by Tawna Fenske
Finally, she realized he was waiting for her to get safely in the house. Waiting one hundred feet away at the end of the driveway, well out of her reach, which was probably smart.
Violet wobbled up the steps and waved to him from the porch before turning and letting herself in with her key. She shut the door behind her and flashed the porch light off and on, letting him know she was safely inside.
Then she turned around and peered through the window, watching him again. She noticed how he gunned the engine and tore off down the street, much faster than he’d arrived. She saw his taillights fade into the inky fog. She stared after the car, long after it had been swallowed up by the damp blackness.
“Not gay,” she repeated to herself. Then she turned and staggered down the hall to her room, not bothering to take her stilettos off before she crashed onto the bed.
***
Violet moved gingerly the next morning. It took ten minutes to peel her parched tongue off the roof of her mouth, and another ten minutes to tiptoe through her alcohol-saturated memory bank to recall what she’d done the night before.
Had she really downed four Manhattans?
Had she really told Drew Watson she was a fake psychic?
Had she really forced him to grab her boob?
She contemplated all of it as she drove her rental car across town to the Hollywood District of Portland. Her boss back in Maine had referred her to a guy who ran a juggling shop and needed a bit of accounting work, and Violet had been happy for the distraction.
Accounting. That’s what she did for a living. Not this crazy psychic thing. Hell, she didn’t even believe in psychics.
But the fact that she’d said that to Drew last night had been a grave tactical error.
She owed it to her mother to preserve the reputation of her business. To shield it from a man who, according to Moonbeam, had been coveting her studio space for years.
So she just had to make sure Drew knew she had been kidding. She could insist Moonbeam was a real psychic. She could insist that she was a real psychic. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Lord knows she’d have to do it anyway, if she wanted to keep Moonbeam’s business running.
She breathed in the scent of rain-washed pavement and damp grass as she pushed open the door to the little shop called Serious Juggling. She froze in the entryway, heart thudding in her ears as she spotted a familiar figure.
“Drew?”
He spun to face her, looking as startled as she was.
He recovered faster, his bewilderment replaced by an appraising look that lingered a few seconds extra on her breasts. “Hey, Violet. You’re looking surprisingly vertical.”
She straightened a little, knowing it was probably futile. Her dignity was hopelessly lost after last night. “Thank you for the ride last night. And for being a gentleman.”
“Gentleman?” He quirked an eyebrow. “How drunk were you?”
She flushed and glanced past him to see if any other customers had heard. Everyone seemed to be engaged in conversations about knives and hoops and juggling clubs, so Violet looked back at Drew.
“I meant that some men might take advantage of a woman in an inebriated state. You didn’t follow me into the house and throw me on the bed and have your way with me, so thank you for that.”
Drew grinned. “If I’d thought that was an option, I might have gone for it. My instincts got a little fuzzy after you glued my hand to your breast.”
She glanced toward the cash register again and lowered her voice. “Do you have to bring that up?”
“Absolutely. It was the highlight of my week. Maybe even my year. Do you always bite your lip like that?”
“What?”
“Your lip. That’s got to hurt.”
Violet pressed her lips together and ignored the question. “Why are you here?”
“Thought I’d broaden my horizons a little, move on from juggling toilet paper to juggling knives or flaming swords. Looked this place up online after you mentioned it yesterday. How about you? What do you want to juggle?”
“Paperwork. I’m here to pick it up so I can do some accounting work.”
Drew shrugged. “Paper’s not very easy to juggle. How about balls?”
“Balls?”
“Balls,” he repeated, grabbing a set of three multicolored ones off a display. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Violet. Show me your juggling skills.”
He tossed the three balls to her. They watched as all three dropped to the floor.
“Impressive,” Drew said.
“I have skills. Marketable ones. Juggling just doesn’t happen to be one.”
“Ever tried it?”
“No.”
“Come on, I’ll show you. It’s fun.”
Violet wasn’t the least bit interested in juggling, but she could see the clerk still deep in conversation with another customer. When Drew reached out and caught her wrist, Violet suddenly forgot about the paperwork.
“Take a couple steps this way,” he said. “Good. Okay, feet apart, elbows at a ninety-degree angle, bend your knees a little. Here you go.”
He placed a red, beanbag-like ball in her right hand and Violet felt a funny, electric jolt as his fingertips brushed hers. He closed her hand around the ball and gave a tight squeeze. Then he released her.
“Toss the ball back and forth between your hands,” he said. “That’s it—a nice, gentle arc.”
“Like this?”
“Pretty much. Toss a little higher, about eye level. When you’re comfortable with that, try closing your eyes while you toss.”
Violet obeyed, feeling only mildly silly standing in the doorway of a downtown Portland shop with her eyes closed throwing a beanbag ball back and forth with a man she’d only just met. Even with her eyes closed, she could sense Drew beside her. She felt the faint rustle of his breath stirring her hair, the heat from his bare forearms. He smelled wonderful—something clean and soapy mixed with the faint smell of cherry cola. She breathed him in and felt her head start to spin.
“Whoops,” Drew said.
She opened her eyes to see him catch the ball just before it hit the ground.
“Not a problem,” he said, standing upright. “I think you’re ready to handle two balls now.”
She flushed and stole another glance toward the cash register.
Drew grinned. “Mind out of the gutter, Violet. Here’s your other ball.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Yes you were.”
She was, so she shut up and took the second ball. “Now what?”
“Toss the first one up. While it’s in the air, toss the second one underneath it.”
She did as he said—at least, she thought she did. Both balls began a downward plummet toward the floor.
“Got it,” Drew said, catching one in each hand as if it were the easiest thing in the world.
Each massive, strong, beautifully made hand.
“You with me, Violet?”
She tore her eyes off his hands. “Yes.”
“Here, let’s try this.”
He positioned one ball in each of her palms before moving behind her. Every nerve in Violet’s body snapped to attention as Drew pressed close. He fitted his arms around her so the points of her elbows rested in the hollows of his. His forearms were long and solid and warm, and his fingers folded around hers, cupping each of her hands in one of his.
Violet sucked in a breath and resisted the urge to lean back against his chest.
This is crazy, this is crazy, this is crazy! her brain chanted.
More, more, more! her body chanted.
Violet cleared her throat. “Now what?”
“Just follow my motion, and release the balls when I tell you to.”
Violet’s head was spinning, and she wondered if she’d be able to work her limbs at all if he weren’t maneuvering her arms for her. His hands were warm and strong around hers, and his body was hard and solid behind her. She felt his breath rustle her hair agai
n and shivered.
“This is the motion you’re aiming for,” he murmured close to her ear. “Feel that? That’s what you want.”
No kidding, Violet thought.
“Like this?” Her voice sounded high and strained.
“Perfect.”
“Should I let go of the balls yet?”
“Not yet. I want you to get used to the rhythm first.”
“Okay.”
“Is it starting to feel natural to you yet?”
“Uh-huh…”
Her knees quivered and Violet could feel pinpricks of sweat dotting her skin. His arms were hot against hers, and she glanced down to admire the sinew of muscle and the dusting of dark hair. Her breath was coming fast now, and she knew it had nothing to do with the exertion of juggling. Drew was humming now, something whimsical and carnival-like. An ’80s tune, of course… something by Kiss?
“‘Psycho Circus’?” Violet asked.
“Good ear,” he murmured, and kept humming.
The rumble of his voice in his chest vibrated through Violet’s spine, and she pressed back against him just to feel more. She half expected him to pull back, to put a bit more distance between them.
Instead, he responded by pulling her closer. Violet felt her knees start to buckle. His mouth moved closer to her ear.
“Release,” he murmured.
“Oh, God,” Violet said, and dropped both balls.
He didn’t catch them this time. Violet closed her eyes and fought the urge to whimper. Drew stopped moving and let go of her hands. Then he took a step back.
Violet turned and they both looked down at the balls on the floor. Then they looked up at each other.
His eyes were wild and a little unfocused. He blinked and took another step away. “That didn’t go quite like I planned.”
Violet licked her lips and stepped back, too. “I think I’ll stick with accounting. That’s safer.”
“And psychic readings,” Drew said. “Don’t forget your new second career.”
Violet winced. “I couldn’t possibly.”
Behind her, she heard footsteps.
“Ms. McGinn? I’m so sorry to keep you waiting. You’re here for the paperwork, right?”
She turned around, straightening her shirt with one hand as she wiped the other palm on her skirt. She extended her hand to shake, darting a quick glance at Drew as she did so.
Drew winked, and Violet felt her heart clench.
“Later, with the balls,” he said.
Then, he was gone.
***
By the time Violet got back to her mother’s shop, she had only ten minutes before her first appointment. She settled into Moonbeam’s red velvet chair with a cup of chamomile tea and scanned the appointment book.
Gary Smeade. Violet sighed and set her tea down. Detective Gary Smeade.
It wasn’t unusual for police personnel around the country to occasionally, albeit quietly, seek the services of clairvoyant professionals to assist in investigations.
There was a bit more history in her mother’s relationship with Detective Smeade. The two had met fifteen years ago, when Moonbeam had contacted Detective Smeade, offering to use her psychic powers to find his runaway seventeen-year-old son. Violet knew her mother had relied less on psychic powers than on the knowledge that her yoga teacher had lured the smitten teen to her love den with the promise of sex and a hookah pipe, but no one had bothered splitting hairs. Moonbeam had done a good deed one way or another, and Detective Smeade was convinced Moonbeam was the real deal.
Violet had called Moonbeam at the hospital while driving to the shop and had been less than thrilled to hear her mother had already talked with Detective Smeade about the morning’s psychic substitution.
“I let him know you’re a highly skilled clairvoyant, dear,” Moonbeam had said. “He was happy to hear you’ll be able to help the police department get to the bottom of the robbery.”
“But Moonbeam—” she’d started to protest.
“It will be fine,” Moonbeam assured her. “Dear, I’ve always said you have the gift. Moss… haven’t I always said Violet had the gift?”
In the background, someone made an affirmative noise.
“See, Violet?” Moonbeam said. “You’ll be fine. Look, honey, can you call back later? Moss just arrived, and she’s going to be doing some therapeutic harp playing.”
“Mom—”
But Moonbeam had already disconnected the phone, leaving Violet woefully unprepared for her session with Detective Smeade. Then again, what could she possibly do to prepare? Spontaneously develop psychic powers?
The door chimed and Violet set the appointment book aside as she stood up to greet her visitor.
“Detective Smeade,” she said, extending her hand. “So good to see you again. How’s your son doing?”
Detective Smeade grimaced a little, but returned her handshake. “Still living with Clover. They just opened their own Bikram Yoga studio, so I guess they’re doing well. How about you, Violet?”
“Great. Excellent, thank you.”
He smiled. “Last time I saw you, you were posting Moonbeam’s bail after she chained herself to that Dumpster at the courthouse and refused to leave until they improved their recycling program.”
“Well, yes—”
“And then there was that indecent-exposure charge—”
“Well, technically, Moonbeam was wearing body paint.”
He smiled at her. “So here you are again, bailing Moonbeam out. Always such a good girl.”
Violet tried not to be annoyed at that. “Can I get you some tea, Detective?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks.” He lowered himself into the red velvet chair opposite Violet and splayed his knees out to the sides, his hands resting awkwardly on his lap. Violet sat too, keeping an eye on the detective. He was clearly making an effort not to look out of place, surrounded by gauzy curtains and stacks of tarot cards.
Violet tried to do the same.
“So,” she began. “I talked to my mother on the phone this morning, but why don’t you tell me a little bit about the robbery.”
“Well, it’s pretty much like I told Moonbeam. Our perp visited the downtown branch of Pinewood Bank on Third and Washington about ten a.m. Thursday morning, wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of nude panty hose covering his head and face.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, an orange tutu, but that’s not really important. Anyway, he brandished a pistol and left with a rather significant amount of money. Three hours later, we received a tip that he was standing naked in the middle of Pioneer Courthouse Square, holding a Twix candy bar.”
“Twix,” Violet repeated, wondering if she should be taking notes.
“We apprehended him there, but by that time, the perp had already disposed of the money. What we’re trying to determine is what he did with it.”
“Right,” Violet said. “That’s a logical thing to wonder.”
“Sure,” Detective Smeade said, nodding at her as he placed his hands on his knees. “We’ve had investigators tracking down all kinds of leads, but, well, the trail’s going a little cold, so I thought Moonbeam might be able to help.”
“Good old Moonbeam,” Violet said grimly.
“Or you. I’m sure you’re every bit as good.”
“I’m sure.”
Detective Smeade gave her an encouraging smile and then looked around the shop. “So what do you use?”
“Use?”
“The glass ball thingy? Or that deck of cards? Trance?”
“Oh, right,” Violet said, fighting panic. “Trance. Sure.”
The detective smiled again, looking appeased. Violet gritted her teeth. Detective Smeade shifted in his seat and looked at her expectantly.
Violet sighed. She closed her eyes, more from exasperation than an intent to enter a cosmic state. She ground her molars together, wishing the earth would swallow her. She tried to remember what the hell Moonbeam would do in
this situation. Then again, did it matter? It’s not as if there was a rule book.
Violet took a deep breath and began to hum.
“Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…”
She let her head fall forward slightly, opening her palms to the ceiling, hoping to God there were no hidden cameras in the shop.
“Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…”
Violet opened one eye a fraction of an inch, peering at the detective from under her lashes. He was reclined against the red velvet, looking content and a little curious. That was good.
“Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…”
How long could she keep this up? Sooner or later, she’d have to come up with something to tell him. Maybe she could say the guy had thrown the money in the river. Or burned it in his backyard. The thief was crazy, right? Maybe the cops would just give up and leave her alone if they thought the money was destroyed.
“Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…”
There was a metallic thump on the other side of the wall, the sound of something powering up in the strip club next door. Was that static? Electric guitar?
“Smooth up in ya…”
Violet opened her eyes. Detective Smeade blinked at her. Violet dug her nails into her palms.
“Sorry,” she said. “There’s a, um, bar next door. They must be testing the sound or picking songs or something—”
“Not a problem,” Detective Smeade assured her. “I can’t even really hear it. Moonbeam usually just keeps going. Unless that sort of thing breaks your concentration?”
Violet frowned. “Moonbeam keeps going?”
Detective Smeade nodded.
Violet sighed. She closed her eyes again.
“Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…”
On the other side of the wall, the BulletBoys howled for several more choruses. Then, the music stopped. Violet wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed at the loss of the distraction.
She stole a peek under her lashes again. Detective Smeade looked calm, relaxed. A whole lot calmer than Violet felt.
Next door, the sound system screeched again. Violet tried not to flinch. Tried harder not to grimace when she recognized the first few chords of another ’80s classic. Was that Billy Idol? Billy Squier? Violet couldn’t remember.
“Stroke me, stroke me—”
“Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…”