Pall in the Family

by Dawn Eastman

  “How is that possible?” My mother twisted her apron in her lap. “She was the nicest person. Who would want to kill her?” The tears spilled over.

  “We have to do something. We can’t let them get away with this,” Vi said, and patted my mother’s shoulder. “Whoever did it has to pay!” She waggled her finger at me as if I were the culprit.

  “The police were there when I left. They’ll figure this out.” I stood up and paced in front of the coffee table, unable to sit still.

  “Which police?” Vi asked, in a way that made me feel sorry for Tom.

  “Officer Andrews took the call, and he was waiting for the medical examiner when I left.”

  “Tommy Andrews! He can barely write a parking ticket,” she said, and turned to my mother. “No offense, Rose. I know you and Jillian go way back, but he’s just a boy.”

  “They’ll send a detective from the sheriff’s office for this. They aren’t a bunch of idiots,” I said.

  “Mac? He’ll be looking into a murder in Crystal Haven?” Vi said. She pursed her lips and caught my mother’s eye before looking away.

  “Yes, Mac. I’m sure he’ll do a good job. He had a great reputation when he was in Saginaw.”

  “Why did he come back here, anyway?” Aunt Vi asked me with one eyebrow raised.

  “Mac and I aren’t in the habit of sipping coffee and sharing our life plans. I assume he wanted to get out of the city. . . .” I’d wondered the same thing myself but didn’t want to give my aunt any further reason to explore this line of questioning.

  My mother was staring into space and mangling her apron. I sat again and put a hand on hers.

  “Mom, I’m really sorry. I know she was special to you.”

  “Special” didn’t quite cover it. Sara had been the star pupil in my mom’s psychic classes. My mother had inherited some diluted abilities from my grandmother, and she generally stuck to tarot cards. I had inherited a bit more. What Mom lacked in personal ability she made up for by recognizing and developing talent in others. My entire childhood was testimony to her passion for discovering and developing “talent.” It was also a lesson in how to spin even the smallest amount of intuition into a reputation as a fortune-teller. I wouldn’t say my mother and aunt were frauds, but that was because they were family.

  “Well, we have an eyewitness sitting upstairs with Seth. I’m going to see what he can tell us.” Vi bustled off to accost Tuffy.

  Vi’s pet psychic abilities put her somewhere between a mind reader and an animal trainer. She has a huge following of people who bring their animals to her from all over the United States. I personally think her success has more to do with the treat bag she carries than with any sort of animal communication, but I’m the skeptic in the family. It’s something we don’t like to talk about at holiday meals.

  “Vi has the right idea. We have to do something.” My mother stood and wiped her eyes. She gestured for me to follow.

  “Seriously, Mom? It’s not going to help. You know I don’t like . . .”

  “She was my friend, and I need to do what I can to help her, Clytemnestra.” My mother had transformed from fragile to steely, as usual. She only uses my full name in emergency situations. My grandmother Agnes had named her two daughters after her favorite flowers, roses and violets. My mother decided it would be clever to name her two daughters after her favorite roses. She loved orange roses, especially the Clytemnestra rose. My father must have intervened on behalf of my sister, and she was given the more normal name Grace. I can only assume that nine years later he was distracted when it came to naming me. In a town with its fair share of oddballs, my parents managed to guarantee I would be singled out as the oddest of them all.

  “Just do this for me. It’s not like I ask for much,” she said as she led the way into her parlor. That could be debated, but now was not the time.

  The parlor was like the living room only worse. It looked as if a demented decorator had spun in the middle of the room spewing Victorian-era knickknacks everywhere. The main color was lime green with deep red as a close runner-up. A small floral print covered the walls accompanied by a wide ceiling border of a larger floral pattern. A red and green striped couch shared the small space with red upholstered chairs sporting crocheted antimacassars across the headrests. The coffee table had a green-print fringed tablecloth, and the chairs, not to be outdone, had fringed throw pillows on them. This was my mother’s office.

  We sat at a small table flanked by two chairs. Mom pulled a deck of cards from a drawer on her side, removed them from a silk scarf, and placed them between us on the table.

  “Shuffle and cut.”

  I shuffled. She had chosen her oldest set, a Rider deck from before I was born. The cards were worn and soft; they felt more like stiff fabric than tarot cards. I cut the deck into three piles using my left hand, placing each pile to the left as I had done so many times before.

  She closed her eyes and placed her hands over each pile, “sensing” which one to use. I looked at the ceiling.

  “I saw you roll your eyes at me.”

  “I was just looking at the spot where the wallpaper is peeling there. Maybe we can get Seth to climb up and fix it.”

  She glared at me the way only my mother can.

  “Okay. Queen of Swords,” she said. She placed a card in the center of the table. A woman was seated facing the right side of the card and holding a sword straight up. There were low clouds with blue sky in the background. My mother picked the “querent” card based on the person’s coloring. I have dark brown hair, which is Swords. Sara was blonde, so she was Wands.

  “But that’s me.” I pointed to the card. “I thought you were going to do Sara. She should be Wands.”

  “I can’t do Sara. She’s dead. I have to do your reading and see how you can affect this situation.” Mom put her hand over the card to keep me from moving it.

  “Okay, fine. But just this, Mom.” I sat back, crossing my arms. “I don’t want to hear about tall, dark strangers coming into my life.”

  “Always with the jokes. Fortunately, the cards don’t care if you believe or not.”

  She laid out the cards in her standard pattern. She sat back, thinking. I leaned forward, not liking what I saw. For one thing, the Two of Swords was over the center card. It showed a blindfolded woman holding two crossed swords, which indicated a person closed off from others or someone who is refusing to become involved with others. My mother was sure to jump on that interpretation.

  “Well,” she began, “the Ten of Cups reversed indicates you have talents and gifts that you don’t appreciate.” The Ten of Cups shows goblets in a rainbow arrangement, which would be a happy card if it wasn’t upside down, or reversed. She sighed and shook her head. “The Two of Swords shows you are purposely cutting yourself off from those gifts.”

  “Or it could mean I’m in a difficult domestic situation and I have to protect myself from the interference of others,” I said.

  She looked up sharply. “When did you start reading tarot?”

  “I think you did my first reading when I was about seven, Mom. I needed to know something to protect myself.” Mom had been reading cards so long, that often her interpretations couldn’t be found in any book, but I had learned enough to give myself some ammunition. I should have known better than to let a relative with a blazing agenda read my cards, but I’d been doing it all my life.

  “Let’s move on to the question of Sara,” she said. “The Page of Cups represents Sara, she was developing psychic talents.” She took a moment for a meaningful glance in my direction.

  I was focused on the Death card in the “outcome” position. A skeleton in black armor rode a white horse through a devastated landscape. It didn’t indicate Sara’s death; this was another death or change to come. There were also Judgment and the Moon; the cards indicated I was fighting my psychic abilitie
s to my own detriment. I was beginning to think Mom had stacked the deck. Good thing The Tower—people leaping out of a burning building—was absent or I would have locked myself in my room until the whole thing was resolved.

  “Okay, that’s enough. I really don’t need to hear any more about my place in the universe according to the cards. I’ve always done the wrong thing in relation to the tarot.”

  She held up her hand.

  “Wait, it shows the King of Wands in the near future. Honest, optimistic, a stern and strong-minded leader. You’re going to have to deal with him.”

  “Why don’t you finish up later, okay? Let’s go check on Tuffy.” I couldn’t get away from the cards fast enough. The rest of them did not tell a tale I wanted to hear—fighting your inner self, psychic talents, all leading to death. It was always the same gloom and doom. The only good card was the Three of Cups—three people dancing and holding goblets overhead. At least I would have friends.

  “You know, we wouldn’t have to resort to tarot if you’d allow your own natural abilities to come forward, Clyde.”

  “Not again, Mom.” I sighed.

  “I just don’t understand why someone with a gift like yours would choose to ignore it.” She gestured at the cards.

  “We’ve really done this enough, don’t you think? It doesn’t seem like much of a gift when all you see is death and destruction. I’m happier not knowing what will happen.”

  “That was a long time ago. You can learn to control it.”

  “Let’s go check on Seth and Vi.” I pushed away from the table.

  * * *

  We found them in Violet’s apartment, a three-room annex off the main level of my parents’ living area. The house had originally belonged to my grandmother and when she died, she left it to her daughters. Thanks to Grace, my parents had lost their house when the market crashed in 1987. Grace had one “talent” and that was the ability to predict the stock market. She claimed she saw letters and numbers in an almost constant stream and once she realized what they meant she began investing. In a snit over some fight with Mom, Grace chose not to warn my parents to dump their stock and they ended up losing everything, including their house. Aunt Vi was living with my grandmother at the time, and they had plenty of room. When Mom, Dad, Grace, and I moved in, we got the larger half and the upper floors. Everyone shared the kitchen.

  In the end, I was glad we lost the house. Spending much of my adolescence living with my grandmother had been wonderful. She’d had a calm, serene presence that she hadn’t passed on to her daughters. Unfortunately, she also had psychic talent that she passed on to me. She understood, better than anyone in my family, why I would want to block the messages coming to me.

  Violet had not continued the Victorian theme in her area of the house. Claiming that her clients didn’t need all that “claptrap,” she decorated in a more modern, but just as colorful, fashion. Tuffy was sitting on one of the many client beds Vi kept scattered around her living room. Seth was sitting next to him and petting him gently.

  Vi was rocking in her chair, knitting, when we came in. Baxter lay like a large lumpy carpet at her feet.

  “Any luck?” my mother asked.

  “No, he’s too upset. All I could get out of him was ‘bacon,’” Vi said.

  “Maybe he’s hungry,” I said. Tuffy was always hungry, in my experience.

  I received a triple glare from Violet, Seth, and my mother. Baxter didn’t move.

  “He’s traumatized, Clyde. Give the guy a break.” Seth leaned protectively over Tuffy.

  “I just knew something was going to happen. The horses over at Miller’s place have been agitated.” Vi rocked faster and her fingers flew with the needles. “I was over there a couple of days ago, but they wouldn’t tell me what was bothering them. My cat clients have completely clammed up. They’re usually such a gossipy bunch. I should have seen something like this coming.”

  Seth’s eyes grew wide; my mother just nodded. I looked at the ceiling.

  “Seth, I need to finish with the rest of the dogs. Do you want to come with me or stay with Tuffy?”

  “I think I’ll stay with Tuffy.” He curled himself around the dog, and I saw that he probably was just as upset as his new canine friend.

  “Okay, I’ll see you later.” I turned to leave.

  “What about lunch? I have sandwiches and brownies.” Mom gestured toward the kitchen.

  “I’m not that hungry, Mom. And I have to get to the rest of the dogs.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You have to eat. The dogs can wait a few minutes. Seth, let’s go.” She walked toward the dining room, assuming we would follow.

  We sat at the table—all of us. Seth pulled up a chair for Tuffy to sit in, and he began feeding the dog small pieces of lunch meat from his sandwich. Baxter didn’t need a chair. He rested his head on the table and with his eyes watched each bite I took like he was following a tennis match. A wet puddle formed under his chin. My mother didn’t eat, claiming she was too upset. I had taken about three bites when I heard my cell phone ringing in the front hall.

  I found my messenger bag in disarray and covered in Baxter slime. I’d forgotten about the treats I’d left in there. Apparently he’d found them. By the time I’d waded through my wet bag, my phone had stopped ringing. I was muttering Baxter’s name just as I heard a chair topple and my mother shout, “Baxter!”

  I ran into the dining room to see Baxter finishing off my sandwich. He caught sight of me and slunk over to hide behind Vi.

  “He’s sorry, Clyde. The sandwich just looked really good,” Vi said, putting a protective hand on his head.

  I scowled at them and hit the voice mail button on my phone.

  “It’s Mac. Call me.”

  I took a steadying breath and stood straighter. I hit callback, and I could tell my blood pressure was rising by the pounding in my head. Here we go.

  “Clyde, I need you over here now,” Mac said, in greeting.

  “Hi, Mac. It’s been a long time. . . .” I tried for a light and carefree tone, but it didn’t work.

  “Save it, Clyde. You’re lucky you’re not under arrest for leaving the scene of a crime.”

  “Right. See you in ten minutes.” I clicked the phone shut and took a deep breath. This was going to be worse than I thought, plus I’d have to skip the brownie.

  4

  The boats bobbed and clanged in the small marina as I drove along River Street. Turning onto Main Street, I was greeted by downtown Crystal Haven. All the storefronts were freshly painted in bright colors for the summer tourist season. Many stores had hanging signs along the street to entice wandering shoppers. Even without the spiritualist draw, it would be a tourist town. It’s situated on the west coast of Michigan, south of Grand Rapids. This makes it close enough to Chicago for weekend travelers and not so far “up north” that it discourages day-trippers. About a mile inland from Lake Michigan, Crystal Haven is fed by a river that forms a small lake, which serves as a protected marina for boats traveling on the Great Lake. We have the usual Lake Michigan attractions: beaches, boating, fishing, and hiking. We also have the largest community of psychics outside of Lily Dale, New York. The early founders of the town settled in the late 1800s, when a large deposit of quartz was discovered and a small group of spiritualists flocked to the area, feeling the crystals would be attractive to the spirits.

  While Lily Dale has remained a spiritualist retreat, Crystal Haven has branched out over the years to offer all manner of new age and spa-treatment services. My grandmother had moved here in the 1930s with her parents, who’d seen the promise of money through her “gifts.” She had predicted the stock market crash, and her parents had managed to save most of their nest egg. By the time World War II broke out, she had become famous for her psychic readings and prophecies. WWII opened up a whole new set of clients who might have shied away from
spiritualism in their pre-war lives. A steady stream of desperate parents and wives arrived in Crystal Haven to find out if their soldiers were alive and well. Eventually, the focus shifted, and Crystal Haven’s residents realized they would need to branch out if they wanted to remain on the tourist map. The old guard was disappointed by this turn of events and routinely tried to block new businesses coming in that were not purely spiritualist in nature. However, there were enough young and savvy psychics on the town council to allow these “fringe” businesses to set up shop among the more serious spiritualist pursuits.

  The split between old and new could only be detected by those living in Crystal Haven. Those listening to the vicious gossip. Aunt Vi’s cat clients were particularly brutal, if she was to be believed. For the average visitor, Crystal Haven was a one-stop shop for crystals, talismans, readings, séances, massages, hypnosis, acupuncture, herbal medicine, and outdoor sports. We even have a golf course.

  The small police station is sandwiched between a shop selling crystals and palm readings, and a bookstore specializing in spiritualist titles. Its sign is small and hardly noticeable among the larger and flashier store signs. Tourist towns don’t like to call attention to the need for law enforcement.

  I parked and went inside, mentally preparing to see Mac again.

  Even the police station entrance is cheerful; it’s painted sunny yellow and features paintings of boats and beaches. Occasionally, it’s confused with a travel agency. I was surprised to see Lisa Harkness behind the reception desk. She’d been a year ahead of me in school, and I’d always thought she would get out of Crystal Haven the moment she got her diploma. She used to say that real life was happening elsewhere. Still wearing the big, frizzy hairstyle from high school and frosted eye shadow, she greeted me with a smile. She was sporting a wedding ring and had a picture of two kids on her desk. So that’s why she’d stayed.

  “Hi, Clyde. I heard you were back in town.” She made a few clicks with her mouse and spun her chair to look at me. “Is it a nice change from the city?”