by Shara Lanel
She set her mug on the scarred coffee table. “It’s a way of opening up to the vibrations and spirits that you wouldn’t normally be aware of. Your third eye, it is sometimes called. Clairvoyance.”
“Okay.” It sounded like a lot of bullshit to him, but she looked intense as she explained it, as if willing him to understand. “And how is it done?”
“You’re familiar with a crystal ball, of course. But a black mirror is far more common, because it is easy to make and a lot less expensive. The first time, when I saw the car, I was using a silver bowl filled with clear water. The energy of the water usually works best for me.”
He still didn’t get how this was done. He’d been subjected to palm reading and tarot cards at parties, but no one had pulled out a crystal ball and claimed to see his future in it. “You see images in the water?”
“I think of it as reflecting the knowledge of our third eye back to us.”
“You said the ‘first time’. Was there a second time?”
“Yes. That time I used several herbs that help with clairvoyance.”
Okay, this seemed wackier and wackier. He’d laugh if she was anyone else, but her beauty combined with her earnestness kept him silent. He noted that she hadn’t mentioned any sort of sacrifice to gain power. He knew of some in the Cuban neighborhood who practiced Santeria, which involved killing chickens, but his neighborhood had been mainly Mexican Catholics.
“So your theory is that the murder wasn’t meant to summon something. What was it meant for then?”
“I don’t know.” She rubbed her chin and stared off into space. “Maybe I should try again, try to visualize the ritual itself.”
“You think you could get more information?”
“I just don’t know. I could also sense the auras of those involved and get a sense of guilt, but, of course, I’m not allowed anywhere near the family.”
“Auras?” Now she sounded like a New Age freak, someone who hung out at that shop on Seventh and wore crystals and flowing peasant skirts.
“Like colors around a person that give you clues to their feelings and personalities. Like whether they’re depressed or trustworthy or whatever.”
“Do I have an aura?”
She sighed. “You don’t believe.”
“Did you really expect me to?”
“No, but you’re listening longer than the others, which I appreciate.”
He thought for a moment. He could ask to watch her as she scryed. Would it help him prove her a charlatan?
“Explain the significance of the pentagram to me.”
“It represents the five elements—air, earth, water, fire and spirit. Spirit is at the top as most important. It is for invocation and protection and a symbol of our religion, but we did not create the pentagram. It’s been used for other purposes in history. As protection, I wear the silver chain with the pentagram pendant. I also have pentagrams around the house, on potholders and trivets, carved into candles, in lace doilies on several tables.” She pointed to the side table, which he’d barely glanced at since the woman before him was so captivating. Focusing on the lace, he saw the shape knitted into the circle. It was under a lamp and a box of tissues.
“They’re not obvious,” Gabe noted.
“I don’t want to bowl people over with my beliefs. I very strongly believe in ‘live and let live’. Unfortunately most people don’t seem to share my philosophy.”
During the drive over, Gabe set an appointment to see Mrs. Horton at five. He stood, which felt good to his legs. “I’m sure I’ve taken up too much of your time, but it is fascinating. Much to think about.”
Shylah glanced up at him. “And will you?”
“Hmm?”
“Think about it. Will you think about what I’ve told you today?”
“Definitely. Very eye opening.” He walked to the door.
Jet lag was killing him. He’d go back to the hotel after talking to Mrs. Horton and save tracking down Jorge and Dave, Lalia’s father and stepfather, for tomorrow. He hated having to treat the victims’ families as suspects, but that was part of the job.
Mrs. Horton was at home alone. He’d explained his relationship to Angela when he’d first called, which smoothed over the meeting.
“Oh please call me Vicky,” she said as she led him to her well-worn couch. Her makeup was caked on and the colors a bit eighties, while her clothes were skintight jeans and a Grateful Dead t-shirt. She was definitely heavier on top, making Gabe wonder if her breasts had been augmented in some way. He asked the whereabouts of her husband first.
She offered him a beer and sat on the couch right next to him so that he nearly choked on the smell of her cheap perfume. He slid over some, not only to keep from touching her but to see her expression better. She took a long draw on her own beer and said, “Michael works at that big Lowe’s in Zion Crossroads. He’s a manager, so his schedule changes around a lot.”
“How late is he working today?”
“Seven, and he won’t mind talking to you, but he’ll tell you flat out that you can’t do nothin’ that hasn’t already been done.” Her face clouded for a moment as she glanced over at a portrait of Matthew on the side table. Gabe picked it up to examine it more closely. “They kept after Michael, you know, in the beginning, like because he doesn’t work in an office he’s more likely to be a pedophile or something. Whack jobs.”
Gabe met her misty blue eyes. “I’m sure they looked at Lalia’s dad and stepdad very closely too, simply because they were the men in the children’s lives.”
“They shouldn’t have looked at them at all. That Shylah’s the witch. She never should have been allowed to teach in the first place!” She pressed her long fingers into her palm, leaving half-moon marks.
“Statistically, children are more likely to be murdered by someone close to them, family or otherwise, which is why the police looked so closely at the fathers.”
“Don’t talk to me about statistics!” She ended with the volume of a scream, then downed half her bottle of beer.
“Do you work, Mrs. Horton?”
“I’m night manager at the apartments.”
“Which apartments?”
“The only ones we got, the Smith Creek Villa.”
He asked her for the address and a few other details. She said she was usually alone in the office, since nighttime needs were rare, but she was there to be on call if someone needed emergency maintenance. She could do some fixes herself, but usually she was the go-between to find the right specialist for the trouble.
“Do you have a full-time maintenance man during the day, or someone you turn to frequently?” Apartments had all sorts of private nooks and crannies—supply closets, deserted Laundromats, the office itself, bathrooms, under the stairs, between dumpsters and fences. Plus a load of renters, often more transient than house owners.
“Our day guy is Larry Coleridge, but he refuses to come out for nighttime calls. I use Paul Strong of Strong’s Plumbing the most for overnight disasters. What does this have to do with Matthew?” The sadness had become ingrained in her face, overshadowing her long-held cheerleader captain confidence.
“Did Matthew ever visit you at work or come to the apartments for any reason?”
Mrs. Horton bit her lip. “He’s…he used to be…with me when I went in to get my paycheck Friday afternoons. Never at night…” She paused in thought. “I did bring him with me one night when Michael got stuck at work for an overnight inventory, but he never left the office and spent most of his time asleep on the couch.”
“No one came in while he was there, spoke to him?”
She tapped her bottom lip with her index finger. “I think Paul may’ve come in once when Matthew was there, but I honestly can’t remember if he spoke to him or if Matthew was asleep. If he was, Paul may’ve noticed him on the couch. I never once left him alone.” Her voice took on a defensive tone.
“Mrs. Horton, please don’t feel I’m blaming you at all. I know I’m cover
ing much of the same ground as Angela’s previous detectives, but perhaps I’ll find something new they missed, however unlikely.”
“Our detectives.”
“Excuse me?”
“They were our detectives too. We paid our share. We wouldn’t sit here and do nothing for our boy.”
“I’m sorry. Of course you did. It’s just the fact that I’m Angela’s cousin that I referred to her only, a slip of the tongue.” When she nodded, Gabe asked for the phone numbers of everyone she worked with at the apartments and directions to the Lowe’s to find her husband.
“So, do you think you might find something new?” Mrs. Horton’s eyes lit up for just a moment as they both stood.
“As I told Angela, please, don’t get your hopes up. Even if I do find a crumb that was missed before, it doesn’t mean it will prove anything.” He patted her shoulder. “Not to make light of things, but I’m here so my Aunt Eldora, Angela’s mom, will start speaking to me again.”
The woman gave him a wan smile. “Family is so important.”
That it was. Years ago, Gabe had married a Protestant woman. Since he’d been pretty much a lapsed Catholic since high school, her religious denomination hadn’t seemed like a big deal to him. But his devout Catholic father flipped out, particularly when Gabe’s wife mentioned that they planned to raise their children as Methodists. He and his father never recovered from the ensuing fight though the marriage had fallen apart quickly for a variety of reasons, like Gabe’s business going bankrupt and his wife’s dream lifestyle. When Gabe had tried to mend the rift, his papa went off because he wouldn’t get the marriage annulled through the church. Gabe decided it was just easier to stay away from his family.
Then his father had died.
As Gabe left the Horton house and headed for his car, he thought about how hard it must’ve been for Angela to lose Lalia so quickly, so irrevocably, and he wished he’d been able to come out and work on the case sooner. He never wanted to let down his family again.
Of course, family emotions had been known to lead to murder, so he reminded himself to ask Michael Horton about his extended family. He knew Angela’s extended family, even her in-laws, pretty well, but he should try to talk to them as well.
His talk with Mr. Horton did not go well. They were in the back of the store near the stacks of lumber and fences, with half a dozen do-it-yourselfers asking questions and taking measurements. Gabe tried to drag the father to someplace quieter, like a break room, but his tone went from belligerent to cutting in a few minutes. Gabe would be worried the man was reacting that way because of guilt, but the man also broke into tears every time Gabe asked him a question. His grief seemed genuine, but a murderer could feel genuine grief for a victim. Gabe wouldn’t cross him off the list, but his gut said the only guilt Mr. Horton felt was from being unable to protect his child. He gave Gabe a list of a few extended family members, but none lived in town. Most of them lived in Richmond or Hampton. He planned to at least speak to them on the telephone.
* * * * *
Shylah stared at the tarot spread before her, but instead of divining her client’s future, she envisioned the face of private detective Gabe Niguel, remembering his arresting eyes and the flicker of interest he’d shown in Wicca. She couldn’t deny she was attracted. Too bad the only time she was likely to see him was when he was trying to trip her up to prove her guilt.
“What does it say? Is it something bad?” The squeaky voice of the twenty-seven-year-old blonde in the chair opposite interrupted Shylah’s thoughts, which was a good thing. Shylah did not need to be dwelling on possibilities that were impossible.
She refocused on the cards and tried to remember Amber’s question. She was single with a master’s degree in philosophy, but she didn’t understand why she couldn’t find a job or love. Shylah didn’t need the cards to tell her the answers. Amber’s voice grated on her nerves during their half-hour sessions; she couldn’t imagine a man putting up with it for longer than two dates. And she obviously hadn’t thought through the philosophy major as far as the job market. Currently she was a sales associate at a bookstore. Who else would want to discuss Descartes and Plato? Her specific question was, what should she do to move forward in her life? Shylah looked more carefully at the cards, allowing their vibrations and archetypes to speak to her.
“We’ve already discussed some of this,” she began. “And the cards definitely confirm it. You need to turn your philosophy degree into something marketable. The cards offer two pathways, but they both involve going back to school for a short amount of time. You could pursue a second master’s in teaching and use your philosophy knowledge to teach others.” Others who will come out of college as confused as you are. “Or you could explore a degree in theology or the law. Or use your master’s education as more of a liberal arts background to pursue any career that values a college education. Maybe administrative or government?”
“Do the cards say which is best for me?”
“No, because your choice will lead to a different outcome and each outcome looks positive.”
She nodded, though Shylah doubted she was changing her mind about anything. She’d been meeting with Amber for several months and realized Amber’s biggest problem was her inability to embrace change.
“And the man of my dreams?”
Shylah bent her head to the cards again. “Okay, this card recommends that you consider minor changes that will create the energy to draw a man to you.”
“But shouldn’t my perfect man love me as I am?”
Shylah hated to burst her true love bubble. How could Amber be so naïve at her age? “Sometimes you need to do a bit of changing to be able to invite that love energy to you.” She thought about how that related to her life. Was her stubbornness at staying in Smith Creek keeping her from moving on in life, drawing negative energy around her instead of freeing her to find love and, maybe, create a family?
She hadn’t decided to read tarot cards, runes and iChing for money until she’d lost her teaching job. She’d hoped everything would be resolved quickly, but when she realized she was running through her savings, she consulted books and online classes until she felt instinctual about reading. Then she’d put ads in the Richmond and Charlottesville papers, trying to keep it away from Smith Creek. More savings down but lots of responses so she kept at it, eventually leasing a corner of a New Age shop called Good Karma on the Downtown Mall in Charlottesville. It was annoying to have to drive so far, but the mall and the store added walk-in traffic and word-of-mouth to her business. It helped that the store’s owner, Becky, didn’t judge her for who she was.
She used her crystal ball occasionally. She preferred using a bowl of water and sometimes a scrying mirror instead of the crystal, but the average Joe loved the ball. It evoked memories of The Wizard of Oz, she supposed. They also loved positive fortunes, so, although she used her magical insight, she edited her findings to what they wanted to hear. However, for her regulars, there was a fine line. She was almost a shrink to them, so she couldn’t keep her readings all happiness and light, but she couldn’t douse them in truth either, not if she wanted them to come back.
The commercialism left a bad taste in her mouth and brought her back around to wondering if her pride was getting in the way of choosing a new life and moving on. The money from readings wouldn’t sustain her for too long. She’d eventually have to look for a full-time job, but nothing else would fulfill her like teaching.
She was relieved when Amber’s time was up. It was too much like banging her head against a wall. She wondered how counselors and psychologists dealt with this every day, because she had no doubt they dealt with that same fine line.
Her stall was not large enough to offer her a space to disappear in. The three walls of the stall were covered with hanging herbs and spelled candles, which she made at home, things she could sell without infringing on Becky’s business. The front of the stall had a curtain, like those around beds in hospitals, which she pull
ed partially closed during a reading. The walls were painted black but they felt light with all the colors hanging on racks and hooks. The curtain had a huge multicolor fractal design on it. She’d considered embroidering a mystical name on it, like Madam Libra’s Fortunes, but then she’d scare away the serious believers, and they were the most enjoyable to work with.
She returned her cards to their silk bag and pulled the curtain back so customers could see that she was available, then she considered her doodles. She was playing with the idea for a sign that would announce her offer of lessons. Should she include an offer to put together positive spells? An odd fall-out from her new identity of witch-murderer was she actually got people knocking on her door at home, asking her to perform black magick or voodoo on some ex-love or neighbor. She wanted to enact the Three-Fold Law on these visitors. Instead, she just turned them away.
So far, her murderess reputation had not spread to Charlottesville. Usually cities were big enough to maintain a sort of anonymity in them. But she was making friends here, acquaintance friends, not forever friends, as she patronized the vegetarian restaurant and the pizza place almost every day. She’d not had a chance to visit the University of Virginia, which had a cute shop area she’d heard, but she thought she’d do that soon so she could post flyers on dorm bulletin boards, etc.
She wondered if she should buy some sign supplies at a nearby store, but she usually closed up her stall at four p.m., so she’d have to wait. The store speakers emitted gentle New Age music, so one part of her brain was trancing out while the other part was producing more sign ideas.
“I’d like my fortune read, please.”
Shylah startled, both from the sound of a voice where there hadn’t been one for several minutes, and also at the familiarity. The deep, velvety voice flipped a switch in her body, from off to on. But what was Gabe doing here? How had he even found out about her new business? She slowly looked up, mentally squaring her shoulders. What new tact would he try today?