Pall in the Family

by Dawn Eastman

  I drove to Jillian’s house, which was located a few blocks away from the commercial section of town. I wolfed down half the burger before I got out of the car. The house looked smaller from the front than it actually was. With all those children, the Andrews family had needed space. Jillian also ran her business out of the house. She was a spiritual healer, and much of her work involved client consultations. A sign in the front window read: PSYCHIC HEALER, HERBS, AMULETS, CRYSTALS.

  Tom opened the door before my finger was done pressing the doorbell.

  “Hi, thanks for coming.” He pulled the door wide and swept his arm toward the back of the house.

  I had never been in this house without wishing for heavy-duty earplugs. When the Andrews gang was growing up, the noise level had always been just short of deafening.

  “I’ve never been in your house when it was this quiet.” I had fallen unintentionally into a whisper.

  “Or this clean,” Tom said.

  He was right. The front room used to contain all manner of plastic dolls, toys, and ride-on vehicles. The sheer volume of clutter seemed to add to the noise. In the absence of children, Jillian had turned it into a serene sitting room with off-white furniture and neutral accents.

  “Do you still live here?” I asked as I followed him down the hall to what I thought would be the kitchen.

  He shook his head. “No, I have my own place a few blocks over. This was closer, and my mom had to run some errands. She left me in charge of her kitchen.”

  He pushed the door at the end of the hallway and we entered what looked like a witch’s workroom. The walls were dark wood with exposed beams overhead that were cluttered with hanging herbs and grasses. Several blackened pots sat on an ancient stove. One bubbled madly and spit liquid onto the fire below. Tom moved quickly past shelves of glass vials and bottles, most of which contained powders and liquids that Jillian used in her healing work, and turned down the heat. Some people were just not satisfied with healing energies and crystals, and Jillian had always been known as someone who could mix up a few drops of something to cure just about any illness or distress. Just as he stopped the pan from boiling over, a teakettle began a steady scream.

  Tom removed the kettle from the burner. The shriek died away. He began making tea as if we met every day in his mother’s workshop.

  “Sit, relax,” he said.

  I sat. I did not relax.

  “What’s up, Tom?” I said as he placed a heavy brown mug in front of me. It smelled of vanilla and damp leaves. Rooibos. Jillian’s favorite and something I had been subjected to since childhood.

  He sat across from me with his own steaming beverage. He clasped the mug in both hands and inhaled the steam.

  “Since I joined the force I’ve heard great things about your work in Ann Arbor,” he said. “Your mother can’t say enough about what a great job you did there. According to her, you’re good at sensing where to find evidence, questioning witnesses, and figuring out how crimes were committed. She says you had an incredible record while you were with the police.”

  The room was hushed; even the bubbling pot seemed quieter. I didn’t know what to say. I had no idea my mother paid any attention to my police work. Most of my conversations with her circled the question of why I wouldn’t allow my “talents” to develop.

  “She really said all that?”

  Tom nodded. “I was hoping you would help me on this case. I’ve never worked on a murder before, and Detective McKenzie doesn’t tolerate mistakes.”

  “What’s with the cane?” I asked as I stirred my drink.

  Tom shrugged and shook his head. “He doesn’t talk about it. I heard he was shot during a drug bust. He transferred back here when the job opened up in the sherriff’s office. Lisa told me the receptionist over there claims the cane is only temporary. All I know is he gets pretty grumpy if he thinks you’re looking at it.”

  “Yeah, I noticed,” I said.

  Tom looked at me expectantly, waiting for an answer.

  “I’ll do what I can to help you, but I already told you everything I know.”

  “No, I mean, I want you to work the case with me,” he said to his tea.

  “I’m on leave, Tom. I can’t do any official police work. . . .”

  “I don’t need official help. Mac already thinks I’m an idiot. I can’t do anything right when he’s around.” His shoulders slumped. “I just need some extra insight.”

  “You want to consult with me on the case?”

  “Yeah, consult. That would be great!” His eyes lit up as they met mine.

  “Well, I suppose I could.”

  “Thank you!” He jumped up and stirred the pot boiling on the stove. It released an odor similar to cauliflower and dirty socks.

  I buried my nose in the tea mug, wet leaves being preferable to whatever he was cooking. When I came up for air, I said, “You’ll have to tell me what evidence you have so far and what new leads come up. You know if Mac finds out he’ll kill us both.”

  “Right. We have to keep this between us.” Tom sat down again and pulled out a little notebook. “What kind of evidence do you need? Something from the house? Clothing she was wearing?”

  “I need whatever evidence you’re using to solve the case.”

  “All of it? I don’t think I can sneak it all out.” He chewed on the end of his pencil. “Maybe I can get you in after hours. . . . Do you have to keep the items or just touch them?”

  “What are you talking about?” I said a bit too loudly.

  Tom looked up from his notebook.

  “I don’t want the items at all. I just want to know what they are so I have all the information,” I said.

  He watched me for a moment, and then a slow pink tide swept up from his neck to cover his face.

  “Wait a minute. What kind of help do you want?” I didn’t think it was common knowledge that I could “read” items—and sometimes even people—through touch. I had convinced my mother that I didn’t have that ability, but she must have said something to Jillian.

  “Just do what you did in Ann Arbor. To solve the case.” Tom gave a palms-up gesture and knocked over his tea. Fortunately, it was mostly empty, but he made a big fuss over cleaning it up.

  When he was done and I had him looking at me again, I raised an eyebrow, and said, “I used my brain and deductive reasoning, nothing more.”

  “You didn’t use any other skills?” Tom asked, his voice rising to an unnatural pitch.

  “No. I told you I don’t do that anymore.” I felt my jaw clench and reminded myself that I wasn’t actually mad at him. It was my family that wouldn’t let this go.

  He put his head in his hands, elbows on the table.

  “I’m sorry.” He picked his head up and met my eyes. “We—my mother and I—thought you must have been using your other talents. That’s certainly the impression your mother gave us.”

  This made more sense. Rose wasn’t bragging about her daughter the police officer. She was bragging that her daughter the freaky psychic was passing herself off as a police officer. I was only annoyed with myself for feeling kindly toward my mother. I should have known that her single-minded obsession would not have been supplanted by a mere law enforcement career. She probably believed I was using psychic abilities to solve crimes. Little did she know it was the one time I listened to my “talent” that had landed me in my current mess.

  “Tom, I’d be glad to help you if you still want my help, but only as a fellow police officer. I can help you sort through the evidence and maybe point you in other directions with the case, but I don’t do psychic consultations.”

  He nodded glumly.

  “I expected as much. Who would voluntarily take care of Baxter if they could do readings all day instead?” he said.

  6

  I glanced at my watch and groaned. I was late
for my afternoon clients—not that the dogs could tell time. But I wanted to hear what Tom knew about the case. We finished Jillian’s potion cooking, and I convinced him to come with me on dog rounds. Since my next client, Bonnie, lived only a block away, I left my car at the curb in front of Jillian’s house.

  Tom loped along next to me, stumbling on the occasional ant or leaf in our path. He seemed to have trouble adjusting his long-limbed gait to mine and kept speeding up and slowing down. His hands tried to keep up with his words as he gushed about police work.

  When we reached the top of a steeply slanted street, Tom looked around. Probably checking for spies. We were almost to Bonnie’s house. The shady sidewalk was hushed and held the lingering scent of lilacs. A group of kids played soccer in the park one street over, but the area was otherwise deserted.

  “Okay, what we know so far is that Sara was shot with a small-caliber handgun.” Tom flipped a page in his notepad. “No one in the neighboring houses heard anything.”

  “Her house is pretty isolated,” I said.

  “There are no likely suspects, but we’re looking at her ex-husband, Gary. They had a very messy divorce. Several witnesses have come forward claiming they were recently seen arguing.”

  “Are you sure he was even in town when this happened?” I asked.

  “His flight left at ten a.m. from Grand Rapids. You discovered the body at eleven.” He waved his hand in my direction and made a note in his book. “The ME is placing time of death at around eight a.m., give or take an hour.”

  “You’ll have to see what kind of an alibi he has and what time he checked in for his flight,” I said, slowing as we approached Bonnie’s house.

  “He checked in twenty minutes before his flight. They were about to give his seat to a standby passenger.”

  “You need to find out where he was before that.” I pulled a ring of keys out of my bag, unlocked the door, and gestured at Tom to stand back. Bonnie was a standard poodle with an overexuberant greeting ritual.

  A black blur rocketed toward me and, with a practiced side step, I grabbed her collar to avoid being knocked down. Unfortunately, Bonnie didn’t stop as usual. She continued to run straight at Tom, dragging me along with her. When she hit him full force in the groin, he crumpled against the doorjamb and let out a high-pitched wheeze.

  “Bonnie, off!” I said to the dog, who was now wiggling and licking Tom’s hands and face.

  “Yuck! Stop her!” Tom tried to stand, still protecting his injured area.

  I pulled Bonnie to the hook where her leash was kept. She was so excited to have two visitors she could barely contain herself, nails tapping out a happy sound on the kitchen tile.

  Tom, barely able to stand, held on to the doorjamb for support.

  “Um, why don’t you wait here and rest while I take her for her walk?”

  He nodded and sank to the back-door steps. Bonnie took this as an invitation to begin the licking again.

  I dragged her down the driveway to do her business.

  We returned after Bonnie sniffed all of the usual spots and determined the neighborhood was safe from intruders. The poodle geared up for another encounter with Tom. Fortunately, he was standing and ready for her.

  We locked her back in her house and continued up the street to Bear’s house.

  “What kind of dog is Bear?” Tom asked

  “He’s a mix of a bichon and a shih tzu. They call them teddy bears.”

  “Oh, that sounds cute. Are they big?” Tom limped and grimaced as we walked.

  “About ten pounds.” I slowed down a bit so he could keep up.

  “Good.”

  At the back door, deep ferocious barking greeted us from inside.

  “I thought you said he was little,” Tom said. He hung back a good ten feet and held his open notebook just below his waist.

  “He is. He just sounds big.”

  I opened the door to see Bear barking wildly; he finally calmed down enough to notice he recognized me. He wagged his tail and leapt straight into the air. Andrews approached to watch the antics.

  “Hi there, Bear,” he said. He bent forward to pet the dog.

  “Don’t—”

  But it was too late. Bear peed all over the mudroom floor. I quickly grabbed the dog to keep his feet from getting wet, snapped his leash on him, and handed it to Andrews.

  “Submissive urination. He’s letting you know you’re the boss.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. Aunt Vi’s been working with him for months. She’s trying to get to the bottom of it but claims he’s not much of a talker.”

  “He’s one of your aunt’s clients?”

  Bear hopped on his hind legs to get closer to Tom.

  “They all are. That’s how I got this crazy job. I happen to be good with animals—most of them, anyway. She had a list of clients who needed extra attention during the day.” I quickly stepped into the kitchen and rummaged in a cabinet for paper towels.

  “And what’s Bonnie’s problem? Assault?”

  “No, she keeps escaping from her yard and stealing things. She brings them home and hides them.”

  I cleaned up Bear’s mess while Tom walked him, and they returned a few minutes later happily bonded.

  “I think he likes you,” I said to Tom.

  “Well, he’s easier to like than that poodle.” Tom grinned down at Bear, who seemed to smile back.

  “Isn’t this a sight? Crystal Haven’s newest officer out walking froufrou dogs on the taxpayer’s dollar,” Mac said as he walked up the driveway, leaning lightly on his cane.

  “Detective McKenzie. I was just . . . helping . . . the witness,” Andrews said, and handed the leash to me.

  He stood at attention, and I think he started a salute before he caught himself.

  “They need you back at the station,” Mac said. “I’ll help the witness, if she needs help.” Mac glanced from me to Bear and smiled at the dog.

  “Yes, sir,” Tom scuttled away in the direction of the police station.

  I wished for a moment I could go with him. After the way things had gone that morning, being alone with Mac was not high on my list.

  “Corrupting young minds now, Clyde?”

  “Give me a break. I’ve known Tom forever,” I said. I had put Bear back in the house and locked the door on his barking. “We were just catching up. You could be nicer to him.”

  “No one ever caught a murderer by being nice.”

  I scowled at him. “Well, I have work to do, and you’ve found your officer. I’ll see you around,” I said and started to walk away.

  Mac followed at my heels. Even with that cane he could move pretty fast. He grabbed my hand to stop me. It brought back all the memories I thought I had buried. There was a time when I couldn’t have imagined my life without Mac. I still didn’t understand what had happened between us, but I had thought I was over him. Maybe I was wrong.

  “I was looking for you, Clyde,” he said so softly that I turned to look at him.

  “Why?” The word came out clipped, angry. I was furious with myself for letting Mac get to me, again.

  “I need your help.”

  This was new. Mac never wanted help. I hoped he hadn’t changed his feelings about psychic powers. I had had enough requests for psychic intervention already.

  “I don’t know how I can possibly help you,” I said, but I was already imagining spending time with him, poring over the evidence, bouncing ideas around, figuring out how the clues fit into the puzzle, and, finally, identifying the guilty party.

  “I need you to talk to your sister for me. I meant to ask you when you were at the station . . .”

  My fantasy came to a sudden halt.

  “What?” I felt a little dizzy. I would have grabbed him for support, but that would have made
it worse.

  “I thought you’d want to fill her in on how her son discovered a dead body.” He looked away, unwilling to meet my eyes. “And then I need you to let me do my job.”

  In other words, stay out of it. He hadn’t forgotten or forgiven me. My eyes burned, and I opened my mouth but no words came out

  “Clyde, I’m sorry, I—”

  “No problem,” I interrupted, wanting to get away. “I’ll take care of it, Mac.” I turned and walked down the sidewalk and didn’t wipe my eyes until I was sure he couldn’t see me.

  * * *

  Gray-purple clouds that had threatened rain all afternoon finally made good on the promise. I’d driven across town to walk the last couple of dogs in a daze. The gathering storm matched my mood. I made it home just in time to avoid getting completely soaked. The delicious aroma of pot roast and carrots met me at the door—my mother was up to something.

  I put my bag in the front closet and tucked my phone into my jeans pocket. Hoping to find dinner already in progress, I wandered toward the dining room. Seth sat alone at the table. The dogs were curled up together in the corner.

  Asking about his day got me a summary of the dog testimony gleaned from many hours in Aunt Vi’s company. Tuffy had not been forthcoming. He was sticking to his story about bacon. Baxter had reported that Tish had been “tense” recently. Although how he could tell the difference between tense Tish and normal Tish I had no idea. I wasn’t buying any of it. My feelings about Aunt Vi and her occupation were well known in my family but, as long as I lived here with her, I had promised to behave and keep my opinions to myself.

  Mom bustled in with dinner. My father followed with a bottle of wine, then came Vi carrying a stack of plates and a foul attitude.

  Dad sported a swoop of white hair that rose straight up out of his head and gave him a perpetually surprised demeanor. I’m pretty sure that the shock of moving in with my aunt had never worn off. He is a dentist who still sees patients a few days a week and fills the rest of his time listening to his police scanner and forcing us to decipher 10-codes.