by Cassie Page
“But Detective Jameson. Can you tell us if anything was disturbed in the house that would lead you to suspect foul play? Any suspects?”
Jameson said, “Folks, you know how this works. We have no details to report, nothing about the condition of the premises, persons of interest or anything else. When something pops, we’ll let you know. Not trying to stonewall, we just don’t have anything to report. We are in the early stages of an investigation. That’s all I can tell you.”
Tuesday flipped off the TV and finished off her salted caramel.
Tuesday would have put money on Holley calling before eight in the morning, even if the earth fell back into a peaceful slumber. She felt a slight, ever so slight twinge of guilt for not offering to come over and hold Holley’s hand. After all, the girl had been through a lot in the past twenty-four hours. But, as Tuesday always reminded her clients, they might talk about big life issues, but she was not a therapist.
Tuesday’s heartbeat had returned to normal. With her cardio system calmed down, and her guilt tucked firmly away, she allowed her disgust with plate tectonics free range. It was futile to try the pendulum again because she couldn’t be sure that minute shakings wouldn’t skew the response. How was she going to know if that flash guy at LAPD was ever going to come back into her life?
Then another thought crept into her consciousness. She hadn’t seen this coming. None of it. Not a client under threat from a murderer, nor a new guy walking into her life and throwing her completely off kilter. And a surprise message from Tessa, her mother? Where had that come from? And by the way, why hadn’t that surprise she promised shown up? Was she on another bender and had forgotten to follow up? Contact from her mother was an earth movement of a different order of magnitude. Oh, yes. Why hadn’t she foreseen the earthquake?
Tuesday wasn’t one of those occult practitioners who claimed they could predict the future. At least not publicly. Her tolerance for being laughed at was tested every time she told a stranger that she was an expert in tasseography. The art of reading tea leaves. The response was usually, “Oh, you mean you’re a gypsy.”
She would point out that, no, she was a backsliding WASP. When the inquirer pursued some nonsense about being best friends with someone from Romania, or else mentioned that they’d met a gypsy once, she would say, “Do I look Indian?”
That head scratcher usually shut up the most arrogant wise guy who bought into the misconception that gypsies were Romanian outcasts or a Transylvanian subculture epitomized by Count Dracula. Like, who else would read tea leaves?
When she first set up shop she would explain the origin of gypsies, that they migrated from Northern India in the 1300’s. By that time the eyes of her audience had glazed over, so she explained that she had a degree from a prestigious British college that certified her to practice her craft. Which was true, except that the college was set up in the kitchen of a renowned tea leaf reader in London who printed out the certificates from her computer.
Tuesday was totally confident in her gifts. She often saw things in her readings that could not be explained by an arrangement of leaves and stems illustrated in her teacher’s handbook. That taught her to trust her instincts.
She read her own leaves often enough, queried the pendulum and, most important, consulted Doctor Darla when necessary. So she should have seen some of this recent chaos coming. She hadn’t been paying attention. She checked her calendar. At least her memory was still functioning. Yes, thank all she believed in, she had her monthly appointment with Doctor Darla at nine in the morning.
Chapter Eleven: The Princess and the Pea
As predicted, in the morning Tuesday’s phone jangled her awake at seven forty-five.
“Okay, Holley. I’ll meet you at the Café in half an hour. It’s okay. No, I’m up. I know. You’ve been though a lot. A reading could settle you down. Well, maybe it’s a good thing Roger didn’t show up. You might have ended up taking care of him and you already have a lot on your hands. See you in a few. But I have another appointment, so we can’t dawdle.”
Usually, Tuesday arranged with Natasha beforehand when she was going to open early for a client. But this was last minute and Natasha wasn’t answering her cell. She’d work it out with her later. If it meant a few extra dollars in her till, Natasha wouldn’t mind. What could go wrong?
Holley was waiting at the door when she arrived at the Cafe. Without saying hello she clutched Tuesday around the neck and immediately started sobbing on her shoulder. Tuesday stretched away to ask, “Has something else happened, Holley?”
“No. But it just felt like my bed was shaking all night. I was afraid the building was going to fall down. I thought my life was coming to an end.” She collapsed onto Tuesday again.
“There, there. It was only a 3.6. You’re like the princess and the pea. Let’s make some tea.”
Tuesday knew that some people were seismophobic with extreme reactions to just the idea of earthquakes. In fact, she’d had a boyfriend who was so terrified of earth temblors that he insisted they have a long distance relationship. He lived in Kansas where they’d met at a metaphysical convention. The relationship didn’t last. Not because she minded flying to Topeka once a week. She liked scandalizing his conservative neighbors with her outfits. But when he criticized her reading technique once too often she read his leaves and said, “I see a pair of scissors. It’s time to cut this puppy loose.” She took the next plane back to Burbank and never saw him again.
So she was utterly sympathetic to Holley’s phobia. She was afraid, however, that Holley would draw out their session and eat up the morning with her digressions. Tuesday had her own life to take care of before she could officially open the restaurant later in the morning.
Tuesday had visions of the Café buried in shattered glass. However, if the temblor had disturbed anything, the night crew had cleaned it up. She made the tea and rubbed Holley’s shoulders while she sipped her South African Rooibos. Tuesday liked to work with the red tea because there were so many fragments left in the bottom of the cup.
“Just focus on the matter that needs clarification. Calm your mind. Clear your mind.”
Holley set her half drained cup in the saucer and slumped back in the chair. “But that’s just it Miss Tuesday. Everything is muddled. I need my whole life clarified.”
Tuesday sat down in her chair. “Okay. Then focus on clarity. Try to imagine a window that is very clear. Or a clear sky with no clouds. Whatever comes to you.”
Holley perked up. “Okay. I’m seeing a mirror. I can see myself very clearly. I’m wearing this blue dress that really shows off my eyes. I got it on sale at The Rack. They had it in gray but I wasn’t feeling gray . . . “
“Okay, girl. That’s it. You’ve got plenty of clarity now.” Tuesday was afraid she was going to slip off the edge with her shopping mania. “Finish the tea and we’ll get started.”
A few minutes later Tuesday pulled out her silk scarf and began the reading.
The leaves at the bottom of the cup were a mess, as chaotic as Holley’s temperament that morning. The first thing she looked for were obvious messages, but thankfully, no M and no bodies.
“Oh, look, Holley. Here it is again. Your bicycle.”
A bicycle, the symbol for individuality showed up frequently in Holley’s readings and always gave the actress a lift. Holley leaned forward in her chair and examined the cup. Her enthusiasm returned, showing in her smile, the little clap of her hands as she searched for the talisman. “That means I’m on the right path, doesn’t it? With my acting?”
Tuesday smiled. Despite the girl’s endless digressions and rants, working with Holley always ended up boosting her mood. She had a natural buoyancy and positive outlook that was both genuine and infectious. She might not spend a lot of time thinking before she spoke, but Holley’s instincts were good. Her natural optimism never deserted her for very long, even in her most troubled moments. As when she told Tuesday she’d lost a part, for instance, or received
an embarrassing review. Her native joy informed a room like the fragrance of jasmine or Daphne, intoxicating and deeply pleasurable. Tuesday hated to spoil it by pointing out negative symbols in a reading, but she had to be true to her craft.
Tuesday liked some of what she saw, but not everything. A swirl of leaves coming up from the bottom and encircling the cup was definitely a whirlwind or a tornado. To Tuesday it meant batten down the hatches, rough weather ahead. It made her anxious for Holley’s safety. Would she be a target for the maniac going after the people attached to the movie?
She warned Holley about the whirlwind, and then pointed to the bicycle, a positive image. Tuesday liked to see balance in a cup, not leave a client with a feeling of dread or, on the other hand, with their feet too far off the ground.
“Holley, do you see these clumps? The canoe and the cannon?” Tuesday pointed to the images she saw, the canoe symbolizing a friendship turning to true love and a cannon indicating good fortune.
Holley looked up at her, puzzled. She rarely saw the images that Tuesday could spot so easily. She said, “It just looks like we need to wash the cup.”
Tuesday frowned, so she looked some more. “Do you mean the shoes and purses over here?”
Tuesday closed her eyes for a moment to come up with a reply that would not alarm her client, yet encourage her to break through her innocence and be on the alert for trouble. For tucked between the hopeful signs was a cat. Difficulties caused by treachery.
But before she could say another word, a sharp jolt sent every piece of glass in the Café chiming. Tuesday gasped at the unexpected tremor. Holley’s eyes grew wide and filled with fear. She grabbed Tuesday’s hand, unable to speak.
The shock unnerved Tuesday, as well, but she forced a soothing tone into her voice. “Just wait a sec. It’s just an aftershock. Sometimes they can be stronger than the original jolt. Let’s see if it gets worse or calms down.”
They breathed anxious breaths in unison. Finally, all was still. Nothing had fallen. There was no damage in the Café. Tuesday said, “There. That wasn’t so bad. I told you about aftershocks.”
Holley began to cry. Tuesday took another peek in her cup. “Look. Here’s a life preserver. You’re going to be fine.”
Holley searched the cup. She had seen her own life saver. “You know the smudges that look like purses and shoes? It’s telling me to go shopping. I’m getting out of here.”
Tuesday walked Holley to her car. “Listen, if you hear anything from Detective Jameson, you call me. And keep your doors and windows locked. Not that I think anything’s going to happen to you, but you need that sense of security.”
Holley fished her keys out of her purse. “Roger said he would come over and stay with me.’
“Honestly, hon. I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re not totally sold on him and that could create a negative aura. Not what you need.”
“You’re right, Miss Tuesday. I need some me time. I think I’ll stop by the Beverly Center and then go home and take a coconut milk soak.”
“Good idea, sweetie. Stay in touch.”
Tuesday locked up the Café and checked the time on her phone. If the traffic gods were with her, she’d make her appointment with Doctor Darla and be back to open the restaurant on time.
Doctor Darla’s office was right off the 405 and Tuesday arrived at the psychologist’s office with minutes to spare.
Tuesday took the side entrance to the combined workroom and office in the lower level of Darla’s house. This avoided clients spilling into the doctor’s private living space. Doctor Darla was a psychologist with a Ph.D. who had learned to use sandplay from the famed Dora Kalff herself.
Doctor Darla was the only certified professional that Tuesday ever consulted. While the sandplay method of therapy was not part of the occult world that she favored, Tuesday was drawn to the symbolism of the figures she placed in the sand. She trusted implicitly the pictures she created in the tray more than conventional therapy that often told her things she already knew. Olivia often told her a good therapist might do her a world of good. “Just sayin, girlfriend. Not that I would change a multicolored hair on your head.”
But with a dingbat mother who liked the sauce and an absent father? What’s not to know about her cockamamie psyche, she replied.
The sounds of activity rose up the stairwell and mingled with the doctor’s anguished voice. She called out, “Dr. Darla? Are you there? It’s me, Tuesday.”
“I’m buried, Tuesday. Help me, I’m buried.”
Tuesday ran down the stairs and turned the corner into the huge room where Darla saw her clients. The doctor was on her hands and knees surrounded by a miniature universe, her long gray hair falling over her face. Thousands of figures had tumbled onto the floor during the earthquake. Toys, miniature sculptures, dried flowers, all the small representations of the natural world that Darla had been collecting during her four-decade practice and which were essential in her work.
Tuesday could barely take a step without crushing one of the objects. The planked floor was covered with them. She looked up at the walls, lined with bookshelves. All bare, the contents obviously shaken from their perches in the shake.
And sand everywhere. Sand was the medium that Darla used in her practice, the malleable material that clients could shape and mold as they wished. The sand held the objects people arranged in personal worlds that represented aspects of their inner life. Darla had ten trays of sand that she used when she worked with families or held classes for psychology students at the nearby universities. Now it was all a jumble, a giant beach with figures half buried stretching across most of her playroom.
Tuesday had never seen her psychologist so distraught. “Can I help?”
“No, thanks, Tuesday. I have to figure out what to do with this mess. I don’t know what to make of it.”
Tuesday studied the disaster. “Well, I think one of the messages is to bolt your bookcases to the wall.”
Clearly, the other message that came to her as she headed back to the Café was that there would be no help from Doctor Darla today. This time she was going to have to sort out her tangled life on her own.
Chapter Twelve: Bye Kitty
Tuesday saw it as soon as she entered the Café again later that morning. Or rather, she didn’t see it. The Mulberry Cat. The ugly glass sculpture that stood guard over the cash register. It was conspicuously missing. The cat was the work of a prominent, but to Tuesday’s taste, talentless glass blower in Venice Beach who also happened to be married to the Café’s owner. Thus the Café’s name. This was a disaster on a par with the murder of Ariel Cuthbert. If she didn’t find the cat, she could be occupying the coroner’s slab next to the deceased actress. With any luck, it had been sent out for cleaning, but Tuesday wasn’t feeling lucky today. Why should it be her responsibility to find it? Because she knew Natasha. She was a gold medalist in the blame game.
First, she flicked on the lights inside the dining area, then behind the counter that served as a wine bar with a few stools for dining, her eyes straining to catch a glimpse of the turquoise and orange monstrosity.
Where could it be? Who could have moved it? More to the point, who would want it? Or had it been smashed in the earthquake (oh please, oh please, she prayed) and the remains swept up last night? These questions raced through her mind as she pulled chairs off tables and righted water glasses set in place by the night crew, upside down so they wouldn’t catch any dust. And where was the chef?
Marco was usually setting up in the kitchen by now.
Tuesday was fussing with the patio setup she heard the front door open.
“Marco!” she called out over her shoulder. “You’re late. And holy feline, what happened to that ugly cat? Natasha’s going to blow a gasket when she see’s it missing. Did the earthquake eat it up I hope?”
With a big smile on her face, she turned to great the chef, but instead confronted the angry face of her ball and chain storming towards the patio. A se
ething, florid Natasha with Victor at her side. Natasha the owner and Victor the glassblowing husband.
Tuesday did a mental gear change and tried to charm Natasha. “You thought I didn’t know you were there, didn’t you? But I was pulling your leg about the Cat. You know I love it. Don’t you?”
Natasha turned and pointed to the cash register, training her brooding Russian eyes on the veritable altar she had created for the Mulberry Cat with flowers and a ceramic bowl for pennies, as if the sculpture were a wishing well. “Vere is she?”
This was what she was afraid of: the earthquake was not responsible. The cat was missing. “She?” she whispered?
Oh yes, Natasha believed the cat was female. “Natasha, I thought you knew where it was. When I came in this morning it was gone. I assumed Victor had taken it for cleaning or something. I don’t know what happened to it.”
“It was here last night. Did you break it? You let your client come in here on some mornings. That silly actress. Did she steal it?”
Tuesday bristled at the insult directed at Holley. A few knives short of a set, maybe, but Holley was as serious a human being as anyone else. As serious as Natasha, for instance. But this wasn’t the time to argue about Holley. When Natasha was angry anyone and anything could be a target, whether they deserved it or not.
If Natasha didn’t know where the cat was, nobody did. Tuesday explained, “I tried to call you to get permission because it was an emergency reading, but you didn’t answer. But we didn’t touch the Cat. Honest Natasha. I know what that sculpture means to you.”
Victor broke in. “And what it’s worth.” His voice was as small as his stature, with a skinny mustache, stringy beard and painfully small hands for a man. Tuesday wondered where he got the heft to haul his heavy glass sculptures around. When he stood next to his handsome but bulky wife, he could be mistaken for her son.