by Patrice Lyle
He was officially my hero.
"Thanks. I based my talk on my title, but now I'm worried I haven't memorized it enough." I'd planned on winging it, but that was before I'd met Tattoo Tex. He was a major distraction.
What if I bombed on stage, and people laughed? Or what if Mystic Ming's spirit guide got people to laugh at my hair? I grabbed my emergency dark chocolate crisp bar from the inside pocket of my purse. The first bite went down smoothly. Yum. You can do this, I told myself.
Just focus on your notes, not Tattoo Tex.
"A doc who eats chocolate? Sign me up for an appointment."
I nearly melted like a dark chocolate bar left in a hot car. I'd been waiting my whole life for a man who'd appreciate my chocolate addiction. Who would have thought he would come in the form of a jock cowboy?
I flashed him a smile. "I'm accepting new patients."
"Lucky me."
He sure was cute and nice too. Nice enough, I bet, to do me a favor. Why not ask? "If Mystic Ming asks an obnoxious question, will you inquire about my Karmic Law of Caloric Subtraction philosophy?"
"Certainly ma'am. Just as long as you tell me what it is."
I quickly filled him in on my spiritual-bloating beliefs, and he nodded as if he got it. And I didn't think it was an act either. He actually did understand. The next question I wanted to ask him was: Where have you been all my life?
But I still had the whole Floyd thing going on—plus it might be a tad bit too soon.
"Excuse me, everybody." Yoga Girl appeared on stage in front of the mike. "Our lunchtime speaker is Dr. Piper Meadows. A special treat because we aren't going to allow doctors at the show next year."
I glanced at the psychic-surgeon dude and wondered about his fate at next year's expo. He sat beneath his morbid sign, staring blank-faced at Yoga Girl. Maybe he was exempt?
Mystic Ming stood up and booed. How immature. But when Tattoo Tex shot the rude psychic an ultra-masculine look that said, back off, I was grateful. And excited in a romantic tingly way. My temperature spiked as I gazed at Jock Cowboy.
Why had I been so ignorant about Western stuff?
Mystic Ming glared at Tattoo Tex. "You again? Don't you know cowboy hat look stupid at beach?"
Tattoo Tex stiffened, but his face remained composed.
"Mystic Ming, please be respectful of all expo speakers and vendors," Yoga Girl warned.
Mystic Ming sat in his chair and crossed his arms, while an I-twisted-my-chopstick-too-tight look settled on his face.
"Dr. Piper Meadows received her naturopathic doctor degree at Brook University of Natural Medicine." Yoga Girl read my bio from a sheet of paper. "She has a growing practice in Sea Spray, Maryland, where she helps people transition into healthier lives without prescription drugs, using natural health principles. She's written a book called Health Nuts Rock. Without further ado, may I present Dr. Piper Meadows?"
I edged toward the stage amidst a lackluster welcome. A few people clapped, mainly Babette, who let out an ear-piercing shriek. Followed by, "Make health nuts proud." And then Tattoo Tex let out a whoop, followed by a loud, "Health nuts rock."
My confidence soared as I glided toward the podium, taking center stage. My heart wasn't pounding like a jackhammer, and I wasn't sweating like a marathon runner in Miami. I felt like me. Dr. Piper Meadows, ND.
Saving the world…one chocolate-lover at a time.
"Hi, everyone. I'm so happy to be here today to talk about how you don't have to be a nut to be healthy." I held up a copy of my book that Yoga Girl had left on the podium. "The title of my book is Health Nuts Rock: You Don't Have to be Certifiable to be Certifiably Healthy."
That got a few smiles. Yes!
"When a new patient comes to see me, I find out what caused his or her symptoms." I paused to let my message sink in. "Many chronic health problems that Western medicine routinely addresses with medications can be alleviated with a comprehensive wellness program. Let's go through each letter in the term, health nut. H stands for hydration. The body needs water to function optimally, including your brain. I always ask people, would you rather have a plump plum brain or a raisin brain?"
More smiles. But the biggest one was from Tattoo Tex. He'd come closer to the stage and stood with one foot pressed against the wall. His intense focus was on me.
The audience seemed to be digesting my talk, judging by a few people who nodded. One lady even took notes. I was happily on to A, for acid alkaline balance, when the crowd rallied. I glanced up from my notes and saw Aunt Alfa trailing behind a hotel worker who was pushing a cart filled with take-out bags.
The Chinese food.
She smiled at me and winked, and then she oversaw the food distribution, playing the perfect hostess. Except when she came to Mystic Ming. She grabbed his bag and pelted it at him.
He caught it and inspected the gigantic letters written on the paper bag. "Better be peanut-free killer kung pao, like it say."
"It's killer, all right." She edged toward him, her arm muscles flexed. "Killer spicy."
Yoga Girl, who was perched on a chair at the edge of the stage, cleared her throat. "Can everyone please refrain from conversation while our speaker finishes her talk?"
I let out a breath, happy to have avoided a Mystic-Ming-versus-Aunt-Alfa brawl.
"Now we come to L, for lymphatic exercise," I said. "Your lymphatic system is part of your immune system. It's called your doctor within that neutralizes foreign invaders—"
Mystic Ming crinkled his bag, tossed it into the corner of his booth, and shoveled a forkful of food into his mouth. I was about to resume my talk when he clawed wildly at his throat.
"Help Mys…" Then he collapsed.
Not again. I rushed off stage, even though he'd cried peanut before, just in case. When I arrived at his booth, the rude psychic writhed on the carpet for a moment before going as still as a frozen chicken. I bent over him and checked his vitals.
Holy chocolate babka. I can't find a pulse. He wasn't faking it this time.
"Is Mystic Ming okay?" Yoga Girl asked in a squeaky, OMG, I'm-so-totally-freaked-out tone.
"No." I stood up and announced the bad news. "Mystic Ming's dead."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ding Dong, the Psychic's Dead
I stared at Mystic Ming, uncertain what to do next. How could he be dead? I checked his pulse again. Yep, there was no denying it. He was officially expired. Gone. Sayonara.
"Somebody call 9-1-1." A somber feeling settled over me. Could I have done more to save him? And what had killed him?
The white plastic fork covered in brown sauce clutched in Mystic Ming's hand was a clue. As was the Styrofoam container on his table, filled with kung pao shrimp.
The lunch. The restaurant must have forgotten the no peanut mandate.
"You okay, Doc Meadows?" Tattoo Tex reached into the booth and set his hand on my arm, a gesture I found most reassuring.
"I think the Chinese restaurant made a mistake and put peanuts in his meal." I peered into the container, in search of the little brown offenders.
But I didn't see any.
"I told them no peanuts," Aunt Alfa piped up. She tapped Mervyn on his shoulder. "Isn't that right?"
He nodded. "She reminded the guy at the restaurant, and he assured us that the kung pao shrimp was peanut free."
"Are you positive about that?" Babette's accusatory tone surprised me. "I recall Alfa telling you that she wished the psychic who started the brouhaha would drop dead."
Murmurs erupted from the crowd, and a few expo attendees pointed at my aunt and whispered. Uh-oh. My chest tightened. I didn't like where this was headed.
"She wasn't serious," I said. "People say stuff all the time that they don't really mean."
"And sometimes they say stuff they do mean." Babette's former glittery friendliness was gone. "The universe listens to our words. If you project negative desires into the cosmos, they can manifest."
"The Law of Attraction is alive and
well." Garnett's gemstone earrings twinkled in the overhead lighting as she strolled past Mystic Ming's booth and appraised the scene. "You have to be careful what you wish for."
Was it my imagination, or did Garnett have a look of glee on her face? I glanced at the others who stood on the sidelines, peering at Mystic Ming's corpse. No eyes were being wiped, and no noses were being blown.
"But Aunt Alfa didn't wish Mystic Ming dead." The hairs on my arms leapt up, and I backed out of Mystic Ming's booth.
Right into Tattoo Tex.
"Steady thar, ma'am."
The firmness of Jock Cowboy's chest against my back was just the distraction I needed. No disrespect to the deceased, and I knew this was highly inappropriate, but tingles of desire shot from my waist down.
"Did anyone call the police?" Tattoo Tex asked in a manly take-charge tone.
"Yes, I'm Detective Fifi Franks of the Manatee Police Department," a serious-sounding woman's voice said. "I just arrived to check out the expo, but it looks like I'm here to investigate the psychic's death."
With a name like that, I expected a petite blonde who had a white poodle for a police dog. But that wasn't the case. A six-foot plus woman with the body of a pro-wrestler and wearing a khaki suit strode toward Mystic Ming's booth. Her dark brown bob reminded me of a pageboy.
She gazed at Mystic Ming's body and shook her head. "Shouldn't have waited to book a psychic reading."
"I can help you." Bubbly Babette was back, and she had a new target. "I've been a psychic for over twenty years, and I regularly commune with the other side."
"I'm an intuitive too, and I have a blog talk radio show, The Vegan Vixen. It's got a huge following." Vesta handed a shiny pink business card (totally cute) to Detective Fifi. "I can do a tarot spread for you and tell you exactly what's going to happen in your work and love life over the next decade."
Charles stepped forward in his bizarre white scrubs. "I can operate on your spiritual self and cut out all negative experiences that are clouding your aura."
How crass. These people are vying for Mystic Ming's business.
"Thanks." Detective Fifi slid Vesta's card into her pants pocket. "I'll consider the show's other psychic offerings, but first I need to do my job and figure out how Mystic Ming died. The investigation team will arrive soon. You're all potential witnesses so we need to speak to each one of you about what happened before you leave. Please be patient."
* * *
An hour later, they called Aunt Alfa. I sat in a folding chair in the hallway, outside a makeshift interrogation room that had been set up in the hotel manager's office. My gut was in a twirl. How had Mystic Ming died? Did someone orchestrate his death? And what in the world was Aunt Alfa saying to the police? The only brush she'd had with the law was the not-so-occasional speeding ticket.
But surely that wouldn't cast her in a suspicious light?
"Dr. Piper Meadows?" A policeman with a tan that suggested he either spent all day in the sun or was in possession of the most awesome bronzer in the universe, which could only be Sparkle O, appeared with a clipboard.
I raised my hand. "Here."
He motioned me to follow him to the pseudo-interrogation room. Once I reached the doorway, he hurried off.
"Have a seat." Detective Fifi gestured at two folding chairs across from a desk piled with crumpled Manatee Burgers bags and a nametag that read, Wilbur Harrison, Hotel Manager.
"Thanks." I sat down and realized this was the first time I'd been involved with a police investigation. A hint of panic spiraled through me as images of crime television whirled through my mind. Would I be required to offer a DNA sample? Would I be frisked? What about a polygraph?
"What's your name and contact info?" she asked.
So far so good.
"Dr. Piper Meadows, ND. I live in Sea Spray, Maryland."
After I rattled off the exact address, Detective Fifi fixed me with a no-nonsense gaze. "You're the one who discovered the victim was dead, correct?"
"Yes, I was on stage giving my new Health Nuts Rock talk when Mystic Ming screamed from his booth." I recounted his exact words and how they related to the L part of my acronym about the lymphatic system and foreign invaders.
She didn't seem impressed with my account. "How'd you assess he was dead?"
"I checked for a pulse."
"Did he have one?"
"No." Wasn't that obvious?
She glanced at her notebook and furrowed her dark brown eyebrows. "You're a naturopathic doctor?"
"Yes. I have my own practice."
"Are you like a medical doctor?"
"Sort of." Once again, I prepared to defend my profession. "The first two years of naturopathic medical school are essentially the same as traditional medical school, but during the last two years we study natural methods to treat disease and improve health, as opposed to the predominant use of prescription drugs and surgery."
She leaned back in Wilbur's chair and considered my statement. "Are you medically qualified to assess death?"
"Yes." I knew I wasn't wrong in my assessment. He'd definitely been dead.
She anchored her elbows on the table and steepled her fingers beneath her chin. "What's your relationship to the deceased?"
I hesitated. I was pretty sure spouting out, he called my hair a dung beetle nest, did not qualify as a relationship. Plus would that make me appear to have a motive?
So I said, "I only met the man today."
"Where?"
"Here. At the expo."
"I figured that." She rolled her eyes. "Could you be more specific?"
"In the elevator. I was headed down to the exhibit hall when he got in."
"And?"
"And what?" Aside from making me look like I had a proverbial ax to grind, it suddenly felt wrong to tell her about the dung beetle comment. Like I was talking ill of the dead.
"Did you and he speak?"
"Yes."
"What about?"
There was no way out of it. "He made an unsolicited comment about my hair."
A serious look spread across her face. "What'd he say?"
"That my hair looked like a dung beetle nest. Or that I'd been caught in a typhoon. But it was all very tongue-in-cheek, I assure you."
"Tongue-in-cheek?"
"Yeah. I don't think he really meant it." My cell phone chirped twice in my purse, signaling the receipt of a new text. Should I check the message? What it if was Aunt Alfa making her one text?
Did they allow those? I mean, I knew about the one call.
Detective Fifi nodded at my purse, as if sensing my internal debate. "Go ahead."
"Thanks." I extracted my phone and stifled a gasp as I read the words on the tiny screen.
Mystic Ming meant it. Mystic Ming still think your hair look like dung beetle nest. Look worse actually.
The fine blonde hairs on my arm arched, and I swallowed. My throat was dry and my stomach trembled. Could it really be Mystic Ming texting from the other side? Did cell phones even work in the afterlife? What about roaming charges?
"Is there a problem?" she asked.
"No." My phone chirped again. Oh, no.
I quickly read the message.
Mystic Ming has huge problem, Dr. Meadows. Mystic Ming dead! You find out who kill me.
A chill raced down my neck, and I dropped my phone back into my purse. "Thanks for allowing me to check that."
"Anything pertinent?"
My pulse hastened, and I considered showing her the text, but it had to be a joke. I forced a smile. "No."
Suspicion hovered on her face for a moment. "Back to your story. The deceased made a comment to you?"
"Yes, but it wasn't a big deal."
She eyed my mop. "A man tells you your hair looks like a dung beetle nest, and it's no big deal?"
Okay, she had me there. She didn't wear much makeup, but her hair was shinier than freshly painted nails so she had to know that rude hair remarks were uncool.
"It was
a little annoying, but I didn't freak out about it."
She made a few notes. "Did you have an altercation with the deceased earlier today?"
"No."
"You sure about that?"
My mind raced, still tied up in fits of confusion about the text. Think. What altercation? Then I realized what she was getting at.
"Are you referring to when my aunt brought my potbellied pig, Brownie, to our booth and Mystic Ming collapsed?"
She nodded. "Tell me what happened."
I recounted the story while she scribbled on her notepad, turning the page every few seconds. Hmm. Why was she so interested in this?
"Did the deceased inform your Aunt Alfa that he had a peanut allergy during this altercation?"
I thought back to the scene. "Yes, I guess he did."
More notes. "Did your aunt have a relationship to the deceased?"
I swallowed. "No."
"Are you aware that the deceased didn't want any doctors at the New Beginnings Psychic show?"
"I learned that today."
"I've obtained a copy of your application to the expo, which I understand your aunt filled out." She handed me the document in question. "Is your information correct?"
I recognized my aunt's handwriting and scanned the page for the professional designation. As Aunt Alfa had confirmed earlier, the word aromatherapist appeared after my name.
"Everything's right except my title."
"Have you ever been an aromatherapist?"
"No."
"So that's a lie?"
"Detective Fifi, my aunt is ninety-one years old and an aromatherapist. She probably had a senior moment and listed her own title." Sometimes it pays to play the age card.
"Keep reading." She pointed at the paper in my hands. "There's more."
I followed her instructions and zoomed past my name, address, phone number, credit card information, and the items I planned on selling at the expo. All standard stuff. Then I saw what she must have been referring to.
At the very bottom of the page, in pretty italics, the expo's mandate was spelled out. Please, no doctors except for those healers with spiritual doctorate degrees. New Beginnings wants to focus specifically on the psychic and spiritual realm of health.