by Dawn Eastman
* * *
I stumbled downstairs in search of coffee, glad that it was Saturday and I didn’t have any responsibilities. My brain was still foggy from the dream and probably from all the whiskey Alex had supplied. Mom greeted me by tapping her watch and giving me the look I used to get when I was late for the school bus.
“We have to leave in fifteen minutes,” she said.
“Leave?” I rubbed my forehead, trying to remember what we could possibly have to do this early in the morning.
She sighed. Then I noticed the black dress, pearls, and high heels. My mother only wears high heels to weddings and funerals. The funeral!
“I can be ready in ten.” I poured a cup and raced back up the stairs.
She followed me out of the kitchen. “Make it quick. I’m not waiting for you.”
Twenty minutes later, Mom, Dad, Vi, and I piled into Dad’s 1980 Buick Regal. It was held together by rust and a prayer, but he refused to consider a new car. This one had “history.” Seth stayed behind with the dogs.
The packed parking lot gave testimony to either Sara’s popularity or the lure of violent death. Most of the town milled about on the church steps and courtyard. Diana and Alex stood off to the side under an oak tree. I hugged Mom and told her I’d see her after the service. I didn’t want to sit with my family. Vi whispered loudly about everyone around her when she was in public, and my mother was sure to sob through the whole thing—she was already welling up. As for Dad, I felt a little guilty about leaving him to fend for himself with the sisters, but not bad enough to stay.
Organ music began as I reached Alex and Diana. We barely had time to say hello before the crowd swept us into the church. While my family took seats toward the front, I gestured at Diana to grab a seat at the back, on the aisle. I like a quick escape route, and I wanted to observe the crowd. Gary sat in front with his daughters, Harriet Munson took a pew with several psychics I recognized from the Reading Room, and I spotted Milo Jones alone halfway back on the right. The Starks arrived late and scooted into the last pew on the far side of the church. I recognized most of the people gathered to say good-bye to Sara. It was likely her murderer was sitting in one of the pews pretending to mourn.
Just as we got settled, everyone around us stood to sing “Amazing Grace.” I rolled my eyes thinking of how Grace had convinced me as a child that the song had been written about her. Once we were seated again, Reverend Frew began his eulogy. My eyes prickled and my throat felt tight as he described Sara’s daughters, friends, and clients, who had loved her and who had lost Sara too soon. I couldn’t sit sobbing in church like my mother. We had been trained in the police academy to hide emotion and keep our feelings to ourselves. I would never pull that off if I had to sit there and hear stories about Sara right on the heels of Tish’s death. I tried not to listen to the words but just let the sound of the reverend’s voice wash over me. Big mistake.
Reverend Frew had also performed my grandmother’s service fifteen years earlier. I had hardly been to church in all that time, so the sound of his voice, the smell of the flowers, and the sounds of people sniffling brought back my grandmother’s funeral in vivid detail. My chest tightened, and I felt tears forming behind my eyes. I breathed slowly and focused on the ceiling, willing myself to gain control. Spiritualists believe that the dearly departed are merely moving to a different place. That the dead are still with us. But I knew I had never seen or spoken to my grandmother since her death.
The summer before she’d died of cancer, she’d promised to teach me how to filter the impressions that bombarded me throughout any given day. She said she could help me understand my dreams and that I probably was having “good news” dreams but was not aware of them, because they were much less intense than the “bad news” dreams. I had been thrilled with the idea of learning how to control the images and feelings that came to me uninvited.
Then she got sick and, before I knew it, before I had a chance to accept that she might not be in my life forever, she was gone. All she left was a small handwritten journal of her advice for me. I’d flipped through it briefly after her death, looking for quick answers, as only a fifteen-year-old can do. Frustrated by her advice to meditate and keep a record of my “precognitive experiences” to better hone my talent, I latched on to the one or two sentences that would free me the quickest: “Ignore your guides and they will eventually become quiet, waiting for you to seek them” and “Discounting feelings in favor of ‘facts’ will lead to unreliable and diluted information.”
I had done both. I ignored all input that wasn’t based on the normal five senses, and I never followed up on any “feelings.” Only a few messages came through after that. I dreamed of Diana’s parents dying and never told anyone, in a superstitious hope that by remaining silent I could stop it from happening. Dean Roberts had been the last straw. After Mac left for Saginaw, I told my mother I was done trying to develop any psychic ability, and our long feud began. This past May, I finally followed a hunch, and screwed up so badly that I ran home to Crystal Haven.
I must have spaced out during the eulogy, because my thoughts were interrupted by loud organ music. I didn’t recognize the song, but the organist was dragging out the notes to lend a dirge-like cadence to the piece. The coffin made its way down the aisle and out the front door, carried by Gary and several men I didn’t recognize. My mother had said some of Sara’s lawyer friends would be in attendance.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Diana. She clutched a damp tissue and dabbed at her eyes.
We slipped out along the side aisle, avoiding the reception line, where Sara’s daughters, Alison and Isabel, looked like they were holding each other up. I didn’t want to force them to make small talk with me and skipped the line. We stood blinking in the sunshine before the organist could begin his next song.
Alex beat us out of the church but got caught in conversation with Joe Stark. Joe’s hair was slicked back and touched the collar of his dark, immaculate suit. He watched Alex walk away and said something to Cecile, who looked in my direction and quickly glanced away.
“What was that about?” I asked Alex when he caught up to us.
“Stark wants me back at the restaurant ‘pronto,’” he said. “He thinks there will be a big crowd gathering after the funeral.”
“He doesn’t seem very happy today,” Diana said, shielding her eyes to better spot Stark among the crowd.
“He’s never happy,” Alex said. “He spends most of his time counting his sales receipts and grumbling about the bills.”
I was about to respond when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see Mac leaning on his cane; he gave me a half smile.
“Hi.” He nodded to Diana and Alex. “Are you up to meeting with me to talk about Tish? I forgot when we made our plans yesterday that the funeral was today.”
“Yeah, I can meet with you.” I grabbed Diana’s arm as she tried to edge away. “In about an hour, Daily Grind?”
“Sure, good.” He hesitated with his hand up, and I thought he was going to hug me, but he let his arm drop and turned away.
“What’s up with him?” Diana said. “He was nice.”
I nodded as I watched him weave through the crowd.
* * *
I waited again at The Daily Grind. I sipped my coffee and glowered at the clear blue sky as I replayed last night’s dream. I should never have let Diana do those spells. I knew from experience that her spell work tended to bring on the dreams. I’d never told her, and certainly had never mentioned it to my mother, but something about Diana’s rituals got my dream-mind working.
For Mac’s own safety, I had to stay away from him. I’d have to pick a fight or come up with some excuse to keep my distance. It wouldn’t be any different than the past eight years, but it made me sad. I wished once again that I had been given no “gift” at all. I often wondered if my grandmother knew about her own
impending death.
“Clyde . . . hello.” Mac waved his hand in front of my eyes, interrupting my thoughts.
“Hey, Mac. Sorry.” I shook my head to clear it.
“I waved to you from outside, said hello when I came in, got my coffee . . . you were off somewhere else.” He smiled and sat down.
“Sorry, rough night.”
“I’m sure. I’m sorry about Tish. I know you were close.” He coughed and focused on dumping cream into his coffee cup.
We talked quietly about Tish, and I went over the timeline with him again.
Josh walked over with the coffeepot.
“Want a warm-up, Clyde?”
I nodded and pushed the cup toward him.
He started to pour and stopped.
“Man, things are not going his way,” he said, looking out the window.
Mac and I looked across the street to see Milo striding away from Cecile. She caught up to him and grabbed his arm, but he shook her hand off hard enough that she stumbled as he continued up the street.
“What’s that all about?” I looked up at Josh.
“Dunno, but he and Joe were getting into it yesterday.” Josh shook his head and finished pouring the coffee.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Same thing. Milo came barreling out of the Grill, Joe right behind him, but he turned on Joe and pushed him against the wall. I don’t know what they said, but it didn’t look friendly.”
“Well, Joe isn’t supporting Milo’s bid to develop that land out along the highway. Maybe they’re having some father-son disagreements about Milo’s plans,” Mac said.
Josh shrugged and walked over to the counter to help the next customer.
I leaned forward to avoid being heard by nearby coffee drinkers. “Do you know Milo isn’t really Joe’s son?”
Mac looked up from his coffee, holding my gaze for a moment.
“Yeah. I know. I didn’t think that was common knowledge, though.”
“How did you find out?”
“I worked the Julia Wyatt case.” He glanced out the window. “It came up then.”
“Don’t you think he could have something to do with what’s been going on around here?”
“No. I don’t.” His eyes jerked back to me and had taken on that steely color I didn’t like.
“Why are you being so stubborn about this?”
“Stubborn? I’m doing my job. I’m working with real facts, not—”
“Not what?” I lifted my right eyebrow. Combined with the different-colored eyes, I thought it was very compelling. This might be my best chance for a fight. A way to put some distance between us.
“Not . . . hunches.” He glanced down again.
I stood quickly and knocked the chair over. I hesitated, feeling like maybe I had overplayed it.
“Wait, Clyde. I didn’t mean it that way.” Mac stood and blocked my planned stomp out of the café. He took my arm and tried to steer me back to the chair.
“What way did you mean it?” I kept my voice low because the other customers were not even pretending to be minding their own business.
“I meant that this case is not your problem. It’s my job to find the killer. Just . . . let me do my job and stay out of it.”
“Oh well, now that you put it that way . . .” I jerked my arm out of his grasp and brushed past him out the door. I didn’t have to fake being mad this time.
I stormed up the street until I remembered I’d parked in the other direction. Faking a fight wasn’t necessary to keep my distance—I could just have a conversation with Mac about the case and it would happen by itself. I kept walking rather than go past the café again and run into him. Who did he think he was, telling me to stay out of it? Tish was my friend. My feet seemed to be taking me around the block, which was a good idea. I came up to my car from the other side. By the time I got there, I knew what I needed to do.
* * *
I pulled into our driveway and was pleased to see both Alex’s blue Honda and Diana’s green VW bug. I hoped everyone would be on board with my plan.
I found them all in the dining room. They had the pendulum out again, but it didn’t seem to be going well. Alex was gripping the chain, his knuckles white. Vi hovered, obviously fighting her urge to just grab it from him. Mom and Diana watched for any signs of movement. Dad read the newspaper at the far end of the table.
“Oh, there you are!” said Vi. I had only seen her briefly on the way to the funeral, but something was different about her. She seemed older to me today—her hair was in a tangled braid, the lines near her mouth were more prominent.
The rest of the group turned to the door, and Alex set the pendulum down with a look of relief. My mother’s eyes were puffy and her nose red from crying. Diana’s skin was blotchy, and she had mascara smeared under her eyes. Even Dad looked haggard, and I could tell he wasn’t reading the paper as much as staring at it.
“Hi. Where’s Seth?”
Diana pointed down; my mother glanced heavenward for strength.
“I’m under here.” Seth’s voice floated out from under the tablecloth.
I bent to look and was met by three sets of eyes.
“Aren’t you a little big to be playing ‘fort’?” I asked.
“I’m not playing. Tuffy’s all worked up about something, and he doesn’t want to come out.”
I glanced at Vi, who raised her eyebrows and shrugged. I sat next to Diana, across from Alex.
The doorbell rang.
My mother rushed out.
“That’s probably Tom Andrews,” I said. “I called him on my way home.”
“Oooh,” Seth said with a schoolyard singsong, “it’s your boyfriend.”
I tried to kick him under the table but missed and caught Alex instead.
“Why is he here?” Vi asked, ignoring the antics.
“I think we need to be more proactive about this,” I said.
“Proactive about what?” asked Alex. He was rubbing his leg and glaring at me.
“This situation. Two people have been killed, and we don’t know why. I think Milo Jones has something to do with it.”
“I’m in. That guy bugs the cra—”
I shot a look at Alex.
“—ackers out of me,” said Alex.
“Crackers? Really?” Seth’s voice asked from below.
“I knew it!” said Vi, oblivious to the giggling of Seth and Alex.
My mother and Tom came into the room, and everyone took a seat except Seth, who stayed under the table.
I looked at my motley crew and drew in a big breath. All eyes were on me, and I hesitated at the absurdity of my plan. I almost called it off, but I owed Tish my best effort. I had to find out who had killed her. Since the police were watching Gary, we needed to watch Milo.
“Okay, why do you think Milo is involved?” Diana asked.
“I saw him arguing with Tish just before she was killed.” I held up fingers counting off my suspicions. “He’s been arguing with his parents, and I know that Sara was holding up his land-development plans. She didn’t want to sell her parcel of the land she and Gary split during the divorce. Without it, he couldn’t develop the area the way he wanted.”
“That doesn’t sound right,” Diana said. “Do you really think he would kill Sara and then Tish over some strip mall?”
“I don’t know what he would do.” I shrugged. “I don’t know what he’s up to. All I know is that he’s back in town and two people are dead.”
Vi nodded vigorously; my mother wrinkled her forehead. Dad set his paper down.
“I guess Sara could have been looking at Milo during the séance . . . ,” Diana said.
“That’s just it.” I held my hands out, palms up. “We don’t know what happened at the séance exactly, but it may
have spooked him. Maybe he thought she was accusing him; maybe he thought she knew something,” I said.
“What about Gary?” Tom asked.
“The police department has him covered. I doubt he’ll have any secrets left when Mac gets through with him.”
“Okay, what do we do?” Diana said.
“We’ll set up a rotating schedule of surveillance,” I said.
Heads nodded. My family doesn’t wallow; they like action.
“I’ll take the first shift!” said Vi. She stood to leave.
“Vi, where are you going?” asked my mother.
“I’m off to keep an eye on Milo. We’re going to watch him and catch him in the act, right?” Vi looked better already.
“Uh, the act of what?” said Alex.
“We don’t know what he’s up to,” I said. “We need to keep an eye on him in a subtle way.” I glanced at my aunt.
“I think we need to do more than that,” said Alex. “We need to entice him to act again.”
“You mean you want to tempt him?” asked Tom.
“Oh, that sounds dangerous,” said my mother. “Maybe we should leave this to the police.”
“The police aren’t doing anything, Rose,” said Vi. “They don’t think Milo’s guilty. That’s what Clyde’s telling us.”
Everyone looked to Tom to confirm.
He hung his head. “It’s true. Mac doesn’t think it’s Milo. He’s keeping an eye on Gary.” He folded his hands on the table and didn’t look up.
“We could pretend Clyde knows something.” Seth’s muffled voice came from under the table. “Everyone in town thinks she’s psychic; they’ll all believe it if we say she knows who did it.”
