A Scrying Shame

by Donna White Glaser

  The train display had been roped off with theater-style braided gold rope. A trio of guests stood at the barrier, marveling at the miniature world.

  Everything looked perfect, except, that is, for their host.

  Under an unfortunately form-fitting gray vest, Dick Boyette wore a button-down shirt that seemed an uneasy compromise between teal and mint-green. His tie was . . . plaid. It picked up on the gray and teal, but tossed in stripes of melon and baby blue as well.

  Riann probably dressed him. Dick had to be around the same age as Grumpa, but the resemblance ended there. His clothes were certainly more expensive than anything Grumpa could ever afford. Unfortunately, the style was generations too young for the octogenarian to pull off with any dignity. Even Grumpa in his ratty green bath robe and his blue-veined legs sticking out from the bottom would have been more appropriate than the club scene costume poor Dick was decked out in. And judging from his expression, he knew it.

  The rest of the small assembly looked like a photo shoot for one of those glossy-paged fashion magazines. Arie started sweating just looking at them. She had mistakenly assumed Riann was only inviting the wedding party, but there were twenty or so guests. For most of her life, Arie had been too short and her boobs too big to have ever been considered one of the pretty people. In addition to physical beauty—both genetic and engineered—the crowd seemed to have a secret way of looking at the world that she’d never been privy to; they spoke a language she didn’t understand. Fortunately, she wasn’t alone.

  Right after Riann had foisted the idea for the gathering on her, Arie had insisted that Chandra accompany her. Riann had balked, but Arie had stayed firm, insisting she needed Chandra’s help running the séance. Eventually, Riann realized that Chandra’s attendance would make it look as though Riann was so affluent that even her assistant needed an assistant. The idea tickled the hell out of her, and permission was granted.

  Her mood carried over to the evening, and she waved gaily at the girls when they walked in. However, Riann seemed the only one in good spirits. There was a strange undercurrent of tension that Arie noticed as soon as she and Chandra arrived.

  The fact that she was again woefully underdressed didn’t help.

  In an attempt to establish credibility as a medium, Arie had chosen to wear a long, black swirly skirt combined with a psychedelic, off-the-shoulder peasant blouse. Unfortunately, that meant either going braless—something Arie hadn’t been able to do since she was eleven—or wearing a strapless bra, which, if there was any hope of such a contraption holding up her boobs, meant wearing a bra so tight it came close to cracking her rib cage. It also severely restricted her breathing. Bending over was not an option. She hoped the clanking and jingling of the many bracelets she’d also donned would cover the sound of her shallow panting.

  Chandra had dressed with her usual angsty artiste style, which stood out among the chic fashionista tribe like a flamingo at a peacock parade. Chandra laughed it off and, after stopping to fortify herself with a drink, pushed forward to explore the artwork lining the walls of the apartment.

  Normally, in these situations, Arie would have headed for the nearest wall and made like a flower, but she’d backed herself into a corner earlier by telling Riann she would need at least an hour to mingle and “absorb the energies” of the guests before she could attempt a reading. In reality, she knew she likely wouldn’t have another chance to see the whole wedding party in one place again. She’d met everyone except Chad’s best man, but she wanted to get a sense of how they interacted with each other.

  Kelli stood at the bar, deep in conversation with Chad. She appeared to be doing all the talking while he did all the pouring. Marissa’s younger sister wore a shimmery white cocktail dress that, even dismissing the short time since the funeral, seemed strangely inappropriate.

  Actually, it looked ridiculous. Unlike her petite sister, Kelli was tall and wide at the hips. In a room full of pretty people, she looked almost as out of place as Arie felt.

  As Arie drew close, she heard Chad mumble something but couldn’t catch the words. Kelli’s laugh trilled falsely in response, and she reached up to adjust Chad’s already perfect tie. He downed half his drink in one gulp, then slid past the girl and made his way over to a man Arie didn’t recognize. She wondered if it was Wyatt, Chad’s best man.

  Kelli scowled as Chad left. Arie didn’t feel like dealing with Her Poutiness anyway, so she pretended she’d been heading somewhere else and angled away. She kept her eyes on Chad and his friend.

  Whoever the other guy was, the two made a striking contrast. Chad was an obvious product of wealth. He wore his tailored clothes with ease. His blond hair looked as if it had been genetically bred to flop casually over one eye. His teeth were the result of careful attention by a team of hygienists, dentists, and orthodontists. All in all, he was handsome but in a blurry, generations-of-soft-life kind of way.

  His buddy? Also blond and handsome, but that was where the resemblance ended. As Arie examined him, the word that came to mind most often was sharp. His face, all angles and planes, looked as if it had been carved from marble. His eyes constantly scanned the crowd in watchful, hypervigilant darts. His clothes . . . his clothes seemed right, but he held his shoulders too stiffly, and he fingered the collar of his buttoned-down shirt too often for him to pull off the casualness of the “haves.” When he smiled, Arie spied a tiny chip in one of his front teeth. And underneath it all, he exuded an energy of raw ambition that rivaled even their hostess’s.

  Watching Riann approach the two men, Arie remembered her pseudo-boss’s disappointment when Chad’s brother Mitch had shown up with him that afternoon. Although Riann slipped her arm through Chad’s, her smile seemed solely for his friend’s benefit. He smiled back.

  Unfortunately, as Arie moved to join the trio, so did Kelli from one direction and Dick from the other. Dick slid his arm around Riann’s waist and tried to deliver a testosterone-laden glare to Chad’s friend.

  Kelli handed Chad a drink, which he reluctantly accepted. From the way he chugged it, Arie didn’t think his hesitation had been about the drink itself, but rather the provider of it. He excused himself and made his way to the door, presumably heading to the bathroom. He had acquired that too-careful walk that signified his level of intoxication had breached the dam of good sense.

  Kelli watched his retreating back with narrowed eyes.

  Riann, perhaps as much to distract from the various tensions as for good manners, introduced Arie to the stranger.

  “Arie, I’d like you to meet Wyatt. He was going to be Chad’s best man, and he knew Marissa almost as long as Chad did, didn’t you, darling?”

  Not noticing Dick stiffen—or perhaps not caring—Riann reached up and stroked Wyatt’s cheek with her thumb. “Sorry, darling. I left a little lipstick when we said hello.” She smiled impishly at Wyatt, who chuckled and casually sipped his drink.

  Riann preened, but then Wyatt leaned down and whispered something in Kelli’s ear. The younger woman giggled but stopped as soon as she spied Chad returning from the bathroom. She abruptly pulled away from the group and crossed back to the bar where Chad had stopped to pour another drink.

  Wyatt frowned. “Why can’t she leave him alone? She’s practically stalking him.”

  “My goodness,” Riann said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous.” A sly smile bloomed on her pretty face. “Oh, I get it.”

  “Shut up, Riann. He’s got enough problems. If the cops think he’s interested in another woman—even if it is Kelli—he’s going to be in even deeper trouble than he already is. Of course, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  Riann’s lips thinned as much as her collagen injections would allow. “Oh, right. Like Chad has anything to worry about. He’s got an alibi, remember? But I wonder . . . do the cops know about your history with Marissa? I know Chad doesn’t. That really would be awkward, wouldn’t it?”

  Although Wyatt tried to seem unaffected
, Arie saw his mouth tighten behind the raised glass. His eyes flicked over to Kelli and Chad. Just as quickly, he turned the charm back on and met Riann’s challenging eyes. His lips twisted into a conspiratorial smile.

  “Marissa and I never dated, and you know it,” Wyatt said. “You love to stir up trouble, don’t you?”

  Riann’s giggle cascaded lightly. “You know me so well.”

  Dick cleared his throat. “My dear, you aren’t still planning on holding this séance thing, are you? I don’t think it’s appropriate to—”

  “Oh, Richard, you know how much I’ve been looking forward to it.” Riann clearly awakened to the fact that her supposed fiancé was being neglected. She turned a pouty, kittenish face to him and smoothed her hand over the few wisps of hair clinging to his balding dome.

  His face softened. “But, sweetheart, don’t you think it’s a bit rude to leave the rest of your guests while—”

  “But I’m not leaving them.” Riann’s voice had lost a little of its purr. “We’ll be in the next room, and besides, you’ll be here. And you are the host, after all.” She let her hand rest over his heart.

  “But they’re your friends.”

  Riann stiffened and yanked her hand away. “Well, if you really can’t see your way to helping me out, I guess I’ll have to—”

  Dick caved. “Of course, I’ll help you. I—”

  Riann squealed and leaned over to kiss his cheek. Instead, Dick twisted at exactly the right moment to shift the kiss from cheek to lips. Before she could pull back, he slid his hand around to her backside and, cupping it, pulled her against his body. Riann made a muffled sound. When Dick finally released her, she batted at his shoulder and mumbled, “You are so bad.”

  Dick patted her butt. “Don’t you forget it.”

  For the first time since meeting her, Arie actually felt sorry for Riann.

  Wyatt didn’t. He grinned at Dick’s retreating back. “Still think it’s worth it, darlin’?”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Riann snapped. “Of course it is.”

  “I don’t see a ring on that pretty little finger yet. I’d hate to think you’re wasting your time and, shall we say, talents on that Viagra-popping asshole with nothing to show for it. I bet he spends more time playing with his choo-choo than with you. Or is that the way you want to keep it?”

  “It could be worse,” Riann said. “I could be wasting my time on some dirt-poor asshole and really have nothing to show for it.” Riann spun on her Manolo Blahnik pumps and stalked off.

  Wyatt hooted with laughter, but Arie saw a muscle twitching over his left eye.

  He turned his focus to Arie as if seeing her for the first time or at least, seeing her breasts for the first time. As he stared at them, a slow smile slid across his face. “So you’re Riann’s new psychic friend.”

  Arie had spent years trying to get used to men who boob-talked. She’d never succeeded. She had, however, learned to restrain the nearly irresistible urge to punch them in the throat. Instead, she reached up and poked him in the middle of his forehead. Hard.

  Not all urges needed to be restrained.

  Wyatt’s eyes sprang open. “Hey!”

  “Looka eye, always looka eye,” Arie said, pointing at her own.

  Wyatt’s grin widened, lighting his face with joy. Arie had a sudden insight into what he must’ve looked like as a young boy. Better yet, he’d finally discovered she had a face.

  “Did you seriously just quote The Karate Kid?”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t crane kick you in the danglies. Didn’t your mother teach you better manners?”

  “Considering she ran off when I was three,” Wyatt replied, “she didn’t have a chance. But I’m always open for lessons.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I was acting like a jerk. I’m going to head over for another drink. Are you ready?” Wyatt wiggled his empty glass in the air.

  “I’m good.”

  For a split second, Wyatt’s eyes dipped again to her cleavage, then shot back up. “Yeah, I would say you are.” He walked away before she could deliver the aforementioned crane kick.

  Arie watched him head directly for Kelli and begin flirting her up. Kelli didn’t seem to mind, but her eyes kept tracking Chad.

  This is crazy. Dick obviously adored Riann, who was openly flirting with Wyatt, who was trying to pick up Kelli, who was stalking Chad, who only wanted to get drunk. It was like a thwarted-love conga line.

  She was exhausted.

  Unfortunately, Riann left her to “absorb energies” for another hour, and given her nerves, Arie may have had a tad too much to drink. At least her wallflower tendencies had fallen by the wayside.

  Chandra found her in the middle of a group of people listening with rapt attention to Arie’s description of her biotech job and the difficulties that arose when bluebottle flies discovered dead flesh. One woman, hand clamped over her mouth, had turned an ominous shade of green.

  Chandra dragged Arie into the hall and then through another door into Dick’s man cave. The wedding party had been gathered and sat around what looked like a poker table with an antique lace tablecloth thrown over it. Lit candles had been scattered at tables around the room. Arie’s red crystal ball, with its hidden snippet of Marissa’s blood under the frame, waited for its mistress in front of the only open chair.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Arie took a deep breath and wished she hadn’t drunk that last glass of wine . . . or the two before it.

  She sat down and placed her hands on either side of the crystal ball. When she closed her eyes, the room rose and fell with a soft undulation that had nothing to do with a death vision, so she popped them open again. Another deep breath.

  Chandra turned off the lights. Although the candles flickered, a shroud of darkness descended on the room. An eerie silence broken only by nervous shifting of the participants descended over the group.

  Kelli giggled.

  “Silence,” Arie said.

  Her voice rang in the gloom. Damn. She’d even startled herself. The nervous shifting stopped, and she sensed them turning their undivided attention to her. Arie pulled the crystal ball closer. The flickering candlelight danced like imps in the depths of the blood-red crystal. Arie drew another shaky breath. Looking up, she ran her gaze around the assembled guests.

  “Are you certain you want to do this? When you speak to the dead, you are opening doors that are better left unopened.”

  Somebody gasped. Arie waited, running her gaze from person to person.

  “Yes.” It was Chad.

  The others nodded somberly. Outside, the party could still be heard. People laughed, their voices rising and falling—discordant, but not unpleasant. Inside, all was still.

  “All right,” Arie said. “Close your eyes, and each of you concentrate on Marissa. Think about a memory you have of the two of you. Remember where you were, what you were doing or saying. Think about what you were wearing. Were you eating or drinking something? Are there certain smells you remember?”

  Arie paused for several long moments. “Keep that memory close to your heart.”

  Arie took a deep breath and steadied herself. She leaned forward, and as soon as her gaze touched the crystal ball, the red fog rose and whirled around her.

  Flash.

  The rich, cloying smell of maple syrup fills her nostrils. Pancakes. I love pancakes. How did you know?

  Arie felt Marissa’s giggle floating like bubbles inside her. She put her hand to her throat and forced it down like vomit.

  Flash.

  A small, rather barren bedroom. A poster of a curly headed hunk wearing white sunglasses and a black leather jacket is tacked to the wall. Its bottom left corner curls up like an autumn leaf. Justin. Underneath, a cheap particleboard bookcase leans precariously against the wall; it bears the weight of three eighteen-inch-tall trophies sporting tiny gold cheerleaders suspended forever in midleap. The remaining shelf is crammed with paperback
Stephen King novels and a tattered Raggedy Ann doll, whose little black button eye is missing. The diary—bright, shiny red leather—sits next to the doll. Rags . . . have to keep it safe. If they ever find out . . .

  Flash.

  On the lake, floating. Drifting. The sun is hot on my face and shoulders. It feels like my skin will sizzle when the cool water drips from the paddle as I swing it to the other side. His kayak bumps mine, and we laugh. On the dock now. I’m watching the sun go down. It turns the lake into pink frosting, and I want to eat it right up. He comes up, hugging me from behind, and I nestle into his strong arms. I twist around, and our kisses burn as hot as the sun. Oh, Wyatt . . .

  Flash.

  The journal. It’s old now—the red leather cracked and faded. The lock is still silvery-bright and shiny, and so is the tiny key.

  Flash.

  Another key. Dull metal. Bigger. The smell of bleach fills my nose and mouth.

  Flash.

  A two-inch thick pile of papers, stacked neatly on the edge of the desk. Rags . . . she wants my book. She can’t . . .

  Flash.

  His head rests on my lap. I run my fingers through the curls, so thick my fingers catch. Women would kill for this hair. Brant’s laughing face tilts to mine. He reaches up and draws my face to his.

  The realization that she was about to lock lips with her own brother yanked Arie back to herself. She shoved herself away from the crystal ball, sending it spinning across the table. Wyatt lunged and caught it before it tumbled from the table.

  Brant’s face. Younger, leaner, and with an expression that hurt Arie’s heart. Hurt, because she’d never seen him look that way before: at ease and filled with quiet contentment.

  “Are you okay?” Chandra gripped Arie’s shoulder.

  Arie could only manage a nod, so she was basically lying with her head. Mitch rose and left the room, turning the lights on as he went. When he returned, he brought her glass of water.

  “I’m going to need a minute,” Arie said.

  “It’s okay. I’ve got some of it written down.” Chandra held up a notebook.