Misty and I are close, she'd said. Much more than she and Peter ever were.
But Misty was having Peter's baby, so they had been close on some level.
A thought occurred to me. Was it possible that Jessica was in love with Misty? Had she killed Peter out of jealousy?
I suggested this to Viv.
She shrugged. “Maybe. I doubt it, though. I'm not getting a killer vibe from her.”
“Neither of us got a killer vibe from Mikey Patrelli, either. Or Sylvia Ramirez.”
“Good point.”
Maybe Misty really did murder Peter. Maybe everything she'd said to us was meant to lead us down a path so we, too, would create an obstruction for the police. Maybe she was using us to help muddy the waters, somehow.
I said a little prayer. God, I need direction here. If I keep pulling on this string, I don't think Tony is going to like it. I assured him this was probably not murder, but now I'm pretty sure it is. But if I don't pursue it, an innocent woman might go to jail. It would be very helpful if you could just...point me in a direction. Is she guilty? Should I keep out of this?
The thought occurred to me that it was, perhaps, too late for that option. I'd made a commitment to Trisha and Scott. Viv, my BFF, was counting on me.
I waited. Silence.
I sighed. “I need to get out of my head.”
“Me, too,” Viv agreed. “Give things time to percolate. Let's go out and see Serena again. Maybe she has some way we can increase our vibe detectors.”
Chapter Twelve
Vibe Detecting 101
I decided to just keep my mouth shut while we were at Serena's. Let Viv get all kinds of encouraged. I would keep my mouth shut and my aura to myself.
“Look at you!” Serena said as soon as we came through the door.
I checked behind me, then sighed when I saw that, yep, she was talking to me.
“You opened the floodgates.”
This was too much. I jabbed a finger. “Yes, and it's your fault!”
She just kept up that annoying serene smile.
“Okay, it wasn't your fault, but it was a—a very bad idea!” I finally said. “I told you it was a bad idea, and it was.”
“No.” She shook her head. “Nothing is either good or bad. It simply is what it is.”
Remember how you were going to keep your mouth shut? I asked myself. I held my hand up like a traffic cop. “Stop.” I pointed to Viv. “Peddle it to her. Leave me out of it.”
She and Viv went off on an oohhing and aaahhing spree over chunks of crystal and CDs of whale noises. I stood by the window until I saw G-Ma going into one of the new shops—the coffee shop. I could use some coffee. More than I could use Serena making me feel lousy about my aura.
This turned out to be a very wise choice indeed, because the barista was trying out a new Chilean hot chocolate recipe. I figured since I'd passed up on cheesy tator tots, I had some virtue points in the bank.
The barista poured a mug for each of us, then dropped a nice dollop of whipped cream on top.
I sipped. Then I gasped.
“It's fantastic, isn't it?” G-Ma said as she sipped.
“This must be what heaven tastes like.” I took another sip. The chocolate was rich and creamy, and the chili powder gave it a kick.
“Your mother is driving me batty,” G-Ma announced. “I'll be glad when this wedding is over.”
I made a non-committal noise in my throat. I didn't want to think about my mother. Thinking about her made me think about Susan and her disgusting son and my fight with Tony. Serena could probably see the change in my aura from here.
“You're harshing my mellow,” I said. “Let's talk about something else.”
“Like what you two are doing at Serena's?” G-Ma asked, pointing toward the blue swirl on Serena's window. She had a whipped cream mustache.
I pulled a napkin from the dispenser on the counter and wiped her upper lip. “We're looking into this thing with Peter Browning.”
“I heard it was suicide,” G-Ma announced, as if that put an end to it. “He was wrestling with demons, you know.”
“Yes, I have heard that,” I said. “But nobody seems to know what kind of demons those were.”
“Serena will know.”
“Serena didn't know. All she would say is that he was wrestling with demons and that my aura is the wrong color.”
“There's no such thing as right or wrong, Salem. It simply is what it is.”
“Are you friggin' kidding me? You, too?”
She laughed. “No. That's hogwash. Take this hot chocolate, for instance. It's good. But still, Serena is very insightful. She told me the universe was telling me I had a gift for seeing the potential in every human and helping guide them into the fullness of their being.”
I sipped my hot chocolate and thought about that. I didn't want to sound negative, what with G-Ma finally being happy and all, but I could honestly say that was not a quality I had noticed in her before.
But I nodded like I was not dismissing the concept out of hand. Then, on the off chance this was true, I turned to her and said, “That is excellent news because I have been wondering what my gift is. Tell me.”
G-Ma frowned. “What do you mean, your gift?”
“Paul says everyone has gifts and they all work together. We're all part of the body, you know.”
“Paul who? Is he that Hispanic guy that lives next to you?”
“No, G-Ma, the Apostle Paul. From the Bible.”
“Oh. Him.” She pulled a slight grimace and sipped her chocolate.
G-Ma wasn't heavily into the Bible, but I had a feeling that, even if she was, she still would have grimaced at the mention of Paul. I was heavily into the Bible, and he and I didn't always get along.
“So, what's my potential?”
She studied me. “Well, of course, you must be good at what you do. You know, with the dogs and stuff.”
I nodded. Then I waited. “And?”
“Oh, you wanted more?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, you're a successful business owner here, and you always have been. But that's not the same as guiding someone into the fullness of their being, is it? That's more than just a job you're competent at. That's a gift.”
She smiled smugly. “It is, isn't it?”
“So, guide me! I want to be in the fullness of my being.”
She got a decidedly panicked look in her eye and took a gulp of her hot chocolate. “Ouch. Gosh. That is hot. Maybe I should warn her not to make it so hot, do you think?”
“You're stalling. Come on. It doesn't have to be anything huge. Just, you know, what have you noticed that I'm good at?” I tried to remember the different things I'd read about. “There's stuff like discernment, speaking wisdom, speaking in tongues and prophesying. I think encouragement is in there...”
“Oh, you can be very encouraging. And you're good at finding bad guys.”
I nodded, but a sense of despair began to overtake me. G-Ma knew me probably better than anyone. She'd known me the longest, and even though she wasn't my mother, she had played a huge role in my upbringing and had certainly paid more attention while she was doing it than Mom had.
I tried to latch onto the “you can be very encouraging” bit. I mean, that was good, right? That was important. I could grow that.
I must have had a sour look on my face, though, because the panic on G-Ma's face turned somewhat desperate, and she stood. “Look, there's Serena. She'll know!”
Serena and Viv had walked out onto the sidewalk, chatting happily away like two people who were wallowing around in the fullness of their own being. “No, G-Ma, it’s okay. You don't—”
But it was too late. G-Ma was out the door and headed for them.
I sighed and stood. God, I prayed. Now would be a really good time to hear from you.
“Salem wants to know what her gift is,” G-Ma announced as she approached them.
“That is certainly important,” Serena said.
“That's what I told her.” G-Ma smiled and nodded at me.
I waited, looking back and forth between the two of them. Then, again, “Is that it?”
“It's important to know what your gifts are—what your identity is. Your identity informs every relationship you have, every decision you make.”
“I know,” I said, trying not to grit my teeth. “Jacob was called heel-grabber and look how he turned out.”
“Exactly,” Serena nodded. “He is one of the major patriarchs of the Old Testament.”
I shook my head. “How is that—never mind. I just want to know what my gift is. Like, you told G-Ma that she helped people recognize their potential and all that.”
Viv snorted. G-Ma glared at her.
Serena nodded and narrowed her eyes, staring at me. I held still, praying for her to say something good.
“What are you afraid of?” she finally asked.
I blinked. “What? Like...snakes?”
“No. I mean, what is your worst fear?”
“That I'll start drinking again.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Very good. Very good.”
“Is it?”
“She's afraid of Imogene Walker,” Viv chimed in. “And she is very afraid of snakes, I agree.”
“Who is Imogene Walker?” Serena asked.
I shook my head. “This is running off the rails. Imogene Walker has nothing to do with me.”
“Not true. We're all connected, Salem.”
“All connected,” G-Ma piped up. “Like waves in the ocean.”
I sighed.
“Why are you afraid of Imogene Walker?” Serena asked.
“Because she's scary,” I said. “And this is telling me nothing about my gift. Why is it very good that I'm afraid I'll start drinking again?”
“Well, if drinking turns out badly for you, it's a good thing to be afraid of. Hopefully that fear will help you steer clear.”
“Oh,” I said. This was so sensible that it bordered on disappointing.
“Look, I don't know your gifts except that you seem to be a strikingly honest person. Honest with others, but most importantly, honest with yourself. That last one might not be what you're looking for, but believe me, it's a frightfully rare gift.”
I blinked. I said again, “Oh.” It wasn't what I was looking for, but somehow it still made me feel a slight twinge of...hope, was it? “Why did you ask what I'm afraid of?”
“Because our greatest rewards lie on the other side of our deepest fears. Not just for you—for all of us. And what greater reward could there be than knowing your true identity?” She leaned in and looked deep into my eyes. “Don't be afraid to fight for what you need, Salem. If you have to wrestle all night, do it. It'll be worth it.”
I lay awake for a solid hour, back in my bed in Trailertopia.
Our greatest rewards lie on the other side of our deepest fears.
I sat up and punched my pillow in frustration, then flopped onto my other side.
Stump opened one eye, glared at me, then burrowed her nose back under the covers.
Basically, I decided, Serena was full of bull poop. She was nothing but a sham built on pretty rocks, weird moaning music, and Internet positivity slogans.
How could my greatest reward lie on the other side of my fear of drinking again? That didn't even make sense. If it did, that would mean I needed to start drinking again to find my reward. As much as part of me kind of wanted that to be true, I knew it wasn't.
I began to drift to sleep, satisfied that Serena was not something I needed to waste further mental energy on.
You did ask for a word.
I bolted awake. Was that God?
I listened intently but didn't hear anything else. Of course, I hadn't heard that. That had just been a thought that popped up in that in-between netherworld between wake and sleep.
I lay back down and took a deep breath. If that saying were truly from God, it would be in the Bible somewhere, and I was almost positive it wasn't. If it was, it would be printed on t-shirts and bumper stickers with the verse attributed. It was a positivity saying, basically devoid of any power, and that was it.
“Don't be afraid” is in the Bible more times than anything else. Gotta be some reason for that.
“Dadgummit!” I said out loud, sitting up and turning on the light.
I stared at my ceiling. “What? Are you talking to me or not?”
Silence. Of course.
Stump grumbled and burrowed deeper, getting away from the lamp light. I scooted down next to her and curled around her, getting comfortable once more. My eyes got heavy and I felt myself drifting off again.
Maybe drinking again isn't really your deepest fear.
“No!” I said. Kind of shouted, actually. “Right now my deepest fear is I'll never sleep again.”
Silence.
But I was awake now—it’s kind of hard to fall asleep when you're furious.
I sighed and picked up my phone, searching for the phrase Serena had told me that evening. Sure enough, it showed up in all kinds of beautiful Instagram-ready posts, in front of sunset beaches, in flourishing fonts imposed over snow-capped mountains, in stark black font on plain white backgrounds. Not a single one had a verse attached.
“Not from the Bible,” I said to the ceiling. “And now I'm awake and can't go back to sleep.”
With a sigh, I sat up and decided to go back through the videos Trisha had given us. Maybe I had missed something. I lay in bed and scrolled through my phone, but I didn't see anything I hadn't seen before.
I remembered that kid at the coffee shop who showed us how to reach the surveillance video history online. Maybe I could check some cameras around the TV station the night Browning disappeared. That could lead to something.
I typed in different addresses and dates, first on and around the days right before the disappearance, then further back.
I didn't see anyone I didn't recognize as working there, even if I didn't know all of them. But I supposed I could ask Trisha to take a look. Maybe she would notice something I didn't.
I checked the neighborhood around Browning's house, but I couldn't get much besides still photos, and there was no way of knowing how old those were.
For fun, I typed in the address for Trailertopia, but that only showed the entrance to the park, not down by my trailer.
I typed in Tony's address. The nearest camera was half a block down, but I could see his driveway and front porch.
I remembered the tortilla-making fiasco and thought about the date – two days after the Veterans Day service, so November 13. I typed in 13-11 and the year, but got an error message. I stared at the screen, annoyed, then realized I'd entered it backwards. There was no thirteenth month, of course. I'd entered it the way the British would with the date first. I'd have to let Viv know that her British invasion was working on me, too.
I corrected the dates and entered them, sliding the time line close to six o'clock. I watched as Tony's car pulled into the drive and he walked up the sidewalk.
My heart squeezed in my chest. I wanted to reach into the phone and latch onto him.
A second later, I watched him stand back out of the way as I came barreling through with a pan full of fire. Like a freak, I danced around on the sidewalk, looking for a place to set the pan.
Sitting in the safety of my bed, I actually felt my heart start to race and I worried for a second if I would actually do what I'd been afraid of last time—that I would set the entire neighborhood on fire.
Then, of course, it got through to my sleep-deprived brain that there was no this time and last time. It was all just one time.
I put the phone down, turned off the lamp, and slid down into bed beside Stump.
“No more mysterious revelations tonight, okay?” I told God. “Clearly, I need some sleep.”
Around lunchtime the next day, Viv called me. “Well, you heard the woman. Our greatest rewards lie on the other side of our deepest fears.�
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“Yeah?” Oh no. What did this mean?
“So I went to Goodwill. Got me a Miss Marple outfit.” She sounded thoroughly disgusted and resigned.
I, however, was relieved. I had thought for an insane moment that she was talking about my fears.
“How does it look?”
“I don't even want to talk about it. This had better work.”
“What's the plan?”
“Just...be here by 3:00.”
Stump and I did as we were told, but I thought I was going to have to drag Viv out of her room.
“I might change my mind,” she called through the locked bedroom door.
I set Stump down to sniff around Viv's kitchen for crumbs. “Let's just look. It might not be that bad.”
“Oh, it's that bad all right. It's worse.”
“Let's just see.”
After a second, I heard the lock turn. “If you laugh, I will shoot you,” she promised. “I mean it.”
“Of course, I won't laugh,” I said.
I didn't laugh. It took everything I had not to gasp, though.
She wore a white blouse with a lace collar, buttoned to the throat, and a maroon cardigan over it. A blue skirt with tiny white flowers hung to just above her feet—clad in the most sensible shoes I'd ever seen—and what showed of her calves was covered by baggy tan stockings.
Her silver hair—her one normal concession to her age—was covered in a burgundy cloche hat, with a sprig of holly attached at the band.
Stump took one look at her and growled.
I waved a hand toward Stump to shush her. “Viv! You look amazing!”
“Amazingly awful?” She frowned and turned to study her reflection in the hall mirror.
“No, amazingly...sweet.”
“Matronly.”
“Comforting.”
“Like an old sock.” She sighed and checked her butt, which was hidden under the voluminous folds of skirt. “This shows absolutely none of my pizazz.”
“That is not true. Look at the twinkle in your eye. The spring in your step.”
She trudged a short pace before me. “There is no such thing as spring in these things. I swear I feel like my heels are dragging the ground in these.”
Viv always wore, at minimum, a two-inch heel.
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