by January Bain
I drove Thor the three blocks to the Grab-n-go and parked in front of the brightly lit grocery store that doubled as the liquor commission and lottery center. One-stop shopping.
I grabbed a grocery cart and made a beeline for the produce section. I was just bundling up bunches of romaine lettuce when the sound of bottles clanking together drew my attention to the liquor area across the aisle. A short man with a thick black mustache and swarthy complexion was busy filling up his basket with a large assortment of high-end liquor. Dressed in a dark shirt, dress pants with shiny shoes and a wide black tie, he looked like most everyone’s idea of an archetypical hitman. If I ever got some of my ideas on paper for a murder mystery, he’d have a huge role to play. Mafia. He glanced my way, his dark, intense look almost chilling. Oh yeah. Definitely.
I nodded pleasantly. He returned my greeting with a smirk, a wink and a nod, then returned to his business. Okay, bit over-played. I got down to filling my cart, Mafia Guy soon forgotten with my personal need to out-race time.
At the till, I paid for my purchases, then pushed the cart through the automatic door and into the parking lot. The handle of the cart was beyond sticky, and I wiped my hands on my jeans with disgust. Soon as I got back in Thor, I’d be using a slew of disinfectant wipes. I was loading the numerous bags onto the back seat when the sound of a throat being cleared made me look up. Not far as it happened, my interrupter being as height-challenged as I was.
Oh shoot, Mafia Guy was standing too close with a fancy leer pasted on his swarthy face, and the man must have been forty if he was a day. And make that a well-lived forty.
“Hello, I’m Guido Morello, at your service. I noticed you watching me in the store and I thought I should introduce myself.”
“Uh-huh.” I didn’t offer my name, not wanting to encourage the guy.
“And what’s your name, pretty lady?”
Figures. He had a distinct Boston accent, with no apparent use for the consonant r. They even have a term for it in Bean Town USA, the No R lifestyle. He certainly had the swagger down pat, thumbs hooked in his leather belt loops.
“I’m Charm McCall. We run the Tea & Tarot café. I’m sorry, I have to go. Just got a big catering contract and I’m running late.”
“Ah-ha.” He’d spoken like he’d just discovered the mystery of the builders of the pyramids. “You must be the person Howard Smith hired to cater for our film set. Nice. Looks like we’ll be seeing lots of each other. Howard’s married to my cousin, by the way—we’re tight.” He held up two crossed fingers in case I didn’t get it.
“Hang dai?” I joked, making reference to a similar scene in Deadwood when Wu, the Chinese top dog, acknowledges Al Swearingen’s help by calling them brothers. Of course, the reference went right over the mob guy’s head. And what was I doing, encouraging this particular conversation? I mentally swatted myself.
He scratched his head, not disturbing one hair of his precise tinted-black pompadour in the process. “Sorry, not getting it.”
“My bad. Good to know about your marriage to Howard Smith’s cousin, though. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really have to go.”
“No, no, not me. I’m not married. Howard’s married to my cousin.” He chuckled as though it was the funniest thing ever and probably thought it explained my reluctance to talk further. Great, I really did need my head examined.
“Yes, well, I’m sure we’ll meet up again on set.”
“You can bet on it, pretty lady, I’ll be keeping my eye out for you. You do stand out in Snowtown.”
“Snowy Lake,” I corrected. Yup. It’s official. I’m the best at giving false positives to strangers when I should be returning zipola, nothing, nada. I gave him a quick nod and jumped back into Thor. I raced to the café, hovering at the speed limit. Ace had decided to clean up bad driving habits in town and he had his hands full, since making U-turns on Main Street was a traditional practice. I didn’t want the embarrassment of being stopped by him. Again.
I unloaded supplies, carting the heavy bags in the back door and plunking them on the kitchen counter. Star was now nowhere to be seen, but there was a note scrawled on the erasable whiteboard.
Expect James at eleven.
I glanced at the rooster clock. Great. He’d be here in an hour. The phone rang and I waited for someone out front to answer it, being rather busy chopping vegetables and keeping an eye on the chicken breasts baking in the oven.
“Charm, it’s for you,” Tulip shouted from the front, making me wince.
Drying my hands on a towel, I picked up the phone.
“Charm?” Christine Blackmore asked, her voice thickened by emotion. She’d been crying. My heart squeezed in sympathy.
“Hi, Christine. Sorry you’re not feeling well. Anything I can do?” This was not a cold or the flu my new friend was suffering from—and a person wouldn’t have to be psychic to pick that up. She was acutely depressed. I prayed it wasn’t what I suspected.
“Yes, actually, there is something.” She hesitated, her tone uncertain. “I heard what you did for Helen and Elsie and I was wondering—could you help me? Heal my problem?” She didn’t even want to call it by its real name. Infertility. “I’m so upset I don’t know what to do.” Helen Davis had cancer, or at least had had it, according to her doctors. When I’d been working on the list of suspects for the murder of Mrs. Hurst and the poisoned apricot jam fiasco, I had spent a fateful, enlightening afternoon with Helen. Then I’d helped her friend Elsie when she’d asked me to try. Whether the healing was permanent or not for the two of them remained to be seen. As Granny liked to say, ‘Things are never as bad as you think they are, or as good as you want them to be.’
“Christine, I don’t know—”
“I have nowhere else to turn, no one else to ask. Please, Charm, could we just give it a try? Just one time?” The desperation in her tone touched my heart again. Her problem of infertility threatened the very foundations of her marriage to Sean, a definite rascal and my number-one suspect in the recent murder investigation. He wanted a son. Yesterday.
“Okay. But I can’t promise anything. I have no idea how it works, or if I can help with your problem.” I sighed. Was I doing the right thing or just raising false hope? If it turned out to be the latter, I’d never forgive myself.
“No worries. I would never hold you responsible if it doesn’t go well. I’m the one asking for your help. Thanks, Charm. Can we try today?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I just took on a huge catering contract and I have someone I need to train—”
“I can help you with that! I’ll send over our new housekeeper, Suzanna. She can give you a hand, at least until you get back to the café. Longer, if you need her. Heck, if you can help me, I’ll offer you her services, pre-paid till Christmas at least.”
Her voice had brightened considerably with raw hope. My resistance vanished. Someone needed my help. And I could always work all night if I had to. It wasn’t as though I hadn’t done that before. Gosh, how many times had I prayed for a clone? A nice strong clone who enjoyed taking orders from me and never balked at chores.
“Okay, sure. I’ll be right over. Just got to take the chicken out of the oven.”
“Thanks. You’re the best.”
“Please, don’t get your hopes up too much. I don’t know how much help—”
But she had already hung up.
The goddess doesn’t give you more than you can handle, right? Hmm, well, right then, I needed the help of every goddess that had ever lived. Anywhere.
Chapter Three
I parked Thor in Christine’s driveway, noting the house’s pulled drapes. Depression hung over the house like a rain cloud. I sent a quick appeal into the universe—Please let me help Christine.
After striding with determination toward the front door, I rang the doorbell, listening to it echo throughout the Blackmores’ abode. The door opened abruptly, my new friend obviously having been hovering nearby. The look of hope she was working hard to
supress sent a sharp arrow of empathy straight through me.
“Thanks for coming. Please, please come in. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? A drink? Something to eat? I have tons of choices.” Her words tumbled over each other while she led the way inside her spacious home, down the hallway to the kitchen outfitted with fancy chrome appliances. Christine had money, being a former Davis, but needed something cash couldn’t buy. Happiness.
“Water’s fine.”
I checked her out while I pulled a bar stool away from under the kitchen island and jumped aboard. She was rummaging in the frig, hauling out two bottled waters. Even in her depression she had made the effort to comb her mahogany-colored hair and apply makeup to her Restylane-assisted face, though she hadn’t managed to hide all traces of her recent crying jag, which had probably been on account of her husband, Sean, the reason she was so desperate to keep up appearances. It shouldn’t have been like that.
“Are you sure about all this, Christine? I mean, if a man loves you…”
She plunked the water bottles down on the island in front of us, choosing a seat beside me. “Completely and utterly sure. I want a child of my own more than you can know. It’s all I’ve dreamed of for years, holding my own baby in my arms. This is not just about Sean, though heaven knows he wants a child as much as I do.”
“Okay.” I nodded, twisting the cap on the plastic bottle to open it. “I’ll try.” I took a sip of water.
“Thanks, Charm. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.” Her expectant expression further bruised my heart. This had all kinds of weirdness attached, considering a few weeks ago we’d had very little to say to each other, both thinking we had nothing in common. Turns out everybody has something in common. Well, except for serial killers. They were still the monsters among us.
“Shall we start?” I asked, the kitchen clock ticking in the background a constant reminder of how much I had to do today, tomorrow, next week…
“Sure.” She held her hands out to me and I covered them with mine. “What do you want me to think about?”
“Just relax. Maybe think about having a baby,” I suggested, really not sure of what would work best, this being only my third time to try this. In a normal lost-item-reading, of which I’ve done a gazillion, I asked a customer to just think about the lost treasure, recall when they’d last seen it.
I closed my eyes. As with Helen Davis and her friend Elsie, I was taken inside her body, finding myself traveling down veins and artery pathways, past glistening organs to a central location in her belly. Her uterus, it had to be. It looked nice and pink, a cozy home. But as I wandered around the space, a tube branching off from the organ appeared, dark and solid, plugged with tissue. It screamed invader.
I attacked it with all my being, sending a death ray like in a video game. Awesome energy flowed through me, exploding from somewhere deep inside. The evil plug turned a bright red hue, lit up with a huge charge of electricity. I focused as hard as I could on the villain, wanting to drive it out. To blow it to pieces, grab a hold of it and force it to leave, all the while thinking I had done this before, a very long time ago in a place far, far away…
My hands remained electrified and clutching Christine’s while I envisioned her fallopian tube back to a healthy pink, all remnants of the blockage blasted to smithereens. Then I went looking for the other tube, because surely it was plausible, if she couldn’t get pregnant, there could be a second plug? There was. And I went into my avenger mode again. The second tube looking normal, I slumped back onto the stool. I had done all I could. A wave of dizziness overcame me, and I grabbed for the water bottle, gulping half of it down in mere seconds.
“Did it work, Charm? Do you think so?”
I gave her a weak smile, my body trembling from fatigue, tears blurring my vision. This healing business was a minefield of emotion. I wanted a guarantee that did not exist—Christine having a healthy child to love.
“Maybe. I don’t know for sure.”
“What did you see?”
“I think your fallopian tubes were blocked. I tried to blast the debris away. They look better, pinker. I truly hope it makes a difference, Christine.” I sat still, waiting for the white pinpricks of light dancing across my vision to disappear before I got up to leave.
“That’s what the doctor said was wrong and not fixable—too much scar tissue. I have a good feeling about this.” She gave me a glance. “You look a bit peaked, Charm. Would you like something to eat? I have fruit salad all made up.”
“You know, yes, I could use something with a bit of natural sugar and chock full of vitamins.” I gave her a wan smile, the pesky low blood pressure still plaguing me.
She got up—she looked energized at least—and grabbed a bowl of colorful fruit from the shiny new aluminum frig. I couldn’t imagine keeping fingerprints off that human energy sucker. The fruit helped me and I relished the freshness down to the last bite. “Thanks, I needed that.” I set the engraved teaspoon on the napkin beside the placemat.
“I can’t thank you enough. Even if it doesn’t work, I know you tried your best.”
I leaned forward and we hugged. “I hope it works, goddess willing.”
She brushed a few tears away, giving me the bravest smile.
A last hug at the front door and I jogged down the driveway and jumped into Thor. I gunned the motor and set off.
The sounds of a siren pierced my frantic brain. No! I glanced in the rear-view mirror. Shoot. Constable Ace. I eased my heavy foot off the gas petal and directed the Jeep to the curb. I sat, banging my head on the steering wheel when the expected knock came on the glass. I glanced over, then rolled the window down.
“You should be kinder to that noggin of yours,” he said, pursing his lips. “Considering your nickname.” He stood all tall and righteous by the window, making me twist my neck to see him under the low-hanging clouds.
I groaned. “No, please, please don’t tell me—”
“Brainiac. Suits you.” His scent wafted in the window, further annoying me. Why couldn’t I get a handle on this attraction? Not to mention I needed to get to the bottom of this “one true love” rule if I wanted to keep my goddess-given gifts…or so Granny claimed.
“So, who am I going to have to murder for giving up that state secret?” I asked.
“Star did the honors. But I think I have a better nickname in mind for you,” he teased.
Intriguing. “What’s that?”
“Leadfoot.”
I groaned. “No. Not that. If you call me that, I’m going to go back to yours—Bigfoot. Just so you’re warned.”
“That’s Constable Bigfoot to you. No, I think you’re much too pretty for that nickname. Though you gave a spectacular impression of Miss Marple during the murder investigation.”
“No way! I’m not an old lady with white hair!” Though the truth was I was flattered by the comparison to Agatha Christie’s beloved character.
“I’ll work on it. Come up with something you might actually like. Now, about your speeding. What’s the darn rush, Miss McCall?”
“Why are you back here anyway? I thought you were spending the day with that geologist?” She who shall remain nameless.
“Don’t change the subject. It just didn’t take that long at the movie set, and Jennifer’s at another location, working. So, what gives? You’ve been doing so well, too. Keeping out of police business, watching the speed limit, not pulling illegal U-turns on Main Street.” He laid his extra-large hands on the window of my Jeep, leaning down and staring directly into my eyes with those liquid pools this woman just wanted to sink into. Oh boy.
“Well, the murder rate’s been down for a while, thanks to yours truly, so no police business to interfere with at the moment, and I have been watching my Ps and Qs,” I said, unable to keep the snugness from my tone.
“Joke all you like, but if I ever catch you interfering with an official investigation ever again without your name stamped on a police shield, well, suffice to s
ay you might find yourself up the creek without the proverbial paddle.”
“I’ve got my own paddle, thank you very much. I canoe every summer. And you can’t deny I helped your investigation, in the end.”
He squinted at me, a hint of danger flashing between us. “You’ll be lucky if I don’t use that paddle on a certain behind. License and registration,” he said, the deep timbre of his voice making my body hum.
“Are you threatening me, Officer?” Self-righteous anger bubbled to the surface. Why did I let this man pull my strings? I just couldn’t seem to help myself, pleading the Fifth Amendment. Or was that just the case in the United States? Heck, the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms must protect us just as well. I should check that out.
“Never,” he said, a smile quirking the edges of his mouth. He took the registration papers for Thor and my license card from my hands and gave them a cursory glance. “Not when there are so many other things I’d much rather do with you.”
“Oh really?” This was even more intriguing than a new nickname. “Pray tell.”
“Like invite you to dinner tonight. My place. Seven o’clock.” He handed me back my license and registration without giving me a ticket. Phew.
“Oh shoot, I forgot.” I remembered the string of jobs I’d just laid out end to end for the foreseeable future. “I’ll be pulling an all-nighter. Got a catering contract for the movie. I’ll be preparing a hundred and fifty meals a day, six days a week for a while.”
He whistled, stepping back from the open window. “I best not keep you then. But the invitation stands. Anytime, darlin’. You still got to eat, right?”
“Don’t keep your fingers crossed. But maybe when I get some new help trained, I might make the time for my very own Mr. Bigfoot event.” And with that I hit the gas. Then grinned in the rear-view mirror at the picture of Ace standing tall and shaking his forefinger at me.
A few minutes later, I entered the back door of the Tea & Tarot, pondering my recent conversation. I needed to come up with a better nickname for Ace too, one that would grab his attention. Like Top Gun. Or Mr. 44, seeing as how he was always packing. Or the very apt Eye Candy. Nah. Too obvious. How about the Queen’s Cowboy, the unofficial title for RCMP officers from way back? That suited. Or Hercules? Maybe. But, most of all, I needed to keep him out of Miss Not-so-nice-at-all’s clutches. I sighed. I’d done a spectacular job of driving him away just now. I should have taken him up on dinner. Made the time. And exactly why was I pondering all this when I had a gazillion things to do? That Mountie drove me freakin’ crazy.