Authors: Kelly Rey
I made two copies of the death certificate, trying to keep my stomach from rolling when I saw the
blunt force trauma
entry in the Immediate Cause of Death box, stapled one to each letter, and dropped them into my out-box to await Howard's signature.
I stuffed copies of all the correspondence into the file and put it aside. My eyes fell on Weaver's box of discarded papers. I hesitated, knowing the contents were none of my business. But the office was so quiet, everyone was staying put upstairs, Missy was gone, and the phone wasn't ringing. It was the perfect opportunity for me to stick my nose where it didn't belong.
I squatted on the floor beside the box. Most of the papers were unspectacular, at least to me. Old financial statements, older bank account statements, stock certificates issued by corporations no longer in existence. Apparently Dorcas had been something of a packrat. A few bits of flotsam that must have been included accidentally, newspaper clippings about the grand opening of Destinies with Dorcas, complete with a grainy staged photograph of Dorcas sitting at the black table in her studio gazing into the crystal ball. Off to the far right of the photograph, nearly out of the picture entirely, stood Weaver, looking at his wife with a strange, almost hostile expression. It didn't look very much like Dorcas had been his beloved on that day.
Then I saw the letter from Dorcas directed to the station manager of a local television news station, tucked into the flap of a stamped, addressed envelope. I got the gist in the first sentence: Artemis Angle was a no-talent fraud, a swindler who sponged off the Society of Seers minions and blackmailed those who tried to leave by threatening to ruin their professional reputations. A sticky note was affixed to the page with a May date and a message
copy sent to AA on 5/15
.
I stared at the page, resisting the urge to shout
Ah-ha!
So my instincts about Artemis Angle had been dead on. It was hardly the investigatory coup of the century, but it was still good to know. For all his posturing about wishing Dorcas well and admiring her creativity, he had no more scruples than the average personal injury lawyer. Of course, it looked as if Dorcas had turned the tables and was blackmailing the blackmailer. It must have been over her decision to open the psychic kiosks. So the path of her departure hadn't been as rose-strewn as Artemis Angle had led us to believe. What a surprise.
I heard footsteps moving about on the second floor and flipped through the rest of the papers so quickly I almost missed the multi-paged client list near the end of the stack. But not just a client list. More like a storyboard, segregated like a spreadsheet into different categories: names and addresses, names of parents and children and employers and deceased loved ones, favorite colors, hobbies, enough personal information to launch a dating service, along with synopses of readings previously given, story lines for future
readings
, and lastly, a column having to do with the grubby business of counting the dollars. And they were some eye-popping dollars. I saw no less than two zeroes in any line item, and most of them had three. I scanned down the list. Charlotte Duncan, more than fifty thousand over time. Roger Marrin, nearly forty-two thousand. Harvey McWirth, thirty-eight thousand. Even this column was divided in two: cash payments and outstanding balances at interest rates as high as twenty-five percent. So Dorcas extended credit to those clients loyal or foolish enough to keep coming back for more financial abuse.
What an operation.
I sat back, slack-jawed. I'd known Dorcas was a fraud, of course, and now I was holding the proof. The pages were practically a fraud schematic. She'd planned her readings in advance, based on each client's personal circumstance and whom they hoped to contact on the other side. And she'd charged a small fortune stringing them along while collecting thousands of dollars and presumably happily financing their desperation.
I read down the synopses of past readings. When she hadn't offered generic readings, Dorcas had convenient excuses for her inability to contact departed loved ones. Current aura too grim. Spiritual mojo too weak. Spirit unable to come through due to disruption in the psychic continuum, whatever that meant. It would have been amusing if it hadn't been so infuriating. These were real people, spending real money, and holding out real hope to contact loved ones or at least receive well-intentioned guidance. Dorcas had been a fraud
and
a predator, preying on peoples' weaknesses while bleeding them dry.
It was a wonder no one had clocked her with her crystal ball years ago.
Clutching the pages, I hurried over to the copier and ran them through. I'd read them over later at home, when I had more time and less outrage. I tucked the folded copies into my handbag and returned the originals to the box, then sat at my desk, wondering how early I could justify leaving to return the box to Weaver. It seemed to me if the phone wasn't ringing, and I had nothing to type or copy or fax or e-mail, I was superfluous to the firm, but I didn't think it was in my best interest to point that out. So I sat there until 4:45, then gathered up the box and headed to the Beeber house.
* * *
Considering Dorcas's chosen profession, I'd half expected her to live in a castle with turrets surrounded by a moat and a swirling mist. She'd lived instead in a McMansion in a cookie-cutter development of McMansions with tiny lawns, no telephone poles or overhead utility lines, and a crossover or SUV in every driveway. A Stepford Subdivision.
I found the right address and parked at the curb. The Escort looked completely out of place there, but so did I without high heels and a set of pearls. I staggered up the front walk in my rebellious flats and stabbed at the doorbell, balancing the box of papers on my left shoulder.
Deirdre opened the door, her hair pulled back into a short, severe ponytail. She was wearing black slacks and a pale green, baggy sweater, but there was no hiding her big bones. Or her grief. Her face was pale and her eyes lifeless.
I shifted the box to my right shoulder. "I'm Jamie Winters, from the Parker, Dennis law office. Is Mr. Beeber here? I'm returning some papers to him from his attorney."
She shook her head. "Weaver's out with his brother. If you want to bring them in, it's all right by me." She pushed the storm door open.
I angled past her into the foyer and waited for direction. I heard Chandler barking from the back of the house. For some reason, it made me smile. At least something was still as it should be in this home.
Deirdre gestured toward a family room off to the left, and I followed her, putting the box down behind the sofa. We stood there awkwardly. Well, maybe I was the awkward one. I felt like an intruder, in the Beebers' home and in their lives. Probably it didn't help that I'd been the one to find Dorcas's body. I felt as if they held that against me somehow. Plus I wasn't always very good at the social niceties, and that deficit was amplified when I was dealing with a virtual stranger.
Or maybe I was overthinking things. Another deficit.
"I was just packing for my flight home," she told me. "There's nothing left for me to do here."
I nodded. "I'm very sorry." I reached into my handbag for Howard's letter. "This is for you."
She read it over without comment, refolded it, and stuffed it in the pocket of her slacks. I'd expected a little more of a reaction to the news of her inheritance, something between
Whoo-hoo!
and
Damn, more money?
But she was a blank slate.
Chandler barked again, more sharply.
Deirdre blew out a breath and yelled "Shut
up!"
Chandler delivered another defiant yap and shut up.
"That dog," she muttered. "Weaver insists on crating him when he goes out, but Chandler doesn't like it in there. He's spoiled rotten. No wonder, when my sister carried him around with her everywhere she went."
I smiled. "I remember." I especially remembered all the times Chandler had expressed a desire to gnaw my face off. I kept smiling anyway.
Deirdre looked at her watch.
I realized I didn't have all day to stand around smiling. "We've contacted the insurance company, too," I told her. "The life insurance proceeds should be issued before too long."
Her eyebrows puckered. "Life insurance proceeds?"
I nodded. "Maybe you don't remember, but your sister had two policies, and you're the sole beneficiary of one of those."
"Oh, yes. Of course." Her face smoothed back into blandness. "I'd forgotten all about that policy. We only got it at Dorcas's insistence, to protect my investment in her kiosk business." She shook her head. "I questioned her judgment, but I have to say, my sister knew how to make money. And I believed in my sister." She whipped out a tissue and blotted her eyes while I lingered on the judgment-questioning part.
"I don't mean to offend you," I said carefully, "but as an investor, did you know anything about Dorcas's business finances?"
She stopped blotting, her eyes wide over the tissue. "Of course not. Weaver handled that. She was my
sister,
and I trusted her to use my money wisely. Why do you ask?"
I pointed at the box of papers. "There are some…interesting papers in there. A very detailed list of your sister's clients and the money they paid." I hesitated. "And owed."
"Isn't that SOP for a small business?" she asked. "I'm no businesswoman, but it seems to me you'd have to keep track somehow, and Dorcas never did like computers."
I played with the fringed ends of my scarf, uncertain how far I wanted to take this with Deirdre when Weaver was the brains behind the banking. Still, I'd probably never see her again. "It's just that…" I began, and stopped. I took a breath. "The papers are almost a script for her past and future readings. What she was going to tell her clients. Or why she was telling them nothing."
Deirdre's arms dropped to her sides. "Of course. My sister was in the entertainment business." Her eyebrows lifted. "Don't tell me you actually believe in psychics."
I waved dismissively. "No, no, I don't…" I thought of Charlotte Duncan and the lucky departure from the stock market that had saved her thousands. "Maybe a little," I finished with a smile. "At least I wanted to."
"Don't be embarrassed," Deirdre said gently. "It's because of people like you that Destinies with Dorcas existed.
Everybody
wants to believe, at least a little. Dorcas capitalized on that." She shook her head. "It wasn't the most honorable way to make a living, but at least she was never deliberately cruel."
Not unless you considered driving clients toward bankruptcy as cruel.
Deirdre made a move toward the front door. "If you've shown me everything, I should get back to my packing now."
"Sorry to hold you up." I dragged my feet into the foyer feeling as if my opportunity was slipping away to learn something useful from Dorcas's sister. But I didn't know what to ask her. Maizy would know what to ask her. I tried to project myself into Maizy's Doc Martens.
"Did Seaver find what he was looking for at Dorcas's studio?" I asked.
Deirdre turned. "I'm sorry?"
"I saw him in Oak Grove Monday night," I said. "He said Weaver had sent him to pick up something from the studio. I guess something with sentimental value."
"Did he?" She shook her head. "I can't imagine what. Dorcas didn't keep anything of any value there. She didn't like the neighborhood. That's partly why she had the mall kiosk idea." A rueful smile touched her lips. "My sister never met a mall she didn't like."
I couldn't relate to that even a little bit. I disliked shopping, especially at a mall, and probably because I barely made enough to begin with to keep living indoors.
I wondered what Seaver had been up to. "Maybe he was picking up some paperwork," I suggested, tipping my head toward the document box. "For Weaver, I mean."
"Maybe." She reached for the door, clearly uninterested. "I'm sure Weaver has everything under control. He always does."
Well, here was something interesting. Was that a trace of bitterness in her voice? I thought fast while I zipped my coat. "He does seem a little…precise," I said.
She might have smirked. It was hard to tell underneath all that sudden hostility. I could practically feel the chill radiating off of her. "You could say that." Yep, a definite edge to her voice. Clearly there was no love lost for her brother-in-law. I couldn't help but wonder why, when Dorcas and he had seemed so happy together.
"But you stayed here to help him anyway," I said. "After…"
"He's family," she said. "It's what you do for family. Are you married, Jamie?"
I shook my head. "Although I am kind of seeing my landlord—well, that is to say, I
was
seeing him until we sort of had a fight, and now—"
She stared at me.
"No," I said.
"Weaver and I may have our disagreements," she said, "but my sister adored him, and I adored my sister. Even if the money-grubbing little weasel dressed her like a nun and shoved a crystal ball in her hands."
I blinked. "You mean it wasn't her idea?"
"Are you kidding? Our parents raised us for something better than that." Her mouth twisted. "Weaver insisted she sink every penny of her inheritance from them into that studio. And she listened to him."
Hard to imagine Dorcas being that compliant with anyone, even her husband.
Deirdre opened the door, and a gust of chilly wind swept into the foyer. "I'll make sure Weaver gets the papers."
I hoped that was all Weaver got. If he was smart, he'd keep Deirdre away from the kitchen knives for the rest of her stay. Her hostility had caught me by surprise, but her revelations really hadn't. It was always the quiet ones you had to watch. And no one was quieter than Weaver Beeber.
For once in her life, Maizy had turned off her smartphone. Or maybe she just wasn't picking up. Either way, I gave up after my third try. It seemed important to run my conversation with Deirdre past her. It seemed important to run it past Curt, too, along with the rest of the day, but when I'd parked my car at home and traipsed around the back of the house, his absence was palpable. I lingered at his back door, hoping to hear the television or maybe his voice on the phone. Curt hated talking on the phone, and, beyond games and a few choice shows, he didn't watch much television. But he did cook, and well. I sniffed the imagined scents of roast chicken or barbecue or tomato gravy. A man who could cook like that deserved better than anything I could provide.