“I understand.” She didn’t need to explain the perils of microfilm to me.
She dug into her purse. “Here are a few more names.”
I took the list from her outstretched hand and scanned the names she’d jotted down. “Who is Spencer Marks?”
“He sounded like someone your mother would know.”
I couldn’t argue that.
“Does she?” Aggie asked.
“I don’t know. I doubt it. I don’t.”
“He was killed downtown.”
“What does that have to do with the ashes?”
“Nothing. But there was that other man. The one who was shot.”
“Patrick Conover?”
“That’s the one.”
“What about him?”
“He was shot downtown too.”
“People get shot downtown all the time.”
“Not your sort of people.”
I opened my mouth, ready to argue, but closed my lips before I said a word. Aggie was right. The people who died downtown were drunks knifed outside strip clubs. A few, those with mob ties, were shot and stuffed in car trunks. I read about those deaths in the paper. And then there were the girls. Those poor girls—they were shot and abandoned in alleys.
“What can you tell me about Spencer Marks?”
“He was killed five months ago. That’s the most interesting thing about him. He was divorced. He lived in Prairie Village. He worked for a bank.”
“Which bank?”
“First National.”
“How old was he?”
“Forty-seven.”
“What else?”
“Nothing really. The obituary was short. It was his name that caught my eye. I looked up the newspaper articles about his death.”
“His murder is unsolved?”
She nodded.
“Where was he shot?”
“In the head.”
Ew. “I mean where was he when he was shot?”
“In front of a place on the 12th Street strip.”
Brnng, brnng.
I glanced at the phone. “Mother’s on the war path. I’m not home.”
Aggie nodded, crossed the kitchen, and picked up the receiver. “Russell residence.” She tilted her head and listened, an odd expression on her face. “Let me see if Mrs. Russell is available.”
“Who is it?” I whispered.
Aggie covered the mouthpiece with the palm of her hand. “She says her name is Madame Reyna and that it is imperative she talks with you.”
No. I shook my head. No, no, no.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Russell can’t come to the phone right now. May I take a message?” Again, an odd expression flitted across Aggie’s face. “Would you repeat that, please?” She listened then rolled her eyes. “And the number?” She jotted a string of numbers down on the pad next to the phone. “I’ll tell her you called.”
She made a move to hang up the phone but the voice on the other end was still speaking. Even I could hear the high-pitched buzz of Madame Reyna’s voice.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t know when Mrs. Russell will call you back. I’ll give her the message.” Aggie dropped the receiver into the cradle. Not dropped. Deposited with force.
“What did she want?”
Rather than answer me, Aggie asked a question of her own, “A medium?” Disbelief colored her voice.
“Libba made me go. You know how she is. She’s like water wearing down a stone. Sometimes it’s easier to give in than argue.”
Aggie closed her eyes. “They’re charlatans. They prey upon people who are grieving or hopeless.”
Something told me Aggie had visited a medium. Probably after Al had died. I didn’t need to be a psychic to know her experience had not been positive.
“What did she say?”
Aggie pursed her lips as if she’d tasted something unpleasant. “She says Leesa or Leslie, she wasn’t exactly clear on the name, will not leave her alone. She is begging you to call her or come see her.”
The world around me—the hum of the refrigerator, the gentle buzz of Max’s snores, the sway of Aggie’s floral kaftan—suddenly seemed very far away. The room spun.
“Mrs. Russell!” Aggie was at my elbow. “You look as if you’re going to faint. You ought to sit down.”
She glanced at the kitchen stools, rejected them, and led me into the family room where I collapsed onto the couch.
I stared at my hands and searched for one rational thought in the tangle of my brain. Rational thought had decamped. Not a one remained.
Aggie wrung her hands. “Let me get you some coffee.” The magical cure-all elixir.
When she returned and handed me the cup, I wrapped my fingers around its warmth.
“Did she say anything else?” I asked.
“Let’s talk about this later, when you feel better.”
I looked up at Aggie. Her cheeks were pale and her brows wrinkled with worry.
“What else did she say?” I hardly recognized my own voice.
Aggie glanced at the floor, the walls, the ceiling. Her gaze snagged on the needlepoint pillow Mother had made for me. Love is concerned with giving. Abundantly and lavishly. Navy background, white words. Sure, the expression sounded benign but it was one of Mother’s not-so-subtle bits of advice, offered as a birthday gift when Henry was still alive. If I just gave more (as in giving up painting), my marriage would be happy.
“The woman said it was a matter of life and death.”
Aggie insisted on going to Madame Reyna’s with me.
I didn’t argue. On the contrary, I was glad of her disapproving presence in the passenger seat and grateful for her level head.
We drove in silence until I parked at the curb in front of Madame Reyna’s house.
“This is the place?” Aggie regarded the small ranch home with narrowed eyes. “You’re sure?”
She’d been expecting a Romany caravan?
“I’m sure.”
“Libba brought you here?” Aggie twisted Libba’s name into a curse.
“She did.”
Aggie snorted. “That woman needs more to do. A hobby. A job.”
We both chuckled at that then together we walked up the front walk.
The front door flew open before we reached the stoop.
Maybe Madame Reyna was psychic. More likely she’d been watching for me. I had called and let her know I was coming.
“You wanted to see me?” My breath rose in the cold air.
“Yes,” she replied, her coke-bottle gaze fixed on Aggie’s wild curls.
“This is my friend, Aggie DeLucci.”
The medium nodded once—a curt bob of her chin. “Come in.” She ushered us into her home. “Leslie—Leesa—has been driving me crazy.”
“What does she want?” Probably for me to hand over the crisp fifty in my billfold to Madame Reyna.
“She wants you to help her friend.”
I blinked.
“Is Leslie, or Leesa, here now?” Aggie glanced around the gold brocade living room, her gaze taking in the plastic slip covers and the freshly raked shag.
“Yes!” Madame Reyna glared at a row of macramé owls. “She won’t leave me alone.”
“I don’t suppose she’d like to tell you who killed her?” I could save Anarchy a lot of work.
Madame Reyna paled. “No. She wouldn’t.”
Aggie stared at the macramé owls—closely—as if she looked hard enough she too could see Leesa. “What I don’t understand is this. If a murdered girl is really talking to you, why won’t she just tell you who killed her? She’d get justice. She could rest in peace.”
Madame Reyna pursed her lips and clasped her hands together. “It doesn’t work that way. The departed don’t want the sa
me things we do.”
Aggie tilted her head and talked to the owls. “If someone murdered me, and I had the chance to finger the killer, I’d do it. Wouldn’t you?” The question she directed to me.
“Of course.” I too was staring at the owls. There was no spirit. No ghostly wisp. I saw only owls. They stared back at me with beady eyes.
“Leesa’s life is over. She understands that. She’s more concerned with the living.”
“Her friend?” I murmured.
“Exactly.” Madame Reyna nodded with enthusiasm as if I’d just solved the mysteries of the universe.
“Presumably her friend is in danger from the same person who killed Leesa. Wouldn’t it be easier for her to reveal the killer?” Aggie, who wore a this-is-a-ridiculous-sham expression, turned and addressed the owls directly. “Leesa, why don’t you tell Madame Reyna who killed you? It’s the best way to protect your friend.”
Madame Reyna ignored Aggie and sank onto a chair. “Her friend’s name is Starry.”
“Starry?” What a name. “Is Starry in the same line of work as Leesa?”
Madame Reyna winced. “Leesa says Starry works for a club on 12th Street. She says Starry has been marked for death. She says you can help her.”
I closed my eyes and pictured myself walking into a downtown strip club. I wore a twin set and sensible boots. My nose twitched at the imagined stench of rotgut whiskey and watered-down beer. My eyes burned from the imagined sting of smoke-fouled air. I doubted the audience would appreciate my interruption (or my twin set). I doubted a young woman named Starry would throw on an overcoat and leave with me just because I asked.
“I can’t help you. Now, if you’ll excuse me—” I took a step toward the front door.
“Wait!” Madame Reyna held her hands out toward me. Beseeching. “Please, wait! She won’t leave me alone. She says to tell you Starry is just seventeen. She says you’ll understand because you’re a mother.”
Aggie rolled her eyes so hard her dangly earrings bounced.
Tears glimmered behind Madame Reyna’s thick, rhinestone-encrusted glasses. “She says if it was your daughter in that place, you’d want someone to help her.”
“Why me?”
“Leesa says you’re powerful.”
“Leesa’s wrong. I’m not. Whatever small amount of influence I might have, wouldn’t mean a thing to the type of people who run clubs on 12th Street.”
“Leesa says you are kind.”
Oh dear Lord. No good deed went unpunished. “Look, I stopped to help Leesa at zero risk to myself or my family. If I’d seen gun-toting thugs chasing her, I would have called the police, not gotten involved.” Not exactly true but Madame Reyna and Leesa didn’t need to know that.
Madame Reyna’s chin quivered like molded Jell-O. “Leesa can’t move on until you agree to help.”
Surely Anarchy could get a seventeen-year-old girl removed from a strip club. “I have a friend who’s a police detective. I’ll ask him to help Starry.”
“No!” Madame Reyna shot out of her chair. “Leesa says no police.”
“Of course she does.” Aggie crossed her arms and shook her head.
Madame Reyna ignored Aggie. She leveled her teary gaze at me. “Please, help Leesa. Help Starry.” She glanced at the macramé owls and her eyes narrowed. “Help me.”
Coming here had been a mistake. “What’s Starry’s last name?”
“Knight.”
Of course it was.
“I’m not going to a strip club.” The sinking feeling in my stomach belied that statement.
“But you’ll help?” There was so much hope in Madame Reyna’s voice. Too much hope. It cut through my defenses.
“I don’t know what I can do.” No way was I going to a strip club.
“Convince Starry to leave. Tell her Leesa sent you. You can save her.”
Aggie sighed. It was a sigh that said she knew there was a strip club in her future. “What’s Starry’s real name?”
Madame Reyna closed her eyes as if communing with a spirit. “Jane.” She pressed her left hand against her brow. “Her name is Jane Nichols.”
“What else can you tell us about her?” I asked “Is Jane from Chicago?”
“Chicago?” Madame Reyna opened her eyes. “No. Jane is from Kansas City.”
“What else?” What had I got myself into? “What can I tell her to get her to leave?”
“Tell her there are people who love her.”
“Why don’t you go?” Aggie demanded. “You seem to know a lot about this girl.”
Madame Reyna shook her head as if she regretted not marching straight down to 12th Street and whisking Starry—or Jane—to safety. “Leesa says it must be you.”
I was getting tired of Leesa.
Aggie turned to me. “Assuming you’re successful, what are you going to do with her?”
I blinked. “Do with her? What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you going to install her in the blue room and enroll her at Suncrest?”
“Of course not.”
“Then what? She’s a minor. She’ll be put into the foster system.”
“Maybe she has family here,” I suggested.
“If she did, would she be dancing at a strip club?”
Aggie made an excellent point. I swallowed. “There must be some program or half-way house or—”
“There isn’t.”
“So we just leave her there?”
Madame Reyna followed our exchange with her hands clasped and pressed against her lips.
“What if Madame Reyna really is talking to Leesa? What if this girl is in danger?”
“I’m not saying we don’t help. I’m saying we need a plan.”
“Just help her.” Madame Reyna pleaded. “You can worry about next steps after she’s safe.”
Aggie shook her head. “It’s not like we’re going to traipse into Ronny’s Playpen and grab her tonight.”
Well of course we weren’t. Aggie had a date.
Aggie shot a Mother-like look Madame Reyna’s direction. “An operation like this takes some thought.”
“But Leesa says—”
“Given that I can neither hear nor see Leesa, you’ll understand that I want to make my own arrangements.”
“But—”
“We’ll do our best.” I edged toward the door. I’d had enough of Madame Reyna and Leesa and Starry (and I hadn’t even met her yet).
“You’ll help this girl?” The medium’s eyes were full of tears. Again. “You promise?”
“We’ll try,” I replied.
Aggie took hold of my elbow and pulled me toward the door. “Let’s get out if here before you agree to work a pole.”
“A pole?”
Aggie rolled her eyes. The second time since we’d arrived. It was quite possible she was spending too much time with Grace. “Never mind about the pole. We should go. Now.”
“You’ll let me know what happens?” asked Madame Reyna.
“Fine,” said Aggie. Then, as soon as were out the door, she said, “What have you gotten us into?”
Nine
That night, Mac picked up Aggie at six. The man was the approximate size of a rhinoceros with the disposition of a Labrador puppy. I’d like him just for those reasons. Throw in the fact that he adored Aggie and Mac was fast becoming one of my favorite men. He had nothing but admiration for Aggie’s royal blue and red kaftan with the orange flowers. “You look amazing.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek.
She smiled up at him with enough warmth to heat the whole block. “Thank you.” She pulled on the bright blue ruana I gave her for Christmas and picked up her handbag. “I’m ready to go.”
Mac waved at me and the twosome disappeared into the night.
I called up the stairs.
“Grace, shall I warm up some soup?”
“I’d rather have a hamburger,” she called back.
“Winstead’s?”
Max’s ears perked.
“Don’t think I’m bringing you a burger,” I told him. “I’m sure Margaret Hamilton is going to sue me for emotional distress.”
He grinned.
Grace thundered down the stairs, the wooden soles of her clogs making a racket heretofore unachievable without setting off explosives. “I’m ready.”
We drove to the Plaza, parked, and waited in line to be seated.
Our turn came quickly. “Ruby’s section, please,” said Grace.
The hostess looked over at a group of full tables. “It’ll be a few minutes.”
“We’ll wait,” my daughter declared.
We sat down on an avocado green Naugahyde bench and watched other groups be seated.
“It has to be Ruby?” Ruby had dark brown skin, sparkling brown eyes, and a beehive that defied gravity. She’d been Grace’s favorite waitress since she was old enough to order her own meal.
“Of course.”
When Grace was in first grade and able to read nametags, she asked me if everyone who worked at Winstead’s had to be named after something precious.
I had no idea what she meant.
“There’s Ruby and Opal and Pearl. And the lady behind the cash register is Goldy.”
Neither Henry nor I had noticed the names. Henry was so impressed with Grace’s observation he’d ordered her a Skyscraper Sundae (two vertical feet of ice cream, fudge, and whipped cream).
She was sick for two days.
“Your table is ready.”
We followed the hostess to a table for two, where glasses of water, a stainless napkin dispenser, bottles of ketchup and mustard, and laminated menus awaited our arrival.
Neither of us bothered with a menu.
A moment later, Ruby arrived. She smiled down at Grace (their admiration society was mutual). “Hey, Sugar. What’ll it be?”
“A limeade, please.”
“Large?”
“Of course.”
“And for you, ma’am?”
“A large—” I thought of my waistline “—make that a small frosty malt.”
Ruby made a notation on her pad. “You ladies know what you want to eat?”
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