Foods, Fools and a Dead Psychic

by Maria Grazia Swan

  I liked to drive home through Paradise Valley even with the forty miles per hour speed limit strictly enforced. Rumor had it that the income from the speeding tickets kept the town of Paradise Valley solvent. That counted for a lot of tickets.

  Oh, such a pleasant drive on Tatum Boulevard, unfurling through most of the town, from North to South, from Camelback Mountain to Phoenix Mountain Preserve. Large homes set away from the road, on vast acreage, no horses in sight, and few night lights. The first impression felt a little pastoral. Pastoral? The most expensive dirt in Maricopa County? Okay, Monica, maybe you need to cut down on the Pinot Grigio, especially if it’s served by the bottle. In spite of all the promises and good intentions, I made a small detour and drove by Tristan’s street. Thanks to the house setbacks and the early darkness, I figured even my hot pink Fiat could zip by unnoticed... while my heart bounced up and down in my chest like butter on a hot griddle.

  Five minutes later I turned into our street.

  Brenda’s porch light was on. She must be home. I didn’t see any car parked up front. Good. I drove to the back and into my garage. No sign of Max’s truck or Tommy’s motorcycle. With the coast clear, my mood improved and I knocked on Brenda’s back door. Dior barked me in.

  “Okay, okay, down boy, I know you love me, I love you too.” The Great Dane acted like he hadn’t seen me in a million years.

  “Does he need to go potty?” I asked Brenda who sat on her usual spot on the couch, a glass of wine in her hand, a pack of smokes on the coffee table next to an empty bag of potato chips, same brand she often reminded me not to eat. Brenda Baker, my ex-husband Tommy’s aunt and the only family I had this side of the ocean.

  Just as nice and loving as before her hospital detour, except now she took up more space on the couch and her clothes looked like they had been run through the wrong dryer cycle. A couple of times I suggested she should get some new threads, at least for work. Brenda would look at me, without a word, a blank stare in her eyes, a reflection of the emptiness inside?

  “Dior? No, he’s good. You hungry?” I noticed her television was on. The sound barely audible. Would she ever be the old Brenda she was before the accidental overdose?

  “I stopped for happy hour with Kassandra. What are you watching?” I scratched the dog’s ears to keep him off me.

  “Not sure, there isn’t much on,” she clicked from channel to channel, distracted by whatever her mind tackled between her long silences and her brief bursts of life.

  “Wait, wait, what’s that? Go back,” I squealed.

  She did, and turned to look at me, “What? That?” She pointed her TV control to the screen where the sketch of an older woman’s face stared back at us. “That’s the Jane Doe they fished out of the canal and...”

  “The canal?” I babbled. “Miss Fortune.” It had to be her.

  “I guess it is indeed, a misfortune for the poor woman and...”

  “No, I mean her name is Miss Fortune, at least that’s what Kassandra said.”

  “Kassandra — your office Kassandra? She knew the poor woman?”

  “Please stop calling her poor woman, she is — was — a psychic, from Tucson.”

  Brenda rested the wine glass on the coffee table and turned to stare at me. “The name sounds familiar — Miss Fortune.” She repeated slowly. “And you think she’s a psychic? You need to tell the authorities. They are showing the artist rendering hoping someone would recognize her. Maybe she came to town for the fair.”

  “The fair? What fair? The cops already know. They came to the office and questioned Kassandra. Because of the bra.”

  “Monica, how much happy do you drink at these happy hours?”

  I should have been insulted but wasn’t, because for the first time in a long, long while Brenda’s eyes didn’t look like bottomless dark holes. They looked human.

  “It’s true. I can’t figure out how they tracked Kassandra through a bra. It’s not DNA, at least Kassandra doesn’t think so, because she said the body was in the canal for a week?”

  “Bra? Custom made maybe?”

  “I asked, she said she buys them at Macy’s when they are on sale.”

  “So, this — Miss Fortune — she knew Kassandra because of the Tarot cards? Or did they meet at the Psychic Fair?”

  I blinked. “What’s with this Psychic Fair? Where is it? How do you know about it? I assumed the detectives questioned Kassandra because of the séance.”

  “What séance?” She really perked up. I had no idea Brenda was interested in that kind of stuff. Anyway, this was getting complicated and boring. I couldn’t wait to go back to my place, the guesthouse in the back, and do my own investigating with the help of Google.

  “A bunch of people got together and hired Miss Fortune to do a séance where you communicate with — the spirits?” I forgot. “Anyway, a few weeks ago the psychic came up from Tucson, by bus. Kassandra was to drop her off at the bus station the next morning, on her way to work. She spent the night in the home where the séance took place, but the man who owns the house tried to — you know—” I hesitated, my old Catholic up-bring kicking into high gear.

  “Know what?”

  “He tried to — have sex with Kassandra. So she grabbed her stuff and ran out of the house and drove away. She left her bra and Miss Fortune behind.”

  “Oh. And you think the woman came back to town for the fair and decided to return the bra to the rightful owner?”

  “After all this time?” I felt compelled to add. “It all happened before the Dumont’s housewarming party that we catered. Besides, I don’t know who found the bra Kassandra left behind. And I don’t remember Kassandra ever mentioning a local fair. How do you know about it?”

  Brenda sipped her wine. “I read about it in the paper. I’m pretty sure they have events like that often, in large hotels, you know. Don’t take my word for it, you can probably find out on the Internet. It may even show the list of the psychics, astrologers, mediums who participated and probably the tarot readers.”

  On the screen the reporter was interviewing an older man with a fishing pole. Must be the lucky soul who hooked the corpse. “I’m confused, how come I don’t know any of that stuff? It sounds sort of interesting. Do they tell you the future? Oh, I get it. You’re saying the psychic from Tucson was in town for the fair. When was it again?”

  A car door slammed somewhere outside. Yikes! Were my pajama and TV plans about to be snuffed out? Soon followed a soft knock on Brenda’s front door. I looked at her, stretching her legs and pushing the pack of cigarettes and empty chips bag under a stack of magazines. Ah! “Officer Clarke?” I asked, sporting my best Cheshire smile.

  “His first name is Robert.” She rolled her eyes, ran her fingers through her hair. She walked toward the door, brushing off a few dry crumbs from the front of her blouse, Dior at her heels. While I headed to the back door I heard her say to me, “Bob to his friends.”

  I hurried to let myself out through the back door before Bob made his entrance.

  NONE OF THE snippets I found on the Internet identified Jane Doe as Miss Fortune. At least not yet. What if that wasn’t her real name? I mean, how perfect was that combination? Your local psychic, Miss Fortune. I googled the name. Fortune didn’t bring up anything related to a drowning victim, but a lot of stuff about Fortune 500 and business magazines. I tried Miss Fortune and for a minute I thought I’d hit the jackpot. Well, on closer look, I hadn’t. The Facebook page with that name belonged to a now gone musician or band. It also appeared to be the name of some mythical legendary fighter. Disappointed, I turned off the computer and went to bed. I had three voice mail messages from Max. If I didn’t listen to them I wouldn’t feel obliged to reply. I wasn’t proud of myself, not a bit but didn’t know how to get out of the situation without feeling even guiltier for breaking Max’s heart, again.

  That night I dreamed of Tristan, like the night before and the night before that.

  THREE

  “MUST BUY A ca
r, must buy a car,” I repeated over and over in my mind, like a mantra, hoping it would do the trick. No need to sell or trade my Fiat. Against all logic, I had come to consider the pink car my lucky charm. It had been a gift from my father-in-law, Brenda’s brother. To him, it didn’t matter I was already divorcing Tommy, or maybe it did matter and it was his way of letting me know it was all right. Married to Tommy or not, I’ll always be a member of the Baker family. That was a big part of my attachment to the car and the easiest to explain. I grew even more attached once Tristan Dumont nicknamed me Fiat. The rest had to do with vague feelings of patriotic pride, Fiat being an Italian brand and all that.

  Brenda had suggested a four-door sedan, slightly used, with low mileage so it would still be under warranty. The idea sounded practical, if not exciting. I could use my share of the commission from the horse ranch and finance the rest if necessary. I didn’t have a set dollar figure because the Dumont’s ranch deal happened while I was still employed as Sunny’s assistant and had no legal claim to a commission. Regardless, she offered to share with me. Escrow closing had been dragging due to unpaid taxes and the seller’s attempt at skirting responsibility. Lawyers from both sides were busy sorting everything out. I avoided the subject as much as possible. Somehow, associating Tristan with my paycheck felt too... mercenary.

  THE NEXT MORNING I proudly crossed the threshold of Desert Homes Realty before nine a.m. A first. But instead of Kassandra’s familiar face, who sat on her chair but Scott, our signs installer and all around handyman. Weird.

  Phones rang. Scott didn’t seem in a hurry to answer them. I could see real estate agents in the back, the so-called bullpen, none paying much attention to the front lobby turmoil. “Where is Kassandra?” I asked.

  Scott shrugged, “Home?” Had all twenty-somethings taken a vow to speak in the fewest words possible or was it just tall, muscular sign installers?

  “Oh, is she sick?” I asked. I remembered her not eating and only drinking wine at North happy hour last night. Nah, it couldn’t be that. I’d seen her guzzle a lot more alcohol and drive home without noticeable side effects.

  Scott shrugged. “Sick of the cops maybe. They are at her place, with a search warrant.”

  “Noooo. Because of the bra?”

  “The what?” Finally something sparked his interest and his youthful face lit up. Still he wasn’t answering the phones. Lucky for him our boss hadn’t arrived yet. Suddenly he got up and grabbed his clipboard. “You need to mind the phones until Kassandra gets here,” he said. I’ve got a schedule to keep.”

  And before I could compute the meaning of that, his tall frame was out the door. I had no clue how the thing with the flashing buttons worked. All I could do was pick up the phone and answer one call at a time. That alone would be an improvement from what Scott did, or didn’t do. And so I answered the calls and made notes instead of forwarding them to the correct extensions. Besides, I had no time to check who was in the back and who wasn’t. Some coffee would help, but no one came to my rescue. I sighed and diligently made notes as the calls kept coming. After about twenty-five minutes it all quieted down. Good.

  Search warrant. That’s what Scott had said. What were the police looking for? I wasn’t even sure where Kassandra lived. She’d recently rented a condo in a multi-story complex around Seventh Avenue and Northern, but we never really got into details. I hardly ventured west of Central. Maybe I should call her. What if the cops were still there? All because of a stupid bra. And a dead psychic. Better clear my mind and take care of my own business. Someone else could mind the phones. Where was Sunny? Ah, coming through the door at that very moment — with Tristan Dumont in tow. Mercy. He looked so good and no more walking cane. I opened my mouth a few times but no sound made it through. He winked at me.

  “Good morning, Fiat.”

  Three short words, enough to fling the blushing gates wide open.

  That must have gotten Sunny’s attention because she faced me and frowned, “Where is Kassandra?”

  “Huh?”

  I had to remember to close my mouth. I must have looked like an idiot, a red faced idiot. “She’s home, I guess. Scott was here and... then he left. I’ve been answering the phones. I’m not very good at it and...”

  Under Tristan’s amber-eyed scrutiny I could hardly breathe like a normal human being, let alone talk. Something in my dazed behavior must have reached Sunny’s consciousness; her attitude changed.

  “Monica, I’m so sorry. Thank you for pitching in. Had no idea about Kassandra’s absence. Let me see who I can get to cover for her.”

  Before I could sigh in relief, the front door opened again and Sunny’s daughter and reluctant part-time receptionist, Celine, made her grand entrance. She headed straight for Tristan, sashaying to the beat of her stiletto heels and sporting a smile that said, “I only have eyes for you.”

  Until her mother stepped in front of her.

  “Celine,” Sunny said. “Perfect timing, I need you to mind the phones while I find out what’s going on with Kassandra.” I could swear I heard a faint skidding of heels against the tile floors, but maybe it was my lack of caffeine or the excess of lust in the air that played mind tricks on me.

  “The phones? Me? But mom, why? Have her do it.” She pointed her perfectly manicured finger at me. I didn’t even bother to wait for Sunny’s response, I headed to my own cubicle, walking stiff like a marionette, painfully aware of Tristan’s gaze on me. And what was Celine doing there? You’d think she had Tristan microchipped the way she bulldogged him. To his credit, he barely nodded hello in her direction. His hair had grown; now it was almost the same length as the first time we met. When I had mistaken him for a construction worker three months ago, and yet it felt like a lifetime away. I dropped my things in the limited space I called my own and walked around from cubicle to cubicle to hand out the phone messages I had jotted down on sticky notes. By the responses you’d think these people had forgotten about paper and pen... but some of them reacted rather funnily. One of the post-its happened to be pink and the male agent who got it made a big production of announcing loudly; “It’s a girl, it’s a girl.” Followed by a round of laughter.

  I was dying to get myself some coffee, but that meant walking by the front lobby where Sunny and Celine were still locking horns from the sound of it. Where was Tristan?

  Oh, no. He had found his way to my cubicle. I spotted him before he turned and smiled.

  “There you are.” He handed me a business card. “He should be calling you any day now.”

  I glanced at the card, a fancy law firm and a name followed by Esq. Impressive of course. “What is this for?”

  “It’s the law firm sorting out the damages and settlement pertaining to our accident.” Still holding the card, fingers lingering, so close to mine.

  Our accident. We shared something. Was I smiling? Mercy. A true fool. That’s what Tristan’s presence did to my common sense. I managed a heartfelt, “Oh,” just as Sunny caught up to us and called out, “Tristan, Title is on the phone.” And with a light nod and a smile, he let go of the business card and followed my boss to her sanctum sanctorum.

  My hands trembled. Get a grip Monica, you came to the office to work not to turn to mush because of... enough. I straightened up and marched to the kitchen to get myself some well-deserved coffee. My cell chimed in my pocket as I poured the steaming liquid salvation into my mug. I eyed some leftover bagels. Perfect. Grabbed one, rested it next to the coffee and saw a welcome name on the screen. “Morning, Kassandra.”

  “Hi, I’m parked across the street, I’m so embarrassed. What did Sunny say?”

  “About what? And why are you whispering? I’m in the kitchen, getting coffee and scraping up leftover bagels.”

  “Is Scott covering for me?”

  “Scott left. Look, no one needs to know about the cops and the search warrant.”

  “You do.”

  “Scott told me before he disappeared and left me in charge of answe
ring the phones. I haven’t told a soul.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you. I owe you one. Wait, if you’re in the kitchen who is at the front desk?”

  “Celine.” Long pause.

  “Crap. Celine? What the hell is she doing there so early? Wait. I know. I bet the Dumont stud is there.” She sighed. “I’m coming in, don’t want that spoiled brat to mess up everyone’s day. And you’re sure? No one knows about, you know... Save me some bagel crumbs. I’m starving.” She was gone before I had a chance to slip in a single question about the search warrant. What were the cops looking for? The panties matching the bra?

  Being the only one in the kitchen felt liberating. Why would I think that? I lived alone. Well, most of the time, as Brenda and I shared the same driveway. Plus, I had my own cubicle here at the office Maybe it was because the kitchen was like Switzerland... neutral. We all walked through it and tried to leave it as we found it... and... we didn’t borrow other people’s stuff.

  I heard the chime of the front door opening, followed by Celine barking, “About time you made it to work. Next time you decide to sleep in, hire your own substitute.”

  Immediately followed by a furry of heels clapping on tile. I counted to ten before sticking my head out of the kitchen doorway.

  “And a good morning to you, also,” I chimed when Her Lateness stumbled past. “Relax. I’ll bring your coffee and let you catch up, but we must do lunch because I’m dying to hear about the — c o p s — okay?”

  Kassandra gave me a side-glance, shook her head, but I think it was because of her desk’s state of disarray. I quickly retreated into the neutral zone and located Kassandra’s Another Day in Paradise mug. I filled it to the brim with coffee, managed to put together some large pieces of broken bagels, then carried it all to her desk. She looked rested and not sick, at least not in obvious ways.

  “Guess what?” she said.

  Talk about multitasking. She sipped coffee, munched on stale bagels, redirected phone calls and still tried to maintain a conversation. Wow!