“Of course,” Bill said. “My mistake.”
“No mistake. You didn’t realize. Anyhow, welcome to the neighborhood. I look forward to becoming better acquainted.” Leonardis followed Vicki to the front door.
Bill poured the grease out of the skillet and dumped two cups of diced shallots into the pan over medium heat, along with some butter. When the shallots showed clear, he carefully poured in a generous amount of cognac and increased the heat. He stirred the mixture until the sauce was reduced to his satisfaction, set it aside, and checked the asparagus he’d been sautéing. It was almost tender, so he added a small amount of water and turned all the stalks. He would drizzle balsamic vinegar over them before serving.
He poured the sauce over the steaks and carried them to the table. Vicki brought the asparagus and sliced French bread, and they sat down to enjoy their meal.
After they finished, Vicki dabbed at a corner of her mouth with a napkin. “You are a great chef. The wine went well with it too.”
“Thanks. I found this medium-priced Cabernet at the grocery store. I opened it and let it breathe a half hour before dinner. Just as good as top-dollar stuff, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Our neighbor is creepy.” Vicki shivered. “On the way to the door, I saw him in the mirror eyeballing the place settings.”
“He’s odd, all right.” Bill looked out at the lake. “Let’s talk about him later. You go to the bedroom and make yourself comfortable while I do the dishes. I’ll be in shortly, and we can think about dessert.”
Vicki’s lopsided smile said she was in the mood for the “dessert” he had in mind. She held her thumb and index finger four inches apart. “I hope you misspoke when you said you would be in shortly.”
The next morning, Bill and Vicki drank coffee on the covered patio. Two pontoon boats idled along under Bimini tops, and a bass boat skimmed the water, hurrying to the next underwater structure, in search of big fish.
Vicki adjusted the umbrella angle to shield them from the bright morning sun. “I need a break. Let’s do something different. How about a road trip to Cassadaga?”
The skin around Bill’s eyes crinkled. “Cass … what?”
“Cassadaga. They call it a spiritualist camp. I’d heard of it and decided to look it up. It’s a small community over a hundred years old. It was founded by people who believed in psychics, mediums, astrology, and the like. I think they’re a bunch of eccentrics who have a good thing going. People come from all over for spiritual counseling, readings or seances. Some go just because they’re curious.”
“They’re all charlatans. Besides, I’d have thought you would avoid places like that. Don’t you want to leave behind anything related to what you call conjuring?”
Vicki sighed. “I’m just interested. Psychics, mediums … I mean, I’ve met people with special abilities, but most of them don’t want to talk about it. For me, it was unpredictable, and I didn’t understand what was going on. I gather a person with intuitive gifts can experience a vision spontaneously and have no idea what it means. You can’t initiate a vision or a voice in your head for someone else’s benefit, at least not that I know of. In my opinion, the people who put themselves out there to make money are fake.”
“So why go?” Bill studied her, his expression solemn. “There’s more to this than you’re saying.”
Vicki wasn’t sure why she had this itch, but she needed to scratch it. “I’ve never been exposed to people who claim psychic ability. I just want to prove I’m right.” She morphed her earnest expression into a conspiratorial smile. “We can pull their tails a little. It’s just east of Orlando; we can be there in three hours. It should be a hoot.”
“Okay, tomorrow morning.”
Chapter 18
The next day, as they drove away from the house, Bill said, “Let’s take the longer, scenic route. It won’t take that much more time.”
“Okay by me.”
“You look great.” Bill eyed her up and down. “That little blue vest goes nicely with your jeans, and the light-colored shirt with the blousy arms sets it off.”
“Thank you. You don’t often say much about my clothing.”
“My bad. It’s sexy.”
“Sexy.” Vicki giggled. “Keep talkin’.”
“I’ve run out of things to say. You know how I feel.”
“Bill, it’s always good to say it.”
“Do you mind if I change the subject?”
She sighed. “No, go ahead.”
“Tell me more about what we’re going to see today.”
“I can’t imagine what to expect. Should be interesting.”
On Route 441, a few miles north of Yeehaw Junction, Herkimer Dumperpimple and Jada Barbich pulled their car, stolen only hours before, to the grassy right-of-way. They began setting up shop, donning worn clothing bought at secondhand stores. Herkimer jacked up the left rear of the car.
The first car to stop was a beat-up minivan, fifteen or twenty years old. An elderly Hispanic man got out and asked if he could help. Having sized up the situation before the man even spoke, Herkimer said, “No thanks, we got ’er almost done already. But thank you, sir. You’re very kind.”
The second was a shabbily dressed family crammed in an old pickup truck. Herkimer gave them the same treatment.
As he knelt in the grass, pretending to fiddle with the hubcap, Herkimer swiveled his head and his heart leapt. This pearl-colored SUV was the sort of opportunity they were hoping for. He tried to will the vehicle to pull over. When it did, a well-dressed man stepped down and walked toward him. A stylish woman slid out of the passenger side. Herkimer was glad the passenger got out. The situation would be easier to manage if they were both standing close to him.
The man scrutinized the partly jacked-up rear wheel with its hubcap still on and said, “Whatcha doing here? Do you need any help?”
Jada, who had been standing behind and to the side, reached into her pocket for her pistol. The well-dressed woman already had a small revolver in her hand. She fired three times, one of the shots nicking Jada’s finger and sending her gun spinning into the grass. Jada yelped and made a shrill, whining sound.
“Wow. Keep the gun on them,” said the man from the SUV.
The couple relieved Herkimer and Jada of what few valuables they carried, including Jada’s jeweled watch, twenty-five in cash, and Herkimer’s pants. He stood dumbfounded while Jada bent over making mewling sounds through her nose. The failed robbers wore gloomy expressions as the couple returned to their car and took off.
As they continued their journey, Bill reached over and touched Vicki’s arm. “You had your gun out before the robbers made their move.” Bill held his head back and scrutinized her with slitted eyes. “How?”
Vicki shrugged.
“Don’t know or won’t say?” Bill asked.
She shrugged again.
“A little bird told you? Okay.” Bill shook his head as though to clear it. “Vicki, one of the few things I don’t like about Florida is there are so many petty crooks.”
“Well, honestly, aren’t we crooks?” Vicki admired her new watch, holding it up to the light. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
Bill sniffed. “We’re not petty.”
Vicki adjusted her sunglasses and smiled. “Just so, my dear. I stand corrected. No, not petty crooks, for sure. That was kind of a kick, though, wasn’t it?”
“You never told me you have a gun. Why didn’t you? And why bring it today?”
Vicki chuckled. “I never thought to mention it. It usually stays put away. You don’t know everything about me.”
“You didn’t answer my second question. Why did you carry it today?”
“A little bird told me to.” Vicki giggled.
Bill and Vicki continued their drive north under a cloudless blue sky, which would likely
host some cloud formations in the afternoon. They passed several pastures dotted with sturdy cattle, some grouped in the shade of spreading oak trees. Vicki thought there was a lot to be said for peaceful small towns surrounded by farm country. After she and Bill moved, they could come back for a while each year.
Vicki unfolded a sheaf of papers she had printed off the internet. “Here are a few things to think about before we arrive. Some of the people who offer readings and healings are certified, but some aren’t. I think all the ones that operate in the main center are certified. Not sure what ‘certified’ means, most likely nothing. Not far from the spiritualist center, there are some who appear to be taking advantage of the location and setting up their own readings.”
Bill squinted, though there was no glare. “Do I need to know all this?”
“Listen to me,” Vicki said. “People advertise psychic readings, contact with spirits, tarot cards, past life regression, and so on.” Her voice grew soft. “Now that we’re here, I can’t decide if I really want to sit down with one.”
“You were so interested before. I don’t see why you’d change your mind now. But this is your show.” He shrugged.” “I’m already mellow and grooving on the vibe.”
“Stop being a dork.”
After a short ride on I-4, the SUV pulled off at an exit marked Cassadaga. For a couple of miles, the road wound through old Florida countryside, a few aging frame houses on the left with vehicles parked haphazardly in sandy front yards. Oak trees on either side of the road provided a partial canopy. The road straightened, and they came to a four-way intersection. Across the corner on their right sat a two-story vintage hotel, painted brown and fronted by porches along the two street-facing sides. To their immediate right was a one-story clapboard building that turned out to be the “Camp Center.”
Vicki gestured at a handful of brightly painted but deteriorating old houses on their left across from the hotel. “That reminds me of a beach town in the old days. Except for the signs advertising psychics and mediums.”
There wasn’t much parking. Bill eased the SUV into a space by the hotel. “I had a college friend who wrote a term paper on this stuff. He wouldn’t stop talking about it, especially what he called ‘cold reading.’ That’s when the supposed psychic draws information out of you and then convinces you they read your mind and said it to you.”
Vicki snorted. “Who would fall for that?”
“People who want to believe. By using open-ended questions and statements, and keenly observing you, these charlatans act like they’re a step ahead when in fact they’re a step behind. For example, a so-called seer might say to you, ‘I’m getting something about a man …’ all the while watching for subtle changes in you, such as a shift in position, facial twitch, or micro-expression. They may even want to hold your hand, which helps them pick up changes in mood, such as nervousness or agitation.”
“Surely that doesn’t always work,” Vicki said.
“You’re right. If they receive a flat or negative reaction, they’ll change direction.”
Vicki gazed at him with a twinkle in her eye. “Some of this is obvious. Are you mansplaining, sweetie?”
“What’s that?”
“The word is self-explanatory if you think about it.”
Bill paused and made a solemn face. “I hope you’re learning something from it.”
Vicki punched his arm.
They got out and stretched. Bill massaged his arm and pointed across the street. “According to that sign, they have mediums at the Camp Center. People at the hotel also give readings. Let’s go to the hotel and see what’s what.”
Vicki said, “My new watch stopped a few minutes ago. Wouldn’t you know that lady would be wearing a piece of crap?”
“Let me finish what I was saying. If they strike a nerve with their initial, broad statement, they’ll see it. They may say, ‘Is something hurting you?’ Soon you’re telling them all about it, and you think they know what’s in your heart.”
Bill chuckled. “I imagine it takes a lot of training and experience to operate smoothly. One common trick is to ask a question that sounds like a statement. That way, if they hit the mark, you think they’re psychic; if they miss, they were only asking a question.”
In front of a small, run-down house, Vicki stopped walking, and Bill turned to her. She said, “I’d like to experience it for myself. This house has a sign for a ‘Rev. JoAn.’ I want to give her a try. After all, we can afford it. I wonder if she’ll say my real name is Sharon.”
“Maybe she’ll see that you’re psychic too.” Bill gave her a little wave, and she picked her way along the broken walk, across the sandy lot to the house. She stepped on the weathered porch and opened the door to Rev. JoAn’s space. A bell tinkled as she entered. A heavy floral and patchouli scent wafted across the yard into Bill’s face, causing him to sneeze.
Bill continued walking the short distance to the hotel. He went to the desk and asked who the best reader for a guy would be.
The lady said, “A guy like you? You mean someone skeptical?”
Bill thought, Oh boy, here we go. “Sure, I’m skeptical. I guess I want to find out what the experience is like, as long as you’re not too expensive. I’m not a journalist or anything.”
“I figured you weren’t. If you’re a curiosity seeker, you might not be able to give us a strong connection at first, until you get comfortable. I suggest forty-five minutes with Claude. That’s seventy-five. He’s finishing up a reading now and should be ready to see you in ten minutes.”
Bill sat on a musty sofa, flipping through a one-year-old Sports Illustrated. A man standing by his shoulder spoke, startling him.
“Hello, I’m Claude. I’m available now.”
The voice was a mannered southern drawl; Bill could not guess from where. Claude spoke with a hint of a lisp. He appeared to be in his midforties, thin jet-black hair slicked back with a slight curl at the nape of his neck. Medium height, trim and narrow shouldered, with pleated black slacks and a starched, open-collar white shirt. He wore round, wire-framed glasses and had a small, almost vertical dimple on each cheek, his face otherwise unlined. His dignified bearing made Bill think, European.
Bill suppressed a chuckle at the incongruity of Claude’s drawl and the calm, sincere expression on his face, the soft gray eyes regarding him from behind high-refraction lenses.
“Yes, I signed up for forty-five minutes. My name is Bill.”
Claude’s handshake was strong, like a working man’s, but his slender hands were smooth and cool.
“Come into my study and let’s get acquainted.”
Claude led him into a room with an Oriental rug on the floor and a mahogany desk along a side wall. A high-backed chair was pulled up snug against the desk, and two wing chairs in the middle of the room faced it, at a slight angle toward one another. A bookcase rested against the wall opposite the door.
Claude gestured. “Please sit.”
Seated, Bill mirrored Claude’s posture, erect but relaxed, head slightly canted, and legs crossed at the knee.
On Bill’s left, a few books occupied the end of one shelf. Centered in the remaining space was an iridescent ball about six inches in diameter, on a stand of polished dark wood. On the shelf below the sphere, a small water wheel turned, and a bronze figurine of an Asian holy man reclined, possibly the Buddha.
No pictures adorned the blue-green grass cloth walls. A ceiling fixture and a standing lamp in the corner by the desk provided subdued lighting.
“This is your first time?” Claude laced his voice with friendly concern.
Bill nodded.
“Marjorie says you’re a bit of a skeptic.”
“Is Marjorie the woman at the front desk?”
Claude chortled. “She thinks she has to protect me from people who aren’t sincerely seeking the unseen. I try to tell h
er not to worry; I don’t prepare myself that way. I follow the unfolding story.”
“Are you able to contact spirits of the dead?” Bill asked.
“I wouldn’t put it quite that way.” He made a sweeping, palm-up gesture. “The dead and the living leave information in the Akashic records, and their personal energies are all around. We’re in a place where such information and energies can be more readily accessed. Do you want to contact someone?”
“Not really, but …”
“You asked if I could contact the dead, but you don’t want to try. You’re curious. If you’re interested in knowing the details of how psychic interpretation works, I’m not your man. My purpose is to help you relieve distress and achieve greater understanding through information from beyond. Proper understanding of the order in the spirit world can help you make better decisions and bring order into this one.”
Claude leaned forward. “I’m receiving sadness. Would you say this is along the right lines for you?”
Bill set both feet on the floor and subtly twisted his back, first one shoulder forward, then the other.
“Perhaps you are indeed a skeptic. Sometimes the skeptic is the one who is most sensitive. You don’t need to be wary here. Things either are, or they aren’t, and I don’t try to make them appear otherwise.” The psychic stood, walked around Bill, and remained behind him. The only sound was Claude’s breathing.
From the corners of his eyes, Bill saw the psychic’s hands at his own temples, almost touching him, moving down along his shoulders and down his arms. Claude’s hands lifted in the reverse direction, always a couple inches away. Bill detected no other motion for at least two minutes. A shadow on the floor showed Claude steepling his fingers above Bill’s head.
“Something’s coming through,” Claude said. “A secret about your childhood. What happened when you were a little boy?”
“What do you mean?”
Claude moved around in front of the desk and studied Bill. “I don’t claim to be 100 percent accurate. I’m picking up something you feel bad about. You were abused?”
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