Behind his glasses, his brown eyes widened innocently. “Am not.”
She struggled to pull her hand free of his, but he curled his strong fingers around hers and hung on.
“If you’re going to test me,” she said as she tugged against his grip, “the least you can do is show me enough respect to be honest. Besides, how will you know I can do this if you don’t tell me a real dream?”
His cheeks flushed a little, and Tabitha figured it was probably a rare thing. He didn’t let go of her, though. And what was worse, she stopped resisting.
They held hands across the small table like lovers at a sidewalk café. Looking into her eyes, he said finally, “I wasn’t trying to be dishonest. I, uh, I don’t dream.”
He looked dejected, like a puppy that had been disciplined for being too playful. Something inside Tabitha’s heart gave a little twitch.
“You do have dreams, Inspector,” she assured him. “Everyone does, no exceptions. But for some reason, you just don’t remember them. I can show you how to keep a diary, and advise some methods you can use to recall your dreams. Dreams are symbolic insights into our minds and our lives and emotions. You should pay more attention to them.”
“If you say so.”
“When was the last time you had a dream you recall vividly?”
He let go of her hand and rubbed his temples, then adjusted his glasses.
“I was a kid,” he said. “About fourteen, I guess.”
Some sort of odd sympathy washed through her at a grown man not having any dreams he could remember, enjoy, cherish, for probably twenty years.
“Take my hand,” she said quietly, “and tell me about that dream.”
He sent her a strange look, as though he were preparing to walk naked onto the stage of the San Francisco Opera House. Reaching across the table, he clasped her hand. One end of his mouth kicked up in a smart-ass grin. “This won’t work, you know.”
“We’ll see. Now close your eyes and begin when you’re ready.”
Tabitha waited until he’d closed his eyes, then she closed hers. A moment later, he began to speak.
“I…I was with my brother and sister. Ethan’s older, Andrea’s younger.” He paused, as though he were debating whether or not to continue. Then, “We were at some movie. The theater was really dark. I didn’t like the movie and I wanted to leave, but Ethan and Andrea kept watching it, ignoring me.”
Behind Tabitha’s closed lids, the picture began to assemble itself. It was dull at first, fuzzy pastels, but as Darling spoke, the images became clearer, stronger, more vivid in detail.
“When the movie was over,” he said, “we started walking up the carpeted aisle and somehow got separated. Even though the theater was empty, suddenly it was huge, like an airplane hangar, and I couldn’t find them. Finally, I spotted them way over on another aisle going out the door. I tried to follow, but two men stepped in front of me.”
Inside Tabitha’s head, the image took shape.
Yes, it’s dark. The men are big and dressed in blue suits. They won’t let you go with your brother and sister.
“They said they were the police,” he continued, his voice lower than before. “They handcuffed me, put me in the back seat of a car. One man sat on either side of me. Then we were driving by a house, the house we’d lived in when I was a little boy. But nobody was there. The curtains were closed. I knew it was empty. I had this…longing to go inside. It was all I wanted, all I could think of. But one of the cops looked me in the eye and shook his head. ‘You can never go there again,’ he said. As we passed, I turned so I could see the house through the back window of the car, and I knew he was right. I never could go there again…”
And you wanted to, desperately. You’d lost something very important there, something you’ve never found since. When you woke up from that dream, you were crying, and you vowed nothing and no one would ever make you cry again.
Tabitha slowly raised her lids to see Inspector Darling looking straight at her. The cockiness she’d seen in his eyes earlier had been replaced by a deep yearning. He was that young boy again, and he was lost.
But he blinked, set his jaw, and it was business as usual once more.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asked gently. “Water? Cof—”
“Just get on with it.” He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. The fingers that had gripped hers so tightly as he’d related his dream went lax, and she slid her hand from his grasp.
Instantly her mind went dark, as though she’d been shut in a closet. A moment later, reality began to come back online, like a computer rebooting, running its start-up routine. Darling’s dream faded and she was suddenly out of his head and back in her own.
She took a deep breath, stretched her arms, adjusted her thoughts.
“Okay, um, basically, I should tell you that there are four types of dreams. Prophetic, release, wish, and problem-solving. It would help if you told me what was going on in your life at the time of your dream.”
She already knew, at least a little, but he needed to say it.
He eased back in his chair and eyed her with skepticism. “You’re the expert. You tell me.”
Letting his attitude pass, she said, “I saw you. Your hair was very blond then. Ethan has dark hair, but Andie’s is more like yours.”
He stiffened. “Andie?”
“Andrea. Isn’t that what you call her?”
His gaze sharpened. “Go on.”
“I think the movie you were watching was your life at that time. Your parents, perhaps. This wasn’t a prophetic dream, and it wasn’t problem-solving, either. I don’t get the sense you dealt with something and then let it go. So that leaves us with a wish dream.”
“What was I wishing for?”
Gently, she said, “You know.”
“Maybe I do. But if you guess right—”
“I don’t guess,” she said flatly. “I see. The house could have been you. Houses often represent the dreamer, and each room has a certain significance, but in this case, since it was a particular house, one in which you had lived, I’d say you longed to go back to a time when your family was together, when you were little and taken care of. Food was always on the table, there were trees to climb and puppies to play with. You could be with your brother and just be boys. As a teenager, when you dreamed this dream, you felt pressure to grow up quickly, but you missed your family, and you wanted those sweet simpler times back again.”
He was staring at her as though he’d seen an astonishing, mind-boggling circus act.
“How did you know about my parents’ divorce? About Ethan and Andrea?”
“From your dream. Your brother and sister went with one parent, you went with the other. You knew those old days would never come again, and your subconscious was trying to deal with that, which is why it gave you the dream.”
His brows lowered. “I don’t believe you got that from holding my hand.”
“That’s your right, Inspector.”
She knew he wasn’t going to accept any of this now, not in his present mood. It happened that way sometimes.
Pushing herself to her feet, Tabitha said, “I think I passed your test, so, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
She wanted to hug him. She wanted to hold him. She wanted to tell him it was okay, stroke his brow, ease his pain, but he wasn’t that little boy anymore, so instead, she showed him to the door.
“You have my card,” he said from the bottom step of the front porch. “When you hear from Griffin again, give me a call.”
Tabitha watched him walk away and felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. He’d think about the session and eventually convince himself she’d simply guessed at everything. Skeptics had a way of talking themselves out of whatever they chose not to believe, even when the evidence rose up and smacked them on the nose. His next conclusion would be that she was a total fraud.
Closing the front door, she leaned against it and w
ondered just why she cared what Inspector Nathan Darling thought of her. In all likelihood, she’d never see him again, and that was good, both from an official and a personal point of view.
She heard the phone ring twice, but her mother must have picked it up.
“Tabby, honey?” her mom called from the kitchen. “Are you done with your session?”
Tabitha moved away from the door and walked toward the sound of Victoria’s voice.
“Coming, Mom.” Entering the kitchen, she greeted her mother with a smile. Victoria Jones at fifty-six was a lovely woman. A little on the plump side, but her light gray hair was thick and shiny, and her complexion smooth and rosy. In one hand she held the phone while the other was cupped over the mouthpiece.
“It’s for you,” she said. “Says he’s one of your clients and needs to see you right away.”
Tabitha’s stomach flipped as she reached for the phone. “Did he give his name?”
Her mom nodded. “Griffin. Jack Griffin.”
Chapter 5
If a woman dreams of making a bed, she will soon have a new lover.
FOLKLORE
Just a few blocks down from the March house, bright light streamed through the polished windows of the Gold Nugget Coffee Shop, rousting any lingering shadows from the corners of the small diner, but not from Nate’s mood. He needed time to let his insides settle down—his head, his gut, and his nerves.
The encounter with the March woman had left him with more questions than answers. His instincts told him she wasn’t involved in the Reynaud homicide; his instincts told him a lot of things about Tabitha March.
The aroma of strong coffee permeated the air, while the smokier fragrance of frying bacon teased his nose. His stomach growled in response. He ignored it.
The place was quiet; only a few customers dotted the swivel stools at the counter, most sipping coffee and reading the paper. An elderly couple sat a few tables away from Nate, deeply engrossed in a discussion as to whether they should sell their house and buy a motor home and travel the country, or invest their money in their grandchildren’s college funds. They sat on the same side of the table, their chairs scooted close together. The woman’s gray head lay on her husband’s shoulder as he lazily stirred his coffee. He said something to her and she smiled, chuckling deep in her throat and patting his arm.
Grow old along with me
The best is yet to be
The last of life,
for which the first was made…
As a kid in school, when Nate had first read Browning’s poem, it hadn’t meant much to him. Grow old? Hell, who wanted to do that? And how could being older be better than being young?
He smiled at the callow youth he’d been. Like most guys, he’d been young with all of his might. But there was something to be said for being a little older, having some experience under your belt, and instead of a string of girlfriends, investing your time and emotions on just one woman.
Glancing over at the old couple again, he felt a pang of envy for the lifetime of shared experiences they had created together. Could that sort of thing happen for him? Maybe it was too much to wish for, but then again, a man made his own luck in this world…
A young waitress in a too-tight pink uniform sauntered up to Nate’s table and seemed disappointed when all he asked for was coffee.
The urge to call Ethan crept over him, but he didn’t feel in control enough yet to initiate what was certain to be a stressful interaction with his straight-laced, sour-faced older brother.
Even so, he had to contact Ethan sooner or later. Working things out with his brother was one of the reasons Nate had moved back to the Bay Area. The only problem was, his brother didn’t seem inclined in the least to reciprocate.
Gripping the cell phone in his left hand, he rubbed his thumb lightly over the autodial, fighting the urge to press it. Not yet, he cautioned himself. He needed another minute or two. One had to be prepared before an encounter with former SFPD Detective Lieutenant Ethan Darling. The man had the tact of a tornado—touching down for a moment, wreaking havoc, then flying off in another direction, a trail of broken bodies strewn on the ground.
Ethan’s skills as a detective were legend, inspiring awe and hero worship in everyone. That kind of notoriety made it difficult for mere mortals such as Nate to find common ground with the Great Man.
He gave the waitress a nod as she smiled and placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of him. Judging from her body language and the glint in her eye, it wouldn’t take much effort on his part to score a bed partner for tonight, but the fact of the matter was, he wasn’t interested in casual sex, especially not tonight.
Grousing at himself for being such a prig, he took a quick sip of the bitter coffee, then thumped the mug down on the plastic veneer tabletop.
Tabitha March sauntered across the back of his mind like she belonged there. She didn’t, so he placed both his hands on her ass and shoved her aside. In response to his fantasy, the palms of his hands warmed. Biting down a curse at how he’d let her invade his own personal brain, he squeezed the autodial on his cell phone.
Ready or not, Ethan. Ready or not.
As the connection rang through, Nate sloshed cream into the mug, lightening the coffee until it resembled liquid khaki.
“Yeah?” Ethan said, by way of hello.
“Nice hearing your voice, too, big brother,” Nate drawled. “Why so snarly? I didn’t accidentally interruptus anything, did I?”
“If that had been the case, I wouldn’t have answered the damned phone,” Ethan scoffed. “I’m a busy man, Nate. What do you want?”
Lifting a dented spoon, Nate stirred his coffee.
“Nothing special,” he lied. “I found myself longing for the sound of your voice, so—”
“Bullshit. You wouldn’t give me the time of day unless you wanted something. Somebody die? You need money?”
Nate let a wry smile curve his lips. He’d been expecting that one. “Would you give it to me if I did?”
Silence.
“I thought so.” Nate laughed. “Same old Ethan. I think it’s nice how well we know each other.”
“At the cost of repeating myself,” Ethan said, “bullshit. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. Let’s just keep it that way, shall we?”
Nate felt his anger well up all over again. Jesus, Ethan could be a hard-nosed son of a bitch.
“Goddammit, Ethan,” Nate growled. “Lighten the fuck up. I don’t know what I did to piss you off, but you’ve treated me like garbage for the last twenty years. I moved back home to try and…hell, I don’t know, reconnect with you or something, but I’m doing all the damn work while you just take verbal potshots at me! What in the hell’s your problem?”
There was silence on the other end of the line, then, “You done?”
Nate slapped his palm on the table in front of him. “Always the cool one, eh, Ethan? Always the one in control. No emotions. The ice man, is that it?”
“Listen, Nate, I’ve spent the last twenty years taking care of Mom and Andie. Working two jobs to make sure there was food on the table and a roof over our heads, while you went off with Dad without a care in the world.”
“Is that what you think? That I abandoned you just because Dad…”
Nate let his voice trail off. Not now. Going there now would only cause more grief, open the wounds he was trying to heal. It was obvious Ethan’s hate for their father included Nate—and maybe it always would.
When Ethan didn’t respond, Nate blew out a long breath. “Look, I called you for a reason.”
Silence for another moment. “Make it quick,” Ethan said, his voice slightly less harsh than it had been.
Such a simple question, Nate thought. But so hard to ask.
“Remember the house in San Rafael?” he said. “The one we lived in when Andie was born?”
“Shit, Nate, that was nearly thirty years ago. I was only a kid.”
“Yeah, seven. I was five. It w
as brown with a big yard in back and a tree house and swings. We had a puppy. Pounce. Mom named her that because she reared up and jumped on everything. Remember?”
Long seconds ticked by while Nate waited for his brother to answer. Finally, “Yeah. I remember.”
“Do you, uh, do you ever…think about that house?”
For a heartbeat, Ethan said nothing, then murmured, “Not really.”
Taking in a full breath, Nate said, “Okay. So, uh, listen, here’s the deal. I have this bizarre case, and I’ve checked out all I can, and thought maybe you might have a few insights.”
At the other end of the line, Ethan cleared his throat. Business, Nate thought. Safe turf. “All right. Let’s hear it.”
Nate explained about the homicide in Golden Gate Park, the red dress with white spots, and the dream interpreter. “So,” he said, finishing up. “Possible? Not possible? Ever hear of anything like this when you were working out of Homicide?”
Nate took a gulp of coffee and waited for his brother to accuse him of being a complete idiot for considering the possibility the March woman had actually seen the murder through the mind of her client. What in the hell had possessed him to call Ethan? The guy was even more grounded in facts and evidence than Nate was. There was no way Ethan would ever—
“Yeah,” Ethan said. “We had a couple of cases where we used a psychic.”
It took Nate a moment to realize what his brother had said, and another to form some kind of cogent response.
“Really. What happened?”
“We only approached psychics as a last resort, unless they came to us with information first, but I’d say they had close to an eighty percent success rate. Never used a dream interpreter, though, but this is California. Something for everyone.”
“So, you think she could be on the level?”
Ethan gave a sharp laugh. “What does your gut tell you?”
Just what did his gut tell him? That he was attracted to Tabitha March. Sure. But that didn’t count. That the details she’d given him matched the homicide. That her guesswork regarding his own boyhood dream had been too close for comfort. “I’m willing to suspend belief long enough to give her a shot, I suppose.”
Arousing Suspicions Page 5