Karma's A Bitch (A Pet Psychic Mystery) (9 page)

The sidewalk opened up when I reached the Palladium Theatre. A group of people were gathered on the steps.

“Excuse me!” I called. “Did anyone see a large dog run past here?”

“Yeah,” a teenage girl answered, pointing. “That way.”

“Thanks!” I pushed off, my legs shaking from adrenalin, crossed Third Street and passed under the shadow of a large tree. Bass boomed from one of the nearby houses. The breeze carried a hint of smoke from a grill.

“Ah!” I squeezed the brakes so hard, the bike skidded to a stop. Right in front of Karma.

“Karma!” I half-whispered, half-yelled. ‘What are you doing?”

At the moment he was sitting on the sidewalk, staring at me with a “what took you so long” gaze. I eased the bike onto its side in the grass, just in case any other lunatic came barreling down the sidewalk in the dark, and kneeled beside him. I still didn’t have a leash, so I was going to have to talk him into coming back with me.

“Okay, Karma. You and me are going to have to get one thing straight.” I stroked him under his slobbery chin. “There will be no running off, especially at night…especially when I’m too tired to chase you.”

He gave a low huff and stared straight ahead. I followed his gaze and my heart felt like somebody just tried to jump start it with raw electricity. There, behind a row of scrawny bushes, sat the townhouse. I stared back at Karma. It couldn’t be, could it?

I closed my eyes, bringing up the vision I had received from Karma the day they found Mad Dog: gray wood planks, porch with white railing in front, shuttered window above the A frame on the left, tree on the right obscuring the flat part of the roof. I had it. I opened my eyes. Yep. It was like seeing a developed photograph of the image in my mind.

Okay, if this place was involved with Mad Dog’s death, then standing outside with his dog probably wasn’t the safest thing to be doing. I’d have to come back without Karma. I made a mental note of the area then whispered in Karma’s ear. “Okay, I got it, boy. Come on.”

I gave Karma some extra blender chicken when we were tucked safely back in our townhouse. I also lit some candles and slipped into a hot bath to calm my nerves.

What triggered him to run to that house tonight? The police officers? Something at Pirate City? Well, one thing was certain, he wasn’t letting go of Mad Dog’s death and he trusted me to keep my promise. Suicide note or not, my investigation would continue.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Okay, Karma, you have to stay here.” I put out his breakfast of blender steak and carrots. Even though I knew I had to do this alone, the sad way he hung his head made me feel guilty for leaving him. “I’ll be quick about it. I promise.” I smooshed my face against his forehead and scratched under his ears. “Eat your breakfast.”

Sundays were always quiet in St. Pete. Except for around the Farmer’s Market, but that wasn’t even open yet. I turned my bike down Fifth Avenue and headed west. It looked different in the stark light of morning sun and much easier to navigate. It wasn’t long before I had come upon the Palladium Theatre, with its big banners declaring the Tampa Bay Symphony was in town. I pushed on, not exactly sure what the plan was once I got there.

The house appeared more rundown in the daytime, yet not as haunted. I slipped off my bike and started messing with the chain, all the while watching—behind dark glasses—for any signs of activity inside. All seemed quiet, though the inhabitants could just still be asleep.

I could just knock on the door and see who answered. But, what would I say? No, that would give away the only thing I had going for me—surprise. They might get suspicious, especially if they’re doing something illegal. I slipped back onto my bike. I couldn’t just hang out here on the sidewalk; they could be watching me right now for all I knew. I shivered at the thought. Time to move on.

I kept heading west and there—at the corner of Fourth Street—I recognized the blue pawn shop from Karma’s image. And there was the Florida Bank across the street. I closed my eyes and recalled the sequence. This location was the first snapshot. The last one before the image of him jumping in the water was near a Courtyard by Marriot. I knew what this meant, but I pushed on toward Mirror Lake just to underline the fact that Karma had shown me the right house. Yep, I turned left on Fourth Street and passed the Marriot right before I hit Mirror Lake Drive. Bingo. I circled around the right side of Mirror Lake. This was the first time I’d been back since Mad Dog’s death. The sounds, the smells, everything brought back the memory of that morning and the grief. I stopped and washed down the lump in my throat with some bottled water.

Okay, focus. I stared out at the glittering lake and the fountain sprouting from the center of it. I took all of Karma’s images and watched them in reverse order to get the sequence of events.

So, Karma started at the house, ran down the same streets I just came down and eventually jumped into Mirror Lake to try and save Mad Dog. That meant Mad Dog was in that house without Karma. Karma must have been waiting for him outside. And Mad Dog didn’t leave that place of his own accord or Karma would have been with him at that point, not running after him.

So, he died in the house and whoever killed him drove to Mirror Lake and dumped his body in the water? Yeah, that felt right. It fit. So, who lived in that house? I could probably look up the owner’s name on the internet.

On my way out, I noticed people sitting under the palms near the lake and spotted a van pull in. Then I remembered. It was Sunday morning. The day Frankie Maslow brought food here for the homeless. I rode over.

“Hi, Frankie.”

“Darwin!” Frankie stepped out of the van and moved around to open the back door. “What brings you out here so early?”

“Just going for a bike ride. But since I’m here, you need some help?”

“Sure thing, sugar. I could always use the extra hands.”

I helped her carry boxes of sturdy plates, plastic bins, a silver pot big enough to sit in and some trash bags over to a shaded picnic table. More people started to gather between the table and the lake.

“Morning!” Frankie waved to them.

“Morning, Mama Maslow!” Some of them greeted her back, some just waved.

“All right, just start settin’ out the plates. The scrambled eggs and ham are in the pot, that bin right there has hash browns and this one here has toast.” She pulled open one of the trash bags. “Oh, and these here are oranges. Got a ton of them today.”

I followed her instructions and soon the people were moving forward to get a plate of food. There was a lot of friendly banter being thrown around, which made me smile. I recognized a few of the people from Pirate City. Minnie for one—who Frankie greeted with a bear hug—and Hops, the guy Mac had been helping with a resume. Hops hardly said two words as he took his plate, eyes downcast. What was his story? My heart broke for him. I looked around for G but didn’t see him.

After everyone had their plates and were seated in the grass, I walked with Frankie as she asked people how they were doing, getting the scoop on the comings and goings of the camp. I couldn’t imagine how strange it must be for Frankie, to go from a homeless camp to the Vinoy. I really admired her for not forgetting about her camp mates.

We came upon the young, dark kid who I saw at Pirate City. He looked even worse now. Both eyes were puffy almost to the point of being shut and his movements suggested he was in pain. Just. Like. Mad Dog.

“Hey, Frankie.” I leaned in close to her. “What do you know about that kid right there?”

“Um,” she shrugged, “just that he’s a pain in my arse.” She glanced at me. “Why?”

“Just curious. He was hurt last time I saw him, too.”

“There’s lots of ways for a young man to get hurt out there on the streets.” When we approached him, he glanced from Frankie to me and then back to Frankie.

I noticed needle marks along the inside of his arm. Frankie must have noticed them, too.

“You gotta get clean, Junior.”

He swallowed and then shrugged. “What for?” He glanced back up at me and I detected suspicion. “Snow White. You tight wit Mama Maslow, huh? You a lover or a fighter?”

“Hey,” Frankie stuck up a hand. “This is a no mouthin’ off zone. Zip it.”

“Ah. It’s cool. I didn’t know.” He let his eyes wander over me. “Be somethin’ to watch, though.”

“Get clean, Junior, or you’re not gonna survive until your next birthday.” Frankie shot him a look that could’ve killed, then led me away.

I had no idea what that exchange was about, but I didn’t like it. There seemed to be warnings squeezed between every word.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“A date?” Sylvia turned from counting the drawer, her hand on her hip. “You have a date?”

I could hear her usual mix of curiosity and excitement. I tried to nip it in the bud.

“No, it’s not really a date. He is just trying to be nice and get my mind off of Mad Dog for a day.”

The “he” was Detective Blake. I had left a message for him about the townhouse, explained Karma’s odd reaction to it—leaving out the psychic part, of course—and told him what I had found out. A corporation called Frat Boys, Inc. owned the townhouse but I still had no idea who lived there. Anyway, his response was to return my call and ask me if I had been to the Dali Museum. When I said I hadn’t, he asked me to go with him on Saturday to “get my mind off of Mad Dog.” That’s not exactly a date in my book but, apparently, it is in Sylvia’s.

“This detective Blake, he is handsome guy?”

I felt my cheeks burn. “Well, yeah, sure.” I shrugged and busied myself with wrapping up the baked goods in wax paper while trying to force all thoughts away of his eyes or his smile or his broad shoulders or…

“Aaaaa!” Sylvia sauntered up beside me. I could actually feel her smiling at me. It was like standing next to a heat lamp. “It’s about time you go out. What are you wearing?”

“Don’t make me nervous about this. If I think it’s a date, I’ll be nervous.” I’d only been on two dates before and those were two of the most humiliating days of my life.

“Okay, okay. What are you wearing on your not-date?”

I gave up. I was too tired to resist the force that was Sylvia on the subject of dating and clothes. I leaned against the counter, folded my arms and gave her a smile of surrender. “I don’t know. What do you wear on a not-date date?”

She tapped her lip with a French-manicured nail. “We have no time to shop before tomorrow.” This made her brow crinkle in the middle. “How about…no…” I could see her mentally shuffling through my limited wardrobe. I have always had a hard time with clothes. They have to be natural materials: organic cotton, limited dyes. My skin is very sensitive.

“Aha!” She clapped. “You wear the little sundress with rose buds. It has nice hip line, poofs out enough to give you a womanly shape.”

“Hey, I have a shape!”

She raised an eyebrow. “You are a stick figure.”

I tried to act indignant but she was right. “Fine.” I smiled. “I’ll wear the sundress. But,” I held up a finger, “it’s still not a date.”

***

The detective and I had agreed to meet in front of the museum at noon, so I took the downtown looper bus, which drops off right in front. I could have walked, but I would have arrived sweaty. Even though this wasn’t a date, I didn’t want to make that kind of impression. As the bus pulled up, I saw the detective standing there waiting. Prompt. I appreciated that.

It’s not a date. It’s not a date
. I mashed my lips together, trying to smooth out the rose pink gloss Sylvia had suggested I put on. He was wearing jeans and a lemon yellow polo shirt. He looked like a model straight out of a Sears catalog. Here we go. I shouldered my straw bag and took a calming breath.

“Enjoy your visit, ma’am.” The driver said, as I dropped a few extra quarters through the slot.

There’s that ma’am again. “Thank you.”

“Hi.” He smiled down at me and seemed so relaxed, I actually felt my own anxiety unwinding.

“Hi there. This is something.” I glanced up at the strange building. “I’m sure there’s a story as to why there’s glass bubbles wrapped around the museum like fish eyes?”

“Yep.” He turned so he could point to the first bubble. “That one is called the Enigma, named after one of Dali’s paintings. It’s like a giant sky light. The other bubble is called the Igloo, for obvious reasons. The building itself has eighteen inch thick concrete walls and can withstand a Category 5 hurricane.”

“Wow. You’re going to be an excellent tour guide.” I grinned.

“Sorry. Just stop me if I bore you. I tend to be a detail orientated person.” He rested a hand on the small of my back and motioned toward the entrance with the other. “Shall we?”

My skin warmed and tingled under his touch. Oh heavens. I repeated my “this is not a date” mantra as we entered the museum straight into the belly of the beast—a large gift shop.

“They don’t mess around, do they?” I eyed a large replica of Dali’s famous melting pocket watch hanging from the edge of a table stacked with colorful t-shirts. The air conditioner blasted welcomed cool air as we navigated our way around the merchandise.

“Two adults, please,” Detective Blake said to the lady behind the counter.

Oh no. He paid for me. Did that mean this
was
a date?

“Er, thanks,” I said as he motioned for me to get my wristband.

As we began our ascent up the double helix staircase, which spiraled skyward in the middle of the museum, I glanced upward into the glass and aluminum ceiling. “How high up is that?”

“About 75 feet.”

“Any reason in particular the exhibit is way up there?” I wasn’t in bad shape but, by the time we hit the second floor, my thighs burned in protest.

“Yep. Weeds out the wimps.” His laugh tickled my insides. I couldn’t help but grin at him.

“And you’re a comedian, too.”

“Sorry, the art is on the third floor to protect it in case of flooding.”

“Ah,” I said, “that makes sense.” Almost to the top.