She didn’t need to win. And so, of course, she did. Because we all secretly despise those who crave our approval and want to bathe in the light of those with true self-assurance.
Bethany placed second. Her high-wattage smile undimmed, she graciously congratulated Laini. Perhaps I only imagined the flash of emotion in her eyes as she met her mother’s disappointed gaze over the heads of the judges.
I tracked what I could of Bethany and Laini’s progress after that competition. Laini had won many more pageants but disappeared from the circuit before she became a teenager. Was that because her mother had died, or did she simply drop out because she was bored or burned out? Bethany continued competing, winning more pageants once her chief competitor had quit, until the Miss America competition which must have been the pinnacle of her beauty career. She failed to place in the top five.
She surfaced a year later as a weather girl on a local television station and then progressed to news anchor, where she stayed for several years before being swept aside for a younger woman. I felt a sharp pang of anger at the injustice, because The Hair was forty-five if he was a day. Such a double standard. Then again, maybe it had been Bethany’s choice to leave and start her own business.
I closed the search pages and videos. It was time to work. Truthfully, it was about four hours past time to work. The morning had slipped away in a dazzling blur of glitz and glamor. I spent the afternoon working so hard that for the first time, I began to see light at the end of my academic tunnel.
My parents popped over for a visit at around five, though I didn’t remember inviting them. Lizzie and Darcy went insane with excitement at seeing new faces — barking, baying, and running up and down the hallway until they’d rippled up the rug in a concertina-style pile.
“Sorry,” I yelled above the noise. “They’ve got too much pent-up energy.”
“Show me where the leads are, and I’ll take them out for a nice long walk,” Dad said.
The dogs’ excitement rose to fever pitch when they saw my father holding the leads, but the moment the front door closed behind them, all was blissful silence. Until my mother spoke.
“My, my. They sure do have a lot of stuff in this house,” she said, taking in the ornaments that covered every surface. “Trotskys, they’re called in Yiddish.”
“Tchotchkes,” I said.
“Yes, dear,” she said, on a long-suffering sigh. “And have you experienced any more strangenesses here?”
Since denying everything never seemed to succeed in getting her off my back, I decided to go to the other extreme.
“Oh, yes! I often hear funny noises.”
“Where?”
“In the ceiling.”
“Ooh! What kind of noises?”
“No rattling of chains,” I told her. “But loads of creaks and rustles.”
“That sounds like mice, dear. Any scratches in the walls?”
“Not in the walls, no.”
“That’s what you usually get when a house is haunted.”
“You live and learn. How about smells? Because I’ve noticed some odd ones.”
“Not sulphur, I hope! The smell of sulphur means a demon is about.”
“No, just mint and cola.”
My mother sniffed the air experimentally, then looked disappointed. “Maybe it’s just your toothpaste or candy. Anything else?”
“Lots! There’s a dismembered doll in the attic that spooked the crap out of me, and a child’s dressing table with an old hairbrush which still has hairs in it. There’s a clown figurine on a shelf in the living room which turns around by itself, and a mermaid statue in the bathroom that watches me while I bathe and shower. I had a moment when I thought the radio was playing a song especially for me. And sometimes the faucets drip.”
My mother blinked at me several times, while I waited for her latest wild theory. Pixies, maybe, or poltergeists.
Instead, she said, “Well, I suppose that could all be the work of an overactive imagination and absent-mindedness. Never mind, dear” — she patted the back of my hand — “at least you still have your visions.”
“Mom,” I said, shaking my head, “you never cease to amaze me.”
“How about a nice cup of tea? I’ll make it while you fix that carpet.”
I straightened the rug and went to the study to back up my documents. Mom stuck her head in the door while I was shutting down my laptop.
“Any cake or cookies to go with our tea?” she asked.
“There are some animal crackers in a bag in the pantry.”
She bustled off back to the kitchen, where I joined her a few minutes later.
“This is all that was left.” She gestured to the solitary cracker — a camel, my least favorite — on a plate on the table.
“No way, I couldn’t have eaten all of those.”
Could I? There’d still been lots left when I’d served some up to Agent Singh and Ryan. Singh hadn’t touched them, but Ryan had enjoyed them. Could he possibly have stolen my snacks? It was more likely that I’d been on autopilot when working last night and this afternoon, munching while I worked without being aware of it. Mushy brain syndrome — that’s what I had, probably due to being increasingly more in the then than the now. Or maybe finding Laini’s body had affected me more than I’d assumed, because problems with short-term memory were a typical symptom of post-traumatic stress.
“Perhaps next time you should buy a smaller packet,” my mother said. “It’s all too easy to fall into comfort-eating, and we all know what happens to our figures then.”
“Are you saying I’m putting on weight?”
“Of course not!” she said, though she gave my sweatpants a critical glance. “But, on the other hand of the coin, I will repeat Elizabeth Taylor’s words of wisdom: beware of pants with elasticated waistbands.”
– 27 –
I poured us each a cup of the Earl Grey tea Mom had made and nestled into the couch with my feet up on the ottoman.
“So,” my mother asked, “how is your assignment coming on?”
“Very well, actually. Another day or two’s work should get it to the stage where I can send it to my supervisor for review.”
“I meant your private eye assignment.”
“Oh. Well, you know.” I sipped my tea.
“No, dear, I don’t know. That’s why I asked.”
“Well” — I piped my bottom lip and puffed hair out of my face — “I don’t know either. I have no clue what I’m supposed to be doing. I’m just driving around talking to people who knew Laini Carter and seeing if anything clicks.”
“Talking to people?” my mother repeated in the tone of one who considered this to be a bizarre thing to do in a murder investigation. “Use your powers!”
“I don’t know how to. They come when they come and aren’t always there when I need them. I can’t figure out a pattern to it. Look, I’ll show you!” I fetched the printed copy of my vision spreadsheet, which I hadn’t yet updated with the flashes of the serial killer, and handed it to my mother. “See? Sometimes I get a vision or a feeling when I concentrate, and sometimes I don’t. Sometimes,” I said, thinking of the flash about the killer touching the corpse, “they come when I relax and I’m not consciously trying. The only common denominator is that they always make my head hurt afterwards. Other than that, it’s all a mystery.”
My mother puzzled over the grid for long minutes, muttering to herself and tilting her head as if viewing it sideways might help. At last she sighed and handed it back to me.
“I’m afraid I don’t see a pattern, either. But maybe you’re chasing a wild goose, here, dear.”
“What do you mean?”
“All this logical analyzation — no doubt it’s the normal way to figure things out.”
I nodded.
“But,” she said with a rueful smile, “what if the paranormal can’t be studied with normal methods?”
I tried to follow her thought to its logical — or more accurately, illogical —
conclusion. “So, I’m supposed to wait for intuitions about my intuitions?”
She raised her eyebrows. “I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose it could work, though it’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean then?” I snapped, frustrated that this conversation, like most exchanges with my dippy mother, was wandering around in circles.
“What you need is paranormal help. And I came prepared!”
My mother extracted her deck of tarot cards and accompanying pocket guide from her handbag and began shuffling.
I groaned. “Mom, you know I don’t believe in those things.”
“The question is, do they believe in you?”
“Huh?” I said, bewildered.
“The last time I was at the Tuppenny Tavern, I needed to use the ladies’ restroom. Disgustingly dirty, by the way, avoid those toilets at all costs! But there was some interesting graffiti.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Written on the door of my stall was this: God is dead. And then there was a dash and Nietzsche.” She pronounced it Neetzercher. “You know, like she had written it.”
“He,” I said. “Nietzsche was a man.”
“Well, I don’t know what he was even doing in the ladies’ room, then, let alone defacing the doors with his nonsense!”
“Does this story have a point?” I asked.
“If you give me a chance, I’ll tell you. Well, under that God is dead, Nietzsche bit, someone else had written, Nietzsche is dead – God.” She sat back and smiled at me triumphantly.
“I have no idea what you’re trying to say, Mom.”
“Some things exist and are true even if people like you, Garnet McGee, don’t believe in them.”
“Smartass,” I mumbled.
“Here you go.” She thrust the deck into my hands. “Shuffle eight times, please.”
Deciding it would be quicker to just go along with this, I did as she’d instructed.
“Now, while you shuffle, you need to meditate on what you want the cards to tell you. So, are you thinking of the need for future guidance?”
“Oh, yeah. Definitely,” I said sarcastically.
“That’s seven times. Once more … Good! Now cut the cards wherever it feels right.”
None of it felt right. But I cut the deck in half. My mother took the top half and set it aside.
“Now draw the top card off the ones you’re holding and place it face down here.” She tapped a spot on the table. “Good. Now the next three cards in a line beneath it. Wonderful! And turn over the first card sideways, so we see it just as you dealt it. That will be your overall guiding card.”
“The Lovers,” I read off the card depicting a naked man and woman, with an angel hovering above them and what looked like an erupting volcano in the background. “I suppose this means I’m going to fall in love?”
She tutted at my simplistic interpretation before launching into her own. “The male figure, on the right, represents your mind, your conscious self that gathers information and uses logic. The woman stands for your heart, your subconscious self — feelings, intuitions, memory.”
“Well, that’s not sexist at all.”
“And the angel above them — Raphael, I think, or perhaps it’s Michael? — is the super-conscious mind.”
“Super or supra?” I asked. “Is it very conscious? Or is it above consciousness?”
“Are you mocking me, Garnet?”
“Never!”
“The point is, it’s your conception of yourself, who you think you are. And it’s also there to remind you of your connection to the world of the divine.”
“Clear as mud,” I said.
“And your card is reversed, see? It’s upside down.”
“That means something, too, does it?”
My mother was already consulting her well-thumbed guide. “Oh dear. Disharmony, imbalance, misalignment of values, failure,” she read out.
“I’m feeling better already.”
“Perhaps it means you should try to unite these parts of yourself?”
“Sure, Mom. I’ll get right on it.”
“Now turn over the other cards, left to right. Not all at once, Garnet! You’re supposed to do them one by one.”
“I couldn’t stand the suspense.”
“The first card represents the material plane, what’s happening for you in the earthly physical world.”
“Let me guess — I’ve been eating too many cookies?”
“You’ve drawn the Ace of Wands, and it’s reversed, which means” — she checked her booklet — “emerging ideas, lack of direction, delays and distractions.”
“I could’ve told you that,” I scoffed. “In fact, I think I did.”
“That just goes to show you how accurate the tarot is! Now the middle card represents the mental realm, what’s brewing in your mind, or what’s unspoken and perhaps holding you back. And you’ve drawn the Five of Cups.”
“Cups … for too much drinking? Hangovers?”
“For shame!”
“Just kidding, Mom. Go on.”
“No, I mean the card symbolizes shame. See how this poor fellow is hanging his head? It means he — and you — feel regret and remorse. To move forward, you’ll have to make amends and ask for forgiveness.”
“This just keeps getting better,” I said. “Am I supposed to be feeling ashamed of something I’ve already done, or is this still going to happen?”
“Hmmm.” She flipped furiously through the guide but came up empty. “Either, I suppose. Or both?”
“And does it definitely refer to me, or could it be about someone associated with this investigation?” I asked, despite myself.
I was thinking of Kennick Carter, who’d trained as a professional liar and cheat when he was just a little kid. He’d borrowed money from Laini and possibly lost it all. That would have caused him shame, as might the relief of inheriting much-needed moola when it came at the cost of his sister’s life. Then again, whoever had killed Laini — and I couldn’t yet exclude Kennick — would surely be feeling shame.
“Probably mostly you,” my mother said. “But the cards don’t like to have their meanings narrowed down too specifically.”
“I’d noticed that.”
The final card featured a frowny-faced moon glowering down at a howling dog and a wolf who reminded me irresistibly of Darcy and Lizzie, with a pair of high watchtowers on either side in the distance. In the foreground, a crayfish was crawling out of a pool of water.
“Now the third card governs the spiritual plane, and you’ve drawn The Moon,” my mother said. “And in the upright position.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
She pursed her lips and made a seesaw motion with her hands. “It means all is not as it seems. There is double-dealing and deception. Secrets! This card speaks of illusions — either in the form of self-deception, or trickery and deceit from another. Lots of confusion.”
“No kidding.”
“You feel the lure of the unknown, of hidden knowledge and obscured truth.”
“I’m trying to investigate a murder, so yeah.”
“And, I’m sorry to say, it’s also a red flag of sorts, warning of danger, fear, risk and enemies.”
“Lovely.”
“According to this booklet, the Moon card can also signify mental health issues.”
“Awesome.”
“And if you’re awaiting a decision on something, the answer will either be delayed or be so ambiguous it will add to your confusion rather than clarifying your course.”
“Rather like a tarot reading then?”
It seemed to me that the cards could mean anything and everything, or nothing at all. They were so vague as to be useless.
Ignoring this, my mother gave a little squirm of excitement and said, “Ooh, I forgot to tell you about the lobster!”
“I thought it was a crayfish.”
“Tomayto, tomahto. Sometimes it’s even represented as a crab.”
>
“Is anything precise and specific in tarot?” I asked, irritated.
“No, dear. Because nothing’s precise and specific in life. Now, the lobster symbolizes emerging intuition, your unfolding and expanding consciousness. And if that isn’t a fit for your life at the moment, I don’t know what is!”
“Anything else? Because my intuition is telling me Dad is on his way back and it’s time to wrap this up.” I could hear the dogs barking and the squeak of the front gate.
“It says here in my guide that the Moon reminds you to pay attention to dreams, because they might be messages from the divine or the beyond.”
The night before, I’d dreamed I’d been washing dishes, scrubbing to get dried egg yolk off a plate. If the spirits were trying to tell me something other than to put my eggy plates in to soak as soon as I finished eating, they’d have to get a lot more specific.
Dad and the dogs came inside then. He complained about the bitter cold outside, and Darcy and Lizzie, judging by the sound of them pushing their food bowls around in the kitchen, were complaining about their empty stomachs. I checked my watch and saw that it was half-past six already.
“Crap, I’m late!”
I jumped up and ran to feed the dogs. Why had I wasted so much time on indecipherable idiocy with my mother?
She followed me into the kitchen. “Late for what?”
“I’m supposed to be at Ryan’s at seven, and I still have to shower.”
Her face split into a delighted smile. “You have a date with Ryan Jackson?”
“Don’t get excited, Mom. It’s to talk about the case. Do I have to shower, or can I get away with this hair?” I asked, releasing it from its bun.
“Go shower and wash your hair,” she said firmly. “Better late than lank.”
– 28 –
Ryan welcomed me to his house in town with a dimpled smile and a kiss on my cheek.
“Come on in,” he said, taking my coat.
He wore khaki chinos and a blue button-up under a gray sweater which brought out the color of his eyes. I immediately felt underdressed in my jeans and Patriots sweatshirt, especially when I caught sight of the dining room table. It was set for two, complete with white tablecloth, wine glasses and candles in crystal holders. It was saved from being an undeniably romantic tableau only by the floral arrangement — a fistful of berries and dead leaves shoved into a coffee mug with I see guilty people printed on the side.
The First Time I Fell Page 16