I nodded. “Yeah. The show must go on.”
MAX WAITED FOR ME TO finish cleaning up after breakfast, drawing me away from the rest of the group so we could still see them but talk in private.
“How is he?”
I didn’t have to ask which “he” Max meant. “He slept well, hard even. He needed the rest. He woke up in a fairly decent mood and says he’s better.”
“Do you believe him?”
I swallowed hard. I wasn’t a fan of talking about Kade behind his back, but I understood Max’s concern. This was a lot for Kade to take on, and it was our job to watch him until things shook out. We had no way of knowing how things would twist and turn, so it was going to take our entire village to make sure Kade was protected.
“I believe he wants it to be true.” I chose my words carefully. “He doesn’t want to be magical. I can’t decide if it’s because he’s afraid or he’s generally repulsed by the entire idea.”
“I’m going with fear.”
“I am, too, but only because I have trouble believing we would be together if he were really that turned off by magic,” I said. “He let something slip last night. I probably shouldn’t tell you, but it involves you so I’m going to. I’m also going to own up to telling you because keeping secrets from him never does me any good.”
Max’s lips curved. “Fair enough. What is the secret?”
“It’s not really a secret. It’s simply something he said.”
“The suspense is killing me.” Max’s eyes twinkled. “I think you’ve been spending too much time with Luke. His storytelling skills are starting to rub off on you.”
I scowled. “You’re so funny. Anyway, Kade mentioned that his mother was unhappy for most of his life. He had told me before that she was friendly and always wanted to do well by him, but there was a certain sadness about her.
“Last night he said that he always assumed that sadness had something to do with his father passing away so early, but now he knows that story isn’t true,” I continued. “He thinks the reason his mother wasn’t happy is because she couldn’t raise him with you and he thinks that she likely blamed the magic for that.”
“Ah.” Max nodded in understanding. “From his point of view magic has only hurt the people he cares about most. Even you, who he seemingly adores, has been hurt by the very magic you wield.”
“I haven’t been hurt all that badly.”
“Really? My understanding is that you likely would’ve died if Raven hadn’t managed to wake you the other night. That’s on top of the injury you sustained in Washington when you were looking for Melissa. I had to heal you then.”
“Yes, but … .” Crap. He had a point. “I guess I can see why he would have an issue with magic,” I said after a beat. “I wish he would get over it. I’m afraid if he fights it too hard something is going to explode – and probably literally – because he tends to bottle things up.”
“He gets that from his mother.” Max smiled fondly at what I assumed was a memory. “We’ll watch him. We can’t focus on Kade’s abilities until we’re out of this mess. The most important thing we can do is protect the guests and ourselves. We’ll explore his abilities when we’re away from this place.”
“That sounds like a plan.”
16
Sixteen
“I want to know who killed JFK.”
My first client of the day was Milton Chamberlain. He was eighty and claimed to be along the parade route on the day John F. Kennedy was shot. He also claimed to have seen two shooters disappearing into the crowd and had managed to convince himself that the president’s murder was a vast conspiracy involving at least four foreign governments, two rogue governments (I’d yet to fully understand what he meant when saying that) and current high-ranking members of our government.
I could read all that on the surface two seconds after he’d sat down.
I bit back a sigh as I smiled at him. I’d changed into my normal uniform, an ankle-length skirt with bells on the drawstrings and a flamboyant scarf tied over my hair. I wore an over-sized peasant blouse and several chunky bracelets to complete the ensemble.
“You want to know who killed JFK, huh?” I managed to keep calm, but just barely. “May I ask why?”
“Because the government is keeping the truth from us,” Milton replied without hesitation. “I know that there’s more going on and I want to make sure that the Russians aren’t infiltrating the government because of what happened almost sixty years ago.”
I knit my eyebrows as I regarded him. “So … you’re worried that Russians have infiltrated our government as part of some conspiracy that originated in the sixties?”
“Of course not,” Milton sputtered, annoyance evident. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I’m trying, but I’m having trouble keeping up.”
“Of course you are,” Milton grumbled, rolling his neck. “You’re probably a Russian, too, aren’t you? It would make perfect sense. What better place to hide spies than in a traveling circus?”
We were hiding paranormals – and had become quite adept at it – so I couldn’t really argue. Still, the man’s paranoia set my teeth on edge. His mind was a busy place to live, and not altogether comfortable to visit even briefly. “I can guarantee we have no spies here.”
“So you say, but I don’t know that I believe you.”
“Yes, well, the thing is, I don’t know who killed JFK.” I chose my words carefully, hoping not to offend him to the point he’d cause a scene. That was the last thing I wanted. “As far as I know, the official story is the truth.”
“Oh, come on!” Milton slapped his hand on the table hard enough to cause me to jolt. “Don’t play games with me, girlie! I’m serious about this.”
I stared hard into his eyes, frustration mounting. “I can tell you’re serious.”
“So, answer the question.”
“I don’t have an answer to the question.”
“You’d better get an answer.”
“Or what?” I was legitimately curious if he would have the stones to physically threaten me. I wasn’t worried about an overzealous eighty-year-old taking me out, but I was in no mood for drama.
“Or I’ll … report you to the police for abusing an elder,” Milton answered, his face twisting at the words. He gave it some thought and then brightened when he realized what he’d said. “Yeah, that’s right. I’ll report you for elder abuse. People don’t like that.”
“Uh-huh.” I couldn’t muster the energy to be worried about that. “That doesn’t change the fact that I don’t know who killed JFK.”
“You’re a psychic,” Milton barked. “It says so right on that sign outside your tent. You can tell fortunes and see the future. I’m betting that means you can see the past, too.”
He wasn’t wrong. That still didn’t mean I could see what happened to JFK. In truth, I’d never thought about looking. He was far before my time. It clearly mattered to Milton, though. “Listen, I get that you’re upset about this … .”
“You have no idea how upset I am,” Milton exploded. “That man was our president. He was the leader of the free world. He was taken out by a bunch of traitors and commies. How can you not be upset about this?”
“Well … .”
Before I got a chance to answer, Kade poked his head inside the tent and took a long look around before his gaze finally landed on Milton. He looked more confused than anything. “Is something going on here?”
Hmm. Either he was passing by and overheard or someone else overheard and tipped him off. That was interesting. He always came running when he thought I had trouble. He was reliable that way.
“Who are you?” Milton asked, his eyes flashing. “Are you a spy?”
“A spy?” Kade wrinkled his forehead. “Am I missing something?”
“He wants to know who killed Kennedy,” I supplied, rubbing my forehead. I’d barely started my readings for the day and I already had a headache. “He’s convinced
the Russians did it.”
“Oh, well, sure.” Kade offered Milton a genuine smile as he shuffled closer to the table. Apparently he found paranoid older Americans adorable. “Why are you so interested in the Kennedy assassination?”
“I was there,” Milton replied. “I was on the street. I saw it happen. I also saw people with guns disappear into the crowd and know that there was more than one shooter. One shooter has never made sense. I mean … one shooter? No way.”
“It sounds like you have firm beliefs on the subject,” Kade noted. “The thing is, I’m not sure Poet is capable of telling you who shot Kennedy.” He was much calmer than I felt. “She needs to touch something from the deceased person to get a vibe and, unfortunately, we don’t have anything belonging to JFK.”
That was a lie. Sometimes there was no rhyme or reason to my visions. Sometimes I needed to touch someone, or at least be close enough to pry open his or her head. Still, as far as lies go, it was a convincing one. Er, well, it was a convincing one until Milton opened his mouth again.
“I’ve got a shoe from one of the secret service agents.” Milton dug in the bag he carried. I thought it was a man purse when he first entered – perhaps he needed medication or something – but now I realized he was carrying a fifty-five-year-old shoe in his man purse and the bag somehow seemed sinister. “I figure she can touch this and see what happened.”
“Oh, um … .” Kade’s eyes widened to comical proportions as Milton dropped the shoe in the middle of the table. “I bought it off eBay and I have a letter of authenticity and everything.”
“Uh-huh.” I licked my lips as I stared at the shoe. “Well, I guess I have no choice but to touch it.”
“Wait.” Kade tried to stop me at the last second but I knew what I was doing. I forced a smile, grabbed the shoe, and concentrated on the energy emanating from it. I wasn’t surprised at the images flashing through my mind. They made sense … in a sick sort of way.
“Well?” Milton was far too eager as he leaned forward. It was as if his entire life relied on this answer. I worried that if I disappointed him it would cause some sort of meltdown or health scare. Instead, I decided to do the kind thing.
“You’re mostly right,” I said after a beat. “Only one of the men you saw disappearing into the crowd was involved, though. The other was an unknowing patsy and had no idea what happened. The gun you saw was somehow planted on him.” I thought giving him a new mystery to puzzle through, something to keep his mind sharp even if he would never figure out the whole story, was the best way to go. “The one man – and I can’t see a name, the shoe energy is simply too old – was a partner with Oswald. Perhaps you can conduct some research to find out who he was.”
“Oh, I intend to.” Milton was so excited it took everything I had to hold back a smile. “What about the commies?”
“They were totally involved.”
“The Russians planned it, didn’t they?”
“Along with some help from their Cuban friends.”
“I knew it!” Milton smacked his hand against the table, his excitement growing. “I can’t wait to get home and tell Edith. She’s been calling me crazy for ten years.”
“Well, you can make her stop doing that now.”
“Definitely.” Milton clutched the shoe and man purse to his chest as he hurried toward the tent opening. “Thank you. I’ve been waiting for this day for more than fifty years.”
“You’re welcome.” I heaved out a sigh as I watched him go, amusement rolling through me. “Well, at least he’s happy, huh?” When I turned to face Kade, I found him watching me with unveiled interest. “What?”
“Is that true? Did everything he said happen?”
I thought about messing with him, but it seemed somehow unkind given everything we’d been through. “That shoe was stolen off a corpse in a funeral home, and it most certainly wasn’t JFK or one of his Secret Service agents. I have no idea what happened that day in Dallas, but I know Seymour Hills of San Diego wouldn’t be happy to know that the funeral director stole his fancy shoes.”
Kade made a face. “That is so much worse than I expected.”
“Hey, I can’t control the gift.”
“But you lied. Why didn’t you tell him the truth?”
“He didn’t want to hear the truth, and I was afraid it would kill him,” I answered honestly. “I thought it was best to let him keep hope alive. He’s elderly. If he has nothing to live for, nothing propelling him, why get up in the morning? I think he needs the mystery, so I gave him a different one to focus on.”
“You have a good heart.”
“I’m just lazy. I didn’t want him melting down in front of people.”
“Oh, you can’t fool me.” Kade leaned over and gave me a quick kiss. “You’re a great big marshmallow when it comes to some people. I find it endearing and adorable.”
“I am not a marshmallow.”
“You’re Rocky Road ice cream, baby.”
I grinned. “Thanks. Can you show my next client in when you leave?”
“Absolutely.”
THE REST OF THE AFTERNOON went by in a blur. It was filled with the usual questions.
Will I find true love?
Will I become rich and famous?
Is my spouse or significant other cheating on me?
When will my parents die so I can get my inheritance and quit work?
Is my cat trying to kill me when it sleeps on my face at night?
I was used to those questions and breezed through them, taking a break when the line died down and no one was waiting. I put my “back soon” sign on the tent flap before heading to the food area to grab something quick for lunch before taking on another round of futures.
I opted for shawarma and a soda, isolating myself between the ticket booth and Mark’s small office tent near the midway. It was the perfect vantage point to watch visitors.
From all outward appearances, the locals looked normal. That’s not as judgmental as it sounds. It wasn’t that I expected them to have two heads or wear bad clothing from the eighties or anything. It was more that I thought someone might stick out, that someone might be putting on a show of being normal when, in reality, they were covering for something else … like sending a cadre of ghosts after us.
I was so lost in thought I didn’t notice a small boy – he couldn’t have been more than eight or so – watching me from next to the dart game. He stood next to an older boy I was sure was his brother, but his eyes were trained on me. When I realized I had an audience, I wiped my hands on a napkin and offered him a smile. He returned it, although there was something wary about his expression.
“Are you having fun?” I asked, hoping he would chill a bit when he realized I wasn’t some random kidnapper. I figured that’s what frightened him, perhaps that his parents had warned him about strangers and he was being careful that I didn’t try to lure him from his brother.
“It’s okay.” The boy took a tentative step in my direction. His polo shirt boasted an embroidered name: Troy. Either that was his name or someone picked a really odd shirt for him to wear to a fun outing.
“Only okay, Troy?” I gave him a wink when he startled. “Your name is on your shirt.”
“Oh.” Troy glanced down, his green eyes widening. “I thought maybe you read my mind or something.”
“Why would I read your mind?”
“Because you’re the fortune teller lady,” he replied without hesitation, drifting away from his brother but not entirely closing the distance to me. He was obviously mistrustful, which was probably smart on his part. It was good to be vigilant.
“I am the fortune teller lady,” I agreed, tilting my head to the side. “How did you know?”
“My mom said she wanted to visit you before we left. My dad said she was smoking crack to waste money on something like that, but she didn’t care.”
“Ah, well, that’s nice.” Really? What do you say to that? “I’ll be going back to my tent soo
n if she wants a reading. I’m just taking a quick lunch break.”
Troy made a face I couldn’t quite identify, as if he was gearing up to ask a tough question. He finally made up his mind and stepped closer. “Can you really see the future?”
“Sometimes. Why? Do you want to know what’s in your future?”
Troy shrugged, noncommittal. “Kind of. I don’t know. Maybe.”
I smiled. “Well, I wouldn’t worry too much. I think you’re going to have a bright future … as long as you focus on your studies and don’t misbehave too much, that is.”
Troy rolled his eyes. “You sound like my mom.”
The way he said it made me think that wasn’t a compliment. “I’m sorry if that offends you.”
“That’s not really what I want to know,” Troy said. He kept inching closer, as if the longer we talked the more his fear fled. I wasn’t sure that was a good quality in a child in this day and age, but because I had no intention of hurting him I reassured myself that he would be okay.
“What do you want to know?”
“I want to know when I’m going to die.”
The question jarred me. He was much too young to be worrying about something like that. “What?”
“I want to know when I’m going to die,” Troy repeated. “I think it’s soon.”
My heart rolled at the words and I swallowed hard as I debated how to proceed. “What makes you think you’re going to die soon? Are you sick? Have you been sick?” There was nothing I could do to fix a human ailment like cancer or leukemia … and that was the first notion that popped into my head. He looked relatively healthy, though, so I forced the assumption out of my head and focused on his clear eyes. There had to be a reason for the boy’s melancholy.
Troy shook his head, causing the invisible fist wrapped around my heart to ease its grip. “I’m not sick. Well, I puked after the movies the other night, but that’s because I ate three packages of candy all by myself.”
“I bet you won’t do that again.”
Freaky Rites (A Mystic Caravan Mystery Book 6) Page 15