by Polly Iyer
“I have a strong sensation you want to quit something, maybe your job. No, no,” she said shaking her head. “That’s not it. Ah, you want to quit smoking, but you’re afraid you’ll gain weight, like before.”
“How did you … I can’t believe you know that.” Elsie turned to the audience. “How did she know that?”
Because I’ve been there. Every smoker has. The struggle with the pounds was worth it, because quitting restored her sense of smell, a vital tool of the trade. “You can do it, Elsie. Just takes a little willpower, and a patch or two.” Murmured agreement skittered through the audience. Acutely aware of her timing, she held off another moment to let her success resonate. “By the way, Elsie, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? About what?”
“I sense you recently lost a pet, a traumatic experience you haven’t quite gotten over.”
“Yes, our dog, Beamer. He was a member of the family.” She dabbed the damp tissue to her eyes. “Did my husband tell you this?”
“No,” Diana said. “You told me.” Now a buzz rose from the theater. Diana waited, milking the theatrical moment for all it was worth. She didn’t enjoy resurrecting the woman’s loss, but the emotional response of touching a raw nerve never failed to pull the audience into her mystical world.
“But I see you have a new puppy in your life. A border collie you’ll grow to love as much as Beamer.”
A smile lit Elsie’s face. “Yes, he’s a love.”
After a few more on-target disclosures, Diana ended the reading. Elsie hugged her and left the stage to a thunderous ovation.
Diana acknowledged her fans with an appreciative smile, careful not to bask too long in their adulation. The smile faded when a knifelike pain stabbed the back of her neck. Her hand shot to the base of her skull, and she massaged the tendons until the discomfort eased.
What the hell was that?
Composing herself, she bowed and left the stage. The persistent applause almost drowned out the announcement that the show would resume after a ten-minute break to give Ms. Racine a chance to rest.
“How’d you know about the dog?” Diana’s father, hot on her heels, almost tripped her.
“Lucky guess.” Diana hurried toward her dressing room, still rubbing the ache in her neck. She attributed the unsettling twinge to exhaustion, or maybe she jerked her head and pulled something. What else could it be? She snatched a cold bottle of water from the mini fridge, rolled it across her cheek and around her neck, then reclined on the chaise. After twisting off the cap, she gulped half the bottle.
“Did Jason get that information for you?” Galen paced the floor, hands stuffed in his pockets, a strand of thinning gray hair flopped onto his forehead. He looked at Diana curiously. “I don’t remember nothin’ ’bout no animal.”
“Galen, I’m tired. No inquisition, please. The woman lives on a farm. It’s only natural she’d become attached to an animal. Deductions. Sometimes they’re better than facts. Besides, I mentioned an animal; she brought up the dog. Might have been a lamb for all I knew.”
“Yeah, but she didn’t mention a new puppy. You did. And she sure as hell didn’t mention no border collie.”
“What’s the first thing someone does when their dog dies? They get another one. So, like I said, lucky guess. Border collies are farm dogs. Hell, I bet old Beamer was the same breed.”
“They herd sheep, not cows.”
Unwilling to rise to the discussion, Diana put her head back and closed her eyes. “Do we have to go to that Mardi Gras party tonight? I’ll be drained after this.”
“You sound like you’re actually readin’ ’em. How could you be drained? All you gotta do is memorize a few things. What’s so hard about that?”
“I guess I’m tired from the schedule. This is the sixth performance in seven days, with only one day off between cities, and that was a travel day.”
“You got nights off between shows this week, and when they’re over, you’ll have a few days to rest. And yes, we have to attend the party. Won’t look good if you don’t show up. Besides, lots of important people’ll be there. You get a few new clients from this shindig every year. Good publicity too.”
“Just what I need, more publicity.”
“Ain’t done you no harm up to now, that’s for sure. You’ve packed every house, not to mention the fees your private clients cough up.”
“That’s because I’m good at what I do.” She rolled the water bottle across her forehead. “God, it’s hot out there.”
“You got ’em eatin’ right outta your hand, little girl. They’re believin’ every word you say. Hell, even I believed you.”
Diana scowled at her father. “Thanks for reminding me what a fake I am.”
“Get over it. I don’t have to remind you ’bout the nice livin’ you’re makin’. Come on, up. Time to get on out there. Remember, third row from the back on the end. Young man, twenty-two, just graduated college.”
“I remember. Lots of school loans, cheerleader girlfriend, Mustang. I remember.” She dragged herself off the chaise. “Where’s Blanche?”
“Your mother’ll be here in time to go to the party. Now go on, scoot.”
Diana took another sip of water, freshened her lipstick, and hustled back toward the stage. She hated when she was tired, cranky, and acting like a prima donna. She hoped that didn’t come across in her performance or she’d read about it in the morning papers. Besides, her neck still tingled and she didn’t understand why. A quick, chiropractic jerk of her head produced a satisfying crack, and she massaged the area. As she was about to pull back the curtain, Jason, her computer researcher, caught her arm.
“How’d you know about the dog?”
“Lucky guess. You know, farm, animals. Women get attached.”
“This was a little closer than that. Border collie? No information I gave you.”
“I’m a psychic, remember?” She winked and pointed to her head, as if that explained everything.
“Yeah, well, when you veer from the script like that, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Spooks me, Diana.”
“Gotta go, Jase. That’s my cue.” She smiled, blew an air kiss, and sashayed onstage to the waiting crowd.
Acknowledgments
To my good friend, brilliant critique partner, grammarian, and outstanding author, Ellis Vidler, for her constant support, encouragement, and generosity. She’s forgotten more about writing than I’ll know in my lifetime. To versatile and talented author, Maggie Toussaint, for critiques that strengthen my stories and point out what I fail to see. To terrific suspense author, Peg Brantley, for being the first to read the finished manuscript. She caught goofs aplenty but gave me a thumbs up that I badly needed. To writer E.B. Davis, for her support over the years and critiques I always value. To John W. Kurtze, who offered to read Backlash and found a glaring error. Thankfully, that didn't stop his great review even before the book was published. I'm indebted to you, Mr. Kurtze.
Backlash was my most difficult book to write because it was the third book in the series. I hope I haven't let down readers who enjoyed the first two books.
Thank you all