Scry Me A River: Suspense with a Dash of Humor (Blood Visions Paranormal Mysteries Book 2)

by Donna White Glaser

  She was going to have to skip the popcorn, though, the first time in the history of going to movies that Arie had ever made that choice. But faux-butter-oiled roughage? Not wise. Not wise at all.

  Unfortunately, her substitution of Junior Mints didn't sit well, either. Arie was definitely regretting that particular dietary choice before she even dropped Chandra off at home. Her Sprite was long gone, and her pop from the movie had been reduced to sweetened ice melt, so no help there. A twenty-four-hour gas station was up the road from Grumpa's house, so she was waiting until she got there before deciding whether to go with Plan A: get more Sprite or Plan B: "dispose" of the mints in the public restroom. Her stomach heaved at the very thought, but she'd rather that than have to listen to Grumpa nag at her through the door for hogging the "throne." His throne, of course. Grumpa wasn't a good sharer.

  Flash.

  Can't believe she's leaving me. And for what? Poppin' the cork with a couple little floozies? Why does she even care? It's not as if she ever liked sex.

  "You're a no-good, selfish bastard, Bernie." Margie's normally eager-to-please, round face stares at me. Almost... almost like she hates me. "You're never going to be able to keep your... your thing in your pants."

  "'My thing?'" I say. "You gotta be kidding me. What are you, like twelve years old or something? You need to grow up, Margie. Maybe I'da been faithful if you'd have known how to act like a grown woman instead of some child."

  "A child? I took care of you and little Bennie for—"

  The stoplight in the intersection on the block ahead turned green, and Arie sailed through, grateful she wasn't going to have to stop for a red. If her luck had been that bad, she'd have to skip Plan B and go right to barfing her mint-chocolatey mistake on the road.

  Sooo lucky.

  Until the sedan driving east blew the stoplight and plowed into the side of her little Fiat.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The screech of crushing metal was so excruciatingly discordant that Arie could imagine it being the theme song for Hell. Something big and dark gray exploded against her face. The car spun, centrifugal force slamming her against the door.

  When the little Fiat came to rest, the silence was almost as disorienting, but then sound, along with a good-sized chunk of pain where the airbag had smacked her face, came rushing in. A car horn was blaring.

  Arie fumbled her door open and fell out onto the pavement. A hand reached down and hauled her up.

  "You okay? Holy crap, that car plowed right into you." The speaker was a guy in his late teens, spots of acne standing out in stark contrast to his pale face.

  "I'm okay. I'm fine."

  "You sure?" The kid held her elbow in a grip so tight it pinched.

  Arie tried to pull her arm free, but the earth became inexplicably wobbly, and she almost fell down.

  "Whoa. Hang on. Maybe you should sit down." He tried steering her back to her seat, but Arie didn't want to get back in the car. She settled for leaning against it, an uncomfortable choice, due to the wrenched and crumpled metal digging into her hip.

  Flash.

  Red. It has to be red, of course. If you're going to bother spending the dough on a brand-new Mustang convertible, it better be red. Course, Margie hates it. Says I'm having a midlife crisis. What the hell does she know?

  "What about the other driver?" Arie forced herself to ask. "There was another car, right?"

  "Oh, heck yeah. Some old lady."

  "Is she all right? I had a green light. I know I did. Is anybody else hurt?"

  The kid shrugged. "There's a guy helping her, but I don't know. Like I said, she's kind of old."

  "Oh my gosh. Let me see." Arie pushed off from her car and promptly fell to one knee. Oh, hairy eyeballs, that hurts. She hobbled across the street toward a late-model Chrysler that had a crunched-up front end that looked as though it would puzzle-piece match the side of her Fiat. A man in a business suit hovered in the open door, talking into his cell phone. He looked up as Arie approached and said, "Ambulance is on the way."

  The sound of soft sobs drifting out of the car made Arie's stomach hurt. All she could see of the woman bent over the steering wheel was a froth of curly white hair. A white powder clouded the air inside the car—the airbag apparently having burst when it deployed. Business Suit Guy, his phone still pressed against his ear, moved aside, allowing Arie the access she wasn't sure she wanted.

  "Uh, hi," Arie said, squatting next to the elderly lady. Her knee twanged uncomfortably. "Are you okay? Ma'am?"

  The woman lifted her eyes, her bewildered face a disheveled clownscape of caked white powder, slick tears, and blood dripping from a cut on the bridge of her nose. "I don't know what happened."

  "We were in an accident, ma'am. The ambulance is coming."

  "I don't know what happened."

  Arie reached in and held her hand, which was moist and shaking and so frail that Arie had to concentrate on not clutching it too tightly, for fear of breaking her thin bones. "What's your name?"

  "Sheila. Sheila Becket. Do you see my glasses anywhere?" She gazed helplessly around. "I can't find them. I don't know what happened."

  "We were in a car crash, ma'am."

  "Oh dear. This is awful." She raised streaming eyes to Arie's. "I can't find my glasses."

  Arie patted her hand. "It's going to be okay."

  "My... my arm hurts." Sheila touched her left arm then shifted to her heart and rubbed.

  Uh-oh. "Did you hit your arm in the crash?"

  The old woman nodded, her face contorted and her search for her missing eyeglasses forgotten.

  "Sheila, is it your heart? Are you feeling okay?"

  "Well, of course I'm not feeling okay, you boobie. I've been in a car crash."

  An ambulance wailed to a stop a few feet away. The paramedics jumped out and hurried to Arie's side. She backed out of their way so they could get to Sheila.

  "She says her arm hurts. And her chest."

  One of the EMTs nodded over her shoulder, acknowledging that she’d heard Arie, but that only offered her a little relief. Would this have happened if I hadn't been so distracted? She'd had a green light. She knew she had, but—

  Feeling helpless and in the way, Arie hobbled back to her own car. Her stomach churned with mint-chocolate-flavored guilt. A uniformed officer approached right as Arie leaned over the curb and vomited a lumpy, chocolatey mass next to her car. The officer jumped back in an unsuccessful attempt to save her shiny black shoes.

  "Oh gosh, I'm sorry," Arie mumbled.

  Then she heaved again.

  When she was finished, the cop eyed her warily. "Ma'am, have you been drinking?"

  Ma'am? "Of course not. I—"

  "Are you on any medications?"

  "No, I—"

  "Hit your head? You need medical attention, ma'am."

  "I'm fine. I'm just shook up." Arie bent down and rubbed her knee but straightened again as a wave of dizziness almost toppled her over.

  "Where's the blood from, then?" The officer pointed at Arie's shirt.

  Arie looked down. Blood had smeared across her chest. "It's not mine." She raised her eyes to the cop's. "I was holding her hand. Sheila's. She has a cut on her nose."

  Since her shirt was already destroyed, Arie wiped the hand she'd used to hold Sheila's on it. Without water, she wasn't able to get all of the blood off. Some remained in the creases of her palm. Arie clenched her fist and looked away.

  The officer pointed again, that time to Arie's head. "Looks like you got banged up a little, too. You should probably get that checked out before you leave."

  Arie wiped a hand across her sweating forehead and discovered a sore spot. A goose egg, her dad would have called it, rose from the center of her forehead like a budding unicorn horn. She jumped as something metallic clanged behind her. Turning, she watched as the EMTs rolled their stretcher with the old lady on it over to the ambulance. They slid her into the vehicle like a pan of bread into an oven, one climbing in
and the other darting to the front.

  "Ma'am?"

  "Is she going to be okay?" Arie asked. The wave of adrenaline that she hadn't realized she'd been riding suddenly receded, leaving her weak and shaky.

  "We're going to need you to fill out a report. It looks pretty straightforward. I've talked to several witnesses."

  Arie struggled to focus. "I had a green light. I'm sure of it."

  "Like I said, it seems pretty straightforward. Have you called someone?"

  "What? Why?"

  "For a ride, ma'am. You shouldn't drive yourself home. In fact, with the air bags deployed, I can't let you. And you should probably see a doctor."

  "I, uh..."

  They both turned to look at the Fiat. Left to herself, Arie would have tried driving it home. The airbags had exploded, yeah, but she only had a couple of miles to go. One glance at the officer's bland but implacable expression told Arie she wasn't going to look the other way.

  Arie wondered who she could call. Chandra, of course, but a feeling of reluctance held her back. All Arie wanted right then was quiet. Her best friend was many good things—loyal, insightful, quirky—but quiet and soothing weren't in her repertoire. Grumpa was the Antisoother Incarnate and out of the question. Connor? No. Definitely not. Also, that was another reason not to call Chandra. She'd insist Arie use the accident as an excuse to call the detective.

  There was really only one other person that Arie felt comfortable calling this late.

  "Dude."

  At least, that was what Arie thought Grady said when he rode up on a black Harley. The engine was so loud she had to read his lips. He hitched a thumb over his back. An extra helmet dangled from the sissy bar.

  "You're kidding, right?"

  More thumb waggling. Not kidding.

  Arie shoved her head into the helmet, one flap of her ear folding the wrong way. She stuck her hand inside, smoothing it back. As she fumbled with the chin strap, Grady revved the engine, and they lurched forward. Arie squealed and wrapped her arms around Grady's torso.

  She learned a new thing: fear drove the visions straight out of her head.

  All she had to do, then, was keep herself in a constant state of utter terror, and she'd be free from the haunting visions of a murder victim. Easy peasy.

  The reprieve lasted only as long as the motorcycle ride, though. As soon as Arie limped into her house, a wave of Aqua Velva told her two things.

  One: Grumpa had gone out, probably to one of the local country-western bars. He liked to "smell good for the ladies" when he went dancing.

  Two: Bernie Reynolds had a similar affinity for the scent.

  Flash.

  I dry the water from my face then slap my cheeks with a little aftershave. Tingly. After all, "There really is something about an Aqua Velva man." And the chicks love it. They'll be crawling all over me tonight.

  Arie gagged. She didn't want to add the image of Grumpa as an Aqua Velva chick-magnet to her brain, too. Having twenty-four, seven visions of Bernie Reynolds was bad enough.

  It hit her then.

  She was going to have to do something. The accident might technically not have been her fault, but if she'd been more focused... If Bernie Reynolds hadn't taken over her life, she might have seen the old lady coming. She might have been able to stop, to avert the whole stupid crash.

  That meant doing something. At least, as Chandra had pointed out, that was what had helped the last time. Arie had needed to decide to dig into Marissa Mason's murder before the visions became manageable—still there, still intrusive, but not completely out of her control.

  Arie sighed. If calling Connor and letting him know that she suspected—no, knew—that Bernie Reynolds's death wasn't a suicide meant the visions would go away, then that was what she would have to do.

  But not tonight.

  Arie woke up with a throbbing headache and a swollen purple-and-black knee. After calling her doctor's office, she borrowed Grumpa's Caddy and drove herself to urgent care to get it x-rayed. She tried not to think of the cost—she was uninsured—but better safe than sorry and blah, blah, blah and all that. She got a prescription for painkillers and directions to go home, ice and elevate, and rest.

  As if.

  She couldn't leave Grady to deal with the tear-gassed trailer house from hell by himself. Besides, how else was she going to pay off her medical costs? At least her car was insured, even if she wasn't.

  After pulling up to the BioClean van, Arie parked. Before getting out, she decided to take a couple minutes to call Connor. The sooner she got that over with, the better. Part of her was hoping he wouldn't answer and she could just leave a message, but of course, he picked up. She felt a tingle as soon as she heard his voice.

  "Homicide. Detective O'Shea speaking."

  "Connor?"

  "Oh, hey, there. How've you been?"

  "Uh, it's Arie. I was... uh..."

  "I know who it is. I'm a detective, remember? We're trained to pick up on clues like that." He chuckled.

  Arie didn't. The warmth in his voice was disconcerting. Over three weeks had passed since their last date. How dare he have warmth in his voice? "Listen, I've got a problem. I mean, something's come up that I think you should know about."

  "Let me guess. You're pregnant."

  "No! Of course not. We never even—"

  "You know, about that… How come—"

  "Did you hear about the suicide at River Rest?"

  "The...?" The change in topic seemed to throw O'Shea for a moment, but he recovered quickly. "The nursing home over on River Drive?"

  "Right. There was a suicide there a few days ago. But it wasn't."

  "It wasn't?"

  "It wasn't a suicide. It was a murder."

  "There was a suicide at an old folks’ home, but it wasn't a suicide?"

  "Right."

  "It was a murder," O'Shea repeated.

  "Exactly."

  A long pause ticked by while he digested that bit of news. Then he said, "And you know this… how?"

  Arie paused then. "You know how."

  "Oh. You mean your, um, psychic-fog thing?"

  Arie swallowed her irritation. No wonder he hadn't called her. He must have thought she was a complete kook. Then again, he’d known about her "psychic-fog thing" before he even started dating her.

  "It's called scrying,” she said. “And... yes. That's how I know. If it was suicide, Bernie Reynolds—that's the guy's name—would have shown me gray fog, and I would have felt despair or sadness and anger mixed together. This was all red. Bloodred, to be exact. It was definitely a murder made to look like suicide. And really, why would anyone go all the way from the living quarters on the other side of the facility to the activity center to kill himself? He could have done it in his bedroom or his bathroom with a lot less hassle."

  "So you think his being in the activity center to begin with is suspicious?"

  For a moment, Arie felt a surge of hope. It sounded like Connor was interested. Like he believed her. "I don't know. I only get bits and pieces of his memory, and I haven't seen anything about his death, aside from the gunshot." Arie shivered.

  "What exactly do you know? I mean, is there anything else you can tell me?"

  "Like what?" Arie said. "He was some kind of salesman. Pharmaceutical, I think. He made a lot of women cry. He had a red convertible that he was really into."

  "Wait."

  The sound of paper rustled over the phone's speaker, and Arie heard the detective drink something. Probably coffee. Didn't all cops drink coffee?

  "I thought he was a resident at this nursing home or whatever?" Connor continued.

  "What? He was. Why?"

  "You said he's a salesman."

  "Yeah, like fifty years ago."

  "Oh."

  Arie's sigh reverberated in her ear. "Are you going to do anything about this?"

  "Look, Arie, it's not that simple. I need something to go on. Something more than a caller's... intuition."
/>   A caller's intuition? Like... just any caller? And what was with that hesitation before he said "intuition?"

  "Right," Arie said, her tone tight enough to bounce quarters off of.

  "Listen, hon, I'll do what I can, but—"

  "Great. Okay, thanks. Well, I have to get back to work now. Good talking to you."

  "Arie—"

  She clicked the end button briskly, which wasn't nearly as satisfying as the old-fashioned banging-the-phone-down used to be. Sometimes, technology did not change for the better.

  CHAPTER SIX

  By lunchtime, a light rain had started to drizzle down, so Arie and Grady took their break in the van. Not ideal, but at least their sandwiches didn't taste like tear gas. A passing ambulance reminded Arie of her accident the night before, making her wonder about Sheila Becket. She decided to call the hospital. It soon became apparent that the staff weren't going to give her any information, not even confirming what Arie already knew, that Sheila had been admitted the night before.

  Frustrated, Arie tossed her phone onto the passenger seat of the van. It bounced to the floor between the two seats.

  "Whoa." Grady, dozing in the driver's seat with his headphones on, jumped. "Dude."

  That was Grady-speak for I notice you're upset, my friend. Do you want to tell me about it?

  Arie pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes. "I'm sorry."

  "Dude." Please go on.

  "That lady who ran into me last night? I called the hospital to see how she was doing. She was so shook up, you know?"

  "Yo." I understand.

  "I just wanted to know if she's okay."

  "Stan-the-man."

  That gave Arie pause, but then it hit her. "Stan Blagojevic! Is that where he went?"

  "Dude." Grady hopped out of the van and started pulling new booties on in preparation for returning to work.

  "I only need a minute, Grady," Arie said. "I'll be right in."