What the Cat Knew
Page 6
“I’m glad you woke me up, though. That was a really freaky dream.”
He continued to purr.
“You probably don’t have any idea what I’m talking about, do you? Do cats have dreams?”
It was obviously her brain reprocessing the reading with Ling, reaching out and contacting her husband. The brain consolidated memories during the night, and Reg’s brain was obviously trying to analyze and process the memories of the conversation between Ling and Warren. Figuring out how to categorize and store it.
“But all you have to remember is that you bit me. That’s not so hard, is it?” Reg asked Starlight.
His droning purr was comforting. She often had trouble sleeping after a disturbing dream, but Starlight’s throbbing purr was soothing and made her feel like going back to sleep. It was like he was purring her a lullaby.
Instead of throwing the cat off the bed, Reg rolled over, nestling him back against her body, and closed her eyes to go back to sleep.
Before she managed to drift off again, she heard the words of Erin’s friend Adele, who professed to be a witch.
Are you aware of the power you are playing with? Do you really know what forces a medium employs?
The dreams she fell back into were more comfortable. The old days, remembering her time with Erin when they both lived with the Harrises.
“Are you sure about this, Reg?” Erin asked uncertainly. She was a skinny, diminutive teenager. She looked younger than she was, twelve rather than fifteen. Her hair was hacked short. Erin had been chewing on her hair, an anxious habit, completely forgetting the gum already in her mouth. Chewing gum was supposed to keep her from chewing on her hair or her fingernails. Instead, the hair and the gum had mixed in her mouth, and though Erin had desperately tried to bite it back out, she just ingrained the gum farther into her long, dark tresses. Mrs. Harris’s solution had been simple and drastic, and Erin had cried for days over the loss of her hair.
“What’s wrong with picking bottles?” Reg challenged. “We’re cleaning up. We’re recycling. Improving our environment. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“But…” Erin twirled a lock of hair around her finger.
“But what? We’re supposed to recycle, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And this way, we actually get paid for it. The Harrises said they would pay us for chores, if they could afford it. That’s all that we’re doing. Cleaning up and getting paid for it.”
Erin had been okay with picking cans and bottles up off of the street and the school field. She’d been less sure about picking them out of people’s recycling bins in the alley.
“They threw them out,” Reg had pointed out. “If they wanted to return them themselves, they wouldn’t have done that. They’re just throwing money away. We’re helping.”
“But if they threw them away…” Erin was still squeamish about taking things out of the trash and recycling bins.
Reg had known the final step would take a lot more finessing. Going into people’s yards and filching the bins and bags of bottles that they were saving for themselves.
“They put them here for us,” Reg told Erin firmly. “If they were going to keep them, they would keep them in their houses or garages. They’re in the back yard. That means they’re going to throw them out. But they don’t want to put them in the bins in case the trash collectors don’t see them and just take them to the dump. They don’t want all of these cans and bottles being taken to the dump.”
“No,” Erin agreed, shaking her head. Her eyes were wide. She had such a naive, innocent way, Reg knew the Harrises wouldn’t punish her too badly if they got caught. And sooner or later, Erin would get caught; she didn’t have the same gift for lying that Reg had. “Cans and bottles won’t break down. They need to be recycled.”
“And that’s what we’re doing. These people don’t want the cans and bottles to go to the dump. That’s why they’re in the yard instead of in the bins.”
Erin nodded her understanding.
“So come on,” Reg insisted.
She opened the gate and went in, waiting for Erin to follow her. Erin twirled her hair and bit on her thumbnail, then followed Reg into the yard, her eyes down.
Reg wanted to tell her to keep her eyes up and look around. To make sure that they didn’t get caught. But that would ruin her whole argument. Erin would know that Reg was lying to her and the people who lived at the house hadn’t just left the empties in the yard for Reg and Erin to pick up.
Reg picked up the two garbage bags full of bottles and motioned to Erin to pick up the bin. Erin did so, letting it rattle loudly. Reg looked toward the house for any sign they’d been heard.
Reg didn’t have any other appointments and, as far as she knew, Sarah hadn’t set anything up with anyone. There was no way to know whether someone would stop by during the day when she was not at home, but people would have to learn to make appointments with her ahead of time, or else she was going to have to set up regular office hours to give herself set times when she could run errands, socialize, or find other ways to relax.
She had designed some flyers for her services to be posted on bulletin boards, and started a slow exploration of the stores and other buildings around the neighborhood to see who had places where she could post them. A lot of little groceries and convenience stores had boards for community postings. Reg would get them up wherever she could. Of course, there were also the online postings and social networks, but she had to be careful that an internet search wouldn’t bring Officer Terry Piper or another enterprising cop to her door. Old school still worked, especially with old people who had retired to Florida.
“You’re a crook!” an angry voice grated from nearby as Reg pinned up a flyer in a coffee shop.
Reg turned her head to look at the old man leaning on a walker nearby. His face was flushed red, a stark contrast to his wispy white flyaway hair.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re a crook! A charlatan! A hustler! Why are you trying to steal people’s money away from them? They’ve earned that money through hard work, and you’re trying to take it away with your make-believe nonsense! You’re a fake!”
Reg turned away from him and finished tacking the flyer up. “I’m sorry you feel that way. I work hard to provide a service. If you don’t like that service or don’t see any need for it… that’s your own business. But a lot of people find it valuable.”
“A lot of people are idiots! People like you, going around, whispering all of this woo-woo ghost nonsense, trying to bilk good, honest, hardworking folks out of their money! It’s unbelievable that people would even give you the time of day!”
Reg shrugged. “Some people cut their hair at home and some people go to the salon. That doesn’t mean salons are rip-offs. People just choose what services they are willing to pay money for. If you ever want a free reading, just let me know. I’d be happy to help you out.”
Predictably, the man’s face got even redder. Reg knew she shouldn’t provoke him. She didn’t want him to have a heart attack right there in the entryway of the coffee shop. She didn’t need that on her conscience.
“It’s fraud!” the man shouted. As Reg moved away from the bulletin board to pass him and get out of the situation, he toddled closer to the poster. “People like you should be thrown in jail! I don’t understand why everyone comes to Florida to bilk innocent people out of their life savings. You leave retirees destitute. They spend their whole lives trying to save money, and you just take it all away!”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.” She inched past him and was almost to the door when she heard the paper tear. She turned and looked back. The old man had ripped the poster down. He turned to face her, sneering and laughing to himself.
“You’re sorry, are you? I’ll say you’re sorry! Why don’t you get your sorry butt out of here and never come back again?”
“Do you own this place?” Reg asked, feeling her eyes widen at the destruction of her sign.
There wasn’t any point in coming to blows with the gentleman, so Reg turned away, letting her breath out in a sigh. There were plenty of other bulletin boards for her to put her poster up on.
There would always be people who were not fooled by what she was doing. As strong as the human desire to believe was, there would always be cynics who wouldn’t be convinced of the legitimacy of psychic phenomena. It was best to just not engage with them.
⋆ Chapter Seven ⋆
It was Saturday, and that meant she had a date with Corvin Hunter.
Reg couldn’t help the anticipatory acceleration of her heart whenever she thought of it. Corvin was one of the most desirable men she’d met, and the fact that he was apparently interested in her sent her heart skittering like a puppy on a slippery floor whenever she thought about it.
Sarah had warned Reg not to be taken in by him. She had said that he was dangerous. But she hadn’t said how he was dangerous. What exactly did Sarah think Reg was going to get herself into?
Was she worried that Reg would get her heart broken when Corvin moved on to his next conquest? Was Corvin into pain? Or was it his alleged magical powers that Sarah was talking about? Maybe she thought that Corvin would put some kind of spell on Reg that would… what? Make her his slave? Make her give him wildly expensive gifts? She couldn’t think of any spell that Corvin would actually want to put on her, even if he did have some kind of power.
Reg couldn’t see anything dangerous about Corvin. He was just another handsome man with a big ego. If he liked her, why not take advantage of the opportunity? She’d been on too many bad dates in recent memory.
She traveled light, so her wardrobe was not very extensive. Now that she was settled down in Florida for a while running the fortune-teller scheme, she should spend some time shopping for a few new pieces. Living out of a closet instead of a suitcase had its perks. She did her best to assemble an elegant, mysterious costume suitable for the The Crystal Bowl, and after checking the time once more, headed over.
Corvin had arrived there ahead of her, which was a good sign. He hadn’t made her wait for him. Reg had arrived slightly ahead of schedule, so he would know that she respected his schedule as well. Reg believed in being prompt and making a good impression on people.
He was at the bar, so Reg headed to his side, ignoring the sign that said to wait to be seated. Reg wasn’t sure she’d seen anyone actually wait to be seated yet. Maybe that only applied to newbies.
“Good evening, Regina,” Corvin said in a low, husky voice. He said it the right way, reh-jee-nah rather than ree-ji-nah like the Canadian city. It sounded intimate and romantic and didn’t irritate her the way it usually did when people presumed to use her full name. “You’re looking lovely tonight.”
“Thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself,” Reg said breathlessly. And he did look incredible, even better than he had when he had stopped in at the cottage to welcome her into the community.
When he’d come to the house, he’d been wearing casual clothing, nothing that really stuck out. Dark jeans, a t-shirt, and a black overcoat pulled over everything in spite of the heat. For their date, he had dressed in a top-quality tailored black suit, blindingly white shirt, and a tie loosely knotted, not quite snugged up to his throat. There was a corner of a kerchief poking out of his breast pocket, and she was quite sure it was a real, properly folded hankie rather than just a pocket insert for show.
Corvin knew how to dress. And he was no pauper.
“Why don’t we grab a table?” Corvin suggested.
It was the same restaurant Reg had gone to earlier in the week, but she felt completely different. Then she had been a visitor, new in town, completely unfamiliar with the community and everyone in it. She didn’t know a lot more people than she had, but she felt comfortable there, and she eagerly anticipated spending time with the gorgeous warlock.
They were seated, again without the assistance of a waitress, and Reg let out a slow sigh of satisfaction.
“So, how have your first few days been?” Corvin asked.
From what Reg had seen of the paranormal community, word spread pretty fast, so she had no doubt that Corvin probably already knew how her week had gone just as well as she did, if not better.
“It’s been good. I’ve had a couple of good readings, and I think word of mouth is spreading nicely. I’ve put up some advertising around the neighborhood. I’m hoping to be able to get a pretty steady flow of clients… if the first few days are any indication.”
“I’ve heard good things,” he agreed with a nod. They sipped at their drinks. “So how is it that you didn’t pursue a living as a psychic before now?” he asked. “Was it just not included in those ‘what are you going to be when you grow up’ coloring books you got at school?”
Reg chuckled. Those books had always frustrated her. She would leaf through them, looking for the type of job that she wanted, not finding anything but doctors, lawyers, teachers, and store clerks. Where were the fun jobs? Sure there were astronauts, actors, dancers, and artists, but no parent or teacher ever tried to persuade their kids to pursue those careers. All of the jobs seemed so dry and humdrum, even the ones that should have been fun. Reg had never had any desire to become a dentist or veterinarian. She wanted to do something exciting and dramatic and to make a lot of money doing it. She knew, even back then, that her academic scores were never going to be good enough to pursue a degree, and that she didn’t want a job in an office or retail outlet.
“I’ve tried a lot of different things. I never really considered being a psychic until recently, but I am pretty good at it.”
“What made you decide to do it when you didn’t actually believe you had any psychic abilities?”
Reg stared down into her glass of wine. She probably shouldn’t have too much to drink while she was with him. She was influenced enough by his magnetism. And she remembered that at the house, she had thought he might have put something in her drink. She kept it in her hand, watching him carefully.
“I was down and out. One of those times when you scrape bottom and don’t have anything or anyone to help you… I was on the street, not a cent to my name, nothing in my pockets but my own cold hands. So… I had to do something.”
“Sometimes it takes a crisis like that to really recognize our latent powers.”
“Uh… sure. So I read palms until I could buy a cup of tea… read tea leaves until I could buy a deck of tarot cards… and just kept building. Made myself look reputable. Got a car. Looked for a community where I could operate and there would be a lot of business…”
“And out of the various psychic methods you tried, being a channel to the dead was the one that resonated with you the most?”
His eyes were intense. Reg thought a staring contest with Starlight was difficult, but trying to keep eye contact with the warlock was incredibly uncomfortable.
“I guess so,” she agreed. “It was… the most interesting and entertaining. And that was the one that really seemed to connect me with the most people.”
“Communing with the dead is not just a method of entertainment,” he reprimanded.
“No,” Reg agreed smoothly. “It’s also a way of making money.”
He looked at her, then started to smile. “You are brazen, aren’t you?”
Reg raised her eyebrows at him. “If you don’t want the truth, I’m a very convincing liar.”
“I’m sure you are.”
The waitress brought their first course. Reg sipped a spoonful or two of soup, but wanted to save her appetite for the main course.
“Did you have imaginary friends as a child?”
The change of subject surprised Reg. Were they finished dueling over paranormal powers, then?
“Yeah, sure,” she
agreed. “Most kids do.”
He waited for further information.
“I didn’t have a lot of real friends,” Reg said. “I got moved around a lot, and it’s hard to establish friendships when you’re only in a place for a few months. So I had imaginary friends. Lots of imaginary friends.”
“And were they all children your own age?”
Reg frowned. “No. All kinds. Old, young, men, women, kids, pets… everyone I needed to stay entertained.”
“And you don’t think that’s unusual?”
Reg raised her brows. “No.”
“Did you talk about your friends to the grown-ups?”
Reg thought back. She could remember trying to tell her foster mother or teacher or psychologist about her friends, but they had quickly clamped down on that, telling her that she wasn’t allowed to talk about her imaginary friends at the dinner table or during class. Sometimes she tried to whisper to her foster mother or sisters as she went to bed, telling them about what her friends had said or done that day, but they would just shake their heads at her and turn their faces away, clearly indicating that it was an unacceptable topic.
“Sometimes, but grown-ups really don’t get imaginary friends. They think it’s cute the first time or two, but then it’s ‘don’t talk to me about them’ or ‘don’t try to blame this on your imaginary friend.’ They don’t want to hear about it.”
Corvin chuckled. He took a couple of spoonfuls of his soup and laid his spoon down. “You didn’t have imaginary friends. You were talking to spirits.”
Reg’s mouth dropped open. She forced herself to close it again. “I was not! I just had an active imagination.”
“That’s what the psychologists said,” Corvin intoned.
Reg was nodding before she realized that Corvin was just guessing. He couldn’t know what the doctors had really said. More than one foster mother had taken her to the doctor, thinking that there must be something wrong with her. They thought she was hallucinating or schizophrenic or seriously disturbed. But the psychologists and therapists always just shook their heads and smiled. “She’s just a little girl with an active imagination. If you don’t want to encourage it, then don’t give it a lot of attention. Keep her busy with other things, set up play dates, enroll her in some after-school clubs…”