“Thank you. I’ll work hard to catch up. I won’t disappoint you,” she said, meaning it.
“Are you planning on attending graduate school?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe not right away. I’m getting married,” she said and accepted his murmur of congratulations. “I really want to find a good job, work out in the world for a while before grad school.”
He nodded, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “Well, I hope you do go on. You’re very talented. I’ve only known a few students who are not only book-smart, but as intuitively able to deal with technology as you are.”
“Thank you,” she said, though she wasn’t sure how intuition and computers went together. She’d found her interest in technology completely by accident. Surfing the net and finding people to talk to, things to distract her and fill her time was a lifesaver as she was recovering and dealing with her family’s murders. Computers were also predictable and controllable, like so few other things in life. She’d set up her own network at the shop and when Roger had talked her into going back to school, studying technology was the only thing that attracted her.
“Take it from me, if you don’t mind a little unsolicited advice: stick to your dreams. Getting married is great. I’ve been married thirty-seven years this year, but once you are part of a couple, you end up buying a house, and before you know it, children come along,” he said with a chuckle. “Just don’t let go of your dreams—any of them. You’re talented and don’t forget it.”
Sophie blushed with the praise, unsure what to say except for murmuring her thanks.
“Well, if you need an extension on the term project, let’s talk about that sooner than later. I want to make sure you have a shot at that internship. You’re my star student.”
She nodded and made her escape, feeling exhilarated and under more pressure all at once. Out in the hall, she pulled a doughnut from her bag only to find the napkin had welded itself to the chocolate glaze, impossible to separate. She tossed it in a bin in the hallway, taking a detour to the cafeteria. She should get to the store and help Margaret, but she had to eat. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure she wanted to go back just yet. Campus was comforting. Away from the world, even though it was in the middle of the city.
Finding a seat by the window, she sat down with her pre-wrapped sandwich and a soda, inadvertently listening to the gaggle of young women at the next table. They were all colorfully dressed, young and hip and collectively producing a cloud of fragrance akin to a very pungent fruit salad. Something about them made her feel about a hundred years old.
“But, oh my God, he is so hot,” one with closely cropped blonde hair and a way too perky attitude crooned. She was probably a vegan and wore only natural fibers, Sophie guessed acerbically, biting into her ham sandwich.
“I like his class, but I forget to take notes. The way he pushes his glasses up when he’s talking is too cute.”
“Smart guys are sexy,” another girl, obviously the sex kitten of the group, asserted knowingly. “But he knows how to fill out a pair of jeans, too.”
“I wish my boyfriend was smart,” another lamented, and Sophie grinned more widely. Her boyfriend was dumber than she was?
“Dr. Mason is cute,” one dark-haired, intellectual-looking woman said skeptically. Sophie was pretty sure, listening to her, that “smart” was a style choice more than a character trait. “But he’s weird. He got in trouble last year because he was involved in devil worshipping or something.”
“He’s not a Satanist, he’s a paranormal investigator, you ninny. He looks for ghosts and spirits. I think it’s cool. He’s more open and in touch with things, you know? A sensitive guy.”
“I still think it’s weird. He’s a psychologist. He’s supposed to deal with mental problems, for God’s sake, and he’s out there looking for ghosts? As if they actually exist? Some people would call that crazy.”
Ghosts.
Sophie choked on the bite of sandwich that she was swallowing and listened more intently. She’d met Gabe Mason once. He’d come into Talismans years ago, asking if he could interview her about her aunt for his first book. She’d politely told him no, since she didn’t really have anything she could tell him anyway. He’d thanked her politely and left.
Since then, she’d noticed his success and saw fliers and announcements around campus, but she’d never read any of his material. He taught psychology and was popularly known as the controversial “ghost therapist” as people in media circles had coined him.
“Professor Mason is not a freak. He’s different, and he has a great ass, too.”
Though psychology wasn’t a hard science, in Sophie’s opinion, she could imagine more serious academics wouldn’t take a shine to one of their own communicatingwith the dead. But, he had several best-selling books and apparently he had a great ass, as well. All wrapped up in a PhD, the guy had to be the Public Relations office’s dream.
The girls laughed and twittered, and Sophie focused back on her lunch. She’d never belonged to a group like that, though she’d come close in high school, but now she looked at them and wondered why it had mattered so much. She was happier alone, or with the few people who really cared about her.
She’d had one very close friend through elementary and middle school, Janey Michaels, who had accepted her and thought her family was “cool.” But Janey had left when they hit high school, her parents sending her to an expensive college prep in Vermont, and Sophie had just managed to find new friends before her life exploded. Now it seemed unimportant. She wasn’t here for that.
She had time to get some reading done before heading back to the shop. Roger told her the cleaning crew had come in that morning, so that terrible job was over. She knew she had to face going back sooner or later, so she finished her lunch and decided sooner was the better option. She’d have time for school work later.
* * *
Sophie traced her route from the streets behind Tarot Alley, coming in through the back entrance again. She was happy for the choice, noting a few lurking vehicles out in the street. Reporters lying in wait, no doubt. Mags, to her surprise, as already there and working.
“Hi! I didn’t think we’d see you today.”
“I went to class, and wanted to come back. Get back to normal, you know? As much as possible anyway. God, they made a frickin’ mess out of the place.”
“Imagine, the cops come in here and turn everything upside down, but they don’t clean up after themselves,” Margaret said as she furiously set matches to incense and murmured some kind of chant to cleanse the shop’s aura. Sophie put down her bag and looked around for the place to start. What a mess.
“They were just doing their job, I guess,” Sophie said dispiritedly, sadness pinching every time she thought of Patrice.
“Maybe we should have stayed closed for a few days. Let the vibes settle down,” Margaret suggested, waving some of the incense through the air. “It’s so negative in here.”
“Let’s see how it goes. I’d like to keep things as normal as possible, really.” Sophie said. “The paper harping on our name doesn’t help.”
“Media vultures. They’re saying the place is cursed. Bullshit. Though you’re right, people have been coming in all day, though a lot of them are just here for gawking, not for buying.”
“It will blow over,” she said, echoing Fitz’s advice and hoping it was true.
Margaret shook her head and mumbled something Sophie couldn’t quite hear.
“Hey, how is Stewart doing, by the way?”
“He’s a mess,” Margaret said with a sigh. “He loved Patrice, and he’s having a hard time coping with it all.”
Sophie nodded. She liked Stewart. He was a good guy—and seriously hot—so he had a plethora of female clients though he played for the other team, so to speak. Patrice had seemed very fond of him, too.
A customer walked in, and they both waited, holding their breath and then letting it out as a raven-haired, hawkish-faced man smiled at them bri
efly and then went to look at a display of books on paganism. Sophie signaled to Margaret that she’d help him and approached the display.
“Can I help you find anything, sir?”
He was pale in stark contrast to his dark hair and eyes, his voice neutral. “I’m looking for a book on black magic. Would you have anything like that?”
When he spoke, she detected a slight bit of an accent she couldn’t place. Sophie shook her head, a bit creeped out. The guy had a strange. . .vibe. His eyes were flat and emotionless, like there was nothing inside. She forced herself to react like she would with any other customer. Her eyes were drawn to the right, where she saw a part of a tattoo showing under his white collar. She couldn’t make out the whole image though. He smiled as he watched her, caught staring. He probably thought she was flirting.
“No, we try to stay on the light side here. No dark arts, as the Harry Potter fans like to call them,” she said with a business-like smile, but his lips turned down in response.
“Thank you for your time, then,” he said succinctly and walked back out the door. Sophie turned to Margaret who raised her eyebrows in mute agreement as Sophie mouthed the word weird. At least he hadn’t been a reporter, she thought as she set back to work.
Window cleaner in hand, Sophie proceeded to rub the smudges from the windows in front of Talisman’s, cleaning out the corners and wiping vigorously until the glass shined. It was a chance to forget the craziness and lose herself in one of her favorite activities, watching people walking down the narrow street, going about their business.
Students, business people, and early season tourists shuffled along, making their way to work or classes, visiting the local shops and attractions. Sophie liked to imagine who they might be, where they were from, or what their lives were like based on their dress, the way they walked, if they smiled or stared at the ground as they moved along.
Students invariably listened to music, something always plugged into their ears, and business people were always chatting into the air, invisible Bluetooth earpieces connecting them to their offices and customers twenty-four/seven. Tourists tended to saunter, carrying shopping bags, searching their surroundings or consulting maps. Street people watched, or moved along with the rest, alert for some soft-hearted soul willing to spare a dollar.
Had Patrice’s killer walked along with the crowd, blending in, undetected? What would they have been doing as they moved down the street, waiting to strike? What secrets and hateful thoughts lurked in the hearts of otherwise generic passers-by? Did any of the people she watched right now have murder on their minds?
“Has Roger said anything about any other leads?” Margaret interrupted her thoughts.
“He’s not officially on the case, but no, he hasn’t said anything. I guess since they haven’t arrested me yet, so far so good.”
“Well, that they even suspect you is asinine. Cops look for reasons to harass people like us.”
Sophie wondered briefly at Margaret’s unusual bitterness as she made that statement. Sophie had never known her to have any particular problems with cops before, though all psychic shops were checked for fraud and illegal practices from time to time. But so were sporting events and restaurants, so she tried to look at it as an aspect of running her business, nothing personal.
“Mags, can I tell you something, completely private?”
“Sure. . .anything you want.”
Sophie related her “visions” and was relieved when Margaret didn’t bat an eye. Sophie could have been telling her about the weather.
“It’s hard to say,” Mags finally responded. “It could be a spirit guide, someone trying to help you or Patrice, though the thing with the injury is strange—like he’s seeking your help, not trying to help you. What do you think?”
Sophie shook her head. “I honestly don’t know.”
“Well, don’t discount anything because others don’t believe. He didn’t say anything?”
“No. When I was pulling his cards,” she stopped, a light popping on in her head as she stopped what she was doing. “That’s it—I don’t know how to explain it, but they were his cards—the ghost’s—not Patrice’s. I asked him questions and after each question, I pulled a card and I did feel like he was trying to say something, but the message was incomplete,” Sophie said, excited to remember the incident with increased clarity.
“What were they?”
Sophie closed her eyes, picturing the cards. “He was the Knight of Wands. I asked him why he was there, and I pulled the Five of Swords. The Three of Swords crossing the Lovers. Then who hurt him, and pulled Queen of Swords.”
“Fire and air, combustive negativity. Maybe upsetting news, or something that would cause a lot of change,” Margaret mulled aloud. “Sounds like he was betrayed by a woman he loved? One of those explosive relationships where people hate each other but can’t stay away? He might have been someone who died because of some rash, impulsive act, or he was trying to warn you or Patrice about acting on impulse? That the person who killed her did so impulsively, maybe? It could mean a million things, out of context.”
Sophie agreed. “What if they were all his cards? Patrice had the Two and Six of Pents, the three and Seven of Swords, and the Star. We used Death as a signifier.”
“Hmmmm. It doesn’t change much. It could have a multitude of meanings, depending. . . .”
“Yeah. I know. Damn.”
Sophie wasn’t sure if she was on to something or just chasing her tail as they went back to work. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the cards were for the man, not for Patrice—or maybe for both of them?
She eventually made her way over to the reading room, though there wasn’t much to be done there. The table was gone, and the drapes had been taken down for cleaning, but otherwise, nothing had changed. Margaret’s incense and the strong antiseptic used by the cleaning crew had erased any objectionable odors. She heard the door buzzer and hoped it was a legitimate customer and not some person there with a morbid interest.
Unable to let go of her idea about the reading, she grabbed a pack of Rider-Waite cards from the shelf and sat down on the steps to the reading room, picking out the ones from Patrice’s reading and the ghost’s. Setting them out roughly in the order they appeared, she studied them, looking for patterns and finding herself thinking in circles.
“What could you have been trying to tell me?” she whispered.
Margaret was right. The cards were complex and had levels of meaning affected by context, the moment, the person you were reading for, and the question. Sometimes the meaning flew up at you, like it had with Pereski’s golf question, and other times it remained obscure.
Sighing, she started to pick up the cards when her peripheral vision caught something shiny out at the corner of the room. She stood, walking to the spot, and looked more closely—it was a piece of jewelry. When she picked it up, it was ice cold in her palm, making her frown. The room wasn’t that cold, not even the floor.
How could the police have not found this? It was sitting right out in the middle of the floor. It looked like a man’s cuff link, old, vintage, and bore the Harvard shield. Her heart beat picked up as she rolled the pin around in her fingers, and as she focused on it, her head spun a little.
“Sophie? Hey, I brought some lunch—what are you doing?” Roger’s voice came from the stairs behind her. She turned, eager to show him what she’d found.
“Roger! Look! I found this—the man I saw was wearing it. He must have dropped it,” she said, still feeling unexplainably woozy as she walked forward to meet him. “He must have been real! He was really here.”
“What are you talking about? Found what?” Roger asked, and then Sophie saw him step forward quickly to catch her as she started to wobble, everything around her going watery. She held on to the small piece in her palm for dear life, though.
Margaret appeared in the doorway, rushing to help.
“I found something. Look,” she insisted, fighting the way he
r head swam and opening her closed hand to show them, but when she looked down, there was nothing there. Her palm was empty.
“No, it was there! I could see it—feel it. I must have dropped it. It was a pin, a Harvard pin, or cufflink or something like that, an antique. He was wearing one when I saw him, and it must have dropped,” she stated, bending against Roger’s hold to inspect the floor where she might have dropped it.
“Sophie, hey, babe, stop,” Roger said softly. “Let’s go sit for a second, I brought you lunch.”
“I already ate at school.”
“Okay. I’ll eat, you sit. Did you take the meds Doc Thomas gave you?”
“No, that has nothing to do with anything. I’m not imagining things. I had it! I had it right in my hand,” she said, aggravated.
She felt fine now, clear as a bell, though frazzled by what happened and irritated by the looks of concern and puzzlement on Roger and Margaret’s faces.
“I know what I found. It has to be here somewhere,” she said loudly.
Roger had never looked so worried, and Margaret, too, for that matter. Great. They both thought she was losing her mind now.
“Stop looking at me like that. What I need is for someone to believe me.” She looked squarely at Margaret. “You believe me, right?”
Roger cut in, “I believe you think you saw something. But there’s nothing there.” He walked around the room looking at the floor, throwing his hands up.
Sophie shook her head. “I’m telling you I found something. I saw it, bent down, picked it up. I didn’t imagine it.”
“Maybe you should have stayed out of the store for a few days,” he suggested.
“Can you describe it?” Margaret asked, winning a scathing look from Roger.
“It was old, I think—you know, gold and sort of worn and scratched. It had the Harvard crest on the front, but I couldn’t make out the letters on the other side, they weren’t clear. There might have been an M, but it could have been a W, too.”
Past Tense Page 5