Getting Sassy

by D. C. Brod

  “No,” she said, looking ready to flee into the back room.

  “C’mon, Erika,” Jack said. “It’s one photo.”

  The look she gave him and the one he returned must have spoken volumes, but only in their language. Whatever the exchange meant, the next thing that Erika did was walk over to counter, place one arm on it and then turn to face me.

  “One photo,” she said.

  I made sure it was a good one, offered to show her the image, but she declined. Then I returned the camera to my bag and exchanged it for a slim notebook. “Could I ask you a few more questions?”

  When she didn’t respond right away, I hurried ahead. “Just some background. These items in your shop are certainly worth mentioning.”

  “I carry those items only because my clients request them.”

  I stepped back and regarded the psychic paraphernalia. I picked up a small, smooth, beige stone with striations of brown and black. The lines came together in a spiral, giving the impression of a blooming flower—maybe a rose.

  “What does this one do?”

  She studied me for a moment, as though she were trying to measure my sincerity. Finally, she said, “It’s for protection.”

  “Do you believe it does any good?”

  She gave me a little smile, but it was impossible to tell if it was condescending or knowing. What it wasn’t was warm. “They do no harm,” she said.

  I put it in the singing bowl.

  “What’s this?” I picked up a small leather pouch drawn together by a black string.

  “That contains herbal charms.” She approached me, arms still crossed over her chest. “Is there something in particular you’re looking for?”

  “No,” I set it down. “Not really.” Then I added with a shrug. “But I suppose we can all use a bit of luck.”

  Her eyes were nowhere near as friendly as her brother’s. In fact, there wasn’t much physical resemblance between the two. Maybe Jack’s eyes would harden as he aged a few years. “Um,” I said, “could we go sit somewhere so we could talk for a few minutes?”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I have another client coming in soon.”

  I’d have preferred a one-to-one talk, maybe over some coffee. But I had no choice but to make my stand out here among the crystals, Tarot cards and bat wings.

  “Okay, just a couple more questions.” She didn’t bolt. “Why did you decide to move your business from California to Illinois?”

  If my digging had surprised Erika, she didn’t let on. Just nodded as though she found the question reasonable and said, “I wanted to be closer to my daughter. I’ve enrolled her in a school in the area.”

  “All the way from California?”

  “It’s a... special school.”

  Her tone implied that I had asked enough regarding her daughter, so I moved on. “Was your business in California similar to this one?”

  “Prior to this, I have worked out of my home. On a referral basis only.” She glanced toward Jack, who was still busy watching me. Then she said, “I have always been selective with my clients. Word of mouth. I often make house calls. Where I worked was of little importance.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Can you talk about your gift? How long have you been psychic?”

  She heaved an impatient sigh. “It’s something I was born with.”

  “When did you first know you were—”

  “When I was four and a half I foresaw the death of my younger sister.”

  Whoa. I blinked. “How?”

  “I saw her face underwater. Her eyes and her mouth were open, and I watched as a water lily pad floated over her face.”

  All of this she delivered with an astonishing lack of emotion.

  “At the time, I didn’t realize what I was seeing,” she continued. “Now, I pay very close attention to such images.”

  Her intensity made me want to step back. But I held my ground and asked the question I was sure she wanted me to ask. “What are you seeing now?”

  She canted her chin. “Why do you think I’m seeing anything?”

  Determined not to let her mess with my psyche any more than she already had, I pulled out a question I didn’t think she’d expect. “You weren’t born in this country, were you?”

  After the briefest hesitation, she said, “Why do you ask?”

  “You speak very distinctly. I wondered if English was your second language.”

  That earned me a stiff smile. “You are correct. I was born in Budapest.”

  “How old were you when you came here?”

  She glanced in her brother’s direction, then said, “I was barely a teenager.”

  Without a pause, she added, “I’m afraid I must go and prepare for my next client.”

  “But I don’t know if I have enough for an article.”

  “If you don’t, then that is how it must be.” She turned toward Jack, but she was speaking to me when she said, “I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time.”

  “Erika, can we do another séance?”

  This got her attention. From the way her mouth was set, I thought she was about to yell at me, swear at me, tell me to get the hell out of her shop. But then, as her eyes held mine, her expression softened and she said, “I’m surprised. I didn’t think that was... comfortable for you.”

  “It wasn’t,” I said. “But I’ve got more questions.”

  After regarding me for several long moments, she said, “All right. Wednesday evening?”

  “Does it have to be at night?” Knowing how my mother tended to be her most confused in the evening and her sharpest in the morning or early afternoon when she was rested, I figured that would be the time to shoot for.

  “No. In fact it doesn’t.” She regarded me. “Although many people think that spirits are only available in the evenings, I’ve found that the time of day has little to do with a spirit’s receptivity.”

  “I may bring my mother,” I told her.

  “That would be fine. Thursday morning then. Ten thirty?”

  “I’ll call you if that doesn’t work,” I said.

  “I’ll look forward to seeing you both.”

  And with that, she retreated to the back area, closing the door behind her.

  As I stared at the door, Jack said, “Are you hoping to get more for your story?”

  “No. My story’s due before then.” I turned to him. “Why did she call the newspaper and ask that I do a story on her? She doesn’t want it.”

  “I’m afraid that was my idea.”

  “Really? Why?”

  He approached me again. “She deserves to be better known. She really is gifted.”

  “Yeah, so you say.” I was annoyed and didn’t care if it showed. She was hiding more than her history, and I knew I had some work to do if I wanted to get it out of her.

  I said to Jack, “Can you tell me anything about her background?”

  He grinned. “Not without risking my big sister’s wrath.”

  “So you’re scared of her too.”

  “She’s a powerful woman.”

  “Because of her psychic abilities?”

  “That. And other things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Maybe we could talk about it some time... over dinner?”

  I fished a card out of my bag and handed it to him. “Give me a call.” While it occurred to me that Jack might also have some ulterior motive, I figured he deserved a chance.

  Without even a glance at it, he slipped my card into his pocket. “How about tonight? Dinner.” He smiled and added, “You pick the place, and I’ll meet you there. Seven o’clock?”

  I couldn’t think of a reason not to, so I named a bar that served good sandwiches and was only a block away.

  He smiled. “I’ll see you then.”

  Before I left, I turned over the singing bowl and saw a sticker with $14.95 written on it in black ink. The stone of protection cost two dollars—quite a deal if it worked. I pulled a couple of bills o
ut of my wallet. “Can I pay you?”

  When I walked into my apartment, the phone was ringing. A check of the caller ID confirmed that it was Jane Goodwin, and I let her talk to voice mail. I stared at her name, thinking. Was stealing the goat really that bad an idea?

  After the ringing stopped, I sat at my small kitchen table and buried my face in my hands and took three deep breaths. What was harder: stealing a goat or finding a dog-friendly apartment with two bedrooms in two weeks?

  I stood. Procrastinate, I told myself. Defer that decision until it’s so ripe it bursts in your face. That I could do.

  I polished off the article on the Psychic Place. I didn’t have much to add. My editor would just have to take it as it was. Or not. Either way, he wouldn’t fire me. After I emailed the piece and the photo to him, I started on an article for a women’s magazine on getting a full night’s sleep and spent the morning in a writing haze, forgetting, for a couple of hours, how lousy things looked.

  When I broke at one p.m. for lunch, I switched on the TV, then searched the refrigerator for inspiration.

  The newscast didn’t catch my attention until after her name was mentioned, and then I looked up to see the petite brunette anchor woman saying, “. Her body was found by a jogger yesterday in the Warren Forest Preserve, but she was not identified until this morning. Mary Waltner was visiting Chicago from California. An autopsy is pending, but authorities believe she was strangled. At this point, police have no leads in the investigation.”

  I opened the Tribune and found a reference in the Metro section— a body had been discovered, but no identification had been made.

  I dug for my notebook with the page of Mary Waltners and found the one living in Thousand Oaks. While it might have been a coincidence, not for a second did I believe it was. And I’d called her home phone, leaving my name and number. Had she been dead when I called her? Or had she gotten my message? No doubt the police would be here to see me soon. Maybe I’d better call them first.

  I thought of my mother, wondering if I should let someone at Dryden know. Know what? That a woman who had seen my mother a few days ago had been murdered? At least I thought it was the same woman. Still, I had no reason to believe that her visit to my mother and her death were connected, but again, I didn’t trust coincidence. I tried to focus on action. If I went over there and pressed my mother on the visit, told her that Mary Waltner was now dead, I might just scare her enough to talk. Either that or I’d shut her down. No, I thought, it was time I stopped thinking of my mother as a defenseless little old lady. She was far from it. And maybe she honestly didn’t remember why Mary Waltner had come to see her. Maybe she got short with me about it because she was ashamed of her memory. Right.

  In the midst of my dithering, someone knocked on my door. I opened it to Mick Hughes, looking like he’d gotten a better night’s sleep than I had.

  It was way too soon to see him. I hadn’t even processed yesterday yet. But there he was, a little smile pulling at his mouth.

  “I hope you’re not here about the goat,” I said, holding my ground. People rarely stopped by my apartment unannounced, and I liked it that way.

  “Keep it down, will you?” he said under his breath. As though the masses downstairs getting their Picasso prints framed would care.

  He glanced over his shoulder and then back to me. “You going to invite me in?”

  “I’m not sure.” I leaned one hip against the door jamb. When I’d returned from the Psychic Place, I had changed into a pair of shorts and an oversized T-shirt that touted a Shakespearean festival in Anchorage that I’d never been to. So not only was I looking sloppy, I was guilty of false advertising.

  But I finally relented. I guess I figured we’d have to have this discussion eventually. It was one more thing I could tick off my list. I stepped back from the door. As I did, Bix was there to greet my guest, wagging his butt along with his skinny tail.

  “Hey, kid,” Mick greeted Bix, rubbing behind his ears.

  Bix is usually a pretty decent judge of character. It’s not that he growls at bad guys or anything like that, although he doesn’t try real hard with my mother, but people do give off vibes and animals can pick them up. And a dog with hyper tendencies like Bix was pretty sensitive to moods. When I’m edgy, he’s edgy. Mick didn’t appear edgy at all. How nice for him.

  I told him I was putting a lunch together and asked if he wanted something to eat.

  “No, thanks. Already had something.” But he followed me into my kitchen and leaned against the counter as I placed a handful of small carrots on a plate.

  “How you feeling?” he asked.

  I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. He wasn’t here to inquire as to my health. He either wanted to talk about the goat or he wanted to bed me. Stubborn, I was determined he would fail in both endeavors.

  “Okay.” I plopped a generous spoonful of hummus on the plate. “And you?”

  “Good,” he said. “Really good.” He seemed bemused, as though he were waiting for me to do something bizarre.

  When I didn’t, he turned his attention from me to my plate. “What’s that?”

  “Hummus,” I said, licked the spoon and dropped in into the stainless steel sink. And, because he looked perplexed, I added, “Made out of chick peas. With some garlic.” Maybe now he’d keep his distance.

  Leaning his folded arms on the counter now, he looked up at me. “You’re not one of those vegetarians, are you?”

  “Half-assed. I don’t eat red meat, but I do eat fish and chicken.”

  He nodded and then after a moment said, “What do you have against chickens?”

  “They make me nervous.”

  He smiled a little and turned again so his back was to the counter.

  I waited a couple of beats and then said, “Aren’t you going to ask me about fish?”

  He shook his head. “No, I get that part. There’s something sinister about a fish. Especially those flounders.”

  I swallowed a smile. Didn’t want to encourage him.

  When I poured myself some iced tea, I asked if he wanted some. He rejected the tea, but accepted a beer. With the aid of a hand towel, I twisted the cap off and handed him the bottle.

  “Thanks,” he said, tipping it toward me as if toasting.

  As I placed a few crackers on my plate, Mick and Bix went into the living room and Mick sat on the couch with the Tibetan singing bowl on the coffee table in front of him.

  “What’s this?” He picked up the wooden stick.

  I told him.

  “Oh, yeah? How’s it work?”

  Knowing how sensual an experience playing the bowl can be when done in tandem, I demonstrated by circling the stick in mid air, and then handed it to Mick, who began running the stick around the rim.

  He proved better at it than I’d been on my first try. As the intensity increased, my scalp tightened; the sound built and Bix began to howl, backing off from Mick, and the bowl. Either Bix liked it or it made him crazy. Mick cut the noise off by placing his hand on the bowl and then placed the stick in it. “Hard to tell if he was singing with it or at it.”

  I set out slate coasters for each of us and then settled into the purple chair with my plate.

  Mick cocked his chin at me. Bix had hopped up beside him on the couch, and I swear the dog had cocked his head, too.

  “You okay?” Mick asked. “Seem kind of...,” he shrugged, “edgy.”

  And why would I be edgy, I asked myself. Let me count the ways. Instead of going with the entire truth—something getting rare these days—I went with a half-truth. “I just heard some disturbing news on the TV.” And I told him about Mary Waltner’s visit to my mother.

  He listened, and when I’d finished, he took a drink from his bottle and returned it to the coaster. “How d’you know it’s the same person?”

  “I don’t. But I have a strong feeling she is. I’ve been checking—I don’t think my mom was entirely truthful about why she came to see her.
”

  “How come?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I wanted to talk to her.

  ” He nodded. “Can I do anything?”

  That surprised me. “No. But thanks.”

  Then I said, “I should call the police. Tell them what I know.”

  “Can you wait until I leave?” he asked.

  I guess.

  We spent the next minute or so in silence, except for the sound of me chewing my carrot and Bix cleaning his privates.

  “I’ve been doing some thinking,” Mick finally said, folding his hands as he leaned back into the couch. He crossed his bad ankle over his knee. Today’s boots were a soft-looking leather in a deep olive shade.

  “Have you?”

  “I think we could pull it off.”

  I shook my head. “I think it’s crazy.”

  “Kidnapping a goat is crazy.” He gave me an assured nod. “But it’s also a really good idea.”

  “The goat has a name.”

  “Sassy,” he said, flatly. “Kidnapping Sassy.”

  “Listen to yourself. Let’s kidnap a goat and hold it for ransom.” I shoved a little hummus onto a cracker. “I’ll bet in the history of the English language those words have never before been strung together.”

  “It’s not unheard of,” he said, and when I gave him my dubious look, he elaborated. “That’s where the expression ‘get your goat’ comes from. A guy would steal a companion goat before a race to put the horse off.”

  “You’re joking?”

  He shook his head, and I saw no suppressed humor in his eyes.

  “Was ransom involved?”

  “Not that I know of.” He smiled. “That may be an original touch.” He leaned forward. “Look, maybe you were only joking. Maybe you were a little drunk. But you came up with a great idea. We could do it.” He eyed me for several long moments, and I couldn’t read him to save my soul. “And the thing is, whether you meant to or not, you came up with the perfect way to take Bull down a notch or two. Blood is Bull’s ticket to the big time.”