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

by Donna White Glaser

  Arie smiled for the first time in a very long time. "It did feel kind of good. I'll pay for it later, though. He's going to sulk."

  "All right, well, let's get busy here." Chandra sat up and pulled the crystal ball over. "You said you have some of that lady's blood?"

  As she handed Chandra the blouse she'd worn to the movies, Arie averted her eyes. If she even caught a glimpse of the ruby-red crystal ball, visions exploded uncontrollably in her mind, which was why she refused to keep it in her home. Technically, she only needed blood to raise the visions, but she'd discovered a while back that when she placed a small bit of blood under the orb, it helped narrow her focus. Sometimes, scrying with the crystal ball felt almost too powerful—like strapping booster rockets onto roller skates.

  "Okay. It's ready for you."

  Eyes closed, Arie took several deep breaths, trying to center herself, whatever that meant. It made her feel foolish, but she could feel her stomach settling, and her shoulders relaxed a notch. She opened her eyes again, and her muscles coiled like rattlesnakes trapped in a basket.

  The bloodred orb pulled her gaze in, deeper and deeper. Suddenly, a green swirling mist flooded her mind, bringing the sense of joy and peace that she recognized from her brief visit Over There. After Arie died and was then forcibly returned to her body-shell, the loss of the peace and love that surpassed earthly understanding had thrown her into several months of depression. And here it is again...

  Flash.

  My wedding day. And there he is—Christopher—waiting for me at the front of the sanctuary, Reverend Wilson hovering at his side. I pause, drawing the moment out. I wish Daddy were here to walk me down the aisle. That's my only regret this day, but part of me knows he's here even if his body isn't. I let my gaze travel around the church, taking it all in. My bridesmaids are all lined up like a bouquet of pretty girls. Of course, Cousin Suzy is smirking and tugging at her waistline. Not my fault she ate like a whale right up 'til today. I wish Mama hadn't made me put her in.

  Flash.

  His pudgy hand is warm and feels so tiny in my own. I take small steps so he doesn't stumble on the trail. The sun feels good, so warm and cheerful on my face and neck, and the smell of the rich, black earth and grass is intoxicating. We pass by some bushes, and the lake is suddenly visible.

  "Duckies!"

  Carson's fat little legs pump as hard as they can, to get him down to the water's edge. I laugh and—

  The crystal ball was pulled out of Arie's grip, and she gasped at the sudden transition back to the here-and-now.

  Chandra put a steadying hand on her shoulder. "Are you okay?"

  Arie sat motionless for a few heartbeats then let herself echo the laugh of the woman whose memories she'd just lived. "I'm fine." She looked into Chandra's eyes. "She's fine. Sheila, I mean. It was... it was a good death. At the right time. She's happy."

  Happy. A pale, miserly word to try to convey the beauty—the rightness—of Over There.

  Chandra's grin reflected some of that joy. "That's good. Then you can quit feeling guilty about Sheila What's-Her-Face."

  Arie paused. "Yeah, I guess so."

  "Well, what's the problem? That's how everyone should go, right? When their time has come."

  "Yeah, that's the problem," Arie said. "That's how everyone should go—when it's their time. Not before."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Grumpa sulked all day and, unfortunately for Arie, not silently. The brief reprieve of tension she'd experienced after scrying Sheila's blood evaporated like a puff of warm breath on a chilly windowpane.

  She made supper for the two of them that evening—baked chicken breast, wild rice, and steamed broccoli, just in case her mother came over. When Arie set the plate down in front of her grandfather, he made a face and shoved it away. He must have underestimated his strength or the level of his own grouchiness, because the plate sailed across the table and crashed to the floor.

  Grumpa's mouth fell open in astonishment, and his dentures clattered to the table in front of him.

  Arie stood dumbfounded at what had just happened, rage seeping into her extremities then catching a ride in her bloodstream straight to her brain, where it exploded like the grand finale of a fireworks show.

  "I... you..." she tried. Her breath hitched in her chest.

  Grumpa leaped to his feet, looked her straight in the eye, and said, "Ahm thowwy, punkin."

  If Arie’d had dentures, she would have lost hers right then, too. "What did you say?"

  "Ah thaid... Damn id!" Grumpa snatched up his teeth and shoved them into his mouth. "I said I'm sorry."

  "No, you didn't."

  "I did so, gol-dang it."

  "No, you didn't. You said, 'I'm sorry, punkin.' You called me punkin."

  For the first time ever, Arie saw her grandfather flush with embarrassment, and for the first time, she realized he really did love her.

  So, of course, she collapsed into a chair and burst into tears.

  "Oh for Pete's sake, now what?" Grumpa huffed and patted her ineffectually on the back a few times, then he gave up and handed her a wad of napkins. "I said I was sorry. And, look here, I'll clean it up."

  "It's not that."

  "Well, then what the heck are you blubbering into the chicken and rice for?"

  "I'm not blubbering. I'm crying. Don't you ever get sad?"

  Grumpa pinched his lips shut, and his eyes darted away, but he sat down next to her. He picked up a napkin and wiped at the only clean spot on the table. He rubbed it while waiting for Arie to pull herself together.

  "Grumpa, I don't think Ma was kidding." She blew her nose into the napkin. "We have to figure something out, something that will prove I'm taking good care of you and she doesn't have to worry."

  "Okay, fine, but not that senior-center thing. I don't want to hang around a bunch of old crocks with their aches and pains and whatnot. I'd go nutso listening to all that whining and complaining."

  "Gee, I can certainly imagine how awful that would be." Arie tried giving him the disdainful, single-raised-eyebrow glare that her mother had perfected.

  "Got something in your eye?"

  "No, I don't have anything in my eye."

  "It's kinda twitchy."

  "My eye is fine."

  "Your nose is as red as a fire hydrant, too. I hate to say it, but you're not a pretty crier."

  "Grumpa—"

  "Elizabeth Taylor, now she was a pretty crier."

  "Grumpa, what if I said that you going to the senior center had nothing to do with you being old. What if I told you it was, it was like a..."

  "A what?"

  Arie straightened her backbone. "A secret mission."

  Grumpa was silent for a moment, studying her. "Are you on some kind of medication I should know about? Sometimes those pills make you think funny things like you're an international spy or aliens been sticking things up your booty hole."

  "Oh, gross."

  "They can make your eyes twitch too. The pills, that is, not the aliens, though I s'pose when they stick the probe in—"

  "Stop! Do not ever say 'booty hole' in my presence ever again."

  "I was only—"

  "Never. Again."

  "Then what the heck are you talking about? Secret mission. What foolishness are you trying to pull now?"

  "I'm not trying to pull anything. I'm trying to be honest with you. There's something you don't know about me."

  "Is this one of those female organ things? Because I don't wanna know all that."

  "Hush up. Do you remember when I died?"

  "Well, of course I do. I'm not senile. It's not like I'd forget when my only granddaughter got herself killed and then resurrected herself."

  "It wasn't a resurrection. It's called a near-death experience. And, well, it did something to me." Arie folded her hands on the table to hide that they were trembling. She kept her gaze fixed on them as well.

  Grumpa cleared his throat and fidgeted with his tattered napkin. Ari
e half expected him to make an excuse and leave, but he just waited.

  "Dying made it so that I can do this thing with people's blood," she finally said.

  "Sweet Jiminy Cricket, you're a vampire."

  "Oh, for Pete's sake! I'm not a vampire. I'm a psychic."

  "A sidekick? Like Batman and Robin?"

  "Grumpa, I'm a psychic. I get visions about people's lives from their blood."

  Grumpa leaned back in his chair… way back. "Oh. Uh-huh."

  "I can. Really."

  He stared at her as if waiting for a punch line.

  "I can prove it. But the thing is, most of the time, it's no big deal. It's just memories the person had of their wedding day or something important to them—little snapshots, kind of, of their lives. The problem is... well... This is going to sound weird."

  "Don't be silly," Grumpa said in a sweet, placating-the-crazy-granddaughter voice. "What's weird about any of this?"

  "Sometimes I know when someone was murdered. And the guy who died at the River Rest? He was murdered. Only they think it was suicide. And now I keep getting these visions of his life, all the time. They won't stop. And the last time this happened, they wouldn't stop until I figured out who the killer was."

  "That thing with Brant's old girlfriend?"

  Arie nodded. "See, that's the thing. That's why I need your help. If you went to the senior center, it would give me an excuse to kind of look around or something."

  "How do you figure that? I'm the one going to be there, not you. Unless you're planning on dressing up like some old biddy."

  "No, that wouldn't work. I was thinking maybe I could visit you there or something. Or we could come up with some reason why I'd have to stay with you for a while. I don't know. I haven't gotten that far. It's hard to think with these visions popping in my head all the time and the headaches. Plus, this Bernie Reynolds guy is a jerk. He's a complete chauvinist pig. I can't stand him, and I don't want his memories stuck in my head. I have to do something to make them stop. I need your help."

  "Well, you need help, that's for sure."

  Arie slapped her hand on the table. "Fine. Whatever. I tried." She stood and grabbed the wad of napkin shreds Grumpa had piled in front of him.

  "Oh geez. Cool your jets, would ya? You have to admit this is a lot to throw at a guy."

  Arie froze. "What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying this is crazy."

  "Uh-huh."

  "It's a dumb idea. I don't even see how it's going to work."

  Arie waited, her heart thudding.

  "But if it keeps your mother from butting into my business..."

  "Really?" Arie's voice squeaked.

  "I guess we can check it out, but—"

  Arie grabbed her stick-thin grandpa in a big hug.

  He made a sound like glerk! and tried to wiggle out of her grasp, but she held on.

  In fact, she nestled into his wrinkly chicken neck and asked, "Grumpa? Could you call me punkin again?"

  "All right, that's enough mushy stuff." He shoved her away and stomped from the kitchen, heading toward the safety of the living room and his TV. "I'm missing my shows. And you can clean up your mess too."

  Arie laughed. Then she stopped when she looked at the mess he'd left her to deal with. It figures. She grabbed the stainless-steel serving bowl she'd served the rice in and instinctively winced, bracing for the Bernie vision she expected to pop into her head when her eye hit on the reflective surface. Her mind was quiet, though, and her thoughts, her own.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The office was bright and sunny. A large bay window behind the desk opened to a lovely view of the lawn. A slightly opened door disclosed a private bathroom. Arie sat on the other side of the desk from Jane Clarkson, the director of River Rest Recreation Center. She’d called ahead for a tour of the facility, and Clarkson had been able to see her and Grumpa the next morning.

  As the director shook Arie's hand, a disconcerted look crept into the woman’s eyes. Either she realized she knew Arie but didn't remember from where, or she was wondering why the girl who’d cleaned up the dead guy was showing up with a live one.

  The tour took only a few minutes. The main room—the social hall, as Clarkson called it—looked very different than it had when Arie had first seen it. For one thing, it was filled with nearly two dozen elderly denizens. Many were sitting at large banquet tables, working on various crafts. Others were scattered in groups of two or three, talking amongst themselves. Two—an elegantly dressed woman with a long white braid curling over one shoulder and a short, grumpy-faced man—sat reading in armchairs strategically placed next to the wide windows for natural light. One of the nurses Arie had seen her first day on the Reynolds job hovered near the craft table, looking bored. She straightened up when she caught sight of her boss and began talking animatedly with a plump woman trying to choose a background for her scrapbook project. The scrapbooker's smirk suggested that she knew exactly what the young nurse was doing, but she played along.

  In addition to the main room, two other areas seemed open to the residents: a conference room that could seat six, bare of anything except a long table and chairs, and a small library holding a lumpy armchair and two dilapidated bookshelves stocked with musty-smelling paperbacks. Despite the window, the room felt stuffy and claustrophobic. Arie could understand why the two readers preferred the bigger, noisier room even if more privacy was available here.

  As the two conspirators had planned, when it came time to sit down with the director, Grumpa claimed he needed to use the bathroom and excused himself. That left Arie free to talk with Jane for a few moments in private.

  "This seems like a very nice arrangement," Arie said. "The people sure seemed friendly."

  "We certainly think so. Will your grandfather be—"

  "Listen, before he gets back, I want to fill you in on some of our concerns."

  Jane folded her hands and leaned forward. "Of course. Please do."

  "The thing is, Grumpa has been getting more and more isolated as he gets older. He's always been a bit of a recluse, but it's gotten a whole lot worse lately. He has a lot of anxiety, especially around other people. He gets nervous, you know? And he doesn't like leaving the house at all."

  "Has he been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder?"

  "Um, no. We could never get him to talk to the doctor about any of this. He's pretty stubborn." Understatement.

  "That's not uncommon for men of his generation. Or for the women, either, for that matter. Psychological issues carry a stigma in this age group, even today."

  "Exactly," Arie said. "But my parents and I are getting very concerned, which is why we're looking into the center here. We really want him to be more involved socially, but it's very difficult getting him to cooperate. If he gets too upset, he could very well refuse to come."

  "I understand, Miss Stiles. Now, if—"

  The office door opened, and Grumpa came in. He was frowning. Instead of taking the chair next to Arie, he asked, "Is it time to go home now?"

  "Not quite yet, Mr. Wilston," Jane answered. "But I only have a few questions. I hope you enjoyed viewing our facility. What do you think?"

  "It's full of old people. That's what I think."

  Jane's smile displayed a professional appreciation of Grumpa's "cute" answer.

  "I don't know why I have to go here," Grumpa continued. "I like my house."

  "Of course you do, but as we get older, making friends and keeping active is even more important than at any other time. It's easy to stay shut up in your home, but it's not good for you. Here, you would be able to find people that you share things in common with and still remain in your own home. It would be the best of both worlds, wouldn't it?"

  "I don't like people. They're too noisy."

  "We have a lot of good people here, Mr. Wilston: people who grew up loving Elvis, James Dean, Marilyn Monroe; people who understand what the Korean War meant to America, what life was like with Presidents Eisenh
ower and Kennedy, how close we came to destruction during the Bay of Pigs. Your peers raised their families, worked hard, and contributed to their communities just as I'm sure you did. These folks are enjoying a time in their lives when they're able to relax now, after all that hard work. You deserve that, too. I really believe you'll fit in very well, Mr. Wilston, but you need to give it a chance. You need to give us a chance." Jane smiled into Grumpa's eyes.

  He cleared his throat and looked away. "I don't know. I like my house. I like my own things and my own routine. I don't know if my granddaughter told you, but I get a little worked up sometimes. What's good about that? I can relax in my own home."

  "Yes, but you can't socialize by yourself, and that's a very important part of life. Without it, we lose touch. We grow stale."

  "Like potato chips?"

  Jane laughed. "Exactly."

  "Do you have potato chips here? I like chips."

  "We serve a variety of healthy snacks."

  "See, Grumpa," Arie said. "Won't that be nice?"

  "I don't know. I don't know any of these people. You know how I get. You know that. I don't see why anything has to change."

  "Mr. Wilston, we'll do whatever we need to do to make you comfortable. I'm quite certain that, in no time, you'll be settling right in."

  Grumpa looked thoughtful. "So... you'll do what you can so I don't get all worked up?"

  "Of course. We're happy to—"

  "Can my granddaughter come with?"

  Jane paused, eyes wide. "Can your...?"

  "Arie, here. Can she come with me?"

  "Well..." Jane looked at Arie warily. "That's very unorthodox. Doesn't Ms. Stiles have to work?"

  Arie cocked her head. "I have a job, as you know. But the hours are very flexible. Today, for instance. I didn't even have to go in, so it left me free to come with Grumpa. Actually, it might not be a bad idea. See, I'm thinking about going back to school for nursing. I don't want to do biohazardous cleanup forever. This might be a great way for me to see if that would be a good choice."

  "Oh, but I don't think—" Jane tried.

  "Sounds good to me," Grumpa said as he stood. "You two fix it all up. I'm going to go wait in the car."