Pall in the Family (13 page)

I turned to look at him in the fading light. His face was turned away from me, watching Tuffy follow the scent of a rabbit or squirrel, which was hours old but still entertaining.

“Who do you think did it, Seth?”

He shrugged. “But whoever it was scared Tuffy to death.”

I found myself on Thursday morning waiting for
Mac in a coffee shop. I couldn't believe how much had changed in just three days. I picked apart my scone and slowly sipped my coffee. The Daily Grind, owned by Alex's partner, Josh, had the best coffee in town and the best scones in my known universe. It was small, with a half dozen tables in dark wood to match the counter, and two highly coveted couches. The room held the blended aroma of fresh-brewed coffee, cinnamon, and sugar. Mac was almost never late. I checked my watch, sighed, smiled at Josh. I had asked him once if I could live there—just use a sleeping bag in the back office—but he'd started in on health codes and whatnot. The only reason I had procured a table was because it wasn't a weekend. The locals avoided the coffee shop on Saturday and Sunday as it became a take-out-only type of place by necessity, with a line snaking out the door and spilling into the street.

Finally, I saw Mac round the corner down the street. I tidied the area to make it seem like I had just sat down, and looked at Josh with one finger to my lips. He shook his head and shrugged.

“Hey, sorry I'm late. I got held up at the station and couldn't get away,” Mac said as he limped into the café.

“No problem. I just got here myself.” I waved off his apology. I heard a distinct snort from behind the counter but didn't risk sending a glare that way.

Mac left his cane at the table and went to the counter to order. When he'd settled with his food, he smiled and rubbed his hands together. Mac loved coffee and, apparently, scones.

“I wouldn't have guessed you were a scone kind of guy.”

“I'm not, but the ones they have here are in another category.” He proceeded to add four packs of sugar and cream to his coffee.

“Well, I'm glad you had time to meet me today.” I looked away from what he was doing to his drink.

“I'm always happy to see you, Clyde, particularly now that you aren't part of an active investigation.” He bit into his scone and tried to smile around it.

“That's sort of what I wanted to talk to you about.” I broke off another piece of cranberry scone but didn't eat it.

Mac's smile vanished.

“You want to talk about Sara's murder?”

“Well, yes. What did you think I wanted to talk about?”

“I . . . wasn't sure, but I didn't think it would be about a case that was closed.” Mac sat up straight and began clearing his half-eaten pastry away, brushing the crumbs into a napkin. Now that things were all business, I supposed he didn't want to be distracted. “What do you have to say?”

I steeled myself and thought of my promise to my mother. “I don't think Gary did it.” I thought this was better than saying the pendulum didn't think Gary did it.

Mac held up his hand like a stop sign.

“I know how you feel about this, Clyde. But you don't have all the facts. How would you feel if someone was poking around in one of your investigations?”

“I'm not poking around. Did you know that Tish put Alison up to changing her story about Gary's alibi?”

Mac grew still. “No, I didn't know that.” His eyes were hard to read, and he wouldn't meet my gaze. “Do you think Alison is lying?”

“No, I think she's telling the truth now.” I could hear my voice going up an octave but was powerless to stop the whine that was creeping in. “But it concerns me that Tish got her to change her statement by claiming it's what Sara wanted.”

“She told us she'd had a change of heart. In either case, her father doesn't have an alibi, and he lied about it in the first place. It makes him look pretty good for the murder. Most homicides—”

“—are committed by someone close to the victim. I know.” I tried not to sound completely frustrated. “Are you even considering other suspects at this point?”

“I really can't talk about this with you. You're a witness. You could be called to testify.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. I knew from long experience that he was wrapping this up, and I'd better make my case quickly.

I swallowed, and then dove in. “Have you heard about Sara's last . . . séance?”

I didn't quite flinch, but I was mentally preparing for the onslaught of either laughter or lecture. Mac was the world's biggest nonbeliever—even the mention of psychics or spirits usually caused him to turn an unattractive shade of purple. His mother had been widowed young and had spent the rest of her life and much of her income on mediums in an attempt to contact Mac's father. It was an ongoing argument between them. He did not have an open mind on the subject. But I thought the
accusation
of murder, whether from a spirit or not, could have put Sara in danger and Mac needed to know about it.

“The one where a ‘spirit' accused everyone there of being a murderer?” He sighed and rubbed his forehead as if an aneurism was coming on. “Yeah, I heard about it.”

“Well? Are you looking into that at all?”

“Listen,” Mac said. He leaned forward as if he was going to tell me a secret, but something over my shoulder distracted him. I turned. Tish and Joe Stark were across the street, clearly arguing. Tish said something to Joe and turned to walk away. He grabbed her arm, and they struggled for a moment. I wouldn't have wanted to be on the receiving end of the look she gave him before she stormed off toward the Reading Room. Joe smoothed his hair back, checked up and down the street, and walked in the opposite direction.

“Something's up, Mac. You should go talk to him.”

“It's none of our business. Whatever they were talking about, it's over now. If I stopped every person in town that had an argument, I wouldn't have time to do my job.”

“Maybe your job would be easier if you followed up on a few arguments.”

“Really.” His voice was flat. “This is how you're going to play it?”

I picked up my cup, but it was empty. “You can't overlook the séance just because it involves psychics.”

“I'm not overlooking it. I just don't have anything to go on yet.” His mouth was a tight line. “However, if Sara did accuse someone who then killed her, that person is still out there. I don't want you mucking around and getting yourself into trouble.”

“I can take care of myself.” I knew I was starting to sound like a rebellious teenager and hated that we had slipped into this old way of relating.

“I know that. But people are afraid of you. They think you know things. Just try to stay under the radar on this. I don't want you getting hurt.” I was torn between feeling happy that he was concerned about me and annoyed that he was treating me like some sort of helpless damsel.

“Mac, I—” His steel blue gaze stopped me. He was capable of extreme stubbornness, and pushing him further would only lead to both of us stalking off into our respective corners. I started again. “Okay, I get it.”

“Good, that's settled.” He smiled, but I knew he didn't buy it. “I'm glad you wanted to meet me anyway.” He looked for his snack, but he had balled it all up into a napkin. “I hoped we could talk. I'm sorry about the way I acted the other day at the station.”

“No worries. Like you said, ‘ancient history.'” I echoed his slice through the air. I was still irritated that he wouldn't listen and hated this ability of his to change the subject and pretend nothing was wrong.

“Don't do this, Clyde. I'm trying to—”

“To what? To make yourself feel better for disappearing?” The words were out of my mouth before my brain had time to edit. I did not want to talk about this.

He tilted his head and took a breath. “I'm trying to say I'm sorry. And I didn't disappear; you knew where to find me.” I wasn't sure what he was talking about. The way I remembered it, he fled across the state because he couldn't deal with my premonitions. Technically, I knew where he'd gone, but he hadn't encouraged me to follow. I had joined the force in Ann Arbor to get away from the psychics and to forget Mac.

“And you made it pretty clear you didn't want to be found.” I realized my voice had gotten loud when I saw that everyone in the café had stopped what they were doing to better listen in on our conversation.

Mac looked surprised, but then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I'd like for us to be friends. Can we get together for dinner or something and talk?”

“You mean like a
date
?” I was purposely trying to annoy.

He sat back and narrowed his eyes, as if trying to decide his next move in a chess game. I had expected a blustery denial, or an irritated “forget it.”

“Sure. A date. Tonight? I'll pick you up.”

I felt my eyebrows rise in reaction. I nodded, not knowing how else to respond. I feigned interest in my scone again, trying to regroup and figure out how this had happened. Mac stood and nodded at the crowd still watching us and walked out the door, hardly using his cane.

I grimaced at Josh and turned to look out the window at Mac's retreating back.

* * *

This was the
last thing I had expected. I was convinced Mac and I were done. We'd been together for almost a year when he left. I had thought he was
the one
. But he couldn't deal with a girlfriend who predicted death, and that was the end of it. When he realized that I had known Dean Roberts would die and hadn't told him, he was furious. Forget the fact that he claimed not to believe in premonitions. No matter how I tried to explain that I was never sure of these things and that I hadn't found a way to prevent anything from happening, he had stopped listening. Dean had been the police chief and like a father to Mac; his heart attack had been devastating to everyone, but Mac took it especially hard. I wasn't sure what was going to happen next, but the butterflies in my stomach were doing loop-de-loops, and I could feel my mouth stretched in a grin at the thought of going out with Mac.

I drove home to get Seth for dog rounds and was surprised to see Tish's car in the driveway. Violet opened the door before I had a chance to grab the knob and, with a crimson-tipped finger to her lips, dragged me off to her apartment.

“What's with the cloak-and-dagger stuff?” I said once she had closed the door.

Baxter came over to sniff my pockets and drool on my jeans.

“Tish just got here,” she whispered, and looked over her shoulder, even though we were alone in her sitting room. “She said she needed Rose to do a reading. They wouldn't let me sit in. She claimed Baxter needed some attention.” Her glance in his direction indicated she thought this was a lie. “Something's up, I can feel it.”

“So why did you drag
me
back here? Where's Seth?”

Vi paced in front of me.

“Seth is upstairs with Tuffy. You're going to help me figure out what's going on.”

“What are you talking about?” I pinched the bridge of my nose to stop myself from watching her aggressive strides up and down the room.

“Baxter's been telling me about the level of stress he's been under at Tish's house. He can't take the pressure anymore. We have to help.”

I glanced at Baxter. He flopped to the floor and sighed.

“I think he's hungry,” I said.

She stared at him for a moment and shook her head.

“We have to find out what's happening in that reading.”

“Can't you ask my mom when they're done?” I was edging toward the door to escape further involvement.

“No. She's got this client-confidentiality thing.” Vi made finger quotes in the air. “You'd think she was a lawyer or doctor or something. At least my clients don't care who I talk to.”

I wondered how she knew that but didn't go into it.

She continued on her back-and-forth journey. Baxter followed her with his eyes.

“There's no choice. You're going to have to use the crawl space.” She stopped in front of me.

“Oh come on, Vi.” I put my hand up to fend off her suggestion. “I haven't been up there in years. I won't fit.” Plus, I was pretty sure there were spiders.

“It's the only way to hear what they're saying.”

There was a crawl space above my mother's parlor. It was mostly used for storage and only accessible through the front hall coat closet. At one time it was probably part of the attic until the various additions and remodelings changed it to a small loft-like space. Grace and I used to go up there to hunt for Christmas gifts, and we discovered that the acoustics were very good from Mom's office. For a while we had my mother convinced we were extremely talented psychics as we recited readings she had given. It was a dark day when she discovered that not only had we been spying on her, but we also were not as talented as she had believed. Grace still held a grudge that she had lost her driving privileges for the summer while I was only denied the beach for a week. The fact that I was eight and she was seventeen at the time didn't matter. She claimed she was really being punished for not having better psychic talents.