Authors: Tawna Fenske
Violet turned and they both looked down at the balls on the floor. Then they looked up at each other.
His eyes were wild and a little unfocused. He blinked and took another step away. “That didn’t go quite like I planned.”
Violet licked her lips and stepped back, too. “I think I’ll stick with accounting. That’s safer.”
“And psychic readings,” Drew said. “Don’t forget your new second career.”
Violet winced. “I couldn’t possibly.”
Behind her, she heard footsteps.
“Ms. McGinn? I’m so sorry to keep you waiting. You’re here for the paperwork, right?”
She turned around, straightening her shirt with one hand as she wiped the other palm on her skirt. She extended her hand to shake, darting a quick glance at Drew as she did so.
Drew winked, and Violet felt her heart clench.
“Later, with the balls,” he said.
Then, he was gone.
***
By the time Violet got back to her mother’s shop, she had only ten minutes before her first appointment. She settled into Moonbeam’s red velvet chair with a cup of chamomile tea and scanned the appointment book.
Gary
Smeade.
Violet sighed and set her tea down.
Detective
Gary Smeade.
It wasn’t unusual for police personnel around the country to occasionally, albeit quietly, seek the services of clairvoyant professionals to assist in investigations.
There was a bit more history in her mother’s relationship with Detective Smeade. The two had met fifteen years ago, when Moonbeam had contacted Detective Smeade, offering to use her psychic powers to find his runaway seventeen-year-old son. Violet knew her mother had relied less on psychic powers than on the knowledge that her yoga teacher had lured the smitten teen to her love den with the promise of sex and a hookah pipe, but no one had bothered splitting hairs. Moonbeam had done a good deed one way or another, and Detective Smeade was convinced Moonbeam was the real deal.
Violet had called Moonbeam at the hospital while driving to the shop and had been less than thrilled to hear her mother had already talked with Detective Smeade about the morning’s psychic substitution.
“I let him know you’re a highly skilled clairvoyant, dear,” Moonbeam had said. “He was happy to hear you’ll be able to help the police department get to the bottom of the robbery.”
“But Moonbeam—” she’d started to protest.
“It will be fine,” Moonbeam assured her. “Dear, I’ve always said you have the gift. Moss… haven’t I always said Violet had the gift?”
In the background, someone made an affirmative noise.
“See, Violet?” Moonbeam said. “You’ll be fine. Look, honey, can you call back later? Moss just arrived, and she’s going to be doing some therapeutic harp playing.”
“Mom—”
But Moonbeam had already disconnected the phone, leaving Violet woefully unprepared for her session with Detective Smeade. Then again, what could she possibly do to prepare? Spontaneously develop psychic powers?
The door chimed and Violet set the appointment book aside as she stood up to greet her visitor.
“Detective Smeade,” she said, extending her hand. “So good to see you again. How’s your son doing?”
Detective Smeade grimaced a little, but returned her handshake. “Still living with Clover. They just opened their own Bikram Yoga studio, so I guess they’re doing well. How about you, Violet?”
“Great. Excellent, thank you.”
He smiled. “Last time I saw you, you were posting Moonbeam’s bail after she chained herself to that Dumpster at the courthouse and refused to leave until they improved their recycling program.”
“Well, yes—”
“And then there was that indecent-exposure charge—”
“Well, technically, Moonbeam was wearing body paint.”
He smiled at her. “So here you are again, bailing Moonbeam out. Always such a good girl.”
Violet tried not to be annoyed at that. “Can I get you some tea, Detective?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks.” He lowered himself into the red velvet chair opposite Violet and splayed his knees out to the sides, his hands resting awkwardly on his lap. Violet sat too, keeping an eye on the detective. He was clearly making an effort not to look out of place, surrounded by gauzy curtains and stacks of tarot cards.
Violet tried to do the same.
“So,” she began. “I talked to my mother on the phone this morning, but why don’t you tell me a little bit about the robbery.”
“Well, it’s pretty much like I told Moonbeam. Our perp visited the downtown branch of Pinewood Bank on Third and Washington about ten a.m. Thursday morning, wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of nude panty hose covering his head and face.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, an orange tutu, but that’s not really important. Anyway, he brandished a pistol and left with a rather significant amount of money. Three hours later, we received a tip that he was standing naked in the middle of Pioneer Courthouse Square, holding a Twix candy bar.”
“Twix,” Violet repeated, wondering if she should be taking notes.
“We apprehended him there, but by that time, the perp had already disposed of the money. What we’re trying to determine is what he did with it.”
“Right,” Violet said. “That’s a logical thing to wonder.”
“Sure,” Detective Smeade said, nodding at her as he placed his hands on his knees. “We’ve had investigators tracking down all kinds of leads, but, well, the trail’s going a little cold, so I thought Moonbeam might be able to help.”
“Good old Moonbeam,” Violet said grimly.
“Or you. I’m sure you’re every bit as good.”
“I’m sure.”
Detective Smeade gave her an encouraging smile and then looked around the shop. “So what do you use?”
“Use?”
“The glass ball thingy? Or that deck of cards? Trance?”
“Oh, right,” Violet said, fighting panic. “Trance. Sure.”
The detective smiled again, looking appeased. Violet gritted her teeth. Detective Smeade shifted in his seat and looked at her expectantly.
Violet sighed. She closed her eyes, more from exasperation than an intent to enter a cosmic state. She ground her molars together, wishing the earth would swallow her. She tried to remember what the hell Moonbeam would do in this situation. Then again, did it matter? It’s not as if there was a rule book.
Violet took a deep breath and began to hum.
“Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…”
She let her head fall forward slightly, opening her palms to the ceiling, hoping to God there were no hidden cameras in the shop.
“Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…”
Violet opened one eye a fraction of an inch, peering at the detective from under her lashes. He was reclined against the red velvet, looking content and a little curious. That was good.
“Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…”
How long could she keep this up? Sooner or later, she’d have to come up with something to tell him. Maybe she could say the guy had thrown the money in the river. Or burned it in his backyard. The thief was crazy, right? Maybe the cops would just give up and leave her alone if they thought the money was destroyed.
“Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…”
There was a metallic thump on the other side of the wall, the sound of something powering up in the strip club next door. Was that static? Electric guitar?
“Smooth up in ya…”
Violet opened her eyes. Detective Smeade blinked at her. Violet dug her nails into her palms.
“Sorry,” she said. “There’s a, um, bar next door. They must be testing the sound or picking songs or something—”
“Not a problem,” Detective Smeade assured her. “I can’t even really hear it. Moonbeam usually just keeps going. Unless that sort of thing breaks your concentration?”
Violet frowned. “Moonbeam keeps going?”
Detective Smeade nodded.
Violet sighed. She closed her eyes again.
“Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…”
On the other side of the wall, the BulletBoys howled for several more choruses. Then, the music stopped. Violet wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed at the loss of the distraction.
She stole a peek under her lashes again. Detective Smeade looked calm, relaxed. A whole lot calmer than Violet felt.
Next door, the sound system screeched again. Violet tried not to flinch. Tried harder not to grimace when she recognized the first few chords of another ’80s classic. Was that Billy Idol? Billy Squier? Violet couldn’t remember.
“Stroke me, stroke me—”
“Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…”
Violet sucked in her breath and stole another look at Detective Smeade. He looked oblivious. What the hell?
“Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…”
Next door, the sound system squawked again. The music cut off abruptly. Then the bass began to thump again. Violet’s head began to pound in time to the music. Drums thudded, an electric guitar screeched, and Aerosmith’s Steven Tyler let out a primal shriek.
Violet smacked her palms against the arms of her chair. “For the love of God, who strips to ‘Love in an Elevator’?”
“What?”
Violet opened her eyes and blinked. “What?”
“What did you just say?”
Violet swallowed, suddenly very aware that the music had gone silent. “Nothing, I was just… it was the trance.”
“Because it sounded like you said something about an elevator.”
“Oh, well, I was just—”
“And there’s an abandoned elevator shaft in the perp’s apartment building. The super said the doors have been padlocked for years. No one can get in there. But maybe—”
“Well, I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions.”
But Detective Smeade wasn’t listening. He was fumbling in his pocket and looking a little bit crazed. “My God, he must have a way in. That’s it, isn’t it? Jesus, wait ’til I tell Johnson.”
By now, Detective Smeade was standing up, rapidly hitting buttons on his cell phone with one hand.
Violet sat up straight in her chair, gripping the arms so hard her knuckles were pale. “Detective Smeade, let’s not get carried away—”
He held up his hand, silencing her. “Johnson? Call up that super again. We need to check the abandoned elevator. I don’t care if he doesn’t have the key to the padlock—we’ll get a warrant if we have to.”
Violet closed her eyes again and put her head in her hands, slouching in her chair as she tried to tune out the rest of the detective’s phone call. What had she done?
“Okay, I’ll see you over there.” Detective Smeade clicked off his phone.
Violet sat up in her chair, trying to look like someone who hadn’t just lied to a police officer. “Detective Smeade—”
“Thanks a bunch, Violet. I’ve gotta run. Just have your mom send me the bill like she always does.”
“But—”
“We appreciate it. You’ve been a great help.”
And with that, he dashed out the door.
Violet stared after him, willing him to come back and tell her he’d just been kidding. That he wouldn’t really order the city’s police force to follow the accidental directions of a fake psychic with a bad hangover.
Next door, the sound system screeched again. Def Leppard began to howl.
Thud, thud, thud—
“Goddamit!” Violet yelped and leaped out of her chair. She stomped past the storage area and into the shared hallway, not even bothering to knock before grabbing the knob that led to Drew’s bar. She flung the door open with such force, she half expected the handle to snap off in her palm.
“Dammit, Drew, what’s with the noise?”
Drew looked up at her in surprise. He was crouched over a complicated-looking stereo system to the left of the bar. His hair was rumpled, his jeans were holey, and his expression was bemused.
He grinned at her. “Hello, Violet. Been practicing your juggling?”
“No, I haven’t been practicing my juggling. I’ve been trying to
work
next door, but you’re blasting glam rock loud enough to peel paint off my walls.”
“You mean butt rock?”
“What?”
“I prefer the term
butt
rock
over
glam
rock
, but I suppose we shouldn’t split hairs. Actually,
hair
metal
is another common term—”
“Drew!”
“What?”
“I had a client this morning! Why are you playing music this loud at ten thirty on a Saturday morning?”
“Checking the speakers… and tonight’s set list. It never seems to bother Moonbeam.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” Violet muttered, channeling a string of mental curses at her mother. “She’s probably in the midst of an astral flight.”
“Maybe you should try that.”
Violet took a deep breath, trying hard to get her temper under control. It wasn’t his fault, really. He was just doing his job. Doing it
loudly
, of course, but if Moonbeam had never complained before…
“Look, I’m sorry I yelled,” she said. “I’m just not used to practicing in this sort of environment. The music is a little… well, distracting.”
Drew stood up, sending whatever was left of Violet’s temper right out the window. “Apology accepted,” he said. “And I’m sorry about the music. I’ll try to keep it down from now on. And look, I got a present for you.”
Startled, Violet reached out and accepted the small bag she recognized from the toy store down the street. She knew what it was before she’d even finished pulling it out of the bag.
“A Magic 8 Ball,” she said flatly.
Drew grinned. “I figured you might need it. For the psychic readings.”
“Psychic readings?” asked a booming voice from the other side of the stage.
Violet turned to see the tallest, blondest, most vacant-looking man she’d ever seen. And she was seeing a whole lot of him, since he was clad in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs and a tool belt. Beautifully chiseled, beautifully clueless, the man moved toward her with such an earnest expression that Violet wanted to warn him about playground bullies.
He smiled at her, looking a lot like a cocker spaniel on steroids. “Did you guys say psychic readings?” he asked. “I haven’t seen the lady next door for awhile. Is she okay? You’re pretty.”
Violet smiled, charmed in spite of herself. She glanced at Drew, who kicked a stray cord out of Jamie’s path.