The 7th Tarot Card

by Valerie Clay

  About halfway through one of my all-time favorite movies, Laura, with Gene Tierney, hunger got the best of me, so I put the movie on pause and hobbled into the kitchen to scrounge up a bite to eat. The sky was black outside my garden window so I flipped on the bright recessed ceiling lights on my way to the refrigerator. The blinking red message light on my answering machine caught my attention as I passed by, so I pressed the play button, then opened the fridge and leaned in to see what I could find.

  The machine’s peculiar mechanical voice informed me haltingly, “Two, New, Messages.” I listened as I pulled out some leftover Canadian bacon and pineapple pizza and set it on the counter. The recorded message began to play back:

  Vic, it’s Steve from downstairs. Just wanted to thank you for what you did yesterday. My friend, Ron, can be kind of a jerk sometimes. You really shut him up. I owe you one.

  Aha. That explains it, I thought as I peeled the plastic wrap from the pizza and licked a tangy blob of tomato sauce off my finger. Steve must have sent the flowers. I smiled and grabbed a plate out of the cupboard as the second message began. It was a man’s voice, but I didn’t recognize it:

  Did you like the roses, Victoria? I know red ones are your favorite.

  The words were spoken slowly, tauntingly. His voice had an unattractive, raspy quality, like someone who chain-smoked or drank too much, or both. I froze. This had to be a joke. One of my nitwit friends was trying to be funny. I returned to the answering machine, hit the replay button, and listened carefully. The message repeated, but I still couldn’t identify the voice.

  “Well isn’t this nice, Victoria,” I said out loud to myself. “Looks like your phone-breather just graduated to stalker.” My heart thumped heavily in my chest as I inspected my condo, methodically ensuring that all doors and windows were locked, all shades were drawn. Once I felt satisfied that I was fully bunkered in, I went back to the kitchen, grabbed my cold pizza and a glass of wine, and returned to the sofa. I sat down, lit a white protection candle—a gift from Laini when I briefly worked for a psychotic tax attorney—and reflected on the troubling events of the past several days: phone calls with no one there, the CD in the mail, the flowers, and now this disturbing message. There was no doubt about it. The situation was escalating.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Never eat more than you can lift.” —Miss Piggy of “The Muppet Show”

  *******

  After a night of restless sleep and hazy, disjointed nightmares, I woke up groggy, and peeked with swollen eyes at my alarm clock. It was eight-thirty, Monday morning—time to get up and face the world. I stumbled into the kitchen and started the coffee. Holding my favorite mug, a souvenir from Newport, Rhode Island, I leaned against the counter and gazed vacantly into space, waiting for my organic, shade grown, breakfast blend coffee to finish brewing. Unexpectedly, the phone rang, shattering the morning silence, and startled, I dropped the mug. Fortunately, the mug survived the sudden plunge, having its fall broken by the soft cushioning of my inflamed toe. I counted that as a victory. I’m trying to be a positive, glass half-full kind of person.

  As with all the previous calls, the ID was unknown. The caller hung up without leaving a message. Limping en route to the sink to rinse off my mug, the phone rang again, and once again the caller hung up. When it happened a third time, I pulled the cord out of the wall, slammed my fist onto the counter and shouted, “Leave me alone!”

  Heaving a sigh, I lowered my head, and pondered my wretched existence. It was time to regroup. I needed to pull myself together, think rationally. If I walk around in fear, the crazy stalker guy wins, and I will not allow him to steal my power. There will be no white flag hanging on my door. I will persevere.

  I pulled my cell phone from my purse and hit the speed-dial for Colonel Julie, but no luck. After four rings her answering machine picked up. She was probably out running, like she does every morning, rain or shine, which accounts for her perfect weight. Guess a career in the military teaches you self-discipline. Learning self-discipline is part of my Action Plan, and I fully intend to do that one of these days, when I can get around to it.

  The beep sounded and I left my message, “Hey, Jules, it’s Vic. Can you do lunch today? We need to make plans for our undercover operation tomorrow. How about twelve-thirty at the Beach Café at Carillon Point? Let me know. I have a stalker. See you later.”

  Next, I called Amanda and got her voicemail as well. I left her a brief message about lunch today with Julie, and invited her to join us.

  The coffee finished brewing and I poured myself a steaming cup. The flavor was rich and dark—just the way I like it—the phone was quiet, and the sun was making a rare appearance. As the soft rays of sunlight sifted through my window, I began to feel much better. I searched through my cupboards for some comfort food, fixed breakfast, and focused on my primary objective of the day: calorie control. If you leave one bite of food on your plate at each meal, by the end of the year you will have lost ten pounds. I left one bite of my second donut on the plate. I’m really getting into this weight loss thing.

  After plugging my phone back into the wall, I took an invigorating shower, fixed my hair, and applied my makeup. I felt renewed, refreshed, ready to take on the world. A quick check of my answering machine revealed two new messages awaited me. I pushed the play button and recognized Julie’s voice:

  Vic, what the hell? What do you mean you have a stalker? I’ll see you at twelve-thirty at the Beach Café. Be careful.

  The second message was unmistakably from Amanda:

  Hey, Vic, sorry I missed your call. I can’t do lunch today—Carl has a bark mitzvah—but thanks for asking. You kids go have your little stakeout tomorrow. I have a salon appointment and then my karate class. Call me the minute you know anything.

  Sometimes the boundaries of sane dog ownership are a little fuzzy with Amanda.

  There was still some time to kill before meeting Julie, so I decided to check e-soulmate for any new bites on the line. While I waited for my computer to warm up, I re-taped my toe, made my bed, and slipped into a new blue and white floral sundress I’d been saving for the first sunny day of spring.

  Three new e-mail messages sat in my in-box and I quickly scanned their accompanying photos. No, no, and maybe. I opened the profile from the maybe guy and started reading. He had a nice face and used his real name, Jeremy Wolfe, not a pseudonym. At least I think that was his real name.

  Good news. Jeremy’s looking for a woman who likes to walk barefoot on the beach (yes, that’s so me); who likes to walk barefoot in the grass (occasionally, if there are no bees and the grass hasn’t been sprayed with insecticide); who likes to wear sexy sandals and red toenail polish.

  Hmmm.

  It also said that he enjoys spoiling his women by giving them long, sensual foot rubs. I was beginning to sense a pattern here. At the end of his profile he requested that only women with cute feet should reply. Sorry Jeremy, but one nut at a time is all I can handle. I sent my “thanks but no thanks” responses to the guys and shut down my computer.

  Grabbing my purse and a light turquoise cardigan sweater, I headed for the front door. But, after unfastening the lock, I hesitated. Maybe I should carry a weapon with me. All I could think of was a knife, so I selected a firm steak knife from my kitchen drawer and did a few practice air stabs. I read somewhere that if you’re carrying a knife for self-defense, you should hold it in your hand with the blade pointing out between your thumb and index finger. It makes it harder for the attacker to grab your wrist and stop you. Or was it the other way around? Note to self: Add knife-fighting lessons to your Action Plan.

  Before opening the door, I peeked out through the tiny fisheye peephole. From my limited view, the coast looked clear, so I hung my sweater loosely over my arm to conceal my weapon, then ventured out onto the porch. The area appeared to be stalker-free, so I promptly locked my door, hustled to my garage, and climbed into my car. So far, so good. As I backed out and slowly drove throug
h the parking lot, I searched the area for any cars that seemed unfamiliar or out of place. Nothing looked even the least bit suspicious, so I breathed a grateful sigh of relief and headed for the Beach Café.

  I arrived before Julie did, which made me smile. That didn’t happen very often. The restaurant was jam-packed, with a twenty minute wait for a table, so I put my name on the list and casually perused the room. The weather was unseasonably sunny and warm, and on rare spring days like this, people flocked to the Café to sit out on the deck, or just gaze through the windows at Lake Washington and the picturesque waterfront. Out along the docks, tethered boats bobbed up and down on sparkling water as the wake from a passing speedboat rippled through the marina.

  I decided to order an iced tea while waiting for Julie, and sat down in the bar on the only available stool. At a table behind me, I heard two men laughing loudly, obviously indulging in a few early cocktails.

  “Hey, pretty lady,” one of them said. I turned around, responded with a polite, but reserved smile, then turned back to the face the bar. They gave the impression of guys with money, brash, confident, mid-to-late fifties, and wore brightly colored Hawaiian shirts. Both had ruddy complexions—a result of the sun or, more likely, too many beers.

  That was when Julie appeared, waving and smiling as she threaded her way through the noisy, congested bar. She was dressed for the balmy weather in white capris, low-heeled, red leather sandals, and a close-fitting, black tank top trimmed in white, that showed off her curvaceous figure. I stood up, greeted her with a welcoming hug and explained the twenty minute wait. Evidently the guys behind us were eavesdropping on our conversation.

  “Hello, ladies, why don’t you share a table with us?” one of the men offered. Julie turned to them, gave them a courteous but clearly disinterested smile and said “No, thanks.”

  The taller of the two men, a beefy guy with a large nose and salt-and-pepper hair—heavy on the salt—wouldn’t take no for an answer. He stood up and approached us. “Aw, come on. We’ve got two extra chairs at our table. Let us buy you some lunch and then if you like, we can all go for a ride on my boat. It’s a beauty—forty-two-footer with two bathrooms and two bedrooms.”

  With the mention of the bedrooms, his companion in a blue shirt whooped in a liquored-up, college boy sort of way, then got to his feet and joined us.

  “I said, no thank you,” Julie repeated unsmiling.

  Obviously offended, the first guy frowned. “What’s the matter? You think you’re too good for us?” In an aggressive move, he stepped closer and leaned down into Julie until they were inches apart.

  I didn’t like where this was headed, and warned him, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “Why not?” he said, his eyes on Julie.

  “Because Colonel Julie here will mop the floor with you.”

  “Colonel Julie,” blue shirt guy said smirking. “Well, isn’t that cute. How’d she get that little nickname?”

  I glared at him. “Mostly because she’s a United States Army Colonel, and her name is Julie.”

  “Well, what’s she the Colonel of,” big nose asked, “makeup and hairdos?” With that, he reached out and squeezed Julie’s upper arm with his thick fingers. “Doesn’t feel all that tough to me.”

  Nervously, I glanced sideways at Julie, and took a step backwards out of harm’s way. Julie ripped her arm from his grip, grabbed his thumb and bent it backwards until it seemed close to breaking. With narrowed eyes she said, “Keep your freakin’ hands off me, jackass.”

  As the big guy yelped in surprise, I looked for the bartender, but he stood at the far end of the elongated bar, deep in discussion with one of the patrons. Looked like he was doing his bartender/psychologist thing. With a loud plop, Julie dropped her red purse onto the stool I’d just vacated, let go of the guy’s thumb and took a defiant stance. Around us, people began to stare.

  I warned the man again. “You need to back off. Come on, Julie, let’s get out of here.”

  Before she could deliver another, more persuasive strike, I grabbed her arm and purse, and gently pulled her away. Fortunately Julie capitulated and we left the café without any carnage.

  For a moment there, I was afraid we were going to have a repeat of the Fort Sam incident. One balmy evening several years ago, during a visit with Julie in San Antonio, she and I were at a club having a few drinks. A belligerent serviceman came on too strong, and Julie politely told him she wasn’t interested. A couple of other soldiers who knew Julie, warned him to cool it and move on for his own good. Apparently he didn’t take them seriously because he became even more determined in his pursuit. We decided to leave, but when we turned our backs, the fool reached out and grabbed Julie’s caboose. In the blink of an eye, she swung around with a sharp kick, planting her foot squarely into his solar plexus. He folded like a cheap chair and dropped to the floor. His buddies tried to help him up, but he couldn’t move. Later when I complimented her on her swift response, she said that it was just instinctive; several years of martial arts training just took over. Self-defense courses for women should be a high school graduation requirement.

  “Maybe I overreacted. Do you think I overreacted? Was I too harsh?” Julie asked as we walked through the cavernous parking garage.

  I shook my head. “The guy was a jerk. Hopefully he’ll think twice before harassing women in bars again.”

  “So what do you want to do now?” she asked when we reached my car.

  “We still need to eat and plan our tail for tomorrow. I’d really like to sit outside while we have some sun. How ‘bout we go to downtown Kirkland and find an outdoor restaurant?”

  Julie agreed, hopped in her Jeep, and followed me to the Moss Bay Marina parking lot. After a short walk, we came across a charming café, Olive You, with outdoor seating. A slender young hostess of Asian descent greeted us with a demure smile and menus, showed us to the last available outdoor table, and for a few satisfying moments, we soaked up the glorious sunshine. But, our brief attempt at sunbathing was thwarted when a growing cloud formation moved in, greedily engulfing the sky. As the temperature dipped, I threw my cardigan lightly over my shoulders, but Julie, determined to start her summer tan, toughed it out despite the goose bumps on her arm.

  Our peppy server came by, took our orders then hustled off, leaving us alone to formulate our plans for tracking Mark in the morning.

  “Meet me at the South East Eighth Park & Ride at nine-fifteen sharp,” Julie said. “Wear something low profile, maybe a hat too. We need to blend in with campers, not draw attention to ourselves. Bring a pen and notebook. I’ll stop and pick up some coffee for us on the way.”

  “Great idea,” I said as I pulled my sweater tighter around my shoulders. “I’ll bring some fruit and muffins, and maybe some of those yogurt parfait thingys you like. We can make a picnic out of it. Also, I’ve been thinking,” I leaned in and lowered my voice, “wouldn’t it be more professional if we named our mission?”

  Julie cleared her throat. “Named it?”

  “Yes. What do you think about ‘Code Name Wolverine?’”

  Julie stared at me. I couldn’t see her eyes under her sunglasses, but I was pretty sure she was rolling them.

  “Well, if that’s what you’d like, Vic, but as far as a picnic goes, this is a serious operation. We need to stay focused here. Let’s have a picnic on another day.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” I said. “Maybe just breakfast cookies.”

  She changed the subject. “Tell me about this stalker. What’s been going on?”

  While we waited for our food to arrive, I recounted all the events of the past several days and she listened in silence, until I finished my story.

  “What do you have for protection?” she asked me. I proudly pulled the steak knife out of my purse, showed it to her, then quickly shoved it back before anyone noticed.

  “Well, that’s okay, Vic, but not the best idea,” she said. “A strong guy could overpower you, grab the
knife and use it on you. You need some pepper spray, or maybe even a stun gun. There’s a military surplus store on Eighty-Fifth in Redmond. Go there on your way home and pick up something.”

  I hesitated for a moment, then said, “Just because he’s a stalker, doesn’t necessarily make him dangerous, right? I mean, he sent flowers and a CD. Maybe he’s a nice stalker.”

  Julie looked at me. “Yes, in Victoria-land I’m sure all the stalkers are super nice people, and this guy could be harmless, but you should carry something with you, just in case.” She leaned forward, touched my arm, and continued, “Also, and I don’t mean to scare you, but seventy-six percent of murdered women were stalked before they were killed, so you need to take this seriously. Be aware of your surroundings. Get in the habit of checking your rear-view mirror to see if you’re being followed. If you are, drive directly to the nearest police station or even fire station—but don’t get out of the car—just stay locked in and start honking your horn.”

  All this talk about stalkers and self-defense had me riddled with anxiety, and I wasn’t sure I could spray pepper on someone’s head without spraying myself too. We finished our lunch in thoughtful silence, then walked back to our cars. Before she left, Julie offered me one last piece of advice, “Change up the way you do things. Steer clear of routine behavior. Take different routes to work; leave at unpredictable times. Go in earlier some days. Stay later on other days.”

  “Okay, Mom,” I said.

  She shook her head, waited until I entered and locked my car, then gave me a supportive smile and waved goodbye.

  I knew her warnings were given with the most loving of intentions, but now I was freaking out. I started my engine and pulled out of the parking lot, fully intending to follow her wise counsel, but after a brief mental debate, changed my mind. I needed retail therapy, and I needed it bad. Maybe I’ll buy some pepper spray tomorrow, I thought, after we wrap up Operation Wolverine.