minute ago had been his.
“I can’t believe the job was dull,” Liz said. “You got to snoop with impunity.”
“There was a lot of paperwork in that job,” Rose said. “Hours of overtime filling out meaningless forms for the state.”
Curt rose suddenly from his chair and swung to address Liz. “Would you like to see our collection room?”
It was hard to deny the request of a man already on his feet. “Mind if I see it too?” Anna said. “Yesterday the lights went out before I had a chance.”
“By all means.” As Curt moved for the hall, he glanced back at Dean. “When Tanner gets here, tell him to go easy on my wine.”
“I was wondering,” Anna called ahead, walking swiftly to keep up with Curt, who couldn’t seem to exit the living room fast enough, “what do club members do when you don’t have guests?”
At the bedroom door, Curt reached around the doorjamb for the light switch and flipped it. “Here we are. I want to show you some things in particular, and Anna,” he said, looking back at the door, “we sit and talk, waiting for any local goober to show up. As you can tell, it makes for a rubbish of an evening most of the time.”
Anna tipped her head sympathetically, hoping to draw Curt out. “You all have such different interests and personalities.”
Curt leaned in, whispering conspiratorially. “Rose is not one of God’s most humble creatures.”
“You don’t get along.”
“She’s death on a bun.” He stood straight again and shot Anna a wink.
“I take it you’re in line to be the new Messenger.”
“You take it exactly right.”
Her hands clasped behind her back, Liz walked slowly about the room, making a show of examining but not touching the items on the shelves. Anna knew she was listening to every word Curt said.
“What does the Messenger do?” Anna asked.
Curt frowned and pulled in his chin, surprised by the question. “I thought you knew. The Messenger is our contact to the other side.”
“You mean the dead?”
Liz stopped moving.
“You came here for a séance. I really thought you knew.”
You really thought I was going to participate? “Sure, but I didn’t understand the title Messenger.”
“I can see why that would be confusing.” He pushed his fingers into the frizzy mass of gray hair above his ears and somehow managed to extricate them gracefully. “The Messenger chiefly contacts Johannes Sorg, who then contacts the required dead person.”
Liz wheeled back and stared at Curt.
“You talk to Sorg?” Anna said.
“He’s the founder of the group, so it would be rude not to.” Curt slapped his hands together and let out a snort of a laugh.
“So he’s a real person? When did he die?”
“Of course he’s real. He died in Norway in 1749, when he was forty-six years
old.”
“How do you talk to him?”
“What do you mean? With our mouths.” Curt narrowed his eyes, looking first at Liz and then at Anna, seemingly taking stock of a new and confusing situation. “You really don’t know what we do here, do you?”
“I was Melinda’s guest,” Anna said with a shrug. “All I know is what club members have told me. The club was founded at a New Year’s Eve party, it’s meant for encouragement—”
“All true, but not the point,” Curt said. “We’re a support group, giving people a fresh start after a loss.”
“What kind of loss?” Anna asked.
“Any kind of tragic loss. Divorce, death of a loved one.”
“Job loss?”
“Sure, that too.”
“How do you give people this fresh start?”
“With a job loss, we would help them find a new job, help them meet new people, make contacts.” He flung out an arm and scoured the air with his hand. “And we wipe out their past.”
“What about the death of a loved one?”
“Unfortunately, we can’t bring a loved one back—not physically. At least not yet. But who knows where January Man may lead?”
“Where did the name January Man come from?”
“Sorg gave it to us. January equals a fresh start, freedom from past sorrow.”
“I ask because Johannes Sorg means John Sorrow.”
“Brava, Anna.” Pleasure and a hint of suspicion mingled on Curt’s face. “You took the time to look it up.”
“John Sorrow is a peculiar name for a man who hands out fresh starts.”
“What can I say? That’s his name. You talk as though we made it up, but we didn’t. He gave it to us.”
“How did he do that?”
“He visited Rose, then Dean, then the rest of us.” Curt let out a breathy laugh. “I don’t mean in bodily form. He knows we’re not ready for that yet. But very soon, I think.” The conspiratorial tone in his voice was back in play. “Rose wants to start with Lily—the Prices lost her years ago, when she was two—but I’m for starting with Beverly. That’s the fair thing to do, but then Rose was never one to care about fairness.”
Anna was dumbfounded. Curt was smiling affably, chatting away as if they were at a PTA meeting. “Are you talking about necromancy?”
“That’s the term. I have to say, you’re on top of things.”
“Raising the dead?”
“I don’t raise, I wake. Raising is above my pay grade. For now.” He smiled again and folded his arms across his chest. The friendly neighborhood necromancer.
Liz stepped forward. “Curt, this is what the Messenger does? This is the job you’re after?”
“This is the job I’ve earned. Earned.”
“What’s that you’ve earned, Curt?” Dean strolled into the bedroom, hands in his pockets and a sleepy expression on his face, exuding a nonchalance that didn’t fool Anna for one second. He simply couldn’t stand the three of them talking in private, especially after Curt’s fight with Rose, and he had to listen in. “Tanner finally got here. He’s leaving in two minutes, but he’s opening a new bottle of wine first.”
“That herbert, that square-thumbed . . .” Curt flew out of the bedroom and down the hall.
Dean grinned and leaned on the doorjamb. “So what do you think of our little museum?”
“Are all these gifts from members?” Anna said, approaching one of the shelves, more than happy to leave behind her conversation with Curt.
“Yes, all of them.”
Like the rest of the house, the bedroom had a musty odor to it, the odor of abandonment and decay. Anna examined the overstuffed shelves—the Celtic bronzes, the small figurines and circular objects in ivory or bone. On a middle shelf was an open book, its pages curled with age. “And this?” she said, pointing at it. “May I?”
“From Henry Maxwell. Go ahead, but careful.”
Anna lifted the book from the shelf, holding it gingerly in an entirely false show of respect. Though the illustrations on the two open pages were expertly and beautifully done, it was clearly an occult work.
“It’s a two-hundred-year-old book based on the works of Hugo de Giffard of Yester, the thirteenth-century Scottish magician,” Dean said.
“Where would Maxwell find something like this?”
“Scotland, I guess.” Dean sniffed and looked down the hall toward the living room. “Well, we should get back.”
“Thanks for the look,” Anna said, replacing the book. “I’m afraid I need to get home.”
Dean’s thin form stood erect. He sidestepped away from the door and into the hall, letting Anna slip by him. At least six foot three, the man had to tower over the much smaller Rose when they stood side by side.
“Liz, are you thinking of joining?” Dean said when the three reached the living room.
“Do, please!” Rose said. “We need a fresh membership.”
“Let me give it a think,” Liz said, planting a serious look, full of heartfelt contemplation, on her face. Anna almost laughed out loud. “For now, I need to slip and slide my way home. I don’t like the roads when they’re this bad, and they’re only going to get worse.”
“Oh, they’re awful this time of year,” Rose said. “I do sometimes wish we’d created the June Club.”
Making his way to the coat rack, Curt pivoted sideways and rolled his eyes for Anna and Liz to see. They were friends now. Co-conspirators in the Hating Rose Club, mocking her lame joke. “Here you are, ladies,” he said, handing Liz her coat and Anna her jacket.
Slipping her arms in the sleeves of her jacket, Anna looked back to the living room, seeking Tanner’s face. “I thought Tanner was here.”
“He said he just wanted to stop by, see how many guests we had and if we needed help,” Rose said.
“But he had time to open a new bottle,” Curt said, twisting back to Rose.
“I’m afraid he did,” Rose answered sheepishly.
With the sun long gone and the temperature, according to Liz’s SUV thermometer, already down to thirteen degrees, Anna relaxed as Liz backed down Curt’s drive and began to make her way out of the Deer Ridge neighborhood. Since living in Elk Park she’d learned that it was safer to drive in the bitter cold. It was sun-warmed ice—its membrane of water between ice and tires—that was the real danger.
“What do you think?” Liz asked, easing onto Deer Ridge Avenue.
“I don’t know what to think. What brings together people from such varied backgrounds?”
“Necromancy.”
“And who is January Man?” Anna said, ignoring Liz’s one-word reply. She’d had her fill of the occult for the day. “Was he a real person? Curt said as much.”
Liz slowed and pulled to the curb. “That’s Tanner and Soda Ashbrook,” she said, shutting off her lights. “What are they doing?”
Anna leaned forward and looked out the windshield. “He’s giving her something.”
Several times Tanner dipped into the pockets of his coat, extracted something, and put it into Soda’s gloved hands, and each time Soda ducked her head into the open rear door of her blue sedan and came back out empty-handed.
“No wonder he didn’t want to hang around Curt’s house,” Anna said.
“He’s robbing the club,” Liz said. “They’re robbing the club.”
Soda shut her car door, adjusted her gray knit cap, and pressed her body against Tanner’s, circling his neck with her arms. Tanner hugged her, swinging her body left and right in his arms, and when Soda laughed, he released her, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her.
“He’s wearing a wedding band,” Anna said, turning to Liz. “Soda isn’t.”
Liz shook her head. “She’s not married. I guess if you have no problem with stealing, you have no problem with cheating.”
10
Balancing a cardboard cup holder from the Buffalo in the crook of her left arm, Anna opened the front door to Buckhorn’s Trading Post and immedia
tely caught sight of Gene behind the register counter. When the bell over the door sounded, he lifted his eyes from his paperwork. Relief flooded Anna as his face broke into a smile. He hadn’t waited for her to come home last night. He’d packed away the leftovers and driven home. And as usual, she had expected the worst this morning. Though he had left Riley with Jackson, which was always a good sign.
“I hope one of those is for me,” he said.
“You, me, and Jazmin,” Anna said, removing her cup and sliding the holder toward Gene. “If Jazmin still likes the Buffalo’s peppermint lattes,” she added, raising her voice.
“Oh yeah.” A duster in her hand, Jazmin Morningstar strode up the greeting-card aisle and made straight for the register. “Just what I need. Thanks, Anna.” She took hold of the cup with “Pepper” scribbled on it in black marker, pried off the lid, and inhaled the scent of hot coffee, peppermint, and whipped cream before taking a sip.
Like most of her friends, Jazmin still wore black makeup, and as always, her fingernails were painted black, but today there was something different about the girl. Her sweater. Classic Fair Isle, of all things. Since when did she wear sweaters like that? And her hair. It was the same dyed orange as always, looking much like a traffic cone, but something was different. It was a little longer. It was styled. Casually, but with a speck of care. It was . . . pretty.
“What are you staring at?” Jazmin asked. She took a step back. “Aren’t you cold in that fleece jacket? It’s five degrees out.”
“We’re up to eight, the sun is shining, and the secret is layers,” Anna said. “T-shirt, turtleneck, jacket. I don’t like wearing bulky coats when I drive. Besides, I’m from Wyoming.” If she said anything even remotely like “You look pretty,” it would spell disaster. Jazmin would revert to her old hairstyle and her old, mostly black, clothes. Anna was still waiting for the day the black nail polish disappeared—a signal in her eyes that Jazmin had finally left wicca behind her—but there was no mistaking these small changes. Something good was happening.
“I gotta get back to work,” Jazmin said, pressing the lid down on her cup.
“Before you go,” Anna said, “have you heard of the January Club?”
The Club (Anna Denning Mystery Book 4) Page 9
