Tea, Anyone

by S. R. Mallery

  “Old America,” Abby muttered. She eyed the paper quickly before scooping out her steeped tea leaves then put them into her cup. She turned to Brooke. “I read tea leaves. They help me.”

  “Of course they do,” Brooke sneered.

  “Brooke,” Henry warned.

  After studying the leaves for a couple of moments, Abby nodded. “The American Revolution America,” she said, her voice morphing into an almost séanced tone. She closed her eyes, seemingly suspended in time.

  There she goes. Abstract Abby. Alternative Abby. Absolutely Nuts Abby.

  Henry was obviously fascinated. Wordless, he sat back and observed their guest.

  Brooke did not. “Oh, for goodness sake,” she said. Getting up, she promptly knocked over her water glass. It broke, sending her water and splintered glass flying everywhere.

  Abby popped open her eyes. “You’ve been told,” she said simply, then sprang into high gear. She knelt down, and deftly gathering up the larger scattered shards, picked them up and put them on top of a couple of napkins on the coffee table.

  “Where’s your vacuum cleaner?” she asked Henry.

  He got up to retrieve it, as Brooke leaned over the mess. Together, she and Abby coordinated their efforts, like professional volleyball players, side-stepping each other in order to succeed as a team. After the larger glass pieces had been picked up, they both took a hold of the coffee table and moved it aside so Henry could vacuum up the tiny leftover glass bits.

  “We seem to work well together,” Abby said quietly when they all stood back and saw the glass-free carpet. “Next we blot your water,” she added. “Good thing it wasn’t red wine. That’s a devil to clean up.”

  “Yeah, I was gonna say that,” Brooke remarked and went to get some kitchen towels. When she returned, she looked over at Abby, with somewhat less annoyance.

  Able Abby. Adaptable Abby. Asset Abby.

  As they parted ways, Abby promised to “think about the bags,” with no mention of anything New Age. “And thanks for trusting me a little, Brooke.”

  Not much was said later when Henry and Brooke briefly discussed the evening. But they both heartily agreed about one point. Abby would most probably be using her garage. And soon.

  It wasn’t until Brooke set out her research cards on her desk in the early hours of the morning, that she stopped cold. What did she mean by “You’ve been told?”

  * *

  Like he often did, Collin now watched Cathy and Wynnie Whitman get out of their chauffeured driven Cadillac and amble up the long winding path to the Georgian style mansion they had recently inherited from their father. Sitting in his car, he remembered how welcomed he used to be in the Whitman home. How Joseph Whitman had gone out of his way to make sure Collin was comfortable at their business meetings as well as whenever he stayed overnight.

  Those times were definitely nice treats. Treats he tried to forget whenever his anger resurfaced at the unfair treatment he had ultimately received. And all because Ruth Novak’s ex-husband and shyster lawyer, Peter Novak, had wangled his way into the big boss’s life and told him that Collin was not to be trusted. According to Mr. Novak Esq., Collin would certainly reveal of all Joseph’s personal secrets, if given half a chance. Better to not only get rid of him, but also spread the word around town that Collin was persona non-grata. In other words, if a company hired him, they’d soon be sorry.

  And for him to end up as a groundskeeper? It was both absurd and humiliating. That was bad enough. But the fact that Cathy and Wynnie, both of whom he had known for years, now walked past him as though he were a fly on the wall, was intolerable.

  Suddenly, as soon as Wynnie stumbled and almost fell, the chauffeur charged up the path to help her regain her balance.

  “Just wait,” Collin said out loud from his car. “If I had my way, you wouldn’t be getting up at all.” He pointed an index finger toward the girls. Then Pow! Collin blew on his digit Western style, as if it were a smoking gun. Then he pretended to place that same finger gun into his jacket pocket. As he drove slowly away, he couldn’t help humming.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Today was the day. After Brooke researched the list of psychics Abby had claimed helped the police, she had to admit, she was impressed by Abby’s extensive and successful portfolio. At least enough to persuade Larry to set up an appointment with Chief Bruner, to talk about the new cloth sack murder case––with Abby also in attendance. But as she and her neighbor drove to the small police department’s headquarters, the words, “Someone help me” popped up in Brooke’s mind at least three times.

  From the start, the ride over didn’t look promising. First off, Abby didn’t pick up Brooke in her great-uncle’s fabulous looking Packard. That would have been cool. No, Abby’s car du jour was a red 1979 Toyota Corolla rust bucket, pinging and rattling as she maneuvered through Hillside’s side streets.

  The more Brooke watched her neighbor at the wheel, the shakier Brooke’s breaths became. Abby’s driving? Complete disaster. Turning constantly toward Brooke as she chatted away, at one point she even gestured toward some trees. Okay. But then the car started to steer toward them.

  “Ever notice how those trees look like they’re touching the roof?” Abby asked.

  No way was Brooke going to look at the stupid trees. “Let’s just get there in one piece, okay?” she snapped. Able Abby? This is suicide.

  “Yes, Brooke.” Abby clutched the wheel tighter. Then giggled.

  It turned out that was just the beginning. Abby’s parallel parking reached a whole new level in the Driver’s Not To Do Manual. Humming, she seemed to enjoy sawing her way into a curbside parking space. Completely off track with her first back up, she moved forward two inches, backed up again. When she obviously realized she was still off, she repeated the whole procedure––six more times.

  “I think we’ve arrived,” Brooke said finally.

  “You sure?” Abby asked, looking like she was happy to do another five rounds.

  “Yes, we’re definitely here,” Brooke practically growled.

  In the lobby, Brooke, still breathing hard, pushed the elevator’s UP button once. Then again. And again. And again, faster and faster, Morse-Code style.

  “I think the elevator has heard you,” Abby said softly.

  Riding up to the fifth floor, Brooke noticed Abby seemed to be in a good mood. On the other hand, Brooke was far from it. Ever since Chief Bruner’s special meeting with her years before, she knew she was on thin ice around the man. And to introduce all Abby’s weirdo stuff to him? Complete suicide.

  Without warning, her mind traveled back to that fateful day five years earlier.

  She remembered guessing––no, knowing––she had most probably aced the police exam. Why wouldn’t she? It was such a no-brainer. Or so she thought. But when the chief met her eyes and motioned her over to a seat in front of his desk, she sensed from his body language that something was off.

  “Look, Ms. Anderson––Betty Ann,” he began.

  Look––not a good sign. “Ah, I prefer my nickname, Brooke, sir.”

  He nodded. “Frankly, Brooke, you did better than any other police candidate has ever done on most of the police exam. I was quite impressed.”

  Most of the exam?

  “But I have to tell you…”

  Here we go. “Yes?” she managed.

  “Your psych personality part of the test was, shall I say, a bit troublesome.”

  “I don’t understand, sir. Could you elaborate?”

  He shook his head. “It’s hard to put into words, but…”

  Brooke could feel her jaw tightening. “Well, maybe if you actually told me specifically which answers bothered you, that would be, shall I say, helpful.”

  The chief’s nostrils flared as his jaw clenched. “Okay, I’ll make it succinct for you. It’s obvious you have a problem with authority. And when you’re out on the streets with a superior, no matter his or her rank, that could be a big problem. Clear enou
gh for you?”

  Authority. She thought of her grandfather. It’s possible. But why in the world she couldn’t keep her mouth shut after that would forever remain a mystery to her.

  “Chief Bruner, perhaps you have a problem with, shall I say, making up your mind much too quickly about capable recruits,” popped out of her.

  That did it. He stood up, his lips pressed so tight they almost disappeared.

  “I’ll be in touch with you about this, Betty Ann. Good day,” he said, giving her a fast, get out of the room wave, without even a side-glance her way.

  You mean goodbye, don’t you?

  Yet miraculously, he did keep her on, mostly as a researcher with some light desk duty. Just your average non-sworn police person being delegated to a boring, lower staff position. Obviously, she and the chief would never be drinking buddies.

  A loud ding and shuttered stop announced their fifth-floor arrival. As soon as the elevator doors opened, Brooke was relieved to see Larry, his arms crossed, casually leaning against the main desk, waiting for them.

  “Ah, there you are,” he said, and guided them back to his desk area.

  Brooke looked around. Wonder where Tony is.

  “Tony’s coming soon. He had an errand to run,” Larry said, his smirk ever present.

  “Whatever.” She shrugged.

  Several of the detectives nodded at her, then immediately raised their eyebrows at Abby. Having concentrated only on her driving skills on their way over, Brooke had apparently overlooked her neighbor’s outfit. Not now. Her psychedelic style sunglasses, pushed up into her thick curly blonde mane, made it appear as if a golden rainbow had burst into the room. Accompanied by a tie-dyed skirt that flowed down to the ground as she walked, she basically swished a clean path behind her in an otherwise dusty floor.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Brooke noticed Chief Bruner in his office at his desk, head down, concentrating on paperwork. He didn’t look up––until a sudden commotion commanded it.

  “Tell the chief we got our murder suspect,” a beat cop announced loudly, as they led a man back to the holding cell.

  His scraggly hair and beard, dirt encrusted face, and well-worn clothes instantly reminded her of her first meeting with Henry.

  Chief Bruner stepped out of his office, just as Tony joined Larry’s tight little cluster.

  The chief glanced over at Brooke with a dour expression, then winced. Uh-oh.

  After he directed a couple of detectives to go with the suspect into one of their interrogation rooms, he waved Larry and company into his office. His staccato, “Close the door behind you,” didn’t sound particularly friendly. But it wasn’t brutal, either.

  I’ll take whatever I can get.

  “Okay, Detectives Sands and Marino, let’s see what you got.” No acknowledgment of Brooke or Abby.

  Larry cracked a couple of his knuckles, then started in with an introduction. “Chief Bruner, this is Brooke’s neighbor, Abby Bennett. She’s the one I told you about. She’s assisted several other police departments before by using her psychic abilities.”

  The chief looked like he was about to throw up.

  Larry continued. “Look, I realize this might seem extreme. I felt that as well, but after reading some of her detailed notes, I figure we should be open to, well, anything. Here is the evidence that she and Brooke have documented for you.” He handed over a thin folder.

  Chief Bruner took several minutes to look over Brooke’s updated, clear, bullet-pointed document, based on Abby’s original text. He then placed it far off to one side of his desk, close to its edge.

  Ah, the old swipe it into his trash can position.

  “Is this your idea, Betty Ann?” he asked slowly.

  Oh, boy. “It was brought to all of us by Ms. Bennett. Then it became a joint suggestion…sir.”

  “I know about this kind of thing,” Bruner said. “Things like that ridiculous covert and psychic Stargate group, working for the military from 1978 to 1995. They used remote viewers, and it ended up being a complete waste of time––and money. Don’t push me, Anderson.”

  Progress. At least he didn’t call me Betty Ann.

  “Yes, sir, you’re correct,” Abby said. “That did turn out to be a scam. That’s why it isn’t even listed in our joint document. But the psychics we referenced in this document are legitimate and have truly helped different police departments around the world. You’ll see my own sourcing about that.”

  One appealing look from Larry, and Brooke plunged forward. “Of course, you know what you’re doing, chief,” she said, trying hard to smile. “After all, being here for over ten years, you’d be crazy not to––”

  His one raised palm out toward her said it all. She stopped talking.

  Abby took over. “I completely understand your hesitancy, Chief Bruner. Many police departments have rejected psychics. But all I’m––we’re––saying is if you run into any further trouble with this latest case or any other, I’m at your disposal. My techniques have proved successful in the past, which, again, the document shows.”

  Please don’t talk about your Tarot cards or tea leaves!

  Abby drew herself up. “In fact, I use––”

  “No–no–no,” Brooke mouthed as she shook her head.

  Now standing, Chief Bruner nodded to Abby. “All right, Miss Bennett, I’ll think about this. But I certainly don’t promise anything.” He turned to Brooke. “If I do ever use your friend, it’s all on you, Betty Ann.”

  Ah, back to normal.

  “Thank you for your time,” Abby added.

  “Yes, thank you,” Larry put in.

  Tony cleared his throat. “You know, Chief Bruner, coming from the NYPD, one of the things I appreciate about your Hillside police department is its overall willingness to explore new investigative methods. Anything to get good leads.”

  What a sweetie.

  But his words obviously had little effect. The chief ignored his newest detective and simply glowered at Brooke.

  Thinking of how close that report file was to his trashcan, Brooke blurted out, “Yes, thank you for your time.”

  Then, just outside the chief’s door, she added, “You’ve sure wasted ours.”

  “Shut up,” Larry mouthed as Tony chuckled, his dimples out in full force.

  * *

  “That went well,” Abby remarked later in Brooke’s apartment.

  “Are you kidding me? He’s not gonna do anything with that report except throw it out.”

  “Be positive, Brooke.”

  “Abby, please, I’m tired. Just give it a rest.”

  Brooke went over to the shelves near her work area and pulling out a couple of tall coffee table size books, extracted a small white wine spritzer can from the four-pack hidden there.

  “Wanna drink?” she asked.

  “Nope.”

  Shrugging, Brooke headed off to the kitchen then returned with a wine glass filled with ice.

  “Interesting,” Abby commented as she watched Brooke pour the canned wine spritzer into the goblet.

  “My home, my rules,” Brooke said. After she placed the empty little can into the lower drawer of her desk, she sank down onto the sofa, drink in hand.

  “You hide your alcohol?” her guest asked.

  “Yes.” No way am I gonna rat on Henry. Besides, if she’s that psychic, let her figure it out. She quickly took two large swigs of her drink.

  Apparently, there was no need to worry on that score. Abby nodded, knowingly. She tapped her fingers on her lap as Brooke took two more generous sips.

  “Personally, whenever I’m uptight,” Abby said, “I listen to songs I like or watch movies that make me smile.”.

  Brooke took another swig. “Good for you. Okay, I’ll bite. Examples, please.”

  “Do you have Pandora?”

  “Of course,” Brooke said. “Which channel?”

  “Try Hall & Oates.”

  OMG. My favorite. Interesting…

  W
ithin seconds, both of them were swaying to the likes of Hall & Oates, the Doobie Brothers, and Ambrosia, causing Junie to curl up on Brooke’s lap and knead frantically.

  Suddenly, Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” came on. Abby jumped up and started dancing madly. Her body went every which way and her arms flailed, as her head bobbed from side to side. All was well coordinated, graceful even. Until she attempted to do a moonwalk segment. She failed miserably.

  “Wait, wait! That I can do,” Brooke cried. She finished the wine, placed Junebug on the couch, kissed the top of her head, and got up to execute a perfect moonwalk back and forth across the living room.

  Abby exploded in laughter. “Bravo, bravo!” she called out.

  Facing each other, they started to sing, stamp, and clap along with Queen’s “We Will Rock You.” But on Pandora, all good things must come to an end. As soon as an advertisement sounded, they both collapsed on the couch on either side of Junie, breathing heavily and grinning at each other.

  Just then came a rhythmic series of knocks.

  “That’d be my niece, Haley,” Brooke said and sashayed over to the door.

  A girl entered, looking no older than sixteen. Her shoulder length wavy, ash brown hair, hazel brown eyes, and perfect cherubic lips could have been a painting by Vermeer. Except for her street clothes. Nothing Dutch Baroque about those. Bleached-out jeans with strategic rips over both her knees, a baseball cap worn backward, an over-sized work-shirt, and baby blue high-top sneakers dotted with tiny birdies completed the picture.

  After quick introductions, Brooke tried to appear totally sober. It was her niece, after all.

  “Been drinking during the day, have we?” Haley asked, eyeing the wineglass.

  Abby snorted, then laughed. “Busted, Brooke.”

  All three giggled.

  “So, what are you guys up to?” Haley asked.

  “We were trying to relax after a hard day, right, Brooke?” Abby said. “I chose Pandora. Your aunt chose, well, you nailed it, Haley. She chose wine. I’m curious. What would you have suggested?”