“I can’t imagine why in the world you’d think that,” she says wryly.
He hardens his voice. “I’m putting you on notice. Until I get an explanation that satisfies me, you are not in the clear. You got that?” He pauses for emphasis. “There is way too much woo-woo going on here. Stay the hell out of my investigation.”
He hears his voice rising. “No. More. Woo-woo. You got that?”
She meets his eyes. “You’re welcome, Detective Connors,” she says, and manages a crooked smile. “I’m glad you found Allison’s phone. I hope you find her earbuds, too. And somebody who saw the van. And the kidnapper.” She pauses. “And Allison. I hope you find Allison.”
Holding himself stiffly, he takes out his cell. “Give me your number. I might have some questions for you later.”
“I can’t wait,” she murmurs.
Chapter Eight
The little Cobalt is as hot as an oven and the small air conditioner can’t do more than recycle the rubber-scented air. Driving home from the police station, Ruby sags in the seat. The episode on the hike-and-bike trail was physically and emotionally exhausting, and she is still stinging from Connors’ accusation. But it’s no surprise. It’s why she’s been concealing her gift for most of her life.
She peers at herself in the rearview mirror, pushing back her hair so she can catch a glimpse of her bruised neck. It looks even uglier than it did when Detective Connors—Ethan—showed her the photo. She can still feel the pressure of the attacker’s fingers. He has massive hands, powerful hands. He could easily have killed Allison instead of just knocking her out.
Ruby shudders, knowing that she should try to put it out of her mind. But she can’t let it go. She can’t forget the paralyzing, bone-softening terror Allison felt when the man grabbed her, and the dark, cold slide into unconsciousness as he pressed his fingers against her neck. Where is Allison now? She has been her abductor’s prisoner for more than fifteen hours. What has he done to her? Is there any way to stop him? To find her?
Damn it. Ruby’s fingers grip the steering wheel so hard they feel frozen. She doesn’t know what she can do to help, going forward. The idea that she has plugged into the powerfully negative energy of Allison’s capture is simply impossible for the detective to comprehend. Well, she can’t blame him for not understanding when she doesn’t understand it herself.
But he would have to come up with some rational explanation for finding that pink cellphone. And for the earbuds he’ll discover when he follows the trail through the trees to Harper Lane, where the van was parked.
And that has to be the end of it, as far as she’s concerned. She has done her civic duty. She has reported a crime, and it’s up to the detective to believe her report and act on it—or not. She had liked Ethan Connors and felt that, in different circumstances, they might be friends. She hadn’t intentionally eavesdropped on his thoughts, but she is aware that her perfume reminds him of someone named Carole, whom he loved—loves still?—and whose loss left him painfully scarred. She could feel his angry determination when he warned her to stay the hell out of his investigation, and she knows that anything else can get her into serious trouble.
But she also knows with a sense of unsettling apprehension—the kind of stomach-churning dread you feel when a Category Five hurricane is barreling toward you and all the evacuation routes are closed—that this isn’t the end of it. There is more coming, and worse. She can’t escape, and she can’t even talk about it to anybody, because nobody will believe her. If she could just . . .
And then she thinks of Sophia D’Angelo. They have both been busy this summer, Sophia has been traveling, and there hasn’t been time to get together. But always, Sophia is a calm, centering presence. She will have some insight to share, some wisdom, perhaps even some answers. She will understand—and she will believe.
Still thinking about Sophia, Ruby pulls into her driveway and parks. Hers is a quiet street in an older neighborhood, lined with two-story Victorians built in the early part of the last century. The houses, surrounded by well-kept lawns and mature live oaks and pecan trees, remind her of dignified dowagers dressed in pastel gray and brown and ivory, sitting with gloved hands sedately folded and ankles primly crossed, smugly displaying their Historic Home badges like trophies won in the Home and Garden show.
But Ruby’s Painted Lady is made of different stuff. The Lady’s walls are purple, her shutters are fuchsia, and her gingerbread trim is spring green, smoke gray, and passionate plum. The wicker rockers on her front porch are daffodil yellow, the cushions are covered in a bright red-and-green tropical print, and green-painted buckets of red geraniums march up her steps. The glorious color scheme gives the neighbors heartburn, and Ruby knows why. It’s as if your grandmother has dabbed on orange lipstick and mauve eye shadow, slipped into a flouncy fire-engine-red dress and fishnet stockings, and is dancing the tango with a handsome hunk half her age. The other houses are all jealous, and their owners are resentful. Although nothing has come of it yet, there have been whispers that the homeowners’ association may try to force Ruby to repaint.
Inside, the Lady is even more gaudy. Ruby restored the old golden oak woodwork and floors to their former glory but painted the walls bright orange, golden yellow, lime green, and dark red. A brightly patterned Guatemalan rug runs down the length of the hall, and the hallway walls are hung with framed photos of Ruby’s family: daughters Shannon, who is teaching physical education in Fort Worth, and Amy, who lives just blocks away with her partner Kate and their little girl, Grace. Ruby loves Mexican furniture, and the gaily painted chairs, tables, cabinets, and benches look like they’re all dressed up and ready to go dancing. She’s a quilter and weaver, and she hangs her quilts and rugs on the walls and displays her collection of handcrafted baskets and sculpture and bowls on the shelves and in the cabinets.
And the kitchen—well, a couple of years ago, Ruby fell passionately in love with watermelons. She put up red-and-white striped kitchen wallpaper, added a watermelon border, and painted the table red and the four chairs green and red, with little black seeds on the seats. There’s a watermelon rug under the table, watermelon placemats, and red and green dishes. Even in the dead of winter, the kitchen feels like a picnic in July.
In the kitchen, Ruby is greeted by Pagan, the black cat who appeared one stormy night a few months before and took possession of her and the house. Sophia (who knows about such things) says that all black cats—the familiars of witches and symbols of instinctual energy, mystery, and magic—are psychic, but that this one got an extra dose. Ruby doesn’t doubt it. She has seen him staring at the phone just before it rings and going to the door a few moments before a visitor arrives. And she catches him watching her with a tilt of his head and a look in his amber eyes that leads her to suspect that he is tuned into her mind.
With a polite meow, Pagan reminds her that neither of them has had lunch yet. Ruby runs upstairs and changes quickly into white capris, a yellow sleeveless blouse, and yellow sandals, then goes back to the kitchen to remedy the matter. Pagan settles down to a bowl of kitty food while Ruby rounds up cottage cheese, a sliced tomato from the garden, lettuce, a spoonful of leftover tuna salad, a handful of crackers, and a glass of hibiscus iced tea from the pitcher in the fridge.
As she sits down to eat, she wonders how China is making out with the Friends of the Library lunch and hopes things are going okay at the Cave. It feels strange not to be there in the middle of a work day, and she is revisited by the nagging guilt she used to feel when she skipped school or didn’t get her homework done on time.
But worries about Allison push all that out of her mind, and the questions come back. Where is she? What has he done to her? What does he intend to do?
Ruby can’t answer these questions, and China, while she’s supportive, wouldn’t be much help. Hoping that Sophia won’t be away on one of her trips, she takes out her cell to call and find out when they can get together. Sophia will understand what’s going on.
<
br /> Ruby is relieved when her friend picks up the call. “Okay if I drive out for an hour or so?” she asks. Sophia lives just outside of Wimberley, a village in the hills northwest of Pecan Springs. The drive will be pretty, and it will do her good to get out. She adds, “I need to talk with you about something—something important.”
“Of course,” Sophia says warmly. “I’ll be here—and I’ll be glad to see you. Someone is here now, though. Maybe an hour, hour and a half?”
“Thanks. I’ll be there.”
Ruby glances up at the slice-of-watermelon clock over the fridge. She is still feeling beaten and battered by the incident on the river trail and is glad to see that there is time for a nap before she starts for Wimberley. With that in mind, she is taking her luncheon dishes to the sink when Pagan fixes his gaze on the kitchen door and hisses malevolently.
“What’s up, guy?” she asks.
Pagan hisses again, and a moment later, she gets her answer. Three quick, light raps, and then two more. Ruby’s heart sinks. She won’t be getting that nap, after all. It’s her sister’s knock—Ramona.
In all the excitement of the morning, she’d forgotten that she and Mona were supposed to be getting together this afternoon.
Chapter Nine
Ruby’s sister obviously has something on her mind. Her freckles are popping, her red hair looks like it’s full of static, and she is bouncing excitedly from one foot to another. In her orange shorts and purple-and-gold striped top, she looks like a firecracker about to go off. Ruby knows when she sees her that Ramona’s poltergeisty spirit is in charge today.
“I went to the shop and China told me that you’re taking some time off,” Ramona says, “so I figured you’d be here. I can’t wait to tell you about my fab idea. Really, Ruby, it is just totally awesome. I know you’ll love it!”
Pagan puffs up his black tail to twice its size, hisses again, and withdraws to his basket beside the pantry door. He doesn’t trust Ramona. When she comes for a visit, he stations himself in a spot where he can keep an eye on her and make sure that whatever weirdness she gets up to, she doesn’t harm Ruby.
Ramona frowns at Pagan’s hiss, and the microwave gives a short, loud ping! “I don’t understand why you keep that ugly creature,” she says. “Black cats are bad luck.”
Pagan growls.
“Calm down, Mona,” Ruby says, in her big-sister voice. She points to a chair. “Sit, and I’ll get you some iced tea.”
The microwave turns on, then off, then on again. Pagan gives an exasperated meow.
“Ramona,” Ruby says sternly. “Stop.”
“Stop what?” Ramona has taken a chair at the table. Her eyes are round and innocent. “I’m not doing anything, Ruby. Honest.”
The coffee maker begins to beep irregularly, like an arrhythmic heart beating out of synch.
“Stop showing off.” Ruby pulls the plug on the coffee maker. It gives two plaintive beeps and lapses into silence. “Stop doing your childish poltergeist thing.”
“I’m not doing anything.” Ramona throws up her hands. “Really, Ruby. Sometimes electronic equipment just goes wacky—for absolutely no reason at all.”
As she takes the pitcher of iced tea out of the fridge, Ruby glances up at the watermelon clock and sees that its hands are merrily spinning backward. “Weird that it only goes wacky when you’re around,” she remarks. “The rest of the time, everything in this kitchen is very well behaved.” She stares at the clock until it stops, spins forward, and stops again, at the correct time.
Ruby loves her sister, but she has to admit that Ramona tries everyone’s patience. The family aptitudes came to her primarily in the form of psychokinesis—and not a very controllable psychokinesis, at that. Ruby herself has some of that ability (just about enough to reset that silly clock). But Ramona has a great deal more. When they were girls, whenever she was excited or stressed or annoyed, weirdness happened. Toys went berserk, books flung themselves out of the bookcase, chairs tipped over, milk spilled, grownups were annoyed.
It’s not a lot different now that Ramona is a grownup herself. Ruby has tried to help her learn to control her abilities. But Mona isn’t very cooperative, maybe because she’s still competing with her older sister, the way she used to do when they were kids. Plus, she simply enjoys acting out. She still gets a big kick out of annoying people.
So when Ramona is around, ordinarily sensible objects turn themselves off and on, fly around the room, fall off shelves, or just fall over. China (who has seen her in action several times) jokes about Ramona being Ruby’s evil twin and stays out of her way as much as she can.
But Ramona is not Ruby’s twin, not at all. They have the same curly red hair and freckles, but Ramona is short and roundish while Ruby is tall (very tall) and thin. Ramona is almost four years younger—young enough, when they were kids, to make her a tagalong nuisance. The quintessential little sister, she always wanted what Ruby had and whined until she got it. When she was in a bad mood, she could make bad things happen, sometimes just by thinking of them, at other times, by more direct means. A bottle of red nail polish tipped over on Ruby’s pillow. Bath powder dusted on Ruby’s best blue dress. The heat in Ruby’s electric curlers turned up hot enough to fry her hair. And so on.
Ruby pours two glasses of hibiscus tea and sits down at the table. With a big-sister smile, she says, “So tell me, Mona. What’s all the excitement about?”
Ramona leans forward eagerly. “We—you and I, Ruby—are going to open a psychic consulting service.”
Ruby is startled. “A psychic . . . what?”
“Consulting service,” Ramona repeats. “You and me. Together. We’ll call ourselves the Psychic Sisters. We’ll advertise ourselves as professional psychics, helping people use their intuition, develop their psychic energies, get in touch with their spirit guides. We’ll do clairvoyant readings and online tarot card interpretations and offer phone consultations—all that sort of thing!” She claps her hands happily, and the salt shaker falls over. “Don’t you think it’s brilliant, Ruby? We’ll make a ton of money!”
We can do that? Ruby thinks. We can be professional psychics? It is the most ridiculous scheme Ramona has ever come up with. The very idea of letting the world know about the family gift makes Ruby want to throw up. She is staring at her sister, speechless, which Ramona seems to take for encouragement. Meanwhile, out in the hallway, the old grandmother clock—which hasn’t run in years—begins to chime.
“You already do a lot of this, I know,” Ramona goes on. “All your crystal ball stuff, and tarot, and Ouija and the I Ching and astrology. You can just keep on doing whatever you like, and I’ll do on-site readings with clients.” She picks up her glass and takes a sip of iced tea. “We’ll have a website, of course—I have some terrific ideas for setting it up. Plus, we can do podcasts and webinars. And we can Skype my consultations. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this earlier, Ruby. We’ll be a perfect team!” The grandmother clock chimes ten times and stops, as if too astonished to continue.
Ruby takes a deep breath. “It all sounds very . . . interesting,” she says. Why hadn’t she seen this coming? “But you and I feel differently about using our psychic abilities. I would rather—”
“You would rather hide your light under a bushel,” Ramona says scornfully. “You downplay it all the time, even at the shop. You’ve got to stop selling yourself short, Ruby. You could do so much more if you would only let go and let it happen. You’re afraid to have fun with your psychic abilities.”
Let go and let it happen? Ruby shudders, thinking of the experience on the river trail. Using her psychic abilities hadn’t been fun this morning, for God’s sake. It had been unspeakably awful.
Pagan understands Ruby’s feeling, for he growls again, low in his throat. Ramona gives him an irritated glance. “How can you tolerate such a bad-tempered animal?”
“To each her own.” Ruby makes an effort at cheerfulness. “Here’s the thing, Mona. I already have my
shop and the tea room and the catering service—which is just about all I can handle and still keep my head above water. Of course, if you want to open a psychic service by yourself, you should feel perfectly free . . .”
Her voice trails off. Ruby doesn’t need a crystal ball to see that this is not going to end well. Her sister will get herself into situations she can’t handle, with people who don’t understand the limits within which real psychics have to operate. Or who understand too much or too well—yes, there are those—and who would use Ramona to create some seriously upsetting psychic havoc. It’s possible. It is certainly possible.
Ramona thrusts out her lower lip in the childish pout that Ruby knows all too well. “You don’t want me to do this, do you?” Her chin trembles. “Not only will you refuse to be a partner, you won’t support me in what I want to do.”
Overhead, the ceiling fan starts to whir. A couple of paper napkins blow out of a holder on the counter and flutter around the room like a pair of seagulls. Ramona sounds genuinely injured, and Ruby is sorry she can’t do what her sister wants her to do.
Not sorry enough to change her mind, however.
“That’s not it at all, Mona.” Ruby gets up and flips the wall switch. The fan begins to slow. One of the paper napkins flutters onto the floor like a wounded bird, the other into the sink. “But maybe you ought to think about it for a few days. This isn’t the sort of thing you want to just jump into. You’ll want to take things slowly, show people they can trust you, build your reputation.”
“But don’t you see? That’s exactly why it would be so good if you were involved!” Ramona reaches across the table and puts her hand over Ruby’s. “You have a fabulous reputation here in Pecan Springs. People love the shop and admire what you do. They know you and trust you. You’re regarded as a wise woman, and any time you give a card reading, people believe what you tell them. By myself, I’d have to start from scratch. From nothing.” Her voice rises plaintively. “Don’t say no right away. Say you’ll think about it. Pretty please?”
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