by Patricia Fry
"Don't I know it," he said in all seriousness.
"So tell me; where did you find this fabulous woman?"
Michael chuckled. "She came into the clinic one day with her spunky aunt to pick up a couple of kittens. Her aunt had been clobbered with a rock that day and needed some help, but I couldn't keep my eyes off her beautiful niece. It took a while to convince her to marry me, but she finally said yes and…yeah, man, life is great."
"Moscato, it is," Savannah said when she returned. She handed Peter the glass and then looked from one to the other of the men, who were both staring at her. "What?"
"Nothing," Michael said. "How's Lily?"
"Just fine. Sleeping like a baby, and so is Buffy."
"Where's the big boy?" Peter asked, grinning. "Has he been in any trouble, lately?"
"He's out of the doghouse for now," she said. "Just saw him sprawled in one of Buffy's foo-foo beds."
"That cat's too much," he said. "He's a comedian."
"Yeah, he's pretty funny. But when he's your responsibility, you sometimes lose your sense of humor," she said. "Right Michael?"
"You got that right," he said. "Hey, Peter, we stopped by your gallery today."
Savannah interjected. "Oh yes, we had to rescue Kara."
Peter looked confused. He glanced from one to the other of them. "What happened?" he asked.
"Well, Kara was trying to deliver a painting downtown not too far from the hospital and couldn't find the address," Savannah explained. "Poor thing had been walking all over the place with this big painting."
"What?" Peter asked. "I wonder where she was taking it. I don't know of anyone who asked for delivery in that area." He ran his hand through his hair. "But maybe the order came in while I was gone." He looked at Savannah. "So did she find the address?"
"No. She was going to be late for a class, so we took the painting back to your gallery."
"That's odd. Didn't she check the address with Dawna?"
Michael nodded. "Yes. She said she had been in touch with her and Dawna would give her different directions and she got confused."
"Strange," Peter said. "Very strange."
"But here's something else odd," Michael said, leaning forward, cupping his wine glass in both hands. "I took the painting in to Dawna and she practically threw me out of the gallery."
Peter scowled. "What? Why would she do that?"
Michael shrugged. "You got me. Maybe she was expecting customers or I was interrupting her lunch or…heck I don't know. But she sure seemed to want me out of there quick."
Peter sat quietly for a few moments, peering into his wine glass.
Finally Michael broke the silence by saying, "There was something else odd, Peter." He hesitated. "Things in your gallery looked different." Sounding apologetic, he said, "It could be me, but I thought things had been moved around. Something was different in there."
Peter thought about that for a moment and then said, "Well, I guess Dawna could have exhibited the art differently today. When she's not busy, she will sometimes move things around. But I don't think it would be so dramatic as to be noticeable." He shook his head. "Although maybe she had a lot of time on her hands because it was another really slow day." He lowered his eyes and let out a sigh. "Sales were down, again."
"So where'd you go today?" Savannah asked, in an attempt to lighten the mood. "Did you fly off somewhere exotic?"
"Yeah, but I didn't get to enjoy the benefits."
Savannah and Michael waited for Peter's explanation. Finally, he said, "I took a commuter jet to Frisco and met with the board of a prestigious art show. Evidently, someone had convinced them they should reject my application."
Savannah frowned. "Gads, is that the type of thing that comes with fame, Peter?"
He shook his head slowly. "I don't know. I just don't know."
"So what about those cameras you wanted installed?" Michael asked. "We've been so busy vacationing that we haven't talked about it again."
"Been thinking on it." He looked Michael in the eyes. "You brought up some good points about using them in the gallery. I mean, the gallery is so broken up—we'd need a lot of cameras. I'm wondering if a recording device would be better for my purposes."
"Hmmm, and put that where? You'd end up with the same problem. Just what do you think you're going to discover through cameras or recordings?" Michael asked.
"Good question." Peter thinned his lips. "I want to know who's causing the problems in my connections…why I'm not making the sales I usually do…who's vandalizing and taking my paintings. Savannah found that one that had been tossed in a Dumpster, for heaven's sake. Who is doing all of this? Is it another artist—someone I know well and trust in my gallery and studio? Is it an employee—Kara, Dawna, Charlynn, or someone from the janitorial service? Maybe it's my technology gal who sets up my slide shows and keeps my website updated. Or is it someone who's close to one of the employees, or a beach bum who feels I snubbed him or who's jealous because he's limited to selling his own art on the sly out on the beach?"
"Maybe it's an old girlfriend," Savannah offered. "Or a former employee."
Peter looked at her. "I just don't know. I threw a bum out of the gallery a month or so ago. I roughed him up some and he was enraged. Could be that he's messing with me."
"What did he do?" Michael asked.
"Oh, he was scaring my customers—talking about how my paintings were of the devil or something. He got pretty obnoxious."
"What did that guy look like?" Savannah asked, sitting on the edge of her chair.
"Oh, greying, long hair, beard, baggy clothes."
"Grey, huh?"
"Yeah, why?" Peter asked.
She frowned. "I thought it might be the guy I've seen hanging around your gallery. But he has brown hair and beard. No grey, that I noticed."
"It's the beach," he said. "California beaches are prime spots for the homeless and the bums. Your description fits about a quarter of that population and mine fits another quarter."
"So was it a successful trip?" Savannah asked.
Peter sat straighter and smiled. "Actually, yes…in more ways than one." When it appeared that the others were waiting for an explanation, he said, "I met someone on the plane."
"Don't tell me," Michael said.
"What?" Peter asked, smirking a little.
"A woman, right? A beautiful woman."
"What can I say?" Peter said, laughing.
"So what will you hire her to do for you?" Michael asked. "…shine your shoes, walk your dog, iron your sheets?"
"She's a psychic," he said, quietly.
"A what?" Michael asked.
"A psychic. And she's good, too." He looked at the couple. "Hey, I invited her over tomorrow night. I thought I'd cater a meal. Would love it if you'd join us." Before they could respond, Peter said, "You know, she told me some things. She guessed…or she read my freckles or something…and knew that I was distressed."
"Heck, I could tell that the minute you walked in tonight," Michael said. "She's probably good at reading body language."
"Naw, it's more than that," Peter defended. "Rochelle told me I had changed careers. Now who would know that?"
"Good guess. Most people change careers these days—more than once," Michael reasoned.
Peter took a sip of wine and gazed at Michael over his glass. He said more quietly. "She picked up on the fact that someone's after me. Said to protect my art because she sees it being destroyed. Destroyed!" he repeated.
"What do you think that means?" Michael asked, pouring himself more wine. "Fire? Flood? A Mother Nature thing?"
"Or something otherworldly?" Savannah suggested.
"Like what?" Peter asked, chuckling. "Ghosts making them disappear? A witch casting a spell? Gremlins beaming them up to Pluto?"
Everyone laughed. Then Peter turned sullen. "I don't actually know what it means. She wasn't specific. If she saw what would destroy them, she didn't reveal it," he said. He was quiet for a
moment and then said, "How about a late dinner out here? It's supposed to be nice again."
Savannah looked hopefully at Michael. "Sounds wonderful. Okay with you, Michael?"
"Sure," he nodded. "I wouldn't mind dining with a psychic."
****
Thursday night, just after seven, the doorbell rang.
"Come in," Michael invited, opening the front door for Peter and Rochelle. Savannah promptly joined them in the living room.
"Savannah and Michael Ivey, this is Rochelle," Peter said.
The woman smiled and offered her hand to Michael and then Savannah. "Nice to meet you. Peter has told me…quite a bit about you."
"Aw, Peter," Michael said, "you haven't been making up outrageous stories again, have you?"
"Nope," he said, grinning. "Only the truth shall pass through these lips."
"Well, we've heard some good things about you, too, Rochelle," Savannah said, smiling.
Just then, she noticed Gladys walk in from the kitchen, carrying the baby. "Oh, Rochelle, this is my mom Gladys and, this week, our nanny." She kissed the baby on the cheek. "This is our daughter, Lily."
"What a sweet child," Rochelle gushed, walking toward her. "How old is she?" she asked, reaching out and taking the baby's hand.
"Six months," Savannah said, smiling.
Rochelle glanced at Gladys. "You must be a proud grandmother."
Gladys nodded and looked down at Lily. "Oh yes," she said, smiling.
Rochelle made brief eye contact with Savannah and then studied Lily's face. "She knows stuff, this one," she said. She stood straight, barely taller than Gladys's five-five-inch height.
"Knows stuff?" Michael repeated.
"Yes, she's still tuned in to the other side. She has that…deep understanding that some children have. Most who do, soon forget." Rochelle brushed her light-brown side bangs to one side before saying, "Encourage her when she talks about things you may not understand—imaginary friends, a family member who has passed, dreams…things like that."
"Uh, okay," Michael said. "She hasn't done much talking yet…but…"
"Oh, Michael…" Savannah said, scolding. She then addressed Rochelle. "That's fascinating. I'll definitely listen for things like that when she starts talking to us."
Gladys looked from one couple to the other, shook her head, and said, "Well, it's getting late. I think I'll put this wonder-child to bed. Have fun, kids," she called over her shoulder as she headed for the stairs.
"Want me to carry her up, Gladys?" Michael asked.
"No, I'm okay. Thanks."
"Wait," Savannah said. She walked over and hugged the baby. "Night-night, precious."
Michael kissed the side of Lily's head. "Sleep tight, baby girl."
"Too bad she isn't loved, isn't it?" Peter said, laughing.
Rochelle eyes followed Gladys and the baby. "She is a dear child."
"Can I get anyone a glass of wine, beer, champagne?" Michael offered. "We have a sweet white, a dry white, and sangria. Savannah made the sangria."
"Oh, sangria sounds lovely," Rochelle said. "Thank you."
Peter agreed. "Me, too."
Rochelle glanced toward the kitchen door. "Oh, look at this," she said. "I thought I felt kitty energy in the house."
Savannah turned in the direction she pointed. "That's Buffy. She's our little sweetheart."
Rochelle asked, "Can I pick her up?"
"Sure," Savannah said, "only…"
"Only what?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.
"Well, she stays pretty close to the baby, so she may not want to be held right now."
"Hey, Gladys, come back," Michael called.
"What?" she said, returning to the top of the stairs.
"Just wait for a moment, would you? Rochelle wants to meet Buffy. If you take the baby away, she'll follow you."
Gladys laughed. "She does like being with Lillianna."
Savannah nodded. "Yup, she's like her guardian angel."
Rochelle walked toward the little Himalayan-mix cat and lifted her. "She's so light. I thought she'd be heavier. I guess she's mostly fur." She snuggled with the cat and then looked up at the others. "She's purring. She is just yummy. What a gentle soul."
Savannah smiled, tilted her head, and asked, "Rochelle, would you like to watch Lily's and Buffy's bedtime ritual?"
"Sure," Rochelle said, looking a little puzzled.
"Come on," she invited.
Savannah and Rochelle met Gladys at the top of the stairs and followed her into the little alcove where Lily's portable crib was set up. "Oh, that must be Buffy's bed," Rochelle said, looking down at the pink canopy bed. "How cute is that?" She cocked her head. "But it's occupied. Now who's this?" she asked, seeing Rags sprawled across the bed.
"Oh Rags, you know that's Buffy's bed," Savannah scolded. "Go get in the other one."
She lifted Rags out of the bed and Rochelle put Buffy down on the floor near it. The little Himmie-mix promptly climbed into the bed and sat down, watching the activity around her.
Savannah explained, "Now, as soon as Lily goes to bed, Buffy will curl up and go to sleep. When Lily wakes up in the morning or if she wakes up in the night, Buffy comes to tell us." She laughed. "She's better than that baby monitor we bought."
"Food's here," Michael called from the bottom of the stairs.
"Well, goodnight Buffy and baby Lily," Savannah said. "Thanks Mom,"
"Nice meeting all of you, Gladys, Lily, Buffy, and…Ralph?" Rochelle questioned.
Savannah laughed. "Rags," she corrected.
Once the gals had caught up with the guys in the living room, Peter said, "Ladies, please come out on the deck and be seated. We'll serve your dinner."
"Well, how cool is that?" Savannah said. "Come on Rochelle, we've set up a cozy table for four."
"Nice," Rochelle said, approaching the beautifully set table. She noticed the cluster of enclosed candles flickering in the center of it and lining the deck railings. "It's lovely."
After the salads and bread were served and the couples had engaged in table-talk for a while, Rochelle suddenly asked, "What's that?" She looked to her right and said, "Oh, it's him…what did you say his name is?"
Savannah followed Rochelle's gaze and spotted Rags sitting on the back of an overstuffed chair in the living room, peering out at them. "Rags."
"Or Ragsie," Michael said, teasing Savannah.
"Well, he's my first baby," she defended.
"Was that always his name?" Rochelle asked. "It doesn't seem to fit him just right."
Savannah's eyes widened. "Wow!" she said. "I haven't thought about that in years, but yeah, he did have a different name when I adopted him. At the shelter, they were calling him…"
Rochelle put her hand up and said, "Let me guess. What comes to me when I look at him is Tucker or Tank…" She peered at Savannah through narrowed eyes and added, "Toby?"
Savannah laughed. "Awfully close. It was Tonka."
"Why did you change it?" she asked.
"I don't know. I guess I thought he should have a more sophisticated name."
"Rags?" she asked, lowering her brow.
"Well, it's Ragsdale," Savannah said.
"Ooh," Rochelle said. "So an interesting name for an interesting cat." She gazed at him for a few moments and then said, "He's…special." Savannah and Michael watched Rochelle as she spoke. When she broke her gaze with Rags, she looked at Savannah and then Michael and said, "He's an unusual cat. Not ordinary." She paused, waiting for an explanation.
"Well…" Savannah started.
"He's a thief," Peter blurted, laughing.
Savannah shrugged. "That about sums it up."
"Oh," Rochelle said, a knowing smile on her face, "a klepto cat."
"Yes," Michael said, "and he works with our local police department."
Rochelle's eyes widened. She smiled. "Of course he does."
"Do you have pets?" Savannah asked.
"I do," Rochelle said, blotting her li
ps with her napkin. She laid it in her lap and continued, "I have a pair of Siamese. They're brother and sister and as different as…well, your Buffy and Ragsdale. Like most cats, they know things…" she laughed. "…or they give the impression that they do, but neither of them has that deep…I don't know…knowingness that Ragsdale seems to have."
Michael and Savannah looked at each other. She said, "Fascinating. He has been involved in some off-the-wall things. But you really think he…knows stuff? That's kind of spooky."
"Oh no, no," Rochelle said, shaking her head. "Not spooky. He needs to be appreciated for all that he brings to the table."
Michael chuckled. "Yeah, he brings a lot to the table—guests' wallets, prescription medications, private mail, Savannah's underwear…Peter's right; he's a thief."
"He's highly curious; very social, right?"
Savannah and Michael nodded.
Rochelle continued, "And he's clever. He's smart. Honor that."
"Interesting that you picked up on all that just by looking at him."
"It's in his eyes. They tell a lot."
The other three stared at the cat.
"Rochelle, so tell us, do you have clients?" Savannah asked.
"I have some clients. Mainly, I use my abilities for the good of the people I meet, if you know what I mean."
Michael and Savannah waited to hear more.
"My passion is working with autistic children."
"Oh really?" Savannah asked.
"Yes, these are really special kids. I believe many of them are highly intelligent and they've come into this world with a spiritual awareness not normally available to most children—a connection that continues for most of them throughout their lives, if they're given the opportunity to embrace it. It's just all really intriguing," she said.
Savannah took a sip of sangria. "Sounds like it. I'd love to know more."
"Ready for your entree?" Peter asked, breaking in.
"Oh yes," Savannah said, standing and reaching for the salad plates.
"Sit, my dear," Michael said, taking two plates from her hands. "We're your servers tonight, right Peter?"
"Absolutely," Peter said, picking up the other two salad plates. "Seafood platters coming up."
"Yum," Savannah replied. Once the men had left the room, she leaned toward Rochelle. "You really are a fascinating woman. How did you get involved in such a rich lifestyle?"